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maskedcrawford · 1 day ago

Text

Green Eyed Monster

G-Dragon x Reader x platonic! Jackson Wang

Summary: You and Jackson Wang get close through work and your ex isn't too keen on the fact that it looks like you've moved on.

Warnings: Some angst, fluff at the end.

A/N: Thank you to anon who requested, I got to try my hand at writing for Jackson Wang and I'm going to OPEN requests for him if you guys want something. Leave a like and/or a reblog if you enjoy! Much love <3

Requests are OPEN

You’re sitting in the makeup chair when you feel a pair of hands delicately touch your shoulders. You look up from your phone in the mirror and you see his big dark eyes and light brown hair in the mirror.

“Well, it took ya long enough, J,” you say with a teasing smile as you get up and hug him. You and Jackson Wang had been working together for the last 4 months on a song for your album and today you were shooting the video.

“Always a pleasure,” he says genuinely and returns your hug. Were you and Jackson together? No. Were there rumors about such things? Absolutely. The song being about love didn’t help matters. You guys had known each other briefly through mutual friends but when you had the idea for the song, you knew his vocals would take it to the next level.

“Jackson, Y/N!” the director shouts and you two spring into action with the video. The video itself was pretty intimate; the two of you on a bed tangled together in the sheets, touching, be all close and having no sense of personal space whatsoever. But, Jackson is a professional.

“So if I put my hand here,” he’s talking to the director and looks at you and you give him a nod before he touches your hip.

“And then I can slide it up like this,” he does the motion and pulls you closer to him.

“Yeah, that’ll work perfectly,” your director says and you roll with it.

“Let’s move on to the kiss,” the director announces after that scene. You blush as the time comes for the practical make out session that’s needed for the scene. Jackson was obviously cute, and him so being so respectful and kind? That only made it worse.

You can’t help the nervous laugh as you two are placed together and he starts smiling at you.

“You ok?” he asks genuinely, “We can figure something else out if we need to, find another way to,” you put your hand on his chest to stop him.

“I’m fine, seriously. Just don’t eat my face,” you wink at him with a chuckle. He gives you a gorgeous smile while shaking his head.

“Might be hard, you’re lookin extra good in that outfit,” he subtly looks you up and down. You two had a flirty relationship, but both of you knew it wouldn’t really go anywhere. The scene commences and you lock lips passionately and for a brief moment you forget its for a music video, that is until you hear the director call cut and you both slowly separate, a slight blush on both of your cheeks.

“That was great, guys. We’ll pick it up tomorrow!”

The video is done after a few days and the album dropped four months later. Your adventures continue with a world tour together, but tonight you were performing at the infamous MAMA awards. Since you two were doing a love song it was known that you would have to kiss for the sake of the performance.

“Look, people love us together,” you smile as you show him a picture you posted with a bunch of likes. He smiles as he clicks on the comments.

“This isn’t helping the dating rumors ya know,” he winks at you playfully and you roll your eyes.

“Us kissing every night doesn’t either, not to mention neither one of us have confirmed or denied anything. Besides, who we go out with really isn’t their business.”

“Ever since you made headlines with G-Dragon though, they think it is,” he corrects you. You raise your eyebrows with a sigh that confirms he isn’t wrong.

You and Jiyong had been together 4 years, until the beginning of this year. Schedules got in the way, and Ji had admitted to kissing another woman at a party when he was drunk. It was a one-time thing and for a while you were able to move past it, but eventually, everything came crashing down.

“How could you still not trust me?” he shouted. You were in tears, your nerves were shot and honestly you didn’t want to have the argument.

“You were all over her, Ji. Tell me I’m lying! You kissed another woman before, it’s not like you couldn’t do that and more,” your voice was bitter and weak from tears.

“Oh my god, are you ever going to let it go?” he looked annoyed, he looked weak and desperate to escape the mistake that played through your mind more than you cared to admit. You loved him more than anything, more than life itself practically. But who was he to tell you how long it took to heal? Who was he to say that he atoned for what he did just because of a few ways he tried to make it up to you. Girls were constantly all over him so it wasn’t like he was in short supply. It had caused you to feel insecure, regardless of whether or not he was drunk.

The two of you stayed silent, deafeningly silent, until Ji finally sighs and rubs his temple with his fingers.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he mumbles, “I can’t keep paying for this when I think I’ve proven I’m not that person,” his eyes are cold, depleted of life. It broke him to do this, but he didn’t see any other way.

“We’re done,” he said before walking out of your house with nothing more than a kiss to the forehead.

“Earth to Y/N,” Jackson calls out and you shake your head pulling yourself out of the intense flashback.

“Huh, oh, sorry,” you sheepishly rub the back of your neck.

“Let’s practice one more time,” he takes your hand helping you stand up.

“Ji, have you seen this?” Taeyang was over at his house and pulled up the love song you and Jackson put out.

“Hmm?” he glances away from his phone and furrows his brows at the video. He see’s the two of you kiss on screen and he feels, that pang of jealousy. He’s seen the video before, he seen it the day it came out, actually. But he didn’t tell anyone. He didn’t want to think of it.

He hadn’t seen you since that night, not in person anyway. On TV shows and award ceremonies, he would watch, quietly support you and your career, even liking the first picture or two you posted of you and Jackson.

“They are performing tonight at the MAMA awards, so you’ll probably get to see her,” Taeyang calls out as he heads to the kitchen.

“She’s going to be there?” His voice is rushed, excited almost.

“Yup, we better go too, we’ll be late.”

You and Jackson are at the venue preparing for the show, hitting the choreography perfectly multiple times.

“OK, we gotta get dressed,” you say as you two come out of each other’s embrace

“We got this in the bag,” you both high five and he brings you in for a hug.

“You should really layer a little more deodorant,” you say with a giggle. He sniffs his shirt and makes a twisted face.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he laughs as he jogs off stage. As you walk off to go to the dressing room you stop as your breath hitches in your throat.

Ji-yong laughs as he feels someone stop and stare, he looks away from his manager and he spots you. His smile fades as he takes in your shocked face.

It’s still as beautiful as the first day he met you. He gives you a small wave and smile and you can’t move. His gaze is friendly and lingers for a moment. He starts to walk towards you, until he see’s Jackson come up behind you with his hand resting on your back. You look up at him directly and he can see the smile on your face when you look at him.

He feels the aching jealousy well up inside him but he pushes it down. You nod your head at something he says, and Jackson flits his gaze to Ji before giving a pursed lip smile and dragging you off with him in another direction.

“What could she possibly see in him?” Ji yong asks out loud not really expecting an answer.

“Hyung, did you really think she wouldn’t,” Ji-yong shoots Taeyang a glare, “Move on?” he finishes carefully.

“It’s been 8 months,” he tries to be gentle with Ji’s feelings, but the sting is too much. Jackson Wang was in a place he was supposed to be in. One he’d still be in most likely if he hadn’t of screwed up.

“Still fucking stings,” he grumbles. Taeyang sighs and gives his friend a hug.

“You both,” he pulls back and looks his friend in the face, “Need to move on. It’s time.” He tries to encourage him, tries to show him it’s healthy to move on, but the way Ji-yong loved you, despite his mistake, he was sure he’d never love anyone the same way.

“It’s not that easy, hyung.” He sighs as he sits down for the stylist to do his hair.

“She was everything, my muse, my rock, my reason for breathing. There were days I only got out of bed because I knew I would see her and that it would help make my day better,” he remembers fond memories as he talks to Taeyang about you. One of you and him riding the ferries wheel and getting stuck on top, that’s where your fist kiss was. When you accidently spilled ice cream on your top and he gave you jacket to cover it. When you’d both grow bored at parties after a little while and want to leave to just spend quiet time at home. He missed the way your touch made him feel like everything would work out, the way you made him feel like he was enough for exactly who he was. He sighs as he finishes getting ready for the show.

“Ok, are you ready for this?” Jackson asks you with anticipation.

“Absolutely, just don’t kiss me with tongue tonight,” you swat his arm and he laughs.

“No promises,” he winks and kisses your temple. You both get into position and the song starts as the lights go up. You follow the normal dance routine, spinning and swaying your hips to the beat, and kissing at the end of the song.

As the song is performed Ji can’t help but watch from the side of the stage, the way your body moves so gracefully and how it fits to Jackson’s so well when he had to wrap his arms around you, but it wasn’t the perfect way it fit Ji-yong’s. No, your body wouldn’t fit to anyone else’s the way it did his. He noticed the happy smile on your face, only noticing it falter when your eyes locked as you look his way.

The song ends and the lights go back down. You and him rush off stage and as soon as you are out of view you jump into his arms, adrenaline running high. He catches you with a huge smile on his face and he kisses your cheek sweetly. Ji-yong watches just off to the side and he rolls his eyes. He walks past you and you catch him out of the corner of your eye, his face deadpan.

You stay to the side of the stage to watch him perform. As he looks off to the side, he catches you watching, swaying your body to the music and nodding your head. He gives a half smile your way and you return one. His performance ends and he runs off stage he takes his mic off and before he can run to you, Jackson once again is in the place he wants to be, by your side.

“So, I was thinking, we could go down to the club and celebrate,” Jackson’s excited nature was infectious.

“Yeah, that sounds great,” you glance at Ji-yong who’s giving you a glare again and you furrow your brows at him.

“We’ll leave in a few, get changed!” He runs off to get his stuff together and you go to walk off, but before you can you feel a hand around your wrist pulling you back. You look back and see it’s Ji-yong who has an unreadable expression on his face. You look at each other for a moment.

“I really need to talk to you,” he pleads.

“I,” you look in the direction Jackson went and back at Ji who looks slightly hopeful you’ll stay.

“I can’t,” you say tearing your arm away. He lets you go and for a moment lets you walk away before following you.

“Y/n,” he catches the door to your room. You look over at him, he still takes your breath away, the way his hair clings to his forehead from the sweat, the way he looks at you with his dark eyes, the way his clothes somewhat soaked with sweat cling to his body.

“What, Ji? I have somewhere to be, Jackson isn’t going to wait on me forever,” he scoffs and looks off to the side, mumbling something to himself.

“You want to share with the rest of the class,” you sass him.

“Not really,” he sasses back. You roll your eyes.

“I’m changing so at least shut the door. He walks in and shuts it.

“I meant with you on the other side of it,” you shoot him a glare of annoyance.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen, held or tasted before,” he smirks and you roll your eyes with a sharp exhale.

“Whatever,” you pull your top off your head and his eyes go directly to your body, not in a sensual, sexual way, but in a way that he’s curious. He notices you’ve put on a just little weight in the last 8 months and you instinctively wrap your arms around your torso.

“Can you not, stare,” you pause looking away from him, “at me,” you hear his footsteps come closer and he lifts your chin with his thumb and index finger.

“You’re beautiful,” he slowly reaches for your arms to pull them away and he’s inches from your face.

