#Zero knowledge blocks

[fatesundress]

⭑ lessons in wanting. tom riddle x reader

summary. “you try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.” “can you?” of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. you could walk away now if you wanted. but you step forward. and tom understands.

tags. 18+ MDNI, explicitly fem afab reader, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, academic rivals, pureblood reader, she is WEIRD okay i can’t do y/n stuff anymore she’s just got some issues, poor parental relationship, she probably needs a therapist but so does tom so it’s like pedmas basically, students have individual dorms for the sake of smut you're just gonna have to suspend your disbelief ok. tom has a bursary i don't know, fingering, cunnilingus, first times, freak4freak

note. HAPPY TWO YEARS OF FATESUNDRESS! i think the time between when i last wrote smut + the knowledge that i now have moots who are aware of this account and that it is me (GO AWAY!!!!) have worked in agonizing synchrony to give me the worst writer’s block of my life. every word typed felt like it was being spoken directly into a confessional booth. i may never write smut again. we move.

word count. 7k

It started as a natural pastime. Your name rose above his, his rose about yours, bouts of envy crossed bouts of pride and fizzled into renewed initiative. The goal in all of it was the same as it had been since you were a child: to do your best, and be sure your best was better than everyone else’s. Your parents endeavoured to see you to live up to your station and you made it your job to do just that. The fear was instilled in you young — that an ancestral name could draw as much scrutiny as glory if it wasn’t tended well.

So you tend to it. You just have no idea when doing your best morphed specifically into doing better than him.

At some point, though, the importance of the latter supplanted that of the first, and now you wade through your academic achievements drenched in bitterness and lumbering under their weight. A wet, sulking cat, Annette would call you. Congratulatory confetti has become an itch, and ovation a headache. No prize compares to the instantaneous stiffness of Tom Riddle’s shoulders at the call of your name on the top of some comparatively irrelevant list. Nothing is quite so sweet as your smile when you watch the muscles roll negligibly back into place, a little crack of his neck as his perfect posture is resumed, and, God — is he ever not performing?

Inspiration is inspiration. Your good grades don’t care why they’re good.

“Apprenticeships will open in the spring,” you say in a needless hurry, foot tapping under the table, two books open on either side of your breakfast, “which means I need to start planning which ones to try for.”

“I assumed you were trying for them all,” says Annette, her brow raised curiously. She drizzles an impressive amount of syrup over her plate.

“Of course I’m trying for them all. But I have to decide which one I actually want.”

“That should be an issue for when you’re sorting through acceptance letters, shouldn’t it? You’ll pass every test they give you, you don’t have to decide right now.”

“My parents will want an answer. Besides —” Your gaze zeroes in on his figure at the Slytherin table — “I want to know which one will bother Riddle the most.”

Annette blinks, dumbfounded. “I always wonder if I missed the part where he maimed you in first year or something. You know you don’t need to prove yourself to him, right? He’s intimidated enough as is, even if it doesn’t show.”

But you want it to show. What prize is worth more than that? What better proof of your prowess than to beat him in a way that visibly hurts?

You shrug, but it’s tense. “I’m not above admitting the maiming’s been done to my ego. To you, anyway — don’t tell anyone I said that.”

She continues to stare incredulously at you while the tines of her fork stab a pancake. You should know better than to think she would.

“It was somewhat motivational at first,” you sigh, relenting somewhat, “And sometimes it’s still fun, but I mean, he’s just so… Merlin, he’s so…”

“Good.”

Your agreement is a face plant and groan into your textbook.

It’s Defense Against the Dark Arts then.

Two months later, with eyes sunken by the sleeplessness of a winter holiday with your extended family and a new year rampant with work, you prepare. DADA is Hogwarts’ entry into several Ministry fields — auror, DMAC agent, virtually anything in the Department of Mysteries — but you know the position Riddle is vying for is within the castle walls. Everyone knows that. You have no interest in it, but if a poxy little office at Hogwarts is his heart’s desire, far be it for you not to make him sweat for it.

So you let him take notice. Your notes are sprawling with counter-curses, your textbooks with addendums, even your wrists — when parchment is sparse — are bleeding with the ink of cursory reminders: advanced concealment charms, manticore trails, sustained langlock. You have no idea what knowledge is expected on the test, so you reassert your knowledge of all of it.

The day Tom realises your intention, there’s all but a tic in his jaw to prove it. Good enough for you.

He’s returning a bottle to the potions cabinet while you’re feeling proud of yourself, when he stops behind you, barely clicks his tongue at your open notebook, and remarks tonelessly, “Manticore skin isn’t resistant to freezing spells.”

You tilt your head, mouth agape. He’s already gone.

“I think I might actually aim for DADA professor now,” you tell Annette that night, scowling, stomach-down on your four-poster with your head in your hands. “I mean genuinely, out of spite. I don’t want him to have it.”

Her reflection glares at you as she puts her hair into curlers.  “You’ve officially lost it.”

“You didn’t see him, Nettie! He was so smug about it —”

“Which you are not.”

“Ugh.” You’re almost shaking. It’s objectively embarrassing. “The galleons I would give to see him fail at something, just once…”

She flops onto her bed and waves off the light. “Best of luck with that, darling.”

Luck is not what you need.

You’re certain he’s sped up his studies in some regard for the fact that your name remains firmly below his in DADA for the next three weeks. It’s always been his best subject, yes, but there should be some degree of fluctuation. That’s the game. You cross him only for him to push harder and find his way back, and vice versa. But ever since your stint in Potions, he’s immovable. And yet, if his efforts have indeed doubled, he doesn’t show it at all.

Tom Riddle is impervious. You’re starting to think he’s not entirely human.

There’s something exhilarating, typically, about competing with him — about even being entertained as contest. You won’t deny you’re impressed by him as much as you’re frustrated; that he’s managed to climb so high from the strange, quiet boy you remember in your early years, a muggle-born with nothing to his name — he’s still completely amiss, wrong inside in a way you can’t quite deduce, and you do vow to best him, but that isn’t nothing.

The usual exhilaration is lost in his refusal to give you so much as an inch. There’s no fight. You’re in the library day in and day out, your parents have been made aware of your newfound interest in DADA which means the course is set, and Tom doesn’t even have the decency to seem annoyed.

You avert his stolen glance when he enters that evening after dinner, in the slim hours before curfew when most would rather study in their common rooms. Minutely straighter, you cross your legs and jot something down in your notes.

He chooses to sit at a table directly in your line of sight. The prick.

It takes fifteen minutes and profound effort to fully re-immerse yourself in your work, and then your knee taps the edge of the table in rapid focus rather than frustrated distraction. In the last free hours of the night, you write five thoughtful pages assessing the many theories on Patronus forms and causality. The moonlight is soft on your cheek, your hand clamps down on a yawn, and you feel almost sated. Riddle aside, the research is good. You almost understand his interest. You almost don’t glance at him at all (except when he rummages through his bag for new ink, or another student departs and your eyes are pulled to him by no fault of your own but the tug toward movement) or wonder with your head stubbornly down whether he’s glanced at you at all.

He clears his throat. He’s standing at your table (since when?), a brow raised in scrutiny at your notes. On instinct you tuck them into your book. “Did you need something?”

His mouth tugs at the corner. “The library is closing.”

Oh. Lips pursed, you nod, slightly ruffled, but you'll be damned if he knows that. “Right. Thanks."

He waits for something more, but you only start to tidy your work. 

“Were you working on the Patronus Charm?” he asks. 

Catch.

“No," you say obviously, because it's an insult for him to think you'd need to. “I was studying theories on the Patronus Charm."

 “I fail to see the distinction.” 

Bite.

“A reflection of your cursory judgement," you say through a tight smile, yanking your bag over your shoulder and standing up.

There’s a hint of dryness in his tone, a flicker of his brows going up at your reaction. You offered too much. Still, he answers with a smile either more honest than your own, or more believable in its deception. “Allow me to walk you back.” 

Reel.

Or do the muggles call it hook, line, sinker?

Oh, but how soft his voice is when he’s caught. He would be so good at being kind if he could mean it.

“I’m quite fine on my own,” you answer stiffly, striding past him.

“Shall I pace myself ten steps behind you as we walk in the same direction, then? That’s rather inconvenient for us both."

You don’t appreciate how even his derision is masked in charisma, like it’s lighthearted, like you’re friends. It’s starting to feel somewhat manipulative — that he plays the part so well you might have begun to doubt yourself were you a few cells lighter in the head. Fortunately, you are not. You scowl away the imprint of doubt like the most bitter of women, ironically antithetical to your parents’ desires for you (which are, of course, still a factor in why you’re doing all of this): that you be a wise, accomplished, pretty pureblood heir sans disposition of an ired spinster. 

It’s not your fault, really. It’s just Tom.

“Do as you like,” you tell him, and he would like, apparently with great interest, to walk with you.

His shoes click smoothly on the stone, so much sleeker and finer than the ones you remember he wore once, and he doesn’t allow you the reprieve of silence.

“You’re markedly more interested in Defense Against the Dark Arts this term.”

How does a sentence so innocuous feel so much like winning? Because he cares. He noticed — he cares. God, you’re pathetic, but it sparks to life two realizations and a question.

There is a game at play here.

He’s playing it too.

How long has it been going?

It doesn’t matter. You bury your glee, admittedly overeager and underlaid with exhaustion.

“Apprenticeships will be filling soon,” you hum noncommittally, “I realized I overlooked the subject.”

“I wasn’t aware you overlooked anything.”

You raise a brow. “Apparently so, unless you’ve been looking too much.”

“My apologies,” he says unapologetically, “I only meant to say you’re otherwise astute. I’ve a tendency to find my compliments lost in my presumptions, but then most people don’t notice that either, so perhaps I was right.”

“Or perhaps you presume as excessively as you look.”

He smiles. There’s nothing kind in it. “Do you resent the observation itself or that I’m the one making it?”

“Are you arguing with me?” you ask dumbly, but if a bullet-point list of Things Tom Riddle Does Not Do is in the making, and he’s already offered you self-deprecation, self-awareness, and addressing the unspoken, then arguing plainly should be next. There are far dumber things to ask.

He doesn’t look to agree, and he’s still smiling insufferably. “Not at present. Best of luck with the apprenticeship.”

The door to your common room sighs open with his muttered passphrase. You hadn’t even realized you’d arrived. He doesn’t glance back at you once as he enters, disappearing into the men’s dormitories before you have half a response conjured. Of course, you dwell on it all night, considering a hundred worthy rebuttals to be better prepared next time.

Next time is not for another two months.

Exam season is approaching with a pace rapid enough to stir even the more careless academics among your peers. Quidditch has taken pause, the library is full each night, and a few professors have opened their offices an extra hour or two for additional assistance. You take them up on it often. If you weren’t sleeping before, you certainly aren’t now. Your eyes are bloodshot as a teething vampire’s — a creature for which you now know more than you’d ever cared to before — and your hands jittery with an age beyond your own. You are, effectively, destroying yourself. It makes your parents incredibly proud.

Their letters urge you through the season, stern reminders of potential arrangements to marry and social events dotting every weekend of the summer, that a witch who’s devoted so much of herself to her studies must finish with something to show for it. It’s support in the loosest definition, but it’s what you know. Annette, fortunately, has also come around to your chosen field (though she continues to remind you your reasons are ridiculous), and so you persevere, entangled with the Dark Arts in a way that you never imagined you’d actually enjoy. The predicament is horrible, of course; you would have done well to retain the information from the past near-decade of studies instead of cramming it for a quick runner-up mark.

Is there a way to blame this on Tom? You’ll find one.

He’s an efficient puppeteer, you’ll give him that. The wane and wax of his interest stirs at a nascent hunger in you. He knows exactly how much to offer before rescinding it. His approval, and better yet his ire, are somehow more desirable than that of your pureblood competitors. They were always going to be a challenge. Tom was owed nothing, and had taken it anyway.

If Annette could hear your thoughts she’d urge you to write a love letter and get it over with. Internally, you argue with this imaginary accusation.

This time it’s the common room, half-empty as moonlight spills into the lake, and he takes the seat opposite yours without greeting. He settles softly. You stiffen, finger at the corner of your current page. You hover over a chapter on Ekrizdis until the letters blur.

“You weren’t at dinner,” he finally says.

“Am I your charge?” you respond without looking up. 

You’re giddy. You cannot let it show on your face. His observation alone is an admission of defeat that you will not mar by feeding into it.

“Technically the entirety of Slytherin house are my charges.”

“Then you should at least pretend to remain impartial.”

“Perhaps you could teach me so that I might improve, beginning with pretending to read to appear indifferent.”

You glare at him over the edge of your book and set it down quite forcefully on the table. You cross your legs. You cross your arms for good measure. The huff of air is not for display — he’s just incredibly annoying.

And he smiles. Barely.

“I don’t think I need to teach Tom Riddle the art of pretending,” you say coolly, “Nor do I need his lecture.”

“Meaning?”

“Ah, see? Now you’re pretending to be stupid. I think you understand exactly what I mean.”

“And you’re pretending to have enough interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts to pursue a career in it.”

“You obviously have some assumption you’d like to share, so by all means, do.”

“Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get my attention.”

You scoff up a laugh. “If I were, I’m sure I’d be thrilled. You’re here. I evidently have it.”

“And what do you intend to do with it?”

He’s serious. Serenely, slow-blinkingly serious. 

It’s a preposterous question, for one, and you’re momentarily stunned by the urge to interrogate what answer he wants, rather than consider the truth. And you think maybe that is the answer: to make him want what only you can give him. The evidence of it is sitting in front of you. You’ve pushed beyond curiosity and into fixation. He wants to understand and you want him to be driven mad by it. There is nothing else to ‘do with his attention.’ This is it.

Your lack of response only spurs him on. “How far are you going to take this?”

You don’t know. Merlin, you have no fucking idea, because you don’t know what you want. A petty contest should not induce an identity crisis, but — how far are you going to take this? The outline of your life is all but preordained: you’ll graduate, you’ll attend the obligatory summer social rituals, you’ll sit through idle conversation with potential marriage matches like the muggle women of last century, and you’ll work in any field you like because you’re good at everything and not particularly interested in anything. 

DADA is… different. You’re not too fussed about the performance of it in the way most aurors are, waving their wands with the most impressive spells they can think of. It’s the subtleties not taught in your curriculum that have been fascinating. The history of how these spells came to be, the origins of the monsters and by extension the necessity of new protections, the mastery of invention, of bestial capture, of strenuous research compiled over millennia; the core of the subject is phenomenally understated, and for that reason understandably overlooked. 

And maybe professor at Hogwarts is not your highest aspiration — that’s still the game — but you’ve craned your neck over too many tomes in the past few months to dismiss the entirety of your study as summer refuse.

“How far can I take it before you stop me?” you ask instead.

He smiles. “I don’t intend to stop you.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“What? Watching you struggle, for once, to keep your place beside mine? No.”

He says it with such certainty that your cheeks go hot. Like it’s so absurd to imagine you could ever get to him.

“Say what you like,” you press, defensive, “but you’ve come to me twice now, and I know your intrigue is never without suspicion. Do you vanish from the library merely to study more frantically alone? Do you go there only to sit in my line of sight?”

“Do you watch me?”

Embarrassment has a habit of making you angry. Some might say it stems from entitlement. You don’t really care. With all of the etiquette you’ve spent your lifetime absorbing swiftly discarded, you rise from your seat, grab your book, and tell him with the words a bit uncanny to fuck off.

Admittedly, a few more seconds and you might have come up with something less inarticulate and more befitting your station.

Barely halfway across the carpet, you stop, laugh, turn on your heel and laugh again, because how dare he? “You came here just to inform me of my absence at dinner, you absolute — you watch me!”

You stomp off again, passing by his chair when he speaks.

“I do.”

Your heel snags on the tassels of the carpet. The book is comically heavy. There’s a gust of wind, underground, in a room with no open windows, for the first time in the thousand years since its construction. These are the reasons you stumble. There is no correlation between those two words and your feet slipping out from under you.

And yet, you don’t fall. Only in the most blatant sense is crisis averted.

When his fingers balance you by the hip, it is well and truly not because it’s Tom that you react. You’d swear the same thing under Veritaserum and hear the words spill out true: touch is touch. Human beings who have long gone without it will respond when they finally get it, no matter the person. A shudder. A reflex. An instinct to lean in or out, and yes, this time it’s in. That’s all it is; Tom’s instinct — uncharacteristically kind, perhaps — to wrap his hand around whatever will steady you, with fingers long and pressure firm. 

You suck in a breath, goosebumps darting across the sliver of skin exposed by your raised jumper. It’s not because it’s Tom that you react. It is absolutely because it’s Tom that you react like this.

This, to be clear, is not much. For a woman accused of obsession, you’d hold up decently under Annette’s scrutiny now. It is the aforementioned shudder and horripilation at his sudden touch, a fleeting little gasp like opening a door and finding it a few degrees colder than expected, but you hardly tremble in his hold like a vestal damsel. And you are technically exactly that, so what does it matter? Tom Riddle certainly hasn’t been busying himself between anyone’s legs with all the time he doesn’t have, and if he had you would have known, because everyone would have known, and all things considered it’s a bit strange to wonder with such defensiveness at someone’s hypothetical virginity, but describing Tom’s as hypothetical at all is honestly a testament to your generosity.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t need to be much. All it takes is the moment of hesitation before pulling away to become aware of the point of contact. Not that it’s owed or wanted or reviled in any way, but that it had not existed before and now it does. And this, in every tangible way, changes nothing, but in his eyes, slipping away with apology, you understand quite ridiculously that it might change everything. Now it exists, and that means it could exist again.

The thought doesn’t take long to ruin your life.

In fairness, you’ve done a great job of ruining your life all on your own, and this is really a footnote in a very long list, but the ink bleeds through the rest. You are stained by awareness, itching through spring allergies and schoolwork and preparations for graduation. It’s there under everything: the knowing. Some irrational anticipation for a thing you can’t name. Tom hands you a beaker in Potions and you’re actively avoiding the brush of his pinky like you’re five years old and newly horrified at the prospect of cooties. The knowledge goes both ways, of course — Tom is too perceptive not to have noticed the change began with his fingers on your skin — but you’re not so egotistical to imagine it’s as ruinous for him as it is for you.

God, you hope it is.

May comes. Sun bursts through Scottish rain, pulling you (by Annette’s hand) to study in the courtyards for the final stretch of your final term. Your mother sends flowers and well-wishes wrapped in delicate warnings. The message is in her letter as delicately as it wafts through your dormitory in a bouquet of anemone and cosmos: anticipation and order: this is it. Her reminder resides in a charmed vase on your windowsill, red as a blister. 

The tests for the various apprenticeships offered to graduating students are not so dissimilar from the ones you took in your earlier schooling, and Annette wasn’t wrong in assuring you you’d pass them easily. Of course, you won’t be told until the summer that you’ve passed them, but you know. You don’t falter for a moment. Not for the Ministry’s trials or the Alchemist’s League or St. Mungo’s Healer’s Apprenticeship. It’s half an effort to surpass their expectations; the worst consequence at the end of each day is a sore wrist. 

At night, you lie in bed and wonder if it’s the lack of competition. There’s no board to track your name on, and no one you respect who wants the positions you’re seeking anyway, and you’re hardly seeking them yourself, and — is it respect? Is that what you feel for Tom? 

You don’t know. The more you succeed, the less you seem to feel at all.

By June, you’ve exhausted every trial but the undesirables, and the charm on your mother’s flowers has begun to falter. Red petals wilt to brown on your windowsill.

So when a hollow morning rises where you decide to do something you want, with no one else to tell you to want it, you do it quietly, because you’re not sure you know how to do it any other way.

It’s a Sunday. The halls are quieter, dispersed now that there’s light outside to relish in, and there’s no need to tiptoe like you’re out past dark, but you may as well. The post was pinned outside Tomes and Scrolls. The vellum was fittingly thin and ecru, with no flourishments or golden frame. And there you went, and here you are, and it feels like a belated teenage rebellion to even entertain something so simple.

The test is half spoken and half defensive. None of the spells are extraordinary displays of magic, but practical — examples of what you might need to know should you ever encounter the odd danger in a field study. The recruiter is old. His skin is sun-spotted and honey. He wears fabrics of great texture and colour, with seams worn from years of use, and in his eyes you see the glint of everything he has seen. There’s so much of it. He isn’t a paid lackey of some magical superior, reading from a script designed to buy you too. He is a living extension of his study. There’s no contest, and so there’s no prize, and for once, absolutely fucking nonsensically, you want. You feel something.

In the courtyard, with your textbook open beside you, Annette picks wildflowers in hues of yellow. You empty your mother’s vase and fill it with them instead.

“It’s an archivist position,” you tell her quietly, like it’s a secret, “or — it’s a bit complicated. There are archives in the shop, but the job is field archaeology? He studies the birthplaces of magic, old battlefields and castles and — I don’t know. I liked it.”

Annette laughs, shaking her head.

You sulk. “You think it’s ridiculous.”

“Stop,” she scolds, but her smile is still there. “I think it’s fucking brilliant, actually.”

“What?”

“You’re doing something just because you like it. It’s been a long time since you’ve done that.”

You bite your cheek. “So I should take it, if I get it?”

Annette deadpans, your name flat and accusatory when she speaks. “If you don’t take this job, I’m going to kill you.”

Ear-to-ear, you grin.

In the last weeks of school, you write only a brief letter to your parents and await a howler each morning at breakfast. You receive none. There’s only a slip of parchment too small to fill an envelope, falling over your first meal of June.

We’ll discuss it when you’re home, your mother says. Sincerely is how the message ends, but you wouldn’t call it that.

Shoved swiftly into your pocket, you find you care less than you probably should.

The repetitive ritual of saying goodbyes and see-you-laters becomes tedious when you’re unsure who falls into which category. You gift your favourite professors small tokens of gratitude and wish them well. Courses dwindle to the summer-steady pace of a curriculum at its bittersweet end, with nothing but a week’s worth of exams to keep you here. It’s nice. To sit in the sun over shared notes and reminisce, to wonder whose faces you’ll know long enough to see age, and who will filter to this moment in time.

Tom is under one of the trees, shaded from the sun and kissed by the breeze. You can’t place which one he’ll be to you.

It’s harder to decide this than the archivist post. Annette, like she’s been waiting for you to come to a conclusion she had years ago, is the one to push you. There are no threats of murder this time, but her glare instills fear enough. Now you’re here, pacing a corridor you had to charm to get to, which feels ridiculous already, but — you can want more than once, can’t you? You can have more than one thing, for no selfless reason, or selfish reward, and with great risk to your pride.

So you knock. A moment passes. You think your heart is going to burst from your chest.

The door to Tom’s dormitory opens and he looks exactly how you imagined he would, late at night, alone and still half-performing. He’s taken off his blazer, at least, folded over the back of his chair, quill propped on an ink pot and candles softly dancing. His tie is absent. You try not to let your eyes drift too far down from his undone buttons, but — so is his belt. He’s as dishevelled as you’ve ever seen him, and the surprise that flickers across his face is still gone too soon.

You swallow. Sense would inform you that this is where a greeting goes; you don’t provide him with one.

“I’m not going for your post.”

Tom straightens somewhat. “You’re not.”

“No.”

“Just like that?”

“It wasn’t quite that simple, but yes, I suppose.”

“So that’s the answer, then? To how far you’d go?” he asks, chin raised, “Right to the end only to not follow through — It’s unlike you.”

