#Spray Paint Patterns

[historyofguns]

The article "Dish Soap Method of Rattle Can Camo" by Scott Conditt, published on The Armory Life, outlines a DIY approach to spray painting firearms, specifically the AR-15, using dish soap as a stencil tool for creating camouflage patterns. This method involves cleaning the rifle thoroughly, taping off areas that should not get painted, applying a base coat followed by dish soap in patterns, and then adding a main color coat. Once the paint is dried, the dish soap is washed off to reveal unique, organic camo patterns. The process is customizable, affordable, and can be repeated multiple times. The author emphasizes that while the method is inventive and easy, individuals are responsible for the results, and it is essential to understand fully what is needed before attempting such projects.

[arcsin27]

[crazygirl0152]

Here is day 133 and title:Blast from the past in get-go in street version by wall but crazy pattern 9.

[localthumbcache]

THIS IS ACTUALLY VERY VERY LIVPHELIA... OLIV (pronounced oh-liv)

[boyenthusiast]

could u immediately tell that this is a gravestone?? i wanna put it on a t shirt

[pa-pa-plasma]

i just made a really nice spray paint but i have to wait until it's finished to post it aaaaaaauuuuuuuuuuuuuugggggggghhh

[lillybean730]

the good thing abt my struggles sleeping lately is that i keep coming up with great ideas while half asleep

the bad thing is that i immediately forget them

[humaling]

Between Your Hands and the World.

pairings: jealous!finnick odair x victor-f!reader

summary: finnick isn't particularly fond of the gift you received from one of your sponsors.

warnings: allusion to finnick's prostitution, the usual hunger games

word count: 5.2k

Breathe in. Breathe out.

You repeat that mantra in your head, over and over again, as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Your reflection feels foreign, almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of Capitol perfection. The gown you’re wearing is nothing like the ones you wore before the Games; it’s heavier, louder, a statement crafted to draw eyes and hold them captive. Iridescent silk clings to your figure, shifting between shades of deep teal and midnight blue as the light catches it. The fabric cascades into a flowing train of sheer organza, cut to resemble twisting fins and seaweed, edged with tiny crystals that glint like salt spray. The bodice, sculpted from mother-of-pearl and opalescent glass, curves tightly around your torso. Silver thread traces delicate patterns across the surface, mirroring the movement of ocean currents, with scattered pearls embedded so precisely they almost seem to pulse with life.

Atop your head sits a crown of twisted silver and coral-shaped branches, thin chains of pearls and crystals dangling from its frame to brush against your cheeks. The weight of it is surprising, a quiet reminder of how much the Capitol loves to dress up its victors like dolls. Your makeup is haunting; smoky shades of deep blue and emerald sweep across your eyelids, blended so flawlessly they resemble the depths of the sea. Tiny pearls are glued to the corners of your eyes, and your lashes are tipped with iridescent beads that catch the light each time you blink. Your lips, painted in a bruised plum gloss, gleam with a wet sheen that makes them look just kissed—or just dangerous. Small pearls and crystals trace along your temples and collarbones, giving the eerie impression of salt and seawater drying against your skin.

Silver armlets twist around your biceps like seaweed caught on driftwood, the metal cool against your skin. Long, dangling earrings shimmer like jellyfish tendrils as they sway with each breath you take. Even your hands are decorated—rings with pearls and shells wrapped around your fingers like delicate sea creatures. You look less like a victor and more like a siren—designed to lure, to captivate, to destroy. And the Capitol expects you to play the part perfectly.

You don’t recognize yourself in the mirror. All you see is someone else. Someone who had to throw their morals and dignity out the window to survive the Games. Someone who tainted their hands with crimson liquid for the sake of survival. Someone who glorified the inhuman acts committed inside the arena because that’s what the Capitol demanded—a show, a spectacle. And you gave it to them.

It makes you shudder, knowing that someone is still you. A part of you. No matter how much you want to tear it away, to separate yourself from the choices you made, it clings to you like the salt in the air back home. It disgusts you to no end, makes your skin crawl beneath the delicate silk of the gown they dressed you in. How could you go from being a sweet, bubbly girl from District 4—someone who would sit on the docks weaving seashell bracelets with your younger siblings—to a cold-blooded murderer who learned how to kill before learning how to live?

The Capitol dressed you up to cover the damage. They wrapped you in pearls and mother-of-pearl, in iridescent fabric that glitters beneath the harsh lights, but no amount of beauty can hide the blood beneath your nails. You see it in your own eyes—the hollow sharpness that wasn't there before the arena. You might look like a siren now, but the Capitol knows the truth. They turned you into one.

“You look like you’ll puke any moment.”

Your head jerks to the side, snapping you out of your thoughts when the deep voice cuts through the thick silence. Your eyes go wide, your hand darting toward the nearest object—a silver hair comb—to use as a weapon. But when you see the familiar bronzed hair paired with sea-green eyes, you let out a breath, the tension seeping from your muscles as the comb slips from your hand and clatters against the marble floor. The sound echoes off the walls, sharp and jarring, but you barely hear it over the pounding in your chest.

Finnick watches you carefully, his gaze steady and unreadable as you stare back at him with a mix of relief and shame. You don’t know how to feel—relieved that he’s here, that he always seems to show up when you’re unraveling—or sick with despair, knowing that Finnick knows. He knows what you did to survive. He knows the blood on your hands, the weight you now carry. And yet, he stands there, calm and still, like he’s waiting for you to fall apart.

His eyes sweep over you, not with judgment but with quiet understanding. He sees it—the storm brewing beneath your surface, the haunted vacancy in your gaze that wasn’t there before the Games. Finnick knows this feeling better than anyone. He saw it in his own reflection after he got out of the arena, after his first night pleasing a Capitol client during his victory tour. He knows the weight of survival and how it corrodes you from the inside out. And he knows you weren’t built for this. You’re strong, but not for this kind of cruelty. He knew that from the moment your name was called out during the reaping.

Finnick blames himself. He swore he’d protect you, swore he’d keep you safe from this twisted life. But the odds are never in his favor. Snow’s grip is too tight, his reach too deep. And Finnick knows—sooner or later—Snow will push you too far, and you’ll break. He just hopes that when that day comes, there’ll still be enough of you left for him to save. Until then, all he can do is try to make this twisted version of victory a little less unbearable. And hope that his sweet girl—the one who used to make seashell bracelets by the shore—can hold on long enough to survive it.

“You snort, eyes flicking toward him. “What a keen observation you have, Sherlock.”

Finnick’s lips curl into a lazy smile. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle. You keep staring at yourself like it’s going to move and swallow you whole.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” you mutter, arms crossing over your chest.

Finnick’s gaze darkens, the teasing edge softening just a little. “I suppose it’s better than going back out there.”