“Ji-yong,” you put a hand on his chest pushing him back slightly. His eyes flash with hurt before he recovers.

“Be honest with me,” he says standing back further as you find a different shirt. While you’re slipping it over your head you hear him ask, “Does he touch you better than I did?”

“What? Who?!” You all but shriek.

“Your little fling,” he motions his hand as you pull the shirt over your head you take off your pants next and put on some comfortable leggings.

“What ‘fling’,” you ask bewildered by his audacity. He rolls his eyes, saying his name makes him feel ill.

“Your little affair with Jackson Wang, y/n, I know about it, and so does the rest of the world, besides with the way you were sucking face out there, you don’t try to hide it.” You can see his jealousy and you quirk a brow at him. You decide to have a little fun at his expense. After all if he’s going to be nosy and a jerk at the same time, why not have a little fun.

“What Jackson and I are, or aren’t,” you pause and stare at him directly into his eyes, “doing is none of your concern. You left me, Ji, who I’m with now is none of your business.” You strap on a pair of sandals and walk out the door leaving him standing there.

“Jackson,” you call out and race to him. You can feel Ji-yong watching you so you slip your hand in Jackson’s as you walk off.

At the club the music is loud and the drinks are good, but you start to let your mind wonder back to your ex-boyfriend.

“What are you thinking about,” Jackson yells over the music as he see’s you staring into space.

“Ji-yong,” you huff.

“He nods his head understandably. He heard about all of it, multiple times, and he knew you still loved him.

“You wanna dance?” His offer is intriguing and you decide it’s better than sitting there thinking of the guy who broke up with you. As you and Jackson dance you happen to look over your shoulder and see that face that makes your knees weak.

“Holy shit,” you yell and Jackson notices your body tense as he looks at you concerned.

“What?” you point to Ji-yong as the answer to his question.

“Go talk to him.” He tries to push you forward.

“No, he was a dick.” You pout. He nods and walks over to Ji-yong for you. You watch as he gets closer, and even buys your ex a drink.

“Listen, man, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but me and your girl,” you see him gesture to you, “We ain’t together.” He throws back a shot and so does Ji.

“She isn’t ‘my girl’,” he corrects solemnly.

“Could’ve fooled me. She talks about you constantly,” he chuckles and Ji-yong quirks his brow. Jackson knew you’d either thank him or kill him for this, but he wasn’t worried about that right now.

“She does?” he looks over to you, seeing you dance alone.

“Oh yeah, how bad she misses you, wishes things would’ve been different.” He nods his head and looks down at the bar.

“So what’s with the rumors and the kiss and,” Jackson nods interrupting him.

“We did the song together and just became close friends. As far as the kiss, management thought it’d be good for the song if we kissed like in the video. We’re completely platonic though.” He downs another shot, Ji-yong decides not to, he wants his head clear when talks to you.

“Go get her, man,” he encourages and Ji-yong nods his head as he makes his way to you. He slides in behind you while you dance and the intimate smell of cologne and cigarettes wafts to your nostrils. You feel his hand on your hips as he moves with you.

“Can we talk,” he asks in your ear and you just keep dancing, ignoring his words but not his touch, you bring his hands around your torso so he encapsulates you.

“Jagiya,” his voice is soft, sultry even, and once the music ends you sigh and turn to face him.

“Can I please talk to you,” you see Jackson at the bar smirking at you. You give him a half smile as you find an area in the club away from all the people.

“What is it,” you don’t know how else to ask.

“I miss you,” he’s straight to the point and you didn’t expect that.

“Ji,” you sigh.

“Look, I wasn’t planning on telling you, but I seen you with him tonight and I hated it. He had you the way I should, the way I did.” He steps closer to you; you back up hitting the wall. He closes the space, your mouths just inches apart. He’s intoxicating, the way he looks at you, smells, and just the feeling of his body near yours is electric.

“He kissed you the way I did, the way I still want to,” he mumbles as he caresses your cheek.

“Not really,” you utter barely above a whisper.

“Hmm,” he asks like he doesn’t understand.

“He didn’t,” you look into his dark, beautiful eyes, “kiss me the way you did. It wasn’t the same passion or love. It wasn’t the same feeling I got with you.” You feel your cheeks blush as you confess to him.

“His touch,” you runs your hands over his arms that are locked onto your hips now,“Isn’t the same. Its not as electrifying.” You look at him through your lashes.

He looks relieved.

“So, you really aren’t with him?” you shake your head no.

You bring your forehead to his and whisper to him, “I’m not with anyone, I’m yours Ji-yong, I always have been,” and before any other words can be said his lips are on yours, smoothly moving in sync and he pulls your impossibly closer as you fist his shirt.

“Aegiya,” he practically whimpers when you separate.

“I need you to come home.” You smile at his confession.

“Promise me something,” you say cautiously.

“Anything,” his desperate eyes search yours.

“You’ll give us time to rebuild trust and be patient with me,” you’re asking more than telling.

“As long as you want to trust me again, I’ll prove you can.” He smiles.

“Then lets get out of here,” you grin as he takes your hand and leads you out of the club.

If you enjoyed consider buying me a coffee

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peachglazewrites · 2 days ago

Note

i so so loved your “safe in your arms” fic with abby, it was so well written that i had to get off tumblr and scroll another app cause i didn’t want it to end, i read your bio abt how you are trying to write for other fandoms like arcane and i was wondering if you can do a similar version of “safe in your arms “ but with vi pls ???🙏🏻

𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚜 ₊⊹ 𝚟𝚒

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: vi/f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: smut (18+ mdni), use of words like cunt/pussy/tits, mild use of force, use of safeword, panic attacks 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: established relationship, angst, fluff, use of petnames (sweet thing, sweet girl, pretty girl, babe/baby), boob stuff (vi!receiving), fingering (r!receiving) 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: no use of y/n, in canon world 𝚠𝚘𝚛�� 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 7072k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: Waking up in your girlfriend's arms, cooking breakfast, a little bit of kissing in the kitchen-- it's the perfect morning, until it's not.

a/n: thank you so much for your kind words and request!! I'm so excited to write for something outside of tlou, and hope I did Vi justice (though this is the first time I'm writing for her so please be kind orz)

I kept the timeline for this SUPER vague, but it is in the canon world of arcane! I also want to stress that even though a safeword is used, Vi was in no way being abusive or hurting reader! sometimes things just feel icky and people slip up.

I hope you enjoy ♡︎

̗̀➛ master list ̗̀➛ request your own here

Something being knocked over in the alley under your window, the window that never fully shuts no matter how much force you put behind it, startles you awake. The following sounds of children cackling and yelling at each other as they run away from the scene soothes your racing mind, your pounding heart.

The curtains pulled across the window sway slightly, fluttering in the lightest breeze that somehow makes it all the way down to your level of the Undercity. You follow the ripples in the fabric, blinking your bleary eyes that are still heavy from sleep.

Despite the open window, you can’t help but feel exceptionally warm under the covers. The air is always dense down here, humid and clinging, but the furnace that is your blankets is something else entirely.

You shift, kicking a foot out to catch the blanket to drag it off your body, but the arms slung around your middle tighten, pulling you back further into the heat.

Ah.

A small smile spreads across your lips as you begin to slowly turn around in the arms, strong hands now splayed across the line of your back. The face that was buried in your shoulder blades now moves to nuzzle between your breasts, warmth blooming through your shirt and onto your skin from her deep breaths. Past a shock of pink hair, side shaved down to a fuzzy dark magenta that sticks out at all angles are broad, naked shoulders—intricate tattoos, a network of gears, pistons and rolling steam working down her back. They shift and move as she pulls you closer, scrunching the material of your sleep shirt in her fists.

Soft snores vibrate against your sternum, and you do your best to stifle your giggle at the way it tickles your skin.

Vi. She must have snuck in late last night, off lending Caitlyn a hand or getting into trouble— or both at the same time. The dismantlement of Shimmer has been a lengthy and tense process, one that requires just as much physical intimidation as reams of paperwork and Council meetings. And despite the many protests-- mostly from her own mother-- the Kiramman heir has taken it upon herself to be just as involved in both ends of the process, dragging along the Zaunite she broke out of Stillwater with paperwork that she’d rather not discuss the legitimacy of.

That same Zaunite who runs ridiculously hot despite being nearly naked, and is snoring away in the softness of your chest.

Over Vi’s head you catch sight of her chest and hand wraps, haphazardly balled up on the bedside table, a trail of her other clothes leading from the slightly ajar doorway to the bed-- her striped pants, stolen jacket, her top.

You hum softly, brushing a hand through her hair to try and tame it. Vi sighs softly, sound muffled against your chest as she melts into your arms, arms relaxing slightly around your middle. It takes a little bit more coaxing, some more petting and a few kisses to the crown of her head before she settles back down, loosening her grip on your enough for you to begin the Sisyphean task that is unravelling yourself from her arms.

You take it slow, soothing her displeased grunts with more trailing kisses as you slip from her, replacing your body with your pillow. She latches onto it, burying her face into the material and relaxing at your familiar scent, throwing a leg across your side of the bed as she sighs into the mattress.

You crawl off the end of the bed, padding your way out of the room and slipping through the ajar door, having successfully completed the morning gauntlet.

In the hallway you yawn, rubbing at your crusted eyes on your way to the bathroom; a brief pitstop to freshen up, to wash your face and wake up a bit more before making your way out to the living room. You find yourself standing in the middle of the room, blinking as you look around, brain still catching up as you try and figure out what you’re going to do with your morning.

Your stomach decides for you, rumbling softly.

Breakfast. You’re going to make breakfast.

You pad into the kitchen, humming softly as you crouch down by the fridge, the cold rush of air chilling your bare legs. There’s not a whole lot inside, reaching the dwindling end of what you managed to buy with your pay. Running through what’s left, you figure you can make some kind of omelette, still having eggs, a couple of peppers, some cheese, and a parcel of meat that you hadn’t used just yet from the butchers. It wouldn’t be the fanciest meal in the world, but it’d be better than nothing.

You grab the hem of your shirt and hold it out, using it as a makeshift basket to collect all of your ingredients to transport them over to the counter. You have to rummage around a bit to find the pan you want to use, Vi having stored it away in a different spot when she did the dishes last, but you grab it and a couple of chopping boards and get right into cooking.

You listen to the noises of the city outside as you work, chopping up your ingredients, grating the cheese, mixing up the eggs. Omelettes are quick and easy, and you have the egg mixture bubbling in the pan in a matter of minutes.

Arms sliding around your waist from behind make you jump, the spatula in your hand nearly fumbling in your grip as you gasp. A warm chuckle is muffled against your shoulder, Vi pressing herself along your back.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

You roll your eyes, hiding your smile as you lean back against her, into her arms. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it. I don’t see what the issue is,” she says, kissing along the exposed skin of your shoulder, the collar of your sleep shirt stretched out enough to slip down your arm, hanging loosely.