“It’s not like that,” you protest, because it isn’t, you’re not giving up or handing him anything. “I didn’t know if I wanted it or not. Now I know I don’t.”

“And what did you want?”

“I wanted it to bother you.”

“Why?”

You sigh. “Does it matter now?”

“Well, for once you came to me. I’m assuming it was for more than to tell me the job is mine.”

“The job isn’t yours yet, Riddle. Some other poor sop might still take it out from under you.”

“I’d curse them for it. Why did you come here?”

“Would you have cursed me?”

He says your name, softly, a warning to steer you back in place. He’s smiling, so slightly you wouldn’t notice if you hadn’t trained yourself to notice everything about him. “Why did you come here?”

You know he won’t ask again.

“Because I didn’t know what I wanted, and now I do, and for a while it was bothering you, and then it became bigger than you. I don’t know when that happened.” You shake your head, aware of the insanity of your confession. “I like the work. It was unnerving at first; I’ve almost forgotten how to like anything without some greater reason, and now the reason is just me, and somehow I — I still wanted to tell you. In the spirit of learning to want things properly, I suppose. I was looking for your name under mine all week. ”

“Your overconfidence is characteristic enough to rule out possession.”

“Please, I was one assignment away from taking your spot and you know it.”

“You still haven’t told me why.”

“Because I like it when your jaw clenches,” you say miserably, if everything is to come out now, “or your shoulders go taut. I like when you try to pretend I don’t get to you, and fail.”

“Why?” he breathes. It’s different from the last.

“Because it’s involuntary. You try so hard to be in control, and yet in this one thing, you can’t.”

“Can you?”

Of course you can; your will has been steel as long as you’ve had it. You could walk away now if you wanted. 

But you step forward, and Tom understands.

“Tell me you want to keep it, and I’ll let you," you whisper, and it comes out a bit jagged, like the line you're both treading. “But I’ll give you mine if you don’t.” 

He clenches his jaw. There's a second. An inch. His breath on your skin, still guarded, but with eyes flitting down to your lips.

“What do you want, Tom?”

There is a literal threshold now, your feet at the line of his doorway, and his hand slips from the frame as if by accident. You know better than that. The space is open to slink beside him, to cross the threshold, to take his silent offer. 

“Oh,” you inhale, mouth twitching not to smile, and his body is close enough now to relish the warmth of his hitching breath.  “I think I know.”

You hear it again when he kisses you.

The technicalities of a kiss are lost to it,  like he’s breathing life into you, and you’d think of it clinically because you’ve known it no other way — to succumb to a wave and wake up to new air blown from mouth to lung, the practiced rhythm of resuscitation — only this isn’t that. There’s no purpose to it but the feeling, sprawled under him and still standing, the door slammed shut, the clumsy brush of noses. You’re surrounded, solid at all sides. 

It's a good thing he's already dishevelled and in no position to complain if he wasn’t, because your fingers wind through the gaps between his buttons, the eager jumping of his pulse where you find his heart. That does nothing to save you, however — you entered this room pristine. Any mess made of you will inarguably be by his hands.

And a mess of you he does make.

“Tom," you sigh between kisses, and you feel his smile on your lips before you see it.

Tom. Not Riddle.

“What was that?”

“Shut up," you hiss, fingers (very deftly, you must say, for the way his hands are travelling down your back) prodding at the uppermost buttons to pop it free. It seems to be resisting. Fucking nuisance. You yank it clean off.

“You're a mess,” he tuts. 

He’s a mess. He's wild, half-unbuttoned and reckless, all of his careful restraint broken to splinters, and you’re kissing him like you’re starving, damn the whole thing.

But when have you felt like this? When have you been kissed like this? When have you wanted, simply, and had? Never.

“What are we doing?” you ask with a disbelieving laugh, like it’s only dawning on you now that you were raised not to do precisely this with men like him.

His answer is low in his throat, warm where his mouth drags down yours. “Don’t you know?”

“You always answer a question with a question.”

“You ask too many.” He glances up at you, and the look in his eyes is devastating. “Let me.”

It’s a request even if it isn’t spoken like one, so earnestly not Tom in its honesty that any reason urging you to deny him is lost to the satisfaction of a thing like that. Neither of you, who seem to know everything, know this.

You barely breathe a yes but he’s so close that it doesn’t matter. He hears you, he knows, and he’s mouthing along your collar while his fingers work on your buttons.

“You’ll have to tell me what you like,” he says at your chest, pressing kisses lower and lower. His teeth drag where he finds your leaping pulse. One of his hands slips your blouse off your shoulder.

“Will I?” you murmur dizzily, clasping a hand in his hair.

Goosebumps trail after his fingers, drifting along the swell of your breast. His smile presses against newly exposed skin. “Another question?”

The bra slips down and you’re half-bare before him, strangely uninhibited, warm with anticipation at what you’ve been taught to find terrifying, because Tom is too. Because he’s studying every inch of you as it’s revealed, as if you are something new to be learned as he wills himself to learn all else. This, you’ll let him best you in. This you will not argue.

He inches down, one knee on the floor before the other, and you can’t imagine that’s the way these things usually go — the positioning seems strange for what you know is meant to be done — but you keep your word. You card your fingers through his hair and watch as his gaze raises higher with every inch he sinks lower.

“You’re insatiable.”

He kisses your stomach. “For you.”

“For everything.”

“Mm.” He lifts your skirt around your waist. He nips your stockinged thigh. “For you.”

The intimacy of his gaze wracks through you, and you shudder, careening over him, hastily gripping his shoulder for purchase. Instinct bids you follow him down, but he stops you. Holds you still. And his hands trace the shape of your thighs to your hips, the elasticity of the stocking band tested when he hooks a finger beneath it and pulls. 

“Tom,” you say, as equally a warning as it is a demand.

You expect his chastisement, but he’s preoccupied, gazing at every stretch of you revealed as he tugs your stockings down. He’s half-knelt now like he’s posed to propose, and he abandons his pursuit momentarily for the buckle of your heels. Guides your foot to rest on his knee. Softly, slowly, slips the rest of your stocking free. Discarded, he kisses the bare skin of your ankle with his eyes still on you.

Context fills in the gaps of your inexperience as his lips trail higher. You pull gently at his hair, coaxing a little noise from him that makes you stutter. “What are you doing?”

Tom tilts his head. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I — No, I — it just isn’t what I… Where did you learn about this?”

His hands snake up the backs of your thighs, finding the last remnant of silk that separates you. “I didn’t.”

The implication is overwhelming. There’s no cause to draw, no attempt to master something read once but never tried, no game. He just wants you.

You nod at an unasked question, and the silk falls. Tom’s breath quickens. Flustered, heart pounding, you look up and away at anything but him — his stack of texts, an engraved chest, the emerald canopy of a bed far more appropriate for this. He digs into your hips for your attention. A breath of your name nearly sighed. You meet his waiting gaze.

“Look at me,” he says.

He leaves no time for you to flush and hide away from him. His fingers slide between your legs. There was a word you imagine meant to come out of your mouth but you can’t remember it. His name is all that you find.

And that he is unpractised in this doesn’t mean he doesn’t endeavour to learn, with every quickened breath, shudder, grasp of his hair, what you like. And you suppose he asked you to tell him, but he didn’t ask you how. He hears you well enough, a moan when he finally presses into you. There’s a moment to adjust, an overwhelm at the newness of it, and then you’re sighing like you could melt, held up by the desk behind you and his hand pressing into your hip.

His mouth follows quickly. You understand without any pretext that this is exactly what he wanted. 

“Tom, I —”

He does nothing but shush against you, his finger curling, his lips sinfully wet. You arch back, fumbling at the desk. It’s an effort you’re losing to remember to look at him, but his grip tightens when you stop, and he hasn’t stopped once — every time your head lulls back to him, he’s already looking. His eyes are half-lidded, blocked from all light but the warm silhouette of the candles behind him, and it chokes a gasp out of you. You think, in the haze of your desire, that you want to make him feel like this too.

And then the thought is gone with all your others. Another finger slides against you, works its way inside so softly, curls right beside the next one. He pulls away from you for a moment, teething the skin of your thigh, licking the mess he’s made. You’re shaking. You can’t look at him. You can’t, you can’t —

His breath fans over you for a second, tongue dragging, and you’re arched halfway onto the desk now, so he relents, pushes you up by the hips so you can sit, spreads you wider to accommodate him. It’s different. He’s deeper somehow. You whine into nothing, bucking against him. He throws one leg over his shoulders and you copy with the other.

“Please, I need —”

“I know.”

His voice is hoarse — you feel it as much as hear it — and faintly, impossibly, you catch a tone of restraint in it. There’s no restraint in what he’s doing to you. You can’t imagine what more he could possibly be withholding. But you slip a trembling leg from his shoulder and understand, hard between his legs where your foot just briefly brushes against him. You gasp as his motions stutter and you’re shoved back in place.

“Tom, you can — ah —”

Apparently not. He repositions you again and that’s all the answer you get, thighs wedged apart, fingers pulled free and digging wet into your hips to pin you there. You make a sound of protest at the emptiness, but it provides his mouth new access. It’s like he’s trying to consume every part of you he couldn’t already, and you want him to. You’ll let him. You understand with his tongue, drinking greedily from you: here’s the restraint gone. All of it. 

It breaks you. The crash gleams like a kaleidoscope, so dizzying to every sense that you can only hold onto him and pray. And you might be sighing brokenly through it, but your voice is gone to the feeling. Tom doesn’t stop for a second; if anything it spurs him on, and you are limp to all sensations, his notes spilled across the floor where you’ve been splayed on the desk for him.

You’re panting as you come down, and he’s suckling softly at the skin of your inner thighs again, hands rubbing soothing shapes above your knees. You look down at him. He still hasn’t looked away. 

“You’re…” You don’t have words for him. You fall back against the desk again.

“Mhm.” You’d mistake his patient mumble for something sweet if you didn’t know him any better.

“Maybe you should be a teacher.”

Tom breathes out a laugh, lips still trailing down, his reverence overwhelming. He doesn’t seem ready to part from this. You think you can convince him.

“All right, fine,” you say breathlessly, “help me up.”

He raises a brow.

“What? It’s my turn.”

[pretending-ican-write]

Cowboy Up - Pt.1 - Ryan x Dutton!reader

Um so I watched all of Yellowstone last week and as a result, my multi-year writer's block was broken by a need to see more of Ryan because I am obsessed with Ian Bohen. Idk how many parts this will have or how often it will get updated as I'm in the last few months of uni but I hope y'all enjoy!

Pairing: Ryan (Yellowstone) x Dutton!Reader (Kayce's twin sister)

WC: 1053

Next part

Disclaimer: Beyond watching Yellowstone I have zero/little knowledge of Western riding and the ranching lifestyle but I do know horses so that has certainly influenced this! I'm also English so writing dialogue correctly for them is not my strong point! If you find any issues please let me know!

---

The sun was just beginning to dip below the mountains and the cold was starting to set in when she joined him on the fence.  Neither of them spoke for a while, just looking out at the vastness in front of them, all that was theirs but came with so many conditions.  

Eventually she broke the silence, “so you told him?  How’d he take that one?”

Wordlessly he opened his shirt where the ‘Y’ was just starting to scab over, still red and angry.

“Motherfucker,” she swore, “this ain’t fair Kayce.  He doesn’t just get to do this.”

He shook his head, “dad does whatever he wants and there ain’t no consequences for him.  That’s why I gotta do this.”

“Shit man.  What’s Monica gonna do?  Besides worrying about you getting your ass shot in the desert miles from civilisation?”

Kayce chuckled, “beats getting my ass shot in the middle of Montana miles from civilisation.  She’ll be okay, her family will help and she’ll be a teacher.  Just like she planned.  It’s you I’m worried about here with dad and no one else to speak sense to.  ‘Cept Lee”

“Well I’m leaving, dad be damned.  I’m not gonna be a pawn in his power trip.  Gonna go see this godforsaken country and win it all so that when I come back he can’t question whether it’s where I wanna be,” she declared.

Her brother rolled his eyes, “you ain’t talking about the same him now.”

“I don’t know what your talking about,” she denied, staring out at the darkened mountains.

Kayce shoved her shoulder, “you can’t bullshit to me y/n.  That’s the one problem with being twins, ain’t no way to lie to me.”

“I’m just a kid to him, he ain’t ever gonna see me any other way if I stay here,” she admitted, “hell if I stay here no one will ever see me as anything more than his kid.  ‘S why we both gotta do this Kayce.”

He nodded, “no way to stand in the sun in this state, always gonna be a shadow.”

“When I come back I’ll be able to stand in sunlight so bright I’ll have a fucking halo.”

-/-/-

2 years later…

 Montana has its charms all year round, but fall has a particular appeal.  The leaves had started to turn, there was a chill in the air that only seemed to get  stronger and there was still a frost on the grass that the sun hadn’t hit.  

With the sun keeping the cold from their bones, the Yellowstone ranch hands were occupying themselves keeping their roping skills fresh.  Rip observed from the sidelines as the new hand struggled to keep up with Ryan who turned to lecture the kid about keeping his eye on the steer.  

Lloyd rolled his eyes when he missed the horns again, “you gotta try harder than that if you wanna be a wrangler!”

“He keeps pulling the damn steer too early,” the hand argued back.

Ryan glared at him, “don’t fuckin��� blame me for your bad skills.”

Before they could descend into an all out brawl, the group were distracted by the sound and sight of truck coming down the road.  They watched it pull up in front of the barn, trailer in tow.  A rare silence occupied them as they watched a young woman step out, adjust her hat then stare out across the ranch in front of her.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Lloyd muttered, “she’s back.  You fuckin’ know about this?”

Rip said nothing, but his face gave the answer.  The other hands who recognised her muttered between themselves about what she was doing back after so long.

The new hand leaned over towards Ryan, “who the fuck is that and why does everybody care?”

“That is y/n Dutton,” he answered without taking his eyes off of her.

“I didn’t know John had another daughter,” he responded.

Ryan shook his head, “hell kid you gotta lot to learn about this place.”

“She’s fuckin’ hot mind,” the hand murmered.

The older hand spat out his words, “you keep words like that off your tongue if you want to keep it.”

Lee stepped out of the barn and stepped around the truck to greet her, “the prodigal daughter returns.”

“I don’t see Beth anywhere,” she laughed bitterly, “but it’s good to see you Lee.”

He hugged her, “I’m glad you’re back.  Been a long time coming.”

“I came back for me, not for him remember that,” she turned towards the corral, “think I’ve given them enough of a show to explain it so they can pick their jaws up off the floor?”

He gestured for her to follow him towards where the ranch hands were all still quietly watching.  She strode over to the group, smiling at Rip who nodded back at her.

“Where’s that mare of yours?” He asked.

Y/n shrugged, “a champion barrel horse would be wasted on this ranch.  Sold her for more money than I’m ever gonna earn in the rest of my lifetime.”

“You ain’t rodeoing anymore?” Lloyd questioned.

“I did what I set out to do when I went on the circuit.  Saw this godforsaken country and won it all.  It’d get boring to win it over again,” she moved her gaze towards where Ryan was watching her, “ain’t no one gonna question where I wanna be now.”

Rip nodded, “afraid we ain’t got a horse to spare for you y/n.”

“I got that covered Rip.  Got one coming up tomorrow from a ranch in Wyoming.  Some fuckin’ old school boys who don’t know how to be nice to a horse they didn’t ruin,” she explained, “man’s wife broke it and now she’s dead ain’t no one gonna ride him gentle.  Figured he might stand a chance with me.”

Lloyd chuckled, “always were a soft hand.  Figured that’s how you won it all.”

“Guess that question that remains is, do you have a place for me?  Not in the house but here,” she clarified.

Lee looked at Rip then back at his sister, “I reckon so.  You gonna stay in the bunkhouse?”

“Oh fuck no,” y/n laughed, “I didn’t drag that thing all the way from Texas to sleep with these fuckheads.  It’s looked after me in worse places.  Think it’ll do just fine here.”

[sexydoffyman]

Weird request but how would TF141+König and Alejandro react to meeting an orphan around 15 years of age who's like extremely talented in engineering, mathematics and physics, like they could build a rocket if they had the materials ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It can be HC, whatever you want! I was thinking maybe said orphan got in trouble with the government for unknowingly building some sort of weapon, maybe it was stolen? Twist that however you wish.

Just ignore this ask if you wanna <3

A KID?

genre: action

characters: König, Simon Riley, John MacTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle Garrick

A/n: expect a lot more mistakes. Also thinking this needs a second part.

It’s been 6 years now since the war began. You were left stranded. All by yourself. Left on your own by everyone. Living was hard, but you pulled through. You learned how to do a lot of shit since you were there only with yourself for some time. Building stuff. That was your biggest interest.

You were constantly making things. New weapons mostly. You were always moving, never staying in one place for too long. You got brutal throughout the years you were alone. You took the uniform of a dead soldier. To blend in. You were mistaken for a recruit and pulled inside a helicopter by a military dude.

The military was a great provider of food and healthcare. So you just went along with everything they threw at you. Your knowledge of building shit helped out a lot. And even when some dude figured out you were a kid he let you stay.

The same dude put you in a task force with a man he trusted. You were cautious of everyone in there, but at least you had some people who you could trust a bit.

You picked up how things work from the years of pretending to be a soldier. Pretending to be an adult was getting easier and the task force you were assigned to found a place in your heart.

“There’s gotta be a way.” You finally snapped out of thinking about life before the war. You thought that the military would be a great cover. But now all your hope of making it out alive hit zero. You were stuck and with gas slowly filling the room that you and the others were in you knew your chances of survival were low.

You sat in the corner of the room. You had given up a few minutes ago already. The others were still trying to figure something out.

Suddently you felt something inside of you snap. You were not gonna die today. It must’ve been the panicking of the rough men infront of you that made you have that feeling. You started to search for a solution.

You found a small vent. It was too small to fit a grown man in, but you were not a grown man. You took off your gear and crawled into the vent unnoticed by your team.

You finally got to use the skills you gained. You crawled through the vent and dropped down from the ceiling right on the other side of a door that the rest of your team was trying to open. You managed to get inside some kind of an electrical system. You cut some wires and reconnected some other ones. The door opened with a space in between the doors just a centimeter big.

Grabbing a metal piece from the electrical you prayed the door open. You were met with the looks of your crew. You looked down and put your hand above your forehead to block your face. By now all of them realized that you weren't of age.

You ran into the room to grab your gear while your team gave each other a disgusted glance. “We need to get out of here ASAP,” you said as you walked away from the room. Price grabbed you by the shoulder to stop you. You turned to him with your mask on now.

“How old are you?” he was looking at you worriedly while he said that. You didn’t know what to answer and so after a few stutters you answered “Classified” This only made them feel more curious.

It has been days since that mission and nobody brought up the fact that you were a kid. You did notice that Price stopped shouting orders at you and started just saying them in a normal calm tone. Soap was making more small talk with you than usual. Ghost was staying closer to you, knowing you might not be able to fend off an enemy. Gaz was making sure to double-check your gear.

When you teamed up with Mexican special forces and met Alejandro you were given tasks that you’d be on with multiple people.

When you were stranded from the team, finding your way to a spot they could locate you at, you met another dude. Austrian and huge. Big dude. He was your enemy, but it didn’t take him long to find out that an adult dude would have a little more strength than you did. He forced your mask off and found out that you were in fact a kid.

Instead of killing you, he spared you. Helping you locate your tram instead of them having to look for you.

Would you survive the next missions? That you don’t know. But you do know that you don’t have to worry about pretending to be an adult.

[ohagiyoo]

“Quit biting me already!” ──★

Summary ;; karasu is a biter & you're the unwilling victim! Word count ;; 415! Content ;; fluff, biting, open to interpretation relationship, karasu tabito is a little shit, ooc karasu, mean-ish reader, zero (0) mention of readers gender! Helpers ;; @x3nafix!

ALL you wanted was to enjoy your evening, try that one recipe you've always wanted to try (but always ended up procrastinating on actually committing to it) when this disturbing, eerie, frankly intimidating presence of the shadow of a fuckass haircut interrupted your peace as you were trying to procrastinate on your studies...

who might that be? no one else but the culprit himself, tabito karasu. aka the only man who'd let be in your presence & be around you in public with such preposterous hair without telling him off about it.

here he was, standing over you, staring at you briefly with a rare expression of concentration for what he had the AUDACITY to do next.

“are you just gonna stare at me or what” “yk, at this rate i'll never see the light again because your ass is blocking the light” “can you move?” “honestly, you're so annoying when you do this— OW!”

you stared at him in disbelief, the sheer audacity of this man to do such things while keeping unwavering eye contact with you is both commendable & reprimand worthy because 1) his lack of respect towards you right now is outrageous and 2) it's also kinda respectable how he can do this while looking at you directly, honestly you might ask him to teach you how to be such a bitch but that's not the real crime being committed here.

his real crime? it's the fact he just fucking BIT you. and, for your knowledge, still is! you and him have been in a glaring stalemate for a long while now with his teeth remain dug into your poor, poor, suffering arms flesh.

you stay still for a bit before grabbing the nearest weapon— a flashlight— and lightly smacking karasu on the head till he lets go & stops trapping your arm. it takes 5 hits for him to let go and now his teeth are basically etched in your skin for the next few hours or so since he barely bit down hard enough for it to draw blood.

once he lets go, karasu stares at you with such betrayal in his eyes that if you were a movie director you would've casted him right on the spot, and for a moment you start feeling sympathetic towards him before he breaks into a grin and laughs in your face, unable to keep it together once he noticed you were starting to feel a tiny bit bad about hitting him with a flashlight.

Personal notes ;; hes always been a bit of a biter in my heart and i was wishing there was a fic of him like this b4 i realized IM a writer and can do that. so here is my self indulgent thing. also dont get confused, i love him very dearly & any insults towards his hair is just misunderstood admiration

© ohagiyoo 2025 — dividers — m.list

[iheartmira]

Can you doo boothill x reader

Where he was after the reader for they hade a really big bounty on them but right when he was about to get them they escaped?

"the bounty and the bullet" - boothill x reader

✧ ✧ ✧

the bounty on your head was enough to make even the laziest bounty hunters salivate. enough zeroes to make a man reckless, desperate. you’d lost count of how many wannabe gunslingers, corporate dogs, and dead-eyed mercenaries had come sniffing after you, thinking they’d be the one to bring in the ghost of the stars.

but boothill? he was different. he wasn’t just after the payday. he was after you.

you’d been dodging him for weeks, barely slipping through the cracks each time he came close. the bastard had an uncanny knack for knowing where you’d be, showing up just late enough to make your pulse spike but early enough to leave you no time to breathe. and this time? this time, he was closer than ever.

the old freight station was supposed to be abandoned, a place for you to lay low while the heat cooled. the air was thick with dust, rust clinging to the walls like barnacles on a dead ship. you could hear the distant hum of power lines still faintly alive, the only sign this place hadn’t been swallowed whole by time.

then came the sound you dreaded most: the jingle of spurs. slow. unhurried. a gunslinger who knew there was nowhere left to run.

"well, well," boothill drawled, his voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a well-honed blade. "ain't this a sight. finally got you penned in, darlin'."

you exhaled, already scanning for exits. the rafters were too high, the main door blocked by his imposing figure. that left the side panel... a slim chance, but better than none.

"you've been a darn headache to chase," boothill continued, stepping closer.

the dim light caught the sharp gleam of his teeth as he grinned. "ten billion credits worth o' trouble, and i gotta say, you sure wear it well."