You force a smile onto your lips, but it fails miserably. It fades almost immediately when you decide to meet Finnick’s eyes. His expression is unreadable—steady—but his eyes are soft, tracing over your face like he’s searching for something you don’t know how to give him.

“You know, if you’re trying to play hard to get, it’s not working,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “People will only want you more.”

You scoff. “Am I that transparent? I want you. I need you. Oh baby, oh baby,” you tease, voice dripping with sarcasm as you step toward him. Your gaze drops to his outfit, and damn—you’d be lying if you said he didn’t look good.

The Capitol dressed him like bait. His outfit mirrors yours in theme but with an edge designed to exploit him rather than elevate him. A shimmering, open-front jacket made of seafoam-green silk hangs loosely off his broad shoulders, the sleeves lined with silver embroidery resembling ocean waves. But it does nothing to conceal him—his chest is bare beneath it, smooth skin catching the light as if he’s been dipped in seawater. A thin chain of pearls drapes across his collarbone, leading down to his abdomen, where it disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung pants—tight, dark blue, and threaded with silver in swirling patterns that mimic the pull of the tide. The Capitol didn’t dress him to look powerful—they dressed him to be devoured. He’s a prize on display, a body meant to be admired and claimed. And yet, even standing there with every inch of his beauty exposed to the world, the most dangerous thing about him is still his eyes—the quiet strength in them, the way they soften when they land on you.

Finnick smirks when he notices you staring. “See something you like?”

You roll your eyes and step past him, walking toward the black box placed on the table behind him. It’s wrapped in a silky pink bow, a small envelope resting neatly beside it. The Capitol’s idea of subtlety.

Finnick moves behind you, his front pressing lightly against your back, and you freeze. His breath fans over the nape of your neck, warm and steady, and it makes you shiver. He’s so close you can feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The heat of his skin bleeds through the thin fabric of your gown, and your fingers tighten around the edge of the box.

“Who’s it from?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough in your ear. His lips brush dangerously close to your pulse point, and you swallow hard, trying to mask the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

You shrug, your hand reaching up to tug the ribbon loose. “No clue. One of the Avoxes handed it earlier when I was getting ready.”

The bow falls away, and you lift the lid. Inside, resting on a black cushion, is a delicate seashell-designed hair clip. The silver metal catches the light, glinting with an otherworldly shimmer. The center is studded with pearls—different sizes, some round and smooth, others irregularly shaped like drops of frozen seafoam. When your fingers graze over it, you realize with a start that the pearls are real. Heavy. Perfect.

“Wow…” you breathe out, awestruck.

“Wow,” Finnick echoes, but his voice is cold. Flat.

You’re too preoccupied with the gift to notice how tense he’s gone behind you. His jaw ticks, his smile gone, sea-green eyes darkening as they narrow on the clip in your hands. Who would give you something so personal—something tied so closely to District 4? And how would they even know to get you this? His hands curl into fists at his sides. Someone gave you this. Someone thought they had the right. Who?

“Isn’t it so pretty?” you chirp, holding the hair clip delicately in your hand as you turn toward him.

You don’t notice how close you’ve gotten—how his face is just inches from yours. You don’t care. Too absorbed by the pretty thing in your hand, you beam up at him, bright and careless. Finnick’s expression remains carefully neutral, but his eyes burn beneath it. Years of experience and training keep his smile intact, even as his body hums with jealousy.

“Not as pretty as you are,” he says smoothly, reaching out to take the clip from your hand. His fingers graze yours, but before he can place it back in the box, you stop him.

“Can you put it on me?” Your voice is soft, hesitant. Sweet. Like you’re almost too shy to make the request—but you know exactly what you’re doing.

Finnick’s lips part slightly. He wants to say no. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you wear something from a stranger—something that wasn’t from him. But then you flash that sweet smile of yours, your lashes fluttering just so, and he’s done for. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Sure,” he says, his voice strained.

Your eyes light up, and your smile widens. You tilt your head to the side, offering him the perfect spot. Finnick’s large hands lift to your hair, taking off the crown and smoothing out a few curls as he tries to figure out where to place the clip. His touch is gentle, reverent, his fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

And you—you're too busy watching him to notice much else. From this close, you can see everything. The Capitol dressed him like a creature pulled from the sea—a weapon disguised as a gift. His skin gleams under the lights, faint mermaid-scale patterns dusting his neck and jawline, shimmering every time he shifts. His freckles—sun-kissed and soft—spread across his nose and cheeks, barely visible beneath the faint blush that tints the apples of his cheeks. His lips look fuller, glossed with something subtle that catches the light, making them look distractingly soft. His blonde lashes curl upward, framing those impossibly green eyes of his—the color of the ocean after a storm. Blue eyeshadow dusts his eyelids, dark at the edges and lighter toward the center, resembling the shifting hues of deep water. Small pearls are glued to the corners of his eyes, catching the light with every blink, like drops of seawater frozen in place.

You wonder if Finnick knows how beautiful he looks—how haunting he is. If he does, he doesn’t comment. His brows furrow slightly as he focuses on securing the clip into your hair, his fingers brushing over your ear as he adjusts it.

“There,” he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work. His eyes linger on you longer than necessary. His lips twitch into a half-smile. “Perfect.”

But his gaze flicks down to the clip again, and the tension in his jaw returns.

The Capitol spares no expense when it comes to a victory party. The grand hall is suffocating in excess—gleaming marble floors, ceilings strung with crystalline lights that mimic a starry night sky. Towering floral arrangements line the walls, spilling over with exotic flowers dyed in unnatural shades of violet and emerald green. Gold-accented columns frame the room, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns of sea creatures—tributes to your District. The theme is so on the nose it almost makes you laugh. They’ve turned your trauma into decor.

The people are worse. Capitol elites float through the space like they own it, draped in fabrics so heavy and layered that they might collapse under the weight if not for their sheer arrogance. Their faces are painted in unnatural hues—bright blues, shimmering golds, and jeweled embellishments—and their bodies are adorned with pearls and netted silk, a cheap imitation of the oceanic beauty they try to claim as their own. They laugh too loudly, clutching glasses of champagne and exotic cocktails with long, jeweled fingers. Every smile is too sharp. Every touch lingers too long.

You stand stiffly at the edge of the room, the satin of your gown cool against your skin. Your head is starting to buzz when your escort suddenly appears at your side, their hand pressing lightly against your arm.

“Come,” they say brightly, the falseness of their smile barely concealed beneath the layers of powder on their face. “There are some very important people who’d like to meet you.”

You’re pulled away before you can protest, guided through the throng of bodies until you’re standing before a group of Gamemakers. Their robes shimmer under the low light, gold and crimson and deep navy, each one embroidered with symbols of their status. They greet you with indulgent smiles, their eyes sharp despite the pleasant expressions they wear.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” one of them says, grasping your hand briefly. “We’ve been watching you closely. You showed such… promise.”