“Uh huh,” you drawl, tilting your head back to nose along her cheek. “Good morning.” You kiss just to the left of her lips, skin still warm from sleep.

Vi smiles, the scar on her top lip pinching the skin slightly, exposing a hint of teeth. She leans in, capturing your lips in a lingering kiss. “Morning, sweet thing.”

The pet-name sends a tingle down the back of your neck, a soft flush rising to your cheeks. It’s your favourite one out of the arsenal that she keeps for you, though you’d never tell her that. You’re pretty sure she knows, anyhow.

“What time did you get in last night?”

Vi shrugs, resting her cheek against your back. You bring a hand up, scratching lightly at the back of her head as she gently sways the two of you from side to side. “More like morning. I didn’t even check the time, but the sun was starting to rise when I crossed the bridge. Just wanted to get home to you and sleep.” She yawns, muffling it against your shoulder. “Your thing’s gonna burn.”

You jolt forwards, slipping out of Vi’s arms as she snickers, watching you take the lid off the pan to sprinkle the fillings into the omelette, using the spatula to carefully fold the egg over itself.

You give the cheese some time to melt, the peppers a moment to cook just a bit before shuffling the spatula under the omelette, plating it up. You place a tab of butter in the pan to oil it before turning to Vi.

Your girlfriend is leaning up against the counter, arms crossed over her chest as she looks at you. Her eyes are lowered, locked onto the flesh of your bare legs, though they flick up guiltily when you turn around.

Not that you’re much better, Vi having forgone a shirt like she usually does in the mornings; chest bare and unwrapped, modest but shiny piercings sitting pretty through each nipple. You swear she got them just to distract you, unable to help the way your eyes draw to them whenever they glint in the corner of your vision.

“Eyes are up here, babe.” She’s grinning, her embarrassed flush at getting caught ogling you still colouring her cheeks.

“You know, I think not wearing a shirt in the kitchen is a safety hazard,” you say, holding out the plate for her to take as you avert your gaze.

“Oh yeah?” She takes the plate, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek in thanks. “For you or for me?”

“For all parties,” you huff, amused.

Vi barks a laugh, pressing a hand to the counter behind her before hopping up, sitting herself along the edge. She places her warm plate next to her, gently back on the counter next to her thigh.

“Not gonna eat?” You ask as you turn around, the butter sizzling away in the pan. You pour the remaining egg mixture into the pan, placing the lid back on to let It cook.

“Wanna eat with you.” She kicks her legs, heels of her bare feet thumping softly against the drawers under her. “I feel like it’s been ages since we’ve had breakfast together.”

Warmth blooms in your chest, gooey and sweet as your heart squeezes. You can’t help but turn back to look at her, finding her already looking. Her smile widens when you make eye contact, sending you a cheeky little wink that has you giggling, shyly looking back down to the pan.

Vi has always had this kind of effect on you, able to make you melt and feel like a lovesick teenager again over a single look or a couple of sweet words. It comes almost effortlessly to her, like she doesn’t even have to think about it. It catches you off guard every time, and leaves you flustered and stuttering, unable to think of how to respond and get her back.

Not that you’re unable to. You’ve had your own fair share of moments where you’ve flustered the woman, though they’re usually because of actions rather than words. The first time you bought her flowers she had accepted them and then promptly left, saying she needed a minute. You were convinced she hated them, that you overstepped, but it turned out she’d never received flowers before and had left to hide how weepy it made her.

It makes you a little bit sad sometimes, when you think too hard about how these acts of kindness and romanticism that you don’t even think twice about catch her by surprise. Like she never would have expected you to buy her new wraps when her old ones were hanging on for dear life, or make the trek over the bridge to Piltover to drop her lunch that she forgot off to her in Caitlyn’s office— as if she’d never been treated in such a way before.

You turn and lean against the counter next to the stove, the warmth of the flame heating your side. “You’re cute.”

You catch her with that, pink springing up on the highs of her cheeks. She plays it off though-- plays it off well-- grinning over at you. “Says you.”

Another roll of your eyes, playful. “Just take the compliment, babe.”

“Or what?” A scarred eyebrow raises, challenging, body leaning back to balance on her arms that are propped behind her, strong hands splayed across the counter.

Shit, she looks good. Too good. And she knows it.

You fall right into her little trap, placing the spatula down next to the stove to walk over, slipping between her legs that she opens slightly wider to fit you. Her sweatpants (or were they yours?) are slung low over her hips, a trail of deep magenta hair disappearing past the waistband. You place your hands on her clothed knees, sliding them slowly up her thighs as you look at her.

The muscles jump under your touch, and she brings one of her arms to sling over your shoulder, hand cupping the back of your neck. “So now that you’re here, what’s your plan?”

You shrug, letting her pull you closer. “Didn’t think that far.”

Vi hums, her thumb brushing up and down the sensitive skin on the side of your neck. She zeroes in on the wave of goosebumps that roll over your skin at the touch, smirk widening.

“Are you open for suggestions?”

“Just kiss me already,” you murmur, pushing yourself up to press your lips to hers.

You can feel the shit-eating grin she has as she kisses you back, using the slight height advantage she has on you to take control, thumb still rubbing almost possessively along the side of your neck.

It’s lazy, slow, perfect for a morning like this.

You slide a hand up her hip, settling on the bare skin of her waist to feel the hard muscle underneath, the pocked skin from where people have fought dirtier than her; bringing knives to fights she flies into with her fists. She never complains, though, coming out winning nearly every time.

She feels so nice under your hands, familiar and warm, the smell of your shampoo that she never admits to stealing tickling your nose as you thread a hand into her hair, something crispy and burning—

You pull away, gasping, “The omelette--!”

Vi laughs as you rush back to the pan, fumbling with the lid as you grab the spatula, using it to peek under the egg. It’s a lot darker than you wanted it be, but not totally inedible. You dump the rest of the fillings into the overcooked egg and fold it over, not letting it cook for as long as the first, but just enough to warm up the inside before removing it from the pan.

Placing your plated up omelette next to Vi’s, you can see just how much more burned it is in comparison. The edges are crispy and the egg is a dark brown, rather than the nice golden colour that spreads evenly across your first attempt. With a sigh, you pick the plate up off the counter, only to have it taken out of your hands.

“What— Vi!” You watch as she balances the plate in one hand, shuffling her legs to grab two forks from the drawer underneath her. She holds one out to you, and you take it without thinking.

“Thanks, babe. Smells so good,” she groans, digging in before you can protest.

You huff, taking the plate closest to her and holding it up to your chest, stabbing at it with the fork.

“You didn’t have to take the burnt one,” you murmur around your food, holding a polite hand up to hide your mouth.

Vi shrugs, grinning over at you in response, chewed up egg peeking through her teeth. You groan in disgust, swallowing your own mouthful with a shudder.

“You’re so gross.”

“I love you?” Vi says, wiping across her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I love you too, I guess,” you sigh, unable to hide your fond smile. “You want any sauce?”

She nods, despite her omelette already being half gone. “Yes, please.”

You manage to find some sauce all the way in the back of the fridge, something yellow and spicy that Vi had tried to make herself after eating at Jericho’s one night. She’d taken over the whole kitchen trying to perfect it, sitting you down at the table to try each batch and get feedback.

She eventually gave up and just went to Jericho himself and bought a bottle.

You stand next to Vi as you eat, the two of you basking in the ambient sounds of the morning; forks scraping against plates, the hustle and bustle of the streets below. It’s nice, domestic.

Vi stacks your plates once you’re done, placing both of the forks on the top plate and sliding them off to the side, near the sink. She gently grabs one of your arms, pulling you back between her legs, throwing her arms over your shoulders.

“Thank you for breakfast.” She sighs, content and full. You place your hands back on her thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the muscles. “I need to wife you up already.”

You laugh, squeezing her thighs. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” She nods, tilting her head slightly to the side, enough for her hair to fall across her face, a teasing smirk playing at her lips. “You don’t think so?”

“My Violet, I love you dearly, but I am not being proposed to in our kitchen with sauce all over your tits.”

“Sauce on my—” She looks down, bringing a hand to her bare chest to wipe it clean.

There’s nothing there though, tits sauce-free, and you can’t help the snort that leaves you when she looks back up— her brows furrowed, lips pulled into an adorable frown.

“Got ya.”

Her frown morphs into a confused blink of her wide eyes, the cogs turning in her mind before her eyes narrow, lips shifting back into her signature smirk.

“You little shit.”

She pulls you in, squishing your cheeks together as she attacks you with a flurry of kisses all over your face and shoulders, every inch of skin she can get her lips on. You squirm in her grip, the both of you laughing as she locks her legs around your hips, keeping you in place.

Her kisses begin to concentrate more on the soft line of your neck, under your jaw and over your pulse-- your laughter dying down into breathless giggles, then a sharp gasp as she latches on, playfully nipping and sucking at the skin.

“Vi,” you sigh, your hands inching up her thighs as you melt into her grip, letting yourself be pulled closer.

“Hm?” she hums, smiling against your neck as she sooths the sharp sting of a bite with her hot tongue, a shudder running through your spine.

Her hands drift down your body, thumbing the hem of your sleep shirt before inching them up underneath the fabric, smoothing across your bare back. You can feel every scar and callous on her fingers— a fighter’s hands. You can’t get enough of them.

Vi kisses back up your jaw and steals your lips, a sigh tumbling from your mouth as she kisses you deeply.

Your hands slide higher up her thighs, gripping her hips to pull her close towards you, balancing her on the edge of the counter. She presses her chest flush against your own, and the feeling of the jewellery poking through your shirt, brushing along your tits makes you gasp into the kiss.

You can’t keep your hands still, running them up and over her defined torso, tracing the lines of her abdomen and relishing in the way they shift under your touch. Vi huffs as her tongue slides across yours, wet and warm, hand clasping around the back of your neck to tilt your head exactly how she wants it. And you let her.

Your hands inch up, fingers itching the higher they get until finally, you’re brushing your thumbs over her nipples, tugging and teasing on the jewellery.

She grunts and pulls back, bumping her forehead against your own. “Fuck, babe,” she breathes, eyes fluttering closed as you press just a bit harder, palms coming up to squeeze and grope at the soft flesh.

You press a soft kiss to the corner of her lips as you drag your palms down, beginning to roll and pinch at the hardening buds between forefinger and thumb. She hisses, the sound seeping from between her teeth as you kiss her chin, then just under her jaw, until you’re pressing kisses all the way down to her chest. Blunt fingernails dig into the fat of your hip the lower you go, stopping when you’re level with her chest.

Her body tenses under you, waiting expectantly, goosebumps raising along her skin at the feeling of your breath puffing over one of her tits. A soft sound, almost a whine leaves her, and you decide to be kind and finally take pity on her, replacing your rolling fingers with the hot flat of your tongue.

