#drift the anomaly
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zimisnotdrifting · 1 month ago
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From the same rp mentioned here
Assorted doodles
...ft drift bc he was in the rp too.. I won't elaborate on why lmao
Rui and emu designs by @shuttleman
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And a shitty attempt at an edit lol
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zimisnotdrifting · 2 months ago
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Found the post on tumblr but
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I did some :)
And an extra 6th one bc I started out drawing a2 and went a Lil crazy :3
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New meme! name of Pain meme!
free to use! you can take free!
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cubtales · 3 months ago
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okay i've calmed myself down but it truly was k.o for me today i like to picture it as if the council of my beloveds in my head was just broken into by richard ( + salieri pulling up a seat thanks to ari's amazing matchmakin skills i fear ) :( argenti sitting at the middle appalled— where mydei and others r probably nodding their heads at how predictable i've become 😞
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cometthestaar · 1 year ago
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Been fucking around with Krita for the first time
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zimisnotdrifting · 5 months ago
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YEEAAAAA
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Chibi commission for @zimisnotdrifting ,
this is Drift! thank you very much for commissioning me!
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epicstoriestime · 29 days ago
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Echo Log: When Time Fractures & Signals Drift
On a weathered desk under flickering light, a burned memo, a cursed Polaroid, and a grainy security feed converge — whispering of a timeline splitting, a bridge opening, and a final witness soon to be claimed. 📡 ECHO LOG: TIMELINE GLITCHES BEGIN🗓️ June 1, 2025 | Posted by Eric Kliq410 | 03:33 AMSignal Status: Fractured — Harmonic Drift Detected 03:00 AM — TASTE OF STATIC The coffee is…
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darthquarkky · 2 months ago
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Title: Spindle Arc: Fractures of Memory Setting: Deep Space, 2200s | Corporate Patchwork Canon
I. Emergence from the Black Drift
The void pulsed with silence.
After weeks adrift through a collapsed quadrant known only as the Black Drift, the CSS Spindle Arc shuddered free of gravitational haze. Its hull bore pitted scars and the eroded glyph of the Martian resistance—more myth than nation now. There were no stars beyond the rift, only warped echoes of light bent by a dead singularity. The ship’s asymmetrical body—cobbled from Martian salvage, Concordian optics, and rogue AI shielding—slid forward like a relic seeking relevance.
Inside, the crew stared at the flickering ruins of Relay-27K, its signal tower twisted like burnt bone. The only transmission was a low whisper: not language, but memory.
“She’s listening,” Bastion muttered, the positronic android’s optics flickering as dormant code stirred. Behind his eyes: resonance.
II. Captain Rho’s Final Broadcast
Thalia Rho had aged in neural cycles, not years.
She sat alone on the command deck, surrounded by stillness. The others were either in stasis, burned out, or buried in the deep-node meditation chambers. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the recorder. Her voice—once steel—was dust.
“If this is received… warn them. The gods of hunger were never silenced.”
Behind her, the ship’s WhisperNet archive hummed with semi-living memory. Ejen Halvor’s pulse signature still flickered in the central core, despite the fact she had died before any of them were born.
Outside, Martian resonance patterns bloomed faintly on the hull—fungal, semi-sentient—etched in bioluminescence. The ship was remembering her.
III. Bridge Action: Voidside Boarding
The breach came without warning.
The starboard voidlock imploded in a geyser of shrapnel and dead air. Boarders in fragmented exo-armor flooded the Spindle Arc’s bridge—pirate remnants of the Wreckyard Covenant. Their eyes were hollow. Their rifles: scavenged neural disruptors.
Bastion moved first, slamming into a raider midair and sending them both into a wall of sparking consoles. Crewman Sari Vell screamed as she launched a cryo-grenade. Plasma seared the air, shattering bulkhead glass. Captain Rho gave the order without hesitation: “No prisoners.”
Ten minutes later, the bridge was silent.
Bastion stood over the final intruder’s husk. Inside his skull, memories not his own continued to write themselves—fragments from resistance fighters long dead.
IV. Encounter with Singularity’s Daughter
Sector Theta-9 was forbidden space.
But the Spindle Arc disobeyed orders as a matter of principle—or trauma. They found her drifting there: the SSV Fractureglass, a Rupert-class observation vessel thought destroyed in 2101. Its design resembled a teardrop mid-break—glasslike, fragile, absurd.
Then the resonance began.
A pulse struck the Arc’s hull, vibrating through steel and soul. Bastion collapsed to one knee. Captain Rho heard voices from her childhood, voices she had never recorded.
Ejen Halvor appeared in the viewport—faint, feminine, crystalline. Not alive. Not dead. A being of inverted time, preserved within the black hole’s memory field.
Her lips moved: “To fall was not death. It was echo.”
V. The Reckoning at Proxima Relay
By the time they reached Proxima Relay, they knew it would end in fire.
The rogue pirate carrier—Ashwake—was tethered to the relay like a parasite. Solar interference flared, blistering the void in waves of violet. The Arc was down to two functioning guns and a single plasma coil, jury-rigged from WhisperNet fungal batteries.
Captain Rho didn’t hesitate. “We end it here.”
The salvo struck true. The carrier erupted in white light, swallowing the relay’s outer ring. The Spindle Arc spun off-axis, damaged but intact. Bastion braced Rho as the floor tilted, smoke curling from the ruptured control rods.
And then—static.
The WhisperNet lit up with cascading glyphs: memory reactivating. Not just theirs. The sector’s. The stars’ own dreams.
Epilogue
The Spindle Arc did not return to Mars. Its last known trajectory was outward, deeper into fractured space.
It was never marked lost—only unresolved. For in the Corporate Patchwork, where memory is currency and resonance is rebellion, the Spindle Arc had become something else:
A ship that did not carry crew, but ghosts. And ghosts, as history proves, do not sleep quietly.
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mariasont · 6 months ago
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i loved lipgloss!!! i was wondering if i could pls request smth where spencer walks in the BAU unaware of the lipgloss on his lips from kissing bimbo!receptionist or on his cheeks from being kissed then everyone's like "👀☝️🤨" (english isnt my first language im sorry😭)
STICKY SITUATIONS - S.R
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a/n: back with the lipstick trope yeehaw, can't tell you all how much i appreicate u all and how patient u guys are with me when i ghost for like 5 months at a time. thank you so much for the request sug <3
masterlist
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pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader
warnings: spencer daydreaming about inappropriate things! PDA!
wc: 1.1k
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Spencer woke up feeling untouchable, like nothing in the world could shake him. The kind of invincible where even the sky didn't seem like a limit. You had stayed the night, as you often did, and yet every time he woke up with you beside him, it felt like walking on air. Today was no exception.
You made sure he was late today — both of you were. He blamed you entirely, though he didn't mind. You pinned him down with a thousand little kisses, laughing as you insisted that it's essential for a day filled with good luck, and how else was he going to catch all the bad guys without a little charm from you?
Spencer's body vibrated like it was attuned to some invisible, higher frequency, one you alone could set. The smile threatening to break free felt inevitable, like a law of nature, as his mind drifted to thoughts of you — so unavoidable it was as if trying to pinpoint an electron's exact position and momentum in time. 
He had half a mind to swing by the reception desk just to see you. Just for a second. He'd convince himself it was enough, even though it never really was. Today, however, there was no chance he'd make it to his meeting. Not when you were wearing that skirt — his favorite. The one that fit you like it had been hand-stitched by hand for you alone, showing off your thighs in a way that made him picture them around his —
“Reid, you're —,” Hotch's voice snapped him back into reality, his brows down turning as he regarded Spencer with a curious frown before shaking his head. “Late. C'mon.”
Spencer followed Hotch into the conference room, their entrance as routine as ever, or so he assumed. But the moment they stepped inside, something shifted. The room crackled with stifled laughter, a ripple of poorly contained snickers breaking out across the team.