You smile stiffly, thanking them, while trying not to recoil from their touch. After a few more minutes of stilted conversation, your escort discreetly tugs at your elbow and whispers, “Why don’t you go enjoy yourself now?”

You don’t hesitate. You cut through the crowd toward the dessert table, drawn in by the delicate towers of candy and pastries shaped like coral and seashells. You pick up a pastel-colored macaron, bringing it to your mouth. One bite in, and your face immediately scrunches in disgust—it tastes like perfume. You swallow it down with effort, already regretting it, when you sense someone approaching from the side.

“Careful,” a voice says lightly. “The Capitol likes to make things look better than they taste.”

You turn, still chewing, and your eyes land on a tall figure with sleek dark hair and sharp, fox-like features. He smiles at you, eyes glittering beneath the glow of the lights. It takes you a second to place them—he was with the Gamemakers earlier.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he says smoothly, extending a hand. “I’m Lysander.”

You take it hesitantly. “I’m—”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are,” Lysander interrupts with a charming smile. His eyes drop to the hair clip nestled in your curls. “Ah, it looks even better than I imagined. I knew it would suit you perfectly.”

You blink. “You gave this to me?”

“I did.” His smile widens. “It reminded me of you. Strong, elegant… dangerous.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the compliment, a soft flush creeping up your neck. Maybe—despite everything—you were still you, even if a Capitol man was the one making you feel this way.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, your hand drifting up to your hair. Your fingers graze the cool metal of the clip, tracing the curve of the delicate shells. “I really liked it.”

Lysander’s smile widens, his eyes gleaming with quiet satisfaction. He tilts his head slightly, a smug glint sharpening the edges of his expression—like he knew you would like it.

“I’m glad you did.”

Finnick’s eyes narrow as he watches you laugh at whatever the hell this Lysander is saying to you. His jaw clenches so tightly he swears he feels his teeth grinding. Across the table, one of the Careers—Gloss—follows his line of sight and smirks.

“Careful, Odair,” Gloss drawls, swirling the deep red wine in his glass. “You might break that pretty smile of yours.”

“I’m fine,” Finnick mutters, eyes still glued to you. Lysander’s hand drifts just a little too close to your arm, and Finnick’s grip on his glass tightens.

“Oh, you’re not fine,” Gloss chuckles, leaning back lazily. “I’ve seen you pissed before. This is worse.”

Cashmere leans in, chin propped on her hand. “I don’t know,” she says, amused. “I think it’s cute. Finnick’s jealous.”

Finnick shoots her a glare. “I’m not jealous.”

“You’re practically vibrating,” Gloss snickers. He leans in close, his breath brushing Finnick’s ear. “Y’know, if you don’t make a move right now, he might steal her away from you.”

That’s it.

Finnick shoves his wine glass into Gloss’s chest without a word and strides toward you, cutting through the crowd with dangerous precision.

You’re laughing at something Lysander says when an arm slides smoothly around your waist. Warm fingers press lightly against your side, and the scent of salt and citrus washes over you a second before Finnick’s voice hums beside your ear.

“Well, isn’t she a beaut?” he says smoothly, his smile bright and dangerous. “I’m the one who chose the outfit.”

You freeze, eyes widening as Finnick’s hand slides up to graze the shell of your ear, his thumb brushing over the edge of the hair clip. Lysander’s expression shifts, polite but guarded, as Finnick’s gaze flickers toward him.

“But,” Finnick murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that coils through the air like smoke, “you’re more breathtaking without it.”

The glint in his sea-green eyes is sharp, predatory as he tilts his head toward Lysander. He winks—slow, deliberate—and the effect is immediate. Lysander’s smile falters at the edges, thinning like a blade. An awkward chuckle slips from his lips, but the gleam in his eyes remains calculating as he shifts effortlessly back into the conversation.

“You see, Finnick also has quite a few admirers,” Lysander says, swirling the golden liquid in his glass with lazy precision. The amber reflects the glow of the chandeliers above, casting rippling patterns on his hand. “They’re very… passionate. You might find yourself with a few of your own soon.”

A crease threatens to form between your brows as your lips pull downward. What did he mean by that? You glance toward Finnick, searching his face for answers. His smile remains fixed, charming as ever—but the tick in his jaw betrays him. The muscle flexes, tension carving sharp lines into his perfect features.

Lysander’s gaze flicks toward Finnick, his smirk sharpening. He lifts his glass in a lazy toast—toward Finnick first, then toward you—his brow quirking upward in a silent challenge.

“Careful, Finnick,” Lysander drawls, voice silk-smooth but laced with poison. “You know how possessive the Capitol can be.”

Finnick lets out a low, hearty chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. His fingers splay across your hip possessively, as if to remind both you and Lysander exactly where you belong.

“I’m sure we can handle ourselves just fine,” Finnick says smoothly, though his smile hardens at the edges. His knuckles turn white where they grip your waist, and his eyes glint dangerously beneath the flicker of candlelight.

Lysander’s smile widens. He sets his glass down on a passing tray and steps toward you, invading the space Finnick has carefully claimed. Finnick’s grip tightens, but Lysander only smiles. His hand finds yours, his touch light but deliberate as he lifts it toward his lips.

His eyes never leave yours as he presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, lingering just long enough to make Finnick’s hand twitch at your waist.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N).”

Lysander’s eyes flick toward Finnick—just a flash of triumph beneath his lashes—before he slips effortlessly into the crowd, swallowed by the sea of Capitol excess.

Finnick’s arm remains locked around you, his hand still pressed against your hip. His smile doesn’t return. His eyes remain dark, fixed on the spot where Lysander disappeared.

“What?” he says at your questioning look, his voice low and edged with something sharp. “Couldn’t let him have you all to himself.”

The music swells, a slow, haunting melody carried by the soft hum of strings and the delicate trill of a harp. Golden light from the chandeliers above reflects off the marble floors, casting flickering shadows across the velvet-draped walls. The Capitol’s elite swirl around you in a blur of silk and sequins, their laughter mixing with the music like a distorted symphony.

Finnick’s hand slides down to yours. His touch is steady, warm, grounding—but there’s an edge to it. His thumb brushes across the back of your hand as he steps toward you, his sea-green eyes dark under the soft glow of the lights. He doesn’t speak. He just waits.

You hesitate. Your pulse thrums beneath your skin, too loud, too fast. Lysander’s words echo in your head like a ghostly whisper:

"You might find yourself with a few of your own soon."

What did he mean by that? You’ve had admirers before, of course—you’re a victor now, and victors are Capitol property whether they like it or not—but Lysander’s tone was different. Knowing. Almost… possessive. Like he knew something you didn’t.

Or maybe he just wanted you to feel that way.