Vi groans, her head falling back to stare at the ceiling as you work her over, switching between slow drags of your tongue and teasing flicks. Her arms slip from your hips, one of them helping to keep her propped up, the other holding the back of your head to keep you against her chest.

“S’good,” she sighs, back arching to press her tits up into your mouth, and you bite gently around her areola, titanium clicking against your teeth.

Wrapping your lips around the swollen bud, you suck it into your mouth, running your tongue over it as your hand keeps working on her other breast. Vi’s hips shift underneath you, twitching up along your clothed stomach. You grin, soft flesh pressed against your lips, eyes flicking up to her face.

Her head drops back down, lips parted as heavier breaths leave her, chest heaving under the attention. She blinks her eyes open, that powder blue slowly being swallowed by the black of her pupil, the ones that widen even more as she catches you watching.

“Don’t f-fucking look at me like that,” she moans, hips thrusting a bit harder now. Her foot digs into the small of her back, pulling you close to give her something more solid to grind against. “Why are you so hot?”

You chuckle, the vibrations making her bite her lip and groan. You pull off with a lewd smack, smiling up at her with faux innocence. “Says you.”

Vi huffs, amused but also slightly frustrated that you stopped. “You stealing my lines, now? Thought—fuck—thought they were annoying.” Her hips are working at a steady, low roll now, and you can feel the heat of her through her sweats, rubbing against your stomach.

You shrug, flicking gently at the bar through her skin. “You’re just too fun to tease,” you say, pinching her to prove your point. “Easy to, I’d argue.”

Her reaction is immediate, her hips pausing, back straightening. “I am not easy,” she says, looking down at you with a hint of something in her blown out eyes-- disbelief, challenge.

You laugh, kissing the underside of her jaw. “Yeah?”

“Uh, yeah—” the words die off into a groan, another pinch to her tits. “That’s not fucking fair,” she sighs, bordering on a whine, tilting her head back to give you more room to kiss at her neck.

“All’s fair in love and war, or however that goes,” you murmur, nosing along where her pulse thumps under her skin before biting down—not enough to hurt or leave a mark, but enough for her to feel. You lave over the skin afterwards, tongue hot and heavy and wet along her skin.

A groan rumbles under your lips, and you’re too distracted by the feeling to notice the hand slipping down your body, the fingers that brush over your underwear until they’re cupping your cunt through the fabric. Your body tenses, and you can’t help the way you gasp against her skin as she presses two fingers up against your clit.

“Sorry,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice. Her fingers start swirling in light, loose circles, the friction of your underwear sending shocks right through your cunt. “You were saying?”

Your legs tremble slightly, a hand coming to grip her hip tightly as a means to steady yourself. “Now that’s unfair,” you gasp, hips rolling against her hand.

“’All’s fair in love and war’, I thought” she quips back, the circles tightening.

“Shut up—” A moan bubbles from the back of your throat, your forehead falling onto her chest. “Vi, fuck--”

“Scooch,” she murmurs, not quite commanding, chuckling as she unhooks her legs from your back.

You hesitate, not wanting to move too far from her hand, from the delicious grind she has going on your clit, but she starts to slide off the counter, so you take a step back, giving her room. Her hand continues to rub along your cunt, the other coming up to cup your jaw and you bring up into a kiss. She licks into your mouth, and you let her, hands falling to cling onto her biceps as you lean into her.

“It’s cute when you try and act all tough,” she sighs against your swollen lips, loving the way you feel as you melt against her.

Al you can do is whine, and though it’s embarrassing, and you know you’re just making yourself look more pathetic, you can’t seem to find it within you to care when she’s touching you like this. “Vi—”

She gives an amused chuckle, hand slipping away from your soaked underwear to grasp at the fat of your hip. She shushes your protests, pressing lingering kisses to your lips and cheeks as she slips behind you, using her grip on your hips to walk your forward. One of her hands slides up, across the small of your back and to the space between your shoulder blades, gently pushing you down against the counter.

“There you go,” she murmurs, rubbing your hip as your chest presses against the cold tiles, hand running up and down your spine soothingly.

You groan, melting against the counter under Vi’s strong hands, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. She shuffles up behind you, thigh nudging your own apart, giving her room to press right up against you.

“So fucking pretty.”

Her hand massages along your hip, shifting lower and lower until it’s sliding along your front, slipping back over the fabric of your underwear to rub at your clit again. Her pace is faster, focused, hand on your back pressing you tighter against the tile as your legs tremble slightly beneath you.

She pushes a moan from your lungs, loud as it reverberates around the kitchen, hips thrusting and pushing your ass back against her. Vi grunts at the pressure, at the way the roll of your hips against her fingers starts a grind against her cunt, still pulsing from when she was rubbing herself all over your stomach.

“Want this so bad, huh?” Her fingers slip away from your clit, puffy and so sensitive, trailing up to the hem of your underwear, teasingly dipping in. “You want it, sweet thing?”

You nod against the counter, lips slightly parted, cheeks sticking to the tile. “Baby, please,” you moan, pressing your hips back insistently against hers.

Vi groans, giving in and slipping her hand past the hem. Two fingers slide themselves over either side of your swollen clit, dragging down to where you’re clenching around nothing. She gathers up the arousal there, teasingly pressing against your sopping hole for just a second, then drags it back up to your throbbing clit, playing with it teasingly before picking up her pace again.

You buck against her, a strangled gasp piercing the air, the sound mingling with the slick sounds of your pussy and she swipes over your clit. Your hands come out to grip the edge of the counter, hips grinding down against her hand. “Fuck, Vi—Need you so f-fucking bad—” you moan, growing impatient, body burning with need.

“Need what, baby?” she asks, a little breathless. Her pace doesn’t let up, but she doesn’t give you more, either.

“For fucks—” you groan, hips snapping. “Vi, baby, please… need your fingers in me—” you gasp, cheeks burning hot as you beg her—bent over the kitchen counter and desperate for her to fuck you right here, right now.

She groans, relishing in the way that you buck against her, the way that you move as she grinds her cunt up against the soft flesh of your ass. She kisses across your back, over the cloth of your shirt.

“’Course, pretty girl.”

She reluctantly peels herself off of you, removing her hand from your underwear. You whine at the loss, pushing yourself back to feel her weight back against you, but you’re just met with a breathless chuckle and a pair of hands on your hips.

Her fingers hook into the elastic of your underwear, dragging them down the thick of your thighs, pulling them away from your weeping cunt. They fall by themselves after reaching your knees, slipping to the floor to tangle around your ankles, binding them together.

Vi presses back against you immediately, calloused hands dragging up the back of your spread thighs. “Look at you,” she sighs, a moan slipping past your lips as she ghosts over your cunt, dragging a single digit through your folds. “Fuck, you’re wet.”

“Vi…” Your legs tremble as you press back for more, trying to get a better angle. “Come on, don’t tease…”

You don’t need to see her to know she’s grinning, her finger lightly dragging over you again. She presses lightly against on your clit but doesn’t move, making you jolt at the shock it sends zipping through your veins.

“Violet,” you warn, voice clipped despite the need thrumming through you, your pussy twitching under her hand. You turn back to look at her, glowering over your shoulder.

Vi shifts against you, breath hitching at the use of her full name like that, the way you glare. “Just playing, baby,” she mumbles, and instead of doing something to alleviate the ache, to put you out of your misery, she just taps her finger against your clit, like some kind of fucked up morse code.

You squirm, legs shaking as a moan is ripped from you, the hot sparks that flash through you after each touch causing something to snap, your already thin patience crumbling away.

One of your hands leave the counter, slipping between your legs to grab Vi’s wrist, dragging her hand down to where you need her. You rut against her palm, a long, gasping whine echoing in the kitchen as you thump your head back against the counter.

“Oh fuck,” Vi moans, brain short circuiting as she watches you. “Holy shit.”

“Vi, please fuck me,” you beg, holding her hand tight against you.

She blinks, eyes unfocused and hazy as the scene unfolds in front of her. She takes a shuddering breath, coming back to herself as she finally moves. She grabs your arm-- and your other one to be sure—gripping your wrists in one hand and crossing them behind your back, pressing them down against your skin to lock them in place, effectively pinning you to the counter.

“So impatient,” Vi chuckles.

The two of you have played around like this before, her using her strength to pin you down as she fucks you. You love it, bucking and squirming under her, knowing that she’s got you exactly how she wants, and all you can do is lay there and take it.

But this is… wrong. This isn’t the grip you’re used to—the slightly loose hold around your forearms, wrists free to move and grab at her for stability, or to tap her to let you go if your mouth is full. This is rougher, pinning your wrists with a bit more weight behind it, your hands unable to do anything but clench into fists.

It’s almost too strong. You can’t move.

You would never ever think that Vi would want to hurt you, that she would ever touch you in a way that wasn’t filled with adoration and love—but this feels too much like the hold she uses on people that aren’t you. When she’s pinning them down after a fight, when she’s dealing with awful people who have done awful things.

Suddenly you feel too exposed, like you’ve been caught.

The counter digs harshly into the softness of your hips, cunt on full display to the air, wrists locked behind your back, and you feel like you can’t breathe.

“V-Vi—” you stutter, breathless, so soft. Too soft. “Vi I—”

“I know, baby,” she coos—but she doesn’t. In this very rare moment, she doesn’t know.

You swallow, squirming, but she doesn’t think anything of it.

You begin to panic, breaths leaving you fast and shallow, feeling like your lungs are pressed flat and deflated against the counter, like you can’t get any air into them.

“Violet—” you say louder, more desperate, a tinge of fear in your voice. “Vi—Red—Please, red--!”

She’s off you in an instant, hands up in the air by her face, a slight tremble to them as she stumbles away. What little air you could pull into your lungs leaves in one big rush, your arms dropping away from your back to your sides. Your legs tremble beneath you, the counter the only thing keeping you up as you slump against it, still unable to catch your breath.

Things are somewhat fuzzy around the edges, slow, the darkness behind your eyelids as you blink feeling like it lasts longer and longer each time.

You vaguely hear your name muffled from behind you, hesitant and laced with fear, concern. A head of pink hair rounds to the side of the counter, where you’re facing, Vi squatting down to be in your line of vision.

“Baby? You need to breathe in real deep for me, okay?” Her eyes are wide, roaming your face, hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach out but is thinking better of it.

It takes you a moment to register what she’s saying, to decipher it in your mind clouded with panic-- and then a few more moments to try. You take as deep of a breath as you can, sealing your lips to hold it.

“Good. You’re doing so good. Now breathe it out real slow, okay? Like this—” She lets out all of the breath in her lungs, out through slightly pursed lips as if she were blowing out a candle. She keeps those piercing eyes on your own, making sure you’re present and listening.

