#I inhaled WAY too spray paint

[terrifictoonman]

It may have taken me three days, six cans of spray paint, fifty dollars, and nine total hours of sleep, but I'm feeling pretty...

SENSATIONAL!

See ya nerds soon! 🕸🕷🕸

Now I can finally get back to writing 😂

[3cremepie3]

"Upsy daisy"

Sypnopsis - Bachira pushes your body past normal limits taking a unusual role in the bedroom.

Warnings - Smut 18+, Bachira Meguru x fem reader, sub/ Dom dynamics, dirty talk, creampies, unprotected sex, squirting, overstimulation

a/n - This is my intro into the BL community I'm so happy! I love Bachira he's so adorable. I hope you enjoy remember my requests are open!

“If you keep going ill make a mess again.” You warned to no avail. This was you third orgasm and it was around that time your body finally lets itself go. But Bachira continued that infamous tongue that he liked to tease everyone with working your body.

There was nothing you could do but take the attack by his wet muscle. Your whole body tensed at the overstimulation except for your mind which felt empty. You thoughts filled with nothing but pleasure as he flicked your clit over and over.

The pile of spit and your cum was growing larger and larger against the bed sheets. You arched your back letting out a moan you were holding since you first held your breath. Bachira chuckled at your reaction his laugh sounding as sinister as the jokers in your fucked out state.

You soon knew that you would release something other then the sweet cream Bachira loved to lick out of your pulsating hole. You would spray all over his wide grin and he would look like not only the happiest but messiest boy in the world.

He didn't mind the change of aesthetic wanting to bring that affliction of so much pleasure it became impossible for your mind to keep up. “Y/n?? Babycakes you with me.” One of his free hands that wasn't the one squeezing your thighs to keep you grounded waved in your face.

He had to make sure his doll was still in this world so you could orgasm correctly. “Hello fuckface?” He plucked your forehead and stopped his actions. Your hands quickly interlocked with his black and yellow strands twisting so he could never escape.

Even without you verbally saying so he knew you were ready. Your body which used to reject his antics now rolled happily on his tongue. Your lips which used to glisten with drool from your pure stupidity now spewed love filled whispers.

“Love you so much Megu! You feel so good. Fuck yes right there. I don't think i cant take it anymore!” No, don't back away.” And you would shove his face that just wanted to inhale back into your eager heat. Your whines filled the air and if anyone were to walk past your dormitory they would know just what was happening.

Especially when that last nerve snapped in you pushing you to finish. Your trembling thighs smashed his head into your pussy until you felt him tap your thigh for mercy. Bachira felt as though he could stay in this position all day if he chose too. But today was one of those nights when he had to get inside of you.

Sex with Meguru was always fun. You guys stuck to your natural positions of him subbing and you doming. But something was different tonight. “Upsy daisy here we go!” He picked up your limp body so he could hold you in his arms. After so many orgasms you were under the assumption that he would bring you to take a warm bath. But those thoughts were broken as you felt his wide mushroom tip line up with your hungry hole.

“You can't claim you're tired when you're gripping me so nicely. I can see it in your eyes that you still want to go,” he claimed. You swore if you looked in the mirror you would probably see yourself fucked up with eyebags. But he always had a way at spotting hidden things almost as if he saw something different in you entirely.

His assumptions were always correct as you again felt worked up all over again. You looked down to the place where you and Bachira met. Down his abs and V line to the base of his cock which was covered in your slick. As he thrusted forward licking your ear and sending shockwaves through your body the sounds of your wetness filled the room.

Your heavy pants painted his back as you rested your thoughtless head on his shoulder. Each movement of his made your body jolt into his athletic build. Meguru thanked god that he built up all that muscle now he was able to pick up your body as though it was light as a feather. He kissed down your neck trying to distract you from the fact that he was about to nut in you.

All that waiting patiently got to him. “Been letting you feel good this whole time while I had to let my cock sit in my briefs basically drooling for ya’, it's unfair if i dont cum inside,” he pouted. Bachira was a spoiled brat so of course you let him have his way.

He painted your walls white and the fullness and sounds of the plap plap of your mixed fluids caused you to squirt. His cock jack hammering you while doing so allowed you to explode everywhere.

“Haha that's my good girl.” He let out that stupid face of his until it twisted into gentleness. He placed you down on the bed admiring his work. Your clit was still twitching cutely and your hole was fluttering out what he gave you. “”You were so amazing. I knew I could push you harder and harder. How about we see how many times you can cum from my creampies?”

“Looks like you can handle it. Your womb has more room for cum. Come on now, upsy daisy!”

[crazyyluvr]

Gotta put Some Color in the Miserable Place — Much to Dirtyhands' Liking

pairing: kaz x gn!reader

summary: A famous graffiti artist has been roaming around Ketterdam for a while now. It was about time you set your sights on the Slat, bare and just waiting to be painted on. A certain gloved man didn't exactly like that.

genre: idk how to label it but it's the beginning of something

wc: 2.3k

content: art-inclined reader, they/them pronouns, kaz getting annoyed, ooc kaz? not sure how to write him properly yet, spraypaint exists because I need it to, fighting

note: just a little something to get me out of my slump — it sucks, i'm sorry

oneshot under the cut :: not edited :: part 1/?

Ketterdam wasn't known to be the most luxurious of cities in Kerch. Yes, it did have places where people with money could settle down and quality napkins for them to wipe their buttcheeks on, but the "slums" part of the city overpowered that luxury. There were numerous criminals, thieves, pickpockets, and people of other illegal occupations roaming around the streets, especially the streets of the West Stave. At every alley, there would be at least some signs of a beating that occurred not too long ago. Even when people inhaled the air, it didn't feel clean.

One of your biggest concerns about the city, however, wasn't about how cleanly it was. What worried you the most was about how damn plain it seemed to be.

Where was the color? The flare? Come on, if people around the lands travel to Kerch for business, they might as well have some pretty things to look at as they cautiously walked on the streets.

You took it upon yourself to rectify that. Which was why, for the past two years, you have been one of the most sought-after criminals of Ketterdam that everyone called the “Painter”. Not because you murdered people or stole kruge, no. It wasn't even because of the fact that you decided to spray your art without permission.

It wasn't really the art that concerned other people (most of the time), but rather where you decided to put it up.

Plain old alley walls weren't the only victims of your spray bottles. Your style ended up on the main doorways of well-known brothels like the Menagerie, or the ground leading to the secret bases of different gangs. It made you a target not only of officers, but of other criminals as well. You may or may not have been the cause of the Dime Lions losing one of their main strongholds to a rival gang because you put skipping stones of Pekka Rollins' name leading to it.

You were flattered by the attention people were putting on you, but you felt unsatisfied. You had tried to put at least a little bit of your art on every visible wall of the West Stave and some of the East Stave as well, but there was something missing. Like there was one part of the Ketterdam map that hasn't been colored by you.

You got the answer to your problem one mundane day, while you were coming back from the market with a bag of groceries.

The Slat.

You had no idea why it hadn't hit you sooner. Sure, the Slat was the home of the Crows besides their bar "The Crow Club." Sure, the gang had been gaining a dangerous reputation this past year. Sure, the man calling the shots was scary as hell.

But it was just perfect.

You had long admired the Crows and their leader Kaz Brekker. You had spotted him going about business during late nights when you decided to test your skills by evading the Wraith that always pursued him (you hadn't been attacked by her, so you assumed that you were really good at sneaking around).

He was a man of business, a boss that liked getting his hands dirty — maybe that was how he got his nickname Dirtyhands. You don't see much of that in Ketterdam, and that interested you quite a bit.

Not to mention he was attractive in his own, ghostly way.

The Slate was also one of the very few canvases that you had left blank in this wretched city due to some unknown and unconscious reason, but now you had just the perfect artwork in mind for it.

—————

Kaz was in a bad mood today.

He woke up to his leg in pain. Well, it was always in pain, but it felt particularly worse that day. He almost face-planted while hobbling down the stairs in the Slat.

He had a small heist, with just him, Jesper, and Inej, but it was still messed up due to the unexpected appearance of a drunk group in the house they were robbing.

He got jumped on by some stupid pickpockets, idiots who were unaware of his identity and his reputation. He didn’t obtain any injury, but the blood that still stained his black gloves and his long black coat made him feel disgusting.

Just when he thought that he would find peace in the Slat, peace in just holing up in his office with no one to bother him, he limps down the streets of West Stave to the home of the Dregs to find a small crowd gathered on the side, murmuring to each other.

They were all members of the Crows, and they were all looking at something that was on the wall of the Slat.

His already creased brows creased further at the sight of the gathering. What were these idiots looking at this time?

Jesper was the first one who first saw him, eyes drifting over his blood-splattered clothes in slight concern.

“What’s going on?” Kaz asked, not giving Jesper the opportunity to worry over him.

“It seems that the Painter finally set their eyes on the Slat,” Jesper replied, his voice containing its usual mischief and mirth.

Kaz forged onwards, making the sharpshooter step aside to make way for Dirtyhands.

The small crowd parted for him as well, conversations dying down to small murmurs as Kaz got a better look at what they were ogling at.

He had to blink to make sure he was actually seeing what he was seeing.

When “the Painter” left Jesper’s mouth, Kaz wanted to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. The days when infamous the Painter set sights on establishments or gang bases were the days when gangs or businessmen would get publicly humiliated by the art on their walls. Normally, it would ridicule the head of the place (The Menagerie spent a significant amount of money to wash off and paint over the caricature of Tante Heleen in a horrid neon green outfit) or reveal some interesting gang secrets (two gangs were exposed to be stealing from each other and there was a little war between them).

Which was why Kaz had to blink twice to make sure he was seeing it right.

The artwork on the side of the Slat was a large mural of the Dregs’ signature crow perched on the lip of a cup, but a trail of black roses swirled around it in a spiral. Surrounding it was the Crows’ motto “no mourners, no funerals” in black and white. The irregular red and white shape behind it all emphasized everything, making it look like a banner rather than something someone actually took the time to spray on a wall.

It was unlike any artwork that was spotted anywhere in the city.

And even Kaz, who’s never had any particular interest in art, had to admit that it was nice. Flattering.

Beautiful, even.

"The Painter has their favorites, huh?" A Crow chuckled, making his mates laugh and shake their heads.

"If everyone's done having a staring contest with the wall," Kaz called, making everyone turn to their boss, "get back to work."

And just like that, they lost their interest in the artwork and dispersed. Some drifted away to different alleys to visit some gambling house, most passed by Kaz to finish some unfinished business of theirs, and others went back inside the Slat.

Kaz felt a familiar presence beside him. "Can you find this Painter, Inej?"

The Wraith that appeared out of nowhere replied, "I can try, but they're slippery."

Kaz rose an eyebrow, curiosity piquing. Someone who can evade his best spider? Now that caught his attention.

"Do it. Bring them to me," Kaz said, dismissing her with a wave. He didn't have to look to know that Inej had dissolved into the shadows.

He examined the mural once more, the barest ghost of a smirk on his face. Maybe you can come around to work for me, "Painter".

—————

You were having a good time.

If running away from some angry traders was something people would consider a good time.

"I'll kill you!" One of the men chasing you bellowed, hurling a stone that hit a wooden pillar dangerously close to your head.

You laughed, a manic cackle that only came from someone facing a certain death.

You leaped over crates, weaved through people with barely any gracefulness that would have made dancers feel second-hand embarrassment, but you didn’t care. Being chased around West Stave was one of the best things to do in Ketterdam, and you were enjoying every single bit of it.

You turned left into a random alley, only to find that it was a dead end. You looked upwards, but found only ladders that led to heavily-barred windows. You were trapped.

"Nowhere left to run, scum," A man laughed, his companion grinning as well.

You turned to flash them a charming smile. "Actually there is one way, but you're blocking it, so if you'd kindly move aside so I can peacefully make my leave."

They both looked at each other before turning back to you. "Not until we've got our money."

You pretended to think for a moment, not knowing what they mean, until you widened your eyes. "Oh! The money! That's what you were after? Why didn't you just say so?"

You rummaged through your deep pockets. "Here it is!"

You took a few quick steps forward and took out a spray can, squeezing it and drifting it over the closest man's eyes, creating a thick yellow line across his face.

The man yelled and stepped back in surprise, prompting you to catch his heel in yours and pull, making him fall.

You bent down to punch him twice before rummaging in his pockets, taking out a few loose coins and pocketing them.

You turned to face the other guy, who you found already on the ground with a figure standing above him.

The Wraith.

"Oh." Your gaze alternated between the sudden assistance and the man on the ground, before you decided to focus on the one standing and smiling at them. "Thanks for your help, Miss Wraith. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take my leave —"

You turned, only for Inej to block your exit, making you sigh. "What is it that you want from me this time?"

"For you to come with me to the Slat," Inej responded, grabbing your wrist and dragging you out of the alley.

You sighed again. This was going to be a long day.

—————

"Look, if this about money, I don't have any. I'm very broke." You stared at the man sitting in front of you, a desk separating him from your standing figure.

The Bastard of the Barrel didn't respond to your statement, opting to just look at you, his eyes examining your movements.

You let the silence drain on for a few more seconds before you lost patience. "What do you want?" You asked, frustrated.

"You're the Painter," He responded, putting his elbows on his table and lacing his gloved fingers together.

You waited for a moment, waiting for him to say more. When he didn't continue, you replied. "Yes."

"Everyone in Ketterdam is aware of your reputation to leaking powerful people's information," Kaz finally continued. "But that's not what's interesting. What intrigues me, is how you acquire the information in the first place, when the Wraith has never spotted you out in the open other than spraying on some random wall."

You shrugged. You had your ways, and if the Dirtyhands didn't know your methods, then there was no way you could reveal them. "I have my ways."

Kaz rose an eyebrow. "I can have you killed right here and now, did you know that?"

"And I’ve gotten out of these chains three minutes ago, did you know that?" You mocked him, shrugging the cuffs off and tossing them on his table. Inej moved, pulling out a dagger. Kaz put up his hand, and Inej paused, waiting.

You approached the desk, putting your hands on it and leaning forward, leaving half a feet of space in between your face and Kaz's.

"You want to know my methods so you can have the Wraith master them and use them," you said, leaning a bit more. "But then she can't. No one in this place can do what I can."

"I suppose there's an underlying deal somewhere in those words," Kaz hummed, seemingly unfazed by the distance.

You grinned. "Indeed there is. I can work for you, as long as I get paid. I'll do my thing, get your information, even infiltrate a few places if you like."

"Hmm," Kaz thought about it for a moment. "Two thousand kruge for each mission."

You paused. That would be enough to buy your food and pay your rent for a week or two, maybe even enough for some new clothes.

Yeah, you didn't have that good or luxurious of a lifestyle, but hey, money is money.

"Alright," You decided, sticking your hand out to seal the deal.

Kaz stared at your hand for a moment, before taking it. You pulled him up from his chair, face now barely away from yours. "If you think about double-crossing me and leaving me out in the cold, then you risk some of your own information being revealed... Rietveld." Your voice was barely louder than a breath, words only for Kaz’s ear.

His eyes widened, looking at you. Just the mere mention of his old last name, the one he shared with his brother, was enough for the water at his ankles to pool around his knees.

But you had already pulled away, brushing against the Wraith with a nod as you left the office without another word.

"What was that?" Inej asked — more like demanded.

Kaz didn't spare her a glance, his eyes glued to the door. It took him a long pause to reply.

"The start of another painful alliance," Kaz muttered, running his hand through his hair.

The start of something indeed.

[stedefxckingbonnet]

Past Lives | Izzy Hands x Reader

Izzy Hands x Gn!Reader

Summary: Quite some time has passed since you joined the crew of The Revenge per being saved, and you've grown particularly close to the one who brought you aboard. One night in particular is breathtaking and you decide you cannot contain your feelings anymore, but you had never learned exactly how to express these sorts of feelings to another person, let alone Izzy Hands. So, you do so in the only way you know how.

Warnings: slight angst/tension, slight avoidant attachment style (w/resolution though), kissing, some strong language

Word count: 2264 (some longer ones coming your way in the near future, though!)

A/N: hi hi lovely people! This is honestly the first x reader I've written since I was probably 14-15, so please bear that in mind! My interpretation of Izzy I feel like, isn't always 100% representative of him in the show itself, but I feel like I tried to capture him at his core while exploring this more sensitive side of him that we are getting in season 2, perhaps more of a what he is on the pathway to being, and therefore already is, if that makes any sense. Just has to be unlocked in levels. Plus, Izzy deserves the world so I just wanted to write something sweet to dip my toe back into this sort of writing. Anyhow, I'd like to get back into the habit of writing these so please, do request! I hope you all enjoy this one, comments are much appreciated xx

The stars illuminated the sky in such a way that it almost looked like a painting—a bit too picturesque, like one of those artworks that only aristocrats could afford to have on the wall of their ornate mansions passed through the centuries, or even built and curated just for them. Nonetheless, it was breathtaking, and the fresh air coursed through your veins and senses so effortlessly and made you feel alive. Nights like these weren't meant to be spent hidden away in your quarters and you knew that. Once you were sure everyone had retired for the night, you quietly crept onto the main deck, ready for your moment of solace that you had been seeking for weeks now.

You approached one of the railings, scanning across the deck still to see if anyone had been lurking nearby. The coast was clear, and finally, you found somewhere to lean on as you stared out into the night sky, the wind blowing through even the hairs on your neck, making them stand. On occasion, you'd be sprayed by the sea but it was the most at peace you had felt in weeks.

"Rough night?" you heard someone quietly call from a short distance away. You almost jumped, but you quickly turned around only to see Izzy Hands. Relief washed over you, as did a nervous feeling that had only begun recently. You inhaled sharply as Izzy waltzed over, thanking the stars for not illuminating this spot too much, therefore being no way he saw you craving that much air in your lungs. He leaned beside you on the railing, awaiting your reply.

"Not at all," you admitted. "Quite the opposite. It's so beautiful out tonight."

Izzy only nodded. He joined you in looking out at the landscape presented before him. In all of his years of sailing, it was all he had ever known--the sky and the sea, yet, he had never thought it to be this ravishing before. He never noticed how lovely it could be. Being here with you, he saw it all in a new light. He discreetly glanced over at you once again. He had noticed the way your lips slightly parted when you saw something you liked, and the way your shoulders lowered when you were relaxed. He noticed that you'd twiddle your thumbs when you were truly happy—in fact, you happened to be doing it right now. Izzy allowed his lips to curl into a smile upon realizing this. Finally, he broke the silence.

"I've never seen anything like this," he admitted, almost out of breath whilst he was still looking over at you. You still hadn't noticed.

"Isn't it...divine?" you chuckled. "Beautiful seems too weak a word."

"I feel the opposite. I don't think I've ever described anything as beautiful before."

"Really? Not once?"

Izzy shook his head. "Saving it for something special, I guess."

Silence filled the space between the two of you once again, but for once in your life, it was a comfortable silence. You looked out at the sea, but this time, you could feel Izzy's eyes on you. You attempted to discreetly glance his way, and you couldn't help but smile when you locked eyes. You looked away as you practically felt your cheeks burning and your stomach turning, and you hoped to the sea gods that you weren't falling ill. But these forlorn feelings felt honestly incredible, for once. A wave of confusion crashed over you, and it was growing more and more difficult to ignore.

"You alright?" Izzy inquired with genuine concern. This entire time, his eyes have not left you.

"What? Me?"

Izzy chuckled. "Who else?"

"Fine. Just fine."

"Just fine?"

"Do you believe in past lives?" you suddenly heard yourself ask, and already you were cursing yourself for it.

"Past lives?" Izzy repeated pensively. You nodded, looking over at him intently. It took him a moment to think of a response, and even still, he seemed unsure. "This sure as hell feels like the first time I'm living. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have made a lot of the decisions and mistakes I've made, I suppose."

You felt your heart sink, and it almost felt like there was no way to retrieve it. "I see. Well, goodnight."

Without letting Izzy have another word, you scurried back to your quarters, tears streaming down your cheeks like waterfalls.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in your chest. You winced as you forced yourself out of bed, though as you dressed, the feeling began to dissipate. You almost teared up again upon reminiscing last night. What were you thinking, asking something like that of Israel Hands? Where did that even come from? Why did his answer hurt so terribly? A million thoughts swarmed around in your head like flies, and there wasn't much you could do to swat them away. You felt like holing yourself up in your room but you knew that with Stede as one of the captains, this wasn't much of an option. After hovering your hand above the doorknob for what seemed like ages, you finally twisted it, revealing yourself to the crew. Already, everyone seemed to be intertwined in their usual antics and fuckeries--it would have been fun and refreshing to see if not for the somber mood you were in. Lucius waved you over, and you seriously thought of walking right past him, but he was your dear friend, like a brother to you and you wouldn't have forgiven yourself if you dismissed him. You trudged over to him, and he immediately recognized your gloom.