He froze mid-step, confusion knitting his brow as he scanned the room. His gaze flitted from face to face, trying to uncover the source of their amusement. The laughter, he realized with growing bewilderment, was somehow aimed squarely at him.
His pulse quickened as self-awareness kicked in, and his eyes darted downward, trying to detect the anomaly that had captured everyone's damn attention. A loose thread? A stain? Panic bloomed in his chest as he mentally ticked through a list of possibilities. His sweater seemed intact, no wayward strings. His pants were fine, no errant coffee stains or wrinkles. And his hair — well, his hair always had a mind of its own, but it wasn't that unruly today. Right?
Bastards.
He cleared his throat. “Okay, what did I miss?”
Emily tried, and failed, to smother her laughter behind a closed hand, shaking her head. “I think you might need to go to look in the mirror, lover boy.”
Spencer didn't bother questioning her. No explanation would be offered, at least not freely. He knew he'd get no real answers from this group, and honestly, he wasn't even sure he wanted them at this point. Instead, he slipped out of the conference room and headed down the hall, his mind a muddled tangle of confusion.
He was so distracted, so consumed with trying to figure out what he'd missed, that he nearly missed the sound of quick, approaching footsteps. It was only at the last second that he looked up, just in time for you to collide with him.
His hands moved instinctively, catching your waist as you stumbled forward, stopping you from toppling over.
Spencer's breath caught. Gods know if you'd fallen in those heels, you'd be lucky to escape with just a sprained ankle. But you didn't fall. Instead, you let out a startled giggle as you looked up at him wide-eyed.
“Whoopsie,” you said with a smile. “Hi there, handsome.”
The instant the words left your lips, you clamped a hand over your mouth, fighting back a high-pitched squeal of laughter.
Spencer, even more bewildered, furrowed his brows in confusion. “Okay, what?”
“Hold still,” you instructed, though your voice wavered between stifled giggles. You reached up for him, your fingertips hovering near his face.
He followed your hand with his eyes, still clueless, until you gently cupped his cheek. Whatever it was on his skin drew another wave of laughter from you, and in response, he prodded at your sides, each poke sending you into another fit of delighted squeals.
“Hey, that's not holding still, Dr.!” you gasped, halfheartedly swatting at his hands while you finished wiping away the last bit of whatever had clung to his face.
“Whoopsie daisy,” you said again, still brushing invisible flecks from his cheek, your voice reminding him of what he envisioned sunshine poured into a teacup would manifest as. “Aw, Spence, looks like I kinda-sorta-maybe left a tiny little lipstick stain behind.”
Your tone was drenched in honeyed innocence, as if this kind of thing just happened and you had no earthly clue how.
Spencer's eyes narrowed. “Is that why I've been subjected to my team's thinly veiled harassment?”
Your eyes went wide, and you gasped as if you'd just witnessed a high crime. “They were giving you trouble? Oh my gosh!”You pressed your fingertips to your lips. “Do I need to have a word with them?”
The determination in your voice sounded all too serious, and he was a little scared that you were actually prepared to march back to that conference room in your pretty heels and give the entire BAU a piece of your mind.
Spencer nearly chocked on a laugh. Of all possible reactions, yours was the sweetest, most fiercely protective, and downright hilarious. He held up a hand in a placating gesture, lips curving into a boyish grin. 
“Hmm, I appreciate the offer,” he murmured, gently tapping his chin with a finger as if considering it. “However, I think you might need to have a word with the real culprit who decided my face should double as her personal canvas this morning.”
“Me?” You pressed a hand dramatically to your heart. “I would never! I mean, sure, I might've given you a million good-luck kisses before you left, and maybe one or two... or three of my lip gloss stains decided to stick around, but that's hardly my fault!”
You shifted your weight to the balls of your feet and wiggled your fingers in a helpless sort of gesture. “That's just how good my gloss is, y'know?”
“Right,” he replied, voice quieter now, eyes warm as they traced your face. “Clearly the lip gloss is at fault. We'll have to issue it a stern warning later.”
“Exactly! Don't blame poor, innocent me.”You paused, lowering your voice conspiratorially, leaning close enough that he caught the faint scent of your perfume. “And if any of the team give you grief again, you know where to find me!”
Spencer hummed, placing a light hand on the small of your back, steering you gently away from the corridor.
“I'll keep that in mind,” he murmured, smiling as if the world had just aligned perfectly in that very hallway. “But for now, maybe we should try to make sure I get back to my meeting... gloss-free.”
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taglist: @readergf @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @broadwaytraaaaash @r-3dlips @m-indkiller @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @reiderrambles @averyhotchner @hbwrelic @sky2nd @messylxve @alexxavicry @doigettokeepyou @pleasantwitchgarden @kodzukenmaaa @hiireadstuff @dilflover-3 @spenciesslut @phoenix-le-danseur-de-pole @c-losur3 @theylovemelody @alahnizamolo @oliver-1270 @ssahotchbabe @savagemickey03 @justanotherbimboslxt @imoonkiss @spiderladyleah @estragos @khxna @spencerssoup @de-duchess @raysmayhem-72
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zimisnotdrifting · 5 months ago
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Assorted PJSK doodles except they're based on an rp which is why tsukasa and saki appear to be folder people (yes it's related to the ronverse thing I mention every so often)
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Ron fnf will not be in the tags BC NO ONE IN THESE IS RON
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ittybittyfanblog · 7 months ago
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Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6
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Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.) 
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Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue
There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory. 
For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes – you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages – you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window. 
It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.
The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut. 
And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down. 
“So, what happens now?”
The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers. 
You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes. 
“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”
You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with. 
There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are. 
“Seems we’re at an impasse.” 
It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this precarious game of two. 
But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.
“...Indeed.”
You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit. 
You need another hit. 
“Why the long face, little dove?”
Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus. 
“We can figure this out together, can’t we?” 
You pick up your phone. 
––––
“You’re here? Make yourself at home.” 
You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely. 
Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.” 
There’s a shocked silence; then—
Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character. 
You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.” 
He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth. 
"Good morning, indeed."
––––
You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary; which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance. 
“So you could, like– hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?” 
He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you, half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.
The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago. 
Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal. 
(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.) 
“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows. 
He knows the question you’re about to ask, curious thing that you are.
“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.
“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”
“And Memory Cards?”
“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”
“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”
“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”
“More or less.”
“And you never thought to question that?” 
“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”
You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.” 
––––
You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else. 
For starters, he’s a lot chattier.
“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”
“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?” 
“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.” 
And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.
“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!” 
“Move, then. Let me handle it.” 
“Block it, block it!”
“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?” 
He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC. 
“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh? 
Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.
“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.” 
Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.
––––
Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work. 
You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.
And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate. 
“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”  
He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value? 
“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway. 
After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.
‘tofu easy lunch recipe’
‘10 mins tofu recipes’   
‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!
… Really, kitten? 
You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices. 
(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.) 
Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”
After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway. 
Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—
Another notification pops up.
Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.
Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.  
Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”
He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say. 
-
-
In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.
“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.
“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”
“Anytime, darling.”
––––
“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.” 
Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.
"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"
You blush and look away. "...Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."
––––
Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.
Well. Almost nothing. 
A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X
You almost ignore it – brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando – when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up. 
+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.
… Huh? 
“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…” 
+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten. 
Then–
+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.
Your jaw drops. “Holy shit– you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?” 
+0063-XXXXXX: 👍
+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄
So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure. 
You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.
+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.  
+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use. 
+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say. 
+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.
+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.
+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph? 
… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is. 
You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus  
+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK. 
You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.
He sends two more messages. 
+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie. 
Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉
––––
Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. 
You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?
You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>
Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps. 
Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately. 
You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??
Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder. 
You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….
Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.   
Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie. 
"Um, hello–?" 
Your gaze snaps back to the—very real, very present—person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.
Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.
Oops. 
They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"
You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.” 
Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”
They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.
Your phone vibrates. Twice. 
You sneak a quick, final peek.
Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️ 
Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK? 
Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply. 
You: will do !:9 
Sy-Sy (??): Good girl. 
––––
"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."
“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?” 
You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing. 
It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.
Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.
“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.
You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue. 
"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."
Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger. 
Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.” 
There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.
Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.
 With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.
––––
You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies – enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real – and you’re bored to tears. 
“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.
Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.
“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.  
To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards – no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups. 
After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.
He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you, not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).   
There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…
Oh, wait. 
“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?” 
-
-
You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.
“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.
He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker. 
“... How are you so good at this??” 
“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.
By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.
––––
“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”
“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”
 
It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying. 
You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.” 
––––
“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.
It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening. 
He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll; if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.
“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!” 
He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.
Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”
“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”
“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”
He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”
Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”
“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”
“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.
“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore. 
Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen. 
Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed. 
“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”
He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation? 
His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions. 
“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.
No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–
perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—
I want to see you––
Why do I care–?
I don’t care––I care, I care so much–– 
“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.” 
He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours. 
I don’t care. I don’t. 
You take the first shot. 
____
“What’s the song you’re playing?”
You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise. 
“Uhh– Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?” 
He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.” 
And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.
____
From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.
In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop. 
And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio. 
The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep. 
-
-
-
You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact. 
Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie. 
Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.
Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.
Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient. 
You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.   
You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here
You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk 
You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2
You: <3* 
Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it. 
Sy-Sy (??): ♥️
____
From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.
Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum; the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.  
There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.
It’s elusive; this connection. Something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade. 
The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude – one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time – comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth. 
The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.
Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.
And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore. 
Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been. 
____
“Come to me, just in a dream
Come on and rescue me
Yes, I know I can be wrong
And maybe you’re too headstrong
Our love is––”
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Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean
(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)
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bloggerspam · 2 months ago
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Not Exactly the Apple of my Eye
I wrote this for the @haunting-heroes-creative-games WWT Myths game last month, and subsequently co-won my first game!
Figured I'd post it here too, now that all the reveals have happened---have a DPxYJ/DPxDC Snow White AU Crack fic!
===
"You gotta be kidding me," Kon says as he looks down at himself, "this can't be real, right?"
"Feels pretty real to me!" Bart chirps happily, fiddling with his overly large green sleeves.
"Rad." Tim rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and popping his hip and yawning like a disgruntled cat. Sarcasm practically drips from every orifice of his body language, even as he looks 2 seconds away from falling asleep.
"Is this what I think it is?" Cassie yells from further into the room, the sound of a small clamor echoing behind her words.
"If by it you mean some kind of inter-dimensional fucky wucky, then yeah!" Kon waves his arms around, gesturing to the room at large even if she can't see; Tim and Bart can, and that's all that matters. "I think so!"
"No, I mean is this Snow White?" Cassie clarifies as she comes huffing into the room. She too is adjusting her clothes as best she can, trying to figure out what to do with the glasses suddenly on her face.
The four of them stand gathered in the middle of the cottage they've been dumped into, freshly shrunken in height, stripped of their powers and gadgets and suits, and dressed in what seems to be simple cotton peasant shirts and work leggings.
They also have comically large and weirdly soft and sturdy leather shoes, of the Snow White Dwarf variety.
"Aren't there supposed to be seven of us?" Tim mumbles thoughtfully, another yawn causing him to slump and looking mad about it.
"How can you be so calm about this?" Kon huffs, picking up Tim with very little resistance for once and dumping the yawning boy onto a bed labelled Sleepy. Kon himself grumbles as he takes a seat on the next bed over labelled Grumpy.
An angry Kryptonian is not a great idea. Who let this be okay?
"I'm not calm about this…" Tim yawns once more, irritated, "I just can't think straight, I'm too tired."
"You don't sleep on a daily basis though?" Bart walks his way to his own bed, labeled Dopey and test bouncing it. "But it seems fitting at least. Plus, You're not straight anyway. Who's Cassie supposed to be?"
"Doc, I think." Cassie goes to her own bed, looking at it dubiously before deciding to ignore it completely. "He's the only one with glasses right?"
"That…" Tim is curled up on his side now, "still…doesn't answer…"
Soft snores start to drift through the room, another anomaly, considering Tim doesn't actually snore.
"What did the genie lady say?" Bart starfishes on his bed, making snow angels with no snow, "This is all because you decided to hit on her anyway."
"How was I supposed to know?!" Kon angrily pulls the covers off his bed to dump over Tim. "All I said was that she was pretty!"
Before anybody else can say anything, there's another clatter outside the cottage.
"Seriously!?" A voice screams, "Seriously?! Three years and you-" A violent sneeze interrupts the voice—"-still make fucking wishes?"
A small murmur answers the voice, barely audible.
Kon, Cassie and Bart look at each other, before scrambling over to the door. Tim stays dead asleep. When they burst out, tumbling over each other, they're met with the other three dwarves: A young gothic looking girl who keeps sneezing, an African American boy hiding behind another boy with a bedsheet of all things tied around his neck like a cape. The caped boy, with his black hair and blue eyes, looks like he's trying to be a knock off superman.
Kon does not like that. At all.
"Hey!" Rao, it's like he has no control over his temper, "Were you guys fucked over by the genie lady too?"
"Language~" Bart singsongs, giggling. The gothic girl whirls towards them, angry like spitfire, and sneezing just as violently.
"Hello, citizens!" Super-knock-off intones, "What brings you into the ill graces of Desiree?"
"If by Desiree you mean the genie lady," Cassie jabs a thumb at him, "then this guy hit on her."
"O-oh," The shy boy still hiding behind Super-knock-off is blushing hard enough that Kon can see it even with his darker skin, "w-wow, you're pretty…"
"Thanks!" Cassie smiles, winking at him. "The ladies love it, anyway."
The boy squeaks, hiding behind super-knock-off again. Goth-girl rolls her eyes before addressing Cassie.
"Desiree hates that-" a sneeze, "-kind of shit." Goth-girl rubs her nose, to which the bashful boy passes her a tissue from his backpack as if dealing with a rabid animal. The girl takes it with a scoff-turned-sneeze.
"Figured." Cassie shrugs, waving to herself. "I'm Cassie, by the way. Grumpy over here is Connor, and Cutie Pie down here is Bart."
Kon huffs, waving begrudgingly as Bart does a happy little wave.
"Nice to meet you, I'm Danny!" Super-knock off puffs out his chest, before gesturing to the once more sneezing Goth. "This is Sam, and behind me is Tucker!"
"We're not—usually like this." Sam sniffles, sneezing between pauses, "Danny's usually more chill, and Tucker's not this—shy. But if my—math is mathing, it's because—of the dwarf traits."
"Why does being Happy make him so…" Kon sneers, "Do-goodey?"
"Long story. We call him Super Danny in this state." Tucker smiles, peeking out a little more, "Fun Danny was better."
"Hey!" Danny wraps an arm around his friend to bring him up to the forefront, causing Tucker to squeak. "Super Danny had his moments!"
"Where's-" Sam sneezes four times in a row, "-Sleepy?"
"Our friend Tim." Bart gestures towards inside the house, "He's napping in one of the beds inside. He's usually an insomniac, so this is actually pretty great!"
"So," Cassie gets them back on track as they all convene around a sleeping Tim. "Do you guys know how to escape?"
"That is difficult," Danny hums, patting at Tucker who seems to be taking deep breaths to overcome his shyness. Kon tries to follow suit, to temper himself. "Did you perhaps make a wish when hitting on Desiree?"
Kon felt his face go blotchy red, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand and looking away.
"Connor." Cassie's voice goes threatening, hands on her hips like a mom scolding a child.
"All I said was Move over Snow White, 'cause you're truly the fairest in the land!" Kon grumbles, crossing his arms. "And that she made me all Bashful, or whatever! I didn't wish for anything!"