You nod, cheek still squished against the counter, pursing your lips and blowing out. It’s shaky, and you breathe out a bit faster than you should, but Vi just smiles, as reassuring as she can despite the clench of her heart, the fear thrumming through her veins.

“You’re perfect. Just keep going, alright?” She looks over your body, eyes flicking from point to point—the way your bare legs tremble, the underwear that pools at your feet, the clench of your hands against the counter by your side.

She cringes, gut twisting at the vulnerable position you’re in.

“Can I touch you? I just wanna get you dressed.” She watches you carefully, the way you pull in another breath, briefly nodding as you hold it.

She nods back, smile dropping the second she stands up again, slowly moving behind you. “Gonna touch your hip, okay?”

“Okay,” you manage to get out, the burning in your lungs easing just a bit.

Vi gently places a hand on your hip, stabilising you as she leans down, picking up your underwear from the floor and sliding it back up your legs. Your muscles tense the higher she gets up your thighs, and she can do nothing but mutter a series of ‘sorry, I know, I’m so sorry,’ as she settles them back on your hips. She pulls the hem of your shirt down to cover you, though it still doesn’t feel like enough.

Vi’s stepping out of her sweats before she knows it, leaving her in just her boxers. “Gonna put these on you, okay?” She crouches, scrunching up the pant leg and placing it near your foot. “Can you lift your foot for me?”

She helps you step into the sweats, hands brushing ever to lightly over your calves and hips as she pulls them up over you, covering your naked, trembling legs from the air.

“There you go. Did so well for me, baby,” she praises, rubbing soothing circles over your hip, over the fabric of the pants that she can’t even tell who they belong to.

“Vi…” you mumble, voice low, sounding so tired.

“I’ve got you,” she says, voice quiet. “Let’s get you off this counter, yeah? Can you stand?”

You shake your head, clenching and unclenching your hands around the edge of the counter. Your legs feel like jelly, like they’ll buckle underneath you if you try to rely on them to stand.

“That’s okay,” she reassures. “Can I pick you up, then?”

“Yes, please.”

Vi slowly peels you from the counter, gathering you in her arms as she lowers the two of you to the floor. She nestles you across her lap, tucking you up against her bare chest, letting you shift and press against her shoulder to bury yourself into her neck. Your breathing is steadier now, more stable, and the feeling of her bare skin against your frigid cheek helps to ground you further.

Vi’s head tilts down, lips pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. She just keeps you bundled there; strong arms wrapped around your aching limbs.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers into your skin, kissing it again. “Are you okay?”

You nod, picking up your arms to wrap around her neck, holding yourself impossibly closer. “Yeah.”

She lets out a breath, pulling away just enough to look down at you, eyes searching what she can see of your face. “What happened, sweet girl?”

You swallow, throat thick with lingering fear and a flurry of other emotions, mind still clouded with them. It takes you a moment to find your words. “I don’t know… You grabbed my wrists and I just—It was too—I don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Vi whispers, kissing you again. “Was I too rough?”

You can only shrug. “Kind of? Not in a way that hurt, but it was just… different. Not like how you normally hold me, but like— like I was bad. Like I did something wrong, and you caught me? I can’t explain it.”

Vi stills underneath you, muscles tensing as you speak. You peel your face away from her neck, from where you can hear the breath hitch in her throat. She’s already looking at you, blue eyes wide. She looks devastated.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t— Janna, you know I didn’t mean it, right?” She runs a hand through her hair, head thunking back against the cabinet behind her. “I’m not—I still did it. I can’t excuse that, but I would never do it on purpose. I—”

“Vi,” you murmur, one of your hands sliding from her neck to her jaw. “It’s okay.”

She swallows, the movement shifting under the skin of her neck. You try and guide her to look at you, but she resists.

“Violet.”

She stiffens, finally letting you move her head down to look at you, letting you see the way her lips are downturned, how her scarred brows are drawn tight, her nose crinkled as she holds back her emotions.

“You’re okay,” you reassure.

“I just—the idea of hurting you—”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “I promise. I just got scared.”

Her frown deepens, and you slide your other hand to cup the other side of her jaw, cradling her entire face. She relaxes down into it, letting her eyes flutter closed, the remnants of yesterday’s makeup smudging over her eyelids. You shift in her lap, bumping your forehead against her own.

You both sit there, breathing each other in, letting yourselves take a moment to calm down.

“I’m so sorry. Are you really okay?” Her voice is soft, hesitant in a way that tugs on your heart.

“I’m sure. Just wanna sit here with you. I can’t—I don’t want to move just yet.”

“Of course.”

Her eyes open, and up this close you can see everything swirling behind them, everything she’s keeping locked away-- the things she’ll think about when she can’t go to sleep tonight, mind combing through every second of the morning to find all the ways she failed you. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She leans in to kiss your cheek, then the other, then your forehead before letting you sink back against her.

You curl yourself up into her arms, drawing your legs up a bit higher against your chest. She slides a hand down to place it on your calf, rubbing soft circles into the muscle as she holds you there. Not having to keep your legs up, you allow yourself to relax, resting your head against her chest, over her heart that you can hear still hammering away in her chest.

“Can you sing for me?”

“Sing?” She asks, blinking down at you.

“The one you hum all the time,” you supply, thinking of how it starts. “Dear friend across the river…”

Vi pauses before nodding, hesitating out of nothing but pure shyness. She never sings openly-- not purposefully, anyways. You mostly catch her humming when she’s busy, concentrating too hard to realise she’s doing it. Sometimes you’ll hear her singing when she’s trying to sleep, like she’s trying to soothe herself.

She shifts in place underneath you, clearing her throat before softly starting to sing the words, voice quiet and warm. She doesn’t look it, but she has a beautiful voice, and you’d give anything to hear it more.

You let your eyes flutter closed, allowing the words and soft vibrations in her chest to soothe you—calming as her heart rate slows to a normal pace, the song working on her as it always does.

Dear friend across the river

My hands are cold and bare

Dear friend across the river

I'll take what you can spare

I ask of you a penny

My fortune, it will be

I ask you without envy

We raise no mighty towers

Our homes are built of stone

So come across the river

And find the world below

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ request your own here! . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

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Murder in the Heartland Part 1

Here it is, the most wonderfully insane idea I've ever come up with and I've had some whoppers (Steve in a mental institution and Vecna's Timeloop from Hell for example). This is still the wildest. Only that's a twist that's coming up way down the line. My wonderful discord peeps @forgottenkanji, @dreamercec, @bookworm0690 know all, but you'd have to join my discord to be in on the secret (there are other lurkers there who might know, but they might not *shrug*).

Summary: When a serial killer strikes Hawkins, the police zero in on Eddie Munson. But when the last would-be victim Robin Buckley says that it Jason Carver who was trying to kill her and not Eddie, the police are further put in their place by an anonymous tipper who did all the work they should have done instead of going after clearly innocent Eddie. So Eddie becomes a PI to find this anonymous tipper. Featuring Mystery Writer Steve, who will play into the later plot. ;)

You will see snippets of Steve as the story goes on, but it will be Eddie's story for about 2/3 of it. It is also set in canon time for reasons that will become clear as the story goes on.

Interviewer: I’m here with Steve Harrington who has put just put out his seven novel in the thrilling Joe Keery books, ‘The Hollow Promise’. How are you this morning?

Steve chuckled: I’m tired. I’m a writer, I spend all my nights writing and my days sleeping, so this is a little outside my normal waking hours.

Interviewer: Gosh I wish I could do that, but I chose to have a morning talk show instead. Won’t you tell the listeners about your latest book.”

Steve: It’s about a series of murders in a small town and our hero comes to town to investigate and finds a bigger mystery than he anticipated.

Eddie’s life went to hell the day Steve Harrington blew town. Not that he would find that out until years later. But then again people were more preoccupied with Robin Buckley swearing up and down that Jason Carver who had been trying to kill her and not Eddie than remember a kid being thrown out of his parents place for being gay so... yeah.

Well, okay, so his life had been hell a little bit before Steve blew town. But that wasn’t as interesting an opening as the day Steve blew town. So he still had a flare for the dramatic, sue him. After all it was that flare that made him become a private investigator in the first place.

When Chrissy Cunningham had been murdered just after Eddie dealt her Special K, that made him the prime suspect in her death.

Which, rude.

She had been dealing with some pretty fucked up shit. Like being queer in a small town levels of shit on top of her mom being constantly on about her weight and her boyfriend pressuring her wear a promise ring. In high school.

Then another student died. A boy on the basketball team, Patrick McKinney, who someone else claimed had bought steroids off Eddie. Which couldn’t have been true, not if it was performance enhancing drugs. He had offered to sell them to high schoolers when he first started dealing, but Rick assured him he already had someone for that.

Then another girl died. Someone Eddie hadn’t known. He knew of her. But she wasn’t even in any of his classes, in any of his senior years. She also didn’t do drugs. Hell, Molly Masters was a known Straight Edger. She wouldn’t have gone near Eddie unless she wanted to throw hands.

Which is why he was blamed for her death, actually. They insinuated that she had finally had enough of his drug dealing ways and had gone after him.

He even had an alibi for that one, not that it mattered. Playing in front of five random drunks and a stingy ass bartender wasn’t exactly as air tight as it could have been. Because as far as witnesses go, they were pretty shit.

Then Barb Holland died. And that was a kick in the teeth. He knew who she was but only in a tenuous ‘best friend of the girlfriend of the most popular boy in school’ kind of way. Eddie was starting to see the pattern, even if the cops didn’t.

Then the final one which ended in the death of Jason Carver, Chrissy’s boyfriend. Only Robin Buckley was still very much alive.

But for the those first three days, she was in a coma. So the police spun the narrative that Eddie had been trying to kill her when Jason had interrupted them; saving her life, but losing his in the process.

Until she woke up and blew the whole investigation out of the water.

“I’m telling you Jason Carver was trying to kill me,” she said for the tenth time to a motley crew of Hopper, Powell, and Callahan from her hospital bed.

“Now why would he go and do a thing like that for?” Powell huffed. “Jason was a good, upstanding young man. Captain of the basketball team. He loved Chrissy. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not for anything.”

Robin let out a long sigh of frustration and buried her head in her hands. She looked up at them, weighing her options before she finally snapped, “Because I’m a lesbian!”

They stared at her blankly.

“Apparently Chrissy was too and that’s why he killed her.”

“You telling me that Jason Carver, all American boy next door was a murderer killing queer kids?” Callahan huffed in disbelief. “There’s no way.”

“And I’m telling you it’s true,” Robin hissed. “Plus whoever saved my life and killed the rat bastard wasn’t Eddie Munson.” She crossed her arms over her chest and settled into the bed, grumpy.

Hopper pinched his nose. “Let’s say we follow this line of inquiry, why do you believe Eddie Munson wasn’t involved at all. You keep saying you never saw your rescuer’s face.”

