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littleredwing89 · 1 year

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PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 3

PRINCE OF GOTHAM - PART 3

CEO!Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings – Language. NSFW Smut. Slight jealously.

A/N: Please remember this is a revised version of “The Intern” but swapped out Roman for Jason. Hope you all enjoy the next chapter! :) xoxo

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The slam of the office door startled Roy and he almost spilt his freshly made coffee over his neat ironed shirt. He glanced up and caught Jason’s eye-line. He sighed internally and rested back in his chair. This wasn’t good, Jason looked irritated. Roy readied himself for a long rant. He wasn’t going anywhere soon and his coffee was probably going to go cold. Fuck.

Jason ranted for the next fifty minutes about the French clubs and their recent spurt of PR disasters. Roy rubbed his temple, his façade beginning to crack. He stopped listening beyond the first five minutes, his mind wandering elsewhere.

“So we’re going to have to go over there and set everything right, Harper. We can’t leave them any longer, not if we want the clubs to still be in business by the end of the month!!”.

“Yeah about that…”, Roy swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee and pointed to his diary before wincing at the foul taste.

“What?”, Jason grunted, confusion spreading across his face.

“I have plans this week”.

Jason scoffed, “Plans? You? Like what?”.

Roy shrugged, “Somethings to finish up here”.

“Uhuh”, Jason muttered unconvinced and edged closer to the diary on the desk, “I didn’t realise you were so swamped”.

“There's some department issues I have to fix, a few check-ins with the clientele”, Roy tried to fight the blush threatening to spread across his cheeks. Why wasn’t Jason letting this go?

“Can’t you get one of the others to do it? I don’t really want to go on my own”, Jason whined and rested on the edge of the desk, picking up a stack of post-it notes flicking through them aimlessly.

“You don’t have to go alone, I have the perfect person”, Roy gave him a cheeky grin, finally feeling the tables turn.

Jason glared at him, “I’m not going with Eric - fuck that, I’d rather let the Iceberg sink”.

“As funny as that would be, I know how important this is”, Roy snatched the post-it notes from Jason, irritated that he was messing with his stuff.

“Oh”, Jason smirked, “So you do have a brain”.

“No, I slept my way up here. Anyway, you should take Y/N. She’s competent and she can stand you. A very rare combination”, Roy stood up abruptly from the desk and walked across to the window, looking out across the murky streets of Gotham.

“I’m a joy to be around”, Jason grumbled.

“Your last assistant didn’t seem to think so”.

“She was an airhead, she didn’t understand what I wanted from her role”, Jason rolled his eyes. He remembered Maggie. She barely lasted the week before he found her sobbing in the toilets.

“You can’t hire people for sex”, Roy’s lips curved as he looked over his shoulder.

“There is an entire industry built on it. So I think we can disagree”, Jason snarked back, folding his arms across his chest.

“Fuck”, Roy sighed loudly and scrunched his eyes shut, “You are giving me a headache - are we done here?”.

Jason ignored Roy’s snappy remark and looked out of the office window catching you walking past, arm full of white envelopes, “So you want me to take Y/N? Won’t you miss her here?”.

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I couldn't cope without her, Just go talk to her…I'm sure that she'll talk to you, she’ll be happy for the business opportunity”, Roy couldn’t help but smirk at the last part.

“I don’t have any issues talking to her, I just don’t want to set your department back”, Jason’s ears turned pink, the thought of your naked body flashing in the back of his mind. That silk nightgown barely covering your ass. He swallowed and fidgeted on the spot.

“We'll survive while you fuck her stupid for a few days”.

“I don’t know why you assume I’m fucking her”, as it left his lips, Jason knew his voice had completely given him away. And the record speed he answered.

Roy laughed huskily and grabbed his mug, “I’m not blind Todd”.

Jason didn’t bother to give a reply and headed towards Roy’s office door, “We’ll be back by Friday”.

———

The second Jason had appeared on your department floor, you’d felt your skin flushing. Your thoughts were filled with repeat memories of him in your bed. The way his calloused hands slid over your body. You grabbed the stack of envelopes and stood up briskly, you needed to distract your mind from him. Before you combusted at your desk. You headed down the corridor towards the printing room but stopped when you heard the deep timber of his voice.

“Do you have a moment?”.

You turned around and nodded, “Of course Sir”.

Jason swallowed, feeling his stomach twisting with nerves, he wasn’t sure why he suddenly felt this way. He fixed his tie as he spoke, “I need someone to represent your department on the Paris trip. Harper recommended you”.

You raised an eyebrow, “Oh, did he now?”.

“He suggested you’d be the best fit for the job”, Jason’s clinical business tone made you chuckle internally. You noted he was clearly struggling, fidgeting more with his tie. You enjoyed the way you made the imposing man nervous.

“And what do you think?”, you took a step closer to him in the empty corridor, your voice dropping low and seductive. You licked your tongue along your plump lower lip, eyes tracing his mouth.

“I think you'll be passable”, he muttered, watching your tongue with interest. He suppressed the moan in his throat and inched closer to you.

“Wow...”, you rolled your eyes, “I’m glad you think I’m just passable, so full of compliments!”, you turned away and strutted down the rest of the corridor, swiftly entering the printing room.

Jason blinked in surprise before following after you quickly, closing the door behind him, “I don't suppose you're turning down a free trip to Paris?”.

“But Sir, I have unfinished work here that I need to complete for Mr Harper”, you teased, putting the paperwork on the desk at the side.

“Harper promised to pick up the slack”, Jason followed the curve of your legs, framed perfectly by your heels. He tried to ignore the sensual way your lips shaped as you spoke.

“Really?”.

“He’ll sort out whatever you don’t get done”, Jason lied. He knew Roy had promised nothing of the sort but he couldn’t give a damn right now. Your body completely distracting any rational thoughts he had.

You abandoned the printing and smiled brightly, Mr Harper could entertain himself with the photocopying whilst you were enjoying Paris with Jason, “Well then, if you want me to go with you, I will Sir”.

Jason growled and stalked across the room, caging you against the printer, “Keep calling me Sir and I’ll lock that door behind us…I don’t care who hears you”.

“But Sir, I have forms to deliver, they’re already a little late”, your hands snaked up his stomach, before grabbing his tie, tugging on it playfully. His lips ghosted over yours.

Jason’s hands grabbed the back of your thighs and he lifted you easily, making you squeak. Your legs wrapped around his middle on instinct, ass pressed into the printer pad, “What did I say?”, he nipped your bottom lip, thumbs stroking up your legs.

You shivered as he continued to stroke up your thighs, whispering against his mouth, “We’re at work Sir…this isn’t very wise”.

Before Jason had a chance to reply, there was a loud bark of laughter bouncing down the corridor, followed by heavy footsteps getting closer and closer. Jason’s face knitted with irritation before sighing, stepping away from you. You hopped down quickly, adjusting your skirt before the door flew open.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were using the printer N/N”, Dick smiled at you then turned towards Jason. His cheeks turned rosy and he ran a hand through his jet black locks, the cogs in his mind turning as he assumed; correctly; that he’d interrupted something.

“Don’t worry Grayson, I’m finished now”, you sauntered past Jason, patting Dick on the chest, “Knock yourself out”. You sashayed out of the room leaving Jason and Dick staring at each other.

———

Five long hours. You’d almost fallen asleep in the last hour. You hadn’t imagined business meetings could take this long, although to be fair, the last hour had been filled with Jason’s business associates talking about fast cars and football. You smoothed your hands down the front of your dress and stood up slowly, “If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I need to use the restroom before we go”.

You gave Jason a look to tell him to hurry up before you left, hurrying towards the bathroom.

Antoine turned to Jason, a smarmy smile on his face, “You've got quite the woman there Todd”.

Jason noticed the leering stare and the way his eyes drank in your svelte form, “Oh she's just one of my business team”.

“Oh? I thought she was a personal associate of yours”.

“No no, just a colleague”, Jason assured, fixing the cufflinks on his suit jacket.

“Do you think she would want to come out to dinner with me this evening?”, Antoine shifted in his seat, looking towards the door waiting for you to come back. He’d been enamoured with you from the second you walked into the room. He only became more fascinated as you spoke throughout your excellent presentation.

“Certainly not”, Jason snapped.

Antoine turned to him shocked and swallowed nervously. Jason’s shift in tone had taken him by surprise. He hadn’t expected the bite in Jason’s voice or the heated stare.

“What I mean is that we have something planned for the evening, so she won't be available”, Jason back tracked quickly, giving him a dashing smile. He hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive but the thought of Antoine taking you out for fine French cuisine with the possibility of more made his temper burn.

You came back into the room after using the bathroom and smiled brightly at Antoine, “Thank you for the excellent presentation this morning, it was good to meet you”, you held your hand out to him.

Taking your hand in a firm grip, Antoine shook it before pressing a kiss to the back of your palm, “Likewise, enjoy your activities this evening, mademoiselle”.

You flushed at the kiss but felt confusion curdling with it. Activities? What activities?

Turning to look at Jason, you noticed his eyes were narrowed at Antoine. The tension was obvious and thick enough to cut with a knife. You pulled your hand back quickly and grabbed your bag from the table, “Have a good evening too”, you murmured before leading Jason out of the building.

He didn’t say a word all the way down to the lobby. His brow knitted every so often. You left him to stew unsure what was wrong. He’d been completely fine before you went to the restroom. What had Antoine done? Heading across the car park towards his rental you finally gave up accepting the silence, “What’s wrong?”.

“Nothing”, he grunted and unlocked the car waiting for you to get in.

You sighed and folded your arms, standing firmly, “What’s really going on?”.

Jason blew air past his lips in frustration and turned to face you finally, “That fucking moron up there putting the moves on you in front of me in the middle of a fucking business meeting. Then he asks if he can take you out?! He thinks I’m a fucking idiot. He’s lucky I didn’t fucking sack him on the spot but, unfortunately his presentation and ideas are too good to lose”.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that left your lips once he’d finished speaking. “Seriously? That’s what’s wrong?”, you walked up to him and wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, toying with his shirt collar, “Don’t worry. Even if he was trying to get into my pants, someone else is currently already there”.

“Sounds like a lucky man”, Jason let his hands bracket your hips as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips. It was softer than you expected but you leaned into it, letting your tongue swipe along his.

Pulling away reluctantly, Jason opened the car door for you, “We have dinner reservations at the Four Seasons tonight”.

———

Striding down the corridor from his room, Jason stopped in front of your hotel suite. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since you made it back to the hotel after the dinner you’d shared together. That beautiful midnight blue dress you’d been wearing had tempted him all evening. The neckline dipping low so he had an excellent view for the duration of his meal.

He cursed the entire hour he was alone in his room for not inviting you back to his suite for a ‘night cap’. Taking a deep breath, he finally knocked on the door, shuffling from foot to foot. What if you’d gone to bed? What if you saw it was him through the spy hole and ignored it?

The turning of the lock made his thoughts stop and he smirked when he saw what you were wearing. You stood holding the door slightly ajar in nothing but a fluffy towel, the tips of your hair wet and curled. He couldn’t help but follow the droplets of water racing down your chest.

“Evening”, he winked and pushed his foot into the doorway.

“Do you just time your visits when I'm undressed?”, you looked up at him coyly.

Jason grinned cheekily, “I try my hardest princess, but the spy camera in your room does help”.

You shook your head and laughed softly, “It’s not like you haven't seen everything”.

Stepping further into your space, Jason’s hands found your waist, caressing your sides, “True, but I wouldn't mind another peek”.

His touch sent shots of desire up and down your spine, your core beginning to throb at the unspoken promise, “I was halfway through a bottle of wine in the bath”.

“Sounds perfect”, he made his way into your room and started to unbutton his shirt.

“You’re a little eager”, you closed the door behind him, sliding the lock into place.

“Says the woman who’s already wet?”, his tongue traced his bottom lip, looking over you hungrily.

The way he was eyeing made your confidence swell. You hadn’t had a man look at you like that before. You pouted your lips playfully, “You’d have to try harder than that Todd”. You turned on your heel and wandered back into the bathroom, a cheeky smile covering your face.

Jason growled and chased after you, grabbing your wrist. He spun you around quickly and pinned you against the bathroom wall. Your breath caught in your throat and you swallowed thickly, desire coiling in the pit of your stomach.

“Don’t have to try that hard, do I princess?”.

You looked up at him, your eyelids hooded with lust. He was right. Jason didn’t have to do much to make your skin light with passion. You reacted to him so easily, your body betraying your mind.

He dipped his head down to the crook of your neck and planted rough, open mouthed kisses along your flesh. You shivered as his stubble scraped your skin, your thighs clenched involuntarily. The familiar burn, heating up in your core.

“You mentioned something about a bath didn’t you?”, his words were muffled by your skin as he spoke, his fingers tugging at the top of your towel.

He took a step back and watched as the towel pooled at your feet leaving you bare and slightly damp in front of him. His eyes darkened as he tried to drink in every inch of you all at once. The damp sheen across your skin sparkled in the low lighting of the bathroom making you look ethereal. Jason growled looking over your body, his cock twitching at the sight.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Your foot kicked the towel to the other side of the bathroom before you moved back across to him.

“Mmhmm”, you murmured, hands working at his belt to free him of his clothes, “And I think, unless I’m mistaken, that you wanted to join me”.

Jason allowed you to undress him, watching as you worked slowly, until you had him fully naked. His cock throbbed with need as it bounced against his abs as he climbed into the bath, sinking down into the steaming, wet heat. The ache of the day suddenly faded as the burning waters soothed his muscles.

The swirls of steam spiralled around him as he lazily lounged his arms over the side of the tub, “Don’t keep me waiting princess”, he smirked.

You swayed your hips as you headed back towards the bath. Jason expected you to jump straight in but you stopped by the sink. He raised his eyebrow but rolled his eyes when he saw the wine glass pressed to your lips.

“Princess”, he growled and splayed his thick legs in the bath. His patience was wearing thin.

You drained the last of your beverage, tipping the glass up. A droplet of red wine escaped and landed on your chest, streaking down the valley between your breasts. You saw Jason watching intensely.

“My bad”, you grinned and swept the rogue rivulet of wine with your finger, bringing it to your lips. You sucked it gently purposely winding your tongue around your finger before making a popping sound as you finished.

“Get in here, now”, Jason cursed, the pulsing in his cock becoming worse with every passing second.

You gasped loudly when Jason grabbed your hips forcefully when you sank down into the hot water with him. You felt his heavy cock brush against your clit under the water and you whined, the sound trapped in your throat.

“You’re such a fucking tease”, he ground out, his thumbs pressing hard into your waist, “But don’t worry, I’ll soon have you sobbing whilst you bounce on my cock”.

You shuddered, his words making your mind hazy.

“You gonna be a good girl and ride me?”, Jason removed his hands from your body and laid back in the bath, head resting against the rim of the tub. His body glistened with water droplets highlighting his sculpted physique. He grinned up at you, hips thrusting upwards towards your silken core.

“Yes Sir”, your voice was breathy with desire.

Hovering your pussy over his cock, you sank down slowly, swallowing him inch by inch. You moaned unabashedly as you felt him drive up, bottoming out. He felt so good fully seated inside you.

You circled your hips slowly as your hands smoothed up your own body, cupping your breasts. You pinched your nipples between your fingers, rolling them lightly. Your head tipped backwards, as you sighed his name in bliss. The way his cock stretched you was perfect. Your walls clamped around his shaft as you rose up and down repeatedly on him. Each time his length bumped against your g spot.

The water splashed wildly over the sides of the bath as you bounced on his cock faster, chasing down that same intense high as before. You looked down at him through your thick lashes and bit down hard on your bottom lip.

Jason was a sight to behold. His head rested back against the bath, cheeks flushed red, eyes shut as he laid back and enjoyed the way you fucked him. His arms were hung over the edges, hands tightly wound into fists.

“Fuck!”, you sobbed as you fucked him deeper into your pussy, “Jason! Fuck!”. You pressed your hands against his solid chest, his heart was beating erratically. Working your hands up his body, you dragged your nails through his wet hair. The growl that left his lips was deep and husky.

He opened his eyes to watch you, the way your breasts bounced with each thrust. Jason smirked and moved one of his hands back into the tub. You watched it disappear before crying out in surprise.

“Oh god!!”, you moaned louder and your eyes shut as Jason flicked over your clit.

“You look so sexy when you cum all over my cock”, he groaned and continued to work your clit faster. You clenched around his shaft, the vein on the underside of his cock pulsed as you squeezed your velvet heat around him.

He grunted, the sound rumbling through his chest as he lifted his hips in time with your bounces. The cries that left your lips were sinful. The scream of his name over and over as he took you to the edge.

“Jason- oh god-I-”, you mumbled, feeling your mind tumbling away from you as your orgasm began to peak.

“That’s it”, he coaxed, “Cum for me princess”.

The flames of your orgasm burst through your body as you continued to ride his cock, the water splashing over your body. His name passed your lips like a mantra to the heavens as you soaked up the feel of your climax.

You sucked in greedy gulps of oxygen as you fought to catch your breath back. Jason slipped his wet hands to your hips and rocked you back and forth on his still rock hard shaft.

“Jay-”, you couldn’t finish your sentence as he thrust up into your pussy violently, pulling you down hard with each hammer of his hips.