"you here for the money?" you asked, keeping your tone level, casual. the kind of voice that had slipped through countless traps before.

"nah." he tilted his head, eyes glinting like a reticle settling on a target.

"a legend's only worth somethin' if someone's around to tell it, ain't it? hate to see yours get cut short."

a chill ran down your spine. boothill wasn’t like the others, wasn’t some ipc hound looking for a fat paycheck. he was enjoying this. the chase, the thrill, the knowledge that every second he got closer, your story became part of his.

too bad for him. you weren’t about to let yourself become a footnote in someone else’s tale.

the second his boots scuffed against the floor, you moved. a sharp feint to the right, making it look like you'd try to bolt past him. his hand twitched toward his gun, ready to pin you down...

and that’s when you really ran.

a burst of motion, straight for the side panel. you hit the latch with your shoulder, felt the metal groan before it gave way. the air outside was sharp and cold, the drop steep, but hesitation was a death sentence. you leaped without looking back.

boothill’s curse echoed behind you, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun firing. not at you, but at the door frame, sparks flying where he’d aimed just a breath too slow.

you hit the ground in a roll, feet finding purchase on the loose gravel. the engine of your stolen speeder was already humming nearby, primed and waiting. you scrambled onto it, twisting the throttle hard just as boothill stepped into the open, his silhouette framed against the flickering station lights.

for a second, just a second, you met his gaze. that shark-toothed grin was still in place, but his eyes told a different story.

you’d won this round.

but you both knew this wasn’t over.

boothill raised two fingers to his hat, tipping it in a lazy salute. "run fast, sugar," he called over the roar of your engine. "next time, i ain’t missin'."

you smirked, wind whipping past your face as you tore into the dark.

next time? maybe.

but if he wanted to catch you, he’d have to earn it.

✧ ✧ ✧

‹𝟹 ‎ ⠀⠀ˑ˚₊ ·⠀interested in requesting? check out my pinned!

© 2025, iheartmira

[bettsfic]

I have this thing where what I'm writing is absolutely not what I'm about in real life. I like complexity and depth in what I read. But the things I care about make only vague appearances in my writing, I don't know how to fully explain it. I have a lot of passion in life and I'm ~relatively emotionally intelligent. I'm curious about emotions, anyway, but what comes out in my writing is just cookie cutter.... Bland..... Zero complexity or emotional exploration. It's like I'm on autopilot when I write and I can't shake it.

i'm about to present to you yet another writing spectrum: director-writers and actor-writers.

a director-writer creates stories by writing discrete scenes that they see in their mind. like a film, a scene begins, something happens, a scene ends. we move on to the next scene. i would venture to say a majority of writers today are director-writers, because what's been en vogue in the 21st century is very much influenced by our visual media. we watch visual media. a great many writers like to render their prose such that it feels like a reader is watching the story play out. these director-writers are standing on the outside looking in, manipulating and moving all the pieces of their story to create the desired end result.

director-writing is so common that i meet many, many writers who trap themselves in scenic prose because they assume that's what "good writing" is. these writers are not actually directors. they don't want to be standing behind the camera; they want to be in the mind of the characters. and those people are actor-writers.

an actor-writer's prose doesn't necessarily prioritize scenes one after the next, but develops a compelling narrative voice. actor-writing is about learning to be someone who isn't you. i think the moment you abandon the forced witness of the camera and instead dive into the mind, experiencing the story instead of rendering the story, you unlock the path of that complex emotional exploration you feel is missing in your work. and you will probably never go back.

here's an activity to try:

whatever you're working on right now, open a new doc, take your main character and, in your mind's eye, trap them in an interrogation room. sit them across from you. ask them, "what is your deal?" write down their answer.

in this activity, you're looking for a few things:

what is their story? why does it matter to them? (this is probably the biggest problem i have with the pitfalls of director-writing: nothing matters. everything is just...happening. as a reader, i'm always looking for what i'm being asked to love. maybe that love is awful, toxic, contradictory, ambivalent, whatever. the point is, it matters. a huge percentage of the things i read never ask me to love anything.)

are they trying to convince or persuade you of something, making their testimonial unreliable? or are they confessing to you things they'd never admit to anyone else?

what is at stake for them? what is their deepest desire and their greatest fear? in what way is their deepest desire flawed? how is their greatest fear irrational? how have the events of their story influenced or distorted their perception?

close narration offers us the greatest possible access to the interiority of the narrator. first person is really just a monologue, an explanation, an excuse, a confession, a plea, a prayer. so so so many writers get blocked because they're trying to See the story instead of Listen to it. they force themselves into this elastic third person where the reader remains a distant witness with the occasional thought, insight, or feeling, but that comes second to what i call Bodies in Space. if i never read another "he strode across the room" again it'll be too soon. imagery is wonderful, don't get me wrong, but i would always, always rather get insight into what a character is feeling, thinking, grieving, dreaming than the knowledge that they are sitting in a chair.

i'm not saying switch to first person. you can create the effect of first person with very close third, and you can create the effect of third person with very distant first. pronouns don't really matter. what's important is voice over vision.

i say this a lot, but if i want to watch a story, i'll turn on my tv. prose is the only art form that allows us to fully explore human consciousness. let it do the thing it was invented to do.

my theory of director-writers and actor-writers is adapted from Percy Lubbock's The Craft of Fiction, in which he defines "picture" vs. "drama" writing. however i found that terminology confusing and poorly articulated, so i flipped it into a process-based approach with what i hope is more accessible phrasing. also, prose = consciousness is from 13 Ways of Looking at the Novel by Jane Smiley.

[odileeclipse]

So…I supposed it’s fair to say you’re an outstanding author and so I’d like to ask for some advice! I wanna get into writing for fun in my free time but whenever I write I just kinda make it up as I go…and I’d like to know how you go about planning how a story goes? And how you lay it out and such. It would really help! Ps THANK YOU FOR TWO CHAPTERS IN A DAY YOU’VE BLESSED US 🫶🫶🫶

HEY! First of all thank you so much for being kind, and I'm thrilled on your behalf for writing for fun! That's how it should be!

So I just want to start of by saying there is no wrong or right way to write, the act of writing is learning, we gain new knowledge as we go, and any form of it is building resilience.

Making it up as you go is a valid and powerful method called discovery writing, I've done it too before, but I find for me I need a lot more structure, well personally I tend to make it up as I go for one-shots since they're short formed and don't require as much structure. In the sense that I can complete Freytag's triangle easily since everything would happen in one small story.

When I start planning a story I begin by asking what I want to accomplish with the story, and what I want the tone to be. I write out the characters I know will be in the story, I try to read up and write everything I know about them and then once I have that in mind and written down on a doc I can begin to outline my story.

I often keep a loose three-act structure in mind, but never let it box me in. The first act sets everything up who they are, what they want, and what’s missing. The second act brings tension, conflict, secrets, or obstacles. The third act is the shift: a choice, a change, a moment of clarity that echoes everything they’ve been through. Even if I deviate, that structure is a comfort. It reminds me what kind of journey I’m walking the reader through.

But above all, character drives everything. Before I even touch plot, I ask What does this character want? What are they afraid of? What do they believe about themselves, rightly or wrongly? A well-built character will naturally create story through their actions, reactions, and contradictions. That’s where real plot comes from people, not just events. (this is just my biased opinion)

From there, I usually write a “zero draft.” Not a first draft just chaos. No pressure to be pretty, coherent, or even readable. It’s where I let myself play and explore, knowing I’ll shape it later. (not always but sometimes) Alongside that, I open up a little ramble document where I talk to myself “Okay, what happens next? What’s her deal? Why would he react like that?”

Being your own co-writer your own curious narrator helps you break through blocks without feeling like you’re failing.

And honestly, the best thing I’ve learned is to be flexible. A plan isn’t a prison. If I fall in love with a different ending halfway through, I let myself follow it. If a character surprises me, I let them. Changing your mind isn’t giving up it’s discovering what the story really wants to be.

But I know what really helps is to learn rhetoric, and rhetorical appeals. It's not required at all but it does help, I'm sure you've already learned it in school before but it doesn't hurt to watch a short video on it.

If it helps, here's a mini template I use sometimes when planning chapters

Chapter X

Purpose: (What is this chapter doing? Revealing something? Deepening a relationship?)

Setting: (Where are we? Where will we go?)

Mood/Theme: (Soft? Tense? Bitter? Bittersweet?)

What changes: (By the end, what’s different?)

Key moments: (Write them out as bullet points.)

Sorry this was super long but my writing process mainly goes like that but of course I'm never confined by it, so I always can just go as I want but I make sure I write down what I changed and how I deviated from my original plan.

[sergeantxrogers]

in the red dark

His eyes trapped yours in their vice-like grip as he stared up at you, fingers brushing against the hem of your jeans, and you swallowed heavily. You felt the rush of alcohol in your head fizzle out into smoke and embers as you sobered up quicker than you ever have in your life.

"Are you sure?"

You swallowed again. Nodded.

There was a small twitch in his eyebrows, and he narrowed his gaze. "It'll hurt."

Despite your heartbeat drowning out all sounds around you, despite the cold sweat on the back of your neck, despite the knowledge that you'll probably regret this - whatever this actually was - in the morning, you smiled.

"Then I guess I'll just have to hold your hand."

Pairing: Tattoo artist!Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 5.8k

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, reader is drunk (i apologise if that's not your thing), swearing, perhaps some sexual tension, mentions of pain, needles, tattoos, lots of love-at-first-prick energy, mentions of smoking/cigarettes

Author's note: You guys it's literally embarrassing how badly i've fallen off... LMAO i missed writing sooo so much but life has really got me by the balls these past few months. I hope y'all enjoy this and let me know if you'd be interested in a part two. Love u <3

__________

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

You didn't know if it was your heartbeat pulsing in your head, or the heavy beat of the music washing over your senses and travelling through your veins. You couldn't tell, but you truly didn't really care. Right now, your hazy, gin-and-tonic drunken eyes focused only on Wanda, her red hair reflecting the neon club lights, your gaze zeroing in on her lips mouthing the words to a song you couldn't even hear at this point.

You saw her smile, and, as if in reply, your lips tugged into a grin of their own. A wave of heat rolled over you as you danced with Natasha, and you brought up your hand that wasn't holding a glass of something that had begun to taste like water to fan yourself.

You felt, more than heard, Natasha yell into your ear, and you furrowed your brows, turning your eyes from Wanda to meet her gaze.

"What?" you yelled back, confusion marring your features. You saw Nat's shoulders rise and fall with the enormous sigh she took in, and you kept in your giggles.

She tugged on your arm, then pointed to the crowd behind you. More specifically, the exit that was on the other side of the club, blocked by hundreds of hot, sweaty, drunk bodies in their own little worlds - much like you were now. It clicked; you had been in the club drinking your asses off the past three hours, you were hot, your heels were killing you, and, quite frankly, you were running out of money for the night.

You nodded deeply and seriously, eyes screwed shut as Nat tugged Wanda's arm with one hand and yours with the other. Quickly, you downed the rest of the contents of your glass, leaving behind only a thin slice of lemon and a lipstick stain on the rim and snatched your bag off the table before the three of you decided to brave the large crowd that only seemed to grow bigger by the minute.

Holding hands and forming a sort of train, you made it through the suffocating crowd step by step, breath by breath, until, finally, you felt the cool late summer air caress your flushed face, the thumping bass of the club now seeming like a whole different dimension as the heavy door shut behind you with a click.

Wanda, perpetually happy, you've come to understand over the years, let out a raspy laugh.

"This place is fucking insane, guys! Holy shit!" she exclaimed, pointing a manicured finger at the door the three of you had just come through.

You hummed in agreement. "Yeah, why haven't we ever gone here before?"

Natasha, almost always the least drunk out of you three, let out a trademark sigh. She gave you a look you could only translate to 'seriously?'.

"What? I'm being for real," you frowned.

Nat rolled her eyes, then winced as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I know you are, it's just that we've never come here before because this was opening night. You know, the whole reason we even came in the first place? Jesus Christ, you two need some water."

All it took was for you and Wanda to share a look before you both burst out laughing. You leaned on her arm for support as your giggles died down, and you let out a big, happy sigh.

"Come on, we'll never grab a cab here - there's way too many people. Let's walk a couple blocks down," Nat said, stepping between the two of you and throwing her arms around your shoulders. "Can't believe I always get babysitting duty."

You and Wanda smiled coyly, seeing the playfulness glimmering in Natasha's eyes, letting you know she wasn't actually upset.

The three of you started your trek, slightly stumbling but keeping in a straight line for the most part. You had only walked about 150 feet when Wanda let out a gasp. You and Natasha both turned your heads to see what she was pointing so happily at, and when you saw what had made her gasp, you cocked your head in amusement.

Red neon light flooded your hazy vision, one word flickering and buzzing above your head in the dark - tattoo.

"It says they're open 24/7. Isn't that weird? Do you guys think we should all get matching tattoos? What should we get? Wait, do you think we even have enough money to get matching tattoos?"

Disappointment flooded Wanda's rambling, and you opened your mouth to reply, but Nat beat you to it.

"Wanda, we are not getting matching tattoos, especially not while drunk."

Staring at the sign above you, the red neon washing over the world, the soft buzz of electricity coming from it drowned out Wanda's complaining and Natasha's replies. They became background noise as you let the waves of alcohol make the decision for you, surprising even yourself when the words came out of your mouth.

"I want one."

Your two friends stopped their bickering and both stared at you, Nat with an incredulous look on her face, and Wanda with something a little more akin to amusement.

"Really?" they said at the same time, their tones matching their faces.

You nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I feel like never do anything fun. Besides, what's the harm in it? It won't kill me," you said with a shrug.

Natasha's weary eyes gave you a once over, and she took a step toward you, putting a hand up to your forehead.

"Are you sure you don't have alcohol poisoning or something?"

You slapped her hand away with a roll of your eyes. "I'm fine, Nat, I just really wanna get a tattoo now. I already know what I want to get."

Even Wanda, whose idea it was in the first place, gave you a suspicious hum. "Nat's only asking because this really doesn't seem like you, Y/N."

The frustration bubbled in your chest before you could stop it, and you quickly shoved it down. They were right, after all - you were the type of person to never make any decision, big or small, without planning for it in advance and double, and then triple, checking you were absolutely certain. Everybody knew this, which was why your friends were doubtful.

Everyone knew this, yet no one knew how draining it was to always be on top of things. Nobody knew how exhausting to always plan everything out in advance to minimize the risk of anything going wrong as much as you could. School, college, dating, the things you ate, the places you went, the clothes you wore - everything was planned ahead, and, quite frankly, you were growing sick of it. Sick of yourself, almost.

With a huff, and a roll of your shoulders, you tugged your jeans up and lifted your chin. Then, without a word or warning, you turned on your high heel and pushed open the heavy glass door of the tattoo parlor, the bell over your head chiming softly as you walked through.

There's no going back now, a voice called in your head. You blocked it out. Good.

___________

Leg crossed over the other, you fidgeted with the rips in your jeans as you sat in the black, plastic chair in the front of the shop. After speaking to a girl who looked like she wanted to be anywhere else but at work, she told the three of you to have a seat and wait a couple minutes while they got everything set up. She popped her gum as she left, and only in the sudden silence, surrounded by dark walls and miscellaneous photographs adorning them, the nervous flutter in your stomach awoke, sending a cold sweat to your palms.

So, here you were, almost two in the morning sitting between your two best friends, mentally preparing yourself to get a tattoo you didn't even know you wanted a couple of hours ago. Yet, no matter how nervous you were, there was still a bigger part of you, a louder voice in your head encouraging you that this was exactly what you wanted and needed. The seconds ticking by on the clock above you only further reassured you.

A warm palm on your ankle startled you out of your thoughts, and you turned to see Nat, holding your gaze.

"Could you please stop jiggling your foot. You're making me nervous and I'm not even getting anything done."

You gave her a slight nod. "Yeah - yeah, sorry."

You hadn't even realized you were doing it, but it was a nervous tick of yours, a habit that you were never going to break. You turned your head to your other side, and Wanda's mischievous glint in her eyes made you shoot her a smile, growing your confidence by a little.

The soft chime of beads being separated made the three of you turn your focus to the doorway set in the left wall, the same unamused girl from before stepping through before gesturing for you to stand up.

"He's ready for you now."

"He? You're not gonna be the one tattooing me?" you asked nervously, your steps faltering slightly across the black-and-white tiled floor, and you hoped it wasn't too noticeable.

The girl shook her head. "Nope, I'm only here on an apprenticeship. I mainly just work the front desk and do other assistant-like bullshit for Barnes."

"Oh." You didn't know who Barnes was, but you could only assume he was the artist waiting for you behind the beaded curtain.

"Also, your girlfriends have to stay here. It's salon policy, sorry."

You turned back just in time to see Nat and Wanda lower themselves back in their seats, the three of you exchanging a look that showed you didn't believe she was sorry in the least.

"Okay. So, I just... walk through here?" you asked, pointing at the doorway.

The girl nodded, bored out of her mind already. "Yeah, there are two rooms. Go for the left one."

And that was apparently all you were getting out of her, because she turned around and walked away, taking a seat behind the large reception desk with a heavy sigh.

Taking one last look at your friends' reassuring smiles, Wanda sending you an enthusiastic thumbs up, you walked through the curtain with a deep breath. The beads drifted over your shoulders and thighs, then quietly fell back into place behind you as you stepped into the small dark hallway. Go for the left one, she said, so you did, forcing your feet to move forward, heels softly clicking against the tiles.

Oddly enough, the doorway on the left was bare, no door on the hinges and no beaded curtain hanging down, so you knocked on the frame and hesitantly stepped through. You were surprised to find the interior design completely different to the front of the salon - even the small hallway you left behind was dark and depressing, while this part of the shop had rich, shiny hardwood floors, a floor lamp standing in every corner washing the room in an orange hue.

You noticed the walls had less pictures than the ones in the front, but the ones that were hanging were big, framed, and beautiful.

"My buddy Steve painted those," a smooth voice called out, startling you, and you ripped your eyes from the paintings on the walls, not realizing how rude you were being just standing there without saying a word.

Your gaze quickly scanned the room until you found the source of the voice standing at the back of the room, leaning back against a table with his arms crossed over his chest. Whatever words you were planning on saying died in your throat as you took him in. Dark hair, cropped shorter on the sides. Blue eyes underneath heavy-set brows, the bridge of his nose leading down to pink lips that were currently morphing into an amused smile. The stubble on his cheeks and jaw moved as he clenched his teeth, and you weren't sure if it was the alcohol in your veins speaking its mind, but you were pretty certain this had to be the most gorgeous man you had ever laid eyes on.

"He - he's good," you managed to reply, and he lifted a brow.

"Your friend, I mean - seems like a great painter," you elaborated, gesturing weakly to the wall of canvases. He nodded in agreement, then pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, taking a few steps forward.

"You can lay down now if you want. It might be more comfortable than just standing there while we talk about what we're doing tonight," he said, nodding toward the black massage chair in the center of the room.

You nodded back, willing your ankles to keep steady in your now frustratingly high shoes, along with the gin still pulsing steadily in your head. You may have been even more nervous than you were now if it hadn't been for all the glasses you drank one after another earlier in the night. Right now, you were actually thankful you weren't completely sober for this, because you didn't know how else you would be able to handle the man's sea-blue stare that tracked your every movement as you lied down with such an intensity it made your cheeks burn.

Evidently, he must have noticed your jitters, because he pulled out a small leather stool on wheels and took a seat next to you. He softened his gaze and crossed his arms again. You couldn't help but noticed how peculiar they were - for no reason other than the fact that the short, tight sleeves allowed you to see they were completely bare, not one tattoo in sight on his perfect skin. Weird. Maybe he had tattoos in places you couldn't see, but before you could think too deeply on that and risk blushing again, you ripped your eyes back up to his.

"I'm Bucky," was all he said, voice now quieter and more laid-back, probably trying to help ease your nerves even more.

"I'm Y/N," you replied, then cleared your throat.

"I'm assuming this is your first ever tattoo?" he asked, and you winced a bit.

"It's that obvious?"

He - Bucky - gave you a small smile. "Kind of. But you also don't seem like the type of person to get a drunk tattoo at-" he checked the watch on his wrist "-1:52 a.m."

Check and mate. You gave a small shrug. "I guess people can be surprising."

He said nothing to that, only regarded you with a faint amusement in his narrowed eyes, before clearing his throat.

"And what did you have in mind? Kate up front told me you wanted a butterfly, but I need to know if you had something specific in mind?"

"Well, I was kind of hoping to leave the details up to you... I just know I want a butterfly, that's all.

"So, you're putting your trust in me completely, I see."

You felt your heartbeat trip over itself and you cleared your throat, nodding meakly.

"You know," he began as he stood and walked over to the table he was leaning on earlier, "butterflies symbolize transformation, and hope. Metamorphosis. Some also say they symbolize resurrection - triumph of soul over body."

Bucky spoke as he walked back, carrying a few papers and a box of gloves with him. He set the box down on the small table beside your chair, then handed you the papers.

"These are just a few sketches I did when Kate told me what you wanted, but I wasn't sure how big or small you wanted it to be, or where you wanted it to go, so there's a few options you could choose from."

You flipped through the pages, sketch after sketch filling your eyesight, and your breath stilled in your chest. These drawings were absolutely beautiful. Apparently, his buddy Steve wasn't the only one who was insanely talented. Your gaze snagged on one of the last sketches, a small monarch butterfly about the size of a silver dollar, gorgeous patterns covering its spread wings.

Bucky noticed you go still, and tilted his head.

"This one?" he asked. You simply nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. "Let me just prep the stencil and we'll be all set."

Focusing on keeping your breathing steady, in and out, you watched him get up and walk back towards the table. You took the time to admire the strong build of his back, shoulder blades visible under the tight material, triceps slightly flexing as he moved his arms, doing what ever he needed to do. The drinks in your system were doing little to help. In fact, they were just making it worse, sending flashes of heat flooding through your stomach and warming your body as you stared at him.

Sooner rather than later, he turned back around and you quickly tore your eyes away, not wanting to be caught staring, and instead focused your gaze on your painted toenails in your black heels. You clicked your shoes together a couple times, maybe out of nerves, maybe just for something to do, and Bucky sat back down on his stool.

"Alright, doll. Where's this bad boy going?"

You tried not to be so obvious with the way the name affected you, but the way it slipped off his tongue so easily, like it belonged there, had your hands sweating and breath quickening. You swallowed.

"M-my hip. I was thinking my hip."

Bucky cocked a dark brow. "Your hip."

The way he said it, not a question, but rather a statement, voice an octave lower than it was a moment ago, had you reminding yourself to keep breathing.

You nodded. His eyes flickered down to the aforementioned body part, then slowly made their way up, over your stomach and across your chest covered in a lacy top, across your neck, then finally met yours. This time, he was the one who swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing as he reciprocated your nod.

"Okay. Okay, that's good. That's a cool spot," he said, and then cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, I'm gonna need you to - to unbutton your jeans. So I can, you know, place the stencil and - and ink you, and stuff."

Your lips quirked up, finding it amusing how flustered he seemed to get now, instead of the other way around. A rush of confidence overtook you, whether it was from his stammered words, or the way his eyes had travelled your torso, or maybe it was simply your inebriation. It could have been all three. Whatever it was, it had you staring into his eyes as your hands found the button of your jeans, undoing it and pulling the zipper down, then pulling one side of them down, folding it over itself so your underwear was on display.

Bucky's eyes tracked the movements, darkening when he lifted them back up to yours, and his jaw visibly clenched. You let out a loose breath through your nose and bit your tongue.