She looked up at him like he was stupid. “Because the guy that took the bat to Jason’s head was wearing a short sleeve shirt.”

The cops all looked at each other in confusion.

Robin threw her arms up in the air. “No tattoos, assholes! Eddie very famously has bats on his...” she looked at her own arms for a second, “right forearm. And whoever this Jesus with a bat was, he didn’t have any tattoos on his arm.”

“Robin!” her mother admonished. Melissa Buckley was there to ensure that the police didn’t try and twist Robin’s words into saying something that wasn’t true.

Robin just shrugged, unrepentant. They were being assholes and someone should tell them to their faces.

“Well, shit!” Powell snapped, throwing his hands into the air in frustration. “If it wasn’t Eddie then who the fuck was it?”

Just then the door to Robin’s room burst open, startling all those inside. Officer Glenn Daniels came running up to Chief Hopper, a large envelope in his hands.

“Florence got this this morning,” Daniels said, panting for breath. “And we wanted to verify its authenticity before bringing it to you. So me and couple of the other officers looked into it.”

Hopper opened the envelope, his eyes growing wider the more and more he looked through it. “And how much it of is accurate?”

“All of it.”

“There is no way,” Hopper growled, slamming the envelope on Powell’s chest. “No evidence is that air tight. There must be some kind mistake or error in there somewhere.”

Powell took the envelope and looked down into it. His eyebrows shot up. “There are actual fucking writings by Carver in here. Where the hell did they find those?”

Daniels just shook his head. “Whoever found this shit was meticulous. There are no other fingerprints than Jason’s on anything. But there is a letter.”

Powell went searching through the envelope and pulled it out, handing it to the Chief, who read it, mumbling to himself.

“Well, as much as I would like to say the bastard is wrong,” Hopper said with a resigned sigh. “He’s not. Or she or whatever. They’re not wrong. The victims wouldn’t have gotten justice, not with them being queer. Jason would have been lauded a hero and paraded in the streets for taking out the trash.”

“‘To the police,” Powell read out loud. “I am sending you all the evidence you failed to collect when you were too busy trying to pin these murders on an innocent man. It didn’t take a lot to realize the true connection the victims had. I’m just sorry I was too late to save Molly Masters. She didn’t deserve to die in that horrible way.

“Once I figured out who it was, I knew that there would be no justice for these kids. Not when Jason Carver was who he was, and why he was killing his peers. So I quietly compiled all the evidence I could. His journals. His distinct lack of alibis for any of the murders. His emotional connection to the first victim, his girlfriend, Chrissy Cunningham.

“I’m just glad I was able to stop him from killing that final girl. But if she did die later, I hope Carver rots in the hell of his own making. No one deserves to die because of who they love.

“-Jason’s Executioner.”

“Well, that ain’t creepy as shit,” Callahan said sarcastically. “Well it’s not as though we could have used any of this evidence anyway.”

“And when is Eddie Munson being released?” Melissa huffed, pulling herself up to her nearly six feet of height.

Hopper blinked at her for a moment. “I’m not sure I understand the question, ma’am.”

“That boy is innocent!” Melissa said sternly. “And what? You’re going to just sweep this all under the rug and leave Jason Carver’s reputation intact?”

“That’s not what I said,” Hopper replied, low and dangerous. “And I don’t appreciate you putting words into my mouth.”

Melissa crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down.

“He is innocent of the murders, yes,” he said, “but he still sold an underaged girl ketamine. And last time I checked that was still very much against the law.”

“I don’t believe you actually have proof of that,” Melissa said with a winning smile.

“He confessed,” Powell said in confusion. “We have it on record of him confessing to selling the drugs.” He put his hands on his hips. “There’s no way he’s not going away for the drugs.”

“Under duress,” Melissa said smugly. “Which any lawyer worth his salt will get tossed out in a heartbeat. You have nothing on the boy and you know it.”

Robin grinned up at her. “Isn’t she so cool? And she’s my mom!”

“Stop calling him a boy!” Callahan hissed. “He’s twenty! He knew full well what he was doing and I’m not going to stand here and let you pretend otherwise.”

Melissa scoffed, eyeing him up and down with a raised eyebrow. “I’d call your dog to heel there, Chief, we wouldn’t want me to scream police intimidation, now would we?”

“Don’t make me arrest you, Mel,” Hopper growled. “Again.”

Melissa grinned up at the chief. They had been on very opposite sides of the Vietnam War. Him having been in the army and her having been in the protests against the War. Hawks and Doves.

“And just what would be the charge this time, Chief?” she asked with a wink.

Hopper squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them slowly. He let out a long exasperated sigh. “Eddie Munson will be released without charges by the end of today.”

But before his underlings could protest he held up his hands. “It’s either release him and sweep under the rug that some rank amateur or we don’t release him and Melissa here goes to the press about how we put away an innocent man and get the national media up in our business.”

They stared at him for a moment before they grumbling agreed. Hopper bid the Buckleys goodbye and then led his officers out the room.

So how did Eddie know all this? He talked to Hopper, Daniels and the Buckleys and while some details varied they pretty much confirmed that how it went down and how Eddie got out on a ‘technicality’ as the cops were calling it.

When he stepped out into the fresh air outside of the jail with Wayne waiting for him, he took a deep breath and let it go.

“I don’t know how you can stand living in this hell hole,” he groused as he hopped into Wayne’s truck.

“Can’t afford to leave,” Wayne huffed and started the truck. “If I could scrape up the money to get out of here, I would and I’d take you with me.”

Eddie gave his uncle’s shoulder a squeeze. “Maybe I’ll be able to get a job and get enough money for both of us out.”

“If wishes were horses,” Wayne said ruefully as he pulled out into traffic. “I’m just glad you were released without charges.”

“You and me both, old man,” Eddie huffed. “I was sure I was going to be Reading, Pennsylvania, Short Line and B&O railroaded.”

“Good thing Melissa Buckley was there when they interrogated her daughter,” Wayne growled. “Or you might still be sitting in that cell.”

“I hope you sent her flowers,” Eddie said. “She certainly deserves it.”

“Delilahs and some of my grandma’s shortbread,” Wayne confirmed. “I even offered to help out any handwork they may need in the future too. And if I were you I’d offer your way around an engine too.”

Eddie saluted. “Aye, Aye!”

Wayne snorted. “If the way she tells it is true, some rookie wannabe detective is the one that provided the most damning evidence against that Carver kid.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Eddie said with a snort. “These backwater cops wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow.”

“Still it makes you wonder who it was...” Wayne said softly as they turned into the trailer park.

“It certainly does that,” Eddie agreed. “It certainly does that.”

I am ridiculously pleased with the railroad joke. It still makes me smile every time.

Tag List: TEN SLOTS OPEN

1- @itsall-taken @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @irregular-child @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #mystery writer steve harrington #private investigator eddie munson #white knight steve harrington #actually billy hargrove friendly #are you as shocked as I am?

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rafescherie · 16 hours ago

Text

SALT IN THE SUGAR BOWL — RAFE CAMERON

synopsisᝰ.ᐟ pogue!rafe decides to end things between the both of you, before either of you get too attached — but it's already passed that point, for the both of you.

warningᝰ.ᐟ angst really, sweetheart!kook!reader gets her heart smashed

cherie's note — heavily inspired by letthespiceflow on c.ai c: been using that bot a bit, and wanted to write a fic based off of the intro of the bot! they hv a lot of good bots on c.ai and spicychat as well, pls check them out if u like rafe cameron bots! part one of two!

rafe had never been one for the kook life — fancy boats, and stupid polo shirt outfits. more than one hundred spent on an outfit and it became one for 'special occasions', otherwise it would be covered in the filth of the garage floor, and deep obsidian motor oil. his hands were already stained, not something unusual for his line of work. despite his resentment for the kook life, and everyone on the other side of the island, they paid him a hell of a lot of money for the work he did — and he did it well. it had only been a few years since he had opened his own mechanic garage, months worth of projects to work on since the very first day. he was always kept busy — whether it was with upgrading a vehicle, or fixing somebody else's, he always had his hands full.

that's how he met you. so generously, he had offered to tow your vehicle back to the shop upon discovering it moiling the smoke from under it's hood — like your guardian angel sent from heaven, it was the least he could do for a pretty girl. his mother had taught him better, always trying to be a gentleman where he could be.

until today. this morning was different — the air hung thick with the aftermath of the hurricane in his brain from the night prior. he knew he needed to act on his thoughts, and do what was best. but he absolutely dreaded seeing the look on your face, and watching it completely shatter your heart.

"need the wrench, angel." he requested from beneath the heavy vehicle, grease smothered hand appearing from below to extend an open palm. bounding almost excitedly off of his leather-worn workbench, you placed the cold steel tool in his hand.

"so uh, listen," a grunt escaping his lips, absentmindedly going back to working on the vehicle. his muscles tensed with every torque of the wrench, biceps shining with a mixture of grease and sweat. the unmistakable sound of heavy bolts hitting the cold cement of the locally-owned garage rang through the bay, the hum of rock music playing throughout the shop.

his heart thundered against his chest — he felt like such a dickhead. it had only been a few months since the both of you had started seeing one another, and he was already planning on ending things. it wasn't something he wanted to do: it was something he needed to do. he hated knowing he was the reason you held yourself back from the possibility of college. no matter how much he had stressed to you that your schooling was important, especially given the opportunity of growing up on figure eight, it never seemed to stick with you. all you wanted was to be around him, and as much as he adored having you tag along every day, he didn't want to be the reason you would ruin your future.

"been thinking... maybe we should, cool things off, a bit."

the words stuck in your head for a minute, heart racing over the sentence. had you heard him right? there was certainly the possibility you had misunderstood. "what is that supposed to mean?"

rafe sighs, audible even from beneath the heavy vehicle he had been working on the last few months. the last thing he wanted to do was look at you, speak directly to you — the hurt in your eyes would eat him alive like no other, as if the guilt wasn't already working towards that alone.

"you know.." he starts, voice tame despite the race of his emotions, "you an' me."

you furrow your eyebrows, confused on the sudden shift. he had been so sweet just yesterday — peppering you with so much love you were sure you would have fainted on the spot. but maybe that was his attempt at sweethearting you — trying to help soothe the mental turmoil he was experiencing for ending things so suddenly with you. "what, why?"

he shakes his head, wishing you'd just drop it. but an explanation was what you deserved, after all. it was the least he could do. he drops the wrench onto the cement beneath the car, sliding out from underneath to kneel in front of you. he runs his tainted hand over his buzzed hair, another deep sigh falling from his nostrils.

"you're a smart girl, sweetheart. think about it — you're a kook, and i'm a pogue. you come from the rich side of the island, and i come from the cut. it wouldn't work," he starts, wanting nothing more than to wrap his arms around your fragile body, reassuring you it wasn't your fault, "besides, last thing you need in your life is someone who dropped out of high school, 'specially since you're headed to college in the fall."

ouch.