You felt your eyes roll back into your head as your sensitive core quivered around his cock. You moaned louder and threaded your fingers through your hair, letting your breasts bounce heavily with his punishing thrusts.

“I love the feel of your tight little cunt”, he growled and snapped his hips harder. You mewled and dug your nails into your scalp, the shocks of electricity shooting down your spine.

“You take my cock so well”, his voice broke and he groaned deeply, “God you feel so fucking good”.

Every praise made you purr more, the euphoria thrumming through your veins. The buzz was like nothing else and you felt yourself becoming slowly addicted. The timber of his voice echoed in your mind, teetering on the edge of your second orgasm.

Jason gripped you harder and yanked you down hard onto his length, “Fuck- I’m gonna fill that tight little pussy - fuck - cum with me”.

His brutal pace continued as he bounced you faster on his cock, working you deeper. You screamed out as your climax burst behind your eyes, blurring your vision for a moment.

Jason moaned your name, his deep voice thick with lust as he emptied himself into your core. His fingers bruised your skin as his thrusts became slow and soft. He was panting heavily when he finally stopped, you relaxed down into the water, resting your head in the junction of his neck. Your lips brushed his collarbone gently, so gently Jason wondered if he was imagining it.

His hand stroked up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck, thumb running along the pulse of your vein.

You moved your head and looked up at Jason, giving him a soft smile before chuckling, “I feel so sweaty and gross now, this is all your fault”.

Jason grinned and shrugged innocently, “Personally, I blame you for answering the door in that tiny towel”.

You scoffed, “I wasn’t expecting guests at 11pm”.

“I wasn’t expecting to be tempted so thoroughly”, he winked, “Not that I’m complaining”.

You rolled your eyes and smirked at him, “You’re too easy to tempt Todd”. Turning in the bath, you manoeuvred yourself to sit between his open legs, back pressed to his chest. You relaxed back for a second, enjoying the way the warm waters engulfed your body.

“I don’t think anyone could resist you princess”, he murmured against the shell of your ear, enjoying the way you shivered.

“Seduce me later, right now I want to get cleaned up properly, like I originally intended”.

You felt Jason fidgeting behind you, then you heard the tell-tale click of the shampoo bottle lid. He squirted the liquid into his hands and lathered it quickly before weaving his fingers into your hair with a gentleness you didn’t expect.

“No funny business Todd”, you tried to sound threatening but the way he was massaging your scalp made the words come out in an airy whisper.

“Scouts honour”.

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#ceo!jason Todd x reader #CEO!jason todd x reader insert #jason todd smut #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader insert #jason todd imagine #red hodd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x reader insert #red hood smut #jason todd fic #jason todd x reader au series

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tongue-like-a-razor · 2 years

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Movie Nights with Bradley Bradshaw

Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Headcanon in which you have popcorn movie nights once a week with your aviator friends.

CW: None, just a bit of fluff

A/N: I feel like I haven't posted Rooster content in a while so I thought I'd share this idea with y'all even though it obviously isn't fully formed. Let me know if you're interested in other half-baked ideas and headcanons 😅

Also, the season of scary movies is upon us, so I thought this might be fitting. Enjoy!

Week 1: Bradley likes you so he sits as far away from you as humanly possible. You take the centre of the couch, flanked by Phoenix and Bob. Bradley takes the floor.

Week 2: Bradley offers to grab your drink (and everybody else’s so it doesn’t appear suspicious). He sits on the same couch as you this time, but he’s in the corner. When Phoenix stands to use the bathroom and there’s a gap between you and him, he gives you a small smile and you offer him some popcorn. He takes a handful from your bowl, so you shift closer to share. When Phoenix returns, she’s wearing a smug smirk.

Week 3: You plop down onto the couch beside Bradley, completely unaware of how alarmed he is at the idea of sitting beside you throughout the entire evening. He's very still for the majority of the time, although you do end up occasionally rubbing shoulders and, by the end of the night, Bradley is both elated and extremely frustrated.

Week 4: Bradley sits down next to you, handing you your favorite drink. He gives you a sheepish grin when both Phoenix and Bob decide to join you on the same couch, squeezing you and Bradley into the corner. It’s a scary movie, so you end up gripping Bradley’s arm for the better part of the evening, hiding your face behind his shoulder a few times.

"You're missing the best part," he says with a massive grin.

"Tell me when the best part is over," you whimper.

He rubs your back with his hand, chuckling into your hair as you squeal. Anytime the film becomes too frightening and you press your body into his side is the best part in his books.

You're watching the screen with an anxious expression and the moment the music swells, you turn away frantically, burying your face into Bradley's neck.

He holds still, afraid that any movement on his part might scare you off – more even than the slasher flick. When he feels your body tense up against his at the sound of the screams coming from the television, he puts his hand over yours on your lap, squeezing it gently in his grasp. "You're okay," he mutters, his mouth right over your forehead.

You clutch his hand as his thumb sweeps lightly over your knuckles, and he weaves his fingers through yours, trying to relax your grip. You murmur something incoherent into the crook of his neck and Bradley closes his eyes, his embrace tightening around your shoulders. "Just so you know," you say in a soft voice. "You're not allowed to leave me alone tonight."

Bradley lets out a slow breath over your face. "Wouldn't dream of it," he responds.

A/N: I dunno guys, this concept has been bouncing around in my head and I wanted to get it down so I wouldn't be tempted to write a whole story around it haha Hope you liked it!

Rooster Tag List:

The rest of the list is in the comments. Sorry if I've missed you!

@simp-for-fictional-people

@ollyoxenfrees

@iamabeautifulperson18

@living-in-my-imagination88

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pikapeppa · 3 months

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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

Oooh don't mind if I do since I'm on a kick of rereading a bunch of my own writing currently! 🤣 First off: tagging back to you, lovely @johaerys-writes, and forward to @crackinglamb @alyssalenko @sinsbymanka @vorchagirl @chloefraazers @mwasaw @himluv @ocean-in-my-rebel-soul @contrivedchaos and anyone else who would like to play! Please, anyone and everyone, join in!

So okay. I thought wayyy too hard about this and had A LOT of difficulty choosing because I actually really enjoy rereading my own fics 😅 but I did my best! Answers below the cut for anyone who wants to keep reading:

- Fall Into The Tide: Dragon Age, Sten/f!Mahariel, ~54k words. The premise of this fic is that Mahariel decides on a whim to follow Sten on his maritime journey back to Par Vollen. This was actually the first fic that came to mind as a favourite, and to date, I feel that it's the best thing I've ever written; I'm really proud of Sten's characterization and the emotional beats. I still cry like a baby every time I reread it LOL.

- Lovers In A Dangerous Time: Dragon Age, Fenris/f!Hawke, ~525k words. This is my Fenris the Inquisitor fic. I just finished rereading it and I had a lot of "wow I wrote this? Good job me" moments while reading it! 😂

- Until We Meet Again: The Witcher, Geralt/f!Reader, ~250k words. The point of this fic was that I personally want to fuck Geralt so I made it everyone else's problem BAHAHA. This fic completely mutated from self-indulgent smut to accidentally-falling-in-love in a totally unplanned way, and I'm so thrilled with how it turned out!

- Just Hold On, We're Going Home: Samurai Champloo, Mugen/Fuu/Jin, ~38k words. SamCham is my favourite anime, and the end of it is so heartwrenching to me, even though it's a happy ending. So I wrote this fic to heal myself 🤣 This fic was entirely a gift I wrote for myself on the assumption that no one would actually read it, and it's been lovely to see how many people were craving a poly happy ending like I was!

- The Love That Grows From Violence: Dragon Age, Felassan/f! Lavellan, ~181k words. This is a post-Trespasser fic where a bitter Lavellan falls in love with Felassan, who was made Tranquil rather than killed in the Fade. This fic holds a hugely special place in heart partly because the idea was BRILLIANT (it was suggested to me by a wonderful reader-friend!), and because writing this became my cozy escape during the worst of COVID. I'm really proud of some of the emotional beats in this fic and the lore aspects, and I really hope that Veilguard will not end up proving me entirely wrong or I might just die LOL.

HONOURABLE MENTIONS (I CAN'T HELP IT, THIS WAS REALLY HARD):

- Even The Hardiest Desert Blooms Need To Get Wet Sometimes: Horizon Forbidden West, Drakka/Aloy, ~365k words. I JUST REALLY LOVE DRAKKA, OKAY? I JUST LOVE HIM. A LOT. I had a ball writing every chapter of this fic just because I adore the disaster Desert gremlin, and I always love the opportunity to write texting in fics, which I got to do here a lot, so this fic makes me a very happy girl 🥰 The only reason this didn't make my top five is that I don't actually reread it very often!

- Inadvisable: Dragon Age, triple romance for Solas/f!Lavellan, Abelas/f!Lavellan, Felassan/f!Lavellan (different Lavellans LOL), ~668k words. This is my modern AU university fic collaboration with my beloved friend and artist Elbenherz. IT WAS SO HARD NOT PUTTING THIS FIC IN THE TOP-FIVE; the only reason it didn't make the cut is because it was either this one or The Love That Grows From Violence, and I just have such cozy-fuzzy vibes/memories of writing TLGFV.

If anyone decides to check out any of these fics, I hope you enjoy! 🥰

-- love from your friendly neighbourhood Pika xoxo

#fanfic writer's life #pikapeppa writes #dragon age #the witcher 3 #samurai champloo #horizon forbidden west

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everwitch-magiks · 4 months

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OKAY EVIE. The epic rivalry between a flashy spellcaster and the person who has to complete all the restoration paperwork after the quest is complete. xoxo MJ/kiwiana-writes

Why, hello MJ! Wow, time flies. How about we don't think too hard about how it’s been five or so months since I reblogged this ask game and you sent me this ask.

There is something of a reason why this took me an amount of time: so I decided to make this one more fun by fleshing it out into a little story and also telling it in reverse order. The latter turned out a little challenging. But without further yapping, here it is. Five fun facts from (... more like parts of) a spellcaster/spell restorator (that's a word, right?) AU, told from ending to beginning. Enjoy! ♡

5. Except the very next day, Alex receives a handwritten letter sealed with wax. The seal is the Fox family's. The penmanship is delicate and measured, nothing like the radiant man Alex knows is behind it.

The letter contains both an apology and an invitation. Henry is asking Alex to meet him on the summit of the mountain.

(Alex does.)

4. It goes on like that for months. Henry keeps stopping by, keeps lingering, keeps laughing at Alex's jokes - even when they're mediocre. There's something there. Something beneath the surface. Something that's slowly blossomed this whole time.

One morning, Henry comes early. Before one of his quests. He wants to know if he may visit Alex late that evening, after his return. 'The sunset will be pretty at that time of day. Perhaps we could get up above the treetops to get a good view?'

Alex's heart races in his chest long after Henry has left.

But Henry doesn't come that night. Possibly, his quest went on for longer than he'd anticipated - or possibly, he found something more worthy of his time than Alex.

It'd make sense. Alex can't even claim he's surprised. A common restorator was never a good match for a legendary spellcaster.

3. Henry's pretty when he smiles. He's even prettier when he laughs. He's been spending more and more time simply sitting in Alex's kitchen between quests. It's a little unnerving. Henry has hundreds of admirers who'd happily entertain him during his time off - yet instead he's drinking tea at Alex's table, listening to Alex's rants about the incompetent archivists over at restoration headquarters.

'Anyway, I shouldn't bore you with the details-'

'I like it when you tell me the details.'

That's annoyingly sweet. 'Careful, Fox. I might fall a little bit in love with you.'

Henry's smile softens a fraction. 'I'm sure I shall find some way to bear that.'

Fuck.

Maybe Alex's fantasy of heading up the mountain with Henry could someday become reality.

2. Henry’s off on another quest. Something to do with a flock of wild unicorns inconveniencing a nearby village. Small stuff. If it'd been anyone else the paperwork would've been a piece of cake, but since it's Henry it'll probably take weeks.

Alex isn’t dealing with any of that today. He's off on a stroll up the mountain; the clearance to restore Henry’s most monumental mess hasn't come through yet, so Alex might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

Yet when Alex returns home, Henry is there. He's outside Alex's house. That's so odd. Henry hasn't deigned to stop by since they were first thrown together as partners from their respective guilds - even though, at the time, Alex had thought they'd hit it off pretty well.

Henry smiles bashfully when Alex says as much. 'Work has kept me very busy.'

Alex snorts. 'Yeah, well, me too. All thanks to you. You sure don't do things by halves.'

'... Maybe there's someone I've been trying to impress.'

Oh.

1. Alex has fucking had it.

He's knee-deep in trying to obtain clearance to reverse Henry’s latest disaster: a mountain moved from one side of the kingdom to the other while on a quest to save a young boy from a dragon. Moving mountains is a level five restoration. And moving it didn't even help with the fucking dragon. Ridiculous. Henry’s such a showoff.

Never mind that moving mountains is kind of impressive.

Never mind that the mountain is Alex’s favorite in the kingdom, and now the foot of it sits next to his backyard.

Alex’s whole life revolves around following Henry’s tracks and covering them up. And he’s damn good at it. Best in the guild. But sometimes, he wonders what the point of it all is if Henry always remains just out of reach.

Never mind that Alex told Henry once, in a moment of weakness, that he's always dreamt of being asked for his hand at the top of that very mountain. Henry probably doesn't even remember. And even if he does, it'll never be him who takes Alex up the mountain to make it a reality. That’s just a silly fantasy.

... There we have it! Thank you - belatedly - for the ask! ♡

#ask game #answered #a queen is never late everyone else is simply early

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tiannasfanfic · 2 years

Text

Secret Admirer: Part 3

Eddie Munson x Reader (Fluff)

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Masterlist] [AO3 Link]

Summary: Telling someone you fell for them is always hard. However, it's even harder when the person you love is also your best friend. When you can't find the courage to tell Eddie Munson how you feel to his face, you decide to let him know in a more...round about sort of way.

Rating: General Auidences

Author Note: Gender neutral reader, they/them pronouns used, if any. Part 3 of 3. I always see Eddie calling people he finds attractive, or feels protective over, "Princess" regardless of gender. He would even call Steve "Princess." Enjoy! 🖤💜

CW: Cussing, smoking, self doubt, a little angst but a happy ending.

Word Count: 3,300

Tag List: @lilstickynote @tayhar811 @marianita195 @ravenclawkimmi @hellfirefiend @mizelophsun11 @thegirlthatsfalling @awkwardambition @lokiofasgard616 @potatos-library

Deciding to tell Eddie you are his secret admirer was the easy part. The part that actually involved telling him was much harder.

In the process of rereading that absolute disaster of a love letter, you realized something important about yourself.

You absolutely hated talking about your feelings.

That was the real reason you had gone with this whole plan instead of just talking to him upfront. You had really hoped he would just figure out that it’s you right away, feel the same way and then ask you out instead so you wouldn’t have to.

Not exactly the best way to go about things. Or the best way to get what you want.

To make matters worse, ever since the night he came over to show you the letter, Eddie had been acting oddly towards you. Not a bad odd, just odd.

You started catching him staring at you during the classes you had together. His hugs seemed to be a little more frequent, a little tighter and a little more lingering. While it was unexpected with everything else going on, you didn’t mind the extra attention from him. However, you did wonder what brought that on, even though you didn’t ask. You were almost afraid to.

Now came the dilemma. Should you write another letter actually explaining how you feel? Or tell him in person to his face? If you do it in person, should you do it at your house? His? At the old picnic table? One of the other places you two shared with each ither? Or someplace else altogether with no memories of the two of you attached?

Actually, having Eddie meet up with you on neutral ground sounded like the best idea out of them all. That way if things went badly, it wouldn’t completely ruin those other spots for either of you. Skull Rock seemed like the most logical choice. You knew Eddie knew where it was since it was a popular spot, but you also didn’t consider it a spot belonging to either of you. It was a place you’d come to be alone a few times to clear your head, which usually just involved smoking and reading. If it was somehow soured by the memory of Eddie confirming what you already knew, it wasn’t a big loss. You could easily find another.

You decided to leave him one more note to set up the meeting. That would give you the chance to be mysterious for a little while longer. This whole thing really had been fun when it came to thinking up ways to surprise Eddie. You had initially planned on doing a few more surprises before either revealing yourself or giving up altogether, but now you just wanted to be done with the whole thing.

Who knows? Maybe it would all work out after you talked, and you could keep on surprising him in other ways?

You doubted it, but it was nice to hope.

This next note was short and to the point, typewritten just like the other one.

Eddie,

I’m sorry my first letter was such a mess. Meet me face to face so I can explain it? 4pm Skull Rock tomorrow (Saturday) night?

xoxo

School had let out for Christmas break by the time you worked up the courage to finally talk to him. So, you had to figure out another way to get the note to him without him seeing you.

On the Friday evening after Christmas, Eddie was over at Dustin’s house since he was running a short campaign for Hellfire to play over break. The parents of the younger Hellfire members called him up begging him to one week into the holidays since they were all going stir crazy. Since Eddie’s uncle was off work on Friday’s, this worked out perfectly for you. You headed over to their trailer once you knew Eddie was at the Henderson’s.

Wayne was a little surprised when you said you were there to see him instead of Eddie. and was even more surprised when you asked him to give Eddie an envelope but not tell him it came from you.