The silence between you two felt stretched taught and thin, palpable and ready to shatter at any moment as you stared at each other. He cleared his throat again.

"Would you mind if I smoke?" he asked, voice rough and resigned. You shook your head.

Pulling out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter from his pocket, you watched, slightly fascinated, as he pulled a cigarette out from the pack, brought it to his pink lips, struck the lighter and lit it, inhaling deeply. The smoke he blew from his mouth surrounded you, filling the air with a new, hazy tension. He kept eye contact as he threw his cigarettes and the lighter onto the small table, and pulled his stool closer.

He leaned down over your hip, then hesitated. Flicking his eyes up to yours, brows raised in question, you nodded.

Bucky's fingers softly, slowly, grabbed the hem of your underwear and pulled it down a couple of inches, and when his fingertips brushed the delicate skin there, you felt a rush of fire burst through you, starting from the place of contact and going straight to your head. You tried focusing on breathing evenly, but that was difficult to do as you watched him reach behind and pull two black, latex gloves from the box he had brought earlier, pulling them on while studying the small expanse of skin he had exposed.

Your head swam, vision going in and out as you watched him carefully place the stencil he had made against your skin, adjusting it with one hand, pulling your underwear and jeans down with the other so they would stay out of the way. The cigarette dangled from his plump lips, and he pulled it out of his mouth, let smoke leave through his nose as he turned and set it against an ash tray.

He nodded toward the stencil. "Is this placement okay?"

You glanced down, seeing the fine, purple outline of the butterfly you chose on your hipbone, and you nodded. You couldn't help the small smile that reached your lips - it looked amazing already.

"Alright, doll," Bucky said, then carefully peeled the paper back, leaving just the drawing and goosebumps on your skin.

He stared at it for a moment, then frowned.

"What's wrong?" you asked, immediately worried.

"Nothing's wrong, exactly, I just don't think I can ink you in this position. The angle is awkward and the skin isn't tight enough so it might not end up the way you want it to."

"Oh," you said, the frowned yourself. "Well, what would work better?"

He gave a short shrug. "It would be best if you were standing, honestly."

Your mouth parted, but no breath escaped, and you nodded slightly. "Yeah. Okay."

The words came out quiet and breathy, and you hoped he couldn't notice the slight tremble in your arms as you lifted yourself out of the chair and to your feet beside him. Your underwear and jeans rode back up as you did, and you frowned, wondering if you chose a place that was too impractical.

Bucky, either noticing your frown, or noticing where your attention was, rolled his stool closer to you. Looking up at you, his hands reached up with slow, deliberate movements, a question in his eyes. You bit your lip, nodding, and turned to face him completely, standing between his legs, thighs enclosing your own.

You held your breath as his fingers pulled the front of your jeans down, exposing both hips and the front of your panties, and he paused, holding your gaze. You gave him no sign to stop, so he reached for the hem of your underwear again, pulling it down even more this time, exposing not only your hip, but your upper pubic area as well.

His eyes flickered to the skin there, quickly, then back up to yours, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed. The cigarette was burning out in the ash tray, long forgotten but filling the air with wisps of smoke and the smell of ash.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you couldn't help but feel like the way you were exposed in front of him, lips inches from a place you'd like him to be, the way he was staring into your eyes, pupils dilated and intoxicating - it may have all been just a touch unprofessional. You shooed the thought away when his gloved fingers traced the stenciled out butterfly, and goosebumps rose on your skin again, stomach clenching involuntarily at the touch.

His eyes trapped yours in their vice-like grip as he stared up at you, fingers brushing against the hem of your jeans, and you swallowed heavily. You felt the rush of alcohol in your head fizzle out into smoke and embers as you sobered up quicker than you ever have in your life.

"Are you sure?"

You swallowed again. Nodded.

There was a small twitch in his eyebrows, and he narrowed his gaze. "It'll hurt."

Despite your heartbeat drowning out all sounds around you, despite the cold sweat on the back of your neck, despite the knowledge that you'll probably regret this - whatever this actually was - in the morning, you smiled.

"Then I guess I'll just have to hold your hand."

Bucky gave you a sly smile, and shook his head, almost to himself, sucking in a deep breath before rolling back to grab the tattoo gun from the table. He moved the machine slightly closer so it had better reach, and you shifted on your feet nervously. At this point, you were more focused on the incoming pain than the pain already killing your heels and toes in your shoes.

"This is an area that usually doesn't hurt as much as others, but you'll still feel some discomfort," he told you as he fiddled with the machine and the gun, flicking it to life. The quiet buzzing filled the air, and you sucked in a sharp breath even though you nodded at his words.

He lifted his head to look at you, reaching a hand up to grab your other hip steady. "It'll feel like a buzz under your skin, or a slight stinging. If it gets too much for you, just squeeze my hand and I'll stop. I promise."

You made yourself look deep into his eyes and you noted the reassurance in them, so you let out the breath you didn't know you were holding and nodded, screwing your eyes shut.

His grip on you tightened, and it was a mild comfort as he pressed the needle into your skin, inking the first few drops into your hip. The pain wasn't excruciating, nor was it unbearable, but it was surprising, and like nothing you had ever felt before. You let out a soft gasp as he worked, trying to keep still so as not to disturb him, but you couldn't help your hand that shot out to grab his wrist - the one on your hip. He paused and turned his focus up to you, tender worry in his blue eyes.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

You clenched your jaw and nodded. "Just keep going, it's not that bad."

After a few more minutes, you seemed to get used to the stinging sensation, and now the area just felt numb. You had asked Bucky about it, but he smiled and reassured you that it was perfectly normal.

Your senses blurred together and you closed your eyes against all the stimulants - the smell of smoke still hanging in the air, the buzzing of the tattoo gun, the numbness in your hip, Bucky's firm hold on you and the strength of his wrist flexing beneath the palm of your hand.

You kept reminding yourself to breath, to focus on something else - anything other than the needle currently piercing your skin.

Bucky's fingers gave you a light squeeze, and you nearly trembled.

"Just a little more, doll, that's it. You're doing so good for me, you know that?" Bucky muttered softly, his breath warm against your bare skin, and you nodded even though he couldn't see.

"Just a few more seconds and we'll be all done, sweetheart, I promise."

"Okay," you whispered breathily and turned your gaze up towards the paneled ceiling.

"All done, doll," Bucky said, voice bringing your focus back to him. He switched the gun off and rolled back in his chair slightly to put it back where it belonged. He plucked a bottle of something off the table and grabbed a paper towel.

"This is just some antibacterial soap I'm gonna use to clean the ink residue off you, okay?"

It was all you could do to nod in response, and you watched him move as he cleaned the tattoo, then wiped it down carefully. You winced, and he frowned.

Bucky put the soap back and grabbed another similar-looking bottle.

"This is just lotion - it'll help soothe any lingering pain."

You stared in mute fascination as he spread the lotion across your hip, rubbing it in gently, then running his thumb across the fresh design. Your breath stuttered, and he tore his eyes away from the butterfly, clearing his throat. Once again, he turned back, putting the lotion in its place, then pulled out a box of large bandages from the lower part of the table, picking one up and peeling it open.

He pressed it softly against your tattoo, then made sure it was stuck on right, giving the area a soft stroke with his thumb again, and then he ripped his gloves off, throwing them in the trash beneath the table.

Bucky's attention finally, finally turned back to you, and he rolled himself into his initial position. His hands skimmed the sides of your thighs softly before they reached your panties, pulling them up and over the fresh tattoo. You held your breath when his knuckles brushed your lower stomach, and you could've sworn you heard him inhale sharply. A muscle in his jaw fluttered and he pulled your jeans back up too, zipping and buttoning them slowly.

He kept his stare straight, eyes on the button right in front of him, an you let out a slow, deep breath when his hands lowered from your hips, to the backs of your thighs, caressing them gently, even giving them a short squeeze.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, voice a raspy whisper.

You shook your head, eyes trained on him. "No."

He looked up then, and you felt your pulse pick up pace. You didn't know what to focus on - his eyes burning holes into yours, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs, or the fact that his face was inches away from your abdomen, breath heating it with every exhale.

"Good," he said simply. Quietly. "It'll heal in about two to three weeks, but you should avoid getting it wet and change the bandage as often as you can."

"M-maybe you could - give me your number," you stammered, and Bucky lifted his brows. "You know, so I can call if I notice something off, or - or if I need help with something."

He smiled, and this smile wasn't like any of the previous smiles. This one was a full-on grin, perfect teeth and dimples on display, making him look younger. You couldn't lie and say it wasn't one of the most beautiful sights you had ever seen.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll give you my number, but I want to be updated every day. It is your first tat, after all."

You grinned and nodded. "Alright. Deal."

"You're gonna walk out and pay Kate up front, and then I'll follow, as soon as I clean up here. 'Kay?"

You nodded.

"Good girl," he said, shooting a wave of heat through your body, and he gave your thighs a light slap before he rolled away.

The lack of his presence in your personal space felt jarring, like you had just been ripped away from the world and thrown into another, and you blinked the feeling away, sucking in a deep breath.

"Okay," you said, more to yourself than to him, and he smiled at you.

"Go. I promise I'll be out in a minute."

__________

Kate handed you your card back, and you were still trying to shake the shock of hearing the price off when the beaded curtain shuffled and Bucky came through in all his marvelous glory. Out here, in the open space of the front of the shop, he looked even taller, even wider, and you suppressed the urge to reach out a hand and touch him.

"Hey doll. Can't believe you didn't run away," he said with a half-smile, and you blew some air through your nose.

"Of course I didn't," you replied softly, then cleared your throat.

He held his hand out expectantly, and it took you a moment to realize what he was waiting for. "Oh! Right, sorry."

You tugged your phone out of your purse, unlocking it and handing it to him. You admired the way the screen lit up his face as his fingers flew across it, and before you knew it, he was handing the phone back to you with a smile.

He took a step forward, and you inhaled sharply.

"Remember, daily," he muttered, low enough only for you to hear, inches away from your face, and you could only nod.

"I promise," you whispered, and his smile grew.

Someone cleared their throat behind you, and that made you tear your eyes away from Bucky's. Nat and Wanda were both standing by the exit, hands on their hips, staring between you and Bucky expectantly.

"Right, we'll just be going now," you said, trying to hide the surprising disappointment in your voice as you gestured with your head to the door. "Thank you for everything. I love it."

Bucky slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gave you a genuine smile. "The pleasure was all mine, sweetheart."

You held his eyes even as Nat grabbed your arm and dragged you through the door, the bell chiming and tinkling above you, and Wanda called out a goodbye over her shoulder as the three of you left.

The cool night air enveloped you completely, and at this point, you were sober enough to feel a chill trickle through your bones. You shuddered.

"Jeez, what time is it, anyways," you mumbled, rubbing your arms to gather some warmth. You paused your movements when you noticed the looks on your friends' faces.

"What? What happened?"

Nat scoffed. "What happened? What happened with you? In there! With that beefcake of a man!"

Wanda chimed in excitedly. "The way he was looking at you? Phew, it was growing way too hot in there, to be honest."

You blushed, rolling your eyes, and began walking. "C'mon, guys, don't be childish-"

"Are you gonna go out with him?" Nat interrupted, linking an arm through yours.

"He hasn't asked me," you said blankly.

"Well, he definitely will," Wanda said with a matter-of-fact shrug. "I could see it in his eyes."

"Who would've thought - Y/N getting her groove on with the tattoo artist-"

"Ew, groove? Seriously, Natasha, who says things like that-"

"Stop trying to act like we're not totally right here."

You sighed and shook your head, but couldn't help the smile that rose to the surface. "Yeah, he is pretty hot."

The three of you burst into a fit of giggles as you walked, trying to find a taxi to hail before you froze your asses off.

"So... can we see the tat?"

[silverflqmes]

heey, i really loved your writing!! could you write a fluff where kageyama has a crush on seijouh's manager and doesn't know how to approach because of certain people (oikawa and kindaichi lol) ?

sorry if something is spelled wrong, I'm using the translator 😞❤️

lovee from Brazil!

໒⦂ 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄.

notes. first song that came to mind^ by taylor swift ( ofc ) but anyway.. hello anon! much love to you in brazil<3 i hope this drabble is too your liking, not very confident in my take on kageyama but we cope.

genre. fluff ( kinda cliché.. )

tobio kageyama x gn!reader.

tobio wasn’t exactly what many would call, in tune with their feelings. in fact, he sucked at expressing what he felt. so much, that any emotions could easily be compared to crashing waves.

feelings surface and take the skies to great heights, only come crashing down and return to the expanse of water.

though it wasn’t completely his fault. many factors prevented him from expressing himself in a normal and understandable way. this time around, it was two students from his old junior high that stood in the way — yuutaro kindaichi, and no surprise here — tooru oikawa.. whom he didn’t have the best relationship with.

and what exactly were they blocking him from? well, his feelings towards you.

once upon a time ago, you had also attended kitagawa daiichi and have been kageyama’s crush for as long as could remember. no one could compare to you no matter how many times he tried to disregard his feelings.

now that you attended aoba johsai, he feared he might never get to tell you of his sentiments towards you.

the one opportunity he had to speak with you was during the practice match early into the school year, and at the singular opportunity he received to approach you, when he didn’t just feel like a face in a crowd.. kageyama became completely tongue tied.

like a fool he choked on his words before spouting a pathetic excuse of a greeting once kindaichi had arrived with kunimi to pull you away from him.

now, he was met with a new opportunity.. one that featured no aoba johsai, no court and zero volleyball — just the two of you, and the beach.

the raven haired setter had come with his sister for the day, saying to him that he had needed sun and a break from his cherished sport. the odds of you showing up were zero, and yet, here he was.. proven wrong once more.

miwa, upon seeing you playing blissfully in the water with a friend you had brought down to the beach with you, had of course nagged her younger brother, urging that it was fate. how often was it that you showed up to the beach at the same time as your crush without that knowledge, anyway?

still, the first year had refused to approach you. how could he when you were having so much fun? you’d freeze up completely if you had to hear another failed attempt at a confession.

despite being so close to him, you felt so far away for him. out of his league, out of reach.. and it terrified him to take those few steps in approaching you. who was to say you wanted him anyway if he spoke up? for all he knew someone else was in the picture.

there was just too much at risk, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear your rejection.

“tobio.. you’re gonna lose her completely with the rate you’re going at.” his older sister sighed out, draining her bottle of coke. “nobody’s here to stop or make you feel judged in any way. and i can tell you right now,” she paused, pushing her sunglasses up a bit. “you’re not getting a better opportunity than this one.”

his lips pursed together as he stole another glance at you before looking at the emptied glass bottle in his hand. “it’s pointless trying, onee-san. she came here to enjoy herself and relax — not witness an embarrassment of a confession, if i even get one out.” the words would be completely jumbled, so much that it was sure to sound illiterate. like a baby trying to get their first word out.

he wondered if he could just get his feelings across without standing there to tell you. if he could do it that way, surely the confession would get across, and it won’t have cost him his dignity.

the elder eyed the younger for a moment before letting out a hum. “if this was volleyball, surely you’d have found a way around this by now.” she spoke up before laying back in her beach chair. “facing defeat has made you too comfortable, tobio.”

his lips parted to throw back a retort before, wanting to defend what little pride he had left, but his thoughts failed him when they couldn’t form into a sentence. miwa was right, painful as it was to admit. he gave up way too easily, all because of vulnerability.

his gaze lingered on the glass in his hand for a little while longer, the sea beyond twinkling in the distant horizon.

and just like that, an idea struck him. “nee-san, do you have a paper and pen i can borrow?”

“i’m telling you hana-chan, every conversation we’ve had just ends up in word vomit when he addresses me — considering yuutaro-kun and oikawa-senpai always intervene..” you sighed out to your friend from johzenji, pursing your lips together. “i feel bad each time we talk because of it.”

the brunette lowered her sunglasses to her face, letting out a hum. “volleyball boys do tend to hold onto their grudges, otherwise they’d be more like my team.. and they’re certainly a draining bunch.” it was like hosting a kid’s birthday party everyday when it came down to managing. “maybe you should try contacting him outside of volleyball?” she suggested, sipping on her smoothie.

your lips pursed together. “i probably should, he was a really good guy back in junior high.. despite what everyone says about his behavior with volleyball.” an awkward laugh seemed to have left your lips at the memories. “but i miss having him in my life, i just don’t know if he feels the same way..”

“what’s that?” the manager spoke up, sitting upright.

raising a brow, you turned to look at your friend. “i said i don’t know if he feels the same way..”

“no no.” misaki shook her head, pointing to the shore. “that, over there.” she corrected, lifting her shades.

you blinked at her finger, following its direction before narrowing your eyes to see what she had been referring to. the sun wasn’t quite helping your vision, in fact- whatever it was, the sun reflected it in a way that made you get up to go look for yourself.

if someone threw trash into the sea with garbage bins scattered all around the beach to maintain the cleanliness, you were seriously going to throw hands.

as you approached the shallow water, you kneeled to pick up the discarded bottle, wondering who on earth couldn’t just get off their ass and throw away a coke bottle.

but as you got a better look, you found a paper inside. at first glance it might have been a wrapper for a straw, however it wasn’t crumbled up like trash. rather — it was rolled up.

part of you thought you might have found the krabby patty secret formula somehow by its appearance. glass bottle and a note? a child would have surely thought similarly and opened it to see.

and like a kid.. curiosity got the better of you.

twisting off the cap, you flipped the bottle over to shake the letter out, eager to see what you might find. maybe even treasure — although that was farfetched.. even for you.

unraveling the message, however, you found none of the things you anticipated. in fact, you were met with very the last scenario that could have possibly crossed your mind.

dear y/n,

um.. i’m no good with words, but uh, you probably noticed that the last few times we saw each other. and i have no hope that whatever i say will be any better here.. especially with limited space, but i’m hoping that i can put my feelings into words a little easier without my pride getting in the way, awkward meetings, or our old schoolmates.

i like you, a lot.. and i have for a really long time now — since kitagawa daiichi. but i’ve just, had a hard time bringing those feelings across to you, so i never got the chance, especially when we go to different schools.

just feels like the universe doesn’t want me with you every time i try to speak up, so i decided to write them instead, hoping they get to you in this message.

if you don’t feel the same, i understand- i just hope we can remain friends, and that i haven’t made things even more awkward than they already were between us.

yours sincerely,

tobio kageyama.

shock painted your features as you read the name nine more times, scanned the contents of the letter before looking behind you.

tobio was somewhere on the beach and you hadn’t even seen him. he could have made an approach as well, but his fears, you guessed, of rejection.. told him not to.

finally, as your eyes were ready to give up the search, a sliver of blueberry caught your gaze. bingo.

“y/n?? where are you-”

“one minute, i think i saw someone i know!” you quickly intercepted hana, rising from your crouched position to run a few umbrellas down.

there was one with a duo underneath that resembled one another, and if your memory served you correctly — that was tobio and his older sister. miwa, if your memory hadn’t failed you.

the setter seemed to be his own world for a moment, filing his nails as part of his routine. even outside of the court, he still had to maintain his habits.

“tobio, i’m off to get us more drinks.” the female spoke up after looking up, smiling to herself. “be right back~”

kageyama let out a noise of agreement, only lifting his head a smidge to nod before pausing when he noticed a figure across from him — your figure.

either you just noticed him, or you had actually received the haphazard message in the bottle he had sent. and by the looks of it, it had been the latter.

“y/n..” he breathed out, lowering the filer in his hand as he watched you approach him.

the butterflies from every occasion he had encountered you this past year seemed to have returned to his stomach. was this what hinata felt before every match..?

“tobio-kun, it’s been awhile.” you smiled a little, letting out a sheepish laugh. “surprised to find you here, it almost feels like fate.. except no distractions this time for us to finally put everything out on the table.”

his heart seemed to accelerate with pace, the nerves increasing almost tenfold. rejection, he could just sense it coming. “um, well.. i already said how i feel, considering you got the letter.” he spoke up, eyeing the emptied beverage in your hands.

at his reasoning, you lifted the bottle before humming. “true, but i didn’t actually hear it from you. for all i know it could have been something of your sister’s doing.”

tobio, blushing profusely, nearly found himself barking back a response — a frequent habit of his. but as he eyed your expecting gaze, he faltered, lowering his head in defeat.

“how will i know if by saying it, i won’t just end up being made into a fool..?” he mumbled, pursing his lips together.

as you took a step closer, you gave him a knowing stare. “let me do you a better one, how are you so sure i’ll make you into a fool? you’re aware of your feelings.” you paused before pointing to yourself. “but you’re not aware of mine, it seems.”

his lips parted to retort before he froze up. “wait- your feelings? you..”

a smile returned to your lips as you sat beside him. “i like you, tobio-kun. are the feelings i read true?” you asked him, tilting your head curiously.

the color on his cheeks seemed to darken as he avoided your intent gaze for a moment before nodding. “they’re as i wrote them.. i really do like you, y/n — and i meant every word i said.. i was just scared you might’ve felt.. differently.”

“well,” you grabbed his hand, grinning brightly. “rest assured the feelings are mutual at long last!”

notes. sorry this is rushed and written in like 7382393939 different sittings.. hoping i was able to fulfill your request somewhat?? idk how in character he is.. but anyway, ty for the request anon and sorry for the very long wait ahaha.. please enjoy!

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[fjordfolk]

What’s your thoughts on wui hei quan dogs?

This response is going to derail.

My thoughts about any and all non-western breeds are that English (or Norwegian, which are inevitably translated from English) sources are rubbish, and the current media environment makes it near-impossible to search for anything.

This isn't new. This is western dog fancy.

My search engines will organize my location-based results over the things i actually write in the search field. My English-language and Latin-alphabet search results will inevitably land me search results in English.

Which means that from my scope, the wui hei quan dog could be anything from a fabricated tiktok trend featuring a black "chow" puppy to a genuine heavily pigmented regional breed of Chinese farmdog ("garden dog" but I've been around this translation block before, i c u). I'm tempted to lean toward the latter, just because the google search results want me to exchange "wui hei quan dog" for "xiasi dog," and the regions those are supposed to originate from are some minor fifteen travel hours apart. Which is a little bit like exchanging a Norwegian buhund for a German schnauzer. A household/farmdog from comparable regions. Right?

We run into this problem pretty often. You've got your chows and your shar peis, but otherwise, not-noble breeds are easily overlooked. Pekingese were "stolen" from the aristocracy so they're novel, our knowledge of Japanese breeds curiously spikes after WW2. You can throw a racism argument and I agree, but let's add a class card as well. How many regional Chinese ratters do FCI recognize?

Our knowledge of dogs is limited by access, language, and curiosity. We have access, arguably, and to an extent we can overcome language barriers. But I'm not sure we're curious enough.