A sharp tug brings you back to the present. Finnick’s eyes search yours, his brow pulling into a subtle crease. His hand is still waiting, open, patient—but there’s something tight around the corners of his mouth, like he’s not sure you’ll take it.

You slip your hand into his. His fingers curl around yours instantly, and without a word, he leads you toward the dance floor.

The crowd parts around you as Finnick turns, his other hand sliding to your waist with practiced ease. His palm presses into the small of your back, pulling you closer. Your breath catches as his chest brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin seeps through the thin silk of your gown.

Finnick’s eyes flick to your mouth before meeting your gaze. “Relax,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that only you can hear. “I don’t bite.”

You let out a shaky breath as he guides you into the first step. His movements are fluid, effortless, like he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has. Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s golden boy. The heartthrob of Panem. The victor who could seduce a room with nothing more than a glance.

But right now, the sharpness in his gaze isn’t meant for the crowd—it’s meant for you.

Your hands settle on his shoulders as he steers you through the room. You can feel the strength beneath his skin, the tension humming through his muscles. Finnick’s jaw tightens every time another pair of eyes lands on you—hungry, possessive eyes. The Capitol’s gaze feels like a thousand knives pressing into your back.

And yet, Finnick keeps you steady. His hand on your waist, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. His lips hover dangerously close to your ear as he leans in.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he whispers, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. “Whatever Lysander said—don’t let it get to you.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders. “How do you know that?”

Finnick’s mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. His hand slides further around your waist, drawing you so close that the thin barrier of your clothing feels nonexistent. His voice drops, low and rough:

“Because I know you.”

Your chest tightens painfully. You want to believe that—that Finnick knows you, that someone understands you—but Lysander’s words are still coiled in the back of your mind like thorns. What if Lysander was right? What if you were already losing yourself to the Capitol?

Finnick’s hand at your back presses more firmly. His green eyes glint under the light as he tilts his head toward you. “What else did he say to you?”

You hesitate. You think about how Lysander also mentioned how the Capitol likes to show off sometimes. You didn’t think of it at all at first but when he started referencing how the victors of the hunger games are some sort of objects, to be praised, and show off as trophies; it had you navigating the conversation to another topic. Too scared to dwell on a sensitive topic like that. Not wanting to know what’s lying ahead for you in the future.

The music shifts to something softer, the strings slowing into a lilting cadence that urges you closer.

“He said… How he would like to show me off like they do to others.”

Finnick’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly. His mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Of course they do,” he says, his voice losing some of its softness. “You’re beautiful. That’s the whole point.”

Your heart twists painfully. The whole point. To be admired, desired, paraded like a doll in silk and pearls. That’s what the Capitol does to victors—it makes them beautiful so it can break them more easily.

“Finnick,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of music. “What if that’s all they ever see?”

His eyes flash. His hand at your waist tightens, dragging you flush against him. Your breath stutters as his mouth lowers to your ear, his voice hard and sharp and dangerous.

“Then they don’t deserve to look at you.”

Your breath hitches. For a moment, the world blurs—just you and Finnick and the heat of his body pressed against yours. But then, movement from the edge of the room catches your eye. Lysander, standing at the edge of the dance floor with a fresh drink in hand, his eyes gleaming beneath the crystal light. His gaze locks with yours—and he smiles.

Finnick notices it too. His hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip, his palm pressing possessively against your side. You feel his breath stutter as his mouth ghosts against your ear.

“You want to know why Lysander gave you that clip?” Finnick’s voice darkens, his eyes fixed on Lysander’s smirking figure. “It’s not because you’re beautiful. It’s because he thinks he can own you.”

Your heart hammers painfully in your chest.

Finnick’s hand finds your chin, gently tilting your face toward his. His green eyes burn through you, fierce and protective and something deeper, something raw beneath the surface.

“But he’s wrong,” Finnick murmurs, his mouth a breath away from yours. “Because you only belong to yourself.”

The music swells. You don’t know if it’s the heat of the room or the weight of Finnick’s gaze, but suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

Finnick’s lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Shall we give them something to talk about?”

Before you can answer, Finnick spins you effortlessly beneath his arm, his hand catching yours just as the music shifts into a faster rhythm. His laugh—a low, rumbling sound—brushes against your skin as he pulls you close once again.

From the corner of his eyez he sees Lysander’s smile fades at the edges.

Finnick’s smile widens, slow and knowing, before his gaze flickers back to you. His hand rises to your hair, fingers brushing delicately against the strands as he works at the clip. His touch is so gentle, so precise, that it sends a shiver racing down your spine. Despite the distraction, neither of you miss a beat—your steps remain perfectly in sync with the lilting rhythm of the music.

You lead him across the floor, your hands resting against his shoulders as he follows your movements effortlessly. Finnick’s other hand lingers in your hair, carefully undoing the clasp. His knuckles graze the nape of your neck as the clip loosens, making your breath hitch.

When the cool weight of the clip leaves your hair, Finnick’s arm shifts. He twirls you beneath his raised hand, the silk of your gown swirling around your legs as you spin in the center of the dance floor. Your laugh bubbles out unbidden, mixing with the soft strains of the strings.

As he pulls you back toward him, his eyes glint mischievously. An avox passes by, head lowered as they weave through the dancers. Finnick’s hand moves so smoothly you almost miss it—a single swift motion as he slips the hair clip into the avox’s pocket without breaking stride. His arm snakes back around your waist, his hand splaying wide across the small of your back as he draws you flush against him once more.

“There,” Finnick murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Much better.”

Your hair, now loose and tousled from his handiwork, spills over your shoulders in soft waves. Finnick’s eyes flick over you, satisfaction curling at the edges of his mouth. His hand shifts, his thumb skimming the bare skin of your back where your gown dips dangerously low.

You raise a brow at him. “Did you just—”

“Return it to its rightful place?” Finnick interrupts smoothly, his smile turning dangerous. “Let’s just say Lysander might have a hard time finding it again.”

Your chest tightens as Finnick’s hand presses more firmly against your back, leading you deeper into the dance. His eyes darken as they flick toward the edge of the room—where Lysander stands, his smile thin and cold as he watches you both. Finnick’s mouth curves into a knowing smirk.

“Now,” Finnick purrs, his hand gliding from your waist to the small of your back, his gaze sharp and unwavering.

“Would you like to see the garden with me?"

[the-witchhunter]

You know, if Spider Punk gets people interested in punk, good. We all have to start somewhere and Hobie is a damn good representation. If he is what makes a person go “hey, this seems cool, I should check it out.” good. That’s one more person interested in punk and wanting to get into it. 