“I’ll explain everything to him tomorrow,” you said. “The letter is just asking him to meet with me so I can.”

By that point, Wayne had put two and two together. You knew then that Eddie had shown him the ring and other letter when a look of realization come over his face, and his expression softened into a gentle smile.

“I’ll see that Eddie opens it tonight,” Wayne said, and you thought you could see excitement in his eyes. “Good luck tomorrow, Y/N. I don’t think you’ll need it, but good luck.”

That statement confused you a little bit, but he wasn’t discouraging the idea any, so that gave you a little more hope than you previously had. You headed home after that to start thinking about what you were going to say to Eddie and what you were going to wear tomorrow. Normally you didn’t put a whole lot of thought into how you looked, but this was different.

Several hours later, your closet was all over your floor, and you were no closer to figuring out either when the phone on your nightstand rang.

“Hel-,” you started to say after picking up the receiver.

“They want to meet tomorrow!” Eddie said, his frantic tone interrupting your greeting. “They want to see me face to face!”

The nervous energy Eddie was projecting over the phone on top of your already nervous energy about tomorrow caused your brain to veer wildly off track for a few moments.

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused now. “Who wants to meet you?”

Which really confused Eddie at first since he wasn’t at the top of his game either.

“Eh? What do you mean, who- oh,” Eddie started to say, and then you heard him realize he needed to fill in some blanks. “I just got home from Henderson’s a bit ago and my uncle handed me an envelope, saying someone dropped it off today.”

“An envelope?” you said, feeling dumb for your brain lapse considering you were behind all this, but doing your best to still sound confused.

There was a brief period of silence as you heard Eddie nodding before he remembered you couldn’t see him.

“Oh, yeah, an envelope,” he confirmed. “It’s the same person who sent the ring and letter. They want to meet up tomorrow.”

“Oh wow!” you said, trying to sound really excited without going over the top. “That’s awesome!”

“Eh,” Eddie said, with a more neutral tone than you expected, and you could hear the shrug in his voice. “I guess. You know me, I don’t like letting people down.”

Those words made your stomach start to sink.

“Oh?” you asked, licking your suddenly dry lips. “Why do you think you’ll let them down?”

“Because I’m not interested,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend either. Whoever it is deserves better than that.”

With every word Eddie said, you felt your stomach sinking further.

“Now, don’t jump to conclusions,” you said, amazed your voice wasn’t shaking like your hands now were. “You still don’t know who it is, so you could end up intereste-“

“Highly doubtful,” he said, cutting you off. “I already know who it’s not and that’s the only person I’d want to go out with.”

It felt like someone suddenly poured a bucket of ice water on you. This was the first you were hearing that Eddie liked someone. You had no idea prior to this.

“Oh,” you asked, swallowing heavily. You didn’t want to know, but you also had to ask. “Who is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eddie said, and you could hear him shrugging again. “It’ll never happen in a million years, no matter how much I want it to.”

Your heart skipped a beat, your mouth went dry. Since your stomach couldn’t sink any further, now you felt nauseated. Your vision started to swim as tears sprang up in your eyes.

This was information you really wished you would have known before.

Now what?

Do you still show up tomorrow, knowing he’s going to tell you no and make every interaction you have with him going forward be awkward? Or consider this his answer, not go, and let Eddie think whoever it was chickened out?

Most of your motivation to see this through had just died learning Eddie was interested in someone else. There didn’t seem to be much of a point in doing any of this anymore. But, at the same time, just dropping the whole thing right now and not showing up was way more of a chicken shit move than you’d ever done before.

You made your bed. Guess it was time to lie in it.

“Y/N? Did you fuck off on me over there, Princess?”

You realized that you had gotten lost in your thoughts and had gone quiet for a while.

“Hmm? Oh, no, I’m still here.”

Eddie chuckled softly.

“But yeah, that’s where I’m at,” he said, sighing.” “Tomorrow’s going to suck, both for me and the secret admirer.”

You chewed your lip for a moment.

“Just be honest with them,” you finally said with a sigh. “I’m sure they’ll understand. They wouldn’t want you to pretend to have feelings just for their sake. I know I wouldn’t.“

It was Eddie’s turn to be quiet after that.

“Yeah,” he finally said, sighing again. “I wouldn’t want that either.”

Sleep wasn’t your friend that night. You ended up with just a few hours and were up a little after sunrise, which was unusual for you, especially during school breaks. You went ahead and got ready, dressing as if it was just another normal day, then cleaned up the mess you’d left yourself.

After that, you had nothing to do but wait. Even though you had hours to go before you had to leave, the anxiety and nerves had carried over from the night before.

When waiting around at home became too much, you decided to head out for the meeting spot already. It was around 2pm when you got out to Skull Rock, but despite being a really warm afternoon for December, there wasn’t anyone else out there at the moment. People usually didn’t come out until the evening when there was less of a chance to be seen for the activities they had in mind. That suited you just fine.

As soon as you got to the normal place you’d been sitting, you spread a blanket out on the ground and parked yourself right where the rock curved under the massive, skull shaped boulder. Lighting up one of the joints you brought with you, you smoked half of it before putting it out and swapping it for a cigarette. The combo helped calm you some and you settled back against the rock to read while you waited.

The book you brought with you was an old favorite, one you had read so many times the spine was badly crinkled and about to fall apart. You would need to replace it soon since you read it anytime you needed to think and focus that easily distractible part of your brain. So, as your eyes and that part of your brain took in the words on the page, the rest of your brain paid absolutely no attention to the book and tried to work out what you could say to Eddie that would save the friendship.

The next two hours flew by, but it didn’t seem like that much time had passed before you heard footsteps crunching along through the trees as someone was headed towards you. A quick glance at your watch told you it was 3:55.

Your heart sped up; panic started to set in. You had gotten lost in your thoughts, but you were no closer to figuring out what you were going to say than you were two hours ago. That thought flew through your mind just as Eddie was stepping out of the trees into your line of sight, headed in your direction.

You froze in place where you were sitting. He didn’t see you yet, his eyes looking down at the uneven ground, so he didn’t trip on his approach. You briefly debated diving under Skull Rock itself and hiding, but right as you were having that thought, Eddie looked up. He instantly saw you and stopped in surprise.

“Oh, hey Y/N,” Eddie said, with a hesitant wave. “I didn’t know you ever came out here.”

You blinked a few times and collected your bearings quickly.

“Uh, yeah, sometimes,” you said, closing the book in your lap. “It’s quiet out here, a good spot to be alone.” Then you held up your book. “Or read.”

“Guess so,” he chuckled a little, and you could tell he was nervous. He came over to lean against the rock across from you. “I tried to call you before I left, but your mom said you weren’t home.”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to stop yourself from chuckling too. “I’ve been out here a couple hours.”

“Yeah?” Eddie said, then started rubbing his neck in that nervous way of his. “Have you seen anyone else out here, by chance?”

You shook your head and Eddie nodded.

Neither of you spoke after that. You both kept looking at each other, then looking away.

This was awkward as hell.

You sighed and stood up.

“Can we just pretend like this never happened?” you said as you started collecting your things. “Or did I mess everything up too badly? Either way, too late now, I guess.”

“Eh?” you heard Eddie say, confusion in his voice. “What do you mean?”

You folded up your blanket and tucked it under your arm before turning to him.

“I’m sorry,” you said, sighing. “I didn’t know you were interested in anyone when I gave you the ring and letter, or else I would have never put you in this position.”

Eddie’s expression stayed confused for a second before it changed to one of complete shock, his eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open.

“No fucking way,” he whispered.

It was so soft you barely heard him, but you did, and at that moment, it confirmed what you already knew.

“Don’t worry though,” you added hurriedly, looking down. “I know you’re not interested and I’m okay with that. There’s no need to go into it at all. Like I said, I don’t want you to pretend for my sake. I’d just rather forget this ever happened.”

You glanced up at him and saw he was still staring at you with the same expression of shock. It was probably the best reaction you could hope for.

Figuring this was a suitable time to leave, you started to turn away to head back to where you parked, but then paused.

“You said you called,” you said, turning back to Eddie. “What’s up? Might as well ask you while I’m still here.”

Eddie’s mouth closed with a snap, and he shook his head to snap himself out of the shock.

“Oh, uh,” he said, and started rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want to go to The Hideout with me tonight? Get a drink or two?”

You chuckled tiredly, looking at him finally.

“That might be kind of awkward now, so maybe another night.”

“Why would taking you on a date be awkward? Especially now?”

You blinked and stared at Eddie.

“A…date?”

Eddie nodded.

Now it was your turn to be confused, though your heart was now doing a wild dance in your chest.

“But…I thought you were interested in somebody?”

“Yeah, I am,” Eddie nodded. “You.”

You blinked and stared at him.

“Me?”

Eddie nodded again.

Your brain shut down. All of the thoughts you had in your head suddenly fled. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing would come out. You ended up just standing there, gawping at Eddie.

After staring at each other for a minute, Eddie grinned at you and slowly walked over to you as he started talking, taking a step with every second or third word.

“When I got the ring,” he explained. “At first, I thought it was you. I had forgotten about that ring as soon as we left the store, so you were the only one that knew about it. But you were so convincing that I started doubting that.”

Now Eddie was standing just a step or two away, and he stopped there. You just stood there, looking up at him, still too stunned to speak.

“The letter really caught me off guard,” he continued. “I was sure it wasn’t you by then. And I panicked. I thought, it’s only a matter of time before someone pursues you too. And friendship be damned, I like you too much to not try my luck first.”

You felt your cheeks flush a deep red and you couldn’t help but smile now.

“Must’ve been odd seeing me here then,” you said, finally getting your voice back.

“Not odd, just really surprising,” he said, as he reached out to take ahold of your jacket and then gently started pulling you toward him. “Do you actually come out here or was that all made up?”

“I do sometimes,” you said, nodding as you took the last couple steps to close the distance between you. “Not often though. It’s not a spot of mine yet.”

Eddie snaked one of his arms around your waist, pulling you against him. Your arms came up to drape around his shoulders, the blanket you were holding falling down to the ground.

“Then that settles it,” he said, his other hand coming up to cup you’re the side of face, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone. “It’s officially our spot now.”

You couldn’t help but grin, barely getting out a word of agreement before Eddie was pressing his lips to yours in a deep, intimate kiss. It wasn’t quite to the level of passionate, but the embers could be felt by both of you. It wouldn’t take much to stoke them into a burning flame.

With that in mind, you slowly pulled your lips away from his, opening your eyes to look at him.

Eddie licked his bottom lip and bit down on after yours were gone. His grip tightened on your waist briefly but then relaxed. When he finally opened his eyes, a wicked glint came to his eyes as he grinned at you.

His train of thought was on a similar track.

“So,” he said. “Inner flames burning, eh?”

You groaned, hiding your face against his shoulder as he laughed and wrapped both of his arms around you in a hug.

“Oh stop,” you protested, looking up at him with a glaring pout. “In my defense, I don’t even remember writing that particular part.”

“Yeah?” he laughed even harder at that, then kissed you on the forehead. “Exactly how tired were you, Princess?”

“Very,” you said, and now you were laughing along with Eddie. “I stayed up all night writing it. And I actually thought it sounded like my best work at the time.”

“Now it all makes sense,” he shook his head. “I should’ve recognized it as one of those half asleep, somewhat delirious, stream of whatever rambles of yours.”

Eddie walked you to your car then with his arm around your shoulder, and you with your arm around his waist. Not in any hurry, the pace was leisurely and the two of you kept laughing about the letter.

Regardless of your new status with each other, one thing would never change.

Eddie Munson was still your best friend and would continue to give you shit as such.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson blurb

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lullabyes22-blog · 8 months

Text

Mal de Mer - Ch: 3 - Treasure (Part I)

Summary:

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

War was simpler business…

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

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

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

꧁꧂

How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold Maybe I'm just too demanding Maybe I'm just like my father, too bold?

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

The SS Woe Betide's promenade deck is a study in sun-drenched elegance.

The broad stretch of honey-gold planks is polished to a high shine. Floor-to-ceiling windows run the length of the walkway, their glass etched with sunburst motifs. Behind the glass, the water is dappled into a spray of gold and diamonds. The waves, rolling in drowsy combers of lapis lazuli and sapphire, call to mind a treasurebox tipped sideways: all its secrets spilling across the seabed.

A pirate's dream come true.

Silco’s outfit fits right in. He's clad in a loose red shirt with the sleeves rolled to the forearms. A worsted black waistcoat, long and narrow, drapes his angular shoulders and sways with his stride. His trousers, matching the jacket, are tailored in the style of sailor's breeches: unpleated, and tapering at the calves. A pair of scuffed boots, pointed at the toes, complete the ensemble.

The effect is flattering, but ruthlessly functional. He looks ready to cross the gangplank to a pirate's cutter.

His smile, when he glances sidelong at Mel, is piratical too: full of teeth, and no good intent.

"My dear," he drawls, "I asked you to lose the chiffon."

"This," Mel says, "is tulle."

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

His scrutiny is a physical paring down. Mel, not a woman given to blushes, feels a smarting heat.

There is, she tells herself, nothing wrong with her day-gown. It's the plainest in her wardrobe. A square-necked cream frock, the hem ending at mid-calf. The bodice is a high-waisted, empire-line affair. The only adornments are the delicate golden embroidery edging the diaphanous sleeves. It's a demure look: a far cry from the haute-couture she usually favors—the ones Silco dubs Vehicles of Voyeurism. Even her calfskin boots, ankle-length and plain, are the closest she's got to seafaring. She'd chosen them, and the matching leather belt, for their durability.

Whatever her husband's plans, she'd rather not lose a pair of Tanzanite-studded Manolovas to the briny depths.

Silco, head tilted, appraises her footwear. "Are those Topside's idea of boots?"

"They're called oxfords."

"They're a disgrace."

"You're not a shoemaker!" Exasperated, Mel smooths out her skirts. "I've never seen a pair like yours before. And my father was an admiral."

"You mean, mercenary."

"My point is: I have spent a lifetime on ships. I know seamen's boots. Those—" she gestures at Silco's, "—are anything but."

"They're Fissure-boots. We call them 'kickers'." He rotates his ankle to show her the sole. "The undersides are covered in rivets. For grip. They're useful for slippery surfaces. But if you snag them on a rail, or trip over a hatch cover, you can slip them off in three shakes of a rat's tail. All the better to run."

"Run from what?"

A ghost of a smile. "What do you think?"

"Enforcers."

"Enforcers aren't the only disasters belowground. Temblors. Fires. Cave-ins. We have all sorts." Musingly, he regards his boots. "Running's a way of life for us."

Mel thinks of her first descent into the Fissures. The smoke-clogged streets that denied visibility. The gaping pits of rubble that threatened each step. The clammy grip of moisture that slicked each surface. Everywhere she'd looked, she’d seen the endless scars of Topside's neglect. Afterward, the waft of destruction had clung to her skin. Like the phantom sensation of Silco's hand on hers, and the insinuating thread of his voice in her ear:

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

She'd wondered how the Fissurefolk withstood their lot. Their suffering seemed unendurable: the weight of it, the sheer, crushing tragedy. No matter where her thoughts turned, it was always there: the knowledge that her city, the jewel of Progress, had been rotting away below her feet.

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

In those days, she'd been unnerved by that strange and alien world. Unnerved, too, by Silco. The duality of him was at once alluring and repulsive. His elegance was a facade, as thin as the film of iridescent oil floating on Zaun's waters. Beneath, there was nothing but a ravenous dark.

And yet, she'd found herself returning. To the dark, and to him. And each time, the city's alienness seemed to peel away. The Fissurefolk, in all their idiosyncrasies, morphed from feral enigmas to fellow human beings. Even Silco, for all his unsettling contradictions, went from a terrible specter to a thrilling challenge.

A man, with his own stories. His own heartbreaks.

Bit by bit, his world had become hers. He'd made it so: with colorful tales about the murals peeking between the subterranean ruins at Factorywood. With sips of fizzy green lager brewed in the sunless cellars beneath the catacombs in Entresol. With strolls, arm-in-arm, along the pyrite studded rock formations that rimmed the shantytowns in the Sumps. He'd taught her the dances popular among the Fissurefolk—the Sumpside Waltz, the Drainpipe Fandango, the Lazy River Lope—and the meanings behind their twists and turns. He'd invited her to the most surreal festivals—the Equinox Feast, the Night of the Veiled Lady—and imparted the significance behind their customs. He'd fed her delicacies from the food carts dotting the street corners—spiced mushroom stew, glazed eel, pickled beets—and shared the recipes behind their unique flavors.

And all the while, his voice had woven a spell. The longer she’d listened, the less Zaun seemed a hellhole, but a hidden gem. Each facet, a winking, ever-shifting kaleidoscope of human life—one as rich as any jewelbox in Piltover's Ecliptic Vaults.

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

"Perhaps," she dares, "I'll buy myself a pair of 'kickers'."

His brow quirks. "You'd be in for a rude surprise."

"Oh?"

"Our best boots are cobbled at the Commercia Fantastica. All the way down in the Black Lanes. You'd never find your way out."

"You'll show me."

"Will I?" His mismatched eyes take on a shrewd gleam. "And how will you compensate me?"