In short, I've got zero to no thoughts about the wui hei quan dog or wuyishan black dog, because I know nothing about it. I would love to have more thoughts. I'd love to hear about regional asian dog breeds and their quirks and their qualms and politics.

whats YOUR thoughts on the wui hei quan dogs?

pls tell me

tell me

[yikesy]

you know those things where they personify the different facets of a character's personality into different people??? my take on that with (rrverse) apollo:

"sun" apollo: the arts, music and poetry. apollo's "facade" as it were. very dramatic, bombastic and performative, acts as if he were always on a stage. constantly distracting and entertaining himself with outside stimuli, zero introspection to be sought here!!. hopeless romantic. feels incredibly guilty when facing light!pollo so he just doesn't. on the rare few times his mask breaks he's just very tired and bitter. he looks like "modern" apollo, golden skin and hair, but his hair is also literally made of flames

"light" apollo: represents his truth and revelation aspects, directness and straightforwardness. is currently always surrounded in an inescapable lightless void. VERY intense and angry, not much to be happy about lately. fucking HATES sun!pollo, considers him to have ruined their lives and betrayed their morals and Self. would actually rather die than keep existing as is but can't. loves his siblings. can sometimes be heard chained screaming and crying in your ear. blinding to look at but looks like past apollo, with straight platinum hair. dresses in stark white

"knowledge" apollo: calm and rational. the mediator of the group, he's the one with the most empathy for the others of the bunch and is always quick to remind light and sun how their situation was influenced by outside factors and they're all doing the best they can. doesn't fall for logical fallacies, knows who the real enemy is. optimistic, sensible and uplifting. the most human looking of the bunch, has curly dark golden hair tied up in a bun and a real laurel branch wreath. is often holding scrolls

"prophecy" apollo: mysterious, mischievous and easygoing. nothing seems to surprise or faze him. always smiling like he knows something you don't or is laughing at you. whimsical, smug and amazingly confident. all around cheshire cat vibes. his smile turns gentle when the others are freaking out too much and he tells them he knows everything will turn out fine (if they ask his if he knows with his powers he tells them he just has faith ;)) just "immortal who's gone around the block and back" energy. has straight dirty blonde hair and vibrant green eyes. the most "primal" looking of the bunch, sometimes has antlers or a veil or extra eyes. always barefoot

[noxturnalmoth]

What Could Have Been

Summary: Silco, the Eye of Zaun, the Industrialist, was first and foremost a son of Zaun who wanted his motherland free. After an altercation in which his adopted daughter shot him in a fit of rage, he is left dying while the world goes on without him. His life's work and ideals soon trampled to nothing as his memory fades from the world. But what if he was saved?

Warnings: Violence, spoilers season 2 ending, suggestive themes, a little bit of feelies for the ending

Word Count: 16, 051

Masterlist: here

Chapter 8 - Unity

War has begun.

As you cut into the fray, the smoke clears with the rush of Zaunites passing through the thick screen. You can see Piltover clearly now from above the plated skies, the chemical filled fissures. Blood and corpses decorate it like the arena you remember growing up in and you see people dressed in navy fight. Elegant Piltovans, marked Zaunites, none of these origins matter anymore when you clash against the wolf's chosen.

Rippers of white and maroon staining the City of Progress with their sins, picking apart sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers and children alike with no discrimination. It's a grueling sight, to look at death right in its ugly maw, to see hell crack open beneath your feet and its demons crawling out. Mannequins crawling and rushing like beasts, Noxians attacking like feral animals.

Yet no matter how strong they are, how much they decimate, Piltover and its army holds strong. And so will you.

You see eyes widen as you rush to attack, soldiers clearly thinking of you as one of their own at first due to your red clothing and weapons, realizing too late that their fate is sealed by your hand. But after a couple of enemies downed, they realize your position and get back to their feet, targeting you as another victim to be claimed.

You won't let them.

Sparks fly as you block, the weight of your metal arm overcoming the strength of muscle no matter if scratches are delivered, no matter how hard they push back. With your new limbs you push back harder. Quickly planting the blades in a Noxian's foot you knee the fool with your mechanic leg, twisting painfully to punch at another before taking back your weapons, slicing the both of them.

From the side you see Silco, red, black and silver flashing as he expertly dodges, daggers whipping in the cracks of the dark armors surrounding him while he delivers blows with a strength unlike anything you've seen from him. He isn't the industrialist anymore, fighting with words and influence, or the young and foolish rebel he once was, no he is a revolutionary, a warrior forged in the fissures by chemicals and blazing determinations. By blisters and bedrock.

You nod at one another, smiles softly ripping through your faces before you get back into the fight.

He'll be alright.

He has to be.

So you fight with that knowledge, heart stabbed at each new corpse dropping from your side, at each Zaunite and Piltovan sacrificed in this senseless war. And no matter how it came to be, you'll end it. Today, here and now.

You get thrown to the ground, punched, kicked, stabbed, sliced, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but the mission. You will give Jayce time, you will fight for humanity, and you will win. There is no backing down now, not now, not ever.

"I thought you tin cans were better than this!"

You taunt, blades slashing against armor and tearing through flesh. Your expertise as a pit fighter coming in to let you zero in on the soldiers' weaknesses even through their armors. Every living being has a weak spot, and unluckily for them you know them all, and you play dirty like the Sump rat you are. Just like Keradon taught you all these years ago, carved into your flesh and mind with each scar.

It's painful, your nerves screaming at the metallic limbs swinging and moving with such vigor so early in your journey to recovery, your body groaning with each new cut delivered to you.

But will not falter.

Even when a Noxian pierces you with his spear, you walk the length of the pole, the metal sliding in the piercing wound as you cut their head off, pulling away the last of the weapon from yourself. The bleeding is intense, could be fatal if you don't cauterize.

So you get an idea.

You slide one of your knuckle blades back into its sheathe at your waist, letting the knowledge of your new limbs come back to mind.

And you hold the rev of your wrist to heat the fist up.

The metal glowing orange in no time as cyan blue travels through the intricate plating, your eyes closing before you place your fingers in the wound, front and back. Your teeth grind in pain and the smell of burnt flesh makes your stomach cry out, but when your gaze snaps back open to grasp at a white construct and you squeeze, you're thankful to realize that no more blood escapes you and that the ceramic like body seems to melt and crack against the power of heat.

"Okay. Alright, I see you Powder."

Your groan animates you as you continue marching, rushing to another band construct snapping and attacking your brethren. Blade hooking around their pristine bodies before you punch and melt your way through their chests, fist now white hot and blinding. You don't have the time to respond to the thanks of those you've helped before you're thrown away, a giant armored beast making you clash against stone rubble.

Your blade cuts flesh and your arm melts through metal but the hold he has on your neck is enough to make you fear for a crack and sudden inescapable darkness.

Think. Think. Think.

Your vision blurs as a hit is delivered to your stomach. Legs suddenly feeling heavier as you're hoisted off of the ground.

Your leg.

You twist your ankle and hit the sole of your metallic foot against the building behind you, a rattling shaking through your body before you hit again. Your knee shoots up and collides with the beast's chin, sending it reeling backwards and you down and back to the ground. But you do not take a moment to breathe, no, you rev up your leg once more, struggling as you shoot upwards and bring it into the armored chest with gusto. Blood splatters all over you as you pull your foot out.

But you do not falter.

You are not allowed to.

I won't let myself be beaten.

You run like a fowl rushing instead of learning to walk, the speed granted by the new limb almost impossible to register as your flesh leg follows it. So your left arm holds up its blade, braced against your chest, and you slam against a group of Noxians, unleashing your weapon at the last second, hemoglobin flying like a grotesque tableau while bodies topple down from the mechanic force.

So much for an army of war forged nut jobs.

But they haven't got anything on an oppressed people with centuries of accumulated rage.

You stomp through the corpses for good measure, footprints caving in their chests as you continue forwards. Navy and earthy tones fight side by side in a dance against red and white, and your heart swells at the unity. Hard earned and unexpected in this newer, more dangerous war, one where so much more is at stake than your two nations.

But unity nonetheless.

"Fuck!"

You're held back by constructs, agile, quick, deadly, and much stronger than they look. Humans made into mindless killing machines. Unfortunately for them, no matter how much your bones groan under their claws, you're a killing machine too. And your mind and human desperation makes you much more dangerous and unpredictable.

Knock.

I need to knock.

You rev up your leg once more, the rush pushing some of the gilded ceramic beings enough for your fist to be freed and knock through the air. With the motion comes a blue shield, arcane in nature yet solid, sending some constructs flying back and cutting through the others unlucky enough to find themselves beneath its edge.

A homemade guillotine.

A chuckle escapes you as you knock once more, using your leg's propulsion ability you rush forwards, hot fist slicing through the air like a comet raining down on the arcane angels. They resist but the white hot metal is a weakness against the softness of their bodies, material unable to withstand the heat.

"Out of my way, freaks. Once human or not, I'm not letting that shit stop me. You're not winning today."

You pant, hand seizing the last one's neck, fist melting through the cold webbing.

"Humanity will prevail."

The head rolls on the ground, claws once upon a time tearing at your flesh now inert as you throw the body away.

To your left you see Sevika and a band of navy clad soldiers hold their own while surrounded by Noxians. So you rush.

One.

Two.

Three.

And you shoot up. The world smaller when you're high up in the air only takes your breath away for a second as you remember the last ability given to you by Power's amazing craft. You twist your wrist and bring your arm down, colliding like a meteor on top of the group, soldiers knocked back as you hold yourself up.

"Sev, go!"

"So you can have all the fun?" She smirks and you get into position, your other blade following its brethren in its holster.

"Yeah, and so I can flaunt my new fucking body mods you hyena!"

Enemies rush at you and you wait until the last second to jump up and knock, bodies cut and others thrown back before you let your leg send you flying to them, jumping high up before your arm's jet pulls you down, metal melting through metal as you shoot through Noxians like a knife through butter.

The last thing you see in their eyes is something you never thought you'd see. Reverence.

"Do it then. Take it. Take your life back from me, child." Had said the wolf.

And you fucking did. Who cares about a beast, you're the wolf now.

A whistle rings from behind you. "What did you call that one?" Your head turns at the tease and you smirk.

"I don't know, Sev. But it probably hurts like a bitch and it kills, so that's enough for me."

"Atta girl."

"Oh fuck off." A noise whips through the air and you turn around, pushing Sevika out of the way before you unleash your shield once more, lances clattering against the arcane barrier. "Now get back to fighting because if you die stupidly I'll mock you for the rest of eternity."

Chuckles escape the both of you as you part ways, her flesh finger flipping you a very lovely bird as she punches her way through the fray.

The movement of propulsion gets easier to handle as you fight more and more, the hextech powered limbs never tiring with use. You think back to Jayce and Viktor, of all the years they've put into perfecting that technology, and to Powder who cracked it like it's a child's math problem. All of the blood sweat and tears used to create a better world now ruined and sullied by greed and pride, powered by hatred.

Humanity's greatest sins.

But as you shield yet another group from near death and punch your way through the enemy, you realize one thing.

That as ugly as you can be, you can learn, you can grow. That no matter how unsightly you can be, you are. You think. You exist. And even better yet, you feel. And that all that breeds corruption also brings upon greatness and unity.

Humanity's greatest weakness and strength is itself and its capacity for free will, sentience, science, emotion and creativity.

Humanity is humanity because as beautiful as it can be, as much as it can do great things, it's imperfect, it has flaws.

And no one will take that, not even over my cold dead body.

You swear to yourself while you continue. You re adapt to your body, stance low and animalistic as you take back your marks, fists of flesh and metal knocking against their kin, mechanical claws ripping, heated alloy burning through skin and melting armor. Your body soars high and dips low, it rushes forwards and evades back with unkempt balance but so much power that your steps leave their permanent marks carved into the floors of Piltover.

Your momentum is stopped by chains, arms trapped backwards in a vice while hands pull at your limbs. Digits claw at your flesh, leaving indents in the muscle and skin, blood shining black even on the dark armor as you're dragged to your captor. So once they've got you, you brace yourself, revving your leg against theirs as you flip backwards, your arms using the chain keeping them tied as a noose around the Noxian's neck before you pull down, knocking the back of the armored skull against metallic knee plating. You melt through the binding, hand shoved onto the enemy's face and melting through it, a cry muffled by death all too soon.

You see from afar a familiar frame, lithe, sporting a large backpack and tonfas as he fights a duo of constructs to protect a group of people.

You nearly make your way there on all fours, punching the ground to flip up before your leg's jet makes you spin mid air, knocking the robots with a well placed kick.

"You're from the strike team aren't you?" He nods and you tongue at your cheek. "Thought I recognized you." You rev up your fist, punching through the two evolved before you turn back around.

"How are you faring?"

He points to the wounded he is keeping safe, eyes concerned at their wounds and a deep breath makes your bruised ribs sing in sweet agony.

"I'll protect you while you get your shit done, so do your best." His eyes widen, scales shifting intricately before his face hardens in determination. "Good, wouldn't have accepted no anyways. Do you got a name…" You stare at his beret to determine his rank, finding the pin adorning it. "..lieutenant?"

"Steb." He says roughly, apparently unused to talking. The aquatic vastaya keeping his eyes trained on you intensely while you turn back around to prepare for incoming enemies. You tell him your name, fists bunched as you raise your shield, swinging it at a couple of opponents before you rush their way.

You don't know how much time it takes, sweat already dripping from before now washing away the blood crusting at the cuts covering you. But then a hand clamps on your shoulder and before you can raise your arm to attack you spy teal skin from your side and relax.

The man pulls you away, letting the others return back to the fight before he sits you down, your body heavy with exhaustion but still the war doesn't seem to come to an end. More Noxians. More constructs. More death. All happening before your eyes as Steb cleans and sews up your wounds, dressing them tightly with expert hands as he chews on his lips.

"I forgive you, you know."

His head lifts after knotting the last bandage, surprise coloring his face.

"That bitch Ambessa was poisoning everyone topside, and while I hate Piltover and what they've done to my people, I know that her presence here raised the war banners from the second she set her filthy foot on our land. Her and her army of glorified murderers." You sigh, getting back up through the screams of protest your body delivers you.

"I also know grief is one hell of a fucking thing, and that when in proper conditions anyone can be a monster. Plus, you didn't seem enthralled to be doing what you've done either, so I forgive you Steb. We're all probably gonna die anyways, even if we're not allowing death to be our last word on this earth. So let's let bygones be bygones and focus on fighting for a unified future, yeah?"

Your flesh hand stretches to his in a peaceful gesture, a truce that may be symbolic after what's currently happening, but one that motivates the man before you. His own gloved hand gripping yours with gusto and a solemn nod.

"Don't die on us lieutenant. You're a good guy and we need more people like you to show the new era a peaceful way forward."

You tap his shoulder with a friendly smirk before turning around, throwing a wave over your shoulder before rushing back into the fight.

No rest for the wicked.

Blood flies and sparks light up your way as white hot metal and blue glowing mechanisms pierce through the enemy. Your body covered in wounds every new moment that the gods make. You are made to kneel, kicked, punched and slashed but nothing stops you, rage fueling your steps as you claw your way through Noxian lines.

You twist and turn, body like a feral animal's while others fight as humans as if the beast wasn't them, ruining a land and its people for the sake of greed and unknown machinations.

But you'll show them a monster alright, fight like the wolf they venerate, make them see fear and pain like they never have before. You'll make them regret taking the choice of free will and life away from you by ripping theirs apart. That'll show them what hundreds of years of oppression does to someone, what their plans do to those the use once they unshackle themselves from the Noxian chains of fate.

You're angry, fighting as such. But terror racks through you. Where is Silco? Is he alright? Is he dead? If so, where is his body? What will you do if or once you find it? Will you lose this fight?

Is this war meant to be lost?

No it can't be, it shouldn't be. Right? Nothing is ever foretold, prophecies are placebos, fate is a shackle created for the masses, destiny is a myth.

But you can't help but to worry. Where is the man you love? Will you hear his voice again? Will you laugh with him, taste his lips or hold him ever again? Will you die before him? Will you suffer? Will he? Will all of them?

Will you die before you can know what being "Mrs. Silco" is truly like?

Will more of your people suffer needless deaths? Will Jayce succeed? Will Viktor?

Will Piltover and Zaun crumble to let the world come down next, or will you win against all odds? Because everything seems ugly right now, and no matter how many you kill, more come to replace them. An endless supply of meat and metal puppets for an army straight from hell.

Where is Powder? Is she with Ekko? What are they planning? Are they safe? Did they make it here or were they stopped before being able to do anything? Are the Firelights okay? Will you get the promised air support? Will she be okay? Will he? Will they? Are they?

So many questions. Yet no matter how many what ifs, no matter how much horror and doubt fill your mind, you keep on going.

I have to.

A dagger flies past you and through a construct's head as you finish off a soldier, head tilting up to see familiar feet.

"Fancy seeing you here, dove. I might say, murderous is a look that fits you quite well."

You turn and bring your shield down on the arcane angel's neck, severing it from its body.

"Ah, my savior. Always the charmer, aren't you my love?"

When you get back up arms wrap around you and spin you, lips soon finding yours as you melt into the embrace. Blue and teal soon finding your eyes, terrified, exhilarated and exhausted.

"Gods I've missed you." You chuckle, stealing another kiss from Silco.

"And I, you." You spin the both of you around, heating your fist to melt a blade before Silco slams a knife in the Noxian's neck, still holding you close.

"How have you been?"

"Sticky, exhausted and fucking angry. You?"

"Just about the same, terrified for you as well."

"Then that makes two of us." He sways you from side to side in a tender dance before letting go, holding you at arm's length to look at you. "Don't worry, the vastayan medic patched me up."

Your eyes rake through him, beaten black and blue, bursting with hot blood where his flesh is split.

"I should see him too, then."

"Please do Silco, I don't think I can handle you getting hurt already. So I don't want you bleeding out in my arms at the very least."

"Better there than in one of theirs." He spits out, his forehead gently knocking against yours, lips turning up softly. "How can you still look beautiful even now? You never cease to surprise me, my dove."

His voice is low, whispered against the chaos of the world around you but so much louder than anything else you can hear. His eyes search yours, filled with adoration and devotion, concern and determination. He soothes your aching body and soul, suddenly feeling all too light even through such a pivotal moment of history.

"I think you're one to talk, darling. You are the most beautiful sight in all of Runeterra, always have been in my eyes." You mutter back.

His hair is wild, strands coming undone from his bun, silver and ink whipping in the wind. His scars are healthy, his eye shining bright blue instead of the orange that reminds you so much of your forge, the new tone bringing you clarity.

Blue like the sky when the clouds part and the sun is high.

Blue like the water that cradled your bodies that day.

Blue like what powers your limbs and helps you fight to reclaim what's rightfully yours.

Blue like the bruises blossoming on your bodies.

Blue like the polar opposite of the bloody Noxian red, waving its warring banners at you like a toreador taunts the bull in a corrida.

Blue, changing the violent orange hue once healed from his trauma. From his pain. From his dependence to visions that destroyed him, clinging to ghosts that dragged him to hell with them and corrupted his loving heart.

A calm, peaceful, loving and cooling blue that shows you nothing but endless affection.

White hands grip at Silco and try to pull him back before you throw him behind you, raising your shield. The man sliding before you to slash at the construct after you retreat. Your own form attacking after his with a heavy, jet powered punch.

"Back off from my man you glorified puppet freaks!"

And the attacks continue, the two of you working in tandem, in the perfect cadence you've worked on for months during missions. Heavy punches followed by graceful cuts, your body a jumping pad for his lithe form as he slides from side to side and you throw yourself up and down. Your aggressive style and power matching his swiftness and agility in a terrifying waltz.

"Your man, huh? Laying your claim already?"

He pants as you two twist and turn, switching places back and forth as you two try to cover all of your sides.

"I don't hear you complaining-"

You groan as you get stabbed through the stomach, head tilting in disdain at the soldier before you as you break his arm and slam him to the ground with your hand around his throat and a well timed rev.

"-you were mine the second you confessed, you fossil." You snap the Noxian's neck, getting back up to your feet to see Silco staring at you intently.

"Gods. Possessive? A woman after my own heart."

He throws a dagger behind you, landing right between an unguarded enemy's eyes, his voice once more ringing in your ears. "Good. Because anybody that looks at you, and let alone touches you, will have to face me. I like that we're on the same page."

He kisses you once more, breathless, needy, desperate. His tongue meets yours and teeth clash and lips sting but you don't care when you finally fully taste all that he has to offer. Salt and metal from blood, sweat and tears mix with faint traces of tobacco ingrained in his flesh from years of smoking.

"You plan on fucking me on the battlefield, Silco?" You push back, smirking at the man before his hand finds your chin and brings you into another searing kiss.

"As good as that sounds, no one gets to see what's mine but me. Especially with how much I want to love you with the entirety of my being." His tone soft yet softly veiled in hunger when he pulls away, letting go of you to take back his breath.

You feel a pang of desire course through you at his words, shaking your head to rid yourself of the images he is currently painting in your mind.

Messy, sweaty. Both of you groaning and moaning in pleasure as you become one. The feeling of finally being full in every way possible. Marks covering the both of you as you move, electricity shaking you to your core as you come once more around him. Feeling him spill himself within you yet never once stopping to pull himself away, wishing to remain as one forever. In fear of either of you disappearing as if in a dream. A proof of your love as your mouths meet tearfully, sharing all of what words cannot say with desperation and adoration on your lips.

Not the moment.

You chastise yourself.

"How can you think of that at such a moment?" You laugh incredulously, blinking away the last of your previous thoughts.

"What can I say? It's hard to stay impassive in front of you."

"Flirt."

"Minx."

You sigh as he chuckles, levity appreciated in such a moment, yet quickly replaced by your determination once more. Back sticking to his you look around, constructs climbing from all over to surround you. A lot of them, more than the tiny groups you could handle up until now.

A hiss leaves you as you count.

One, two, three…More than a dozen.

Shit.

You pull Silco in your arms, revving up your leg and jumping as high as you can, using your shield with a well timed propulsion of your arm to slam down on some of the constructs, crushing them.

The man in your arms is rattled but quickly understands, climbing onto your back. He's heavier than he looks, your diet and lifestyle having clearly put some more weight and muscle on him. But through sheer will and the help of your mechanical limbs you manage to hold him up in a piggy back, flying up once more before you use your fist to direct yourself somewhere safer.

But nowhere is. Constructs now flooding the city as you land right in their grip, the machines ripping Silco away from you, the last thing holding the both of you together being your interlaced fingers. Desperately gripping onto one another as you're pulled apart.

Your vision blurs and darkens from the sudden rush of pain and the lack of oxygen, arm and leg kept away from any position letting you take back your advantage.

That's not how I die.

You keep on gritting in your head. Again and again as your hold on Silco weakens. He calls out to you weakly through the pain and dizziness, but you can't hear through the loud pounding of your heart.

That's not how I die.

You pull and pull, clenching your jaw as you try to escape the humanoid monstrosities holding you in their gilded clutch. But your eyes roll back, darkness veiling your eyes and leaving only the soft blue glow of Silco's healed eye in your sight. The light at the end of the tunnel, soft and warm, welcoming you to the afterlife.

That's not-

Explosions resound and the hold on you suddenly disappears, constructs either pierced by bullets or escaping them.

And as your vision returns and warm arms hold you up you see it.

Colored smoke.

Hearing returns to you then, music loudly blasting from all around you while the corrupted angels rush to it, and to you.

"You little shit." You chuckle to yourself, remembering Powder's comment about aerial support.

The girl sure has a sense of timing and drama, just like her father.

Wind flows past you with an electrical hum as hoverboard mounded Firelights appear from all around, helping your troops rid themselves of constructs and Noxians alike.

You gaze at the flashes of green zipping through the air, then further up at the giant balloon flying over Piltover. The aerial support is finally here.

"Your daughter sure knows how to make an entrance, my love." You chuckle, getting back up to your feet and dusting yourself.

"Our daughter, dove." He calls out and you find yourself smiling, heart softly thrumming at the implication of finally having a family together.

You turn around and grasp him tight, a gentle peck delivered to his lips before you pull away, determined and assured, dipping to retrieve Silco's daggers from the ground and handing them back to him.