"Well good morning, mopey," Lucius teased, nudging you in the shoulder.

"Not today, Luci," you mumbled. "Not today."

Lucius' smile dropped, though he raised a brow. "Talk to me. Who do I need to punch?"

"No one. I'm just having a bad day."

"You are such a bad liar."

"I just don't wanna talk about it," you grumbled. Lucius was at a loss for words, but thankfully you knew just what to say. "The sky was lovely last night. If only you'd been awake to sketch it. You're the only one who would have done it any justice."

"Maybe I'll have another chance tonight," Lucius said hopefully.

"Maybe you will," you breathed out as suddenly, none other than Izzy himself appeared onto the deck. You gulped and turned away from him immediately.

"Whoa, whoa. What's going on with you and Iz—“

"—I don't wanna talk about it," you almost seethed. Before you knew it, a finger tapped your shoulder. You swiveled around, fighting the tears in your eyes.

"Got a minute?"

"Not exactly."

"What better do you have to do?" Izzy demanded. Your jaw dropped, and you were waiting for your thoughts to catch up with your mouth but they never did. "That's what I thought. Come on, Y/N."

"Later, okay? Not right now. Tonight," you promised. "That's my best offer."

"I'll hold you to it."

You immediately realized the mistake you had made, and how difficult and miraculous it would be to get through this entire day before possibly knowing what Izzy wanted from you.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The shadow of the moon was present once again, and for once, you dreaded the wonders of nighttime. It felt perilous and peculiar now, like a friend you didn't quite recognize anymore. But, a promise was a promise, you'd be damned if you broke one, let alone this one. As frustrated and almost devastated as you were, you'd never allow yourself to break a promise to Izzy. You pulled your favorite capelet over your shoulders and started toward the deck to find Izzy already waiting in your usual spot. You hadn't realized it until now, but this really was your and Izzy's spot. It's where you wiped away his tears when he cried in front of you the first time, it's where he sat with you countless times when you couldn't sleep, it's where the two of you conversed until dawn frequently. Always this spot. It took everything in you to fight off a pang of joy upon experiencing such an epiphany. Izzy didn't notice that you had appeared beside him until you looked over at him finally.

"Are you alright? You seemed a bit...I don't know. Not yourself this morning, and last night."

"I'm fine," you shrugged, knowing Izzy would see right through you like you were a phantom.

"I don't buy that for a second," Izzy rolled his eyes. And with that, silence surrounded you both once again. It frustrated Izzy to no end that he couldn't figure out what was plaguing you. He always felt as if he was able to put a finger on whatever it was that bothered you, he prided himself on knowing you that well. The last thing he wanted was for you to become a stranger after all the two of you had endured together. The thought of losing you filled him with a sorrow he had never felt before.

"I'm sorry about what I asked you last night. About past lives and stuff," you suddenly said. Yet another moment where your mind and mouth weren't synced. You regretted saying this as soon as you began to speak, but you knew that once you did, there would be no stopping, no taking anything back.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Izzy implored. You almost scoffed at his tone but when you met eyes with him, you instantly realized that he genuinely wished to know. His eyes sort of twinkled when he was curious, and this was the first time you noticed such an endearing phenomenon.

"I just," you exhaled, pausing before you spoke again, this time choosing your words carefully. "Why'd you save me that day at Jackie's?"

Izzy was taken aback at such a question. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Not at all, actually," you laughed in annoyance, which was only a coping mechanism for the extreme anxiety you were undergoing in this moment.

"I honestly can't give you an answer you'd want," Izzy admitted. "I just felt...called to. I could tell it would be nice having you around here. I wanted to give you a place you could call home."

"So, wait, you care about me?" you inquired seriously, which only earned a chuckle of disbelief from him.

"Of course I do, dammit!"

"I don't know, Iz, I just...from the moment we met I felt this connection to you and I can't explain it. No matter how hard I could try, I won't be able to. I felt like I was meant to be around you."

"You think I didn't feel that way, too?"

"You did?" you asked, a glint of hope looming in your voice.

"Of course I did. And, I do. I can't explain it either. But I felt as if we were meant to be around each other, in each other's lives. I don't know," he rambled nervously. This was the first time you had seen Izzy like this. It was a side of him you weren't even sure he possessed until now.

"I guess I sort of caked that to the past life shit," you sighed. "And when you said you didn't believe in past lives, I freaked out and took that as you not caring about me and everything we've built just felt like a huge lie."

"Everything we've built," Izzy repeated.

"I'm so sorry," you laughed embarrassedly. "I don't know what I'm talking about."

"No," Izzy cut you off, putting his gloved finger to your lips. You could feel Izzy's breath on your face. "If I didn't care about you, I wouldn't have asked you to come with me. I had only known you for a few moments and I already knew you would be...important to me."

You were absolutely baffled. You opened your mouth to speak, and not a sound escaped it. Izzy took a step closer to you, slowly moving his hand to cup the right side of your face.

"And it helps that you are just...beautiful," he whispered as your foreheads touched. You could've sworn your heart was going a million miles a minute and that you would need some sort of village medic after this. As if it were instinct, your hand made its way into his carefully swept hair, and it felt like silk between your fingers. All of your worries suddenly melted away as you melted into one another, your lips brushing up against one another's. You nodded pleadingly, yes, you wanted this, followed by a nod from Izzy and finally, like puzzle pieces, your lips connected. It felt effortless and so, so right to share such closeness. Two becoming one, two souls merging to create a love bigger than either of you. A love that had been carefully crafted ever since the first day of meeting. A love that the both of you knew would inevitably take hold, because it always did in all the stories you devoured and then later went on to show to Izzy. A love that you had craved since you heard of the concept of it. A love that Izzy never thought he would attain in his lifetime.

You gasped happily for air, yet your foreheads still touched. Izzy gazed at you as if you were the only other person in the world and the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.

"Perhaps I haven't had any past lives," Izzy breathed. "but I will have love for you in all my next."

[vhstown]

tag team

— hobie brown x gn!reader

summary: Authoritarian regimes aren't immune to a bit of graffiti; you can't do it without Spider-Punk, though.

content/warnings: fluff, banter (that has the... unintended effect), mentions of politics + discrimination, brief mentions of police brutality + being shot (nobody is hurt dw), london slang is used (im a londoner but still might be a bit ooc lol).

word count: 1.9k

a/n: camden version of hobie. reader is a hopeless loser (rnt we all). ambiguous relationship sort of? criticisms accepted + appreciated ! (i dont write hobie much 💀)

"Go on, then."

Spider-Punk — or Hobie, as you knew him, stood opposite you in the backstreet, arms crossed and with a grin you could practically see under his mask. The metal spray paint can was cool in your hand, which was already clammy with adrenaline as you brought the it to the wall.

This was your idea. It was supposed to be a joke at first, but Hobie thought it was brilliant. He wouldn't let it go: tagging up places in this part of town — the part where people like you and Hobie weren't welcome. Behind the fences and less-than-subtle signs to "keep out", entire neighbourhood reeked of Wilson Fisk: anti-punk, anti-rebellion, autocrat, about class and "serving the man" — whatever the hell that meant. Now, it was going to reek of paint that probably wasn't safe to inhale — at least, the back of some rich white bloke's house was.

Well, "rich white bloke" and "random politician" were interchangeable. You'd be fine; that's what Hobie told you anyway.

The can rattled in your hand as you shut one eye, holding your breath before red paint spurted out onto the wall. Hobie watched in silence, probably in amusement too. You debated threatening him with the can as a joke while you marked out the start of your drawing, feeling the eyes of his mask on your back. The breath you'd taken in before left you, and you haphazardly drew in another shallow one.

You'd been thinking about this for a while: making trouble under the guise of your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Punk, or protest, as Hobie liked to call it. His vigilante persona didn't exactly have the best reputation around here, or anywhere, in fact. Maybe you could change that — or worsen it. Either way, you had to breathe, so you took in another breath.

"Ah, shi—" The tight feeling in your throat exploded into a fit of violent coughing, and you were barely able to feel Hobie's hand on your back as you reeled away from the wall. "What the...?" you managed, before your eyes squeezed shut again, feeling another cough wring through your lungs.

"A'ight, that's definitely not normal." Hobie leaned over with a hand on your shoulder before he took the can out of your hands. You could make out his frown behind the tears stinging at your eyes as you tried to swallow back another cough.

"Yeah?" You furrowed your brows, trying to straighten out your shoulders again. "Didn't know paint could give me TB."

"I haven't got TB," he shrugged, gloved fingers tapping at the can.

"Cause you've got a mask." Hobie suddenly gave you a ruthless thwack between your shoulder-blades, making you flinch. "I'm not coughing anymore, stupid!"

The eyes of his mask narrowed as you shot a look at him; the bastard was probably enjoying this. Maybe you were too.

"You wanna wear it?" he asked instead, thumb already hooked under the bottom of his mask before he pulled it back; his actual was expression more subtle, but still just as taunting.

"Don't you have a secret identity to keep?"

"Think you've got lungs to keep, big man." His knuckles knocked at the centre of your chest before pulling the mask over your face in one quick motion.

The fabric warmed your skin as you adjusted the neck of it a little, feeling the mask blink with you. It was weird; it was kind of like you had nothing on your head at all. But the warmth was definitely from the mask and not the fleeting feeling of his fingers on your chest — and not the devilish look he was giving you right now.

Creak...!

The two of you looked around at what sounded like a door opening. You looked at Hobie, and he just shrugged at you, lips pushed up in his usual unbothered half-frown. His Spider-sense musn't have gone off, but your heart rate did. If you were going do this, you better do it quick.

Though your reference was on your face right now, you knew Spider-Punk well enough to remember the mask. Hobie let out the start of a chuckle when he recognised the giant white eyes you painted over the red. The mask definitely helped. Your arm, already covered in specks of paint, made a popping sound as you reached up to do the spikes, finishing the giant mural of sorts of your lanky, loud-mouthed, anarchist best friend.

The punk in question gave you a slightly curious look as you stepped away, the eyes of the mask on your face narrowing as you scanned over the dripping wet portrait. Pulling it off of your head, your hair was somehow still completely in place as you handed the mask back; no wonder his wicks fit in there.

"Well," you started, watching him look at the mural. "Aren't you gonna sign it?"

"It's your work." He tilted his head down a bit, though mirth was already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Yeah, and it's of you." It seemed like you didn't have to tell him twice before he zipped the can out of your hands with a flick of his wrist, already spraying an X onto the wall despite the mask hanging by his side. He didn't so much as clear his throat (lucky — you nearly died) as the letters F, N, S and M followed in each section of the X. That was the same symbol on the back of his vest, but you'd never bothered to ask about it.

"What does that stand for?" you questioned, arms folding as you mirrored his stance from before.

"Guess."

"I asked so I wouldn't have to guess." A silent grin you didn't want to entertain started forming on his face. "Fine, uh..."

You wracked your brain; it was probably more simple than you thought, but all your brain could conjure up was: "Fascists need stopping... uh, Monday?"

That got a ruthless snort out of him, making you press your lips together to try and take back your words. "Just Monday?"

"You told me to guess," you shrugged, rolling your eyes before they landed on the painting again. It was still wet; it was warm out, so the dripping wouldn't stop anytime soon. For some reason, it was always sunny in these neighbourhoods, almost like those autocrats had bought the sun too. Whatever, you didn't need the sun — a rebellious 6ft punk did just fine anyway; at least, that would explain why you were so warm around him all the time. "You gonna tell me or no?"

"Facists need stopping..." he mused, in a gratingly posh accent, hand brought up to his chin in a dramatic mockery of pondering. "Nah, I was thinkin' we should just leave it, you know? Let 'em be, innit?"

Hobie Brown — the only person you knew who would joke about their ideologies just to poke fun at you.

"Yeah, yeah, every other day of the week," you added dryly, getting a cackle out of Hobie.

"Thought you were meant to be smart, darling." The remnants of his mock-posh voice bleeding into the "darling". You could just tell he was being unserious — it was something you hated and loved about him. Why would you want him to be serious...?

"Thought you were supposed to be helpful," you spat back, getting another entertained breath out of him. Hobie shook his head before you suddenly snatched the can out of his hand, pointing it at him. The both of his loosely came up in mock-defense, but the grin on his face only grew.

"You threatenin' me now, yeah?" It sounded less like a question and more like another jab at your pride. Things had been a bit too quiet between you two recently, and you felt yourself getting fired up; it was a shame that your heart always raced like crazy whenever the banter started rising.

"Do it, then," he proposed at your silence, taking a step towards you and making you step back. "What's a bit of paint? You gonna cough again?"

"I actually will." You attempted to scrunch up your face in annoyance.

"Cough? I bet." His head tilted down to look at you, wicks shadowing everything but the amused glint in his eyes.

"You've got a serious problem." And you'd got a seriously warm face.

"Got more than just one problem, darlin'." You hated the way it came out of his mouth this time; you'd rather he pretend to speak like Fisk.

"Stop calling me that or I'll actually spray you."

"Didn't know you were a cop."

"Hobie." You let out a sigh, only serving to get another low chuckle out of him; he was so close you could almost feel the vibrations of his laugh. The fact that he was freakishly tall didn't help in the slightest, his silence along with the swirling feeling in your stomach making you unconsciously take a step back.

You winced immediately as you felt your back stick to the wet paint. "Oh, what the hell..."

Hobie's snickering didn't help. "You didn't have to move, you know."

You decided to ignore that, peeling yourself off of the wall and glancing behind you to see your back imprinted on the neck of your Spider-Punk portrait.

"Interesting artistic choice," he mused.

"Shut up, Hobie."

"On it, boss." You felt his hand on your shoulder before he turned you around, making the air catch at your throat as he peeked at your back, which now had a portrait of its own. "Blood of Monday fascists — very rebel. Got your outfit sorted for tonight."

"Your gig's tonight?" you groaned, trying not to look at his face over your shoulder and instead tossing the can back into the bag of other paint cans, still managing to catch how his lips pushed up in indifference, and probably mild entertainment.

"Nah, we're going out, darlin'," he snickered, and you felt him pinch the fabric wet with red paint to peel it off of your back. The rest of you was probably about to turn cartoonishly red too; this man just wouldn't give it a rest.

"Right, and I'm supposed to 'go out' looking like I got shot in the back."

"Like I'd let you," he muttered, removing his fingers from your back before shrugging off his vest, tossing it to you with the light clink of pins and buttons.

You raised an eyebrow, but he wasn't elaborating, so you put it on, trying not to cringe at the feeling of drying paint on your back. The vest was comfortable, though a bit heavy; it was cool, familiar, nice-smelling — like Hobie.

"Lookin' like a little me," he teased.

"I swear, if one more word comes out of your mouth—"

Your threat was cut short by the deafening blare of alarms, the wall in front of you flashing with a red that wasn't paint. Rich white bloke...

"Do all of them have alarms?" you whisper-shouted to Hobie.

"Looks like Willy does."

"Willy..." your brows knitted together as you watched Hobie pull his mask back on. "Fisk?!"

You'd just drawn a giant mural of Spider-Punk at the back of Wilson Fisk's house. A giant signed mural.

Without a chance for you to think, Hobie slung his arm around your back, and you weren't sure whether to be worried about being caught, annoyed about the paint pressing into your skin or absolutely bewildered as you felt your feel lift off the floor, clinging to him for dear life.

The bag of paint cans were zipped into his arm, with you, still wearing his vest, held against him by the other. Another one of his relentless cackles ripped through the air alongside the "thwip!" of his webs. Despite how absurd this was, a laugh of your own escaped too when you made out the fuming face of Wilson Fisk himself, a powerless, shouting little stain on the ground as you zipped away.

The fascists could wait 'til Monday. Right now, you had a gig to go to with Spider-Punk — or a date; he'd figure it out once the police were off of his tail.

🕸️🔭🎸

thank u for reading! i rly had to wrack my brain lmao ... not the best at writing hobie but it's okay im trying lol... again feedback is cool!

just fyi "big man" isn't really used as a gendered term! in my experience at least its used to casually poke fun at people. also if ur curious the FNSM symbol stands for friendly neighbourhood spider-man (i feel like im the only one that didn't know this um lmao)

if u liked this, reblogs r appreciated! catch the rest of my atsv stuff here <3

[lightning-and-sparks]

Hey! Are you writing a prequel fic and don’t know much about spray paint?? I got you💅

Sparks Guide to Spray Paint

Spray paint is definitely a strange medium that depending on who you are you may not ever get to interact with much. Graffiti culture as a whole is super cool and something that’d add more depth to your fics.

Something I found that isn’t as common knowledge as I thought is that people don’t know spray paint is toxic. It’s loaded with cancer-causing chemicals that you can’t inhale too much of. Many muralists I know use what is called a respirator

Respirators are probably the best layer of defense when dealing with spray paint but probably not something a runaway teenager would have. Which goes into what I have used/use. While it’s not as good as a respirator I have used a dust mask. They suck in the heat but are great at keeping stuff out of your airways and the next step of defense I’d recommend. They’re easy to find and more importantly, easy to carry.

I’ve used them for construction stuff and that metal band is going to keep them put and even leave a mark when you're done. They’re disposable and usually because they’re always near me I’ll replace them more frequently because they gross me out.

Options that aren’t as good but better than nothing are your typical bandana or shirt pulled over your nose and mouth combo. Easily the most aesthetic which would make a better look but not as safe. (I have done these but irl I’d try and get something that would protect you especially if it's something you do frequently.

Super great pro tip, don’t be stupid like me and put these in your hair after I don’t even know why I did that. Spray paint dries quick but somehow I managed to do that and get some black in my blonde highlights which sucked.

Okay! On to the paint.

Yes, they are runaways who probably don’t live in luxury but spray paint is pretty expensive, and rightfully so. There are cheap alternatives and even half cans which are super cute and tiny but totally inconvenient for tagging but can be used for tiny details.

Spray cans are heavy when they’re full so I like to keep my colors to a minimum. Usually, I have to walk far and into wooded areas so that’s my primary reason. Also, not as much paint as you think is there.

One way to get around costs and just get tags up are black tags. They take significantly less paint because you only really need the one coat. Depending on where you are they kind of blend in IMO. (I've used the can on the right and it worked pretty good.)

Had to pull out one of my own pictures because there aren’t many good ones on Google. There is a lot you can do with black and white. I’m a girly teen girl so I’d rather spring for a nice red, blue, or purple to go with it.

I think I could compare spray paint to nail polish. It has a similar rattle and needs to be shaken. There is a metal ball in each can. While you can control how you spray it, there still is a wild element especially if you don’t have different/angled tips but those aren’t necessary. Some people prefer to buy their own tips since the ones on the can usually suck. (especially cheap paint)

I know that gun-shaped handle is not aesthetic but believe me, holding a can and pushing down on it hurts like hell. People usually use those to spray paint like furniture but I just thought they were worth mentioning.

You can't really spray paint in the rain or it looks like shit. It does dry fast but it's better to have that window of a dry period.

The purpose of Graffiti is usually political. It's a way to get a message across and protest something. It has morphed into more of an artistic outlet but the roots stem from expression. I've never really made something that was in protest to something specific but I feel the whole point of what I do is to combat the boring and lifeless urban look. (I live in a city)

Tagging is the proper term for marking an area. A tag is usually between 3-5 letters and has creative liberties throughout. I used to use a three-lettered tag but I knew some people who knew it so I recently switched to a four-lettered one. I've seen longer and I've seen shorter. There aren't set rules for tagging and in some way, it is a free-for-all.

There are unspoken rules of tagging. realistically, it is bad sportsmanship to cover over tags but it happens. I know of people whose friend died and his tag got covered and they were devastated so I personally try to avoid that.

Contrary to popular belief, graffiti isn't illegal everywhere. There are areas where authority will "overlook" such as abandoned areas. Frequent hunts for me are usually underpasses (illegal) abandoned buildings (50/50 shot) and a semi-abandoned skate park (Legal; Sk8ter boi map cooked with that one)

Sometimes you can even get commissioned to do a piece. I've met a person or two who have.

Tagging for the most part isn't meant to be explicit or hagness. It is more so art. I like to take creative liberties with it like making "S" or "Z" into birds or other objects because, at the end of the day, it is about expression.

Quick tagging, or as I've deemed it. Is kind of premade tags on stickers where you just kind of leave them where you go and are common in high-traffic spots where you can't pull out the cans. (Whoever started the "Hello My Name Is" stickers, I love you)

The Lookout.

Graffiti is unfortunately a two-man/woman job. If you are somewhere you aren't supposed to be you need a lookout. Mine have changed over the years and I used to work with other artists and we'd swap. Not everyone will jump at the chance to do something kinda illegal.