That being said, if you are new to punk(hi baby punks!) some things to keep in mind

1. Punk philosophy is largely anti-authoritarian. Individual and even punk communities differ on specifics, and some are more political than others, but the core themes tend to be resisting those who would control and oppress us, and supporting and including people in your community

2. Punk fashion SHOULD NOT BE EXPENSIVE. A lot of fashion companies will try and sell you jackets for a couple hundred bucks, but that’s just corporations trying to cash in on a subculture. A big part of Punk and its history is DIY because Punk should be open to everyone and putting that behind a fashion paywall is just not punk. You don’t even need to be dressing punk to BE punk, but thrift your clothes. Make stencils and use spray paint or bleach to give it a pattern. Use old jeans to make patches. Buy your spikes and studs in bulk and go wild. Turn your old t shirt that doesn't fit anymore into a back patch. Go crazy with some safety pins. You can make more with $30 than you can buy from a designer for $300. And skill is not needed, frankly if it looks a little wonky it makes it look more punk

3. Dental floss makes for good thread for sewing on patches. It’s good for thick, stylistic stitches and is both cheap and durable. Don’t know why I made this its own point but it’s one of the most common tricks for punk DIY besides taking paint to scraps of fabric to make a patch. Honestly, if you want to know how to do more, just ask other punks how they made their vests and jackets, they’ll probably be happy enough to tell you

4. Punk philosophy and music is closely related. The communities evolved around the music scene so it is closely linked. Give some punk bands a try if you haven't already. There’s a bunch of subgenres so you’ll probably find something you like. From OG “proto punk” where the sound was still developing into what we call punk, to pop punk, anarco punk, and folk punk. There are people who say you can’t be punk if you don’t listen to the music, and there’s a whole conversation to be had about all that, but it’s just a good idea to try listening to some punk music

5, Nazis fuck off

6. Seriously, nazis fuck off. There’s a whole history behind it and why we associate skinhead punks with neo nazis. Largely we’ve made it clear we don’t want nazis in our community and the street punk music scene that nazi punks became associated with has made strides to separate themselves from that.

7. Be cool and respectful of people regardless of religion, ethnicity, race, sexuality, gender, background, etc. Solidarity with our community is important and all sorts are welcome. Gatekeeping isn’t cool and frankly women and minorities have done a lot for punk as a whole. Respect for everyone

[crazygirl0152]

Here is day 145 and title:Crazy pattern 13 with stickman mixed with drip in spray paint

[cipheramnesia]

If I was gonna do a YA novel, I think the way I'd introduce my protagonist is like she's breaking into the school at night, because she's going to prank the classroom of this science teacher everyone hates, right? So she's all set, but then she discovers the guy is still in the classroom. And normally he's just this very curt, strict teacher, but now he's in there with candles burning in red light and esoteric patterns on the floor. So she backs out and trips over a trashcan, then next thing she knows his whole face and body are splitting open into some horrible, fluid covered monster which starts to come at her.

What ensues is a cat & mouse mixup of Home Alone / Predator with the protagonist barely more than one step ahead of a slavering monster, and constantly having to improvise traps and weapons and distractions as she tries to escape, ending with a final showdown in the gymnasium where she's able to use gym equiment to deal it a lethal blow. Anyway, science teacher monster is laying on the floor in his own spreading blood and with his last breath he says something like, "there are monsters here, please be careful," and dies, and that's when our protagonist realizes she's actually spent half the night running from things mich more dangerous than her science teacher, indescribable extradimensional horrors which pack their monstrous form inside a flesh sac to look human during the day, while at night and other times they shed their skin to hunt new victims, or to slowly turn the school itself into the beachhead of their nightmare world.

I would call it Nikki Clayton, 8th Grade Monster hunter. It's just her, a machete with exchantes runes painted on it, and a backpack full of spray paint against the world.

[revelboo]

hello! Do you plan to continue that mer!megatron fic?

Sure! I got a bit distracted, but then I’m very easily distracted. By everything. All the time

Seek and Destroy Pt 2

Mer!Megatron x Reader

Playing the flashlight back and forth in front of you as you walk in the dark, the sand is shockingly cold and damp under your feet even though it had been almost too hot during the day. Watching the ghostly, pale shapes of tiny crabs dart spider-quick with the hush of the tide flirting higher and higher, it’s peaceful. Bending to pick up a little shell the late afternoon storms had tossed up on the beach, you turn it over and slip it into the bag at your hip.

And move on. Hunting bigger shells to sell to the tourists that stop by to watch you paint. Sometimes they only buy a shell, but sometimes they’ll buy one of your paintings and you need the money. Shivering as the wind shifts and sea spray mists your skin, there’s something freeing about standing here in the dark, no people, it almost feels like an alien world. Just the hush of the night and the sound of the waves. Going down on a knee when you find a hold some kid dug, you gasp in pain and hear a sound out in the dark, a deep, growling thrum that steals your breath. You think of whale song even though, honestly, it’s nothing like that. Nothing like anything you’ve ever heard. Standing up as your ankle throbs, you play your flashlight over the sand and there’s something there. A massive shape, bigger than you lying on the sand. A beached dolphin or shark? Do they make noises like that? You’re almost positive they don’t as you head further up the beach, moving parallel to the mystery animal. There’s a tail, fins. But they’re not quite right. What are you looking at? Flesh or interlapping metal?

And you nearly drop the flashlight when you see the arm, wickedly clawed fingers with thin webbing between them dug into the sand. Everything about this thing is wrong. Monstrous. Skin crawling, you play the light higher trying to figure out what you’re looking at and its eyes reflect the light like an animal’s eye-shine when they open. Right before it flings itself at you, sharp teeth snapping and you fall again with a cry. Heart racing, you shove yourself further up the beach, flashlight on the thing as it thrashes, big tail lifting and thumping in the ocean. Like it’s trying to throw itself back into the water, and it can’t, and the light catches on a pattern. It takes your brain a minute to understand what you’re seeing. That this nightmare thing is tangled in a fishing net. That it’s bleeding and hurt. Maybe dying.

Hissing a warning as the two legged monster, blinds him, making his eyes burn, he tries to shove himself closer to the sea. The fight had cost him, he’d made them bleed. But so had he and he’d been too hurt to fight the currents, the ocean itself betraying him. Dragging and tossing him when a storm had roared through above. Had been driven into one of the nets the land monsters use to hunt, clawing and fighting to get free had only made it worse. Managing to tear the net free and pulling it along with him, bleeding and too weak. Becoming prey instead of predator.

Clawing at the sand, trying to shove himself back into the ocean, he’s too weak. Knows he’s going to die here when the sun comes up and wonders if you’ll watch. It’s almost funny, one of the soft skinned monsters holding vigil over him. He’s laughing, a rasping, miserable coughing as you linger. Why is your face so eerily like one of his own? Always wondered about that. Hears you make your funny, chirping sounds, looking around. Nothing about you hinting that you’re a deadly predator, too soft and weak. His claws could sink deep and split you open if you came close enough. And to his surprise you do.