"Now let's go, our people need us."

"Yes ma'am." He teases back, yet finality punctuates his tone. No matter what levity you bring to the table, war is war, and you have to win this. So with a last kiss you go your separate ways, lips interlocking sweetly and lovingly. "Stay safe."

"You too, my love."

You jump up, using your arm and leg to shoot through the battlefield like a comet, swatting away at the constructs trying to grab onto the hoverboard mounted Firelights. The Zaunites rush forward into battle, protecting their brethren and those who were once their enemies to secure a better future.

It all happens quickly, one moment your people are fighting and the next the sky opens. Dark clouds swirling to let light breach their center in a terrifying halo, unsanctified and unholy. In the center of it, Viktor.

Jayce needs help.

And he needs it now.

So you run, using your revving to climb onto a passing hoverboard, your legs barely escaping the constructs' suddenly much more violent behavior. You slam your shield down on them, using the jet on your arm to swat them away before you cling to the man flying the machine you're on.

"I'm going up, think you can get me close?"

White hair shifts as the boy looks to you, a white hour glass marking around his face.

"Sure thing, Mrs. Silco."

Fuck.

So that's Ekko.

You smirk, looking up ahead at the Hexgates, growing taller and bigger the closer you get.

"Powder's rubbing off on you, Ekko."

"And you're rubbing off on Silco." He snorts and you chuckle back, tapping his shoulder.

"Family dinners are bound to be fun at the very least."

The thought occurs to you as you speak it, Sundays with Powder, Ekko, Isha, Violet, Caitlyn and Silco. An unlikely family composed of many clashing personalities, yet loving all the same, even if not made by blood but forged by trust.

It would be messy and soft, cooking with the girls and the boys, sharing topics that make the lot of you laugh, playing games.

It's a brilliant thought, the one to be part of such a beautiful patchwork of a family.

"Tell me about it. Was already one mess and a half with Vander, Benzo and the boys. Can't imagine the new layout."

You keep on hanging tight to the boy who turns the hoverboard upwards, the two of you now sailing vertically. To your left and right you see constructs climbing, catching up and chasing the two of you. Even with the current speed you're going at, you know that the ceramic beasts will eventually reach you.

"Ekko?!" You call out from behind him.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna drop for a sec. You take the left, I take the right, catch me so I don't die!"

The boy has no time to react before you eject yourself from your spot, the energy rattling his hoverboard as you soar to your right, using your arm to slam at high speed against the arcane angels, knocking to bring your shield down while you rev up your leg and cut downwards.

Through all of them.

You're free falling, no fail safe but the hope that Ekko will come by soon because the ground seems to be getting closer. And that's when you see it.

Tendrils of light coming from the sky like strings tying to a puppet's limbs. And from the blurry landscape you see you're not too far off.

People, standing still, held by constructs, seem to be kept in place by the treacherous light, as if a pike pierces them. The sight much too angelic and silent, much too deceiving when you know for sure it's the kingdom of the damned painting your world in shades of blood red, mocking white and rotten gold. Summoned from the depths of hell and raining down from the heavens.

"Shit."

You devise a plan, trying to keep yourself high enough. Your shield springs forth, your left ankle landing on it as you rev it up as far as you can, flying up to see a familiar face reaching out for you. You twist your wrist, soaring closer to the boy before raising your arm, seeking for his outstretched hand.

"I got you Mrs. Silco! Sorry for the wait!"

You whip to behind him, one hand holding him as you brace for the sudden change in trajectory, the downward motion quickly switching to its opposite.

"You're good kid, but a few more seconds and I was fucking toast. Either evolved or a splatter on the pavement."

"Nah. I promise I wouldn't let that happen." He looks to the cylinder at his waist, something you haven't paid attention to until now.

It's a machine of some sort, small monkey figurines in a circle inside the glass case, wires and cogs surrounding the center of the creation which holds-

-a very strange, very alive and very scary thing.

Something arcane in nature. Like Hextech but not at the same time.

Like the hexcore.

"What the fuck is that Ekko?!" You try not to panic as the clouds grow darker, the light tendrils brighter and more numerous.

"It can rewind time!"

What?

"Rewind? How long?!"

"Four seconds, plenty of time to restart anything, you can believe me."

Four seconds exactly if you fail to retry, again and again. Hoping that the machine doesn't take too long to recharge between fails. But his tone sounds assured, determined. He's used this contraption more than once, he can calculate the necessary timing and he can definitely know when to or not to use it.

Very well then.

"We'll need it for up here probably! It's ready to withstand this many tries? Because I feel like it ain't gonna be a walk in the park!"

"It's our only chance!"

And it really is.

So you squeeze at the boy's waist, a shaky sigh escaping you as you close your eyes, steeling your resolve. "Count me in. Let's give them hell kid."

He nods and the two of you are nearly blinded as you reach the top of the Hexgates, an army of constructs standing at the top, waiting, still as death.

Fuck it. It's now or never.

You share a glance with Ekko and turn your gaze to the scenery before you, determined as he rushes into the fray. You summon your shield, revving your arm to slam violently against the gilded puppets, sending them flying like glorified flies. Then your head is hit.

What is this? You feel like your body is being pulled backwards, atom by atom.

You share a glance with Ekko and turn your gaze to the scenery before you, determined as he rushes into the fray. You summon your shield, revving your arm to slam violently against the gilded puppets, sending them flying like glorified flies. The hoverboard sliding upwards in a curve, as if surfing through a wave. You jump up, your fist heating up as you use your arm's propulsion to slam into the crowd of puppets like a a hammer from the sky, striking hot iron with strength and precision. Then puppets claw at you, catching your body in their lithe grip.

Didn't this happen before?

The hoverboard sliding upwards in a curve, as if surfing through a wave. You jump up, your fist heating up as you use your arm's propulsion to slam into the crowd of puppets like a a hammer from the sky, striking hot iron with strength and precision. But you rev your leg up and soar, quickly descending back with the power of another comet like punch then soaring back up. Like the cadence of your work in the shop, your arm hot as the crucible which holds the metal you mold, slamming down as if the world is your anvil. A hand grips at your head from behind and your consciousness slowly fading as silence rings loud through your mind.

Your eyes widen in recognition and a smile grows on your face as the world goes white, your last sight being Ekko reaching back and pulling on his contraption, eyes determined.

Let 'er rip kid.

But you rev your leg up and soar, quickly descending back with the power of another comet like punch then soaring back up. Like the cadence of your work in the shop, your arm hot as the crucible which holds the metal you mold, slamming down as if the world is your anvil. Revving yourself as hard as you can, you fly one last time, catching Ekko's hoverboard with one hand, flipping yourself up on it.

"Kid watch out!" You call out for Ekko, shifting your weight to turn the flying machine around, slamming your shield against the enemy.

But the hand slams through it, purple, metallic. Your cheeks are held, eyes rolling back as you reach out for the white haired boy in panic. You don't wanna die, but you're ready for it. What terrifies you is becoming a mindless killing machine for a cause whose only goal is to reduce the world to ashes and blood, ceramic mannequins silently populating its surface while one man plays god.

"All you need is a bit more time." Your lungs clench in your chest as the pressure on your jaw tightens, teeth gritting in pain and chest heaving in exhaustion and fear, tears flowing freely from your eyes like downpour from the sky. "So take it." You choke out before white overtakes your vision.

"Be not afraid, blacksmith." A voice rings, echoing through vast emptiness yet feeling restrained to the confines of your skull. "You will be safe and forever satisfied within the glorious evolution. Nothing will hurt you or your loved ones anymore and you will be given total peace from the shackles of mortal emotions and conflicts. Accept your fate, and all will be much easier for all of us. I wish not to fight against someone as goodhearted as you."

You scoff, the scenery around you changing to that of a starlit sky, painted in hues of indigo and teal, gold bursting from behind a giant terrifying form like a wildfire. It's thin, skeletal almost, face a crude mockery of a human's as a beast rips it apart, skin tinted purple and an indigo and blood red scarf swirls around it in a way you can nearly call divine.

But all it is, is a vision of a demon calling itself an angel to charm mortal hearts. And the white hot pain searing your face at his grip reminds you of that.

"Viktor. I see you've gotten stupid since we've last seen one another. Nothing is ever foretold, prophecies are placebos, fate is a shackle created for the masses, destiny is a myth." You narrow your eyes, stinging with more tears at the sight of a man you respect and appreciate, one of your own and someone who saved Silco stooping so low, being corrupted so far that his philosophy all but changes sides to its direct opposite. "Fuck off."

You spit out, the voice in your mind sighing in disappointment as the last of your consciousness fades and all that is left is…blank.

"I truly wished for this to be peaceful. I am sorry."

"Are you?" Your feelings and memories fade after you utter these words, hatred and panic gone just like the rest that makes you yourself.

You see faces in your mind disappear, the names linked to them disappearing soon after.

Your friends, who are they? Blue and magenta, indigo and white or even dark brown, the colors hold no meaning anymore. Chipping away from your mind like the paint does on houses in Zaun, eaten away by time and humidity. Your head pounds, willing itself to remember and forget all at once, the metal in your body heavier than ever. As if the weight of your sins is finally catching up to you.

The man you love, what is his name? Ink black and silver fade away, teal and blue glowing as they dissipate like paint in water. The smell and taste of tobacco, the velvety voice, they all pull themselves apart like a broken tapestry. The last thing you feel from his presence being warmth, squeezing you, brushing against your forehead or your lips as you try to chase for it, to remember. But it all escapes you like water from a broken cup that you still try to fill, even as it erodes in your hands.

Your body doesn't feel like itself anymore, it holds no weight, no structure, movement is impossible and thinking gets harder.

Who…are you again exactly?

Should you know?

No.

The Herald knows better, follow him.

Obey him.

Obey the Herald.

Obey.

Obey

And it all fades.

_________

When you come to, you're gasping for air on the roof of the Hexgates alongside many others, your eyes feel sewn shut and you think you'd rather it be the case when you finally manage to pry them open. Bright light flooding your vision, suddenly reminding you of the burning feeling of fingers on your jaw, squeezing your face so tight you feel like it might explode. The feeling of your lungs crying out for air, trying to breathe in through the panic.

Then comes your hearing. Screaming and crying rattle through you, shaking you to your very core as you cover your ears, trying to muffle the sounds.

Then the smells.

Everything smells like blood and smoke.

Your stomach churns and you curl your body to your side, trying so very hard to rid yourself of the nausea coming along with the flurry of overwhelming feelings.

Memories flash in your mind, the emptiness now all too full. Sand, blood and cement. Metal tools and metal skies. A man and the bright orange glare of his disfigured left eye. Water and warmth. Red smoke and navy blue uniforms. Green smoke and bright blue blasts. A cyan eye and mechanical limbs.

Then gilded white creations and armors of black and maroon, earthy tones fighting against the dark grey skies. A glowing cerulean eye and multicolored dyes. Green neons and white hair.

Brightness then darkness.

Your lungs gulp down air and release it just as soon as you reminisce of names and faces. Of moments spent together.

Of feelings.

Those come crashing into you, crucifying you, painfully filling the last cracks in your mind as you remember heartache, terror, anger, envy, dejection, determination, love crowning them all.

Silco.

I have to find Silco.

So you crawl, panted groans escaping your lips as your sore body drags across the tower, the edge soon nearing your feet while you get up, swaying from side to side. Vertigo overtakes you, hundreds of bodies litter the streets of Piltover, enemies and allies alike, in a grotesque fresco.

Your stomach nearly gives up at the sight. But you do not as you take one step further, planning to rev yourself up in order to climb down the Hexgates and find Silco.

"Woah, woah, woah Mrs. Silco. Let's not get suicidal over here." A hand grabs your left wrist, pulling you back off from the edge.

You turn around to see Ekko, breathing heavily with his eyes wide in fear, some of his hair is singed and he looks horrible to say the least. Exhausted and in pain, just like you.

"I wasn't about to jump, kiddo." You sigh but bring him forward, embracing the boy tightly, shakily, trying to remain poised even through the overwhelming amount of…everything, you feel. "God it's good to see you. Everything's a mess."

"You can say that again."

The joke comes to mind, but you choose to nuzzle closer. The familiar presence helping you with finding an anchor for yourself amidst the current chaos.

"Since you don't wanna let me get down by my own means, can I hitch a ride?" You pull away, keeping Ekko at arm's length. "I need to see Silco, I need to find him. I need to see if-"

If he's dead.

The thought brings bile to your throat. What will you do if he did die? Carry on? Move on? Both of these options seem more awful the more you think about them. How is his body going to look like? Will he even look like himself, or will he be a mangled mess?

He can't be dead.

No matter if you both, if all of you, were ready for death. You can't fathom a life without him, a life where he isn't by your side to observe the Zaun you fought for, that he fought for, so hard finally come to fruition. The culmination of his life's work slipping from his lithe fingers isn't how he should end.

He has to be alive.

"Hey, hey. Calm down, he'll be okay. You know the man, he can't die. He's the type of Zaunite that Piltover has always described us as. Ingenious, sly, and unkillable. Plus, with you around, I doubt he'd let himself die from anything but old age by your side." The boy reassures, his hands gripping at your arms and caressing them with his thumbs. "Let's go."

You let yourself be pulled to the hoverboard, the vehicle much slower than in your rushed pace during battle. Easier on your stomach and your soul as you get closer to the body covered pavement, eyes wetter by the second and stinging with unshed tears.

Hoping to gods that your friends are still here, that you'll be able to hold them close and live life with them once more.

Hoping to the gods that you won't find his corpse within the sea at your feet.

Ekko let's you step off, asking if you need help to find Silco but you shake your head, you need to be alone for a bit. Screams still filling your head as you wobble your way through the morbid scenery, dust settling from the lack of movement in the city. As if a hurricane passed by.

"Silco?" You call out, walking to nowhere in particular, your raw voice breaking with choked up tears and exhaustion the more you walk forwards.

Where is he?

You scream in your mind, terror once more overcoming all of your senses, your heartbeat deafening you, blood covering your sense of smell and pins and needles rendering each movement impossibly uncomfortable to make.

"Silco?" Rubble falls, you see people helping others up. Navy, earthy tones and red ass working in unison to honor the dead and save the living.

From afar you see a familiar figure, rushing to it before you crash onto its back. Metal arm clashing against metal arm as you give Sevika a once over. Her surprised face melting into fondness before she takes you in her arms.

"Gods, smithy! You're here. Fuck." She sighs. "I was terrified you'd be gone. Saw you fly up with Benzo's kid and then everything just stopped. Thought I'd never see you again."

You grip her tightly, head shaking. You can't believe she's alive, and you're happy of the news. Relief immediately washing you once more as you check off another person in your mental list.

Ekko and Sevika, check.

"Sev. Gods. I'm so glad to see you." Your voice is muffled in her shoulder, trembling just like your body is. "I need to find him. I can't-" You take a gulp of air. "If you're alive, he has to be. He has to."

The woman pulls back and nods, her forehead gently knocking with yours before she pulls away, going to help the survivors with cleaning.

You don't know how long you scream his name, people looking at you with growing pity while tears escape you. Willpower dwindling while the streets are cleared little by little of the cadavers decorating them.

It's long, your body begs for you to rest, to eat, to drink. Anything but to continue searching. Your heart bleeding painfully each time Silco's name brokenly escapes your dry, bitten lips.

"Dove?"

Your head whips and you find the man leaning against rubble, breathing heavily, his hair disheveled and coiling around his shoulders gracefully no matter how messy he looks.

Your body cannot help but rush to him and take him in your arms, his weight and heat familiar and comforting before you crumble. Silco holds you up when your knees buckle, softly sliding down to rest on the road beneath you before you settle yourself on his lap. Clinging to him like a lifeline while broken sobs leave you, rattling your body to its very core.

Nothing leaves you but babbled speech, your nails clawing at Silco while his arms comfortingly rub at your back.

"Shhh. It's okay, I'm here my dove. It's all over. We've won."

It's all over.

Your heart squeezes. The tension imposed on you since long before your birth and your bubbling rebel blood sing in joy. The fight mechanism built into your cells, the one that has been used against you all your life, can finally rest, letting the softer parts of yourself unravel without the fear of vulnerability. The war is over, Piltover and Zaun, no, the whole of Runeterra is free. And although that brings you so much pride and joy, what brings more relief is that the fight is over. The one that you've been forced into like a caged poro since the topside's creation.

We've won.

Your tearful eyes crack open, while the bodies are getting cleared you can still observe traces of blood staining the greys and white of the City of Progress. The blood on its hands now far from metaphorical and hidden but tainting its shirt sleeves, forever ingrained in the fibers. You've lost so many to Piltover's control. Chemicals eating away at everybody through the air and water, mines and factories burning through the populace just to further the gilded city's selfishness for Progress, for itself alone.

But you've also lost so many in this battle. One that reminds you just how little the differences are between the Undercity and its sister. One that reminds you that beneath it all, blood is red, no matter the attire, the origin or appearance. That all of you are Runeterran, sharing the same world while selfishly fighting to remain above water and others drown.

Gods, and even through this. You've made it.

After the centuries of blood, sweat and tears. After the decades of suffering you've had to grit your teeth to survive. After the mistreatment, the failed revolutions, the growing civil unrest, horrible working conditions and restrictions.

All it took was the prospect of losing it all for your world to change. Yet you are not mad, just glad that it's finally over. That the violence is over, towards yourself and others.

So you thank them all, in your heart you thank all of the lifeless brothers in arms you've shared for but a moment in time, a blink in the vastness of existence. Yet who made a difference in this world, one so big that it could change Runeterra as you know. Gold and marble, iron and glass, coming together to create something greater.

Something made with the bond that both cities share.

Your sobs slowly come to a stop as you take shaky breaths.

"Gods, I was terrified."

"I know, dove. The last thing I saw was you, climbing up the Hexgates with Ekko. I was terrified of what would happen to you." His hands cradle your face, taking you in as if every second can be the last.

"I couldn't see you at all. I thought I lost you. I….the Herald made me forget about you. And when I woke up and remembered, I felt sick at the thought that you-"

You choke up, blinking tears away, swallowing the knot in your throat, your own hands reaching up to caress him. Metal thumb catching onto the healing scars on his face, you approach hesitantly, your lips meeting Silco's with fear of him being a mere figment of your mind. A ghost or a machination from the herald.

Yet he is neither of those.

And his mouth molds to yours, kissing away any worries you might have had, your hands sliding to his hair to hang on to the raven black locks. It's desperate, urgent, filled with so much emotion that you feel yourself melting into Silco's body. Your soul merging with his while the sights, smells and sounds around you fade away. This time in a way that brings comfort instead of fear, all that is left for you to feel is him and him alone.

Gone is the war.

He says.

Gone are the days of suffering.

His lips carve into your soul.

Lay your worries to rest, my dove.

His eyes exclaim.

And so you do, throwing yourself into the kiss with abandon, pouring your soul into the way you twist and wrap around Silco's mind, body and soul. Taking over every part of him, savoring him, treating yourself with the taste and feel of him, turning your mind off and breaking away at the tension in your exhausted body. You let his touch chip away at the weariness, picking at it like he always knows how to do, like he is chipping stone in the mines he and the rest of your people would never return to under obligation.

"Are you hurt?" He whispers, panting as his breath licks your lips, his forehead knocking against yours.

"I don't care if I am. But I don't think I'm more hurt than you. We need to get you checked out, my love."

"I will be alright. We need to help the others."

"Not before I know you're fine."

Your eyes rake over him, noticing the crusting blood and the wetter spots, taking notice of bruises and wounds, remembering how when he stands he seems to slouch in pain. So you turn your head, searching for anyone competent to help him. Hopping out of his lap you stand, gaze focused on the throngs of people mourning and moving around you, a familiar teal skinned vastaya soon appearing, also getting up from his position on the ground.

"Steb!"

He turns, eyes wide and scales trembling at the sight of you, his steps quickly bringing him closer before he takes you in his capable hands, checking you for injuries.

"No, no I'm fine. Any bruise or wounds I got are not important at the moment. Please, can you look at him?" You step to the side, Silco struggling to get to his feet before Steb gets down on his knees, nodding at you.

He's quick, checking Silco for concussions, cleaning his wounds and assessing his state. Your lover has to resign himself to take off his top and jacket to allow the medic to bandage him up and your eyes shoot up to the sky, suddenly finding the golden sunset more interesting.

"Oh please, my dove." Silco teases, voice warm and low, a bitter twang of pain eating through it. "You can kiss me like you want to eat me alive but not look at me when I'm undressed although you've already seen it all? You need to check your priorities."

"Steb, if he isn't dying make sure that when you're done he is." The two men chuckle at your words as your face grows hot. "Don't join him, Lieutenant fish sticks. Or I'll show you more creative ways to use those tonfas of yours."

"Hey, don't shoot the medic. He's taking good care of me after all."

"And I'm already regretting it." A smile cracks on your face, your eyes slowly trailing down to where Silco's form is sitting, breath catching in your throat as your eyes feast on the sight of lithe muscle, scarred from years of fighting, of working hard for his people. Your people.

He's right, you've already seen it all.

At this moment you remembered the state he was in when you first found him, the fear you felt at his life slipping away like his blood was slipping through your fingers. You remembered the softness of him as barely there breaths escaped his lungs, sickly pale and cold skin shivering under your warm touch as you pulled away the bullets and stitched the wounds back together, ointment and bandages following soon after. You remembered sharing your blood with him.

And in a way this might be what links you together, your blood flows through him, pumped into his body by his heart. His beautiful, warm, loving heart. A treasure amongst treasures in a world where cruelty fuels so many. A man of devotion and adoration who gives without counting and has been left without anything, his cup empty and stolen from him while he continues to live, no, to exist for love.

And even as his world grew colder and his body grew older, even as poison from the vipers around him seeped through his skin to corrupt him. Leaving him a shell of his former self as his ideals remained but his ethics, his morals were stripped away from him, an angel having his wings ripped away by the cruelty of demons disguised as his peers.

It had been a long time since you saw what lies behind the layers of clothing. The bullet wounds now adding to the scars, new ones soon to follow from the cuts and scratches delivered to him by Noxians and constructs alike during the battle. But Steb is gentle, making sure that Silco is not uncomfortable, gentle hands slower and softer around the bruised ribs painted in blues and purples, his hands soon sliding to your lover's legs to check for any broken bone while you approach.

Your eyes, who were hiding Silco's sight from you just mere moments ago, were now fully trained on him.

Your fingers caress the raised marks on his skin, sliding through the softness of his chest and stomach with practiced yet shy motions. The need to keep him alive above all now out of your hands, you feel like a teenager discovering her first boyfriend's body.

When you first discovered him, his body was thinner, malnourished, dehydrated and muscles slightly atrophied from years of work at a desk. But with the time and care you gave him over nearly two years, he had grown stronger. Gaining in mass, filling his clothes better, the muscles healthy and strong as if back to their prime although they were past it.

"You're about to make an old man blush, darling."

You sigh and look up to his face, it's warm, soft, a flash of something close to fear flashing behind the shades of blue coloring his eyes.

"You're beautiful. Who would I be to deny myself such a sight?" Your metal hand cradles his face and he smiles, leaning towards the touch.

"To be called that by you is an honor. You've made this body, this man, who he is today. You only have yourself to thank for what you see."

"No." You correct gently. "I have to thank the man before me for staying alive, for keeping on fighting even against all the odds. Because who would I have to love if he wasn't there?"

Your forehead knocks against yours gently, one hand holding his, the other on his face for moments, gods know how many, before Steb taps your shoulder.