"rafe..." you trail on, biting the inside of your cheek in any sort of control against the tears that threatened to spill onto your flushed cheeks. "i- i thought you didn't care for all that?"

"i don't," he replies, ocean blue eyes looking around the shop in a desperate attempt to avoid eye contact.

"so where is this coming from?" you ask, heart thundering against your ribcage. desperation was laced within your voice, soft and trembling at the realization of the news you were being hit with.

he let out a sigh, hesitating before he opened his mouth to speak. there was no easy way to say this, so he opted for brutal honesty. his eyes never left yours as he said the words he dreaded most.

“it’s dangerous,” he started, his voice low as he slowly stood up in front of you. “it’s just asking for trouble. people would have my head. not to mention what your parents would say. we just…we can’t do this anymore.”

none of this was fair — neither to you, or to him. but there was no turning back now, the words had already popped out of his mouth, and the inevitable damage was already done. the look on your face was like a gut punch to his stomach, making him feel dizzy and sick all at the same time. he hated himself — really, he did.

one thing you knew for sure about rafe — he either didn’t care at all, or he cared too much. he always told you it didn’t matter what your parents thought or how anyone else would react; he promised he’d always take care of you. but as reality crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, that promise felt like a slap in the face. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until the hot tears streaked down your flushed cheeks, landing on the bare skin of your shoulders, exposed by your tank top.

"it's for the best, baby."

the oil on his hands smudges onto the denim fabric of his wrinkled, disheveled shirt before he lifts them to cup your face in his palms. his blue eyes search yours, the sting of salty tears making it harder to hold his gaze. but you don’t let him linger — you swat his hands away and turn for the exit, your footsteps heavy against the garage floor.

you stupidly wish to hear his footsteps trailing behind you as you walk back to your parked car — but they never come. how foolish, how naive, to think he would follow. even after he fell in love with you. even after he let you fall in love with him.

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mediumgayitalian · 1 day ago

Text

In the infirmary the air is always still.

The heat-swollen wooden door creaks as Nico opens it, and creaks louder as he shuts it, shoving against the laughing summer winds. The difference is immediate and startling – there are souls here, anguished ones, flickering at the edge of his vision, screaming in the very back of his mind. Sobbing. They sit by the wide, rarely-closed windows and watch the left-behind, and they are miserable, and they are angry, and they are grieving, and they are grateful. They linger like the smell of antiseptic under the powerful eucalyptus, like the faint sting of copper under the lavender. There is no forgetting the fallen even in the softest of nights, where the lights are low to let the injured sleep, where the moon pours gently and warmly onto restless cots, where Will hums, deep and slow, around the rhythmic shift of his pestle and the crush of something in his mortar.

Nico taps the counter as he approaches, not sure if he’s wearing his hearing aids under his hair. Will’s lips turn up, head dipping in greeting. Nico climbs up on the counter next to him, careful not to knock anything over – and, at the last minute, making a show to check for mud on his shoes, grinning at Will’s rolled eyes – and settling his elbows on his knees.

There is lots to watch – Will’s work is methodic. Less so when he is following injured Ares campers, badly strumming his guitar and screaming medical instructions as lyrics, but as he grinds white powder against stone, shifting his body with every movement, he slips into the same kind of trance his siblings do when they play, when they shoot; the same seriousness Annabeth gets when she is in charge; the same intensity Percy gets when he swordfights, the same focus Rachel gets when she paints. A connection with his body that his clumsiness usually does not allow. When Will works the bandages around his wrists lay forgotten. His hair curtains his face, his nose twitches. His tremoring fingers hold steady.

Usually.

Tonight he grips his tools tightly; force enough that tiny spasms flicker his muscles and drain the blood from his tendons. The worry line in his bottom lip is well over-worked and cracked, blood spilling into his teeth. His shift began at ten o’clock that morning – he has been standing in place long enough for the creases between his brows to become tanlines. The infirmary ghosts steer clear of him, even, loitering by the door and cupboards. Nico can hardly even feel the accidental weight of their gazes. Instead surrounding them, as its own maple-thick presence, is Will; Will and the buzzing, chittering something under his skin, Will and the tension on his face, Will and the pulverized white in front of him.

“I’m prepping,” he murmurs, when Nico doesn’t ask. “For tomorrow.”

To his left is Chiron’s leather medical bag, full almost to bursting with wrapped squares of ambrosia, bottles of nectar, rolls of bandages, salves, poultices, Tylenol, and more Nico can’t name. Pill bottles and surgical thread, scissors and IV bags. If Nico leaps off the counter and stomps on the floor the over-weighed shelves lining the walls will clatter to the ground. They were three times emptier this morning.

“...Is tomorrow the apocalypse?”

Will looks at him flatly. Nico holds up his hands.

“I’m just saying!” He peers behind the nurse’s station, where more unicorn draught than he has maybe ever seen in his life lines the already-overflowing shelves. “I’m pretty sure we were less prepared for actual war.”

Will’s teeth sink further into his poor torn lip. This is the wrong thing to say.

“We were.”

Nico tongues the edges of his teeth. Will avoids his eyes, digging his pestle harder into the stone edge, powdered grind popping and spritzing through the thick air. A small bead of red grows on the edge of his chapped bottom lip, challenging him until he curses under his breath and reaches for something to wipe it away.

“You’re stressing,” Nico observes.

“Stress is normal,” Will says sharply.

Nico raises an eyebrow. Will deflates.

He flexes his hands like he’s just realizing how much they hurt, stepping back and stretching. The stone pestle thuds gently on the wooden counter, white powder clouding off it. Will follows his curious look and slides the thick bowl over, checking his hands for dirt or polishing grease before relinquishing him. Immediately Nico pokes at the tiny little mountain, wrinkling his nose at its chalkiness.

“Gracie and Yan spent the morning with the naiads,” WIll explains, smiling slightly. The crease between his eyebrows smooths as his eyes scrunch. “I needed good shells. The naiads needed company.”

“I saw them playing,” Nico says. He snorts. “I was not aware they were doing any kind of organized task.”

Will’s smile grows, dimple winking on his left cheek. “Organized might not be the word for it.” He takes the powder gently back from Nico, brushing his fingertips through it to check and nodding. “But they had fun, and that’s all that matters.”

He tips half the powder on a piece of paper, careful that nothing spills. Nico slides off the counter without a second thought, digging around the cupboards for the right size jars and a marker. He pauses before (badly) scrawling on a label, hoisting himself back up on the counter and handing the jar off.

“I didn’t know what to write,” he explains.

Will nods without looking, accepting the jars and carefully picking up the paper so the powder is tucked in the little valley. “Figured.” He pours the powder into the first jar, tapping the sides to even it out, then ties on a cloth cover and passes the jar back. “It’s crushed shells. Calcium Carbonate.”

Nico shakes the marker and dutifully records as such on the label, sure there is most definitely not an ‘s’ in calcium nor as many letters as he crammed in there but not bothering to double check. It’s not like Will won’t be able to puzzle it out.

“What for?”

“Healing, generally.”

“I got that far, dickhead,” Nico says, kicking a snorting Will in the hip. “I was more wondering what the use of pulverized calcium-whatever might be in combat medicine. If you can find the time in prepping for the apocalypse to tell me.”

The dig makes Will’s expression sour, slightly, and his hands clench against the edge of the countertop. But Nico keeps a careful distance between them; leg still half-extended, resting nearish enough to Will that he can feel the heat of him on his ankles. He hums, quietly, letting his voice force its way through the rigored air and bounce off the huffing, whining ghosts, resting finally on Will’s shoulders. On the ends of his curls, the bends of his elbows. The sharp edge of his many calluses.

He exhales, long and low, and slides the bowl, jars, and paper over to Nico. Nico takes them, and Will slumps, resting his head on the cool countertop, arms tucked under his torso so he can feel the pressure.

“Calcium carbonate is good for dyspepsia,” he murmurs. His light eyelashes catch the flicker of his favourite desk lamp as they flutter closed. “And caustic burns. Dyspepsia won’t be an issue tomorrow, but I’ve treated enough people on the other end of Connor’s bombs to assume the risk.”

“Bombs fall under maiming, I’m pretty sure,” Nico points out. “Like, almost totally positive.”

Will sighs. “And yet.”

“...Okay, yeah, and yet.”

Nico’s not as careful as Will is. Or as practiced, rather; it takes him three times as long to fill the jars and he still spills at least a quarter of it on the table and himself. He sweeps it quickly on the floor so Will doesn’t notice. The raised eyebrows assure him his folly is not missed. The slight smile promises that Will doesn’t really mind.

“Have you always prepped this much for Capture the Flag? Or just ‘cause the Hunters are visiting?”

Nico is careful to keep his own bitterness out of his voice. Will squeezes his ankle, anyway, brushing the thin skin over the bone until he exhales, until tense shoulders relax, until the heat under his chest wanes and cools. He keeps his hold until after still, pad of his thumb scratching gently as Nico inhales, exhales, inhales.

“No.”

Nico blinks.

“No what?”

“No, it’s not just because of the Hunters.” His hand slips away as he stands, reaching for the newly-packaged jars. Nico shivers against the sudden cold. “And no, we were not always so prepared.”

All at once, the ghosts go still. From every angle of the infirmary, they stop, pause, freeze; the still air gets thicker, sharper. Nico holds his breath. He pinches the inside of his lip between his teeth, inhales, and pushes himself off the counter. Will looks straight ahead.

He is struggling with the calcium. There are too many jars. He moves them around, as Nico watches, sliding one onto the shelf, taking one off, reorganizing, sliding it back on. Staring, hands full. Bleeding lip straining underneath his canines. Nico watches. And watches.

The ghosts watch, too.

“We’ve gotten very soft,” he says finally, quietly. His fingers twitch. He withdraws his hand quickly, wrapping it tightly around the bandages on his wrists and pulling, breathing, pulling. “In the last couple years.” He blows out a breath. His voice is so thin Nico has to lean forward to hear it. “We didn’t used to be.”

The worn cotton slides against spatter burn scars, scrape, scrape, scrape.

“We lost to more than just wars.”

Vaguely, Nico knows this. The cleaning harpies, the lava wall. Dionysus’ threats. No maiming or no dessert. The hundreds and hundreds of ghosts, hungry eyes, watching him and wailing.

But the dead so easily become background noise.

“I remember,” Will admits. “Even before, when we had a fully staffed – infirmary –” he swallows – “I remember. I remember them all.” His breath stutters. His hands clench. He breathes in. He yanks, so hard the skin of his wrists go stark white. He breathes out. “They had families.”

Nico swallows. Of course they did, of course they do. Mothers in Manhattan apartments, wringing their hands at every strike of lightning. Making sandwiches for sons who will never come home. Sobbing in the park, hating themselves. Hating the skies.