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

Her mind is already sketching out a blueprint. She'll speak to one of her contacts in the publishing industry: a gazetteer of Fissure origins. They'll contrive a series: maybe a pictorial. All the splendor of the Commercia Fantastica, faithfully rendered in glossy print. Piltover's glitterati will have their first glimpse into the heart of Zaun's manufacturing district. It will be a reminder that their cornucopia—be it custom-made or uniform—does not issue from an orifice hidden in clouds of smut. It materializes from an epicenter of artisanship: a beating, booming, pulsating hub.

One that's only a hop, skip, and jump away.

If previous efforts are a litmus for success, then one photograph of Mel in the latest 'kickers' will spark a stampede for the bootsellers' doors. In the surge, the adjacent markets will benefit: textiles, silversmiths and jewelers. And once the novelty wears off, the lull will be a soft landing for honest Fissure tradesmen eager to partner with Piltover's guilds. The latter, inured to the mercurial whims of high fashion, will now demand durability rather than design. And the former, accustomed to the rigors belowground, will find the Piltover's middle-class an easier breed to please.

All that's necessary is a few photographs, and a dash of goodwill.

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

"You are," Silco says, with a degree of wryness, "scheming."

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

"Scheming requires an adversary. Planning, a vision."

"And what's yours?"

A corner of his mouth curls. "Good try."

Mel sighs. He is always maddeningly closemouthed about his agenda. It will take more than pretty prattle to pry the details loose. The only clues she can glean are from his choice of attire—and his critique of her boots.

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

Mel is wary. But she knows better than to fill the silence with futile queries. He proffers his arm; she takes it. Together, they stroll down the promenade deck. After a week confined to the cabin, the sea air is a heady tonic. The loose weave of her dress is a kiss against her skin. She is still lit up like a klieg-light: her body hot and hyperaware after the morning's exertions.

She seldom, as rule, makes love in the daytime. To her way of thinking, the act, in sunlight, loses some of its artistry. Everything reduced to the crudest mechanics. Every flaw in full relief. Even Jayce had been his loveliest in the twilight. All shadow, all suggestion.

With Silco, daylight is fast becoming her favorite hour. Like the sun-warmed vista, she is all sensation.

Speculatively, Mel steals him a glance. If it weren't the height of lunacy, she'd consider dragging him straight back to bed. To hell with the guests. To hell with his plans. They can return to their suite, and bolt the door. Spend the rest of the day, and the night, and the next morning, in a state of well-earned debauchery.

But the set of Silco's features warns her that's a losing battle.

It's not tension, exactly. More a dark anticipation. Like the way he'd looked, at Zaun's Riverside Harbor, when they'd first met. He'd known then that Zaun would drag itself out of the depths. And Mel, meeting his eyes, had known too.

He'd been certain then. Now, the certainty is a riptide. And Mel, who's never been swept off her feet, can't help but be tugged along.

She's grateful for her boots. She suspects she'll need the grip.

They cross the promenade. Silco’s stroll is measured: a mark of ownership rather than a man marking time. Barely a week's span, and the ship is already seems to belong to him. The crew, at his barest footfall, leap to attention. Even the Captain, an irascible old seadog, treats him with a distance verging on deference. Mel remembers the same phenomenon on her father's ship: the Cry Havoc. His crew were seasoned hands: calloused minds with checkered pasts. They'd spent a lifetime at sea, and encountered their fair share of the unfathomable. They were also superstitious, and possessed a healthy fear of the uncanny.

Silco, a figment of the fathoms, is uncanny through and through.

In a different life, Mel fancies, he'd be the silhouette idling on sharp rocks, his smoky voice pitched to wooing: Come, come, and never be lonely again.

Her husband, in this one, catches the eye of a passing steward. A nod is all it takes: the man turns on his heel and disappears belowdeck.

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

Another nod at a nearby sailor. The man hastens to the foredeck. There, Mel can hear a skiff—one of Piltover's quicksilvers—revving its engines. Readying to go where, Mel cannot begin to guess. They're miles off the coast. The nearest harbor—the Wuju port—is three hours away.

Unless Silco means to sail his guests directly to shore, his destination is a mystery.

Then again, she thinks, isn’t it always?

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

His hand, settling on her hip, guides her to a halt. He's not smiling. But there's a heat in his stare. It's not an easy heat to name. It's not desire, or even hunger. It's something deeper: a pull it takes everything to resist.

"You must," he says, "make me a promise."

"You expect me to make promises, when you won't tell me a thing?"

"Only this: you're in for a surprise or two."

"Silco—"

"I've a plan. Not a pretty one. And it'll mean a bit of rough sailing. But what's true of storms is true of marriage." His mouth twitches. "There's no winners. Only survivors."

"You aren't doing a good job at selling this."

"I'm not trying to sell it. I'm only telling you that, when we're out there—in the ballroom, on the high sea—don't run."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's instinct. Trenchers run for survival. It's in our blood. Medardas run from loss. It's in yours." His eyes search hers. "I don't fault your blood. I only ask you to remember. When the winds start picking up, and the waters get choppy, your instinct will be to take cover. But the storm's not what you think. And if you're going to stay on course, you can't retreat. You have to see this through." His thumb strokes her hipbone. "Promise."

"Even if you run us aground?"

"Do you think you've married a fool?"

"Do you think you're married to one?"

Their stares lock. The silence is charged. It is not challenge, but a quiet recognition of each others' roles. She is not a woman to expose herself to the raw elements. He is not a man to sit back and let the tides dictate his course. Their relationship has been a negotiation, from the first to the last. Each taking a turn at the helm, and then trading it away.

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

"Not you. But the woman in there—" he tips his chin toward the ballroom, "—isn't the one who waxes poetic about painting me nude in the sunlight. She's a Medarda first, second, and last. And a Medarda always has an escape route."

"The woman in there—" Mel follows his chin, and sees, through the frosted glass, a knot of swaying silhouettes, "—is a Medarda by birth. She's married to you by choice. And I can't keep my promise, if I don't know what that choice means."

"Then I'll ask again." His eyes hold hers. "Trust me."

"Trust you? Or the man who's warned me not to run?"

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

"Trust that, whatever happens, the man you've married is the same man in that ballroom." His palm spans the small of her back. "I've no alter egos, Mel. Just moments where I show teeth, and moments where I hide them. And right now, I've a great deal to hide. But the endgame is the same as your schemes for my city: a step toward something greater."

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

His mouth, mere inches from hers, crooks. "Compromise."

Mel's pulse skitters.

It's a hard bargain to swallow. A harder choice to make. And she, who's made a fine art of tipping the scales, knows that both are equally vital, if this union is to have a prayer of survival. And yet the urge to break away, to force a confrontation, is surging.

She's used to his obliqueness. She's not, and will never, be used to his unpredictability.

When he says Don't run, he means Hold your ground. When he says Surprise, he means Beware.

And when he says Compromise, he means, in his own words: Survive.

Then he says, "Trust me."

Which, she's learning, is his shorthand for, Trust yourself.

Mel's mouth pinches. Trust. Doubt. These are two sides of the same coin. His past, and hers, laid bare without veils. Moments like this, she's reminded of the enormous gamble she's taken by marrying him. She knows, from her own experience, how quickly trust can curdle into the opposite. And she knows, too, that doubt can devour the sturdiest edifice.

It had, after all, devoured her parents' marriage.

Ambessa Medarda, no sentimentalist, had not married for love. Her choice was pragmatic, and it was prudent. From a broad swathe of suitors, ranging from bluebloods to brutes, she'd selected Mel's father, a swarthy, scarred captain from the Targonian Isles. Known, simply, as Aziz, he'd possessed a devious head for deals, and a deft tongue for wooing. His clan were descended from a line of seafaring mercenaries. Over the centuries, they'd carved a bloody path on a shifting sea of wars, alliances, and compromises.

Aziz had met Ambessa during a trading venture. It had been, by all accounts, an explosive collision.

Ambessa had admired the way he squared his debts with a bladesman's exacting precision, and wielded his real blade with a cutthroat's clarity. He, in turn, was taken by her ruthless pragmatism, and her cold-eyed resolve.

There'd been no need, in the end, to seek approval from either clan. The match was mutually advantageous: her riches, and his ships, would forge a dynasty.

Theirs was not, by any metric, a love-match. Yet Mel remembers the heat, the intensity, and the sheer physicality of her parents' union. With Aziz, Ambessa became, despite her hardness, a creature of feeling. And Aziz, for all his wily ways, became a man of sentiment.

They'd quarreled often, publicly. They'd butted heads over business, and brawled over trifles. But they'd also made up in the same fashion: two titans, clashing in a storm.

Mel, since girlhood, knew never to knock on her parents' bedchamber door when she heard raised voices.

She'd witnessed the aftermath, once. After a particularly savage row, Ambessa had stormed from their marital suite, and headed for the stables. Aziz, stalking soundlessly after, had caught up with her halfway there. In the middle of the courtyard, they'd fought anew. Aziz, seizing her waist, had swung her in. Ambessa, kicking out, had knocked his legs from under him. Together, they'd fallen into the thatch of wildflowers behind the copse of cypress trees.

Their cries were not, Mel had realized with a dawning horror, cries of pain.

They'd been so preoccupied, they hadn't noticed her creeping closer. They'd not seen her stare, through the screen of foliage, as their fierce struggles devolved into a fiercer embrace. And as they did, a surreal alchemy took place: Ambessa, all wildfire and iron, began to melt. Aziz, all seaspray and stone, began to yield.

Mel, unable to tear her eyes away, saw the exact moment they transformed. A moment before, they'd been two warring elements. A moment later, they were one. And the power of it, the raw, unmitigated passion: it was a force beyond the comprehension of an eight-year-old girl.

That day, Mel sometimes thinks, is when she'd learnt that the strongest forces can be unmade by desire.

Love, fear, fury: they were not, as she'd childishly believed, discrete entities. They were all part of a single current, ebbing and flowing, and changing course with the tides.

Later, much later, her parents had subsided into a languid sprawl. Ambessa's head, pillowed on her husband's shoulder. Aziz's fingers, stirring through his wife's curls. Their bodies, twined, were a study in drowsy contentment.

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

"Why should I," Ambessa had purred, "when I've already cut out your heart?"

"That you have. Now, it's yours."

Ambessa's lips, curving, had found his throat. "Then remember, Schatze, I'll do worse to any woman who dares to claim it."

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

And she'd meant it, Mel thinks now. Meant it in the way a warrior, who's seen a thousand battles, will fight her last. She'd fought him, and he'd fought her, and they'd taken shelter in each other. Over and over. For twenty years, their marriage was the stuff of legend: a dynastic alliance, and a private whirlwind. They'd begotten two children, lost two more before birth, and spawned a military empire.

Until their union, with the same suddenness as their collision, came undone.

Aziz had, during one of Ambessa's war-campaigns, chosen a mistress. This, in itself, was not unheard of. The men of the Targonian line were notoriously philandering, and the woman of the Medarda clan were notoriously pragmatic. Ambessa, who'd not only kept her own paramours, but had changed them with the frequency of a Piltovan noblewoman changing her gloves, had never begrudged her husband his dalliances. She'd even handpicked a few herself, including the mistress Aziz so doted upon.

The choice had proven fatal.

She was a pretty thing, Mel remembers. Pale as a lily, and shrewd as a serpent. She'd beguiled Aziz with her beauty, and bound him with her wits. In the span of months, her hold on him grew implacable. By the time Ambessa, returning from a year-long absence, realized what had happened, the damage was done.

She'd discovered Aziz gone, along with three-fifths of their battleships.

Ambessa was not a woman prone to tears. Now, her fury was a black inferno. She'd raged, and she'd razed, and she'd sworn to see the mistress decapitated, with her golden head on a pike. Her pursuit of the wayward pair had been relentless, and the carnage, legendary. She'd burnt villages to the ground. She'd sunk fleets to the bottom of the sea.

And when, finally, she'd had the chance to close her fist around her husband's neck... it was too late.

Aziz had succumbed to a tropical fever. He'd been bedridden and delirious when his ship was waylaid by Ambessa's fleet. The mistress, by then, had already fled with whatever riches she could carry.

When Ambessa had stormed into her husband's cabin, Aziz, on the verge of death, had mustered a crooked smile.

"My lioness," he'd rasped, "have you come to finish the job?"

Ambessa's fury, like a house of cards, had collapsed at the sight of him. She'd flung her scimitar aside, and fallen to her knees at her husband's bedside. His ramblings—of repentance, of devotion, of the children he'd left behind—had been shushed by her kisses. The entire night, she'd sat vigil, cajoling and bargaining and finally, begging.

To no avail.

Aziz had perished at dawn. He'd died, as he'd lived, with a smile on his lips.

For Ambessa, the fearsome general who'd won a hundred battles, this was the first true defeat. But she'd not wept, or wailed, or rent her hair. She'd only kissed Aziz's forehead, and smoothed his lids shut. Then, with a composure born of pure iron, she'd ordered his body laid out onto a wooden funeral bier, and floated out to sea, before it was set ablaze in the Targonian custom with five dozen flaming arrows.

When the sun had set, and the smoke had dissipated, she'd hefted her scimitar and turned her eyes to the horizon.

There are a thousand and one ways a Medarda avenges a slight.

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

Ambessa's troops had cornered the woman, in a tiny port town along the southern coast. By then, she'd spent every last coin she'd stolen from her dead lover, and had nothing left to offer in her defense. Not that coin would've made a difference. When Ambessa, flanked by her honor-guard, arrived at the tavern where her quarry was hiding, there'd been no mercy, and no negotiation. The woman, bound and gagged, was dragged to the center of town, and flung at the feet of her former benefactress.

"For my Schatze," Ambessa had vowed, "I'll make this slow."

And she did.

In front of the entire town, she'd cut out the woman's tongue, and plucked out her eyes. She'd hacked her fingers and her toes. She'd flayed her skin, and slit open her chest. And as the woman's life bled out, Ambessa had at last carved out her heart.

It was, in its ghastly way, a fitting recompense.

In the years afterward, Ambessa had grown harder. More ruthless. The light that once shone in her eyes—that strange, fierce light, whenever she'd looked at her husband—had flickered, and faded away. She'd gone on to wage numberless wars. She'd had lovers by the score. She'd built a legacy, and an empire.

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

She'd still call him that, whenever she reminisced. The endearment was its own admission; the sentiment, its own confession.

Ambessa Medarda did not marry for love. But she'd loved, and lost, nonetheless.

Schatze.

Mel, in the heart of herself, knows the word. It is worth its weight in gold—and the poorest possible investment. Men, as a rule, are faithless. Even the ones who seem, in the sunlight, like perfect princelings. And sharks, as a law, never stop swimming. Even if the water's blue for miles.

To trust one is to invite hurt. And to trust the other is to invite teeth.

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

And yet, in the depths of passion, she trusts Silco with hers.

Because, in the afterglow, languid and spent, she sometimes calls him Schatze, too.

Now, Mel meets Silco's stare. His eyes, even at their softest, hold an edge. But she senses no hidden blade. Only his palm, cradling the base of her spine. Only his body, a hairsbreadth from hers. And his words, in the space between: Trust me.

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

"You'd better deliver,” she says. “I'm not sure my boots can handle anything worse than the waves."

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

Her tone brooks no argument. In turn, his humor melts.

He steps back, and bows. It's not a courtly gesture. It's like a wolf acknowledging a packmate. Mel, who's seen a hundred bows, is surprised by the sincerity of this one. It's a subtle, almost invisible dip. But she sees, in its execution, trust.

He, who is never truly vulnerable, is exposing the nape of his neck.

"Shall we?" He straightens with a small smile. "The parasites await."

"The parasites are our guests." Mel slips her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I hope you're ready to play the host."

His smile grows "Are you forgetting who I am?"

He stalks toward the ballroom door. His shadow, elongated by the sunlight, is a knife.

And Mel, her heart suddenly in her throat, knows this: She cannot run.

Even if, by a sudden inexplicable compulsion, she wants to.

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

A high vaulted ceiling, inlaid with mosaics of sea-nymphs, arches overhead. A chandelier, dangling like a glittering pendulum, sends a nimbus of refracted light across each polished surface. The floor is a checkered parquet, alternating in shades of teak and rosewood. In the far-corner, a circular bar-island of carved cherrywood serves an array of spirits. A sunken dancefloor, honeycombed in a tessellation of rose marble, is ringed by a quartet of brass-trimmed alcoves. Inside, frosted glass windows, edged with intricate filigree patterns, frame different views of the blue horizon.

Waitstaff bustle with trays of champagne flutes and silver-domed trays of hors d'oeuvres. The guests, in their daytime finery, are milling about. All seem mystified by the ship's anchorage. No doubt whispers have already begun stirring: mutiny, sabotage, ransom.

At Silco and Mel's entrance, heads swivel. The conversation eddies into silence.

Mel thinks: It's like the moment before a battle.

She gives herself a quick mental inventory. Dress: immaculate. Persona: impeccable. Expression: impassive.

A soldier, Ambessa liked to say, is only as good as their armor.

Silco's hand, finding hers, imparts a squeeze: Ready?

Mel squeezes back. Always.

Then, falling away, they diverge to different ends of the room.