Just for shits and giggles, I'm pretty sure the duo in Wasabi Extreme are supposed to mimic an artist and lookout/spotter whatever. I think that was a cute detail.

Style.

There are so many different types of graffiti styles that I could never talk about to the proper extent. I think the biggest takeaway is that no two people really tag the same. They may look the same but it's different. The style of tag can also reveal their skill type.

Where I am, graffiti is like a community almost. You meet people or recognize them by their artwork. your name and tag are one on the same and I've been called by my tag. It may seem punk or whatever but really it's just a bunch of artist that make their own gallery.

I've recently gotten back into it with a new name and look. It is really fun, very risky, but feels right. I'm not saying to go out and vandalize stuff but, ya know. Make something once in a while

I hope this is useful to anyone for fics or other stuff. I'd recommend like looking more into it if you're interested because this is definitely not a full guide.

[notreallyanywhere]

What Tartarus smells like to the Seven + Reyna and Nico

I have not read Sun and the Stars yet. However, this is only partially based on what we've been told anyway. These are, of course, headcannons. Do with them what you please.

Nico: It smells like the day he found out Bianca was dead. Because he smells Percy's scent mixed in it, it's comforting. Which in and of itself is terrifying. He's in love, in the barest sense of the word, with what the body of Tartarus deemed his worst nightmare.

After HoO it smells almost the same but it also smells like the taste of pomegranate seeds and when you've been sitting in a car for too long that all you're really inhaling is your own recycled air. It's stuffy-er and hard to breathe. And yet it still feels like a blanket that's suffocating him. Like when he was six and Bianca and his mother wrapped him up in a heavy blanket and cuddled with him until he fell asleep after a nightmare.

Reyna: It smells like the day Percy and Annabeth released Black Beard and his pirates on Circe's island. It also smells like must and the forgotten attic in her home from before. It smells like grass and blood and sea water. It smells like her best and worst memories with her sister. It smells like betrayal and whispers of freedom that she can't quite reach. It also smells a little too much like the way the one person that Nico killed's ghost smelled with stone and cold mixed together.

Jason: It smells like a park. Wet woodchips and an old picnic blanket. It smells like the day he was taken away from his his sister. It also smells like the bath soaps of Camp Jupiter and like the metal of Reyna's dogs. Because even after everything, he's still afraid of going home; to call any place home lest he be pulled away from it again. Because twice is a coincidence, but three times is a pattern with only himself as the common factor.

Piper: It smells like her room back in the mansion she used to live with her dad in. Like spray paint and gasoline and the oils her dad always put in his hair and never kept the promise to show her how to use. It smells like ice, snow, and the coldest winter's day she could think of. Like she's twelve again and stealing her first car because her dad missed her birthday for the first time since she was born and she hadn't seen him in three months. It smells like Leo's death and Jason's last breath. It smells like losing everything she's come to care about.

Leo: It smells like motor oil and fire. So not only does it remind him of his mother's death, but also his own. He's one of the few who don't know that Tartarus is supposed to smell like your worst fears. Sometimes, when he's panicking and tired and far too deep into Tartarus, another layer of scent covers the rest. Like dust and mold and dirt and old leather. It smells like being forgotten.

Hazel: It smells like the first time she died. Like wet dirt and gemstones smashing together. It smells like an empty stable and Sammy's hair. It smells like cupcakes and "Happy Birthday"s and long lost love. It smells like her past but more bitter and distant. Because to her, going back to then, no matter how tempting it sounds, is too terrifying for her to even imagine. She doesn't want to know too much about what's going to happen, and she doesn't want to be exploited until she dies anymore. To her, going back to the past is far more horrifying because then, for the rest of her life, she'll be surrounded by living ghosts.

Frank: It smells like embers of a burned out fire. Like the material of his mother's army uniform. Like Lystrogonian breath and potatoes and a burning house, like burning memories. It smells like ibuprofen and headaches and dirt. It stings his nose like he just smelled something spicy. Because, at the end of the day, Frank is afraid of very few things. But what he is afraid of is tied deep in his roots, burning alongside him since he was born. No matter what animal he shape-shifts into, they're all afraid of fire. Because that's one of the few fears that isn't only human.

Annabeth: Tartarus smells like blood and gold and crumbling rock. Like the screams of her campers and the cries and pleas for death. It smells like spiders and tastes like cobwebs. Because sometimes, when a smell is so strong, it's like you can taste it. It smells like, just barely, her stepmother's perfume and like the detergent her dad used when he cleaned her sheets. It smells like Luke and cyclopses and the golden shower of monsters she once dreamed of. It smells like Thalia's scream of indignanance and defiance as she died. It smells like lava.

Percy: Aside from what we know, to Percy, it smells like gunpowder and blood. Like beer and smoke. Like every person he couldn't save. Like every moment he watched the light fade from someone's eyes just so he could continue living, continue being useful. To Percy, it has more of a physical experience. To him, it feels like water going up his nose and burning his throat and sinuses, but it never really goes away.

Along the lines of what we know, in comes a question. Why did the monsters never smell him? Simple, really.

Monsters tend to avoid other monsters. Or, what smells like them, at least.

Because Rick told us that Percy's Tartarus smells like Smelly Gabe, we can assume that The Pit, to Percy, smells the closest than any other demigods' idea of it.

So, not only does it smell like every time he blamed himself for another's death, but it smells like his old room. Like old beer cans and BO. Like nasty porn magazines and new decks of cards. Tartarus reeks to Percy of every moment he was alone with Smelly Gabe. Reeks like every moment he's ever doubted himself and something terrible happened.

[starry-nights12]

Play Among The Stars

Read on AO3

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Relationship:Ekko/Jinx (Timebomb)

Word Count:2,227

Tags: Angst, Established Relationship, Firelight Member Jinx, Bittersweet

Summary:

"Am I your girl?" Jinx asked softly.

Ekko sat and stared at her for a minute.

The two cities was on a verge of civil war, Enforcers invaded The Lanes looking for her, and riots happens were an almost daily occurrence.

The world as they knew it was shattered because of her actions.

Author's Note:

As kids, Jinx and her siblings going out to do jobs while Ekko usually stayed behind.

Now as adults, Jinx takes Ekko to Piltover for the first time.

I completely forgot about this idea until I talked to @redrum-alice. Go check out their art! It's amazing🫶♥️

Thank you @su-univeralai for beta reading!

Fic's Playlist💚💙

It's been a few months since Jinx bombed the council chambers.

The Enforcers and residents have been on high alert ever since, never knowing when the blue-haired menace would strike again. 

Her wanted posters were plastered everywhere in Piltover and Zaun, yet no one has seen her since.

A new, bigger barricade was built on the bridge. There was an influx of Enforcers patrolling the streets below and terrorizing The Lanes on a daily basis.

Unbeknownst to them, a monkey mask and owl were in the shadows peering over the edge of the highest roof.

Jinx chuckled as she zoomed in on them with her lens, she lightly smacked his arm. "Look at those dumbasses," her mask distorted her voice to be more high-pitched and robotic.

"Sooo busy monitoring the potential terror from below that they're clueless from the threat from up above."

Ekko hummed in agreement, "I remember. You told me that after you bombed the Enforcers, you strolled in to get the gemstone." His mask contrasted with how his voice modulator deepened his voice.

Jinx guffawed. "I did! Those dummies were so cocky by not adding extra security to their prized possession. But I showed them!" She bragged.

"And that you didn't have a disguise," Ekko added.

Jinx shrugged, "I already use spray paint to draw and trademark my work. There was no way I was gonna let some chump claim the biggest robbery in history."

He pursed his lips and faintly nodded as if to say, 'Fair enough'.

He stared up at the sky. The stars and moon were much more visible on this side.

Jinx took off her mask, inhaling deeply with a sigh, "Breathe in that fresh, Piltie air, Little Man. This was what you've been missing." She stretched her arms out and twirled.

Ekko did the same, their air was more breathable than the dense smog they were used to inhaling growing up.

He clenched his fist and glared at the sky. They've turned something as simple as clean air into a fucking luxury.

Her magenta eyes always glowed softly in the night, with small blue veins around the corners.

When he thought she died on the bridge a part of him died too. They were a permanent reminder of how even though he kicked the bomb, he failed to save her. Again.

You should have done better. She almost died. If you were successful then she wouldn't have needed shimmer to save her life.

Fuck, If you could have found another way of convincing her to leave Silco then we would have still been friends. We wouldn't have fought on the bridge in the first place.

Jinx's giddy chuckling brought him out of his thoughts. "You think I've become their version of the Boogie Man?"

The corners of his mouth twitched, "The Boogie Man?" He repeated wryly.

"Yeah, like," she stood upright with her arm behind her back.

"Listen to your parents, kids," She said in a gruff voice, wagging her finger as she paced.

"Do your chores, eat your vegetables, do your homework, and go to bed on time. Or else the big, bad Jinx will crawl through your window and get ya!" She snickered then cracked up.

She wore a wide, playful smile. He loved the small gap in her teeth and freckles adorning her face. It was adorable.

But back to the topic at hand, it made Ekko scoff.

Just yesterday while out in the market gathering supplies, he and his brothers helped intervene with Enforcers harassing a vendor and his family.

"I think they've been using us Zaunites as monsters for their bedtime stories for years. They just have a name and face to it now," He said.

"Besides, they're more a threat to us than anything. They've always been."

"Exactly!" She pointed at him. "They never cared about us. They've always ignored us until I made it known that we can fuck their shit up. We can ruin everything just like they did for us."

We.

He didn't doubt that someone from the Undercity could attempt to start another revolt on how mistreated they'd been for decades.

It just so happened that the one who lit the fuse was his best friend.

Ekko sat down with his arm on his knee, "Do you ever regret it?"

Jinx's eyes momentarily widened before they narrowed at him, "Why would you ask that? I know you aren't going soft on the Pilties."

His lips curled, and he wrinkled his nose, "Of course not."

"I know you wouldn't. But why would you ask that? I'm just confused."

"It's just that if you didn't, you wouldn't be a fugitive. You'd be free."

She would have liked that.

Her and Ekko, hand in hand without a care in the world. They would be able to go on dates like everyone else - doing a little PDA while they were at it.

They would have been able to go to more places than their Firelight base, shimmer raids, her hideout, and now atop a rooftop in Piltover.

She frowned then sat next to him, "It's true. I do miss being able to wander around like I used to." She linked their arms and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I wish we could go on dates in public. You wouldn't have to worry about being arrested with me," She murmured then sighed softly.

She shook her head and quickly licked her lips before she got her answer out. "But, I don't regret killing them. Those bastards had it coming for years," She affirmed.

"If I didn't do it then someone else in The Lanes would have. I just happened to be the one brave enough to do something about it.

They don't treat us like people. They've always treated us like abused animals. They watch us struggle through cages, laughing at how uncivilized we are compared to them," she squeezed his arm tightly.

"They've enjoyed our suffering for too long. Enjoyed keeping us in check about who really is in charge of everything. There's only so much a person can take before they snap." 

Her eyes seemed to glow brighter. Her lips pulled back into a snarl and her nostrils flared as she breathed heavily.

He didn't say anything for a minute and stared at her.

There was a threat of civil war between the two cities. Enforcers have flooded The Lanes determined to find the domestic terrorist. Riots between them and Zaunites were an almost daily occurrence.

He had one or three drinks - he loved his people, but sometimes he wanted alone time to de-stress - he was leaving the bar when he saw them.

The two women were searching for her.

Caitlyn relayed what happened at the canary, her hatred for Jinx was evident even under her calm tone. Her eyes were determined as she informed him about what happened.

They were a stark contrast to Vi, who had acquired bags under her eyes with her hair slightly mussed. She asked if he had seen her little sister anywhere.

Jinx told him about the tea party. He told them he hadn't seen her since that night on the bridge.

It was to protect Jinx.

It was also to keep both women safe from her.

The consequences of Jinx's actions were the reason why their entire world was on the brink of collapse.

Her heart stalled when he removed his arm.

What did I do wrong? Is he mad at me? Disappointed? I’ve never seen him disappointed in me before. There's no reason for him to. Is there? He wanted to know how I felt, and I answered honestly.

Gosh. This was supposed to be a date. Talking about the state of affairs of two stupid cities is definitely not romantic.

Her worries were quickly dispelled when he wrapped his arm around her shoulder, bringing her closer to him.

Maybe they should have waited. Then it would be that person's problems instead of Jinx's. But even then, she would still be wanted for murdering those Enforcers.

Ultimately, he couldn't change the past. He had to live through the present.

Despite everything that was happening, he loves her.

He was in love with her since he was fourteen, and he loved her now. No matter how messy things were, he would forever be thankful to have her back in his life.

She glanced at him and gently knocked her knee against his. He spread his legs to make room for her, she moved to sit in between them, resting her legs on top of his.

Her hand cupped his nape and the back of his head as she pressed their foreheads together.

"Am I your girl?" She asked softly.

He always thought he would die with his unrequited crush. He was too nervous to tell her as kids, then everything in their lives fell apart.

She wanted him out of her life, so they went their separate ways.

They only met each other on the battlefield. He knew it was foolish, but a part of him still longed and cared for her.

But seven years later, the impossible happened- a miracle if you will. They were currently entranced by the other's presence. 

He cradled her cheeks, his thumb rubbing comforting circles. "You will always be my girl. Nothing will ever change that, Jinx. I promise," He asseverated.

She leaned into his touch and smiled, her eyes softening.

She already knew the answer, but her heart swelled with pride and filled her with such an immense amount of warmth in her entire being from hearing him confirm it.

She brushed a stray dreadlock from his eyes and pushed it behind his ear. She ran her tongue slowly across her lips.

She darted her gaze into his eyes, he closed them, his heart pounding in anticipation as he waited eagerly for her.

She placed her soft, purple lips tenderly around the edges of his mouth and lingered.

A decidedly pleasant shiver ran down his spine as her tongue slowly glided across his lower lip.

Her teeth caught onto his lower lip, gentle tugging switched to lightly sucking them. He felt her smirk on his lip as she drew out a quiet moan from him.

She had barely done anything, yet excitement burst within him as it was the first time they kissed.

It didn't matter how many times they did this, he always craved her. His heart, mind, body, and even his very soul belonged to her.

She was alive.

She was here.

And she loves you.

She wants you as much as you want her.

Only her.

She released his lip, faintly brushing hers against his.

He leaned in to finally connect their mouths, but he opened his eyes when she covered his mouth with her hand and wore a cheshire grin.

"You gotta admit though, I came up with the best date idea," She boasted.

He suppressed his groan of disappointment. She can be such a tease when she wants to be.

He rolled his eyes as he held her wrist to move her hand away. He let out an amused huff, "Alright. No need to make it a contest."

"Because you'd know I’d win." She gently wiggled his wide nose in between her fingers and then flicked it.

She giggled as she got up to stand and slapped a hand over her mouth to conceal her startled laugh. Ekko had smacked her ass as payback.

She glared at him over her shoulder. "Stop you perv! Gods," She chastised playfully, swatting his hand away.

He chuckled mischievously, biting his lower lip that failed to restrain his cheeky grin.

She shook her head and tittered. She's been rubbing off on him.

"Piltover this," she held her right hand and moved her hips in that direction. "Zaun that," she held her left hand and repeated the action.

"Forget about them!" She clapped her hands then spun around in his direction. "I feel like dancing!"

"But there's no music."

"Yeah, there is. Our voices can make music. It's called singing!"

He snickered, "Fair point. What did you have in mind, Sugarbomb?"

"Hmmmmm...." she pressed her finger against her lips, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

A grin broke out and she clapped her hands together. "I got it. Hold on," she cleared her throat and hit her chest for good measure.

"Fly me to the moon. And let me play among the stars," she gestured to the sky.

"Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars. In other words, hold my hand," she offered her hands.

Ekko held them and she helped him stand. She placed her hands on his shoulder as he put his on her waist.

"In other words," she looked at her boyfriend expectantly.

Ekko chuckled softly. "Baby, kiss me," He sang.

Jinx stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

They continued like that, singing to each other while swaying gently.

They got lost in each other's eyes and never wanted to be found. 

Everything and everyone disappeared. Nothing else mattered because they were the only people in the world at that moment.

They could momentarily forget the harsh reality of the world as they danced.

They were a couple enjoying a romantic night under the moonlight and stars.

Two lovers.

A woman with her man.

A fugitive with her harborer.

[sy3ra]

tokyo rev series; sanzu haruchiyo

episode III

tw: swearing, some spicy moments and grammatical errors.

You were an executive at Bonten. You were well respected by the underlings and the other executives except...

Sanzu.

He was your biggest enemy ever.

"What the fuck did you do to my shampoo, [Name]?!" Sanzu screamed in the bathroom.

He came out with his hair....yellow..

And you, well you were laughing your ass off.

💠

"Sanzu what the hell happened to my white shirt you fucking bastard!" Your voice echoed in the halls of Bonten. The white shirt was spray painted...in pink. The color you hated.

"You started it dumbass I'm just paying you back!" Sanzu's voice echoed back. To the other executives this was a normal day with you two pulling pranks on each other.

"Are they at it again?" Rindou sighed while his brother nodded.

You and Sanzu always bickered and fought like there was no tomorrow. Ever since you joined Bonten, Sanzu was irritating for you and you didn't know why. In the end you just shrugged it off.

💠

One Tuesday evening, You and Sanzu were called in by none other than Mikey himself.

"I have a mission for you two." Mikey said with his usual emotionless tone. "There's an important artifact in Korea and I need you two to assassinate the owner and take back the artifact." He explained while the underlings gave you two folders that contained the information.

You looked through the information, carefully scanning it. Sanzu did the same.

After a while, Mikey continued. "I'm sending the both of you to Korea for one week."

You tilted your head to look at Sanzu with a disgusted expression "1 week with you? I'd rather eat dog shit" You said. Sanzu scoffed at your reaction "I would rather go alone anyway" he rolled his eyes at you.

"No, you two are taking this mission and that's final." Mikey said "Pack your things, you'll be leaving in two hours." He added. With that, the two of you bowed and exited the room.

"I can't believe I'm spending 1 week with YOU" You said in annoyance.

"Deal with it dumbass it's not like I want to spend my 1 week with you too" He barked back.

💠(2 Hours Later)💠

You pulled your luggage behind you, making your way to the front entrance of the Bonten HQ.

"We're taking my car to the airport" Sanzu said.

"No, my car" You argued

"My car is faster than yours" He argued back.

"My car is more suitable for this than yours idiot" You hissed.

"Can you two stop fighting?" A voice said behind the two of you. You cocked your head to look over your shoulder and the voice was Rindou. "Boss said you'll be taking the private jet" He sighed.

"Tch" Sanzu scoffed. "I see, thanks Rindou" You said with a small smile but there was an evident irritation in your expression.

The two of you boarded the jet not long after that. You sat comfortably by the window to enjoy the view. But then lewd noises intruded your eardrums. "For fuck's sake pinkie, for once can you not fuck every woman you see?" You frowned angrily.

"Why not? If you want to I can.." Before he can finish what he was saying you smiled at him and put your middle finger out.

"I'd rather jump on a cliff than fuck you" You said with an irritating smile. Then you threw a pocket knife at them which, unfortunately, landed on chair. The flight mistress grew terrified of you and ran off with her clothes making Sanzu sigh. "Oops, I missed" You shrugged and returned to look at the view in silence.

Sanzu decided to scan the information on the folders some more, while you silently watched the scenery by the window in awe.

Unbeknownst to you, Sanzu looked up and stared at you. He was intrigued at how your eyes were full of wonder and astonishment.

For some weird reason, he found you beautiful.

💠

You stepped out of the jet inhaling the fresh air of South Korea. "How nice" You mumbled to yourself. "Let's go, we still have to check in the hotel" Sanzu said as he got into the car.

You sighed in irritation and you got in as well. The whole ride was silent like earlier, 'this is unusual' you thought.

The ride to the hotel was an hour long. And once you stepped out of the car you were dumbfounded at how tall it is. "I'd close my mouth if I was you" Sanzu smirked at you.

"Yeah yeah shut up" You hissed.

The building was owned by Bonten, of course but it was undercover as a normal hotel owned by someone 'anonymous'. By saying the code words, you and Sanzu were checked in an executive suite at the second to the top floor.

You slid the card in the door, opening it. The room had a great view of the city and the enormous swimming pool. But to your dismay,

There was only one queen sized bed.

"Why...IS THERE ONLY ONE BED???!!?" You screamed in horror (not quite literally).

"Who the hell booked this????!" He shouted in frustration, popping a pill in his mouth. Sanzu ran his hand through his hair "I'll sleep on the floor then" he said.

"No, I'll sleep on the floor and you sleep on the bed"

"No I'll sleep on the floor"

"NO I WILL"

"I WILL"

"YOU KNOW WHAT LET'S JUST SLEEP ON THE SAME BED"

He scoffed at you and began unpacking his things while you examined the blueprint of the enemy's base.