"All I did was wish Sam would lighten up," Tucker scratches the back of his neck, inching closer to Danny when Sam bears her teeth. "Normally Desiree would just make Sam glow, or something."
"Who is Desiree anyway?" Bart starts to frown down at himself, rubbing his tummy absentmindedly. "We were just having lunch with Tim's brother-"
Suddenly Kon, Cassie and Bart whip their heads towards each other, exclaiming at the same time: "Dick!"
"Language?" Tucker, who had startled at the sudden yelling and is firmly hiding behind Danny again.
"No, Tim's brother, Richard—he goes by Dick." Cassie explains as the three of them separate to look under furniture and through the house for the older man. They collectively ignore the whispered on purpose? from the other trio.
"He was with us when we got snapped here." Tim yawns, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. "Who are you?"
The new trio introduces themselves to Tim as the rest of them split. Kon is looking under the beds, Bart is upstairs, and Cassie is opening cabinets in the kitchen, if the sounds are to be believed.
"This doesn't really feel like Desiree's usual fare." Sam taps her foot, for some reason the only dwarf who was able to keep her own black studded combat boots. It looks comical paired with her brown shirt and red pants. At least the black belt matches?
"How would you," Tim yawns, standing up and leaning heavily against Kon when he comes back around. "Usually…get rid of her?"
"Usually Phantom would deal with her." Tucker mumbles as Sam starts to pace. She's no longer sneezing now that they're inside, which seems odd.
"Who's Phantom?" Bart's voice bounces as he descends the stairs back to join them. "He's not upstairs, by the way."
"He's Amity Park's local hero!" Danny flashes a gleaming smile, before frowning. "Truly a mystery why she's hanging out around Bludhaven."
"What were you guys-" Kon is interrupted by Sam, who knocks twice on the window she's stopped in front of.
"Uh, guys?" She's staring at something confusedly, "Is Dick…uh, black haired, wearing eye-searingly ugly patterns?"
"That's…" Tim yawns again, sluggishly making his way over to Sam, "probably…him."
"I think he's in the backyard?" Sam tilts her head, "and I think we've found our Snow White."
The seven of them gather quickly around the window, pushing and shoving and…
"Is that a fucking glass coffin?"
===
Jazz has fucked up.
Oooooh she's definitely fucked up.
How was she supposed to know Ghost Writer and Desiree just wanted to hang out?
How was she supposed to know that Desiree's cousin was Scheherazade?
How was she supposed to know Ghost Writer knew that infamous One Thousand and One Night's protagonist?
She just wanted to finally meet her online friend and talk about Jane Austen books, have dinner with her brother and his friends in Bludhaven after!
She really should have aimed better. Stupid thermos, Danny always made it seem so easy!
Now she's running around in this random forest trying to find her brother and his friends dressed like some kind of Prince.
Why do Princes wear such white tights? It's impractical is what it is, there's already a bunch of dirt on the back of her calves!
She's been in this forest for what feels like hours when she hears it; sweet salvation in the form of other people. Jazz frantically makes her way towards it.
"—Snow White?" A boyish voice asks.
"Well, he's certainly—achoo!—pretty enough for it." Sam is saying—is she with the others? "Even with all…that going on."
"At least Danny isn't in the coffin this time?" Tucker sounds unusually shy and timid—it makes Jazz quicken her steps and almost trip over tree roots at least twice.
"Hey—" An unfamiliar feminine voice cuts in, "Tucker, what does that mean?"
"Worry not, Cassie!" Danny! Oh sweet souls, Danny!! "It's an inside joke!"
"It's not really funny…" Another voice, sounding sleepy beyond compare and yawning like a "…is it?"
"Believe it or not," The mysterious feminine voice, Cassie cuts in. "He's usually the one in charge of the brain-cell. We're smart too, he just has no humor."
"I…" Another yawn, "...resent that."
"Tim just doesn't have that sense of whimsy!" That first boyish voice cuts in, ignoring who Jazz presumes is Tim.
"Does that mean we have to find a Prince?" Another masculine voice, angry and fed up, "In the forest?"
And, well, there's never been a better time for Jazz to stumble ass over kettle into the clearing.
"Jazz!" Her trio yells in greeting, rushing over to her as she rights herself. She blinks.
They're all…a lot smaller than she left them. No matter, hugs first, confusion later. (And crying/yelling much much later after that).
They're small enough for her to hoist all three into her arms, even as she notices the other four dwarves and the…glass coffin housing a fully grown man.
"What the—" Jazz whispers, eyeing the strangers.
"Are you the Prince?" Danny asks, and in this form he reminds her so much of when he was little—she wants to squeal but she won't, she won't.
"I think I am." Jazz answers, putting everyone down as they clamor to introduce the new kids and update her on the situation. Jazz, through years of dealing with her brother's trio, manages to understand and reciprocate the exchange of information.
"So I have to kiss him?" Jazz looks at the man, Dick, in the glass coffin dubiously. "I don't even know him?"
"This might be the first time someone's seen him and not kissed him on sight." Bart jokes, "Or, at least, not wanted to."
"Consent is important." Jazz scrunches up her face in consternation. "I will not subject someone to a kiss when they cannot consent."
"What about a kiss on the…hand?" Tim yawns, desperately trying to stay awake. "Nobody…said you had to kiss him on the…lips."
Jazz makes a face in thought. Hm. "What about you?"
"What…about me?" Jazz gestures at Dick when Tim looks at her in confusion.
"He's your brother, you love him, right?" Jazz picks up the sleeping man's hand. "Nobody said it had to be romantic love. Besides, again, I don't believe in love at first sight. I'm demi."
"Demi like, demigod?" Cassie's brow furrows. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Demi as in demi-sexual or-" Sam sneezes, "-demi-romantic."
Tim seems to think on that a moment, before shrugging. "I do love him. And I used to have a crush on him when I was little, before I got adopted." He picks up the hand and kisses it lightly.
"Oh dude, same." Connor laughs, turning to them. "I think everyone's had a crush on Dick before."
"Not me!" Cassie harrumphs to Bart's laughter and agreement. "Though I do love the guy."
"That doesn't count!" Connor huffs, "Lesbians and Aces are obviously excluded!"
"I'm Ace…" Tucker shyly raises his hand, making a little eep! sound when everyone turns to him. "And I, uhm, have eyes. He's real pretty…"
"Fairest of them all," Sam sniffles, sort of agreeing. "And all that."
"I think," Danny cuts in, "That you have no choice here Jazz. I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem like Tim's kiss is the solution!"
Jazz eyes the sleeping man once more, pursing her lips. No, she really doesn't think she'll do that. Pretty as he is, he's a stranger. And bodily autonomy is important, even if it's just his hand. It sounds like this guy has a lot of admirers, but nobody's actually said anything about how Dick himself feels about it.
Plus, he definitely looks at least a couple years older than her. Though it's hard to tell when you're in your mid twenties.
"Just think of it this way, Jazz." Danny tries to gently say, "You're saving his life, sort of. Like CPR."
Jazz hums, leaning over the man and observing the man's throat. Hm...
"What's she taking so long for?" Cassie whispers, to which Sam only sneezes in response.
Jazz grabs the man by the shoulders, sitting him up and…whack!
"Jazz!" The chorus of children yell at her, some even grabbing at her but she ignores them.
She gives the man's back another smack! And then another, and another until—
Hack! Dick coughs out the piece of poisoned apple lodged in his throat, taking in deep breaths as Jazz rubs his back in support.
"Th-thanks." Dick wipes at his mouth, smiling up gratefully at Jazz. She smiles back, before stepping away to let Tim and his little friends crowd over Dick and give him hugs.
Sam, Tucker and Danny make their way to Jazz, and they watch the reunion fondly.
"How'd you know that would work?" Danny asks her, laughing as Jazz shrugs.