Reaching into the bag at your hip and pulling out something that you flip open and he bares his fangs in threat when he sees the blade. Just because he’s soon dead, doesn’t mean he’ll let you cut him up for trophies. Tail thumping in the surf, he snarls and growls threats as you ease down, your strange legs folding unsettlingly. A little hand up chirping as you reach for the netting and he snaps at you, not even coming close, but you yank that tiny hand back, eyes wide. Shakily warbling at him you gesture and reach again. Are you that stupid?

Rumbling as you hook a finger in the netting, whole body tense, you watch him. Still chirping at him, tone soothing even though he can taste the acrid stink of your fear, and your soft, alien noises are coaxing. And you quickly hook the tip of the knife in the netting and yank, sawing. Cutting him loose? Stunned, he goes still watching you saw at the net. Trying so hard to not touch him. Terrified and determined. Trying to help?

You’ve lost your mind. You must have as you frantically hack at the netting, trying not to touch this monster’s strangely luminous blood and those reflective red eyes stare at you with predatory interest. Don’t even know why you’re freeing this thing. It really is a monster, humanoid torso, piscine lower body. A nightmare fuel mermaid with horrifying teeth. A nervous laugh bubbles out of you as you keep cutting and the thing moves. Lunges.

Back hitting the sand as its weight drives the air from your lungs, those sharp teeth inches away from your face. “Don’t, please,” You’re babbling incoherently, pleading as its breath fans your cheek and neck. Hear it making a low, chuffing thrum that’s more felt than heard as its teeth graze your neck. Expecting pain, bracing for it. Strong fingers wrap around your wrist and squeeze until you feel the bones shift, until you gasp in pain and drop the knife. And he’s pulling your hand to him as you fight, breath coming in frightened rasps, feeling his warm tongue slide against your palm to make you realize you cut yourself when he knocked you down. Those red eyes staring you down as your heart races and he makes that low, tonal rumble of noise, lip curling slightly. Before shoving away from you, clawing inelegantly for the ocean and throwing himself in as you tremble and stare while he disappears. Because no one’s going to believe you.

Previous

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[silentium-symphony]

Autumn-disiac (Link x Reader) SMUT

a/n: sorry i've been gone for awhile! here's some ~fun stuff~ to make up for lost time ;) i haven't really written anything in awhile, so please bear with me as i get back into the swing of things!

cw: minors dni, afab!reader, link going FERAL over his meal :), reader is just a sobbing horny mess LOL, praising, cunnilingus, overstimulation, porn w/o plot, christ what the hell did i write

wc: 595

♤♢ ~~ ♡♧

The return of autumn heralded many things. Those sick of summer's swelter happily traded in sweat-yellowed tank tops for cozy, chunky knit cardigans. Fur-lined pants and leaf-patterned smocks replaced rustic shorts, and other summer apparel was shelved for the next growing season. Mothers' calls for their children chime earlier and earlier, paralleling the harvest darkness that encroached sooner in the day. Heroic epics crafted from the day's play are often discarded at the door, forgotten, as children are embraced by their mothers first and the smells of her cooking second.

Beyond the intimate comforts of home lie the wilds, which have since been shadowed with deep magenta. A thin spray of mist rolled down the hills, carrying with it the softest hint of moved air. The breeze, chilled by the beginnings of the harvest season, lapped at a set of blurry windows fogged from within.

A tongue, moistened with your sweetness and honeyed with sinful whispers, dragged the edge of ecstatic muscle up and down your abused folds. A brittle sob erupted from your chest as you tossed sweat-pressed locks from your forehead.

"L-Link, we've been at this for hours..."

"I know, baby, I know. You're doing so well. Just one more round, okay? You know how much I need this sweet pussy."

Your beloved's sultry purr rumbled through your core, sending bolts of electricity through pleasure-numbed nerves. Calloused palms sunk into your soft, supple thighs as he urged you forward and back with a gentle sway.

"Mm... Rock your hips for me... That's it, that's it, love..."

The sounds of desperate suckling and pussy-drunk groans brimmed the air with sickeningly sweet depravity. The musk of hours-long sex perfumed your senses into a mindless, blissed-out mush, electrified only by the occasional flick of your clit or the teasing teething from the man below. Leaning back slightly, you rested your shaky arms atop Link's thighs, doing little to still his erratic and involuntary pistoning--a futile attempt to fuck the hole he was currently feasting.

"That's it, hun, lean on me. I'll take care of ya, promise."

That all-too familiar tension was mounting deep in your gut, threatening to spill over and drown the man underneath. Honed in on your tells, Link initiated a dangerous combo of tongue and finger, alternating between fucking and rubbing until your vision blurred with more tears and your throat burned with more pleas.

"Mm... You want it, yeah? Does my beautiful, perfect girl wanna cum for me? Hm? Wanna cum, baby?"

"P-Please...! Link, I'm so close, please let me cum! Please let me cum! Plea--!"

A burning white throbbed through your core, snapping the thread that dangled your last bits of sanity over the velvety abyss. A searing light, hot and addicting, temporarily blinded you as you felt yourself fall back onto a sticky body.

A loud cry buzzed through your subconscious as something hot and wet squirted all over your front, painting your tits and stomach with thick threads of white. Pleasure-stricken convulsions rocked his body as more heat spilled onto you.

No energy could be expended to bask in the final afterglow, your eyelids weighted by an exhaustion you had never known. Some shuffling, and soon, the hot stickiness on your back and front was cooled by a wet rag. What could vaguely be recognized as fingers combed through the undoubtedly sweaty, tangled bird's nest formed atop your head. Soft, lovestruck murmurs coming from your beloved hastened you quicker into slumber.

You could only hope he understood your gurgled hum as an 'I love you.'

(Don't worry, he did).

[dutiful-wildcraft]

I thought to myself, ya know? There isn't enough Gaz/Ghost. So I fixed that problem.

Fluff, 1K, unedited, enjoy <3

It starts with the pair laying together, soft and sweet in the afterglow.

Never in a million years would Gaz guess that Simon would match his touchiness. Scarred hands massaging and petting almost incessantly at Gaz’s warm skin. It’s reverent, eyes and hands roaming over his body with a soft curiosity that had Gaz shivering in his arms.

Simon's eyes flicker up from where they were trained on the curve of Gaz's waist, tries to withdraw his hand when he catches Gaz's look of amusement.

Gaz snags him or course, gives his palm a squeeze and replaces it firmly back at his waist, squirming in closer to Simon's bulky frame, like a cat demanding pets.

Simon continues after a moment, shifting to draw patterns with his fingertips over his skin that has Gaz biting back ticklish laughs, he peers back up at him, finds eye black stained eyes trained back on him, an almost confused furrow to his brow as his fingers stroke back and forth.