"Looks like the best time to sneak in is 3 days from now. Based on the info, Azier Delius has a family reunion in 2 days." You said.

"What are we supposed to do until then..?" He tilted his head to look at you. "Probably plot and get some energy" You shrugged. As much as he hated to agree with you, you were right.

You and Sanzu plotted for a while, for once you two had a decent conversation without fighting. After that, you rummaged through your luggage and grabbed your swimsuit.

"The hell is that for?" He said looking at you. "Hotel = Swimming pool." Was all you said before going into the bathroom to change.

After 15 minutes, you came out of the bathroom wearing a sheer jacket that showed the monokini you wore underneath and your hair was tied in a tight bun that is held together by a hair stick (or hairpin).

Sanzu stared at you, a blush creeping up his cheeks as he looked at you up and down.

"Eyes up here pinkie" You teased. "I'll be going bye" You added before heading out the door and closing it behind you. Sanzu stood still in his spot after you left.

You got on the elevator and went down to the 10th floor. Then, you made your way to the entrance of the pool.

You took off your sheer jacket and slowly dipped in the pool, shivering lightly when the cool water hit your skin. You sat there for a while getting used to the cool water before swimming around.

Meanwhile, Sanzu watched you from the window, he bit his lip to get rid of his thoughts and closed the curtains. You were having an effect on him and he was falling for you. Slowly but surely.

A sigh erupted from your throat, you decided to leave him be so he can bring some woman to fuck with. Deep inside, you still respected his privacy and you already expected this anyway.

After an hour or so, you left the pool with a towel wrapped around your body. Upon entering the room, it was empty. 'it seems like he did find a woman or he just wanted to to get some air' you thought to yourself.

Nevertheless, this was a good chance to shower in peace.

You stood under the hot shower, steam filled the entire bathroom. You had your Bonten tattoo on your lower back, near your behind. You thought it was quite sexy that way so you had it tattooed there. You wrapped a short towel around your body and peeked outside the bathroom door to check if Sanzu was around.

Well, he wasn't. So you went out and rummaged through your luggage while humming Red by Taylor swift. You slowly took off the towel around your body and softly swayed your hips along with the song you were singing.

Not until you felt a warm hand in your waist. "First you stand infront of me wearing a revealing swimsuit and now you stand here naked. Do this one more time and I might not be able to control myself.." He whispered. You felt his hot breath on your nape and he stood incredibly close to you.

Sanzu wanted to push her on the bed but he had to restrain himself. After all if [name] can't walk then this mission would fail. He went into the bathroom to shower leaving you alone again.

You were rendered speechless, a slight blush creeping up your cheeks at what happened earlier. [Name] had never thought of having a relationship before, let alone be touched by someone..

You quickly wore pajamas and plopped on the bed. Sanzu slipped out of the bathroom after a few minutes. He was half naked with only a towel covering his lower body. The towel, however, hanged dangerously low showing his V-line, his hair was wet and honestly that looks so attractive.

You looked away to prevent yourself from staring. "Did you bring some wine [name]?" He suddenly asked you while getting changed in the bathroom.

"Well yeah it's in my luggage" You said. "You did? Good girl" He said taking the wine out of your luggage and chugging it down.

Your eyelids felt heavy as you slowly went to sleep. Sanzu sighed at you before also going to sleep. In the middle of the night, Sanzu woke up. He couldn't see properly but the moon illuminated your figure, you were shivering from the cold. You didn't cover yourself in the blanket before because it was still pretty warm.

He carefully took the blanket at your feet and gently covered your body with it. He stared at you for a bit, you looked so peaceful while sleeping.

"Good night, [Name]" He softly muttered before going back to sleep.

Part II?

-Mayven

[lullabyes22-blog]

Mal de Mer - Ch: 4 - Treasure Part II

Summary:

A high-seas honeymoon. Two adversaries, bound by matrimony. A future full of peril and possibility. And a word that neither enjoys adding to their lexicon: Compromise.

War was simpler business…

Part of the 'Forward But Never Forget/XOXO' AU. Can be read as a standalone series.

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

꧁꧂

Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

A vista of endless blue gives way jagged black peaks rising like a city's skyline.

The Hydra—or so the artificial port is called—sits in a hollow formed by two undersea cliffs, which shield the anchorage from both sides. The sun, a blinding glare, winks off the superstructure. At first glimpse, it resembles a mirage: a phantasmagoria of glass and steel. Closer, it resolves from myth to mundanity: a sprawling, low-slung complex, with an array of docks, hangars and fueling stations. Its colossal weight of ten thousand metric tons is held afloat by a series of airtight nitrogen capsules, encased beneath the steel-plated underbelly. Beneath, miles down, is a bed of solid granite. The complex's anchor, a six-mile-long steel tether, is secured by titanium-plated cables to a peak on the seabed.

The design, a masterwork of engineering, is an homage to its maker: Viktor, the Machine Herald. For an unknown sum, he'd crafted the facility, first as a prototype, then as a permanent installation. Silco had also commissioned his expertise for designing a fleet of specialized vessels: the Siren's Call. A collection of sleek submersibles, built to his exact specifications, and piloted by a cadre of elite seamen.

Their function: transporting precious cargo from the Hydra, back to Zaun.

A fan of sea-spray kicks in the wake of a fleet of skiffs. It sparkles in the intense brightness of the sun, like a handful of tiny diamonds flung to the sky.  Silco, at the helm of the lead craft, navigates with a smuggler's ease. The craft's prow, a narrow point, slices a white streak in the water. Inside, the passengers—Cevila, Hector, Lady Dennings, Garlen—huddle, blindfolded and guarded, in its wake.

Abovedeck, Mel sits hunkered behind her husband. She has taken off her inadequate boots and tucked her skirts between her knees. Her bare ankles are rashed with gooseflesh; her dress, half-drenched, clings like a second skin.

This, she thinks, is why he'd asked her to lose the chiffon.

Seamlessly, Silco threads his boat through the maze of piers, and slips between two massive derricks. Then he steers into a small basin, where a pair of towering steel doors yawn open.

At the fore, the port's emblem gleams: Zaun's dagger-winged chem-shield, etched in vivid green.

They are, officially, in the belly of the beast.

Mel, braced against the spray, stares in mute awe.

The hangar is colossal: a maelstrom of sound and motion. A web of florescent lights, strung overhead, casts a harsh white glare. Everywhere, men and women, in labcoats or overalls with Zaun's crest,  pass in and out. Some, armed with clipboards, are inspecting cargo. Others, armed with power tools, swarm the corners: checking seals, topping up fuel tanks, testing equipment.

Cranes swing. Pulleys screech. Engines roar.  The scene is a sensory assault: an undersea hive, humming with one singular purpose.

Progress.

As her eyes adjust to the dazzling brightness, Mel makes out the dimensions of the dry docks: a spread of interlocking piers and canals, all set in an intricate steel gridwork. Ships of every size and class are anchored: freighters, frigates, ferries. A flotilla of motorboats, their hulls painted the distinctive Zaunite green, zigzag in between like darting minnows. The acrid stink of exhaust and brine is overpowering. 

Silco, at the wheel, takes a deep inhale.

"Funny, isn't it?" he says, quietly.

Dazed, Mel says, "What is?"

"What can be achieved if coin is actually invested where it's due."

The spray hits Mel's face, cold as a slap. She is still in shock. She'd had no clue this behemoth existed. No inkling of the depth and breadth of Silco's designs.

Her voice doesn't quaver. But there's a taut note: like the twinge of a pulled muscle. "How long?"

"Three years, give or take. I've had my eye on these waters since before Zaun's independence. The initial plan, if you can even call it that, was to mine minerals from the seabed. Metals, crystals, ore. Anything we could find." A twist of the wheel, and their boat, with a gentle jerk, eases around a corner. "The project had to be scrapped. We lacked the resources to extract. Not to mention the funds to build a port. Revolution's a costly business. So's maintaining control over a city. Especially one that's eating itself alive."

"So, you turned your eye elsewhere."

"Necessity is the mother of invention."

"Shimmer."

His profile is inscrutable: a figurehead at the prow. "Yes."

Mel feels no anger yet. Only a dull hiving in the pit of her belly. The same feeling she gets whenever their arguments veer into dark territory. A sense of disorientation—surrealism—at how easily Silco shifts between extremes.

How, without warning, he steals all her air, and leaves her suffocating.

"And this?" she grits out. "When did you discover glyphs under the seabed? Or that they linked to a portal system?"

"I knew nothing about the glyphs. Only that, since my smuggling days, there were stories of a secret network used by Oshra Va'Zaun's navy. A shortcut between sea routes, where ships, powered by ancient magic, could pass from point A to point B in a heartbeat. Like Piltover's Hex-Gates, but at sea." The corner of his lip curls. "As a young man, I'd always thought the maps drawn up by different navies seemed—odd. The Noxians, for example, are too busy with their conquests to chart out a thorough seaway. They're more concerned with securing the strait's borders, rather than what lies underneath. Demacia, meanwhile, is a landlocked bore. They have no real seafaring tradition, nor the need for one. Their navy's purpose is mostly for patrol, and the odd skirmish here and there."

"And Piltover?"

"Piltover has always been the authority. Or so it claims. It is, however, a city built on greed. The first thing I did after Zaun's independence was to invest in archaic runes from the Shadow Isles. I gifted these to Jinx. For her research into the arcane, and its connection to Zaun's network of magic leylines. Soon, she and Viktor discovered a common thread. The runic systems were not simply confined to Zaun. They were also present, on a much larger scale, along the coastline. A stretch of sea-passage, coincidentally, where Zaun was already establishing a nautical corridor."

The hiving in Mel's belly is spreading. The truth is a bitter sting.

She whispers, "You planned all this."

His profile shifts: three-quarters to the light. The left side, a dark slash. "Is that a crime?"

"The coin from each investment I approved throughout the years. Each transaction sanctioned at my table. Each project aimed at mutual prosperity between our cities." Mel's fingers clench the railing. "It was all being funneled into this!"

"It was being put to proper use."

"This—this is an act of subterfuge!"

The engines rumble as they slow. She's glad for the white-noise. It serves as a screen. The rest of the party, belowdeck, cannot hear them.  And yet, the privacy is its own torment.

Here, there is nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.

Silco, his eye fixed on the horizon, says, "This is an act of necessity."

"Necessity?"

"Zaun's independence is a reality, not a dream. Reality requires capital. And, unlike Piltover, I can't rely on a bottomless treasury of stolen goods. Our mines are ripe with gems. But gems mean nothing without trade routes, and markets, and vessels to transport them. We are one of Runeterra's most well-situated cities, but we can only export via one single corridor: your Hex-Gates." His good eye swivels her way. "If I had asked the Council, you think they would have funded this port? This fleet? The Iron Pearl?"

"You had no right to—"

"No right?" His tone is biting. "I have every right. Zaun is a sovereign state. This is statehood in motion. Fissurefolk have a history of carving out a living, no matter the odds. We've navigated these seas for centuries before the Cataclysm. We've endured wars, famine, natural disasters, and the collapse of an entire empire. We've fought and bled and clawed our way to a foothold. If anything, the least you can do is to afford us the dignity of making our own way."

"You," Mel fires back, "are undercutting the city that supported you."

"Piltover has already taken its pound of flesh. Now, we're taking back our share."

A dull throb begins in Mel's temples. She'd always known Piltover's stranglehold on Zaun. The city's natural bounty: a vast reserve, kept under lock and key by dint of the Peace Treaty.  After the Siege, and Zaun's rupture from Piltover, she'd needed to assuage the Council's fears: that Zaun could be, if no longer a treasurebox, a viable trading link. That an accord between them was of mutual benefit. 

Two cities: partners in prosperity.

But what Silco has constructed, with the aid of her city's coffers, is a different beast. A counterpoint to Piltover's supremacy: a network of ports and channels, hidden from view, and under his absolute governance. A private empire, beyond her grasp—or the Council's oversight.

A disaster, Mel thinks, with a thousand mile radius.

Once word gets out, the Council will be in uproar. They'll see the Iron Pearl as a direct challenge: their monopoly on foreign goods undermined in the span of a night.  Investors will be stricken. Some, dreading a capsized market, will flee. Others, emboldened, will seek Zaun as the next safe harbor.  Global trading networks will split along two faultlines. Shipping chains will likewise crack at the seams.

A tectonic shift, as profound as the invention of the Hex-gates.

And Mel, a wedge, caught in between.

Trust me, he'd said.

I do, she'd replied.

The irony is not lost on her: her trust, like her marriage, has led her into a trap.

And, like any trapped animal, she lashes out.

"This your idea of compromise? An ambush in plain sight?" She hears her voice crack, and hates herself for it. "I would've given you anything. All you had to do was ask. But no—you'd rather skulk around in the shadows. Scheming like a—"

"You call it scheming. I call it strategy."  Silco's hands, guiding the wheel, are steady. "Or did you expect me to stay on sufferance? My city's trade—its lifeblood—tied for generations to your Hexgates. My future hinging—year after year—on accords written by your Council. Bureaucracy, backtracking, backstabbing. A charade of concessions, with Zaun's dignity as the cost?"

"Charade?" Her face goes hot, then cold. "Is that what you see this voyage as?"

"Worse. I see it as a farce." His knuckles, she notices, are whitening. "You, playing at being my wife. Putting on a show for all your guests. The men and women who've undermined my city at every turn. And what do you do? Peddle your smiles to grease their palms. Force my hand, and force yours, and force everyone else's—all to keep the peace." His laugh is pitched low. And yet it slices through the air. "Peace. If this is the price, I'd rather go to war."

The pain, like a needle, pierces Mel's skull.

She'd known, since the voyage began, that he was angry. That he was sick of the hollow platitudes and hidden barbs. But she'd thought, with her efforts this morning, that she'd successfully mitigated the damage. Diplomacy, rather than daggers—all to the goal of keeping the status quo.

A false premise, she realizes.

Zaun no longer recognizes the status quo. Not when the city has an undersea fortress, and a fleet of ships, and a web of trade routes.

"This—this is politics," she tries to reason. "You've seen me do this countless times!"

"That's precisely the point."

"What point?"

"You." It is a sibilant hiss. "Doing this. Every. Damn. Time."

"Silco—"

"You have a gift for it, Mel. I won't deny." The wheel spins beneath his fingertips.  The craft veers into a narrow canal, bordered on both sides by towering cranes. "I've always enjoyed it. How you can turn a crooked cause into a straight road. Turn a cutthroat into a charity case. But have you stopped to consider—just once—that I don't want to be your charity case? That watching you play nice with those leeches and bootlickers, day after day, makes me sick? That I'd rather toss the lot of them overboard than have you sacrifice a shred of yourself for my city's coffers."

"I am a Councilor," Mel protests. "My duty is—"

"Your duty is to be my wife!"

The whipcrack timbre cuts off the words in her throat. For a moment, Mel can do nothing but stare. His expression—the slow hardening shift of muscles, the creeping chill of mismatched eyes—is as remote as a dying star.

In her mind's eye, she sees their wedding night: her ruined silk underthings a breadcrumb trail between parlor and bedroom. Thinks of Silco, a phantom silhouette in the gloom: on top of her, inside her, filling her, all burning eyes and biting kisses and sweat-slick skin. Thinks of the aftermath: of him cradling her in his arms, his fingertips tracing the scratches his teeth had gouged, his whispers a cool balm to the fire his touch had lit.

"We'll get there," he'd promised her, again and again. "Just give it time."

"Time," Mel had whispered, clinging to his neck.

"All we need. All I ask."

"You could ask for more."

His chuckle had grated deliciously against her skin. "I'm greedy, my sweet wife. I take what I want."

And she'd smiled, and let him take.

Wife.

The word, entwining with sensuous tenderness, now constricts like a noose.

"My wife," Silco repeats, quieter, but with an unmerciful intensity that cuts her to the quick. "Not the prop to humanize me in front of hysterical prudes like the Dennings. Not the pincushion to hide behind when Cevila Ferros slings barbs about my bloodline. Not the bargaining chip to trot out when Hector wants to renegotiate a loan, in exchange for a few harmless gropes. Certainly not a piece of meat for Garlen and his pack of jackals to paw at in full view—all for the good of my city." A vein pulses dangerously in his forehead. "My wife, Mel. Mine."

Mine.

The word, like a key, unlocks the full dimension of his rage.

She'd known he was a jealous man. Had assumed, in her naïveté, that it was born of a bruised male ego. Because he was a powerful man, who'd risen from nothing. And, like all power-hungry men, he'd sooner hoard her attention than share it.

Now, she sees her mistake: the root cause of his jealousy was never the sharing.

It was the humiliation.

Having a shipful of strangers, in all their privilege, look down their noses at him. To treat him, publicly, with varying degrees of hostility—all because he'd been born in the wrong place, and raised by the wrong people, and bested his own fate with his bare hands. To be regarded, in turns, as a volatile threat, an exotic savage, or a useful commodity—but never as an equal.

And Mel, in the course of a single evening, had condoned the whole circus.

In her mind, she was protecting his interests. In her heart, she was trying to make amends. In her actions, she was keeping the peace.

But in Silco's eyes, she was making a mockery of her vows.

And with this voyage, selling his soul. All to keep Piltover's good standing at Zaun's expense.

Mel's throat hitches. She can feel the miserable tremors of childhood bubbling up. Her fingers clench the rail; the only thing left to cling to. For a terrifying heartbeat, she is a girl again, condemned beneath her mother's shadow.

But Silco is not Ambessa.

And she is no longer a girl.

"I did this," she grits out, "for us."

"No," Silco says, flatly. "You did this for them."

"They're our guests."

"They are the enemy."

"Silco, they—"

"My enemies," he says. "By word. By deed. The difference, Mel, is that both of mine have teeth."

The salt-spray stings Mel's eyes. Adrenaline, cold as seawater, sluices down her spine.

And it hits her:

I am in hostile territory.

"Why have you brought us here?" she says. "What are you planning?"

At the word—us—there is a change in his expression. It is subtle, but unmistakable. Suddenly, the fluid animation that powers his every move is gone. The man left behind is—not an effigy—but a facsimile of human life. Skin and bones and blood, but nothing more.

Beneath, there is a bottomless void.

And it is very, very hungry.

"I told you," he says. "This is a treasure hunt."

"Silco—"

"I've given them the bait. Now all that's left is to reel them in."

"Reel them in for what?" Without realizing, Mel has begun to edge away. To put herself between him and the bodies belowdeck. "Silco, these are my guests. My allies. I am responsible for their safety."

His stare doesn't falter. "So am I."

"Tell me," Mel says, her heart pounding. "Please."

He is still a moment longer. Then he lifts a hand and smooths back the flyaway curls that have broken rank from her coif. The gesture is oddly gentle. And yet, Mel has a sense that he's gripping her throat in a fist.

"Put your boots on," he says, deathly soft. "We're here."

And the skiff, neat as a pin, glides into the dock.

The guests, in a dazed cluster, file off the skiffs.

Their blindfolds stripped, they resemble, to Mel's eye, a school of bewildered fish: faces palely pinched, eyes gleaming, mouths working. Their shoes squeak on the steel plates. Many, still in their finery beneath their life-vests, shiver in the deepsea chill. There are whispers. Shaking heads. Furtive glances. As if, beneath the dazzling florescence, a monster lurks.

It's the fear that's always in the back of their minds.

The fear, Mel realizes, that Zaun will be their undoing.

She, too, is stunned. Not simply by the sheer size and scope of the Hydra, but by the fact that Silco has, for years, managed to conceal such a behemoth construction. She'd known he was cunning. Known he had a gift for biding his time. But to have built, under her city's nose, a sprawling, multi-level port complex, and an armada of submersibles...

It's not a matter of scheming. It's a matter of strategy.

Did you expect me to stay on sufferance?

Trust me—and don't run.

Her mind, a stifled storm, feels the full brunt of his words.

In her ear, Ambessa's lesson, learned the hard way:

Marriage is a sea unto itself... If you try to tame it, it will swallow you.

"Mel?"

Lady Denning's voice, like a clubbing blow, sends her stumbling back to the present. She blinks. The crowd, a collage of anxious faces, solidifies.  The noblewoman is clutching the spray-dampened hem of Mel's sleeve. Her lips, blue-tinged with cold, are pursed in a moue of distress.

"I think," she quavers, "I may have caught a chill."

Mel's nurturing instincts kick into gear. "Stay close. We'll find you someplace warm."

"Mel, where are we? This place—I don't recall our itinerary including it. Is this truly one of Zaun's ports? The size of it—" Her eyes flit, birdlike, over the vast expanse of metal. "Why, it's like the mouth of a leviathan!"

"Sssh. My husband wanted us to see the fruits of Zaun's progress."