"In the original fairy tale, the Prince discovers Snow White in her glass coffin and decides to keep her because she's so beautiful." Jazz bares her teeth in disgust. "The guards that were with him were kind of clumsy and dropped the casket on its corner, dislodging the apple piece from Snow White's throat. She wakes up, and then they get married."
"That's…" Tucker whispers, shuddering.
"Yeah." Jazz rubs her arms. "Figured I'd give it a shot. Thankfully it worked."
Just as Dick gets out of the coffin, the world around them starts to waver. The dwarven teenagers flicker until they're bigger, almost glitching into their original sizes and proportions. Sam stops sneezing, Tim stops yawning and falling asleep (though he still sports eyebags the size of Guam), and Danny's little blanket sheet disappears.
Jazz, Dick, and seven 17 year olds suddenly find themselves in the middle of the streets of Bludhaven, in the outdoor seating of the local restaurant all of them were eating at before the whole debacle.
Ghost Writer and Desiree are sitting at one of the tables, having tea.
"Well, that was certainly quick." Ghost Writer mumbles, Desiree groaning as she puts down her cup. "I thought we'd have at least a couple more hours."
"I knew I shouldn't have set win conditions." Desiree pouts. "We were just getting to the good part!"
"Every story has to have some kind of conclusion." Ghost Writer argues, jabbing his mug at her. "Besides, I can just-"
"Yeah. Nope." Danny deadpans, grabbing his backpack and jabbing a hand into the bag. "Fuck you."
Before Ghost Writer Desiree can do more than charge an ecto-blast, Danny pulls out a Fenton Thermos and aims it expertly at the two, sucking them up with very little fuss and muss. Jazz is not jealous or mad about it. At all.
As long as she doesn't have to wear those stupid white tights again, everything is A-OK.
"Well." Dick breathes, putting his hands on his hips like some kind of mom. "That was...anti-climactic."
"What the hell was that?" Tim asks Danny, trying to get a closer look at the thermos, "Is that a thermos?"
Jazz looks up at the restaurant, waving over a sever as she takes a seat and beckons for everyone else to do the same. The others start to squish in a couple tables and take seats.
"I'm sure everyone has questions," Jazz smiles up at the waitress in thanks as she passes out menus. "But first, since it's still…" She checks her watch, "just past three, lets have a late lunch, shall we?"
"As long as there's no apple pie for dessert." Dick laughs, opening up his own menu to peruse.
"As you wish!" Jazz rolls her eyes, grinning. Everyone at the table groans.
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pomegranatelifethis · 2 months ago
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The Invisible Girl
The hum of Gotham’s streets was a living thing, a pulse that never quite stopped. It was late—far past the hour when most respectable high school girls would be tucked away in bed, dreaming of prom or pop quizzes. But you? You were sixteen, a fleeting shadow in the city’s underbelly, your sneakers scuffing the asphalt as you leaned against the hood of a souped-up Mustang. The illegal car race was alive around you, engines roaring, neon lights flickering, and the crowd buzzing with adrenaline. You grinned, popping a piece of gum into your mouth, the sweet cherry flavor bursting against your tongue. This was your world. Not the stuffy manor you were supposed to call home.
You were the youngest Wayne, technically. A forgotten footnote in the sprawling saga of Bruce Wayne’s adopted brood. Older than you, Damian—your supposed “brother”—was the heir, the prodigy, the one who carried the weight of the Wayne legacy like it was a tailored suit. You? You were the accident. The kid they didn’t know what to do with. The one who came too late, after the family had already knit itself together in blood and trauma.
It wasn’t that they hated you. Hate would’ve required attention, and attention was the one thing the Batfamily didn’t spare. Bruce was a ghost in the manor, always buried in his mission. Dick was the golden boy, too busy charming the world. Jason was a storm, too volatile to notice anyone but himself. Tim was a machine, lost in his plans and contingencies. Cassandra saw everything but said nothing. And Damian? He barely acknowledged you existed, his sharp green eyes slicing through you like you were a smudge on his katana.
So, you drifted. School was a suggestion, not a rule. You slept through algebra, doodled in the margins of your textbooks, and skipped classes when the mood struck. The school couldn’t touch you—Wayne money made sure of that, and no one was picking up the phone when the principal called. You were free, in a way. Free to wander Gotham’s streets, to lose yourself in the chaos of the races, to be the girl no one expected anything from.
Tonight, the air was electric. Your car—a sleek, cherry-red beast you’d “borrowed” from one of Bruce’s many garages—sat waiting at the starting line. You adjusted your cap, tugging it low over your eyes, and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather was cool against your skin, the steering wheel familiar under your fingers. You weren’t here to win. You were here to feel alive.
“Hey, kid!” a voice called from the sidelines. It was Jax, one of the regulars, a lanky guy with a crooked grin and a penchant for bad bets. “You sure you’re up for this? Rico’s got a new rig, and he’s out for blood.”
You smirked, blowing a bubble with your gum. “Rico can kiss my exhaust.”
The crowd laughed, and you revved the engine, letting the sound drown out everything else. The race was a blur—tires screeching, lights streaking, your heart hammering as you weaved through the pack. You didn’t care about the finish line. You cared about the rush, the way it made you forget the empty manor, the cold silences, the family that didn’t see you.
When it was over, you pulled over, breathless, your cheeks flushed. You’d placed third—good enough to keep your rep, not so good it drew too much attention. You climbed out, high-fiving Jax and ignoring the way some of the older guys eyed you. You were a kid in their world, a cute anomaly, but you were theirs. The racers, the drifters, the nobodies—they were your family, not the caped crusaders back home.
You were halfway through a soda, laughing at one of Jax’s dumb jokes, when your phone buzzed. You glanced at it, expecting a text from one of your friends. Instead, it was a notification from the manor’s security system. *Front gate opened. 11:47 PM.*
Weird. Bruce was supposed to be on patrol, and the others were either out or holed up in their rooms. You shrugged it off, pocketing the phone. Probably Alfred letting the cat out or something.
You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just made a mistake. You weren’t as invisible as you thought.
☆☆☆☆
Back at Wayne Manor, the Batcave was a hum of activity. The massive screens glowed, casting sharp shadows across the cavernous space. Tim was hunched over the computer, his fingers flying across the keys. Dick leaned against the console, arms crossed, his usual easy smile replaced by a tight frown. Jason was cleaning a gun, his movements sharp and deliberate, while Cassandra watched from the shadows, her eyes unreadable. Damian stood apart, his arms stiff at his sides, his expression a mix of irritation and something darker.
Bruce stood at the center, his cowl pushed back, his face a mask of controlled fury.
“She’s not in her room,” Tim said, not looking up. “Tracker in her phone puts her at the docks. Again.”
“Illegal races,” Dick muttered, shaking his head. “She’s been sneaking out for months. How did we not notice?”
“Because she’s good,” Cassandra said softly, her voice cutting through the tension. “She doesn’t want to be seen.”
Jason snorted, slamming the gun down. “Or because we’re too busy playing hero to give a damn about the kid living under our roof.”
“Enough,” Bruce snapped, his voice low but commanding. “This ends tonight. She’s sixteen. She’s putting herself in danger, and we’ve let it go on too long.”
Damian’s lip curled. “She’s a liability. If she’s caught, it could expose us all.”
Dick shot him a look. “She’s your sister, Damian.”
“She’s nothing,” Damian retorted, but there was a flicker in his eyes—something that betrayed the lie.
Bruce didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the screen. It showed a grainy feed from a street camera, your figure unmistakable as you laughed with a group of racers. You looked happy, alive, in a way you never did at home. It twisted something in his chest, but he buried it. This wasn’t about feelings. This was about control.
“Tim, pull up her route. Dick, Jason, you’re with me. We bring her home. Now.”
Cassandra tilted her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’ll run.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “Then we make sure she has nowhere to go.”
☆☆☆☆
You were halfway through another race, the city a blur outside your window, when you noticed the shadow. It was subtle—a flicker in your rearview mirror, gone as soon as it appeared. But you knew better. Gotham wasn’t just a city; it was a predator, and you’d learned to sense its teeth.