It is their formula: tried and true. He hates to be tethered. She hates to be steered. So they meet, and part, and find each other again. Two ships crossing the same sea, with a hundred currents swirling beneath.

And between them: the fulcrum of their cities' fates.

Silco drifts soundlessly to the bar. The crowd parts as he crosses. Mel, watching, marvels at the smoothness of his gait. His body, like a blade, cuts its way implacably through the tide. Peeling it back, layer by layer, until all the pretense fall away. She notes who shrinks back, who stands their ground, who dares to come closer. In their body-language, she reads volumes: curiosity, contempt, caution.

The Eye of Zaun has that effect. Even among the constellations of power, he exudes his own. It's nothing to do with size or swagger. It is simply that his presence, in any room, becomes a gravity well. The most ambitious—eager for a taste of danger—drift closer. The most prudent—wary of his reputation—keep their distance.

Silco, in turn, exudes a usual glacial calm: his eyes taking in everything and giving away nothing.

In that, Mel thinks, he is nothing like Jayce.

Jayce, a born idealist, radiated human warmth. It was a private foible and a public asset: his shining smile and his sheer, stubborn, indomitable belief in Progress. In the beginning, Mel had been charmed his capacity for optimism. As his business partner, she'd seen the way his earnest goodwill thawed the frostiest investors. As his lover, she'd been seduced by his sheer, unabashed passion.

In a world of tepid greys, Jayce was abrash, exuberant burst of brightness. And his ardor was a gift that kept giving. He'd brought color back into Mel's life. He'd given her a glimpse of the world as it could be, not as it was: a place of endless possibility.

If they only had the will to grasp it.

She'd taken a gamble on him. And at every step, he'd rewarded her. He'd made her smile. He'd made her think. He'd made her want to be more than she was: more daring, more defiant, more dauntless. And she'd made him stronger, in turn. She'd guided him through the slippery labyrinth of politics, tempered his bullheaded choices with cool pragmatism, and steered him, on occasion, from complete disaster.

With her, he'd believed anything was possible. With him, she'd felt the same. A perfect balance of ambition, beauty, and intellect.

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

But Jayce, for all his merits, was not a man to cut his own path. He'd never known the grinding ache of a hunger weaned by birthright. Never felt the keenness of the knife, twisting, with a mother's silence. Never known a world where privilege was not a promise kept, but a golden garotte around the throat.

For the Medardas, the ethos of power was not glory. It was survival. That was what the bloodline was bred for, and what it demanded: the need to claw its way to the apogee, and stay there.

But every apogee, a voice whispers, needs a nadir.

There is no peak without the abyss. And every climb is a fall, waiting to happen.

Jayce, born into a life of ease, never understood. And the brightness of his dream, pure and perfect, became Mel's blind spot. She'd seen the world, and their place in it: a vast, glorious expanse of the unimaginable. He'd stand by her, and she'd stand up for him, and together, they'd forge a new era.

Until, in the worst way, they had.

Their city ruptured. Their dream, in shreds. Their bond, an ash-pit.

Mel accepts the glass of pineapple juice a passing steward offers. Sipping, she thinks once more of Jayce: his easygoing smile, his boundless idealism. Then she lets the golden memories fall away in favor of what is right in front of her: the man she'd found at the bottom of that ash-pit.

And he, finding her, had shown her a different dream. A darker one: bleeding and yet never dying. Two cities, joined, against all odds.

Rising, by any means necessary.

Their eyes meet across the room. Silco, in conversation with a sparse clutch of older men, is watching her with a quiet intensity. Under his scrutiny, she feels like a gemstone held up to the light. Like she did this morning: caught, and pinned, and in a state of sublime surrender.

A curl at the corner of his mouth says: I see you.

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

If Silco is the gravity well, Mel is the sun. The moment she materializes, the atmosphere transforms: a gloriole of life. The silence swirls into animated chatter. The guests, like celestial bodies, align into orbit. A chorus of well-wishes rises: Mel, darling, how are you feeling? — Councilor Medarda, how splendid to see you on your feet!—My dearest Melusine! At last, you've emerged!

Mel, her smile calibrated to dazzle, accepts their tributes with grace. In diplomacy, timing is everything. And she, every word fine-tuned for maximum impact, knows how to walk the line between approachability and allure. One moment she's regaling the group with a quip that dissolves them into gales of laughter. The next, she's demurring a bold overture with an artful pivot and a cool flutter of lashes.

It's an old song, and she's a seasoned player. Human emotions are a string quartet. She's learned, since girlhood, that her talent lies in knowing the right string to pluck. A smile to coax a dowager's taut cadences into a cello's mellow depth. A murmur to set off a young man's somber oboe into a high-spirited spill of arpeggios. A touch to elicit, from an aging general's lascivious violin, a full, rich chord of rapture.

And Mel: the maestra. Coaxing melody from dissonance, and bringing the whole ensemble into harmony.

Now, she plucks the closest string in reach: the Demacian dignitary's wife. The woman's a social stalwart: moneyed, magpie-eyed, and a moralist of the first degree. Paired with a penchant for petty gossip, she is the chief purveyor of the aristocracy's scandal-mill.

But her pedigree is a goldmine, and her support is a vital step toward Zaun's ascent into the global spotlight.

Mel, accordingly, makes her the target of a subtle campaign.

"Lady Dennings," she says, with a radiant smile. "How lovely to see you."

"Mel!" Lady Dennings, her peacock fan a blur of emerald and azure, flutters over. "By the Protector! What a fright you gave us! A week belowdeck—and nary a glimpse above!"

"I do apologize for the alarm."

"Alarm? My dear, we believed you were at death's door! And your husband, that dreadful man! He made a jape of it! Every evening, our queries about your health were met with a different tale." The fan flutters faster. "First, you were abed with ague. Then: bitten by a viper. And then—the final outrage—you were abducted by pirates!"

"Oh," Mel says, and can't quite stop the smile from curling,

"Oh? Mel, is that all you can say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Acknowledgment! The man's a rapscallion—and a devil!"

Mel's eyes go guilelessly round. "Devil?"

"Of the highest order!" The fan snaps shut, and the falsetto drops. "The word is, he forcibly confined you to your berth for six nights! All to conduct an infernal Fissure ritual. The bride, stripped and bound as a sacrifice to the dark gods. Then—" a shudder, "—a barbaric consummation. Is it true, my dear? Tell me it's not. Tell me you've not been brutalized in some pagan sacrament!"

Mel hides a smile behind the rim of her glass. Her mind conjures a vision of Silco, in a dark cloak, looming over her bound and naked body. The glow of his bad eye: a fire opal offset by a dozen low-burning candles.

The scenario is not, she admits, without its unholy thrill.

But the Dennings are a devoutly religious clan. Like the rest of Demacia, their stance on magic is unequivocally condemnatory. If they had their way, all practitioners of the arcane would be hung, drawn, and quartered. Even the mention of the subject is enough to provoke an apoplexy.

No doubt, during Mel's weeklong absence, Lady Dennings' imagination—and tongue—have been running rampant. Her mind, already primed to find fault with the union, will seize upon the most sordid scrap. In the process, she inadvertently reveals how little she understands of Zaun.

Or, indeed, what transpires in the privacy of the marital bedchamber.

The Dennings own marriage of a year, if Elora's reports are true, has gone unconsummated. Whether it's due to her husband's crippling bashfulness, or her own pie-eyed prudishness, is an open question. This voyage, at the behest of the Dennings patriarch, is a final bid for the pair to prove their mettle. A successful coupling—an heir—would seal a lucrative merger between their clans. Whereas a failure on both counts would see them disinherited.

Lord and Lady Dennings, on borrowed time, feel each bell-toll keenly. A pity they cannot share the same cabin together without squabbling incessantly.

Silco, possessing no surfeit of sympathy for prudish quirks and provincial qualms, has summed up the couple's predicament thus:

"Two virgins, and not a lick of sense between them."

It's a brutally sound assessment. But not, Mel thinks, without a measure of pity.

It must be excruciating to suffer the weight of a parent's expectations in such a private sphere. Not to mention the public mortification, should the failure come to light.

Fortunately, Mel's mind has sketched out a satisfactory solution.

Somberly, she says, "It's true."

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

"Bound to the bedframe, with a length of silk." Mel circles a finger along the rim of her glass. "But not for reasons you imagine."

Lady Dennings, eyes wide, is already imagining a great deal. "Gracious, Mel! What was he thinking?"

"Chiefly, of my safety."

"Safety—yes!" Lady Dennings clasps one of Mel's hands in both her own. "Zaunite men are a barbaric lot! Look at their women: all pinched cheeks and blackened eyes. They're beasts, by any other name. The notion that a darling such as yourself—" another shudder, "—locked in a cabin, and subjected to deflowering...!"

Mel's eyebrows wing skyward. In her ear, she can practically hear Silco's drawl:

What, precisely, am I deflowering? Your left nostril? The right's seen its share of traffic.

Taking another sip of juice, she stifles her snort. The Demacian peerage hold such archaic notions about chastity. Silco, if he ever caught wind, would take fiendish delight in dismantling them.

Fortunately, Silco is elsewhere. And Mel, more fortuitously, has the perfect string to pluck.

"My dear Lady Dennings," she chides gently. "You must put aside those scurrilous pamphlets."

"Scurrilous?"

"The ones from the gutter-press. Written, I wager, after a tankard of rotgut. I hear the stories, myself: the Fissurefolk, sacrificing virgins to demigods. Drinking the blood of newborn babes. Really, it's too much. One would think, given the scope of their enterprise, that their hours would be better employed." A sip of juice, sweet on the tongue. "They should write, instead, of Zaun's many wonders."

"Wonders?"

"Their herbal tinctures, for one." Her tone, perfectly balanced between soothing and secretive, reels the woman in. "You see, I'd been struck with a terrible fever. Sweats, delirium, and the most excruciating chills. If I hadn't been bed-bound, I might have taken a tumble down the stairs. Or flung myself into the sea."

"By the Light! And he—what, locked you up?"

"As a precaution. Nothing more. Mine was a rather stubborn malady. After five days' vigil, Silco took it upon himself to brew a concoction. A tea, of sorts. Boiled from powdered red clover. Quite astringent, but most effective." Mel sighs. "I haven't felt so well-rested in years."

It did not occur in exactly that fashion. Mel was too woozy to summon the particulars. All she recalls is Silco's shadow looming in. A cup's rim, steaming, pressed to her lips. A bracing tang, and the slow, steady, searing drip down her throat.

She'd succumbed to sleep right after. But she'd awoken much refreshed, and lucid.

When she'd queried him, Silco had shrugged: It's a tonic for the blood. Fire it up, and sweat the fever out.

With the smallest of smirks: Good for firing up the loins, too.

Lady Dennings is listening raptly. "He tended to you, personally?"

"Like a physician. Only sweeter." A wistful sigh. "It's a rare man who'll kneel at his lady's bedside." She doesn't, in fact, recall much kneeling. But every good story needs a spin. Diplomacy's bedrock is built on well-told fiction. "Truly, the tales of Zaunite men as brutes are wildly untrue. In their own way, they're quite..." A delicate pause, "... devoted."

"Oh, indeed?"

"I dare not divulge too much. Modesty compels me. But..." Mel's register drops. "... I will say this: Zaunites may lack the polish of a Piltovan gentleman. But they more than make up for it with the... ardor... of their pursuit."

Lady Dennings' mouth forms a perfect 'O.' "Gracious!"

"Gracious? No. Gratifying? Certainly." Mel's lips curve. "And gratifyingly often."

Lady Dennings turns a telling shade of carnation. "Dear me. That's—how intriguing!"

"Isn't it?" Another sip, and a deeper smile. "The Fissures, I find, have much to teach us. I've only just begun my lessons. But I've made such fascinating discoveries. Did you know, for instance, that powdered red clover, steeped in tea, has an aphrodisiacal effect?"

"An aphro—really?"

"Really. It's quite potent. In fact, it can be used as an antidote for..." Then, as if remembering herself. "But forgive me. This is no place to discuss such a delicate subject. I must beg your discretion."

Lady Dennings, fan fluttering, has gone from carnation to crimson. There is, as Mel suspected, a great deal of pent-up frustration simmering below that prissy surface.

Mel makes her move: a single strum, and a long, sustained note of intimacy.

"If you're amenable," she murmurs, "I'll share more details with you. Perhaps over a quiet tea? Just us girls."

"I—yes! Of course! Red clover, you say?"

"A singular plant. It grows at the edges of the Fissure cliffs. Many a scholar has written of the benefits." A conspiratorial dip of lashes. "You and your lord husband may find the taste a revelation."

"My, erm, husband," Lady Dennings stammers, "is quite—" fan dangling limply, "—fastidious."

"Then, my dear, it is high time he was reacquainted with his reckless youth."

"Oh, Mel, do you truly think...?"

"I shall do better." Mel imparts a light squeeze to the woman's arm. "I will send a gift with you: a small satchel, for your bedchamber. Try a spoonful, with two glasses of cold water. One for yourself. And the other, to share." A significant silence, then a final pluck. "The results, I promise, will be expeditious."

Lady Dennings' eyes take on a hopeful gleam. "How expeditious?"

"Let's just say: by the summer's end, you'll be celebrating more than your wedding anniversary."

It works like a charm. Lady Dennings, clutching Mel's hands, exclaims, "My dear girl, you're a dove! I shall owe you a thousand favors!"

"None required." Mel's smile is sunshine through clouds. "Consider it a gift, from a dear friend."

"You darling thing! We shall have a girl's talk tonight. And afterward—" a flushing glance toward her husband, stoop-shouldered and sour-faced in the corner, "—why, we'll see what comes."

With luck, him, and you too, Mel thinks.

"Tonight, then," she says. "I'll have a basket sent up to your cabin. But remember—ssh. It is a private affair." Her fingertip, pressed playfully to her lips, earns a titillated twinkle. "Now, if you'll pardon me. I must catch up with the others."

"Oh, of course! I shan't hold you up." Lady Dennings' fan resumes its flutter. Her thoughts, plainly, are palpitating elsewhere. "And do send up the basket! I cannot wait!"

Mel, her work done, glides off.

One down, she thinks, sipping her drink. A half-dozen to go.

Red clover's effects are not, in fact, a fiction. Mel, during her research into Zaun's history, has read volumes on the subject. And experienced, firsthand, its efficacy.

She'd shared a spoonful with Jayce, back when they were together. Purely for research reasons, of course. She'd only given him a mouthful, and he'd been wild to have her—so much, she'd ended up with her dress in shreds, one slipper dangling from the ceiling fan, and the other flung straight through the window.

Afterward, Jayce had apologized shamefacedly. Mel, secretly charmed, had assured him the fault was hers.

They'd never touched the stuff again. But Mel has not forgotten.

By tonight, she suspects, neither will Lady and Lord Dennings. With luck, a little Dennings-to-be will soon be in the picture, courtesy of Mel's powdered charity. Mel, in turn, will have gained a pocketful of Dennings coin, and the political currency to bargain with Demacian traders for red clover as a mass-market commodity.

Soon, word will spread. The Fissures are in possession of miracles, in potentia.

Zaun's economy could use a healthy boost. And Piltover, by proxy, will feel the benefit.

Marriage: by any other name.

Satisfied, Mel's focus shifts to the next string.

The string, as luck would have it, sails her way. Cevila, wife of the Piltovan exchequer: a statuesque ice-eyed blond who'd made Mel's life an unending misery back in her salad days as an emigree. A native Piltovan with close ties to House Ferros, she prides herself on her pedigree, her purse-strings, and her impeccable taste—or, in Mel's private reckoning, her impeccable lack thereof.

Since Mel's ascent into the corridors of power, Cevila's kept up an endless siege under a guise of cordiality. Barbs couched in a show of sisterhood; favors Mel cannot deny without close allies feeling snubbed; invitations she cannot refuse without offending the very people she seeks to woo.

It's a tedious dance. But Cevila's rank confers her with gravitas among the glitterati. Her opinion, when solicited, is considered gospel.

Mel, the Madonna of Piltover, cannot afford to play the sinner.

"Cevila," she greets airily. "How are you faring?"

"Oh, my dove! Better, now that I see you're in fine fettle. But how peaked you look! It must be that frock. Quite lovely, but rather..." A critical once-over, "... plain."

Mel's smile, soft as a cat's paw, hides claws. "The style is from East Shurima. A gift from the Sadja clan."

"Is it? That explains it. They're a droll set. All silks and scarabs. They'd wrap themselves in the city's flag, if they thought it'd give them airs." A barely-there squeeze of Mel's elbow. "No offense, my darling. I know you're a patroness of theirs."

Mel, noting the dig, pivots. "Whereas you, in your plumage, are a bird of paradise."

In fact, she resembles a harpy. The Ferros features, chipped from granite, accord the face a certain regal grandeur. But Cevila, with her penchant for feathered ostentation, has a way of transforming even the most sober attire into avian excess.

Today, she's swathed in a plum silk sheath studded with gold-chased amethysts. A matching choker, its collar encrusted with citrines, enfolds her neck. Her hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, is a helmet of pale yellow, and adorned with a nest's worth of diamond-and-pearl pinfeathers.