"Progress! Oh yes. And then we'll go home?"

"Of course."

"Oh thank gods." A childlike hiccup. "I'm truly not dressed for an expedition."

"I wouldn't worry." Mel, her arm firmly looped around the woman's waist, casts a swift glance at the rest of the group. They are, she notices, also clumped in clusters. The women, huddling together. The men, pacing around them in small, tight circles. The air, despite the chill, crackles with tension. "The sooner we see the treasure, the sooner we'll leave."

"Treasure." Lady Denning jitters a forced laugh. "Yes. A treasure. How—how exciting."

"It will be, yes."

The answer is rote: a reflex honed over years of crisis.

Inside, she is paralyzed. She'd been prepared to deal with the economic repercussions of the Iron Pearl. Nightmare scenarios of Piltover's trade networks collapsing into a morass of litigation. Zaun's ships, their holds laden with contraband, being impounded at sea. The Council, furious, holding her at fault—

All of that, she could've dealt with. She's a Medarda, and Medardas can outfox the fiercest threats.

But Silco's plan, whatever it is, is a different beast.

She has no precedent for this. No guidepost; no rules of conduct. Only a feeling, as visceral as the bite of winter, that something is closing in.

She looks across the platform, and there, a hundred feet away, is her husband.

He is speaking to the crew: wiry, sharp-eyed men and women in grease-streaked uniforms. They are all Fissure-born: Mel can tell by the tattoos and scars crosshatched on their bodies; by the glint of cybernetic implants on their hands or faces; by the sinewy muscles that flex in their shoulders and arms.

Ambessa had often liked to say there's no trusting a man or woman without a single scar.

A marked man has more backbone in his pinkie than an entire pedigree of soft-skinned cowards.

If that is the case, then these are the most upright people in existence.

A court to a crooked king.

In their midst, Silco is a slender silhouette. His features are set in blandly neutral lines; his body holds an easy languor. And yet his voice, compelling in its slow articulation, holds the group in thrall. They do not shrink in subservience, like serfs under their liege's boot. Instead they lean in: grim-faced, intent. The deference in their stance verges on reverence.

Mel knows how much power the Eye of Zaun wields. In Piltover, he is a formidable adversary.  On the global stage, he is an up-and-coming terror.

Here, in Zaun's territory, he is a god among men.

Succinctly, he issues a series of orders. As one, the crew nod. A single gesture, and they disperse: each vanishing down a different corridor of the maze. The last of the men—a hulking brute, with a shock of bright orange hair and a face that's a mass of knotted scars—touches his fist to his chest. His mouth, a lipless slash, cracks in a smile.

Silco imparts the barest smile in turn.

Then, he turns—and his eyes, two chips of different-colored ice, lock onto Mel's. She feels, again, as if her throat is being encircled in a cold fist—and lovingly, oh so lovingly, squeezed.

A blink, and the pressure is gone.

And her husband, closing the distance, is at her side.

"The crew are bringing around carts," he says, pleasantly. "They'll escort the guests to the viewing gallery. Give them a bird's eye view of the haul."

"Haul?" Mel keeps her frayed nerves from her voice, "Of what?"

"Patience. You'll see." He gestures to the brute-faced crewman. "This is Kolt. He and his men will handle the party's safety."

The man, with an affable grin, nods. "Yessir."

Lady Dennings, huddled close to Mel, whispers, "Safety? I—I don't understand. From what?"

"Protocol," Silco says smoothly. "Nothing more."

The poor woman, trembling, presses closer to Mel. "I think," she mumbles, "I need a hot drink. And a dry cloak."

"You'll have both, and more. Just an hour's patience."

"An hour—?"

The noblewoman's voice fades into white-noise. From within the warrens of the Hydra, a strange rumble erupts. A low-pitched buzzing at first, it grows, like a wave, into an earsplitting discordance. It resembles a thousand metal gears grinding against each other. And yet the echo is surreally musical, like a symphony swelling from the depths the sea.

The guests, crying out, huddle into protective swarms. Some clap their hands to their ears. Cevila, hissing like a wet cat, swats free of her cringing husband. Hector, quivering volubly, nearly stumbles to his knees. Garlen, swearing, draws a pistol, and is immediately restrained by his own retinue.

Lady Dennings, clinging to Mel's waist, nearly swoons. Bracing her elbow, Mel holds her steady. Her skin crawls with seven layers of gooseflesh. The sound is everywhere: a palpable force, vibrating up her spine. It feels like a descent from foreboding to doom. Her mind, always balanced on an effortless gyre of equilibrium, is suddenly off-kilter. The imagination conjures a monster: vast and unseen, rousing itself from slumber. Acres of sea-water, churning, as it begins its slow crawl towards the light.

Only Silco stands his ground. He is preternaturally calm, his hands laced behind his back, his profile cut from cracked stone.

Like a conductor before his infernal orchestra.

Then—

The demonic grinding fades. The molecules in the air, pinwheeling spastically, begin to settle. The silence throbs into lingering aftershocks—until, gradually, the ordinary hum of activity resumes.

As one, the guests heave out a collective sigh.

"My stars," Hector wheezes. "That was frightful!"

Cevila cries. "It was a seaquake!"

"Feh," Garlen grunts. "More like a faulty engine. I've heard worse at Zaun's foundries."

To punctuate his point, he kicks the railing. His boot-heel rebounds off the metal with a hollow clang. Sound and fury, Mel thinks, signifying nothing. Underneath, he is terrified.

Lady Dennings, curled at Mel's side, is a wreck. Her eyes are swimming; her cheeks wet.

"Oh, dear gods," she whimpers. "Please, Mel. Let's just go. Please."

"Hush," Mel soothes, though her heart is pounding. "It's over. We're fine."

"That noise—ghastly! It sounded like a monster."

"No monster," Mel says, hoping she's right. "Only—"

"Magic," Silco finishes.

At this, the noblewoman buries her face in Mel's shoulder.  Mel, keeping her composure, holds Silco's stare. Even with the distance between them, she can feel the electricity of impending danger in the air jump like a needle into the red.

"Magic," she repeats, flatly. "What sort?"

"The undersea glyphs. They emanate a resonance, each time they are used." His tone is light, but the gleam in his eyes is pure blackness. "Different frequencies for different distances. That, for instance, was an arrival."

"An arrival of what?"

"Treasure."

Lady Dennings has begun to whimper. Reflexively, Mel smooths circles between her shoulderblades. She's a delicate soul, prone to the vapors. Her husband, the milquetoast, is too feckless to do anything but hover.

Mel's own husband, the bastard, is only a stone's throw away. And yet, the distance might as well be the breadth of an ocean.

"I don't care for games," she says, leveling the turmoil beneath her tone into steel. "Explain yourself. Or show us the way out."

"I intend to."

"What?"

"The way out. That's where we're going."  With a languid sweep of his arm, Silco gestures them deeper into the abyssal maze. "Tread carefully, my dear. The rest of you: come."

It's not a request, but a decree.

And the guests—the hostages, in all but name—follow.

The cart ride is a rollercoaster.

Not the exhilarating type: with loops, and spins, and a plunge that leaves you cheerfully breathless. This is the opposite: a series of gut-wrenching spirals and gravity-defying corkscrews. The carts, a fleet of narrow, flat-bedded vessels, are designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Mel, seated with Silco, grips the edges with bloodless knuckles. She's half-certain the next twist will send them colliding straight into a dead-end.

The interior of the Hydra is a labyrinth. The network of zigzagging corridors, catwalks and canals is an infrastructural marvel: a cityscape unto itself. Everywhere, generators throb. A latticework of pipes snakes overhead. Workers rush to and fro. The pulse of machinery is a warm womb, burgeoning with possibility.

A sense of the world changing shape.

The Medardas, Mel thinks, believe in keeping the world as it is.

Now Silco, with a single decade's work, has thrown that belief into a tailspin.

He sits, an impassive silhouette, in the seat opposite. She'd always known he could keep a cool head under pressure. Now, witnessing his calm in the face of the unknown is terrifying. He is no longer the man who'd kissed her, with such fierce tenderness, at breakfast. Nor the sly enigma who'd sat, smoking, at the bar, while Mel had spun her diplomatic web.

This is a stranger: an ice-cold entity, his plans locked behind a sheet of blankness.

She feels for the ring he'd given her, twists it on her finger. It's all she can do not to wrench it off and fling it in his face.

"Bastard," she hisses under her breath.

He doesn't flinch. "So many have said."

"I will never forgive you."

"Many have said that, too." A beat. "I wonder how many times I'll have to listen to you say it."

"Not much longer, the rate you're going." Her rage has calcified into a core of gold: reactive to nothing, and solid to the worst blow. The Medarda rage, Ambessa used to say. It's why our women are the fiercest.  "I'm beginning to see why Sevika warned me to steer clear."

A crease—instantly flattened—passes beneath his forehead.

"Sevika?"

"Before the engagement was publicized. She pulled me aside. Told me I was taking a huge gamble. That she didn't think you and I would suit." Mel, sensing the chink, presses her attack. "She never told you, did she?"

Silco, motionless, says nothing.

"Now I see why. Truth has no appeal to you. Only games." A glance at the guests, a straggling cluster in the rear cart. The poor things are terrified: the women shaking, the men pale. Only Garlen, the bullheaded brute, looks ready for a fight.  "She warned me of that, too. She said, if this was a passing fancy, I should keep an escape route open. But if it was a permanent fixation, you'd make my life a living hell."

The crease appears again. And holds.

"What," he says, "did you tell her?"

"I advised her to save her breath. I said I wasn't afraid. I was a Medarda. And Medardas, come hell or high water, always get what they want."

"A bloodline of unparalleled ambition."

"I believe the word Sevika used was 'blind hubris.' I could tell she didn't think much of my pedigree—or my choice. When she left, I thought she was simply bitter. All her years of loyal service, and her beloved leader had bypassed her. Worse, he'd chosen a Topsider." Mel smiles without humor. "Blind hubris is right. I didn't understand at all. Her warning was less about me, and more about you."

There is no change in Silco's expression. Yet the opacity is deceptive: more a veil than wall.

"Sevika," he says, low, "has only ever had Zaun's interests at heart."

"Does she know the full extent of your plans?"

"Yes. She is loyal to the cause."

"Then perhaps it's her you should've chosen."

She'd meant to hit below the belt. But his answer, flat in its simplicity, leaves her reeling.

"I nearly did."

The cart's wheels shriek. Sparks leap. They round a corner, and the corridor narrows. The walls, composed of industrial metal, are streaked with rust.

Or blood.

Mel's throat closes. "You two—"

"She was my comrade. When necessary, my sounding board." The timbre is even. "Sometimes more."

The veil is drawn. Behind, Silco is unknowable. But no longer, Mel thinks, untouchable.

"Did you—" she begins.

"Did I what? Trust her? A damn sight more than I do you. Did I fuck her? Yes, and often. Love her?" He doesn't bother hiding the derision. "Sevika never angled for my love. She knew where she stood. In my bed, and at my side. That's what made her a good lieutenant. She understood loyalty." A shrug, careless, but weighted with intent. "Unlike some."

Mel lowers her head. There is a tiny taste of blood where she's bitten her underlip. It fades fast beneath the sourness of rage.

She thinks of Sevika: all hard lines, and cold dark eyes. Of her body—scarred, sinewy and so unlike her own—that Silco must've taken pleasure in. The thought of them together is an ugly blemish on her mind's eye.  And yet, she thinks of the rapport between them: a seamless coordination of word and deed. The implicit understanding of each other's motivations. The tacit safekeeping of the other's secrets. The fierce devotion, born from a shared purpose.

He says Sevika, and his surface stays deceptively slick. But if she dives deeper, the waters are bloodstained.

"You," she says, "loved her."

"That's not what I—"

The rebuff is too sharp. Like the crease in his brow.  His facade: cracked.

And Mel, a lifetime's study of her mother, sees her opening.

"You loved her," she says, "but you had to let her go."

She has him. She knows, by the flicker of his eyes.

"Yes," he admits, finally. "I did."

"Why?"

"Because, in Sevika's words, I'd already committed myself. Because the crisis between you and I was too fraught to sidestep. Because if I'd kept her around, I'd have done something... rash. Selfish." Another shrug. "She told me, in simple terms, to get on with it. Even if, by the end, my cold feet had morphed into fins." He offers a thin smile. "Mal de Matrimonium. It takes a certain woman to inspire it."

"Like me."

"Yes."  The smile fades. "I'm sure of many odds, Mel. Sure of Zaun. Sure of Sevika. Even Jinx, my wildcard, works in ways I can predict. But you? You're the one variable I cannot account for. And that makes matters... complicated."

"You regret our marriage.

"I never said that." A long, awful silence. “I detest the waste."

Mel, stunned, stares.

"I've lived long enough to know, when the dice are cast, the result is a tossup. It's the nature of the beast. With you, it was always a question of whether it was desire—or the desire to make a difference. Whether I could live with the first. And whether I could afford the second."  His stare, unerring, holds hers. "With Sevika, the scales were simpler. She understood my means. She understood my ends. Our desires didn't hold us hostage. They were simply a natural consequence. I've no doubt, had I chosen her, she'd have my bollocks on a platter. But, at the end of the day, Zaun would be the stronger for it." A beat. "And my life, safer."

Safer.

The word slashes through Mel's fugue. In her mind, she sees a pair of warm tawny eyes. A smile, pure and true. Arms enfolding her, and soft lips kissing her forehead, her nose, her mouth. A different man, a better man—his embrace a refuge rather than a tightrope. To the last, he'd cradled her close, and whispered, with all his heart: 

Don't go.

I'll take care of us. We'll be okay.

If she could've chosen her Happy Ending, it would've been Jayce.

But there is no such thing as Happy Endings. Or, if there are, her mother made sure she'd lost hers the moment she was born.

A Medarda, Ambessa always said, languishes in safety.

It is in danger that she shines.

The cart shudders, its speed decelerating. Mel's anger—that golden core—has gone brittle. His confession is an axe. Each sentence, a blow.

But her spine does not bend.

"It's too late," she says flatly. "You’ve chosen me."

"I have."

"I'll oblige you, if you wish. Your bollocks on a platter." Her smile barely wavers. "Your heart, I've yet to find."

Now the crease deepens. Barely perceptible: a cut of shadow.

“Mel,” he says, warningly. "Let's be grown-ups about this."

"Oh, indeed!"

"We entered this union with our eyes open. Our motives were never altruistic, much less romantic. You sought to stabilize your Council seat. I, a means to leverage my city's independence. It was a bargain struck with a single clause. To both our benefit." He shakes his head. "The rest is noise."

"I've seen how well you deal with noise."

"And I've seen how you manage the same. But this is not noise." A grim chuckle. "This is our future."

"Don't presume to speak for me."

"I'm not presuming. I'm stating facts." He leans forward. "If you had no intention of seeing this through, you would've cut your losses. Hell, you had the perfect chance. Back on the ship, you could've sided against me. Could've claimed ignorance, or trickery, or betrayal. Instead, you chose to stand by me. Why?"

"Because—"

Because I've failed one relationship already.

Because I’m tired of losing what’s mine.

Because, gods help me, I—

The words stick in her throat. The truth, too deep, refuses to dislodge without bleeding.

"Because I gave my word," Mel snaps. "Earlier today, you made me promise not to run. You said, and I quote: 'I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater.' Now you've taken me to a secret stronghold. A place you've built with Piltover's money, and kept hidden from Piltover's eye. You've put a shipful of foreign dignitaries on the chopping block. Tell me—is this the endgame? Because it's beginning to look like a declaration of war." 

The crease disappears between Silco's brows. In its place is a frown. It's not the frown he makes when she's displeased him. It's the frown that lingers in the aftermath of his daily Shimmer-shot. When the pain is a dull, grinding ache, and the medicine's effects have yet to kick in.

"War," he says, "is the last thing I want."

"Then what do you want?"

"What I've always wanted. A better tomorrow."

"For who?" She looks him dead in the eye. "You—or us?"

"That depends on the ‘us.’"

The cart snakes sharply down a corridor between two columns, jogging left and right. Sparks fan from a welder's torch above; the glittering embers, sulfurous and bright, cascade past his cheek. His profile is shadow, set against a background of fireflies.

"Us," he goes on. "What's your definition of the word, Mel? Is it a piece of paper? A ring? The words we say, or the acts we share? Or is it those great heaving ideals: peace, prosperity, and the common good? Because all of that won't happen unless my city's free. Free to be a powerhouse unto itself. Free to control its own destiny, and make its own choice. That, Mel, is my endgame."

"And my guests?"

"Witnesses—or collateral."

Mel stops short.

"They can choose to swim with the tide. Or resist, and drown." 

The golden core flares into molten fury. Without meaning to, Mel bolts to her feet.

"If you touch a hair on their heads—"

The cart shoots past the corridor and veers sharply to a stop. The sudden change of momentum, from full speed to dead stillness, throws Mel off balance.

The world spins. Her fingers skitter off the metal grille. She pitches forward.  

Then—

Warmth. Solidity. Anchorage.

Mel, reeling, finds herself enfolded in Silco's arms. His breath, soft and smoky, gusts against her temple.

"Trust me," he murmurs. "That's all I ask."

The golden core is in meltdown. A thousand sensations, a thousand emotions, fractaling into a single streak of focus. For a moment she isn't sure whether to cling, or claw. Her body is caught in a mad swelter, a furnace-blast of need. The only certainty is the thud of her heart, and the scent of his skin.

Then, like a match, her clarity ignites.

"Let me go," she seethes.

He obeys. The air is a vacuum: chill where his warmth had been. His mismatched eyes kick off a strange smokeless heat that Mel feels all the way to her spine.

But he makes no further move.

"Your choice," he says, very quietly. "Same as theirs."

Then, without waiting for a response, he steps off the cart.

Mel is left to gather herself. Her guests, disembarking dazedly, are looking to her for direction. She feels, the way she had in girlhood, the weight of the world bearing down. A thousand pairs of eyes, a thousand expectations. Lady and Lord Dennings, huddled together like children. Hector and his wife, whispering furiously. Garlen, his fists clenched, pacing the length of the platform.

And Silco, loping ahead, his shadow a shark's dorsal fin cutting through the light.

"This way," he calls.

The guests, in a straggling line, follow.

Mel brings up the rear, her belly a pit. A few faces swivel her way. She forces a bright smile.

"We're nearly there," she soothes. "All will be well."

Her confidence—an unraveling lie—is the only veil she has left.

The viewing gallery, a vast circular arena, is submerged deep in the Hydra's belly.

The cantilevered walls are lined with portholes: round, glass-paned halos, crusted with salt. They offer a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the undersea vista. The depths are lit by the bluish glow of spotlights. Despite their incredible intensity, they do not illuminate much. Just a stratum of alien landscape: the swirling patina of deep-sea sediment, dotted with the skeletal carcasses of sunken ships. Now and then, a shoal of fish flits by, trailing a ghostly phosphorescence. Squids materializing, then vanishing, in a tangle of pale tendrils. Eels undulating slowly in the current.

It is an abyssal kingdom, guarded by the dark.

In the center of the arena is a colossal pit. Ringed by a rudimentary safety rail, it resembles an amphitheater. The rim is a series of interconnected catwalks, in concentric circles. At their aperture, a single walkway juts out. It leads, not to a door, but a tank. It is colossal: shaped like an hourglass, with a diameter nearly twenty feet wide. Its surface is perfectly smooth: a mirror of polished glass.

The bottom chamber is empty save for a layer of powdery white sand. Either it is Mel's imagination, or the grains seem to hover a half-inch above the floor.  The top chamber is constructed out of scaffolding. Upon the platform sits a dais shaped like a hexagonal star. Its points are etched with a series of sigils

Mel recognizes the patterns. They are similar to the ones on the Hexcore.  

At the pyramid's base sits a series of blocks. They are etched with letters: a script so incongruous it verges on absurd.  

XOXOXOXO

Atop the dais rests a metal cylinder. A glowing purple sphere, the size of a man's fist, floats in a cradle in its base. Hidden behind its faceted surface, Mel glimpses the dimensions of a mysterious shape: a pentapod, conchical and quill-spined. Trapped like a fly in resin, its silhouette is delineated, then swallowed, then delineated again, in pulsations of light. 

Her pulse kicks up a notch.

Everywhere, the air holds a palpable crackle. The glyphs are a throbbing lattice. The sea's currents, a massive heartbeat.

Science. Chem-tech. Magic.

All converging, like the spokes of a wheel, upon a single, impossible nexus.

"This," Silco says, "is the greatest treasure aboard the Hydra."

The guests, hushed, stare at the hourglass. They resemble children beholding a forbidden toy.

Hector pipes nervously. "It looks—like a fossil."

Garlen snorts. "A gewgaw from the Fissures, more’n likely."