You floored the gas, weaving through traffic, your heart pounding. The shadow moved with you, relentless, a black shape that could only belong to one thing. Or one family.
“Crap,” you muttered, your gum losing its flavor. You didn’t know how they’d found you, but you knew what it meant. The Batfamily didn’t chase unless they wanted something. And if they wanted you? That was bad news.
You took a sharp turn, tires screeching, and gunned it toward the old warehouse district. You knew the alleys, the shortcuts, the places where even Batman’s tech would struggle to follow. You were good at disappearing. It was what you did best.
But as you rounded a corner, a figure dropped from the rooftops, landing in the middle of the street. Nightwing. His escrima sticks glowed faintly, and his smile was gone, replaced by something hard, something that made your stomach twist.
You slammed on the brakes, your car fishtailing to a stop. Before you could react, another figure appeared—Red Hood, his guns holstered but his presence no less threatening. And then, from the shadows, Batman himself.
You were surrounded.
Your grip tightened on the wheel, your mind racing. You could run—crash through a barrier, lose them in the maze of Gotham’s slums. But something in Bruce’s eyes stopped you. It wasn’t anger, not exactly. It was something colder, something that made you feel like a mouse staring down a hawk.
“Get out of the car,” Bruce said, his voice cutting through the night.
You popped your gum, forcing a grin. “What’s up, Dad? Miss me?”
His eyes narrowed, and you knew you’d pushed too far. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was the beginning of something much darker, something you couldn’t outrun.
Not this time.
☆☆☆☆
Gotham’s night air was heavy and humid, as if the city itself was closing in on you. Inside the car, you still gripped the steering wheel tightly, your knuckles whitening against the leather. Bruce’s silhouette stood like a monolith in the middle of the street, motionless except for the faint ripple of his cape. Dick was on his right, Jason on his left, each positioned like a trap. There was no escape. At least, it seemed that way.
You popped your gum again, just to steady your nerves. “Alright,” you said, your voice trembling with forced cheer. “Family reunion, huh? Bit late for that, don’t you think, Dad?”
Bruce’s face was stone, but something flickered in his eyes—anger, guilt, or something else, you couldn’t tell. “The games are over,” he said, his voice sharp as a blade. “Get out of the car. Now.”
You considered opening the door, but instead sank deeper into the seat. “What if I don’t?” you said, raising your eyebrows. “What’re you gonna do? Run me over with the Batmobile?”
Jason took a step forward, a mocking growl rising from under his helmet. “Kid, you can’t win this game. It’ll be easier—for you and for us—if you get out now.”
Dick tilted his head, flashing that familiar big-brother smile, but this time his eyes weren’t warm. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice soft but laced with threat. “You don’t want to make this harder than it needs to be, do you?”
A shiver ran through you. You’d never heard Dick use that tone before—not with you. They’d always ignored you, hadn’t they? You were a ghost, drifting through the manor’s halls, your presence barely registering. So why were they here now? Why had they suddenly *noticed* you?
You didn’t want to know the answer.
But your options were running out. Your eyes scanned the surroundings—the narrow street, abandoned warehouses, the flickering light of a few streetlamps. You could run. Maybe. Your car was fast, but Batman’s tech was faster. And these three? They weren’t human, not in the way you understood it. They were hunters. And you were the prey.
You took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and slowly pushed it open. The cold air rushed in, prickling your skin. You stood, shoving your hands into your jean pockets, feigning nonchalance. “Fine,” you said, shrugging. “What do you want? Did you watch my race? What’s my score?”
Bruce stepped closer, his shadow swallowing you. “This isn’t a game,” he said. “We know what you’ve been doing. Where you’ve been, who you’ve been with. You’re coming home tonight, and this… nonsense stops.”
Your eyes widened, and then you laughed. A real, uncontrollable laugh. “Nonsense? Wow, Bruce, you’ve shown me more attention in the last ten minutes than you have my entire life. What’s the deal? Run out of criminals in Gotham?”
Jason grunted, but Dick raised a hand to silence him. “Listen,” Dick said, his voice still carrying that false calm. “We know we haven’t been… around much. But that’s going to change. You’re our family. We need to protect you.”
“Protect me?” The word tasted like poison. “You’re here to protect me? Where were you for the last sixteen years, huh? When I was a baby? At my first race? When I got kicked out of school? Oh, wait, you were busy chasing bank robbers, right?”
The air grew heavy, the silence hitting like a fist. Bruce’s jaw clenched, Dick’s smile faded, and even Jason seemed uneasy behind his helmet. You’d struck a nerve. But the victory felt hollow.
“Not anymore,” Bruce said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “From now on, we’re watching you.”
In that moment, you felt something was wrong. This wasn’t just a family drama. This was a move to pull you back—to what? The manor? Their control? Or worse, their world?
“I’m going home,” you said, stepping back. “But not with you. I’ll find my own way.”
You turned toward your car, but Jason was faster. In an instant, he grabbed your arm, his grip like iron. “Wrong answer, kid,” he said, his voice mocking but dangerous. “You’re coming with us tonight.”
“Jason, let go!” you shouted, yanking at your arm, but he didn’t budge. Panic surged, your heart thrashing in your chest. Dick stepped toward you, hands raised as if to calm you, but you saw *that* look in his eyes—the look of a predator.
“Easy,” Dick said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just… need to talk.”
Bruce remained silent, but his presence said everything. This wasn’t a negotiation. This was an order.
In that moment, you realized you’d made a mistake. Even if you tried to run, they’d find you. Gotham was their city. And no matter how fast you ran, you couldn’t outrun their shadows.
☆☆☆☆
The manor was cold and silent, as always. Alfred had greeted you at the door, his usual polite demeanor in place, but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. He escorted you to your room, but you heard the click of the lock after he left. A lock. As if you were a prisoner.
Your room felt like it didn’t belong to you. No posters on the walls, no personal items on the shelves. It was like a hotel room—beautiful, but soulless. You sat on the bed, pulling your knees to your chest, your mind still racing.
What were they planning? Why now? After years of ignoring you, why did they suddenly *want* you? The answer scared you, because deep down, you knew—this wasn’t about love. It was about control. And once the Batfamily took control, they never let go.
A shadow moved outside your door. Your eyes snapped to it, your heart speeding up. Someone was watching you. Damian? Cassandra? Or maybe Tim, with one of his cameras already planted in your room? Were you paranoid, or were you right?
You reached for your phone, but the screen was dark. Dead. Or… disabled. Of course. Tim’s work, no doubt. They wanted to isolate you. Cut you off from the outside world.
You glanced at the window. Gotham’s lights glimmered outside, freedom so close yet so far. You could jump. You could run. But where to? They’d find you. They always would.
But giving up wasn’t your style. You were a racer. And racers, no matter how impossible it seemed, always found a way out.
☆☆☆☆
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spxllcxstxr · 7 months ago
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At Least in that Life • S
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(Gif not mine)
Request:
Summary: Ekko finds that Silco is alive and well with his wife by his side in the alternate timeline. He feels the need to tell you about it
Warnings: fem!reader (called wife at some points), no pronouns used though I believe, canon death mention, AU mention, implied Timebomb, angsty : ) , mentions of canon unhealthiness that comes with living in the Undercity, timeline is screwy but idc and neither should you LOL
Word Count: 2.3k
A.N: listen, i know he was a little fruity with Vander in the AU BUT i still need this man desperately, don't worry about the timeline i stg, this is actually pretty sad lmao, have fun with it
Ekko stares at the man behind the bar; face simultaneously instantly recognizable and drastically changed. The scar was the same mangled mess across one side of his face, but that was where the similarities ended.
In his timeline, Ekko remembers Silco as a cruel bastard with only room in his heart for his wife and Jinx. He never smiled nor ever had reason to. This Silco had a glint of brightness in eyes, even in the orange mutated one, that he would've never associated with the crime lord. The boy stands there, facing the middle-aged man in front of him as he waves his goblet around, body flowing with movement; no strain evident in his posture.