"Diagnostic, doc?" The man nods, taking a notepad from a pouch on his pack along side a pencil before he begins writing, soon enough handing you a slip of paper.

You huff affectionately, observing the elegant cursive. The man probably learning to write well, even as a medic, to make up for his lack of a voice.

He has a handful of broken ribs, luckily none seem to have perforated anything. His ankle is swollen so quite probably twisted. What I recommend is to keep it off the ground, use crutches to walk, ice it to keep the swelling to a minimum. The ribs are the same, but do try not to dress them too tightly to avoid them healing crooked or to make them point inwards. He will be fine, do you want me to check you too?

You nod, playing it safe and letting the aquatic vastaya check you, replacing the bloody bandages, patching up your newer wounds, looking through your reactions as he touches you. His eyes snap to your side ever so often, to Silco, and from your peripheral you see the man pulling his meanest glare. Slipping back into his industrialist persona while Steb cares for you.

"You know the man is just doing his job, right?"

"I know." Yet his voice is slightly gritted and you smirk, the possessiveness unusual yet welcome. After today you feel that his usual protective nature will only get stronger, with reason, and you fully embrace it.

Enjoy it even.

"Don't shoot the medic, he's taking good care of me after all." You tease, parroting Silco's words from earlier and he chuckles, his head leaning back on the rubble supporting his back.

"Right. Thank you for keeping my woman alive, Lieutenant."

When Steb is done with you, you're not surprised to learn that you have broken ribs as well, that every cauterized wound has to be thoroughly cleaned so avoid any risk of infection due to the unwashed, bloody metal you used to close your own wounds in battle. And when your body is dressed with new bandages, the vastaya takes his leave, holding your hand in a firm handshake before he rushes back to help.

"Heave ho, fossil. We have to help." You groan, putting your shirt and coat back on with difficulty, your sore body screaming at your movements, back arching painfully as you try to avoid touching your ribs.

No noise comes from Silco, so when your head is through the collar, you slide your eyes to the side, noticing your lover eyeing you from your peripheral.

"Come on, don't tell me you're the blushing virgin now?" His gaze snaps to yours before he scoffs at the smirk slicing through your face, an eyebrow raised in defiance.

"Oh trust me, the thoughts I'm having are not a virgin's. But as you said, we have to help, so instead of parading yourself to me, keep on moving. Unless you like being undressed for me out in the open? In which case I'll have a few lessons to teach you for exposing what's mine to the world." His hands reach for his own shirt, the turtleneck ripped and bloody, red darkened where he has been hit, before his leather jacket follows.

His eyes are dark, staring at you as you slowly get back up to your feet, your hand pulling him up when he is properly dressed once more. Gone is the sight of the deceptive strength hidden beneath velvet skin and you have to make peace with that and clear your mind before getting to work.

Thus start days upon days of hard work, tired bodies, survivors dragging themselves to clean the death from the streets, to prepare the city for the flood of civilians slowly trickling in. Nothing is said of politics, Piltovan eyes glossed over with tired resignation, with guilt, with acceptance. Pedantic hatred long forgotten because of the sudden yet long awaited war, the battle much different and much more terrifying than what had been brewing before.

The atmosphere is heavy, not because of two rival cities coming together after years of one oppressing the other, but because of the realization that none of it should have happened in the first place.

That you all could have been spared had greed not overtaken Piltover, forcing it in a cycle of self-centered "progress" used to make itself greater and Zaun smaller, using it as a stepping stool for its own gilded pride, hiding profound rot that grew as topside grew more cruel, more demanding. Master to slave that was her sister.

All could have been avoided had Zaun been treated right.

All the pain you've suffered in the fissures, fighting for scraps in a dog eats dog world that could have easily been bettered with the flick of a wrist, was senseless. Meaningless. Progress bringing nothing but pain when built upon the unstable foundations of self-importance.

And with how each Piltovan grew softer each day that passed, you know that they all realized that. The errors in their ways letting Ambessa thrive upon the tension and plant herself like a nefarious seed, watered and fed by fears, anger, haughtiness. Thriving like vines, seeping through the cracks and breaking through the already cracked walls of the house of cards the topsiders have built.

But as the city returns to a livable state, clean streets welcoming all of those standing in their perimeter, you feel a shift. A good shift. One that have your children mingle with theirs, Isha enjoying the sun as she plays with others, not judgmental of her lack of voice. The poor girl needing the company after Powder's disappearance.

You had spent days, trying to find her at the bottom of the Hexgates, mourning Vander's evolved beastly body with Silco as tears escaped you. The man still losing more of himself, no matter how many times he died, no matter how great he was when he was himself. Isha had wanted to say goodbye to him too, holding your hands while silent tears left her, sobs racking through Silco as he begged his brother for forgiveness like many had begged for their loved ones all around you. Vi and Ekko joining you, the girl clinging to her father while the boy tried and failed to hide just how the sight broke his soul. Sevika shakily breathing as she tried and failed to contain her pain, a drink poured from her flask and onto Vander as a libation, a farewell from a brother in arms that you reciprocated with Silco, trading sips before emptying the alcohol you kept on yourselves for medical emergencies.

The hound of the underground was gone once more, his body desecrated by greed.

Powder's disappearance was counted as a death. The lot of you searching far and wide through Piltover and Zaun only to find no trace of her. Sisters and father mourning the loss of a part of their soul, the grief of a lover holding onto the memory of the girl he has always loved, you and Sevika feeling a churning emptiness within your hearts. Painful longing at the loss of the blue haired teen leaving a Powder shaped hole in your existence, forever thankful for the life she allowed you to have, the fight she gave back to you with her inventions.

Now decorating your body like badges of honor, you'll use them to fight the good fights. You'll keep this part of her alive through you, marching forward with the girl by your side, out of sight yet never out of mind.

And all of you had to pick up the pieces and pick yourselves back up. For him, for her, for Zaun, for all of those whose names and faces you don't know. For all of those you fought alongside you, suffered alongside you, lived alongside you.

Who gave their lives so all of us could live and create a better world.

Ekko and his Firelights decorate the walls of Piltover, painting frescos of the faces of each deceased civilian on the walls of the gilded city. Zaunite or Piltovan, no matter the age. No one is forgotten.

Even less when the streets are filled with candles one night, paper slips piled in wicker baskets before they're burned away. Names written in ink, forever burned into the fabric of the world, engraved in the history of the two cities. That night you write the names of all of those from the Children of Zaun you've lost, counting that solely one quarter of your group remains.

Kenda.

Brell.

Mellias.

Jhess.

Raban.

Rihannon.

Tears stain the paper, ink diffusing on the paper with each new name written. Your wrist hurts as you write, your heart does even more with the last four names you add.

Vander.

Powder.

Jayce.

Viktor.

Jayce wouldn't have held hope for his partner had the man been a bad person. The councilor was known for being many things, but loyal was at the top alongside his intelligence. You believe, with how kind and helpful Viktor had been to you, how selfless his offers had been, how he tried to better Zaun, that whoever tried to destroy your world was not him.

The man of Progress mentionned the hexcore being sentient, calling out to Viktor, saving him. And although you don't know much about it, you can bet that the Herald was more hexcore than man. All parts of Viktor but his ideals discarded, twisted into something nefarious, a conduit to let the chaos of the arcane run amok in Runeterra. And insidious presence using the downtrodden, too goodhearted yet desperate to notice the changes within themselves until it is too late.

You had asked around for informations on who Viktor was, once upon a time. Before his death.

The consensus was that he was a man worth his place at the academy. Not only for how intelligent he was, a genius born in the bedrock of Zaun and rising despite the odds, but that he was also a good man. A man capable of great things.

Now he wouldn't be remembered. His history erased by his end, by this war, by the system. And you couldn't let that happen, not now, not when things were finally looking up for your people. Neither could you let that happen in memory of Jayce, the man that sacrificed himself to let the world live, so that he could remain by the side of the one he loved so dearly.

Like hell you're going to let the blood, sweat and tears of your people and the friends you've lost go to waste.

So here you are now, in the council room alongside Councilor Shoola, Mel Medarda, Caitlyn, Violet, Silco and Sevika, a couple of members from noble Piltovan families joining you. The room filled with many others of both cities, civilians, standing together to hear what the great council will decide on.

A decision that will change history in the greatest of ways.

"I thank all of you, for fighting for our nations. United by our common enemy after being separated by our greed." Mel Medarda begins.

"Zaunites." She breathes shakily. "I am beyond sorry for the treatment you have been dealt since the creation of Piltover. This city, as glorious as it may be, has been built on your backs. Using your efforts, that we have imposed, to create a better life for ourselves. To evolve."

You have half a mind to scoff. The excuses nearly seeming fake, but you look intently at her. Mel Medarda's face is screwed, pain painting her features and guilt filling her green eyes with glossy tears as she trembles.

This is not the Councilor you have lived with, not the one that kept Zaun under a thumb.

This is not a proud woman no, she feels shame. She feels vulnerability. And as she bows before you, so do the other Piltovan nobles and civilians. Some bending ninety degrees, others nearly crawling on the ground. Trembling with grief and feeling the full force of Zaun's pain, of your pain, over the past centuries. The loss caused by war a shock that seemingly woke them all up from their illusion of grandeur.

"We wish to show the extent of our shame, of our accountability in this situation, we give you, Sevika, Silco-" Her gaze turns to you as she utters your name in the list, nodding in respect, in greeting, in solemn apology. "- places on the council, as representatives of Zaun."

Caitlyn walks forward, her eyes trailing over the room, softening as she goes.

"Due to a previous discussion between my brother and dear friend, Jayce Talis, and Silco. We have accepted the terms proposed by Zaun and it shall be granted blanket amnesty, free access to the trade routes and Hexgates as well as…"

Her voice trails, eyes trailing to the three of you Zaunite rebels, head held high, bodies tense at each word uttered as if they are lies.

"..You will be granted sovereignty. Zaun will become a nation of its own, unexploitable by Piltover or any other. A city state authorized everything that us topsiders always have been granted."

Your eyes widen. It can't be. This is truly it.

We've…we've won?

No. This can't be that easy right? Centuries of persecution ended in a couple of months? It seems…nearly wrong.

"Piltover will also provide help for reparations. Money, men and machines will be lent to Zaun to clean the air, the water, to make the infrastructure more comfortable and efficient. We will also open schools, clinics and help develop agriculture within the Herald's old commune due to its soil proper for growing crops. It will also be studied so Zaun can rely on itself and grow local economy."

Continues Councilor Shoola.

"And what's in it for you?" Sevika asks, wary of the influx of good news. As are you, as is Silco, as all of your brethren.

You hear chatter, Zaunites agreeing with the question.

"We want you on the council, this proposal being more of a formal request. To assure that you keep Piltover in check, keep it from repeating the errors of the past. The three of you know Zaun in all of its ways, all of its levels. You have fought for it for years, you've been loyal to your people, to your ideals. And no one else is as qualified for this as possible."

Caitlyn's words spread warmth through your soul. Your work being recognized for what it is, the years Sevika, Silco and yourself have poured into bettering your nation finally being accepted. Seen and understood. Respected.

"We also want you, both for your safety and our own, to dismantle the Chem-Barons. You have dealt with our ways for too long, you don't deserve a price for freedom. You have paid it for far too long and now we will balance the ledgers."

It's a lot to take in.

Nearly too much, if you weren't so elated at all you are hearing.

"This is my last action as Councilor, as I will be stepping down to return to Noxus to take on my mother's mantle as matriarch of the Medarda family. I know that with this, our cities will be held in good hands. I know that we will finally evolve and thrive, make our way towards real progress. Progress made together, not in spite of one another."

The woman, cloaked in red and wearing black armor, gold embedded in her flesh, advances. Walking around the cog shaped table before holding a hand out to each of you.

"So. Will you accept this proposal?"

"We've fought for this, Councilor Medarda. Ate chemicals, lived in soot, dug through metal and rock, even had to kill our own. But we still held our nation dear, dreaming every night of seeing it free from the troubles we've grown up with."

Your voice begins.

"We have scraped the lowest of lows, nearly dying for our cause. Simply for better lives. We've rebelled for years, pushing back even during the worst of times. We've fought tooth and nail, made it by the skin of our teeth each time only to be thrown off the deep end and restart, over and over again."

Sevika stands tall, looking down at Mel Medarda after Silco finishes his words. His drawl elegant, menacing, wary yet full of hope. The one that all of this is more than a mere dream.

"So tell us. Do you think we would not accept the proposal to make our people live better lives if we can help it?"

But instead of the indignant look you expected, the regal woman smiles. Councilor Shoola, Caitlyn, Vi and the other two new Piltovan councilors find themselves in front of you, bowing in front of you before shaking each of your hands. Eyes filled with gentle resignation, guilt, but also pride.

This is it.

You think as you walk around the dark marble, hand caressing the gold plated cracks.

"My dove." Silco pulls your chair for you before taking his place to your left, Sevika to your right on the cog like desk.

A paper is presented to you, signed with Piltover's councilors' signatures. Three spots left to be signed. Your spots.

"Sevika. You should be first." You hand it to the woman, her shoulders lifting high with each baited breath.

"It's crazy. I've dreamed of this but it feels….as wrong as it feels right." Her voice resonates and you nod, understanding her fears.

"You three have earned this, Zaun's earned this. I may not be appointed councilor, but I'll be fighting the good fight with you all." Vi finally utters stepping close to you, a hand on your shoulder. "We've been in the shadows for too long and what happened two months ago….it was wake up call violent enough to rip the status quo apart. This isn't a trap guys, we're free."

Her voice carries so much emotion, eyes glossy, a soft smile illuminating her face as Caitlyn wraps an arm around her waist. The glow in her gaze enough to reassure you.

You did win. Through centuries of blood, sweat and tears. After years of rebellion.

We won.

Sevika doesn't hesitate to sign after those words, scrawled and slanted but intelligible. The page soon handed to you, your hand gripping Silco's tightly as your mechanical limb taking the fountain pen and signing your own name in your messy handwriting. Silco following with his elegant cursive.

"Thank you, Councilors for your understanding and patience. I apologize once more for for our actions and hope you find it in your heart to forgive us someday. Although you do not have to."

"I believe that after what we have seen and lived through as brothers in arm, your actions are already somewhat forgiven. Now it all depends on you. Let's thrive as sister cities and not as master and slave."

Your voice carries in the room, cheers erupting from the crowd as the newly reformed council makes its way to the center of Piltover. Walking next to one another in unity while your people walk behind you, both cities mixing as you walk up the stage that has previously been set for the Remembrance Memorial Day.

Vi rushes Silco, Sevika and you forwards, walking close behind as bodyguard but mostly to act as support. As an anchor in such a tumultuous time, although this time rather than being from of hardships, it is because the war is finally over.

The war to gain back your independence, your humanity, your nation.

You, Shuriman refugees from the fall of the Great Empire.

You, descendants of Osha Va'Zaun.

You, kin of Kha'Zhun.

You, the Nation of Zaun.

Your fellow councilors from Piltover stand behind you, leaving the stage to the three newly appointed Zaunite members of their congregation so you can break the big news to the hundreds of thousands currently awaiting your words.

You trail your eyes to Sevika, who is tense, her shoulders solid and tall but her chest puffed in pride, a small smile curling her lips upward. Silco, to your left and holding your flesh hand comfortingly, holds his head high, gentle eyes trailing over the crowd, yours are burning with unshed tears.

The dream of a lifetime, carved in every single one of your atom, is finally within reach.

Faces shine bright with joy, with relief, the energy is warm, you feel like a sailor that finally escapes the storm tormenting him. Your boat is shoddy, you're exhausted, but as the sun appears, piercing through the thick blanket of dark clouds, you can see the path ahead. The Blue Bird allowing the gale to direct you on the way home.

Home.

You've finally freed your home.

Your lungs grow as you take a deep breath.

"Kha'ma akhas, kha'ma ukhtas! Kha'a akhyraana hura'a naa!"

My brothers, my sisters! We are finally free!

Cheers echo at your voice, loud, permeating the stone and metal surrounding you, shaking Piltover and Zaun to their very core.

"We have fought for so long in the shadows. Suffering from unwelcoming land, from slavery, from torture, from our very own brethren using us. But no more! No more will we be stuck under someone else's thumb, no more will we dance by anyone's drum but ours. We reclaim our land, and we will fix it. And we will grow and thrive! We, leaders of the Zaunite revolution movements of the Lanes and the Children of Zaun, announce Zaun's official independence from Piltover in state and our place within Piltover's council to maintain the peace and a good relationship between our cities!"

The crowd grows loud, and a smile grows on your face. Not only at seeing your people rejoice, but at seeing them being embraced by Piltovans. Wishing them the best luck in the world, handing out smiles and love like in the dreams you've held dear since childhood.

"We will be equals! Partners in progress, in morals, ethics and in trade. None shall be taller or brighter than the other anymore. This new council, the one we now sit within, will change our cities for the better. We will clear Zaun of toxicity, dismantle the Chem-Barons, and fund for research for better infrastructure and agriculture so that our people can be self sufficient and maintain local economy while remaining in good health! "

Sevika's voice growls in pride, a smile stretching her face much brighter than anything you'd expect from her. She looks younger, the child within finally reaching her dream. The sound of cheering getting louder with every word, bodies jumping in elation, eyes glowing in joy.

"We have suffered. But we will not fight, not anymore, not like this. We have won this war because of unity, and in union we shall remain! Zaunites and Piltovans will now be at peace, ripping the status quo apart and rebuilding a bridge to connect our people. A true bridge of Progress. Through our projects, and with the help of our co-councilors we will also create safer working spaces, build schools, clinics, and opportunities for any and all Zaunite to come study to Piltover, without judgment. Outreach programs will be created so that researchers, doctors, surgeons, teachers and more can come to Zaun and help it grow, help it heal. The fissures are the wounds of our people, but with everyone working together, we will make it into a scar. A reminder of an obstacle, of a past, that we have finally cleared from our way!"

A velvet veil covers you as Silco's voice utters his speech. Eyes shaking with emotion, his breathing so heavy that you can see the rise and fall of his shoulders, his body shaking with apprehension.

"We were kept from living." You begin. The electric energy shaking the city enough to let you articulate the words you once upon a time thought you would never be able to say.

"From loving." Your eyes trail to Silco, your hand holding his squeezing to seek out reassurance. "But my brothers, my sisters. Rejoice. Be happy of your hard work, of your spirit, of your will, of your heart and of yourself as a Zaunite. Because of you, all of you who stand with us now. Stand proud, we are free because of you!"

Your fellow councilors finally step to the stage, thanking everyone who fought with valiance, everyone who helped anyone, everyone who is alive now. They thank Silco, Sevika and you, bowing once more in front of the crowd, in front of you. To show humility and that they take responsibility for their past actions. You are given badges, the symbols of Zaun and Piltover intertwined on their gilded surface.

A token for a new future.

That night, and for many nights during many weeks and for many years to come, the streets are loud with fanfares, with people dancing and drinking, children laughing, singing and playing. The frescos catch the light, letting Piltover explode in millions of colors, like a flower garden surrounded by golden gates. But these do not keep you out, no, they protect you. An embrace instead of a shackle. A celebration of unity, never ending, incorruptible.

A new statue is erected, copper figures of Jayce and Viktor in their academy clothes, taken from pictures their mothers have of their sons, are placed on the Bridge of Progress. The taller one holding his great hammer and a glowing crystal in his other hand, the thinner one with his crutch holding him up holding a notebook and sporting a harness with a third arm on his back. The both of them with their eyes shining bright with determination.

"The Men of Progress."

And the notes, blueprints and other papers they have created during their years of partnership, previously censored by the council now harbored two names:

Viktor and Jayce Talis.

As per your request. Your heart still twisting at the thought of the man who helped so many in Zaun being seen as nothing but a monster, his life's work ruined by circumstance and ancient magic, by legacy and origins. But you'll forever remember him as someone good, someone unlucky enough to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders despite his stature, despite his humanity. Or maybe, because of his humanity.

Next to Vander's statue, one of Powder has been made. Standing proud next to her father as her arm holds a flare up high. The two of them inextricably linked as the symbol of Zaun. The father and the daughter, the hound and the shark, the body and the soul. Both of them intertwining in meaning to compose the heart of your nation.

Life had been hectic. Making Zaun into the heaven it deserved to be proved to be as difficult as you'd hoped it to be. Paperwork, council meetings for the sister cities, fundraisers, research, overseeing your people. Your hands were full. But you had Sevika by your side, loyal and steadfast. You had Vi, energetic and true to herself. Caitlyn, knowledgeable and determined. And you had Silco, the queen in your chess board, the leader and guide, the soothing force, your anchor. With them, for them, no matter how hard it could get, you'd move forward and brave storms and fires.

For them, for all of your brethren and for all of those whom you've lost. For now and forever.

You sit atop the Old Hungry like many other nights, watching the festivities in the fissures, noise muffled from your height but some more coming from the top, the fringes happily partying the night away. Rejoicing at the growing betterment of living conditions. Isha sleeps peacefully on your lap, the young girl clinging to you more than ever since Powder's death, finding comfort in using you as a mother figure.

The taste of tobacco of your cigarette soothes you along with the motion of your hand raking through the girl's hair, the time bringing so many positive emotions yet such an abundance of goodness in your life is so surprising, so new, that you can't help but feel overstimulated. Needing some time away from papers, duties and festivities for the time being.

"I knew I'd find you there, my dove. You're quite the sentimental aren't you?"

You chuckle, the voice taking the shape of Silco as he sets himself besides you, your head dropping to his shoulder.

"You're one to talk. You remember that this is a place I'd think of as important to us."

"Touché." Lips touch your temple, and he also touches them to the little girl in your lap, his hand holding Isha's comfortingly as she dreams.

"I still can't believe it. It's like…all of this is a dream that I'll wake up from, alone. Without you, without a free Zaun, back to zero. This all feels like I've gone crazy from overworking, or that I'm still in the Herald's made up fantasy." You shake, a sigh raking through you. "Please tell me you aren't a dream."

A hand grazes your jaw gently, cradling your cheek before soft lips take yours. The kiss is slow, deliberate, but deep with devotion and adoration. When he pulls away and lays his forehead on yours you see the soft glow of the blue in his scarred eye, a reminder of how far you've come.

From sinner to saint.

From dog to man.

From man to angel.

Your angel. Your man. Your saint.

"Do you still think I'm a fantasy?" And you smile.

"I don't think I'll ever stop believing that you are. You're a waking dream."

His nose rubs against yours and you sigh. Your eyes closing as you bury your hands in his hair, free from its usual updo, wild and free, the tendrils of onyx laced with silver thread.

Your silver lining.

One that tarnishes, but never rusts. One that may crumble but never corrupts.

"What are you thinking about, my dove?"

"About how far we've come."

And you know he does too with the ways the shades that compose his gaze shift and shine in the neon lights.

How far we've come indeed.

Two lowly beings, a demon that wished to soar high in the sky and an angel whose wings had been clipped. You had thought once upon a time that your beastly nature would forever taint all that you touch, forcing you to remain alone while you tried to repent for an existence you've never asked for. He had thought that he had to stain his heart black and let his love turn rancid and dead for his dreams of happiness to ever happen.

Two sides of one coin, fighting for the same ideals.

Then you found one another. A chance meeting bringing salt and sugar together, similar in color and shape but different in nature while your purposes remained the same. To move forward, to fight, to live. Surviving was all you knew how to do, absolution was all you sought. And you've found it within one another.