"But it seems—alive!"

"Psssh. Just Trencher trickery." Garlen cuts a scathing look Silco's way. "Isn't that right?"

Silco's look of placid indulgence never wavers. In the marine twilight, he resembles a figment of the deep: coiled and patient. Biding his time before the fatal strike.

"Trickery, no," he says, lightly. "A relic, yes."

"Relic?"

"Indeed." He gestures to the floating sphere. "This is what the ancients called the Forbidden Idol."

The guests fall deathly silent. Their expressions are a spectrum of dread and disbelief. They've heard the old tales, in some fashion. The legend of the Forbidden Idol: an arcane device, forged by the sorcerers of Oshra Va’Zaun, to unlock the gates of the Netherworld. Its existence had, for generations, been relegated to a fairytale. The Idol, if it ever existed, was lost to the silt of time.

Now, here it is: floating serenely before them.

"Gods above," Lady Denning whimpers.

"No gods," Silco corrects. "Only industrious men. I'm sure we all know the legends. In the days before the Cataclysm, the Idol was a symbol of the Void. A vessel believed to house a multivariate spirit. The key to all knowledge. In the right hands, it could unlock the mysteries of time and space. In the wrong ones, it could usher the end of days."

His tone is casual. As if describing a peculiar species of coral.

"Horseshit," Garlen grunts.

"Perhaps. But there's a kernel of truth to it. The Idol does, indeed, contain a matrix of information. But not to the universe. The knowledge stored within is far more mundane. The details of a project—a map, if you will—compiled by voyagers from the First City."

Cevila, white-faced and tightly-wound, snaps, "Voyagers? You mean—" 

"Mages," Mel cuts in softly.

Silco nods. "The original architects of Oshra Va'Zaun. Their purpose was to establish a concourse between our world and the Void.  They believed the binary could be bridged, through the use of the right conduits. Sigils. Seals. Gems. Taken altogether, they'd be capable of translating the energies of the Void into a language comprehensible to mortal minds."

"Language?" Hector echoes. "A language of what?"

"Power."

The word falls with the faintest ripple; a stone arrowing straight into the depths.

"Power is the only language the Void understands. It is not an entity that can be bargained with. It is a primordial force; a vast reservoir capable of granting—and destroying—life.  The mages sought to transmute this raw essence into a finite form. To capture a shard of the infinite, and distill it. To that end, they devised an artifact that contained, within itself, the blueprint for its own construction. A creature, born in the Void, and imbued with a fraction of its wisdom. A living repository. They trapped this creature, ageless, in a stasis field. Through sigils and spells, they calcified the beast, and imprisoned its consciousness, until it could no longer escape its enclosure."

The Idol coruscates hypnotically. The stone’s facets ripple and reform. The pentapod, briefly, seems to flex its coiled body. Then, the light subsides, and it slips back into inertia.

"The Void's ambassador," Silco says. "Frozen between life and death. A hostage to the whims of progress."

Lady Dennings shivers. "How dreadful."

"Men, playing god, are singularly cruel." A beat. "But their ingenuity? Undeniable. The creature's body has been alchemized into flesh and bone. Its spirit is sealed into the crystal. And its knowledge—a compendium of a hundred thousand years—condensed into a single volume. All of it written on the pages of its own prison."

The silence stretches. All eyes, in their orbit, are fixed on the Idol. Mel imagines the weight of it: a vast, crushing pressure like the bottom of the sea.

If the creature were ever to awaken, would the crystal shatter, or the world?

"This," Silco continues, "was the oracle of Oshra Va'Zaun. The old mages used it for their own ends. With its energies, they fueled their city. Their architecture. Their weapons. Their ships. They discovered zones, on land and sea, where the boundaries between our world and the Void were thinnest. There, they established nodes: glyphs carved into seamounts, obelisks erected at cliffsides, temples built from the bones of the earth. And, invisible to the naked eye, a network of ley-lines, linking each node to the other."

"Like a spiderweb," Mel says.

"Precisely. A web sensitive to the currents of the Void. It took years, and thousands of lives. When the final node was completed, the mages—foolishly—decided to test their creation. They activated the web, and drew from the Void an unprecedented amount of energy. Too much, for manmade structures to contain. The network collapsed into the waves. The mages were wiped out. The Idol sank to the bottom of the sea. Out of sight—but never truly gone. As the centuries passed, it continued to serve as a magical beacon. A siren, singing its song. Calling out, to those willing to listen."

The guests, half-seduced, have drifted toward the railing. A few lift their hands, as if to reach for the Idol.

Like pilgrims at a temple, Mel thinks.

Or moths lured to a flame.

Lady Dennings, and a few others, shrink back.

"Gods above,” she breathes. “This is—madness."

"On the contrary,” Silco says. “This is the purest expression of physics. Two charges, positive and negative, in a magnetic field. A force, pulling them together, by increments of time and space." The gleam in his eyes briefly shutters. "That’s how Jinx was able to find the Idol. An affinity of blood—or spirit. At great cost to herself, she recovered the relic from a distant shore. At great risk, she decoded its secrets, and unlocked the power contained within. All to make the dream a reality."

The dream, Mel thinks.

A network of undersea glyphs.

A trade route traversed in minutes.

A city: shining, strong, self-contained.

Free.

"So how's it work?" Garlen demands. "How's it haul cargo between places?"

Silco's half-smile cuts like a blade. "As I said. Resonance. The Idol is sensitive to the frequency of the Void. Each glyph buried along the seabed exudes a unique vibration, which the Idol is attuned to. Like a song of call and response. Zaun's navigators—over the years—have made deep-dives, mapping every glyph hidden under the waters of this strait. Their patterns are recorded, then faithfully carved into the dais in a series of sigils. Now, each time a different sequence of sigils is activated, the Idol broadcasts a corresponding vibration across the distance. The matching glyph, transforming these vibrations into sympathetic wave, opens a conduit. A portal that can be crossed by any vessel. Anywhere."

"Anywhere," Garlen repeats dubiously.

"Anywhere within Zaun's network. Which, I assure you, is extensive."

Hector whispers. "How—how far?"

"A dozen cities, spanning Valoran and the southern coast of Shurima. All linked by ley-lines of magical hotspots. Each one hosts a port similar to the Hydra." He spreads his arms. "The Hydra itself? The epicenter. From here, our goods are transported to Zaun’s shores. At the Iron Pearl, they're unloaded and redistributed to buyers from far-flung lands. A perfect loop: no delays, no customs. All right at Zaun's doorstep."

The silence shudders—not with dread, but temptation. In the guests' faces, Mel sees the naked dimensions of greed taking shape. A trading nexus without parallel. For a politician, hungry for favor, it is a banquet. Investments in everything from textiles, tech, trinkets. All available at a fraction of the expense, with a quarter of the wait. The returns would be astronomical.

All Zaun asks is the right to traffic freely across the seas. The right to be seen as a trading partner, rather than a pauper.

"But what of the danger?" Lady Dennings interjects. "The Idol's energy... It's unstable. Isn't it? Look at the way it's pulsing. And the sound earlier. So ominous..."

Silco's half-smile deepens.

"That, my lady, is the song of progress. The power of this Idol is derived from the Void. The same Void that destroyed the world, in ages past." He tips a mocking salute. "A debt, I'm afraid, the world has yet to repay."

Lady Dennings lets out a low, terrified moan.

"Hush, now. It's less volatile than you think. The sigils on the dais act as a mechanism to dampen the force. Jinx calls it a Hex-Code. She uses a great deal of technical jargon, so I'll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, each combination of sigils controlling the Idol does not simply activate its power. It also ensures the power remains within a controlled radius." He indicates to the letters embedded into the base of the dais: XOXOXO. "No doubt, you've noticed the particular script."

"What is that?" Cevila says. "It doesn't look like any rune I've ever seen."

"Because you haven't. Jinx made it up. A private joke." The grin that touches his lips suggests he's the only one privy to the humor. "Simply put, it means 'Crossing Over.' It's the acronym Jinx and Viktor used to first calibrate the intensity of the Hexcore’s power. Now it's a safety mechanism. A trapped-key interlock, as Jinx calls it. Through a combination known only to Jinx, and myself, the magic of the Idol can be safely manipulated."

Lady Dennings' hand flutters over her heart. "But—what if you two were to have an accident? Wouldn't that be catastrophic?" 

"My daughter, and I, are very careful. We're aware the power at our fingertips is vast. If the worst should pass, there are failsafes in place. Including an automatic lockdown sequence. The Hydra also has its own protective wards. They mitigate the worst of the Idol's force. As long as we take care, and follow the proper procedures, it is safe."

The final syllables, soothingly authoritative, fall like a spell. Mel senses the guests' fear abating; a narcolepsy of calm washing over the arena.

"And now," Silco says, "for the demonstration."

The guests jerk into alertness.

Turning, Silco gestures to someone. It is Kolt, the stolid man from earlier. His craggy features are unreadable. But the shadow of a grin touches his lips. Mel, watching him stride into view, feels a frisson of foreboding. But Kolt only crosses to a narrow control panel at the corner. A series of switches are thrown, a sequence of dials turned.

A moment later, the molecules in the air begin to hum.

It is a high-pitched note, piercingly pure. Mel flinches. The guests cry out, covering their ears. Then, like a tuning fork, the sound modulates. From a discordant thrum to a deep, melodic pulse. It is, Mel realizes, the same frequency that had been heard earlier. But more sonorous, and less frightening, like an underwater dirge.

Like the sea itself given voice.

Inside the hourglass, currents spiral. On the dais, the pyramid's panels, in sequence, begin shifting. The sigils glow a preternatural blue. One by one, they slide up and down, aligning into the desired configuration. At the base, the blocks imprinted with X's and O's slot into their grooves. The purple sphere, the Idol, gives off an irradiated glow. Inside, the pentapod seems to strain against its prison. Mel catches a glimpse of a single, cyclopean eye.

A scream builds in her throat, threatening to burst.  The frequency reaches a crescendo. The light's intensity is blinding, searing, melting.

Then it happens.

In the bottom chamber, the sand begins to rise. It accumulates slowly, drifting as if on a current. Then it coalesces into a vortex. Mel thinks of the shapes she'd seen across nature: fractals, radials, double-helixes. Each shape, a geometric construct: a blueprint of life. A snowflake, an atom, an embryo.

And then—

Gold.

Formed from the particles, and solidifying. The grains of sand, all congealing into a single point. The gold takes shape, and mass, and dimension. Nuggets, becoming chunks, becoming ingots. A river of riches, pouring from the vortex and spilling into the chamber.  The hoard is the color of the sun, and flashes with a warmth that dazzles.

Then the frequency shifts. The glow ebbs. The Idol goes dormant. In the chamber, the vortex collapses, and only the gold remains. It is a vast pile: a king's ransom. Enough to make the Council's coffers tremble. 

Enough to set the mind of every guest aflame.

"How—" Garlen begins, then falls silent. He is thunderstruck. "How did it—"

"Sands from the seabed of the Urvashian Islands," Silco says. "Their minerals, according to alchemists, are the purest counterbalances of elemental energy. Each time cargo is transported, the sands are placed in the hourglass. They act as a stabilizer, absorbing the effluvium of the Void. By the time the cargo is retrieved, the sands go inert. Harmless." A quirk of the brow. "Best of all, we've no need to replace them. Their potency never wanes. They can be used over and over, indefinitely."

The guests are speechless. Even the bullheaded Garlen is mute with awe. Their eyes, passing from the Idol to the gold, are lit with a collective fever.

The crewmen, wheeling in a pair of crates on flatbed carts, make their way down the catwalk. Mel follows their progress. With utmost care, they unlock the chamber, and heave out the gold. The ingots, stacked neatly, fill the crates. Their movements are matter-of-fact: they've witnessed this miracle a hundred times before. But a twinkle of elation catches in their eyes.

They are all Zaunites: born and bred in grime. Now, they've hit paydirt. That twinkle is the taste of a life changed.

A future, free.

Silco, at the railing, watches them work. When they've finished, the crate is sealed. The crewmen wheel their burden toward the elevator. The grille gates clang shut. With a whirr of cables, the cart begins its ascent. A few men wave jauntily at the guests.  Silco tips his own chin, a laconic farewell. His smile, though thin, is a rare sight.

The smile of a man whose dreams are, inch by inch, becoming real.

Then his eyes meet hers.

Something, briefly, breaks through the rigidly neutral expression. Something he'd tried to hold back, and could not.

It's not a look she can name. But Mel's throat catches. In lament, or longing, she cannot say. 

The scale of his will is beyond measure. What else could he have accomplished, had he not been cheated? Has he cheated her, now, of her own choices?

Or only bypassed her own prejudices?

"Where—" Garlen swallows, and tries again. "Where'd the gold come from? It looked—"

"Icathian?" Silco, his eyes still on Mel's, nods. "You are correct. Payment, for a contract. We're aiding in the restoration of their capital, after its sacking at the hands of Noxus. As recompense, the chieftain has granted Zaun the rights to navigate the southern waters. A boon, given Icathia's history. The strait is a graveyard of lost civilizations—and buried treasure. It took years, and a great deal of coin, to excavate the remnants. The gold you see is a small percentage. Our share." A shrug. "Yours too, if you wish."

The guests stir. A few murmur. Cevila's face holds a harpy's lineaments. Hector's waxen countenance is flushed. Garlen's massive fists are clenched. Lady Dennings appears on the verge of swooning. The rest, spines jellied and appetites whetted, are starved fish circling round their own greed like chum on a hook.

Silco's words resound in Mel's head.

"I've given them the bait. Now, all that's left is to reel them in."

"The Iron Pearl," Silco continues, "cannot flourish as a Free Trade Zone, without the cooperation of Zaun's allies. That is, after all, the reason we've sojourned these waters. To broker peace, and forge alliances. You are my guests. Your presence here is a show of good faith. And your goodwill, in the coming days, will be integral to the success of this endeavor. I'm certain, should your nations respect Zaun's independence, you'll receive your just dues. In partnership—and profit."

There is a bland smile on his face. But his words are a stormfront. They move, inexorably, blotting out the space. They push aside all resistance, making impossible anything other than the total awareness of him. The gallery's temperature changes perceptibly from a cool draft to a chill. 

Mel, weaned on her mother's lessons, feels goosebumps pebbling her skin. The guests, stripped equally bare, shiver. Even Garlen's sneer has gone brittle.

The offer, soft-spoken, is the soul of diplomacy. But not a single man or woman is insensible to the undertow. Zaun has established, with possession of the Forbidden Idol, a series of gateways at the doorsteps of every nation. Should a war be declared, these channels can be easily cut off. A chokehold, economic and strategic, that will strangle the ports into poverty. Retaliation will mean incurring Zaun's wrath: the cost, incalculable. Weapons of unknown potency. Threats, in a dozen secret hideaways. And a sorceress, mad as a hatter, whose whims may, at any moment, turn the tide.

All of this, Silco has spelled out in the politest terms.

Alongside the third option.

A handshake—between the guests, and the man whose worth they now know is worth gold.  The man they can no longer afford to snub. After six nights of insulting everything from his city's origins to his personhood, their arrogance has led them to this moment. He: the powerbroker. They: a motley assemblage of aristocrats, a thousand leagues from home. Without the protection of their vaults, their vassals, their vanity.

With only Silco's word to guarantee their safe return.

There are no gods at sea, Ambessa used to say. Only the depths, and their mercy.

Silco's mercy, Mel thinks, will be less forthcoming.

"This is—" Cevila clears her throat. In more modulated tones than Mel has ever heard: "This is a marvelous opportunity, Your Chancellorship. But it is—that is—there is a lot to take in."

"In—Indeed," Hector says. "I, for one, will have to confer with my peers. They’ll need to—we’ll all need to—”

He breaks off. The rest nod their agreement. A few glance around, seeking guidance, or a savior.

Their eyes alight on Mel.

Mel, who has been in Silco's crosshairs the whole time. Who, by a series of events that now seem utterly inevitable, has been maneuvered to stand either beside the man whose hand will tip the scales of power—or be the last barricade between him and progress.  Her choices, her convictions, her desires—all flowing weightlessly on a single rolling wave, and converging upon this very moment.

Did he plan this, too?

Or did he let the chips fall where they may, and seize the opportunity as it arose?

The air in the arena goes chokingly thick. The guests, a chorus of anxious breathing, stare at her. Silco's eyes never once leave her face. He is reading the small nuances of her expression like sailors read the stars. She can practically see him calculating the odds: gains weighed and losses tallied.

He is the highwire act, balanced between the heights and the abyss.

He is the shark, circling bloodless waters.

He is the bridegroom, waiting at the altar.

Waiting, Mel realizes, for her to make the call.

He's laid a gauntlet at her feet: a choice, with no margin for error. And yet, the ultimate test of trust.

If she refuses him, then she is the last line of defense. Piltover will become a citadel, with its worst nightmare at the doorstep. Her marriage: a failed gambit, her alliance with him a sham. She'll have to reconnoiter in every sense: reestablish her reputation, rally her allies, then re-enter the fray with all her armor intact.

And if she sides with him...

If she sides with him, Piltover's pinnacle is his to scale. The Hex-gates will no longer be the bastions of her nation. Their reach will stagnate, while his will grow.  Not an imbalance, but a parity.  One that, if she can believe him, will secure a better future. If she can believe he wants nothing more than a handshake, and a bargain. If she can believe that his ambition, though vast, is not bottomless.  That the dream he has built, with the labor of his own hands, is the best hope for a divided land.

"Trust me," he'd said, and kissed her.

And imperative—and a dare.

A Medarda, Ambessa had said, will risk all, if only to shine.

And she, in this moment, is the only Medarda present. The sole voice of authority. Her approval is a green light, or a red signal. One word, and she seals her fate, and Zaun's. One word, and the scales of balance are tipped. A stalemate of seeping blood and crippling self-sabotage—or the chance to walk falteringly forward, hand-in-hand.

You are a Medarda,  Mel thinks.

A Medarda does not simply stand.

A Medarda stakes her claim.

And he, Silco, is hers.

Schatze, Ambessa had called her father. Treasure.

And he'd been hers, for a time.

Until the day he'd sailed off, and caught his death.

Mel, the last of the Medardas, lifts her chin.

She thinks of Jayce, and the breakthroughs of Hex-tech. That night she'd crossed the threshold into Heimerdinger's office, and beheld the miracles conjured by a boy, desperately willed, thrusting himself beyond the constraints of mundanity to kiss the stars. And how, by the end, his ascent had become a collision course with disaster: Icarus with his wings clipped, and shadows etched beneath his bright eyes, and the ghost of the dead child, cold as the void, lingering at his feet.

She'd thought him, in his brilliance, unstoppable.

And she'd learnt that even a sun can burn out.

Now, she takes in Silco's silhouette. The Idol's radiance, a violet starburst, touches his face with eerie luminescence—the steep angles and unforgiving ridges not otherworldly but subaqueous. He is Icarus' shadow, a distorted mirror of his ambition: wings scabbed into scar-tissue and claws dripping blood, his trajectory not upward, but deeper into the dark. 

Yet the burn in his eyes is the same.  The desire: to push past the limits of the known; to see the world, and everything in it, transformed.

Will he, Mel wonders, prove the death of her own ambition, or its fulfillment?

"Trust me," he'd said.

A siren's lure, calling her to the depths. Calling her home.

Mel makes her choice.

"This," she says softly, "is certainly a leap to progress."

Silco's remote smile does not alter. "A leap? I'd call it a bridge."

"And its foundations? Are they stone—or sand?"

"They are as solid as gold." 

If he's aiming for a weak-spot, it doesn't show in Mel's smile. Instead, she steps closer. Close enough to share the same air. To see the way his nostrils flare, just the tiniest bit. The way his body shifts, infinitesimally, toward her own.

Inside her, the golden core flares: a heat-seeker, finding the one spot in the ocean's depths that is warmest.

She looks into his mismatched eyes. The green, a glacial rime, unyielding. The red, a blood moon, waxing. Both: watching her intently. Waiting for the next move.

"Gold," she says, "is not a foundation. It is a lure."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't so much as breathe.

"It is not what keeps a city's ships at the dock. Nor its people loyal. Nor its trade, stable and profitable." She tips her chin. "That's all built on trust. On an exchange of values, and the willingness to compromise. A bridge built of gold—one based in profit—is a bridge that will collapse under the first sign of strain. Because the real value—the intangible—lies in the bonds we build." Her eyes probe, deftly, behind his forbidding stare, to the human impulses buried at its root. "It is trust that keeps the gates open. It is trust that holds nations together. Without it, a bridge can never be built."

He remains motionless. But in his eyes: a flicker. "Are you speaking of Piltover, or Zaun?"

"I speak of both, as one." She leans forward, and speaks for his ears alone. "Because they are one."