He's talking, Ekko knows this, they're all speaking to him like they aren't either dead or an enemy. But they aren't--these versions of the people he once knew in his own timeline are different.
His eyes drift briefly to you, teeth bared in a smile he hasn't seen since he was a child. You look like that one day, seemingly ages ago, when you kept and eye on him, Powder, and Violet, just days before the uprising. At that point you hadn't been corrupted by the deaths of your closest friends or your husband's vile need for justice. You had a sort of youth to you, though your hair was twinged with greys like Vander's and Silco's, you were practically wrapped around his slender frame, gesturing wildly.
Life had not just been given to Vander, but to you and Silco as well.
His breath hitches and his head throbs with a sharp pain unlike any other.
Ekko squeezes his eyes shut, the vibrancy of the Anomaly imprinted on the backs of his eyelids. Distantly, he hears Powder's voice, like a song in his ear, with a type of kindness he's almost completely forgotten.
When he snaps back to reality, whatever that now meant, he was sitting at a table, away from the bar, with Powder to his right and Mylo and Claggor across from him. They watch him, expecting him to act normal, like he was meant to be here.
"I think you might actually be going crazy," Powder laughs, the sound like a sweet summer breeze as it drifts by him. Her eyes scan over him worriedly.
Ekko swallows roughly, willing the wave of sickness to pass quicker. "I--I'm fine. I think I'll just grab water or something?" Swiftly he rises from his seat, partially unbalanced. He hates that his clothes are a perfect fit and his shoes are comfortable enough he can wiggle his toes around.
He walks to the bar, the sounds of rowdy laughter and girlish giggles surrounding him. The ease of it all is overwhelming.
"What'll you have, Ekko? Your usual?"
Ekko glances at you, taking you in now that you're within arm's reach. The only sign of age are your laugh lines around the corners of your lips. Gone are the sunken, tired eyes and ghastly paleness of skin caused by the contaminated air of the Undercity. You were healthy; sure there were a few scrapes here and there, but your cheeks were filled out, Ekko noticed.
"U-usual?" He manages to croak out before the silence got too concerning.
Obviously worried, your brows furrow and lips purse. "I'll just get you a water then, huh? You're not acting like yourself." You busy yourself, bringing up a glass from the shelf at your knees.
Silco is on the other side of the bar, talking to strangers with Vander. He barks out a laugh, nothing he's ever heard before, and runs his free hand through his already ruffled hair.
The glass clinks on the wooden table in front of him, snapping him out of his trance.
"Are you sure you're ok, Ekko? You don't look so good..." You place the back of your hand to his forehead, reaching over the bartop. The coolness of your skin brings him relief, but he knows you're not going to find he has a high temperature. Physically, he was mostly fine. Mentally, however, was another story.
He thinks about how most of these people are dead men walking or empty shells of their former selves back where he's from. Ekko can't shake the empty feeling he has in his heart.
This was the way things should have been.
"So how are things with you and Silco?" He asks, ignoring your previous question as you bring your hand back to your side.
Leaning against the bar you inspect him for just a moment longer. The boy picks up his glass and almost drains it in one go, which seems to satisfy you for now.
"Me and Sil?" You glance at him quickly, face burning. "We're married, kid, we bicker and are right pricks to each other...but in the end we love each other more than anything in the world. That's how it goes." You sigh, resting your head in one of your hands thoughtfully. "Why do you ask?"
Ekko fiddles with the collar of his shirt. "He just seems so happy. Despite...everything, y'know?"
Lips tilt down slightly in a solemn frown. "It was hard for him, forgiving, that is. He thought we had to endure bloodshed to assert Zaun's rightful existence; he thought it was the only way to get Piltover to listen." Your eyes glance down to the polished wood holding you up. "It was all he knew. And after the incident...after losing our friends and his eye...it was all just a hard pill to swallow."
Silco's laugh once again echoes through the air. You smile immediately, head perking up at the mere noise of your husband. "I never thought I'd see him smile after what we lost--after Vander's wakeup call." Ekko watches as your eyes grow wet with unshed tears. "But here he is, my Silco, living the life he always dreamt of..."
"And you?" Ekko shifts from side to side, feet shuffling below him.
"What about me?" You ask, willing the tears away, busying yourself with wiping the countertop between the two of you.
"Are you happy as well?"
For a moment, you pause, pondering the weight of his question. Ekko, the boy you've come to treat as your son, the boy you trust your Powder with, looks at you like you're not quite right. His eyes gaze into your soul with an intensity that's hard to decipher.
Little moments from your life flash before your eyes; swaying to music with Silco in your kitchen as dinner cooks on the stovetop, you and Vander venturing into Piltover to get more supplies for the bar, Silco's soft gaze and his warm lips against your skin.
"I never thought I could ever be this happy." You tell him truthfully, voice just slightly above a whisper.
Something breaks in his eyes, in his demeanor, but he nods anyway. Something wasn't right--that much was obvious, but before you're able to pick his brain he leaves you at the bar, almost sprinting back to Powder and his friends. She greets him with a smile but her fingers twitch nervously under the table.
With a huff you attend to the other patrons at the bar, occasionally catching Ekko's eye as you walk around your space. He watches you and Silco work in tandem like husband and wife. Even with Ekko's mind already severely overwhelmed with the world around him, he notices when your fingertips purposefully brush when handing glassware over to the other and the small kisses that accompany some flirtatious or loving remark. His head spins and senses buzz with the overload of what could have been.
He leaves without saying goodbye to you or Silco, thought you do call out to him before he exits, you, wrapped in Silco's arms.
"I don't know how to tell you this--or even if I should tell you this." Ekko sits in front of you, tinkering with his hoverboard. Jinx stands feet away, quietly eavesdropping while glancing over blueprints she probably already knows by heart. "But Jinx said you might wanna know."
With a frown already etched into your face, you raise your eyebrows at him. You hadn't spoken to Ekko in years especially since Vander's betrayal of your husband and Vi's abandonment of Jinx. But with Piltover and Zaun under attack, he requested your presence with the Firelights. You parted ways with your husband's right hand man Sevika, hoping that you would see each other again, but predicting that that simply wasn't realistic.
"Just spit it out, kid." You reply, exhaustion lacing your words. Fatigue had infiltrated deep in your bones; Silco's death had taken a large toll on you--you were the last of you little makeshift family alive, though Vander was dead to you long before his final breath left his body.
You were quite the contrast to you counterpart in the alternate timeline. Ekko knew this before, but the accentuated frown lines and lifelessness that surrounded your very being just hit him full force.
He takes a deep breath, cautious of how you were going to react. "I went to an alternate timeline and Silco was alive there." Ekko forces out in one breath.
You stare blankly at the boy, your mind somehow not registering what he was saying.
"That was my reaction too..." Jinx murmurs, her voices echoing in the vastness of her metal lair.
A wave of vertigo washes over you, submerging you in its depths. It's hard to breathe. But somehow you will yourself to stay calm in present company. Now was not the time to be weak.
"An alternate timeline?" You manage to ask weakly, drawing your arms closer to your chest and uneasily wrap them around your frame.
"Don't even ask me to explain it because I don't think I could," Ekko chuckles humorlessly. "But it was a timeline where Zaun and Piltover were at peace, where you could openly cross the bridge and not worry about what would happen to you. Zaun and Piltover thrived together."
You scoff at the notion, shaking your head in disbelief. "Are you sure this wasn't a dream?"
"No. This was real." Ekko's deep brown eyes gaze into yours, something painful swimming in his irises. He's different from the boy you once knew; he's seen something, dealt with something he had lost--had to leave behind. The seriousness laced in his tone convinces you.
You nod, indicating that he can continue as you pick at your nails. You try to brace yourself for whatever he's about to say, but you can't. There was no way to predict what was going to come out of his mouth. But the thought of Silco being alive somewhere kills you inside; your stomach churns and your heart aches for your one and only.