More than anything in the world, he wants to ask who. There is a haunted look in Will’s eyes he never sees in full, and he wants – he wants – to pull on his shoulder, to turn him around, to stare into the glass-blue eyes and watch as they well with tears, as he gasps, as he breaks, finally. There is a part of him that longs for paper and a pen and endless frozen hours to document the tiniest shifts in his expression, to map out every twitch of his mouth and preserve the widening abyss of his pupils forever. To immortalise the flashes he knows he sees, gone before he can check, of pain and rage and hurt and fear. The split-second of hate that he knows Will gets, sometimes, when someone complains the infirmary is too slow or too little or too late, when someone rolls their eyes and mutters why do they get that stupid chariot, anyway, what did they ever do to deserve it. When there is the briefest of snaps to Will’s spine, clench to his fists. When he remembers who is and what he has lost and what he wants to do with it. When he stares into corners like he can see the ghosts hovering there, too.

For once, Nico sees it in full. And he is drunk on it, the proof of it, the sick vindication of oh you are just like me. The pleasure in that dark, thoughtless fury, bubbling and broiling behind eyes darker than blue-black midnight.

“When they said halfbloods didn’t make it past sixteen, they fucking meant it,” Will murmurs. There is a crack under his clenched hands, and he glances down, and watches, for one second, two; broken shards of the glass jar cling to his twitching fingers, red pooling and pools and spills down the creases of his hands, down the piles of powdered white. He blinks. He leans back.

Nico wants to ask who. He wants to know so badly, wants Will to list them from beginning to end, the people he lost, the people he misses, the thick cloud of grieving screaming dead that follow him at a distance. He wants to put a name to every last haunted pair of eyes.

“Anyways.” He pushes Nico back when he stands, nudging him clear of the mess with his foot, plucking the shards from his skin without flinching. “It’s better now. Safer. ‘Cause I’m prepared.”

Prepared, indeed. He cleans his hands quickly and methodically, wrapping them easily and sweeping the mess away. He walks straight into a ghost on his way to the biohazard bin and shivers.

“What time is it?”

Nico snorts. He gets to his feet, tucking his shaking hands into his pockets. “What, like you’re tired or something, Solace? Some robot you are.”

Will laughs, and it is sharp and dark and Nico relishes in it, shivering as it travels down his spine and zaps through every single one of his systems. It is the darkest hour of the night and he can feel it, can taste it.

“You fuckin’ got me there.”

He spins around the room, hands on his hips, eyes lingering on the younger girl snoring upside down on the cot, on the boy slumped in the chair next to her. His ring finger taps, taps, taps against his legs.

“I should get to bed.”

“Probably,” Nico agrees.

Will doesn’t move.

“I didn’t –”

He stops.

He breathes. He closes his eyes.

In.

Out.

“I need you to tell me I got everything.”

He opens his eyes and stares at Nico, and there it is, the second time in one night, the glassiness, the pain. The anger. Nico shivers.

“You got it,” he says lowly. He stares straight back, eyes wide, breath still and silent. “Go to bed.”

Will stares. Slowly the clarity in his eyes clouds, and his pupils shrink to pinpricks as he fades, as he goes somewhere else. His breathing slows. His hands go still, fingers limp. The bandages hang unravelled down to his knees.

“Yeah,” he says. He nods. “Yeah, it’s time to go.”

He turns quickly like he has to convince himself and strides out of the infirmary too quickly for Nico to catch up, even if he tried. Nico watches him instead, traces the slump of his shoulders as he trudges the ten yards to the glowing Apollo cabin, standing on the porch for one second, two, hand on the doorknob, back straightening before his slips in. Nico watches as his shadow grows and shrinks through the half-open windows, stops, stops. He watches as the light shifts, as the moon climbs higher, as the cabin grows silver, and he can hear, if he strains, the slightest rumble of Will’s easy exhales.

He pushes to his feet and slinks back to his cabin.

— — —

Two hours later Will wakes, barely muffling a scream into his picked-bloody fingers, and stumbles back to the nurse’s station.

— — —

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bluephoenixprincess · 15 hours ago

Text

Ok time to expand on this before i go to work.

So failing at challenges isnt the only way suitors can be eliminated.

Interactions between the suitors and the sought-after demon are often pretty heavily restricted for the tournaments' duration. The biggest being Suitors are not allowed private interaction with them unless explicitely invited, and even then a friend, family member or their Champion is usually outside the door.

Demons are still demons after all and many will probably be too impatient for the perceived pomp and circumstance of the tournament. So some, or many, might try to say "screw it" to the whole Affair and just Courtnap the object of their desire anyway.

But if/when they get caught doing this by the sought-after demon's entourage, Theyre disqualified. And usually bound and paraded before the remaining suitors as an example and reminder to behave themselves.

Tournaments last multiple days, and the mornings often begin with the parading and shaming of those who have been disqualified by getting up to shenanigans in the night.

Ok now back to Wukong.

In addition to the minimum of 3 courting tournaments, i see him having at least one set not on earth, but in heaven.

See the Heavenly court gets the bright idea that maybe if Wukong had a Celestial spouse, not only would that solve the problem of all those rowdy demonic suitors; but such a union would, ahhh strengthen relations between Wukong and the Jade Palace (IE make Wukong easier to control)

Wukong is even LESS enthusiastic about that prospect than mating with a random demon.

Not sure where this would hypothetically fall in the timeline, but if the Pilgrims are gone/unavailable im picturing Nezha stepping up to be Wukongs champion for this one. (Or maybe Erlang depending on how you view their relationship, tho Erlang could also be participating in the tournament as a Suitor)

Maybe the Heavenly courting tournament is somewhat of a last straw for Wukong. And after preforming one last particular task for Heaven with the condition that if he does this they will never pull shat shit again. And So Wukong is made to seal DBK before entering his 500 year seclusion.

He strengthen the warding and barrier spells around FFM to an almost absurd degree to keep any future suitors out. And after enough time has passed without Wukong being seen in the outside world he's FINALLY left alone in terms of demons trying to mate him....

Fast forward to LMK times.

Its post season 5, Wukongs been leaving Flower Fruit Mountain more often to spend more time with MK, understandably hesitant to let his successor out of his sight after the whole Pillar Disaster.

But his increased presence in the outside world, along with the whole Worldwide powerboost that happened with the breaking of the Stones, mean that for the first time in centuries, Demons start popping up and making bold declarations of making Wukong their mate.

Wukongs response to these encounters is to put his head in his hands and let out the longest suffering sigh to ever be sighed.

Not this shit again.

He deals with it as discreetly as possible for a bit. But eventually he's unable to hide it from the Monkie Kid Crew. Who express various levels of concern. Wukong tries to brush them off. Its only a few demons, he can handle it.

...until he cant.

After a particularly loud close call where some pumped up demon nearly did succeed at snatching Wukong away, Nezha steps in to suggest maybe Wukong needs to hold another courting tournament to buy himself a couple more centuries of Peace?

Wukong lets out a longer and even more suffering sigh.

So wheres Macaque in all this?

Well... 2 options. Either he's been in background having FEELINGS but mostly accepting of letting Wukong deal with this since, as much as it INFURIATES him to see these lowely nobodies going after his king (his Sunshine) He also knows he and Wukong arent quite ready to repair their relationship to that extent yet.

Wukongs a big Monkey, and one of the strongest beings to ever exist, surely he can handle himself right?

Then Nezha shows up and Mac is just like "A courting tournament? What do you mean by ANOTHER?!" A reaction that gets somewhat lost in more of the Monkie Kid crew asking essentially the same thing.

So Nezha begins to explain the many previous tournaments. And Macaque is just lurking in the bavkground with his good eye slowly getting twitchier.

The other option is Macaque is off somewhere on his own, maybe dealing with that whole "being hopped up on chaos juice" cliffhanger from the end of season 5 and doesnt get back till After Wukong decides to go through with another tournament.

Idea: Demon Courting Tournaments

So seeing so many Epic the musical Ithaca Saga AUs for Lego Monkie kid got me turning some thoughts in my head like fidget toys.

At this point i think most of the LMK fandom is familiar with courtnapping as a trope in some way and the afformentioned Ithaca sage aus, especially allthe ones based on The Challenge song, have given me thoughts.

So... what if.

COURTING TOURNAMENTS.

When especially powerful or desirable demons are being pursued by too many Suitors and theyre sick of having to deal with each one individually, a more organized solution is called for.

Ideally with the help of friends and family the sought after demon will call all their suitors together and set forth a series of challenges to win their hand.

Common challenges include things that show off a suitors strength and ability to provide, ya know fighting, races, hunting contests. But also more unexpected things like say, cooking competitions or Art and poetry or a judging of gifts, to determine which suitors actually know the interests or desires of the person theyre courting.

The challenges narrow down the pool of suitors until the final decision is made.

Buuuuuut

If the sought after demon doesnt wish to mate and marry, they can appoint a trusted friend or family member as their "Champion" in the tournament.

The Champion's job is to act according to the pursued demons' best interests, knocking out undesirable suitors, acting as the eyes and ears for them to see if any of the suitors might actually be compatible. Amd if it comes to it, winning the tournament themselves to assert the pursued demons right to remain single.

So where am i going with all this?

Well one i wanna write a Spicynoodles fic with this sort of premise but, while i was planning that i had MORE THOUGHTS.

Specifically thoughts about Wukong.

Sun Wukong returning home from his legendary journey now a god, a hero and, to his dismay ...

Single.

With Macaque's absence and presumed demise, Wukong finds himself with dubious honor of being perhaps the most eligible single demon in all of Asia, much to his chagrin.

Not only does he have no desire to find a new mate (he has... had a mate, his only mate, his dear lost Moonlight) The increasingly frequent attempted courtnappings are interfering with his efforts of rebuilding Flower Fruit Mountain (His Kingdom, His people all he has left except his pilgrim brothers).

Its pissing him off to say the least. And perhaps one or two especially powerful suitors wind up causing Wukong to make enough of a commotion that Heaven urges Wukong to find a more Orderly Solution.

A Courting Tournament.

Wukong is Annoyed but if this spectacle results in him finally getting some peace and quiet hell do it.

The Pilgrims are at his side through the whole fiasco.

And it works... for a time.

See the Handsome Monkey King, Great Sage Equal to Heaven, the Victorious Fighting Buddha, is just to tempting of a potential mate for all these demons to take the hint.

So in his long Life Wukong has to Suffer through multiple courting tournaments being held in his dubious honor so that all these randy demons will get the hell off his mountain.

At least 3 happen. One of Wukongs Pilgrim brothers acting as his Champion each time, all of them fighting increasingly fiercely to protect their Little Big Brother from the careless affections of his many suitors.

#lego monkie kid #lmk #lmk sun wukong #lmk six eared macaque #shadowpeach #lmk nezha #courtnapping #courting tournament #fanfic idea

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