“What's on your mind doll?” Gaz murmurs, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. 

Simon pauses again, flattens his palm back out to slide down his hip, grab a handful a plush ass that has Gaz biting at his shoulder in playful retaliation.

“How are you so bloody soft?” Simon finally rumbles out, curling an arm around him to squeeze him close, bury his face into Gaz’s curls and inhale the warm scent that constantly clings to the man. 

Gaz laughs, rich and sweet, presses a trio of kisses over Simon’s heart in a quick rhythm. 

“I’ll show you.”

-

Gaz half thinks the big boy was going to back out as he corrals Simon into his bathroom. Simon stands there,  still and quiet as Gaz moves around the small space, void like eyes watching him as he unloads a small collection of hair and skincare products he’d picked up specifically for gentle giant.

It isn't until after a sufficient amount of steam is billowing from the shower and Gaz is guiding Simon’s old band t shirt off of his shoulders does he notice the stark blush creeping up his chest, red creeping up his neck. 

“Gettin’ shy on me?” Gaz teases, placating him with another kiss as he tugs off the ratty balaclava, revealing Simon’s full glare.  His hair has grown out, blonde curls sad and dry. Gaz would take care of that too. 

Gaz sets to work as soon as they climb into the shower,  guides Simon under the warm spray and pours a sweet smelling shampoo between his palms, working Simon’s curls over with gentle massaging. It’s powerful Gaz thinks, to see his lover like this, at peace, eyes closed as Gaz draws swirls in the suds of his hair. 

He applies a light leave in conditioner to sit next while he works his way down to clean away the remnant eye black from Simon’s face. Rubbing away the stubborn paint from his eyes and cheeks with gentle hands. Simon is putty in his arms, practically leaning on him as he works an expensive soap over his curves, thoroughly massaging the sweet smelling scent into skin as he works him over from head to toe.

After he’s finished he props Simon up against the shower wall and subtly gives a little show of lathering himself down. Simon’s hands are on him almost immediately, his hands playing in the bubbles against his skin as he steals kisses under the warm spray. Gaz just barely gets him pried off to wash his own hair, almost giddy with the way Simon watches him. Eyes following the rivulets of water that slide along his skin. 

It’s a challenge to coax his cold natured partner out of the hot spray, but Gaz can barely fight off his pleased grin as he finally pulls Simon free, his lover red faced and dreamy as he pats him dry with a soft towel, and works another lotion into his pale skin. He can tell Simon is valiantly trying to will away the blood flowing to his groin, chubbing up his length as Gaz sits pretty on his knees, working over Simon’s calves and thighs. 

“Like being pampered don’t you doll?” Gaz purrs, pressing a cheeky kiss to his thigh that has Simon’s fingers curling into his hair in warning. “Be patient.” he reminds. 

Simon complies, of course he does, lets Gaz coat is hair with a light curl cream, fingers carefully taming and reshaping the short curls that Simon has neglected for years. Sits quietly on the toilet seat while Gaz shaves away the stubble that he knows Simon hates , lines up the back of his neck to keep his curls from touching there, applies cool feeling creams to face to battle any razor burn of acne.

By the time it’s all said and done, Gaz can’t help but admire the man. 

Simon is glowing. 

Pretty blonde curls so soft and shiny. Face clean and cheeks pink. Gaz runs his hands over his skin, preening happily at the silky glide of his fingers over Simon’s muscles, the way Simon’s own scent mingles beautifully with the honey almond scent Gaz painted him with. A little treat Gaz is more than happy to have all to himself. 

He’s never seen the man drunk, but Gaz thinks this must be pretty close. Simon’s eyes are half-lidded, dopey with the way Gaz caresses his face, pets over his skin like he’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. Kisses him sweet and slow, chuckling as Simon’s big paws find him again, pulling him in close by the hips, former chub now full and hot against his thigh. 

“Come along sweets, not done with you yet.”

[fandomsandfeminism]

Since we're talking about abstract art, I don't think I've shown these off before.

So the basic technique is:

1. Start with a black canvas.

2. Swirl dish soap in a cool pattern on the canvas. (The soap will be the black lines later)

3. Spray the canvas with spray paint. The paint slides off the soap, but will dry on the non-soaped bits.

4. Wait for it to dry, then gently rinse the canvas to get the soap off and air dry it.

You can also spray paint the canvas first, let it dry, then soap, and spray black (or another color) over it. (Which is what I did for the last one. I also washed that one more aggressively, which got some cool texture stuff going on)

[jhyoos]

hiiii! i love your writing so much and recently i've been craving for an angsty powder/jinx (i'm not sure if you write for her) x reader one-sided story (by reader's side) and idk, if you want to add a happy ending, you can do what you like better! could you, please?😩😭🙏🏻✨

Bound To You

jinx x reader

mentions : established relationship, break-up, angst, romance, between s1 & s2

summary : jinx thinks it's best to break-up after blowing up the council.

You and Jinx had been together for three years, bonded by ink, chaos, and something deeper neither of you ever had to put into words. You were the same age, but life had shaped you differently—while she ran with the wild and reckless, you carved out a space for yourself as a self-made tattoo artist in the depths of Zaun. Your setup was far from professional, your tools secondhand, your ink not always the best quality, but people came to you for the art, for the price, for the stories.

Jinx was one of them. She’d walked into your shop one day, all swagger and mischief, asking for a set of cloud tattoos. The process took time, so she kept coming back, letting you etch those wisps of sky into her skin while conversation filled the spaces between the buzzing of your needle. It started as casual banter, then inside jokes, then something else entirely—something that made her linger even after the ink had dried.

When Jinx finally asked you out, she did it in the most Jinx way possible: by spray-painting a bunch of unconscious goons into the words “Will you be my girlfriend?” right in the middle of your apartment. She was beaming, so damn proud of her masterpiece. You? Not so much. But looking at her—grinning, slightly unhinged, waiting for your answer—you couldn’t say no.

Your apartment became her safe haven. Whenever the weight of the world crushed down on her—when grief, anger, or memories of Vi clawed at her mind—she’d find her way to you. She’d lay her head on your lap, spilling her thoughts in tangled sentences while your fingers traced absentminded patterns on her arm. She missed Vi more than she ever admitted outright, but you saw it in her eyes, heard it in the way her voice would break. And you? You listened. You gave her words of wisdom, reassurances she sometimes took and sometimes didn’t.

Jinx wasn’t overly affectionate—not in the conventional way. Kisses were rare, and sex wasn’t frequent, but when she did show love, it was always a surprise. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, she’d press a quick, unexpected kiss to your lips and laugh at your reaction. Other times, she'd show up at your apartment in the dead of night, wordlessly shutting the door before turning you inside out in the way only she could.

You loved everything about her. Her intelligence, her beauty, her chaotic humor. Jinx was everything you could ever want. And for three years, she was yours.