He smiles. It is, in a strange way, the smile that had first won her over—out of hostile distance and into wary truce. The smile that, in its slow, steady burn, had drawn her closer and closer. A glint so full of fire and shadow, a conspirator's promise and a lover's secrecy, that it had been like a spark struck to a fuse, a chain reaction set into motion until all at once she was caught and burning too.

Jayce, Mel knows, was her match.  Always incandescent; always brilliant.

Silco is her catalyst. Always igniting, always setting her ablaze.

"A bridge, then," he says.

She nods. "A bridge."

There is a collective breath. The guests relax into whisperings and nervous trills of laughter. They weren't, Mel realizes, certain whether she was truly in on the secret, or if she'd been blindsided the same as them.  Then again: why would they assume she and Silco had a rapport? That he'd chosen her as his partner, in every way? Their own marriages—and it hits Mel with a belated shock—have been predicated on nothing beyond political convenience. One-sixth remain unconsummated, one-third in the throes of extramarital affairs, and the remainder enduring a mutually-beneficial detente.

No desire. No trust. No love.

Marriage: the purest definition of compromise.

Silco, Mel thinks, would rather have something different.

So would she.

"A bridge," she repeats, her eyes never once leaving his. "Across borders. Across the seas. Across all that divides us." Her voice softens. "For a better future."

The guests' crosstalk flows with ease now. She has, as Piltover's envoy, conceded the point. The wrinkles of the Iron Pearl's operation will need to be smoothed out. The terms of the trade agreement negotiated. But the groundwork has been given leeway to settle. Piltover may remain, ostensibly, the neutral party. They may neither invest their coinage, nor participate directly. But, like any partner, they'll have a finger in the pie—and a hand in shaping the terms.

It is a formidable concession.

One that, Mel hopes, will not come back to haunt her.

"Piltover," she continues, "will honor the treaties, and respect Zaun's sovereignty. In exchange, Zaun will guarantee the safe passage of Piltover's ships through these waters.  And those vessels belonging to the nations who are recognized as our allies." She pauses, then adds, very quietly: "Is that agreeable?"

Silco's smile—a sly sideways slant—returns. "To the dot."

"Then, perhaps, I might make a suggestion. As a gesture of good faith."

"Of course."

She smiles, demurely. "I believe the Hydra should have a new name. One less... intimidating."

His brow quirks. "Such as?"

"I was thinking—" Beneath her lashes, she casts him a pointed look. "Thesaurus."

"Like a repository?"

"Like the old Shuriman vault."

His look—of surprise, recognition, and humor—is fleeting. But it is no mirage. The grin cuts his features into an uncanny semblance of boyishness. It is, she thinks, the first time she has ever seen him smile without a trace of irony.  The golden core inside her, deliquescing, is a slow, heavy, heated pulse.  The crowd of guests, the vast room, the Idol, fade back.

He is all she can see: the prize at the blackest depths.

"It sounds," he says, "like the fitting end to a treasure hunt."

[crmsnmth]

Fairy Tales

Everybody I loved gave up on me years before I could ever make the changes to become the person I am today

I would've left too, had I been given the choice And I can't deny that I didn't try a few times Bleeding out in the bathtub Sleeping with the needle still hanging out my arm Razor blade scars on my wrists I'm sorry Clara, you weren't supposed to see that

There is no reconciliation anymore Everyone's moved on and become an adult And I still write shitty poetry for strangers to read It ain't much, but it's the only honest work I've ver had

Freedom doesn't come in syringes Or in paper bags to be drunk in the gutter in front of the liquor store The clerk keeps yelling and I keep giving him the finger Until the cops come and force me to go home with a 200$ ticket for vagrancy Oh my god, I've become everything I dislike and this world doesn't need people like me

Everyone who loved finally got tired of my shit Me too, I mean if we're just being honest Finally we found something we can agree on My self-hate works great with your indifference

Spray paint with silver around my nose Inhaling inhalants and wondering if I even enjoy this It doesn't matter, I'll do anything to keep her buried in my head Hidden in the warehouse that is my brain Like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark escept my face is already ruined

Picking at scabs Making crevices on my face Blame it on the methamphetamine God, I hate speed Try to balance it out by snorting horses It doesnt work and now I'm just tired with no way to sleep Speedballs and angel dust This fairy tale never really took off

That's ok, I never expected it to

[infamoussparks]

Chapter 6: Dead Ends & Decisions

Approx. 3220 words; 20 minute read

TRIGGER WARNING: Death

She had no names and she didn’t bother to collect the hidden emblem along her way. She was just here, standing outside on the grass and looking at the warehouse’s many windows and murals of spray paint and neon. She watched the students mingle, enter and exit the building for a few silent minutes and Lucky realized she had never felt more lonely than she did in this moment.

The time passed in strange, jarring movements as Delsin drove toward his destination. Fetch sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring out the window. Eugene sat behind Fetch in the back bucket seat of the pickup truck, eyes glued to his phone. The silence was rough on Delsin and he wondered if the missing explosion of anger he had expected from his friends was just around the corner, or if they were simply too preoccupied with the situation at hand to even grant his faux pas of having secret visitation with the enemy for years any thought at all. He chewed the inside of his cheek as he waited for someone to say something. No one spoke.

He parked and the three exited the truck, following Delsin into the Seattle Inpatient Psychiatric Center. Fetch and Eugene remained quietly observant once checked in and issued visitation badges, while Delsin chatted with Nurse Elizabeth. Fetch scowled and Delsin caught her dagger glance in his peripheral. He added that to the list of mistakes he’d likely pay for in private.

After the three exited the elevator with Nurse Elizabeth, she led them to Ms. Augustine’s room and unlocked the door, ushering the trio inside. Then she ran her usual checks on the room and listed off the rules that Delsin knew by heart at this point.

And then she screamed.

The sound was so sharp it brought the view into focus in seconds and all three Heroes took in the sight before them in a quick inhale of breath.

Brook Augustine was dead.

A trickle of blood had dried down her chin but the damage was done. Fetch rushed to Nurse Elizabeth’s side to catch her and calm her before she passed out. Eugene was immediately taking photos as documentation for review in private later. Delsin was watching everyone else take action and simply found himself frozen in place as the realization settled into his olive skin. Someone likely murdered Augustine, killing off the only lead they may have had to connect the D.U.P. to Stratego.

Delsin crossed the room to Elizabeth and stood between her and the body, so the woman had no view of Augustine, “Who else was visiting before we arrived?”

Elizabeth was breathing quickly and Fetch was holding her upright. She did not answer.

“Lissa, please. Look at me,” Delsin lowered his voice and Elizabeth responded to the nickname, looking at him directly, “Who else was here?”

“Today? I… No one else. I would have seen it on the records outside…”

“Eugene, get the clipboard outside the door.” Delsin motioned to his friend and Eugene moved with speed, returning the clipboard to Delsin in a nearly fluid movement, blue glowing pixels trailing off the object.

Delsin glanced at the sign in sheet and Elizabeth was correct–no one else had been here today to visit Augustine. Upon flipping the page an unfamiliar name was listed as having been in very early this morning but was listed at the bottom of the previous dates’ log. Suspicious.

“Who is Cindy Signet?” Delsin read the name off the paper and then turned his gaze back to Elizabeth.

The nurse blinked hard and shook herself out of her trance slowly, “Miss Signet is Ms. Augustine’s niece.”

“Niece? I thought Augustine was a loner?” Fetch spoke up now, questioning the information at hand.

“No… I mean, Miss Signet called every week. She never visited, not while I was on the clock. I’ve only ever spoken to her over the phone,” Elizabeth countered.

Delsin narrowed his eyes at the nurse, “And what time did you start your shift today?”

“Eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Shit,” Delsin huffed the word out and straightened his posture, “Cindy signed in at 9AM this morning. And she’s never visited before?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“We have our suspect. Eugene?”

“I’m running her name now. It looks like poison, cyanide is my guess, for the weapon of choice.”

Fetch took Elizabeth toward the door and began asking how she could help get police involved. Delsin was furious and curious and… sad. Augustine was not a great person but in the years of one-sided conversation the Akomish man had come to respect her in an odd way. And now, after years of keeping her hidden and safe, Augustine was dead. It hurt.

“We’ve gotta wait to give our testimony when the cops arrive,” Fetch sighed as she reentered the room alone. Elizabeth was gone to make the call.

“No, we don’t. We were never here,” Delsin started to leave the room and Eugene snapped his head at him on the way.

Eugene dropped his phone into his back pocket, “Delsin, we can’t just leave–”

“Trust me. It was part of the deal–I’m a ghost as much as she was. We’re leaving.”

The trio were long gone by the time the flashing blue and red lights flooded the entrance of the Seattle Inpatient Psychiatric Center.

“... breaking news now incoming about the fire at a local lab called Stratego. The building leveled to ash in a matter of moments. No leads on who or what caused the explosion but no reports of any injured or dead at this time. Police are on the scene and a full investigation is underway...”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Delsin was furious as the news broadcast update echoed in the office from the laptop speakers. Fetch had never seen him so angry before. She was still reeling from finding Augustine dead, murdered, this morning. And as they were about to sort through the mess themselves, Eugene had quickly pulled the news up on the laptop in a flurry of fingers and with a look of intense disbelief, his cell phone discarded on the desk in favor of the larger screen as though that would make the news any more real.

“Are you kidding me? Stratego is a pile of ash and Augustine is dead on the same day?” Fetch grumbled. This was not a coincidence.

“It’s real. It’s not a dream, right?” Eugene was glancing between the screen and his friends.

“FUCK.” Delsin shouted and slammed the laptop shut then immediately began pacing the room.

Fetch exchanged a look with Eugene that registered the fact that they were both uncomfortable with Delsin’s intensity right now.

“Okay, let’s be rational here,” Fetch crossed her arms loosely over her chest and shifted her weight to her other leg, her hips swinging with the movement.

Delsin inhaled loudly and held it as he paused in his footsteps. He turned to face her and breathed out slowly, seeming to find and slowly reclaim his calm, “Yeah. Yeah, what do we know?”

“We have a suspect. Two, actually. Cindy Signet and Celia,” Fetch stated.

Eugene cleared his throat, “One, actually.”

Fetch gave him a pointed look, “What do you mean?”

“Cindy Signet isn’t a real person. No one exists with that name in any system that links Seattle and Stratego or the D.U.P. database.”

Delsin inhaled again, hands coming to rest behind his head, fingers interlacing and his beanie sliding backwards just slightly with the frustration.

Fetch cocked her head at the information as though she hadn’t quite understood, “Cindy isn’t real. Great. So we have Celia and her band of idiots as our suspects, then.”

“Fetch,” Delsin breathed her name and when she turned her attention back to him she realized his eyes were closed, “We know Celia has a history of murder but I can’t see her hurting Augustine. That woman was like a mother to her. A shitty one, but one all the same. Which means either she sent one of her group to do the job or she was distracted and whoever Cindy really is took out Augustine this morning.”

“... To prevent us from getting the connection. This was a scheme to stop us.” Eugene slowly added on.

Fetch watched Delsin’s eyes flutter open and he dropped his hands to his sides, defeated. She glanced back to Eugene and watched as the Video conduit opened the laptop, checking quickly for damage, before typing away.

“We have an unknown then. Conduit?” Fetch asked.

“I don’t think so… would you murder someone with poison if you had a power you could leave as a calling card instead?” Eugene’s face paled the second the words were out of his mouth and Fetch narrowed her eyes at him in a flash of betrayal.

“Wanna tell me how you really feel, Gameboy?”

“I-I didn’t mean… I just meant…”

“He’s right,” Delsin interrupted. Fetch glanced at him and raised an eyebrow urging him to continue, “Celia would have left a dove and there wasn’t one. The kid who knocked you out would have left a calling card for sure. And the two you said made you blow up our entrance accidentally also seem like the type to let us know they had been there. So, this fake-Cindy is human.”

“And if it was done to just prevent us from finding the connection between the D.U.P. and Stratego that means two things are true,” Eugene interjected, “One, there absolutely was a connection scrubbed from the files; and two, fake-Cindy is likely done with murders so we don’t have to worry about her right now. I’ll send an anonymous tip to the Seattle Police.”

Delsin nodded and Fetch moved around the desk to look out the window and toward the grounds below. The students had been more on edge since the show with fake-Delsin and she had noticed more of them spent time away from the warehouse than within it lately. Loyalty had been challenged in a matter of minutes and unfortunately it was costing the warehouse.

“... Then Stratego? Leveled in minutes is definitely a conduit thing.” She spoke to the glass, focus lost to the few students outside.

“Agreed,” Delsin spoke up, “Eugene, scrub the news outlet features and see if you can find any calling cards in the footage. I’d suggest we pay the site a visit ourselves but it would link us to the act, unfortunately. And we don’t have time to deal with interrogations right now. Not if we plan on actually helping the Seattle conduit population.”

Fetch turned her attention on Delsin and caught his eyes in a stare, “We gotta work on rebuilding the trust first.”

Delsin sighed and shifted his glance to the desk, “Yeah… what a mess.”

All three conduits exhaled in unison. What a mess indeed.

“... That's another thing…” Eugene cleared his throat and all eyes were on him, “I’ve been trying to track our stolen emblem but with so many students off campus now I can’t locate it.”

Fetch blew air up at her fringe and rolled her eyes. More deadends, great.

“Keep looking. We’ll get the students back on campus now that we have a loose conduit out there. I can’t have anyone blaming our school for that so-called accident. We’ll send a campus-wide email and prepare a statement.”

Fetch looked back at Delsin and saw the frustration building behind his eyes. Everything seemed to be crashing against him now like upset waves in the Sound.

“Hey,” Fetch called out softly and both men looked her way, “We’ll get through this. Together.”

It felt wrong to be here without a mask, without a mission. Lucky knew she would pay dearly for not only breaking the rules but also for being here alone. At the warehouse.

The construction of the front entrance was underway and the missile hole was smaller today than it had been last night. But Lucky wasn’t here to document that process. She was looking for someone, someone she had noticed the previous night before she hexed Fetch with a spurt of bad luck.

After Orion had Fetch’s attention, Lucky had slipped into the crowd and disappeared among the gathered students. She knew her luck power had a passive radius of 3-feet/91.5cm and she needed to act fast. She spread her power as evenly as possible, granting anyone close to the entrance good luck to avoid the incoming attack that wasn’t on anyone’s radar just yet.

It was during this time that Lucky felt something tug at her power, something small and unusual. It was rare that something could pull Lucky’s focus in such a sharp manner but something pulled her attention and she turned around in time to catch a glance from a very small student. This tiny girl was a toddler–maybe 4 or 5 if Lucky had to guess. She held her gaze with piercing gray eyes and then she was lifted into the air by a man who followed the little one’s gaze directly to Lucky. At first his dark-skinned expression was blank as he seemed to see past her mask, trying to place her face. It was… not ideal for Lucky and she blinked at the pair. Then the man flashed her a bright smile, something honest, something gentle. Lucky felt that tug again but before she could process it further her attention was suddenly pulled to her brother via a bright flash of pinks and purples and she realized her time was up. It was up to the students under her spell to react quickly.

Lucky moved so fast, a flash of sparks against the evening until she gathered herself behind the Neon conduit focusing on a bad luck hex that sent Fetch’s next action astray. Lucky had worked her magic so discreetly and so perfectly, no one was hurt in the explosion and she and her brother escaped without a tail.

But she couldn’t shake the faces of the small girl and the man she had shared a glance with. And now she found herself drawn back to the warehouse in search of them.

She had no names and she didn’t bother to collect the hidden emblem along her way. She was just here, standing outside on the grass and looking at the warehouse’s many windows and murals of spray paint and neon. She watched the students mingle, enter and exit the building for a few silent minutes and Lucky realized she had never felt more lonely than she did in this moment.

“What am I doing here?” The words were quiet as they breathed from her lips. She shouldn’t have come back to the scene of the crime. She knew that was the first mistake any criminal made in her beloved crime podcasts but she felt inexplicably drawn here.

“Hey! It’s you!”

Lucky was pulled from her thoughts and she spun on her heels and there he was. The guy with the small child. It felt like magic, like fate. Like a cruel joke. She shouldn’t be here.

“Oh, hi. I’m glad you’re okay,” they were honest words and Lucky glanced over the man in a sweep of her dark brown eyes, then looked past him for a moment, “Where is your… sister? The little girl who was with you?”

“Caly? Oh, I’m just babysitting her for a bit, we aren’t related. She’s fine, too. We were inside before the explosion happened,” he answered so openly and without hesitation, it felt like they had known each other for years instead of just meeting for the first time, “My name’s Benji, by the way. I don’t think I’ve seen you on campus before last night.”

“Lucky. My name is Lucky and no… I’m not a student, yet,” It felt bad to lie to Benji so Lucky simply gave half-truths instead, “I’m glad you're both okay.”

Benji offered her that same, genuine smile he had given her the night prior and it disarmed her in a second. Lucky felt her walls crumble and suddenly she remembered something. Something important.

“Caly… she’s in trouble.”

Benji’s smile faltered and he suddenly looked intense as though some secret code word had been passed between them. He reached out to her and took her hand, tugging her away from the warehouse and to a quieter area out of earshot of most of the students.

“How do you know?”

Lucky did not drop his hand. It was warm and she suddenly needed his contact as though she would falter without it. “I’ve seen her photo and her file. She’s being hunted, Benji. You need to keep her safe.”

Her file had been on the desk when Celia had called an emergency meeting this morning warning everyone to lay low. Something had happened between last night and this afternoon and this file had something to do with it but Lucky had stayed offline and missed the news feed. All she knew for certain was that the little girl in the photo was the same one she had seen at the warehouse and now she understood the tug of fate–she had needed to warn Benji.

Benji narrowed his eyes at her and his lips set in a thin line as though he were accepting this information as his personal mission. He also did not drop her hand, a fact Lucky clung to.

“You should come with me and let Fetch and the others know,” Benji suggested.

Lucky paled at the name and then shook her head quickly, “Fetch and I… I’m not her favorite person right now. But you can give her the heads up yourself. Just… Keep my name out of it.”

“Why?”

“I’m not supposed to be here but I needed to check to make sure you–everyone was okay.” Lucky caught herself and searched Benji’s eyes. He didn’t seem to notice her slip.

“Yeah, okay,” Benji nodded and released his grip on her hand. Lucky immediately felt the loss of contact like a knife to her chest. He seemed to grow concerned for her, “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

The question caught her off-guard. Benji was incredibly good at reading her. Or maybe that was his ability? Lucky couldn’t be sure but she knew she probably wouldn’t be able to keep secrets from him. So instead she reached into her pocket and pulled out a single origami dove and placed it into his palm, folding his fingers around it.

“I’m better now, thanks. Take care of Caly,” Lucky held his gaze and with the contact still present, his warm hand between her own, she passed along her power in a sweep of a decision she knew she may regret, “Good luck, Benji.”

Her eyes flashed quickly with silver crescent moons in a moment as though the light shifted in her irises. Benji blinked and placed the paper into his pocket without looking at it, breaking the hold of her hands on his.

“I don’t need luck, Lucky,” Benji breathed, “I just need–” Lucky watched Benji swallow his words as though he caught his confession in his throat and then he fell silent.

“Please tell Fetch and the others to be cautious. Caly is in danger, this is important,” And the celestial-luck conduit turned around and started to leave. She wondered if Benji would reach out to her, or call her back, but he did neither and she didn’t feel the tug anymore at the edge of her abilities as she left.

“It’s Caly,” Benji spoke urgently to the office of Heroes, having burst through the door without knocking, “She’s in danger being here.”

Fetch, Delsin and Eugene exchanged glances and then Delsin spoke to Fetch.

“Call Rosaline. Now.”

[scorchieart]

I hope I'm doing this right!

Luke / 5 / adventure / second 💜

Characters: Luke Randolph & F!Reader

POV: 2nd person Genre: Adventure

Prompt #5: “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want a distraction from it?”

Wordcount: 998

A/N: Hiya Violet, thank you for the request! I was super duper close to turning this into Luke's Pokemon journey, but maybe we'll leave that for another day.

Sand immediately seeped into the tears in your pants as you collapsed onto your knees, coarse and grainy against raw flesh. You heaved breath after breath, clutching your searing chest with quivering fingers, as briney salt invaded your nostrils, the scent unfamiliar and painful.

You peeled the heavy pack off your sweaty back just as another figure collapsed beside you. Luke landed eagle-spread in the sand, green hood obscuring the top half of his stung, sunburned face, giving him the appearance of a sliced watermelon shriveling under the sun. 

You inhaled a final shaky breath and pulled the map out of your shirt. Several new creases had formed since you hastily stashed it away, but Rio’s markings still showed clearly. Verdant Jungle: fire ant, tic, bee infestation. Avoid green-bark trees. Salt water good for stings.