Copper and iron, fusing into a reliable alloy. The sun and moon bringing forth the day and night, both important in their own way for the world to turn.

Impossible to separate.

He holds the key to what you do not possess, and you to what escapes him.

You expected nothing but his heart beating in his chest when you saved him. But you had gained a companion, a friend, then a lover. Someone who helped you in your fight against the world, but also in the one against yourself. One more silent and insidious, one that ravaged you from the inside out. And you know you've done the same, the proof staring back at you in the form of healed scars and the blue of the tides that licked away at the blaze of the hearth his eye held.

A crucible of pain quenched by your presence in his life, your advice, your care.

"We've done it, Silco." Your voice cracks. Not only meaning the liberation of your people, their happiness still thrumming within you even from where you stand now. But also your paths as humans, souls ripped apart by a cruel world now sewn back together into a patchwork. A tapestry more beautiful than you could have ever imagined.

"We have." His lips graze yours again. "And we've done it together. I don't think I'd have been able to change, to be good, to be better, to be important, had it not been for you. You've made me matter."

You shake your head in refusal. "You always mattered, my love. Even if it didn't seem that way. You're a good man that did bad things, a man whose pursuit of great led to ignore to do what is good. But a man nonetheless, and man makes errors. He is led astray, he loses himself. But he always finds his way back home, even if he sometimes needs help. You didn't have to fight alone anymore, and I made sure that you knew as much."

"And you neither. You never have to be alone ever again. You've never had to be since you took me in your arms to bring me into your home. You've guided me like the North star, but I'll always hold you up. A crutch for when life gets exhausting, to soothe your pain, to keep you on your feet and moving forward. You'll never have to make it by the skin of your teeth anymore, my dove."

"None of our people ever will."

"Because of us."

His eyes twinkle with love as they stare into yours, his arms wrapping around you tight .

No matter how hard it'll get. No matter if you have to grind your teeth and clench your jaw. You'll do it, all over again for your people. For him. Through sun and rain, heat and cold, you'll move forward. You will sign as many papers as necessary, make your voice be heard, work yourself to the marrow.

All of that so no one ever has to deal with the pain of their existence being written off as a nuisance.

All of that so that no one ever feels hunger, fear, cold or dejection from merely being born on the wrong side of the fence.

All of that so that people can live and love without being terrified of tomorrow.

All of that for your young self who wished to reach for the stars, for the youth and the elderly, for the mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, for the lovers. For your lover, for Silco.

You'll do anything. Even if it means going through hell again, losing more limbs, you'll climb back up the fissures with bare hands and feet.

Even if it means fighting wars again against mad gods and overzealous warriors. Even if it means suffering heartache and wounds.

If it means that you'll get to see your people thrive, sing, dance, eat and rejoice again. If it means you'll make friends that fix your broken body and soothe your aching soul again. If it means you'll be able to save brilliant young minds with hearts of gold from the brink of madness again, no matter if they disappear. If it means you'll give people the lives they deserve, unshackled and unabashed again. If it means adopting another child for your own again. If it means you'll forever be granted Silco in your life.

You'll do anything, and you'll do it all over again.

But as tears escape your eyes, Silco wipes them away. Washing you of your pain with his tide, licking away at the nostalgia and leaving nothing but promise.

"Yeah. Because of us. All of us."

prev || m.list

Thank you guys for following with this tiny project of mine, a beginning to my writing journey and something very important to me personally. Thank you for all the love you have given it and all the comments and appreciation. I hope you all will appreciate where I go with my writing from now on and don't hesitate to read everything else I have written. Your support meant the world to me through this endeavor and I hope to keep it!

Don't worry, I will not stop writing for Silco just yet as Literary Service is still ongoing, and afterwards I'll be putting up some one shots perhaps!

Taglist: @vicurious28@midromiell@zorosleftmantit101@anthy-j-ander@agathasslutt@onyxistired@ren-ren23@hurts-my-brain@burgerwolf74@pontiusaurus@notyuralycat@isomehowexist@karamelkaczech@theregoeskittykat

Silco Masterlist: here

Arcane Masterlist: here

Navigation: here

[odinsblog]

The Supreme Court fundamentally altered the way that our federal government functions on Friday, transferring an almost unimaginable amount of power from the executive branch to the federal judiciary. By a 6–3 vote, the conservative supermajority overruled Chevron v. NRDC, wiping out four decades of precedent that required unelected judges to defer to the expert judgment of federal agencies. The ruling is extraordinary in every way—a massive aggrandizement of judicial power based solely on the majority’s own irritation with existing limits on its authority. After Friday, virtually every decision an agency makes will be subject to a free-floating veto by federal judges with zero expertise or accountability to the people. All at once, SCOTUS has undermined Congress’ ability to enact effective legislation capable of addressing evolving problems and sabotaged the executive branch’s ability to apply those laws to the facts on the ground. It is one of the most far-reaching and disruptive rulings in the history of the court.

In Chevron, the court unanimously announced an important principle of law that governed the nation until Friday: When a federal statute is ambiguous, courts should defer to an agency’s reasonable interpretation of it. Why? Congress delegates countless important calls to agencies—directing the EPA, for instance, to limit harmful benzene emissions, rather than providing the precise formula to determine what level of benzene emissions is harmful to humans. Congress writes statutes broadly because it expects these agencies to respond to new facts and adjust their enforcement accordingly.

Crucially, these agencies are staffed with experts who have deep knowledge and experience in the area where Congress seeks to regulate. Such experts can understand and execute regulations more proficiently than federal judges, who are, at best, dilettantes in most fields of regulation. For example, an EPA scientist is unlikely to confuse nitrous oxide (laughing gas) with nitrogen oxide (a smog-causing emission), as Justice Neil Gorsuch did in a Thursday opinion blocking an EPA rule. Moreover, most agencies are staffed with political appointees whom the president can appoint and remove at will. That makes them far more accountable to the citizenry than federal judges, who are guaranteed life tenure no matter how badly they butcher the law.

Since 1984, federal courts have applied Chevron in about 18,000 decisions in every conceivable area of the law: energy policy, education, food and drug safety, labor, the environment, consumer protection, finance, health care, housing, law enforcement—the list is pretty much endless. It has become the background principle against which Congress enacts all legislation.

That all ends now.

(continue reading)

[brainhanging]

I spent a few days debating whether to post this art vs. artist thing, but I eventually decided to do it because I wanted to take the chance to do an art recap and yap a little.

I was experiencing a years-long art block before I started this blog at the beginning of 2024.

For over half a decade, I could barely sketch anything let alone finish any drawing, but I managed to finish something last year.

On top of that, I had absolutely zero coding knowledge and never dreamed of making a game by myself coming into 2024, but I made a small game and received some positive feedback.

I guess I should be somewhat proud of myself

Based on the previous poll I held (thank you to all 8 participants!), I will start a new side blog for game-development topics soon, and I hope I’ll have more time and energy to keep studying and growing as an artist and a game dev this year.

To every single one of you who read this, may this New Year be filled with joy, peace, and health for you and your loved ones.

Have a wonderful 2025!✧*｡٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧*｡

[odditycircus-2002]

Dom Scorpion x Sub Quan Chi’s daughter Reader SFW and NSFW! I believe Scorpion might have become the new ruler of the Netherrealm by Snowblind, hence he might take S/O as his queen. Not much of a fighter, but wise politically and emotionally, S/O helps him rule politically, teaching him about Netherrealm and also still being kind, sweet, and supportive to him. She always feels bad bc she thought he might be better reunited with his family than her, but he assures her he loves her.

A/N: I hope this is what you asked, since what happened to Scorpion and Sub-Zero during Snow Blind is only hinted at in the movie and behind the scenes. So I had to take some liberties and fill in the gaps.

King and Queen

With your father killed by Scorpion’s hands, Shao Khan felled by Lui Kang, and Lord Shinnok indisposed, there was no one to manage the Netherrealm’s damned souls or its inhabitants.

You naively thought that because of your father’s position as Shinnok’s High Priest and the Revenants loose upon Earthrealm, Netherrealm’s denizens would accept your authority. But you were so wrong.

Half of the Brotherhood of Shadow thought you unworthy. Noob Saibot thought you were weak and didn’t have the ruthlessness required to rule Hell. However, he wanted your power and your knowledge about the realm. So, to have all that and strengthen his claim to Netherealm’s seat of power, Bi-han planned to make you his bride. You refused, so you ran to a part of the Netherrealm he couldn’t follow.

However, the other half of the Brotherhood of Shadow, which included demons such as Sareena, Jia, and Jataaka, believed you to be the rightful ruler of Outworld. As a result, factions were formed, and a Civil war—not seen since Shinnok usurped Lucifer—broke out in the Netherrealm.

You were not a fighter, yet your magical prowess and abilities were immense. If Sareena were to be believed, they could become strong enough to rival even Shinnok. Yet, it couldn't always be relied upon should you tire or your Shamisen should break too.

However, what you may lack in brute strength compared to Noob Siabot, you made up for with your strategies. Your war with the Spectre was at a standstill as both gained and lost territory or allies. Strategic decisions became more burdensome for you, as you didn’t want to unnecessarily send anyone off to die, especially when they’re demons that have supported and guided you for the majority of your life. You weren’t as heartless as Quan-chi.

The War wasn’t going in your favor after Noob Saibot made a deal with Havik, the Cleric of Chaos, and gained more allies from Chaosrealm. Your allies were nearly overrun and cornered, you were about to be killed, and Bi-han's victory seemed at hand.

Then, descending into the Netherrealm from a portal like some Angel of Justice, was Hanzo Hasashi, Scorpion! Who wasted no time in sending his kunai through Bi-han's chest and ripping him off you. You then transformed into your more demonic form and joined Scorpion in his fight against the former Lin Kuei. You managed to injure the Spectre enough for him to retreat with his forces.

In the aftermath, you offered Scorpion a brief reprieve within your secret base. Despite initial reluctance, the wraith relented upon your earnest insistence and hearing about your goal to keep Noob Siabot off Netherrealm’s throne to keep more Revenants from reaching Earthrealm. A goal that you will learn Scorpion shares with you.

Taking a page out of Noob Saibot’s book, you allied yourself with Scorpion. The Wraith will ensure that you’re put in charge of the Netherrealm and end Noob, so long as your intentions to keep the Revenants contained proved true. You then sealed this bargain with Scorpion with your soul, ensuring you’d be on the chopping block if you broke your promise. This sincerity took the Wraith aback, and nonetheless, he agreed.

Your decision to work with Scorpion has been very sagacious. In life, Scorpion was Grandmaster of the Shirai Ryu for a good reason, as his tactics helped change the tide of war. He proved to be more of a commanding General than you, as he was steadfast and confident in his decisions. Soon enough, he was able to whip your fellow demons into a more strategic fighting force that you didn’t think was possible.

Between each battle, you learn more about the soul of the man within Scorpion. For one, you finally learned his name to be Hanzo Hasashi. You sometimes asked him about Earthrealm, what it’s like to have lived in a world with a sky, oceans, and people who care for you beyond what you can do for them. Expressing your desire to experience it all.

Hanzo barely answered you at first, but the more he saw your love for your people, your unwavering determination to show kindness to those you consider allies, your reminders to your allies to rest and eat when they can, and just how much you are NOT like your father, the more it helped the Wraith open up to you. He told you about his mountain village, clan, and family. Scorpion also told you about the new Sub-Zero, an honorable man once an enemy but then a close ally. So much so that Scorpion gave the former Lin Kuei Grandmaster one of his kunai to summon him in case Kuai Liang should use his Cryomancy again. When you asked what would happen should the Cryomancer use his magic again, your companion told you that Kuai Liang would live out the rest of his days in the Netherrealm, and he would be the one to take him there.

When Scorpion revealed to you that it was your father who killed his clan, wife, and son, which he described to you in great detail, you cried for Scorpion, no, HANZO’S loss and apologized through tears for your father’s cruelty, as you didn’t know. An act that convinced Scorpion that you were being honest. Scorpion’s belief in you was sealed when you offered your life in repentance.

Rather than taking your life, despite a part of him WANTING to, Scorpion offers to take your throne instead, which you accept. Hanzo brushes back a loose hair behind your ear as he promises to restore order within the Netherrealm and keep the Revenants contained. You hug him in response, which Hanzo slowly and stiffly returns. You savored your first-ever hug, not knowing of the inner turmoil that threatened to make the Wraith cry.

During the final battle, you finally broke Noob Saibot’s defenses and were able to storm Quan-chi’s former fortress. The Battle was chaos; the screams of your comrades and the sounds of blades rendering flesh to ribbons threatened to deafen you. Yet, you and Scorpion had a plan. You would keep Havik and Noob’s army occupied with your frontal assault while Scorpion goes up Quan-chi’s fortress through a long-forgotten pathway to kill the Lin Kuei’s former Grandmaster.

When the two Spectre confronted one another, their combat became so intense that the collateral from Quan-chi's floating fortress threatened to wipe out both armies. Unfortunately for Bi-Han, the falling debris fell atop Havik and his fellow Chaosrealmers. Crushing them to death.

After addressing the most significant threats, you left Sareena to command the remainder of your army before teleporting to your former childhood home. When you arrived, you spotted that Hanzo and Bi-Han were on their hands and knees, and the entire throne room was demolished from their fight. You used your abilities to silence your footsteps as you walked from behind Scorpion, whose insides barely stayed inside him. Seeing the man you called your friend hardened your resolve for what you must do, even if you fully don't know if you have the power to do it. You had to try.

Hanzo finally noticed you and tried to ask what you were doing, although the only thing that came out of him was a wet cough. It didn't anyway, as with a snap of your fingers, Hanzo couldn't hear anything, including his heartbeat. What was going on? What were you doing?

You purposefully ensured Hanzo couldn't hear a thing to protect him from what you were about to do to Bi-Han. The latter didn't initially notice you as he tried to launch a Ghostball at Hanzo. Only for you to pluck a single string that sent a soundwave, knocking him off balance. This finally gained the Spectre's attention, who asked if you were here to finish him off after Scorpion did all the hard work.

This Spectre, being the same one who tried to overthrow your birth realm, tried to force you to wed him, wanted to control you, killed so many of your fellow Oni, has done Elder Gods know what other unspeakable crimes... Yet you couldn't hate him.

You knew him in life as someone who defended Earthrealm from the forces of the Netherrealm. Who helped free Sareena from your father's service as a slave. You watched him burn amongst the Hellfire after Scorpion unjustly dragged him into the Netherrealm, Bi-han's pleas of his innocence falling on uncaring ears. You were there when your father merged Bi-han's soul with the shadows of the damned. It was time that he was set free.

”What Hanzo did to you was unjust and unwarranted. I am sorry that you both were dragged in by Quan-chi’s deceptions." "The shadows do not need pity." Bi-han, or what was Bi-han, spat at Y/N. The latter doesn't react visibly but softly replies, "No. I offer you mercy." A grating sound echos from Bi-Han, which took Y/N a few seconds to realize was laughter. "You would spare me after I had done?" Y/N shook her head before readying her shamisen into place. Her hands begin to glow with a ghostly green and purple fire. "I'll finally set your soul free from this shell."

You then begin to play your song. It first started out at a frequency low enough to disrupt Wraith's entire central nervous system, meaning you essentially shut down his brain and began rupturing his organs. You then start to play louder, using your magic to encase you and Bi-Han in a dome of blinding fiery light, ensuring that The Wraith can't use the shadows to escape. From there, you began to tear Bi-han apart, burning skin, muscle, organs, and bone. At one point, you didn't need your hands to continue playing your Shamisen.

The soul was the hardest for you to cleave because it was so submerged in darkness. In fact, you were worried for a moment that you had utterly destroyed the soul until you peeled the darkness enough to be greeted by a bright speck of light, barely bigger than a grape. By then, the dome you made shattered, and your spell on Scorpion was removed.

Hanzo watched you gently cup the soul speck in your hand and hold it over your heart, giving it an odd embrace. You whispered to the soul, telling it you'd grant it safe passage. You gave the speck a tiny bit of your magic to boost it before releasing it into the air. The speck, as if instinctually knowing what it must do next, rocketed off into what counted as a sky above you until it disappeared.

"What did you do?" Scorpion whispered, finding the silence that now hung in the air somehow more deafening than when you took his hearing briefly. You turn to face Scorpion, your red eyes misty. "What I could for him."

Then, you used your magic to send a fire bolt into the air in the shape of a scorpion, essentially announcing to all in the realm that Bi-han has been defeated. Hanzo has won. You confirmed this by gesturing to the demolished black throne and declaring that, as per your deal with him, the Netherrealm is now Scorpion's. You wished him well, turning to leave with the intent of rejoining your army, when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

Hanzo turns you around so you can be face-to-face with each other. He offered you an amendment to your agreement. Scorpion will need someone he can trust to help him rule his new realm, someone who knows the Netherrealm intimately, someone with experience governing its people, someone with a good heart that won't let power corrupt her. You happily accepted and announced Scorpion's first decree to the waiting armies.

Reconstitution was not easy, but with you and Scorpion overseeing it all, your efforts made reconstructing the Netherrealm possible. You and Scorpion's leadership styles complemented one another, balancing each other. Scorpion's harsh and severe rule was necessary to keep the rest of Netherrealm's demons under control, and he was quick to stamp out any more revolts from the remainder of Bi-han's followers. On the other hand, you lead with wisdom and compassion to the denizens of the Netherrealm who weren't mindless beasts such as Sareena and her sisters, who have loyally fought by your side for decades now. Given your understanding of the inner workings of the realm, you often politically guided Scorpion on how the Netherrealm works and what would be best for its denizens.

Eventually, you transitioned from Scorpion's Advisor to being his Queen. While you were hesitant at first, inquiring if Scorpion really wants to be bound to the child of his family's killer. Unwavering in his resolve, Hanzo reassured you that he cared not for your blood but your heart. Your heart is why the former Shirai Ryu Grandmaster deeply fell for you; otherwise, he wouldn't bother asking. With joyful tears, you embraced Hanzo and accepted his proposal. The wedding wasn't a grand affair but an intimate ceremony with your most trusted allies.

Some more years go by, with more trials and errors, whether that be maintaining you and Hanzo's authority over the Netherrealm or your marriage with the Wraith. Despite Hanzo ultimately forgiving you, that didn't erase the guilt and doubts you held. You sometimes felt as if, somehow, you were keeping your husband trapped down in the Netherrealm through obligation, keeping him from spending the afterlife in the Heavens with his family. Yet, when you voice this guilt with Hanzo, he apologizes for doing whatever made you think that. He then reassures you that it was his choice to stay in the Netherrealm, and he wants to stay there with you as long as you have him.

One day, your husband and King told you the time had come to fulfill his promise to Sub-Zero. You told Scorpion that you'll be able to meet his duties while he's away before asking him not to be too hard on Kuai Liang. Hanzo held your forehead against his and promised to do his best. Your husband then disappeared from the Netherrealm in a wall of hellfire.

When you see your husband again, with a much older Kuai Liang in tow, as expected. What you didn't expect was to find both men bleeding from various wounds and Kuai Liang to be missing an arm. You rushed to meet them and asked what happened to them. Scorpion answers that he'll tell you later, but Kuai Liang's presence must be addressed for now.

You held your hand over the old man, where his arm was missing, gently asking permission to heal him. Kuai Liang looked to Scorpion for confirmation whether or not he should let you. When the Lord of Hell nodded, Kuai Liang accepted and let you stop the bleeding before doing the same for Scorpion.

You tell the former Lin Kuei Grandmaster that it's nice to finally meet him, as your husband has told you much about him. This catches Kuai Liang off guard at the news. To confirm this, Scorpion holds up his left hand to reveal his obsidian ring, which matches the one on your left hand. Scorpion held your hand with loving eyes on you as he introduced you to Kuai Liang.

"I could not have picked no better than her to have at my side."

However, Kuai Liang was less surprised in comparison when learning that Scorpion also keeps watch of the Netherrealm as its new Overlord. Because of you and Scorpion's ranks, you had to properly address his banishment to the Netherrealm. As you and your husband agreed, you held court for how his sentence shall be carried out within the Netherrealm. After a swift court session, Kuai Liang's sentence was decided.

“Per your oath, you shall spend the rest of your natural life here, where Lord Scorpion and I may contain and monitor your abilities. Welcome, Kuai Liang, to the Netherrealm.”

You promise Kuai Liang that while he may be stuck here, you’ll ensure his soul won’t remain in the Netherrealm forever. The old man thanked you for your kindness, even if he didn't think he deserved it. You retorted that it doesn't matter whether or not he deserves your kindness; his actions have shown you that he's more than earned it.

From the steps of your fortress, you and Scorpion then show the sprawling city of the dead below, where Kuai Liang shall dwell for the rest of his life.

Playlist While Writing This:

"City of the Dead" by Eurielle

“Conquer (Eclipsa attacks Meteora)” from Star vs the Forces of Evil.

“Kings and Queens” by Ava Max

"This Life is Mine" feat (Casey Lee Williams) by Jeff Williams

"Healing Incantation" ver Annapantsu

"The Cost of the Crown" by Mercedes Lackey & Shandeen

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: Top Career Tips To Set Yourself Up For Success

Figure out where your skills and passions align. Then determine the lifestyle/work culture you thrive in and what sacrifices you're willing to make in your chosen career path (for some, it's always traveling/talking to people 24/7, working late hours, unpredictable/unconventional hours, potentially lower pay/less predictable income, etc.). It truly depends on your top values, your personality, and your goals/priorities in life.

First focus on getting incredibly talented at your craft. Find a mentor(s) who will push you with their feedback/suggestions. Take classes/skills courses/read books & articles to gain more applicable knowledge/hard skills. Join clubs, apply to internships, volunteer, and request informational interviews in your desired field.

Make your skills marketable. Create a professional resume and/or neat portfolio/collection of work samples. Discover and articulate your USP (that should essentially serve as the backbone of your elevator pitch). Frame your skills through a customer/business-centric lens. How does your experience/skillset solve their problems and help a company/client achieve their goals?

Build a network for yourself. Don't be shy to reach out to companies/individuals who inspire you. Speak with your secondary school teachers and professors for connections. Create peer-to-peer networks, too, so you can grow together. Be a fearless networker and connector. Help others, do favors, and make the person glad they met/hired you. Make it your objective to be memorable through your work ethic/providing high-quality work products and showing up with a motivated & overall positive attitude allows people to like and trust you with their time, clients, money, etc.

Master the art of a killer email/cold pitch. Especially in today's world, learning how to sell yourself through intriguing emails/LinkedIn messages is the key to unlocking potential success. One client or opportunity can create momentum that will be useful years down the line, too.

When in doubt, follow up – on an email, pitch, job opportunity, connection, etc.

Be ruthless and relentless with your research. For new contacts, connections, opportunities, and information to support your pitches/job interviews/networking conversations, new technologies, and trends within your field. Read everything credible you can get your hands on. Display working knowledge and practical applications of these concepts and how they can benefit the person in front of you/their business.

Create systems. For how you structure emails/pitches, conduct research, different types of workflows/ work template structures for different types of projects, time-blocking, client funnels, etc.

Get comfortable with rejection. Use it as a primer for self-reflection and refining your craft/processes or help you pivot your approach to help you achieve your goals. Never take business decisions on behalf of a company personally (and vice versa).

Give yourself breaks, but don't give up. Tapping out for good is the only surefire way to fail at an endeavor. Be flexible in your path, but zeroed in on your goal(s). Learn when to quit or pivot, and when it's time to coast or seek growth.