It all started when the whispers began—the rumors that Vi had returned to Zaun. At first, it was just street talk, the kind of gossip that spread like wildfire in the undercity, but then she was at your doorstep. Vi, standing there in the flesh, with a blue-haired enforcer at her side, eyes sharp and questioning.

They asked about Silco. About Jinx.

"I don’t know," you said, voice firm as you stared at them. And it was the truth—you really didn’t. Jinx had vanished the moment word got out that her sister was back. You hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her. The absence gnawed at you, but you weren’t about to hand over even the scraps of information you did have. So, before Vi could press further, you slammed the door in their faces and locked it.

Days turned to weeks.

You missed her—her weirdness, her sassy comebacks, the way she’d throw her arms around you when she was feeling playful or press a chaste kiss to your forehead when she thought you weren’t paying attention. But she was nowhere to be found. And then, one day, word spread that Jinx had done the unthinkable—she had blown up the council.

The undercity was electric with her name. People were rallying, some mourning, others idolizing. A new era was being painted in shades of chaos, and Jinx was at the center of it. People even started dyeing their hair blue in her honor, turning her into something more than just a person—she was a symbol now. And since everyone knew you were her girlfriend, your business boomed. People wanted ink that would mark them as Jinx’s followers, as if carrying a piece of her on their skin would make them untouchable. It was overwhelming, exhausting, but it kept your mind from caving in on itself.

Until that night.

You came home after another long day, locking the door behind you before toeing off your shoes. Your body ached, your mind was heavy, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your bed. But as you stepped into your room, you froze. A hooded figure stood in the shadows, unmoving.

A gasp escaped your lips as you fumbled for the light switch. The moment the room flooded with dim light, your heart leapt into your throat.

Blue braids peeked out from under the hood.

"Jinx?" you called out, voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, she turned to face you. It was her. But she looked different—drained, haunted, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Without hesitation, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her, holding her tight. She smelled like oil, gunpowder, and the faint remnants of whatever perfume she used to wear.

"Are you okay? Where have you been? I missed you so much," you murmured against her.

But she didn’t hug you back.

You felt the stillness in her, the way her arms stayed at her sides. Slowly, you pulled away, looking into those tired, stormy eyes.

"What’s wrong?" you asked, your stomach twisting with unease.

She hesitated, her gaze flickering down for a brief moment before she spoke.

"I don’t think we can be together anymore," she said, voice hollow, barely a whisper.

Your heart plummeted.

"What?"

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of her words slamming into your chest like a freight train.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper.

Jinx looked at you then—really looked at you. There was something in her eyes you had never seen before. Guilt? Regret? Fear?

"I'm wanted," she muttered, her voice hollow. "A high price. Enforcers are breathing down my neck, and it won’t be long before they figure out I’ve been with you."

Your stomach twisted. "Jinx—"

"If they find out about you, they’ll come after you too," she cut you off, her voice sharp, raw. "I can’t let that happen."

You stepped closer, shaking your head. "I don’t care. Let them come—I can handle myself."

Jinx scoffed, a bitter smirk curling her lips. "You really think that? You think you can take on Piltover’s enforcers? They’re not just gonna arrest you, they’re gonna use you. You’re leverage."

"I don’t care!" you snapped, your chest burning with frustration. "I care about you! We can leave, go somewhere else—anywhere. We can figure this out together!"

She let out a breathy, humorless chuckle, shaking her head. "That’s cute. Really, it is." But there was no joy in her voice—just exhaustion. Just pain. "If you get hurt or if you die...I wont be able to live with myself."

"Don’t say that—"

"It’s the truth," she shot back, her fingers curling into fists. "I can’t be what you need me to be. And you can’t be what I need anymore, either."

"Stop deciding that for me!" you snapped, stepping forward, reaching for her, but she flinched back.

Her eyes darkened. "This isn't a choice."

Silence stretched between you, suffocating.

"So that's it?" you asked, your throat tight. "After three years, you just—what? Walk away?"

Jinx hesitated for a moment, her breath shallow. You could see the war in her eyes, the hesitation in her stance. But then, just as quickly, she shut it down. She tugged her hood up over her braids, shrouding herself in shadow.

"You’ll be better off without me," she murmured, voice barely audible. "Just… forget me, okay?"

Your heart screamed at you to do something—to grab her, to tell her she was wrong, to beg her to stay—but your body wouldn’t move.

And then, just like that, she turned.

"Jinx, wait!" you called, your voice cracking.

She didn’t stop.

"Please—don’t do this!"

But the door creaked as it shut behind her, and you stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, your hands trembling, your vision blurring.

Jinx was gone.

And for the first time in three years, you truly felt alone.

It had been nearly a month since Jinx walked out of your life, and in that time, everything around you had crumbled.

The streets of Zaun had changed—more enforcers, more raids, more bodies being dragged off to Stillwater. The name Jinx carried more than just a reputation now; it carried fear, chaos, and destruction. And you? You were caught in the middle.

You shut down your tattoo shop, selling off the property after hearing about the latest wave of Jinxers arrested and locked up in Stillwater. You had always been loyal to Zaun, always supported its people in your own way. But when it came to violence—to the way things had spiraled—you reached your limit.

You didn’t want to be associated.

And so, you drifted.

Days bled into nights, spent drowning in cheap liquor at The Last Drop, trying to forget the way Jinx’s voice used to sound, the way her touch used to linger. You let the numbness consume you, burying the ache of her absence under layers of booze and exhaustion.

But that all changed the night there was a knock on your door.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe your landlord, though you had already paid your rent. You groaned as you pushed yourself off your couch, rubbing your face as you stumbled toward the door, already irritated.

"Dude, I’ve already paid—"

Your breath caught in your throat as your words died mid-sentence.

Jinx stood there.

She looked different.

Her long braids were gone, her hair chopped short in a messy, uneven cut. Bruises and cuts littered her skin, some fresh, some fading. There was something hollow in her eyes, something worn and desperate.

Before you could say a word, she grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing her lips onto yours.

You melted into the kiss, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. She was warm, familiar, everything you had been craving for the past month. You clung to her, pouring every ounce of pain, longing, and relief into the way your lips moved against hers.

When she finally pulled away, her breath was heavy against your lips.

"Come with me," she murmured, her voice urgent. "I’m leaving—far away from here. And I want you to come with me."

Your heart pounded as you searched her face.

"Jinx—" You bit your lip, shaking your head. "I haven’t seen you in a month. You disappeared—no word, nothing."

Her grip on your wrist tightened.

"And I’ll make up for every second of it," she promised, her voice barely above a whisper. "I swear."

You stared into her eyes, searching for any hint of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. She was serious. More serious than you had ever seen her.

You exhaled, nodding slowly.

"Let me grab some important stuff."