Mel, taking in the effect, feels an odd pang. The last time she'd worn such an extravagance of gems, it had been on the heels of her split with Jayce. Her mind had been in disarray. Her sartorial choices, likewise. Each dress, shimmering, had been a salve: a reminder that no matter how her heart ached, the rest of her could still shine.

Now, taking in Cevila's glitter, her mind pieces together a new puzzle.

"Your husband must be so proud," Mel says, "to have you on his arm."

"He is, yes." Cevila's grip, on her elbow, tightens a fraction. It's a tell, and Mel tucks it away. "Of course, his pride is not all that's on his arm."

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

She already has the measure of Cevila's husband: a man twice her age, and whose sole claim to fame, apart from a family name two centuries old, is mediocrity incarnate. He'd married the ferocious Cevila purely for the prestige of the Ferros title She'd been, to pardon the pun, a feather in his cap.

Privately, it's no secret that his tastes run younger and far less discerning. Of late, he's been spotted frequenting the entertainment district of Zaun's Boundary Markets. More specifically, an establishment hosting two Shuriman-born dancers—brothers by blood, and by the rumor mill, bedmates.

Cevila is far from blind to her husband's proclivities. Mel, who's witnessed their tête-à-têtes at society gatherings, has noticed the strain behind their smiles. Two strangers, trapped in the same gilded cage. According to Elora's reports, she's making preparations to serve him with divorce papers. Once the split is finalized, she'll set her sights on a new target: younger, better-connected, and more importantly, better-funded.

The roster is long, and the contenders many. Even Jayce, the poor dear, is rumored to be on her radar.

Cevila's eye, however, is not on matrimonial bliss. Her goal is to secure enough funds to purchase a mining seam in the Fissures' southwest quadrant. Its yield is substantial: pure platinum and gold. To claim it, she's leveraged everything from her family's connections to a cadre of solicitors—to no avail.

Silco, rebuffing every overture, has made plain that the land is not for sale.

The refusal, in Cevila's view, is a personal slight. And Mel, as her chief adversary, has become a natural target.

"It is truly good to see you well," Cevila says, with a talonlike grip on Mel's elbow. "I was concerned, of course. But it was your husband who most needed a watchful eye. Why, a lesser man would've taken succor at the nearest port-of-call."

Mel, inwardly translating Harpy to Buzzard, smiles. "A lesser man, yes. Mine stayed firmly anchored."

"And decidedly taciturn! He wouldn't even deign to give an update." The twin flintlocks of her eyes turn Silco's way. "You'd think he was in mourning. His beloved, or his bachelorhood—it's difficult to say which."

Mel has yet to see Silco grieve anything beyond an errant hangnail. Cevila's remarks, as ever, serve no purpose beyond baiting her.

Taking the proffered string, Mel plays it for all its worth. "My husband is a man of few words." At least, when his tongue's occupied elsewhere. "As it is, he's accustomed to livelier pastimes. Compared to Zaun's vibrancy, a week at sea is a veritable lull." A sip, and a sigh. "Confined company does make a dull time of it."

The subtext is subtle, but unmistakable. Cevila, in her plumage, bristles.

"Confined—or refined? His manners are decent enough. But pedigree's the real test." Her chin cuts a scornful arc. "The Fissures, after all, are a pestilence pit." Then, catching herself. "I mean no disrespect, my dove. Marriage factors more than sentiment for our stripe, as we both know. One plays the hand one’s dealt. But we're women of the world, are we not? We both understand the value of preserving a legacy." Her eyes pass, speculatively, over Mel's belly. "And the consequences, should our choice fail to meet it."

The stab is plain: Silco, Fissure-born, is exemplary of his breed. Filth, mud, scum. Any child, a byproduct of that union, will bear the taint. A taint that will spread to Piltover's streets. To the halls of the High Council. To the very heart of the City of Progress.

Mel's fingers flex on the stem of her glass. A thousand old slights, she'll bear with aplomb. But this, the freshest insult, makes her see red.

For a moment, she understands Ambessa's warpath. The primal urge, to defend at any cost. Mel has spent a lifetime keeping a lid on her own fire. But her mother's blood runs true. The anger is a hissing spark, ready to ignite. If she were a Medarda of the old guard, she would carve her name straight through Cevila's heart.

Up ahead, Silco is still slouched by the bar. Lighting a cigarette, he taps out the spent match. Behind the leisurely ribbons of smoke, his scarred profile is all insouciant angles. But Mel feels his focus like a hot brand. He has been listening, too. Not with his ears, but his eyes.

And Cevila could find herself on the wrong side of a scope.

That decides Mel.

A Medarda's wrath is legendary. But a Zaunite's is fatal. Between their cities, there have been enough bloodbaths.

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

"Legacy, yes." A slow sip of juice. "My husband and I have discussed it. In particular, provisions for the future."

"Provisions?" Cevila's keen eyes dart between Mel and the bar. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that the winds of change are never gentle. And when they blow, fortunes can shift." She swirls her drink. "I always caution my fellow Councilors against complacency. Or ill-advised investments in foreign ventures. A single declaration of war, and the trade-lines go dry. A few misplaced funds, and the whole enterprise goes belly-up. We must keep our assets, well, closer to home."

"Home?" Cevila repeats, astute as ever. "Or Zaun?"

"Zaun is our sister city. As it stands, her prospects are excellent. But Silco believes, and I concur, in strengthening our individual portfolios. Piltover, for instance, has ample potential for growth in the manufacturing sector. With Hextech, we have the means to revolutionize the market." Musingly, "In turn, Zaun has her mines, and the wisdom, age old, to refine their yield."

At the mention of the mines, a covetous gleam kindles in Cevila's eye. "The mines. Yes."

"Recently, the Fissure seams, thanks to diligent labor, have hit the motherlode. Soon, the output will be tripled. Even quadrupled." The morsel dangles: a succulent cut of red meat. Then: "Naturally, Silco is determined to keep the wealth concentrated in the hands of those who labored for it."

Cevila is brought up short. "In a matter of wages?"

"Oh, nothing so crass. The miners' guild is a collective. Their assets are held in trust, for the benefit of the whole. Older seams, owned by barons, are likewise protected. But Silco believes in safeguarding his city's long-term interest. To that end, the Zaun’s recently enacted a decree for the lifelong preservation of the mines."

Suddenly, Cevila's feathers are a-quiver. "I—I'm not quite sure I follow."

"Then allow me to clarify. For the last century, the Fissures have been a free-for-all. Foreign hands, ours and otherwise, have scooped up whatever they could. They've left the remainder in chaos. A dozen factions, battling each other for scraps. It's been a waste of resources. And, frankly, a waste of life." Her fingertips clink across the stem of her glass: a percussive counterpoint to the silence. "The Cabinet's new policy aims to restore a sense of order. No longer will foreign backers have unfettered access to the veins. Only Fissureborns—guilds or barons—will hold title to their respective stakes. All the proceeds will remain local, and invested in the betterment of the people. The clause will be embedded into the deeds. In perpetuity."

"Perpetuity?"

"Forever and a day." Mel goes solemn. "As my mother likes to say: Blood will always out. Only the children of born Zaunites will inherit the mines. And those children, should the time come, shall have the final say in who holds ownership."

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

"Dear Cevila. The Council's writ does not extend to Zaun. The Fissures, by Treaty, are a sovereign state." A grateful sigh. "I suppose it's a rare stroke of luck. By wedding a man of Fissure birth, I will enjoy greater access than most. And our children, by default, shall have the deepest roots." She meets Cevila's eyes over the rim of her glass. "A legacy, as you say."

Cevila seems to have forgotten how to breathe. A small mercy: her talon has retracted from Mel's elbow.

"This is—well." With effort, she finds her composure. "This is unexpected news."

"Isn't it?" Mel, smiling, sets down her drink. She's dangled the lure, then snatched it away. Cevila, chewing on her loss, is now primed for any scrap. "Naturally, in wake of this decree, the demand for Fissure stones has begun skyrocketing. Do you happen to own any, Cevila? Perhaps a pendant or a bauble?"

Cevila rallies a smile. It's a ghastly effort. "I, ah, have a ring or two."

"Lovely. Their worth is about to treble. Do you remember my necklace? The blue diamond-drop?"

"Vividly."

"It was a gift. Designed by the artisans in the Boundary Markets. Their craftsmanship is second to none." A calculated pause. "If you're amenable, I'll speak to the artisan's guild. We can summon one of their agents to my apartments. Then, perhaps, commission a set?"

The gleam in Cevila's eyes brightens. "You—you'd do that? My dove, I couldn't possibly accept—"

"Nonsense. You are, after all, one of my closest friends. And the artisan's guild are a lovely group. They are headed by a close ally of Silco's. A Zaunite, and a first-rate entrepreneur. His family are descended from the ancient Oshra Va'Zaun line. Did you know, they once held dominion over the isthmus?"

"I do, yes." Cevila's beak wrinkles. "Until our Wardens cut off their privy purses—" re: confiscated their estates and sold the spoils at auction to foreign investors, "—and the rest were sent packing. Most sold off piles of heirlooms to stay afloat. And what's left are probably riddled with the plague."

"What's left are the mines," Mel corrects. "And Silco's friend, as fortune would have it, inherited much of the old Oshra Va'Zaun stock. He is, as they call them belowground, a gold baron."

Now Cevila's eyes are aglow. "A gold baron, you say?"

"A charming gentleman. Sadly, still unattached. But his means are considerable. And his tastes, exquisite. He is a patron of the arts. A discerning collector. I daresay he'd be an ideal candidate for a lady of your caliber."

For business—or matrimony—Mel doesn't deign to specify. She doesn't need to.

The hook is lodged deep. Cevila, her smile pure gluttony, is already planning her next coup. A Zaunite husband on her string, and gold at her fingertips.

All it would cost her: pride, prejudice, and a single night's sleep.

"You know," she says, "I do pride myself on an eye for quality."

Mel purrs. "I have every faith that you will come away, well satisfied."

"I believe next month I have an open window. If your schedule can accommodate—"

"I'm sure we can work something out."

"Good. Good. I'll be in touch." Cevila flicks a glance at Silco. The distaste is tinged with a new layer of intrigue. "And, of course, your husband will be present to broker the introduction?"

Mel lies, smooth as silk, "He'd be delighted."

In fact, she suspects, Silco would rather have his liver cut out. Between Zaun's bigheaded bourgeois and Piltover's self-aggrandizing aristocracy, his tolerance will be sorely tried. But, whatever else, her husband is a pragmatist. A potential trade with House Ferros is too lucrative to dismiss. Better still if it ends with a merger—literal—between Cevila and one of his barons. A symbol of unity—or, at the very least, shared gain.

Marriage: by any name.

Cevila, her high spirits restored, swans off. Pleased, Mel accepts another flute of pineapple juice from a passing steward. She is beginning to feel back in her stride. The crowd, once an unwieldy beast, is now a pliant and responsive chorus.

Serenely, she moves on to the next string. The Piltovan ambassador—an old fusspot fittingly named Hector.

As a high-ranking member of government, the voyage must suffer his presence. But Mel has heard Silco, in the privacy of their suite, wish him more than once to the bottom of the sea. One word on Zaun, and he's off: a diatribe on the perils of a lowborn populace without oversight, the undercity as the mouth of Hell, and Fissurefolk as the demons therein.

Mel, having the measure of his string, has learnt to play it deftly. Usually, she douses his rants with a few drops of sweetened condescension. Other times, she plays the ingenue, and laments his lot in life: a stalwart of the old order, trapped between the twin forces of progress and decay. If neither of those tactics serve, a flash of cleavage is enough to set him off-kilter.

Admittedly, the method is not the noblest. But she will not apologize for keeping a peaceable accord.

"Lord Hector," she greets serenely. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mel!" The ambassador, ruddy-faced and portly, hauls himself to his feet. A plateful of trifle is hastily abandoned. "My Melusine, what a vision you are!"

"You flatterer." A kiss, pecked airily on his cheek. "I trust you're faring well?"

"Oh, the usual. Tallying the votes. Calculating the ledgers. Nothing a bit of good food can't fix." He casts a mournful eye at the trifle. "A pity the chef won't let me near the kitchens. If I could only get my hands on the caramel sauce for the mousse—"

"Now, now, Lord Hector." Mel's index finger ticks playfully. "We'd end up with a shortage."

"I'd not hoard the stuff, my girl! I'd only sample." The woebegone look is as patently false as his bawdy wink. "Sample liberally."

"Really, Lord Hector. You are shameless." Coyly, Mel tucks a dangling curl behind her ear. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were angling for a different dessert."

"Only if you're game, my dear. Though rumor has it—” Another wink, “you've already had a nibble."

"Why, Lord Hector. Whatever are you insinuating?"

"You and that husband of yours. I'm told you were cooped up, the pair of you. Six nights, and a locked door." He chortles. "If there was no nibbling, I'll eat my hat. Is it true you'd come down with ague, or was the whole business a bedtime story?"

Mel puts on an abashed smile. "Oh, I was bedbound. But it was quite a dull affair. Fever, delirium, the works."

"Frightful! But your man looked after you, did he?" The wink becomes a leer. "Or was it he that left you bedridden? They say Zaunites are half-rabid, the lot of them. And yours, my dear, has a pack of knives for teeth. If I were you, I'd have been frightened out of my wits."

It's a vulgar turn, but Mel knows when to play her hand. "You're incorrigible, Lord Hector. My husband is the picture of civility." Her voice drops meaningfully. "And watching us as we speak."

A hasty glance over Lord Hector's shoulder confirms the fact. Silco, slouched with the remnants of his cigarette, is observing their exchange. His features project boredom. But his focus is keenly honed. Mel has the distinct sense that if Hector so much as breathed a lecherous sigh her way, he'd find himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

"Well, well," he says, and clears his throat. But his manner, with Mel, becomes a good deal more circumspect. "He's a watchful sort, isn't he? But that's no surprise. The Fissures are a foul pit. It takes a hard head, or a harder fist, to survive. Why, I had a letter from my cousin last month. She was telling me how her youngest, a delicate little thing, crossed the Bridge and fell ill!"

"Of Grey Lung?"

"Heavens, no! Just the sniffles. But, mark my words, the next epidemic will be upon us soon! I still recall, in the summer of sixty-three, when the harbor was beset with the Ash Plague. Hundreds of souls, lost in a matter of days. If not for the Council's swift action, and the timely quarantine, we might've all perished!"

Mel hides her frown.

She's done her research. The Ash Plague had, in fact, claimed thousands rather than hundreds. A majority of its victims were from the Undercity. And the Council, for all its posturing, had done little to address the root cause: the filth-encrusted streets, the sewage-bloated canals, the slums packed like sardines in a tin.

The quarantine, too, was little better than a farce. Fissurefolk, sickly and suffering, were barricaded belowground. Anyone who dared defy the order faced immediate arrest. The result was a public health catastrophe. Topside, the epidemic's spread was halted swift;y. Belowground, it raged like wildfire, and took the young, the weak, the elderly.

Mel remembers Silco, once, describing the aftermath: Bodies piled up like driftwood. Flies swarming so thick, they formed clouds.

The smell of death in every breath.

The story is a stark contrast to the Council's sanitized narrative: the triumph of science over superstition, under Piltover's noble hand.

But in Zaun, the truth will not be silenced. The scars, never erased.

Mel, her juice gone tasteless, thinks: If I'd not met Silco, I'd still be in the dark.

"Dear Hector," she says, mildly. "The Ash Plague was decades ago. Why revive old fears?"

"Revive? Fie! The fears, my girl, like the Fissures' insalubrious air, are ever present! My own wife, last time she braved those wretched streets, came a hair's breadth from death!"

"Death?"

"She nearly fell down a manhole! And you know what happened next?" Hector shudders. "Her high-heel got caught, and she tumbled into the muck. She had to toss the whole lot! Why, it was a nightmare. It took three stout-hearted men and a crowbar to pry her free."

Mel's eyes meet Silco's across the room. Silco’s lips barely twitch.

He’d been present during that absurdist tableau. In fact, he'd paid the very men who'd pulled Hector's wife free. The woman, a shrill-voiced dumpling with a penchant for frills, had been too busy shrieking to thank her saviors. Afterward, though, she'd found herself recounting the narrow save with a breathless lilt. Perhaps, Mel suspects, it was all that close handling by the stout-hearted men.

Since the Crowbar Incident, as it has come to be known, Lady Hector has developed a powerful fascination with the Fissures. Indeed, Mel suspects the only reason she's prodded her husband to invite himself to this cruise is to gather juicy tidbits about Zaun.

Her ardent curiosity, paired with Hector's fecklessness, are twin chords of opportunity. Ones that, plucked just so, will make for a profitable duet.

So Mel takes a slow sip, and lets a sympathetic smile play.

"How dreadful. But, I daresay, you and your wife will fare better now."

"Oh?"

"Zaun has developed a reputable network of guides and concierges. They know all the best districts."

"All the best?"

"I've visited them personally." She names several: a jeweler's, a chocolatier's, a clothier's. "All within a short walk along the Promenade. Your little grandson, Remi, will adore the chocolatier's wares. Truffles in the shapes of beetles. Marzipan worms. And a lovely caramelized-pear confection." Her eyes pass from the plateful of trifle to Hector's portly belly. "You, too, would enjoy a liberal sampling."

Stirred, Hector leans in. "Well, I'll be. And these shops are safe?"