Something buzzed nearby and you swatted your neck. The smushed remains of a fuzzy black bee, and purple venom oozed down your fingers when you pulled back. Great, that made seven stings. That you knew of. Of course they wouldn’t be honey bees, you thought, shooting a contemptuous glare at the panting Luke. You hadn’t seen a single living flower in days. 

You absentmindedly flicked the carcass and scratched your neck as you studied the map again. Scribbled just below the jungle, right on the bottom edge of the paper, was a pair of the goofiest faces smiling up at you. Sapphire Shores: hideaway paradise. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up. The sand extended a fair way ahead then stopped abruptly to be replaced by the largest slab of blue you’d ever seen. You knew it was water, of course the ocean was full of water, but the stillness of the air and the trees against the roaring waves turned the scene into a semi-living being. Like an unfinished painting and you had front row seats to each new brushstroke. 

Flecks of warm ocean spray hit your tingling cheek as you opened your pack. You produced the rose stalk, what was left of it anyway, and slipped off your boots. The sand scalded your blistered feet as you approached the water, but the moment you stepped in the glistening puddles, it was as though a silencing spell had fallen. Cool, slippery foam pushed and pulled between your toes, and though your exhausted body threatened to collapse into its depths, for the first time in a month you felt strangely balanced. At peace. In control.

You plucked the final scarlet petal, let it fall, and watched the waves drift it out to sea. A tiny crab scuttled along the shallowest part of the shore, and you trained your eyes on its precise movements as it expertly maneuvered around pebbles and shells. 

Leon would make a good king. He already had experience as a leader and the people really liked him. Plus he was sincere, earnest, and easy to talk to… a little too easy. But you couldn’t count Chevalier out. He could command a room just by entering, and his actions were based on decades of knowledge and calculations. He was dominating and honest… but perhaps too much so.

The crab encountered a cracked pink shell. It could easily pass around it, but for some reason it halted and stared, as though transfixed by the chipped swirling patterns. 

Any prince would be excellent. And it’s not like the ones who weren’t chosen would simply cease to exist; of course they’d remain and help their brother. That was something even young children could expect. Yet they still expected you to make that choice.

The crab remained in place. Farther out at sea, the rumbling of a new wave burbled.

One month was hardly enough time to learn about a person, let alone eight. And select from among them a king? They were asking the impossible from you. A miracle. It’s like they expected you to fail. It’s like they anticipated a fail safe.

Rushing water enveloped your view as the wave crashed, soaking you up to your waist. Your hair frizzed as airborne froth stuck it out unevenly, but you still managed to locate the poor crab, rocking and kicking its limbs madly in the air. You crouched and tipped the crab back onto its legs with the tip of your rose stalk. It hurriedly scampered off without a backward glance.

“Amazing,” whispered a voice. Luke now stood beside you, bare feet submerged, staring at the horizon.

“First time in the water?” you asked. It was at that moment you realized that though you spent the past month traveling together, this was the first question you asked of him. All the golden opportunities to know more about this competitor for the throne, and you wasted them insisting on this perilous journey south. Truly, Sariel made a mistake selecting you as Belle. 

Your mind drifted to Rio and how he slipped you the filled pack with the map and rose the very night you were brought to the palace, and how he insisted he stay behind for “damage control” despite your protests. You’d encountered Luke at the city gates with nothing more than a broadsword and his own pack. You thought of the nights spent in dubious inns where you were sure Luke barely slept a wink. You thought about how that wasn’t his most peculiar behavior; about the time he’d fallen off a stool when an old man in an eyepatch drunkenly collapsed on your breakfast, or how he’d somberly whisper names in the few instances he did sleep, like a sinner possessed. 

“No,” Luke replied, “I used to visit a lake with my mom and stepdad.”

“And Leyla?” you asked hesitantly, and Luke’s gaze sharpened on the sea. You watched the welts on his face throb as you swirled lazy circles in the water with your hands, feeling at last the pain starting to quell.

It was almost comical; two outcasts escaping the crown, hopping the border, surviving a perilous journey usually only accomplished by highly-trained adventurers, and yet you still struggled to look each other in the eye.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you started, cupping some water in your hands, “Or do you want a distraction from it?” You splashed Luke and took off deeper into the ocean. He shook his head and began to follow, only to trip and fall face-down into the water. He picked himself up, removed his coat, and tied the sleeves and ends to a spherical shape. Your hearty laughter turned to squeals of panic as he scooped water into his makeshift bowl, a triumphant grin spreading across his features.

The next few requests will be more light-hearted, don't you worry guys :)

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[iridescentlemoncandy]

With Osborn, Chapter 1: Sunset Roulette

Part 2: Dashing through the Horizon

“A bet is a bet; after this, you're free to race all over this road!"

They've all lined up in a row on the highway. The car with the bat logo sprayed on it belongs to Xiao Bai, the second-to-last vehicle after Osborn's. The car engines are revving, signalling that they are ready to go. My heart, meanwhile, is pounding like one of those engines. As far as I can see, the road goes all the way from the coast to the peak of the mountain. Just thinking about how quickly the ascent would make my heart race.

Huff… Inhaling deeply, I close my eyes. My body stiffens, and I open my eyes to find Osborn staring back at me. First, he double-checks my seatbelt and then puts on his own. The sound of the engines roaring from the sportscars in front of us becomes more deafening at that moment. It's as if he can read my mind: he tilts his head to gaze at me, and then tousles my hair casually.

Osborn: Relax.

I nod, squeeze the holder behind me hard, and look at the woman on the side of the road raising the starting flag. She uses her fingers to make a countdown gesture: 10, 9, 8. Before the end of the countdown, the engines of these sports cars roar to life. Osborn appears unfazed; his arms are relaxed on the wheel, and he has a sinister squint in his eyes.

MC: Why—They shouldn't have started yet?!

Osborn: Because they are amateurs, that’s why.

I can't help but feel enraged as I watch those sports cars speed up forward and out of sight.

MC: This is too much. It’s cheating!!

Osborn gives me a sidelong glance, his demeanour unaffected by the fact that the other racers are cheating.

Osborn: Now you're invested in the outcome of this race?

MC: ……I mind about the fairness!

The woman drops the flag she was holding right as I finished speaking—

Vroom—! The car accelerates, and the abrupt surge causes me to lean against the back of the seat.

Sand whipped up by the wind whistles as it crashes against the glass. Osborn picks up the pace as he approaches the corner and the cars that had left earlier come into view. The one with the spray-painted bat logo is way out in front.

As we get closer, the automobiles start lining up in a maze-like formation, blocking our path.

MC: Osborn—

My throat has tightened with nervousness, and I can barely hear my voice at the moment.

Osborn: They have quite the trick up their sleeves.

Our car clings to the rear of the pack, swiftly passes it, and then speeds into the "maze" as soon as he finishes speaking. Osborn keeps an eye on the space between the vehicles, and when one opens, he bursts through it at top speed. However, the initially empty gap is quickly filled by a car approaching from the right. Suffocating, I instinctively clutch the handle.

MC: !!!

The tyre makes a loud friction screech, and Osborn wafts our automobile back into its previous place due to the high inertia impact.

Soon, the automobiles we passed catch up to us and surround us with their blinding headlights. There's a car following closely behind us, and Osborn's keeping a close eye on its every move. The ascent to the mountain road seemed to take no time at all. There is nothing but an empty cliff on our left and a vertical wall of a steep slope on our right.

I gulp subconsciously and sneak a peek at Osborn's face. Slightly raising an eyebrow, it seems he has suspicions about the car on our back.

Osborn: Tsk, another tiresome gimmick.

He presses the accelerator as soon as he finishes talking, but there's a bend up ahead! I am completely baffled by his motivations and can only watch him with wide eyes. Sweat is dripping down my forehead.

Now, something much worse had happened: as we sped around the turn, the car behind us tried to squeeze through the opening between us and the mountain wall.

MC: He—He’s gonna hit us?!

I feel like my heart is about to stop for a second from sheer astonishment. Osborn's speed is fast enough, so we push on and manage to put some distance between ourselves and the car trailing behind. Simultaneously, we hear a massive crash behind us. It's so loud that it seems to shake the entire mountain.

Instantly, I look around and notice that the front of the car behind us has slammed into the side of the mountain and come to a complete halt. After making sure that no one is seriously hurt, I turn my head to the front with a lingering sense of foreboding.

MC: Was that car trying to make a narrow pass just now? But how could that ever be possible?

Osborn: He knows he's not going to make it. What he really wants is for me to yield to him so he can occupy my path. But I've seen far too many of these petty ploys. I accelerate right away. He lost control and crashed. Those twisted mind tricks come with a steep price to pay.

From there, we pick up the pace, passing other vehicles and eventually making a beeline for Xiao Bai. I take a few deep breaths to try and calm myself down as the overwhelming sense of panic returns. But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, the race car slammed into a sharp turn after travelling down a straight road. Osborn sharply turned the wheel around the bend, the powerful centrifugal force nearly lifted our car off the ground. I feel the energy seize hold of me as it desperately tries to fling me from the vehicle.

MC: !!!!!

This was when my unease and terror were at their worst; the piercing wail made me feel as though it may engulf me. I—

[Maintain A Calm Façade]

[Can't Resist Screaming Out Loud]

[Close My Eyes]

[ner-runi-cuyir-gar]

Raka's own hand trembles but he gives yours a squeeze, taking deep breaths as he watches Kaz sigh and slip his helmet on.

"Do your little friends know the price for interfering when I start beating the life out of you?" Gar asks.

Kaz nods once. "They won't need to."

"How confident you've grown. I'm placing my bet!" He calls to his men, "Three minutes in the ring! And it'll take him twice as long to die."

Kaz lets out a yell and leaps at him, bringing his sword down faster than Galin's ever seen him do even in training. To his disappointment, Gar blocks Kaz's swing, but he doesn't dare give up hope yet. Kaz can win this. He's been prepping so hard for so long. Galin would have stepped in before the challenge began if he thought Kaz couldn't do it.

Gar shoves his sword away and quickly brings the saber around to strike at Kaz's side, growling when he hits nothing but beskar. "You're quick, boy. I'll give you that."

"Shut the fuck up." Kaz growls back, bringing his sword up to swing at Gar's head- and quickly faking him out, tipping the blade down to ram it right through Gar's foot so deep it sticks through the floor, even.

Gar barks a pained yell and hisses as Kaz rips it out, limping back a step or two to recover. But Kaz doesn't give him time. He's on Gar in an instant, his sword slicing through Gar's arm next. He laughs lowly as Gar's blood sprays, turning to watch it hit the floor while Gar stumbles back again.

Only, he was wrong, and Gar doesn't stumble. Instead he tackles Kaz to the ground, bringing a hand up to ram Kaz's head into the ground.

Raka inhales sharply, tensing as Kaz simply lays there for a second overwhelmed by the ringing in his ears from the helmet's impact.

"Awww what's wrong, Kasimir?" Gar drawls, straddling him so he can't get up, "Little bells going off in your head now? That's why you don't fucking look away when-"

Kaz brings a fist up to give him a right hook right to the cheekbone, quickly grabbing a dagger on his left side and ramming it into Gar's neck as the man leans that way from the punch impact.

"Fuck," Drogr breathes, closing his eyes. Kaz chose the trauma route. Of course he did.

Kaz uses the leverage of Gar's shock to flip the two of them over, smacking the hilt of the darksaber so hard it deactivates as it goes flying out of Gar's hand and across the room.

"What's wrong, Mand'alor?" Kaz taunts back, his voice lower than it's ever been. He slips his helmet off and sneers down at Gar, "How dare you lecture me on fighting errors when you were too fucking blind to see yours."

He grabs the dagger and pulls it out of Gar's neck at a painfully slow pace, giving him a slow, sharp grin at the sickening squelching sound it makes as it scrapes against his skin and pulls more blood out with it.

Kaz hums and dips his fingers into the pool of it collecting by Gar's head, dragging it across his right cheekbone first, then his left. War paint.

"Where should I stab you next?" he murmurs, studying Gar's body.

Gar reaches up and decks him in the face, gasping a little for air as the stab starts to take full effect- but still fighting through it anyway. He fumbles for his own dagger and shakily brings it up, lodging it into Kaz's left side just as Kaz brings his own dagger down again to slice across an eye.

Kaz grunts in pain and lays a hand on the ground to brace himself, coughing a little at the taste of blood that's suddenly becoming so evident in his mouth and throat even as Gar lets out a scream from the pain in his eye.

He reaches over to his side and wraps his fingers around the hilt, taking a deep breath before ripping it out. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and slowly raises the right dagger, holding it just above Gar's forehead.

Slowly, he lowers the tip to press against Gar's skin, dropping the other dagger before ramming his fist down on the end of the hilt of the one against his head. Gar lets out another scream and squirms a little, his whole body starting to spasm with the combined trauma to his neck and now his head.

Kaz lets that dagger stay there and quickly grabs the one he was stabbed with, flipping it in his hand before jamming it into Gar's lower stomach, just below the plate he has on.

He twists it slowly to hear the blade scrape again, and then pulls it out, immediately stabbing it into the other side of Gar's neck. Then pulls it out again. Then slices it along Gar's throat, the blood spraying all up over his chest plate and his neck.

He continues to repeat this motion until he's practically sawed Gar's head off with just a knife, to the point where Drogr has to look away as tears fall down his cheeks. Drogr reaches a trembling hand up to cover his mouth, not too sure he isn't gonna puke at this point.

"When- when can step in?" Galin breathes through his own tears, itching to get to his best friend and stop him. "When?"

I’ve got my head turned into Raka’s shoulder, pressed in enough to hide my tears, “now,” I rasp out, “go now.”

[love-toxin]

always smelling like/having something of the four’s on you :( wearing Steve’s blue jeans or jerseys that fit ever so slightly bagging on you to the point you always feel engulfed in him even though he’s away. wearing Robin’s rings and jewelry that always make her hands so pretty when she holds you or cups your face before a barrage of kisses. stealing Eddie’s leather jackets/band tees because they smell like sweet tobacco smoke and late night giggling with notes of tender love. always having Nancy’s back-up tube of lipstick or perfume roller in your pocket for when she wants to touch up from completely ingraining her skin and lips against yours. :( I’m so soft

Bonus points for: Jonathan’s camera with the worn straps, Argyle’s hats with little doodles drawn on the undersides of the brims, Chrissy’s kitten-soft cardigans and sweaters, and Billy’s sacred Polaroids of the west coast with dates and memories scribbled on the back :( miss Ellie I love all of them sO MUCH-

IM GONNA SOB. ANON UR ADDING YEARS TO MY LIFE ♡

Steve's blue jeans are classic, well-worn, denim soft to the touch. He pulls them up and fastens them for you on your hips, his fingers lingering there once they're set and the denim bunches up around your ankles. These ones are yours, your pair, that you can stretch or shrink or belt or do anything you want with. Splatters of paint on the shins from when he helped Dustin paint his bedroom, smelling strongly of his cologne--he sprayed a little extra on them so it'll stick to you. His smile brightens the room when he leans back to take a look at you, so soft and pretty in his pants. He knows you're gonna keep stealing his anyways, but if he minded, he wouldn't leave his closet open whenever he wanders away to use the bathroom or get a drink when you're over. It's worth it to have to dig in his father's dusty closet to find something to wear if he gets to see you in his clothes forevermore.

Robin has so much jewelry you don't know what to make of it all. Rings, necklaces, watches, bracelets--they make up a little ocean of silver and gold across the top of her dresser, a cracked mirror propped up for her to check them all out. They're unorganized, some a little tangled together. Easy for you to sneak something here and there just to wear it when you're both out together. It's a way for you to hold hands without your fingers touching, some divine show of ownership. You wear her rings, fiddle with her necklaces, you show off the glitz and glitter of her jewelry like it's a crown marking your royal status. It sometimes doesn't occur to her that you're wearing them until she's too close to hide her shyness, her cheeks a rosy hue as she swallows at the sight of her favourite pendant hanging around your neck. So pretty, you're the prettiest in the world--and you can have as much as you want, so long as she gets to see those gleaming gold and silver accents contrast your glowing skin.

Eddie's leather jacket is sacred. Pins piercing the fabric in perfect array, leather frayed in the way it's supposed to for it to fit perfectly. It carries the scent of tobacco and pot and the smell of his hair, both shampoo and cologne a sickly sweet-musky combo that floods your senses when he puts it over your shoulders. It's heavy for that frame of yours, but you keep it up, and he's struck with pride. What he wouldn't give to rip all those clothes off and leave you in nothing but his jacket. He could wear the stains of your sweat on the inner lining, could lift it to his nose and inhale the smell of you and instantly feel that head rush that's better than any special shit he could get off Rick. That thought is what pushes him to let you have it, to zip it up and tell you to keep it safe. Your doe eyes when you ask him if he's gonna do something dangerous, something scary, again. And he just laughs, despite knowing how worried you really are. Because Eddie knows he'll never run away again--but he also won't leave you to fret and cry at the thought of losing him, never again. Not his little angel.

Nancy's lipstick leaves a stain wherever she kisses you. Smudges, smears, blurs, brightens her skin when she's dragging you up and down against her lips, angling you so she can get every inch that she wants to mark. Prim, proper Nancy is also the martyr Nancy, the same hands that apply her lipstick with a delicate touch also wield the guns and fire and violence that you owe your life to. Her breath raises those goosebumps to your skin, lips pursed to suck one harsh, defining bruise in your skin through her teeth. One small, purplish splotch ringed with scarlet lipstick, made permanent only in your dreams as Nancy finally pulls herself off of you. Fishing in your back pocket, she produces those two tubes that she knows she'll always find on you--and with a practiced hand, she reapplies her lipstick and uncaps her roller to dust her throat with perfume, ensuring an image just as pristine as she arrived with when she wipes those smudged lines from her fair skin. Perfection.

Jonathan has little else but that. His camera. Beat up and old, cracked lens replaced with a cheaper but unbroken one, leather straps thinner than they were but still holding strong. There's no hope in affording a brand new one, much less a nice one, but the smile on your face when he bashfully gifts it to you makes it feel like he gave you the world. You don't have to take it, it's a piece of crap, I just thought you might want something to start--and you're kissing away those mumbled worries from his lips, eyes glowing with adoration as you hold it close to your chest. The strap fits perfectly around your neck, leather sliding against your skin and soft, already broken in by years of use. The first photo you take, lens held up with careful fingers, is of him. Off-colour and standing nervously, smile shy but sincere. You'll keep that forever, that one and many more framed up in the house you'll share one day.

Argyle loves many things, and few of those love him back. You slot into that category, he's sure, which is how he finds himself drawing out his love on the brim of his most precious cap. The underside, of course, to keep it secret--but almost nobody would decipher the symbols that represent you. A sun, a flower, a cluster of stars, a line of poetry he read once in school that fits you perfectly, makes the words stick in his head because they always make him think of you. His heart thuds against his ribs like it's trying to break out when you put that Surfer Boy visor on your head, plucking it off his own just to giggle and spin it to wear it like you've seen him do. Your awed gaze turned upward to survey those doodles when you notice them, and the smile you show off when you take it off to look at them closer...that's enough in itself. More than he could ask for, yet only a snippet of what he'll get when he finally brings himself to admit who those lovelorn drawings are for.

Chrissy's sweaters are a statement. Cheerleader. Princess. Hawkins' Sweetheart. When you wear each one, they spell out her love on your sleeves, her devotion to give you things so precious that she wouldn't hand over for anything else. Baby pink and mint green and pale yellow, blue and white and lavender and peach and all the colours that crystallize in the sky when a rainbow forms after a storm. That's what you feel like to her, that's what you are--a precious, pretty splatter of colours in her comparably dull world, the reward she's been blessed with after a life of locked doors and tears and a churning stomach. Your skin spells out so much more when the soft fabric of her clothing bristles against it, more than anything she ever hoped for herself. You wear them, and all she sees is love.

Billy can recall the dates with almost complete accuracy. Each polaroid pinched between your delicate fingers has a story, a life behind it that you've never seen, but one that Billy remembers with relative fondness. Some are punctuated with painful memories, but those ones he glosses over and you move on to the next. He sits by your side on the floor, leaned against his bed, a cigarette perched between his lips and music playing quietly for once in the background, and you hold out each of the photos spread out in a vast array between both of your legs. Smoke stings your lungs but smoothes the ache in his chest, the burn that flares up when he's faced with image after image of that beach, those waves, and that smiling blonde in the sunhat that he was forced to leave behind. It didn't dawn on him before, but your piqued curiosity and the giggles and "awww!"s you fill the room with at seeing his baby pictures spark a new idea in his mind, and a smirk on his face. Those memories from the west coast have been replayed to death in his mind, those pictures old and fraying--he needs new ones. Ones that will never make him ache or burn with regret. Photos of you.