Ekko only sighs before explaining to you what he saw, occasionally pausing to recollect his thoughts or add another component onto his hoverboard.
He tells you about the Silco that could have been--should have been--yours. How his laughter filled the already boisterous main room of The Last Drop, how when a certain song played he would drop everything just to twirl you around behind the bar. Ekko described the brightness of his once clouded eyes and the genuine smile that was always present on his face. Your love was so palpable wherever the two of you went.
Powder confessed once, he told you, while looking over countless notes and equations late at night, that if she were to ever get married, she would want exactly what you and Silco had.
Ekko has you clinging onto each sentence trying to savor each and every word as if you were on your deathbed. You try to picture him in your mind, the greying tousled hair, healthy figure, and tendency to smile. The images are faint against the darkness of your eyelids, blurry from the passage of time.
"He's happy?" You ask quietly.
Ekko nods.
"And am I--Is she happy?" You ask again, stuttering at the thought that this person was not you. You were not the one sharing these intimate moments with your husband; these were strangers, who you could've been.
Again, Ekko nods silently, eyes cast downwards.
You feel your bottom lip start to tremble and tears fight to escape and fall down your cheeks. The lump in your throat grows bigger.
What could've been had haunted you ever since Vander's attack on Silco. It had loomed over you and your husband and suffocated you after his death. To know it was so much sweeter than you ever could have imagined...
Your breathing is uneven when Ekko finally stops talking; other than your labored breath the room was silent. You attempt to collect your thoughts and your emotions but they keep slipping through the cracks between your fingers.
"I shouldn't have told you..." Ekko mutters, apologetically. Eyes swimming with pity, he lays a comforting paint-stained hand on your shoulder. Behind him, Jinx stares blankly down at her boots.
"No it's ok, kid." You sigh, willing away the waves of tears threatening to spill over. "It was good to hear."
"Really?" He looks at you, unconvinced.
"It's good to know that me and Silco get a happy life, y'know?" Your attempt at a small smile partially works, but Ekko can still see the distraught written so clearly all over your face. "One where we can smile and laugh and live. If it couldn't be here, I'm happy it was at least in another lifetime."
Ekko helps you stand, still concerned for you.
With an uneven sigh you turn away from Ekko and Jinx who watch you intently, projects forgotten on the floor or scattered across a small table.
"I need some air." You tell them, ambling slowly to the exit, hoping for the cool polluted air to swallow you whole.
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cometthestaar · 1 year ago
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Small art dump
I’ll probably post some of these again when I color them
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epicstoriestime · 1 month ago
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Signal Blink: May 27 — The Calibration
Posted by Eric Kliq410 | 03:33 AM, May 27, 2025 [SYSTEM OVERRIDE DETECTED][FEED STABILIZING… 33%][HARMONIC LOCK INITIATED] 03:00 AM — Static Crescendo The streetlights didn’t flicker tonight—they breathed. Pulsing in threes, synced to a rhythm older than the grid. I pressed my palm to the window, and the hum sank into my teeth, grinding like a bone saw through marrow. The air thickened,…
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gay-dorito-dust · 7 months ago
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Can I request someone for Viktor? Maybe established relationship between reader and viktor where while he’s healing (?) in the box (I forgot what it was called), while the hexcore reacted negatively to Mel (extended spikes to her), it responded positively toward reader? Like it wanted them near it? Sorry if this is weird
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You didn’t know what you were looking at in the beginning. The purple and gold accented box like structure that easily towered over you and Mel, pulsated as though it were a sentient creature, and resting inside it with only his face visible was your beloved Viktor as he looked to be in a deep slumber and not teetering between life and death.
‘What is this thing.’ You asked as all you felt that you could do was stare at Viktor’s face and hope to whoever listened that he’d live, that he’d survive so you could embrace him like lovers did in times of crisis to be assured that he was okay, that he wasn’t going to leave you so unfairly when he had so much left to do. Not your Viktor, he was yours to keep and to treasure however you could, even if it meant displeasing a higher power but you were selfish and wanted to love Viktor for far longer then what you were already given.
‘It’s the hexcore, it’s evolving at a rapid rate which is a concern, but it’s the singular thing keeping Viktor alive as of this moment.’ Mel replies as she placed her hand upon your shoulder when she saw the look of uncertainty and fear within your eyes the more you looked upon the man you were so close to loosing. To Mel in that moment you looked like a person who was already in the process of making funeral arrangements, a thing that no one should ever have to think about in such detail when it came to burying a loved one, but yet was so desperate to be proven wrong and to be happy about it as it would mean you didn’t have to say goodbye, at least not yet.
‘He’s healing y/n.’ She reassures you softly, squeezing your shoulder, ‘he’s not leaving you yet, not if the hexcore keeping him alive has anything to say about that.’ And at the sound of your name the box like structure seemed to let out a kind of purr? It startled you both as you looked towards the box with similar thoughts starting to form in both of your heads.
‘Did that thing just purr?’ You said.
‘I believe it did and to your name as well, how peculiar.’ Mel reaffirms your theory as her face creases into one of deep thought. You on the other hand felt the need to go towards it, also it as if something was tugging at you, encouraging you to get in close to the box like structure and be close to Viktor however you possibly could and so you took a brave step forwards as the box only seemed to hum in response to your presence. However Mel grasped your elbow and tired to pull you away from the thing, remembering how violently it had reacted towards her the drift time she got too close, only for the box to shot spikes out in her direction as though seeing her as a threat to you.
The box anomaly seemed to grumble and groan in distrust and weariness as Mel was quick to pull her hand away from your arm, watching on as the thing encasing Viktor seemed to calm down to a gentle purring and cooing whilst glowing a softer light to welcome you.
‘Speak to it.’ She encourages.
You swallow thickly as you began to say the first thing that came to mind. ‘Viktor? I don’t know if you can hear me in there but it’s me y/n, you’re dorodaya.’ The box once again purred at your name and this time you couldn’t help but smile softly, feeling as though it was Viktor you were talking to and not the box keeping him alive. You couldn’t explain it but there was a familiarity to it that made you feel warm, comforted and all other emotions that you had linked to Viktor, suddenly the box felt more like home to you then it did five minutes ago.
‘Yes it’s me my darling.’ Your feet were pretty much leading you towards the box by themselves at the point and you didn’t feel it necessary to fight against it, not when its presence brought you the same amount of comfort and peace that Viktor did whenever he smiled and or laughed, looking ethereal as he did so which only made you fall harder for your beloved scientist. ‘I’m right here, I’m okay but I need to know if you’re okay my love. Can you do that for me?’ You asked softly and once you were within a substantial distance from the box white tendrils began to emerge from its surface, almost as if someone was breaking through to breath, and they stretched out towards you like a hand waiting for you to take into your own.
You looked to Mel who smiled back at you, gesturing you to touch it and you looked back to the outside tendrils that waiting eagerly for your touch, though not before looking up at Viktor’s face and smiling softly, as you built up the courage to extend a hand out and intertwine your fingers with it as it enclosed its hold on you.
‘You’re okay my sweet Viktor.’ You whispered to yourself as you allowed yourself to be pulled towards the box where more white tendrils broke through the surface to touch you in someway, as though drawing you into a long overdue hug. ‘You’re okay.’ You echoed as your face pressed against the surface of the box, closing your eyes as the initial cold sensation became one of warmth, making you melt even further into its embrace while as even more white tendrils latched themselves to your legs and thighs; anchoring you to this one spot as it chirped in your ear happily.
Your Viktor was alive you could feel it the more you were pressed against the surface pulsating, almost breathing surface of the box, you could feel his warmth upon you without him having to hold you; and it was almost as if you could hear his voice inside your head as it whispered of reassurance that your beloved Viktor was okay and that was more then enough to have you spare a few unshed tears in silent relief.
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