"Perfectly. Travelers from Piltover and abroad flock to them. The shopkeepers, I promise, are courtesy itself."

"And, I take it, the security is sound?"

"Every shop is guarded by a retinue of trained blackguards. The streets, paved and clean, are kept free of footpads. House Medarda often hosts private soirées at the Promenade. I've never once been accosted by a ruffian—much less a rat." A pat, fond and wholly fabricated, to Hector's shoulder. "You needn't fear, dear Hector. Zaun, these days, is the very model of civilized conduct."

Hector warms visibly. "Ah, well, if it's good enough for you, what's this old curmudgeon to worry about? I'll speak to my wife. She's awfully keen to, ah, venture farther afield. She's always been a curious sort." A wink. "A bit like you, eh?" His hand, clumsily, covers hers. "Tell me. If I were to visit, could you arrange a private tour?"

Mel, who'd predicted the turn, delicately extracts her hand. "Shame on you, Lord Hector. I'm a married woman." The implication being: were she unattached, her answer would've been very different. "But if it's a personal guide you seek, I have just the one." Mel names a service: the same one Silco's crew employs. "They'll arrange tours at your convenience."

"Splendid, splendid! You, ah, must tell me more about the clothiers. A few new shirts are just the thing." Another glance at Silco, now sizing him up with a more speculative eye. "Your Trencher dresses sharp, I'll give him that. Perhaps he'll spare me a tip or two. He is a Fissureborn, after all. He must know all the best garment districts."

"Oh, he does."

In fact, the identity of Silco's tailor is a closely guarded secret. The man, a wizened Shuriman refugee, has his workshop hidden away in the depths of the Commercia Fantastica. He sews, by hand, each article of clothing to the customer's measure. Silco has two-dozen suits from him, in varying shades and cuts. Black with merlot accents, charcoal grey with blue-green brocade, two-toned midnight blue with silver embroidery.

The styles are all distinctly Zaunite. Tailored to Silco's lean frame, they evoke a serpent's sinuous grace. They are also remarkably versatile. Mel has watched them transform him, chameleonlike, from a sleek statesman to a shadowy specter, and back again.

But more than statements of sartorial flair, they serve a brute utility. The fabrics are Fissure textile: light, flexible, and impervious to damp. In a pinch, they serve as body armor: a sleeve with a cleverly-crafted sheath for a concealed blade; a snug little pouch, discreetly cut into the waistcoat, for a smoke-pellet; a garotte, lined along the edge of a cravat, to slit a stranger's throat.

Mel recalls, at a Topside gala before their engagement, the sight of Silco, turned out in formalwear: a simple black suit with a white silk pocket square. The cut was, for all its sleek simplicity, more durable than appearance suggested. She'd learned firsthand when Silco, strolling arm-in-arm with her through the night-gardens, had been waylaid by an Enforcer who'd demanded to see his identification.

Whether out of a superabundance of caution, or a bigot's crude compulsion, Mel still isn't sure.

She'd moved to intercede. But Silco had checked her with the barest skim of fingertips at her wrist. Addressing the Enforcer with politeness, but not a jot of respect, he'd asked if he looked like a trespasser. The Enforcer shot back that he looked like a cutthroat.

Silco, never one to pass up a chance for roleplaying, had obliged by nearly slitting the man's throat.

The officer, a greenhorn, had plainly not been expecting a real knife to materialize at his jugular. In his shock, he’d dropped his truncheon and hightailed it. Mel, amused and appalled in equal measure, had turned to Silco, a chastisement on her lips.

Only to find herself scooped up into his arms, then carried up a trellis and out of sight.

They'd spent the rest of the evening, astride the rooftop's shingles, discussing trade. The only time Silco's hands had strayed from her waist was to light a cigarette. Or to cup her cheek. Or to tilt her face up to his. Meanwhile, seven stories below, a contingent of officers had frantically been sounding the alarm to outcries of highwaymen and abduction.

When the hounds had arrived on the scene, Silco had scoffed so hard, he'd nearly fallen down the eaves. Mel, not wishing him to break his neck, had clung tightly. Somewhere between the third kiss and the fourth, she'd decided to tug him closer. He'd ended up treating her to what Zaunites called 'The Penthouse Plus'—making love right on the gritty shingles, her dress hiked up around her waist and his coat spread out beneath them.

The giddy thrill had opened her lungs. Only his mouth on hers, drinking her cries, had kept her silent.

Afterward, smooth as a conjurer's trick, Silco had slipped them both downstairs and back into the garden. The search, by then, was over. The Enforcers, their bluster gone, had been reduced to scouring the hedges. Silco, his eyes dark with devious glee, had strolled casually past them, and into the ballroom, to fetch himself and Mel a plateful of dessert.

It had proved the scandal of the summer. Councilor Medarda, swept off at knifepoint in the middle of a gala. Then, miraculously, reappearing hours later: no worse for wear, and a good deal more cheerful, arm-in-arm with her assailant.

Whose suit, it should be noted, was perfectly intact. No rips, wrinkles, or even a rumpled lapel.

Afterward, Mel had summoned the rookie officer, and his Captain, into her office. A blistering dressing-down on misconduct was meted out. The officer had insulted her guest, and by extension, the goodwill between Zaun and Piltover. When she'd reintroduced Silco as her fiancé, the rookie's mortification was palpable.

Silco had taken the opportunity to renew his acquaintance: not with knife against the jugular, but with a smile twice as sharp, and a firm handshake that promised, without words, a fate worse than death if the man dared call him a crook again.

But afterward, alone in her chambers, Mel had found herself thinking: This is what his life has been.

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

And even now, at the zenith of his power, there was no place for him Topside. No welcome in these hallowed halls. This, he'd told her, was why Zaun existed. To ensure no other Fissure child had to suffer what he had. And for him, the fight was not over. The world, not won.

Not until the last sliver of his city, and its people, were secure.

Smoothing the memory away, Mel summons a smile. "I'll do you one better, Lord Hector. Why don't we arrange an outing? You, your wife, Silco and myself. We'll tour the most exquisite spots at the Promenade. You will see that the Fissures are no hellmouth. And my husband will have the honor of escorting us, to ensure the journey is a comfortable one."

Hector's kneejerk distaste yields to temptation. Beneath his condemnation of Zaun lurks an avid desire: to sample the city's exotic otherness. Mel has seen it before, in the eyes of her fellow Councillors: a yearning for the novel, inverted into show-offish censure.

As though by damning Zaun's vices, they can exalt their own.

"We-ell," Hector relents, "if he can spare the time, I believe we could squeeze in a quick outing. It'd be, ah, good to get a lay of the land." His hand, again, gropes clumsily for hers. "A bit of a reconnaissance mission, eh? Always good to keep an ear to the ground." A third, utterly shameless, wink. "And one's eyes on the goods."

Mel, inwardly rolling her own, keeps her smile fixed. "Yours, Lord Hector, are a pair no lady could deny." Then: "You ought to return yours to the trifle. I do believe it's melting."

Lord Hector's wink falls askew. "Oh, drat! I'd best fetch another plate!"

Excusing himself, he bustles off. Mel, taking stock of her success, finishes off her drink.

A few discordant strings, but the symphony is well underway. Soon, Piltover's entire social circuit will change its tune. That is, in sum, the spirit of this voyage. Gathering allies. Making connections. Creating new opportunities, and exploiting old ones. Hecter's not the only guest with a taste for the unusual. Nor Cevila and the Dennings the only ones whose purse-strings, tugged the right way, will yield a hefty haul.

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

And they, in turn, will cultivate Zaun's and Piltover's interests.

Marriage: by any other name.

Then she hears, to the thunder of boots, a bark: "Medarda!"

Mel stifles a sigh.

It is the Noxian envoy—a damnable brute by the name of Garlen. The man is a wolf of the worst kind: festooned in blood-red, and slavering for a kill. A high-ranking brigadier of Noxus's military, he's spent his career subjugating swathes of the Ionian continent. Now, as part of a political alliance between Noxus and Piltover, he's been dispatched as a 'liaison'.

His actual duties, as far as Mel can discern, are to make a nuisance of himself. Negotiating with him is like wrestling a hound: an exercise in futility. Her gift for subtlety is met with brash disparagement. Her cleverness, dismissed as flirtatious banter. And if she has the misfortune of sharing his company alone, he's liable to start groping. More than once, she's resorted to employing armed sentries, to dissuade his wandering hands.

In truth, the only thing keeping him from her throat is Ambessa.

The brigadier, knowing the threat of the General's retribution, is careful not to overstep. But his ambition is as deep-rooted as his lechery. He's keen to establish a foothold in Piltover. Mel, as a Councilor, makes an appealing target. Not only does she have access to the High Council's ear, but also to the coffers of the Medarda clan.

Once, to Mel's eternal dismay, he’d gotten drunk at a press junket, and dared to propose marriage to her before the cameras. A fortnight before her wedding, no less. Her fiancé—after a tiresome tirade on his low birth, his physique, his unsuitability—he'd threatened to disembowel on the spot.

Silco, who relished the pretext to make an ass out of anyone, had proposed a simpler solution: a duel to first blood.

It had been, in Sevika's blunt retelling, Like a fucking slaughterhouse.

Garlen was an able swordsman. But he’d underestimated Zaun's spirit of ruthless ingenuity. He'd walked in believing the fight was in his favor. Silco, in ten minutes, had turned the belief on its head. Then, he'd reduced the duel to a carnival sideshow. First, he'd blinded his opponent with a faceful of sludge from the streets. Then, with a well-placed boot, he'd sent the Noxian envoy skidding into a gutter. Finally, as a coup de grace, he'd whipped out a switchblade and stabbed him. The blow, to the meat of Garlen's thigh, had nearly severed an artery.

Garlen, howling bloody murder, had been hauled away by his guards. He'd spent the rest of the week in Zaun's infirmary. The next morning, he'd boarded the ferry back to Piltover: tail tucked between his legs.

And his pride, as the Undercity saying goes, In a shit-stained shoe.

Since the incident, Garlen's been cautious about antagonizing Silco in public. But his contempt for the city is undiminished. His attitude toward Mel, accordingly, is one of open scorn. To him, she is the weakest link in the Medarda chain.

A pretty little chit, who, when the going gets tough, will cave to the strongest bidder.

The irony is not lost on Mel. Were she truly a spineless chit, she'd have sold herself a long time ago. And, likely, to a man like Garlen. A dynastic marriage was a common means of doubling her clan's prosperity. But the prospect of a lifetime wrangling the brutish lout—enduring his crude lusts and his insufferable temper—was abhorrent. She'd never have consented to it, unless by force.

Silco, whatever else, has always respected her separateness. And his ambition to walk with her—not behind her or in front—is equal to her own. Their combined will is a potent force. One that will, in time, forge a brighter future.

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

In her ear, Jayce's voice intrudes: a forlorn query in lieu of farewell.

"Even love?"

"Medarda," Garlen barks, louder. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Mel's smile becomes an airtight lock. "Bones, Sir Galen? Aren't we feeding you enough?"

"What's the reason we've anchored off-course?" He sweeps a thick arm at the motionless horizon. "I was told we'd reach the Ionian coast before noon. The sun's almost overhead. If I don't make landfall by sundown, my troops will be wondering if I've gone missing."

"Surely you can wait another hour?"

"An hour? The blazes are we wasting an hour for? If we're going to float in the middle of nowhere, at least make it worth my time!" Leering, he slaps his thigh. "How about a floor-show? You look fit for one, all tarted up in that handkerchief. Why don't you sing me a song or two?"

Mel's features remain smooth. "You have, I'm afraid, mistaken me for a canary. But if you're keen for music, our orchestra would happily oblige."

"Feh. A bunch of prissy string-pullers? What use are they? Give me a proper band: men with brass pipes, and war-drums, and a real beat! Then I'll show you a performance." Garlen's eyes take their time crawling down Mel's body. "You'll see how a proper Noxian can make the ground shake."

Her countrymen, Mel thinks, are such a tiresome lot. Especially the military set. "On a ship, Sir Garlen, we call that seasickness."

"And this damn delay? What'd you call that?"

"A detour."

"Detour?" Garlen's bristly brows merge like thunderheads. "On whose blasted order?"

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

The sunlight, white and warm, dapples the air. Yet the plunge in temperature is palpable. It is, Mel thinks, not unlike two polarities—the dark and the light—aligning at once. A disorienting sensation, the first time it’d occurred: Silco stepping into her path, and the world tilting off its axis.

The guests, huddling closer, murmur warily. Cevila's face, heavily rouged, is a shade paler. Lady Dennings' fan is a blur. Hector's gulp is audible. The rest of the party are paralyzed in place. All except Garlen, who has the temerity to laugh.

It's more bark than bite. He's already felt Silco's blade once. He won't tempt his teeth.

"Well, well," he sneers. "The blushing bridegroom."

"Sir Garlen," Silco returns, with a small nod. "Good of you to join us."

"I wasn't given a choice! We're supposed to be on land, not floating like a piece of flotsam."

"You're welcome to swim."

"Swim? To the Ionian strait? You're out of your mind!" Garlen strides closer, crowding Silco's space. The man is a foot taller, and twice as broad. Still, Mel notes that he stays out of striking distance. For a braggart, he's no fool. "I know you Trenchers know no qualms about playing hooky. But the rest of us have a schedule to keep. So get this ship back on course. Now."

Silco’s stare is inscrutable. "In time."

"Time? I'm a busy man. I don't have time to sit around on this damn tub!" Garlen squints suspiciously. "Unless you've hijacked this ship? ‘Cause if it's a ransom you're angling for—"

Silco’s smile is a gleam of serrated teeth. "Sir Garlen. I'm in the business of politics, not piracy."

"Hah! As if the distinction makes a difference."

Now the gleam is sharper. "I suppose it doesn't." He turns to the rest of the party. His low cadence rolls over the room like fog. "Allow me to explain. The delay is due to a last-minute excursion. We'll resume our course by early nightfall. But first, a short trip to the southern reef. A treasure hunt."

Garlen's confusion is writ large. "Treasure?"

"Enough, I'm sure, to satisfy everyone's appetite." His stare passes, one by one, over the assembled guests. "Ionia. Demacia. Shurima. Noxus." And, finally, alighting on Mel. "Piltover."

There is a susurrus of whispers. Mel, bemused, keeps the mask in place. He'd never mentioned her city was tied to this game. Is he testing her? Challenging her?

Or—impossibility of impossibilities—bidding her to play along?

Silco goes on, "I wonder, Sir Garlen. Have you sailed this route before?"

Garlen, bristling: "I know the waters well. I've fought battles on every stretch of these seas."

"Won, too, I expect. You are a celebrated soldier. But an explorer?" A tip of the chin. "There's a difference."

"And what would that be?"

"As Councilor Medarda says, a world of it. Of course, she is referring to chiffon versus tulle. But the principle stands." A half-lidded smile. "One's for concealment. The other for transparency."

Garlen cuts in, "If you're trying to make a point, make it quick."

"My point is only this: if you've sailed the southern waters, you'll notice a peculiarity. The Ionian Strait, on Piltover's maps, is thirteen degrees north of this point. Zaun's maps, however, place it further west. A curious discrepancy. Have you considered the reason?"

"Why the blazes would I care about Zaun's maps? Noxian charts are the only ones worth a damn."

The barest nod. "Fair point. That's the charm of maps. They're carved out by conquerors. Every chart tells a story, depending on the hand that draws it. And every chart, in its way, reveals a truth—or at least a version of it. Noxus, as the reigning authority of these waters, will always be partial to its own perspective. Piltover, as a close ally, tends to lean." A beat. "Zaun’s maps tell a different story."

"Ha!" Garlen's fist thuds the closest table. "A story about slime and scum, no doubt."

"A story about survival," Silco rejoins. "About claiming a space where none existed. At least, not on paper."

A crook of his finger, and the steward from earlier rushes up. His arms are laden with rolled-up sheafs paper. Charts, Mel realizes. The largest, unfurled on the table, is marked in different colors: a web of seaways, straits and currents. Mel, scanning it, notes a discrepancy in the dimensions: the Ionian Strait appears much narrower on Piltover's cartography, whereas Zaun's chart, drawn with exacting care, depicts it as twice its width. A series of X's, in a serpentine pattern, lead from the southern reefs up to the coastline of Zaun. The same path is absent from Piltover's chart.

Silco's fingertip traces a trail marked in indigo. "This is the shortest route from Piltover's coast. We'll reach Wuju by today if we cut across here." His nail, tapping the indigo line, cuts right. "This, however, is the shortest path according to Zaun's navigation."

"Bullshit!" Garlen says. "There is no path there! That's a damned dead-end!"

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

"You're wasting our time! There's nothing there except shoals!"

Garlen's disdain is tangible: a seething red cloud. Silco, immune to sulfurous fumes, only shrugs. "Shoals, yes. Or seamounts from thousands of years ago. Many, with extensive deposits of minerals. Silver, copper, lead. Even diamonds."

Garlen barks a laugh. "And you Trenchers found this how? By sniffing up the coal dust?"

Silco, unperturbed, spreads the chart with both hands. The chandelier's rays sheen his pomaded hair like a raven's wing. Beneath, his eyes are two blots of ink. "Zaun's seafaring charts, Sir Garlen, date to antiquity. In fact, most cartographers claim they're as old as the Shuriman empire—which makes them, by definition, prehistoric. Once our city was a corollary of Shurima. Known as Oshra Va'Zaun, the City of the Sun Gates. Its routes stretched from eastern to western waters. Zaun, as its inheritor, maintains the same routes: one that, on Piltover's maps, don't even exist."

A chill tiptoes down Mel's spine. He'd never told her any of this. Had never even alluded to such knowledge. And the way he phrases it, with such calm certainty, suggests this is no revelation.

He's known about these seamounts for a long time.

"You are," she hears Cevila interject, "speaking in hypotheticals."

"Hardly. Our seafaring charts date from centuries ago. But Zaun's current naval fleet is a vital force. Since our independence, we've updated all the ancient routes—noting, of course, changes in currents and wind patterns. Our Exploration & Survey Corps have established a nautical corridor, with dry docks along every port from Zaun to South Shurima. We've also discovered new channels and navigable passages. Some take advantage of rip current systems. Others, thanks to hidden glyphs carved in the seabed, allow vessels outfitted with the right gems to sail directly to a corresponding outpost, between one blink and the next."

The crowd lapse into shock. Silco's voice—low-pitched, hypnotic—paints a vivid picture: a labyrinth of channels, each with a corresponding rune: a pathway between impossible places.

"You're saying," Hector dares, "they are like Piltover's Hex-Gates?"

"They function on similar principles. But their purpose is different. Piltover's Gates link distant ports for trade and communication. Ours link distant outposts for transport and protection."

"P-Protection?" Lady Dennings sputters. "From what?"

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

"Civil upheavals. Foreign invasions. Call it what you will. Oshra Va’Zaun was a rich city. They did well to anticipate the worst. But for Zaun, the primary use of these routes is trade." His finger climbs homeward, to the northernmost rune. "This point, for example, leads straight to a small islet on Zaun's outskirts. It was once known as Smuggler's Cove. Now, it's called the Iron Pearl. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods will not be charged customs duties for transiting or storing."

There is a stir. Mel, scanning the crowd, feels a trickle of misgiving. Piltover, for decades, has had a hammerlock on premium exports. Trade taxed by the ounce. Goods vetted by bureaucratic oversight. Permits, stamped in triplicate, and revoked at the Council's whims. All to protect her city-state's reputation and interests.

Now, Silco proposes a rival haven. A Free Trade Zone, where foreign goods may come and go—unshackled by Piltover's red tape.

A new axis of commerce. And, Mel realizes, a double-edged sword.

If Piltover consents to the Iron Pearl's operation, it will grant greater her city access to foreign markets, and reduce import costs. But the arrangement also poses a threat: a competing port, under Zaun's governance, which will draw ships and revenue away from the City of Progress. Their status as the preeminent exporter will be—

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

The guests are buzzing. Some with excitement; others with disbelief.

Hector echoes, "A Free Trade Zone..."

"It's been operating since Zaun's independence," Silco says. "Now we're in the process of expanding its capacity. The endeavor has taken years. A neutral zone, with an established route to any destination within a thousand leagues, with minimal delay. Better still, goods from anywhere in Runeterra can be stored and transited, for a modest tithe." He pauses. "All that's required is that our waters be respected. Along with the sovereign rights of our vessels."

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

Garlen, apoplectic, erupts, "Respect, hell! This is Noxian territory you're crossing!"

"Not on your maps. Nor on Piltover's." Silco regards him evenly. "Only on ours."

"Those waters, Trencher, are Noxian by right of conquest!"

"Not according to our Treaty with Piltover. These waters were ceded to us in exchange for recognition of our Independence." Silco eyes Mel sidelong. "The agreement, I believe, remains binding."

Garlen's fists curl like meat hooks. "You dare challenge our navy?"

"Breaching these waters without our permission is not a challenge. It's an act of trespass. As Zaun's ally, Piltover would be duty-bound to aid us in its defense." Silco's fingertip, tracing the Noxian routes, gently taps the demarcations. "Candidly, we'd rather not resort to childish games. Zaun welcomes Noxus' goodwill. Should your vessels wish to use our routes, you'll be issued proper credentials. You'll be charged reasonable fees for port-of-call. Your cargo will not be subject to scrutiny. In all ways, you'd be our honored guests. Provided—" His good eye slits, "—you extend us the same courtesy in return."

It is politely phrased, and delivered in the mildest tones. But the threat, its edge honed fine, cuts like a switchblade.

Garlen's face goes as red as his garb. "This is preposterous!"

"Is it? Zaun's treaty with Piltover was written with the consent of both parties. In the presence of diplomatic envoys. Noxus was among them. If your nation had a grievance, I'm sure they'd have taken issue. But the accord, I believe, is still in force."

"This is a damnable plot!" Garlen pivots to Mel. "Medarda, this is insanity! I demand you put a stop to this!"

Mel is stricken. But she is careful to let nothing show. Her mind races to mitigate the thunderheads swelling on the horizon. Noxian fury. International incident. Piltover caught in the middle. And Zaun, at the crux.

Trust me, Silco had said.

And now, it comes to this: her city caught between a rock and a hard place.

Fury sparks in Mel's chest. Half adrenalized burn-off, at finally having a concrete threat to face. Half slow-building horror, at confronting Silco’s cleverness in action. The man who, in one fell swoop, has backed her into a corner—while painting the entire thing in shades of diplomatic nicety.

Now, he is watching her. Waiting—for what?

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

Run—the way she’d run the first night of their voyage. Run—by staying when she should've sided with him. Run—by choosing to smooth the waters, rather than spread ripples in her wake.

Run, run, run—and this is the consequence.

Mel, reeling, takes a breath. In a sense, Silco has done exactly what he'd warned: revealed a truth that cannot be refuted. Piltover's maps are, indeed, inaccurate: the product of outdated colonialism. The waters, ceded to Zaun by Treaty, are indeed theirs—as much as the treasures that lie beneath.

And, Mel realizes, Silco's maneuver has a third layer: a sly subcurrent.

He is establishing that Zaun, by virtue of charting prowess, as an entity equal to Piltover. But also adjacent to it. Not a rival, but an ally. A peer that cannot be overlooked—because its interests are too closely tied to her city's.

It is the flipside of matrimony: a give-and-take. One of substance rather than sentiment.

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

Inside, rage fizzles. Her fingers curl. She nearly seizes the nearest champagne bottle, and lobs it at Silco’s head. He deserves no less. He deserves worse. The bastard. He’d planned this since the night they’d fought. To corner her in full view of her guests. To make her prove her mettle. To demand that she take a leap.

Or else, show to the world that her vows are hollow.

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

"Sir Garlen," she says. "My husband is correct. These waters belong to Zaun."

Garlen is nearly purple; a ripe plum ready to burst. "You're siding with this rat?!"

"I am stating a fact. Zaun cannot, without jeopardizing its sovereignty, rescind the right to self-governance. And Piltover cannot, without forfeiting its good standing, repudiate that agreement. To do so would violate the laws ironclad between us." Her stare locks with the warlord's. "In sum, it is not a matter of sides. Only jurisdiction. The question is, how do you, as Noxus' envoy, plan to navigate these waters?"

Garlen's jaw works. Before he can fire off the next volley, Mel lays a cautioning hand on his arm.

"Before you reply, I suggest considering the future gains. Your nation is, at present, embroiled in a number of wars. Zaun, as a future ally, is offering to facilitate the transport of supplies—to and from Noxus's frontlines. Piltover, meanwhile, is willing to reopen discussions of a trade alliance." Beneath her lashes, Mel casts a winsome glance. "The question is, do you, as Noxus's representative, intend to pursue these opportunities?"

Garlen, a petrified bull, seems caught between charging or cowing. But, for all his bluster, the man's no fool.

"You," he growls, "are a conniving hell-bitch."

Undaunted, Mel offers a smile. "A Medarda, after all."

The warlord's teeth gnash. But his rage, though still hot, is no longer a blaze. More an ember, sullenly seething.

"So." A snort. "We're at an impasse."

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

Rolling up the charts, he returns them to the steward. A single nod, and the man, in tandem with the staff, begin distributing life vests among the crowd. Bewildered, the guests receive the gear. Each is the same color: Zaun's trademark cadmium green.

Mel, accepting hers, is astonished by the weight. The fabric appears lined with something like lead. Runes, their meaning unknown, are stitched into the seams of the fabric.

"Impasse," Silco says, already shrugging into his own vest, "is a poor word for it." He turns to the crowd, a wary sea of faces. "I believe we are, at last, on the same page."

Hector, handling his vest with jittery fingertips, dares, "Are we—going for a swim?"

Silco smiles.

Mel feels, again, that vertiginous sensation. The world, tilting. As if currents, beneath the surface, are stirring.

And the only thing left to cling to, is the man who's dragging her down.

"Swim? No." Silco's smile spreads. "We're off on a treasure hunt."

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #silco x mel #melco

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the-scarlet-witch-22 · 2 years

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Chaconne: Part Thirteen (Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader)

Word Count: 6.1K

Summary: The fall concert season is known to bring drama, but tensions rise as Y/N makes a decision on what to do about her relationship with Agatha and her future with the MSO

A/N: Hello Chaconne friends! Welcome to chapter 13 of Chaconne. I have decided to do something different with this update…in the past I stated I wasn’t comfortable writing smut for personal reasons. However, after some thought I am…tentatively adding in more mature content going forward. So consider this a warning! If that were to offend anyone it’s in the beginning so you can just skip. Anyways, after this we have one chapter left to go! Thank you all for joining me on this very fun journey, your comments and likes and support have brought me so much happiness, and I’m honored that anyone has even read this fic. As always, thank you for reading and please leave me a comment if you enjoyed the new things I’m adding in. My asks and DM’s are always open, xoxo

Tag List: @anxiousgoldengirl @celasteria @danvers97 @imthedoctorlove @mcfriggingonagall @meowsaidmissy @scarletmeltstheice @shinkomiii @sxfwap @thestrangeundoing @upsidedowndanvers @venticalooks @vintagegoddess12 @thoroughly--confused @genderenvyeveryone @thewelshelk @tr333sus

Y/N POV

From the moment she came storming in the concert hall you could tell that Agatha was in a mood. If you had to guess what set her off, you would assume it had something to do with the interns. You heard rumblings that they planned a ‘Dress Like Maestra Day’ which could presumably only end in disaster (you wisely chose to decline the invitation they sent you to participate). Usually, Agatha would share her frustrations with you, however today it seemed like she wasn’t in the mood for talking.

Taking her usual seat in the front row, Agatha crossed her legs and looked expectantly at you. “Have you fixed the last page of Vitali?”

You wanted to point out that you just had a lesson with the conductor yesterday and barely had the time to sleep after getting home, but quickly weighed your options. While you would never admit it, there were a few times in college where you would forget to practice before your lessons. Although this caused tremendous waves of anxiety as you prayed your professor wouldn’t notice, you quickly learned that you were pretty good at winging it when need be. Plus, Agatha appeared to be in a bad mood, and you knew telling her you didn’t practice would infuriate her even more. She would never know…hopefully.

Lifting up your violin, you recalled Agatha instructing you to relax your shoulders to make sure your right hand was loose enough to properly grip the bow. Breathe. You could do this. Setting your bow on the string you closed your eyes, picturing the sound you wanted to create. The last page was a flurry of double stops beginning in triplets and ending in sixteenth notes. So, you had to use the same amount of bow, while also focusing on the position of your left hand to ensure you were playing the correct notes. You also had to adhere to the accelerando, which was just a fancy way of saying you had to gradually get faster throughout the passage.

Yesterday, Agatha tore you to shreds over your intonation. She claimed if she wanted to listen to someone butcher the same notes over and over again she would have invited Dottie to come on stage and play whatever godforsaken solo she was working on (Agatha’s words, not yours). But this was an easy fix, you were sure of it.

Unfortunately, you were overconfident. Although you had always prided yourself on your ability to memorize music over short periods of time, there was the occasional instance where you ran flat. Literally. Like, right now, for instance. After barely playing 10 bars, you heard Agatha ordering you to stop.

Placing your violin under your arm, you looked out to see Agatha’s eyes scanning you. The conductor looked agitated, and you were starting to have a sinking feeling her annoyance wasn’t solely directed towards the interns anymore. “Darling.” Agatha drawled out, her voice low and sweet as she slowly stood up, making a point to take off her glasses. “You did practice this section, right?”

You needed to come clean, and tell Agatha that no, you hadn’t found the time to practice. But, on second thought, she looked pretty mad. You nodded, trying to appear calm. “Mhm, I practiced.”

The conductor arched an eyebrow, as if she was shocked to hear those words come out of your mouth. “You practiced?”

Nodding again, you hoped she would stay down there and far away from the stage. You would be relatively safe from her up here. But unfortunately it seemed you would be wrong yet again today as Agatha slowly walked onstage. It seemed the conductor enjoyed taking her time, and you felt a sense of dread as she approached you. There was a dark look in her eyes you couldn’t quite place, and you barely had time to register her being in your close proximity before she motioned for you to play.

“Once more if you don’t mind, dear.” Agatha instructed, leaning against the piano, her eyes never leaving you. “I want to see all this progress you made.”

Well that’s it, you were fucked. Unfortunately she noticed your hesitation, causing her to frown. “Is something the matter, sweetheart?”

Shuffling your feet awkwardly, you thought of the best way out of this situation: back pedal. “Well, you see-”

Agatha held up a hand to silence you, and you grimaced at how mad she appeared to be. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Y/N. I asked you three times if you practiced, and all three times you chose to lie.”

“Well, I actually didn’t say anything the first time.” You pointed out, causing Agatha to shake her head.

“Put your violin away.”

“But Agatha I-” You began to protest, but were cut off by Agatha closing the distance between you. Kissing you.

You had kissed Agatha before, but this was different. In the past the conductor made a point of being relatively gentle and slow. She never went too far, and always stopped before things could progress. But today was different. Today she kissed you with a hunger that made your knees buckle, almost causing you to drop your violin on the stage floor. Agatha gently grabbed your violin from you, and when she broke the kiss you could see how blown out her pupils had become. She quickly set your violin down in its case before turning her attention back to you.

“I’ve already had a stressful day dealing with the complete idiots that are this season’s interns, and now I have to deal with your disobedience?” Agatha questioned, her voice was dripping with arousal. She stalked up to you, and pressed you up against the piano. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Her body was firmly set against yours and she was so close to you, so unbearably close you could practically smell her, and all you could think about was getting on your knees to taste her. “I’m…sorry, Maestra.”

You watched eyes darken even more so if that was possible, before she kissed you again. Her tongue invaded your mouth with vigor and you were swept up in her dominance over you. Her hands slowly slid down your body, stopping to squeeze and touch every part of you before roughly grabbing your ass, and pulling you impossibly closer to her.

“I’ll show you how sorry you’ll be.” The conductor whispered against your lips, her voice raspy and low, as a hand came up to roughly grab your jaw, causing you to moan at the contact. “And this pretty little mouth needs to remember too.”

Shoving you away from her, she sat on the piano bench, moving it back to make more room. “Come here, and get on your knees.”

“Yes, Maestra.” You were so turned on you could barely think straight, the only thoughts in your brain consisted of Agatha finally taking you the way you had dreamed of night after night.

Kneeling down, you looked up at the conductor and pouted, causing her to coo down at you. “Oh honey, what’s the matter? Do you want something?”

Nodding, you continued to pout, as the words became turning into mush in your brain. Damn this woman for being so hot, she barely touched you and you were already a dripping mess.

Agatha appeared to be delighted at your inability to form coherent sentences, as she chuckled. “My poor baby. I know how hard it is to think when your cunt starts to drip for me, isn’t it?”

Fuck. You moaned again, picturing her long fingers inside you, hitting the spots you couldn’t quite reach. “Yes, Maestra.”

Agatha took in a deep breath at that, and let it out slowly, trying to maintain her composure. “Good girl. Now, I’m very upset with you for lying to me. Do you think you could make it up to me darling?”

You nodded, ever eager to please her.

“Mmm that’s what I thought.” Agatha unbuttoned her pants, before sliding them off and just leaving on her lacy black panties. She grabbed your ponytail and dragged you between her legs until your mouth was almost on her. It took everything in you to not stick out your tongue. “You’re going to let me ride that pretty face until I come.”

The beeping of your alarm roused you from your dream, and you let out a displeased groan.

It was a dream, of course it was a dream. It was always the same dream; Agatha punishing you during a lesson, and using you in various ways. At first you had been embarrassed, almost too embarrassed to know how you’d ever look her in the face again. But then that embarrassment turned into pure desire and longing. Agatha in reality often treated you like a delicate porcelain doll; it was as if she was afraid she would break you if she was too rough. While you loved how sweet she could be when you were alone, you didn’t know how to tell her that it was okay to let go. That you wanted her just as badly as she seemed to want you.

Unfortunately you had no time to try and go back to sleep because you were running late enough as it is. The Manhattan Symphony Orchestra’s fall gala and season opener was quickly approaching, which meant working even longer hours than usual. Under any other circumstance you would have been thrilled at the opportunity to spend more time with Agatha, but your mind was too focused on your current problem, well problems. In addition to your incredibly realistic sex dreams, you desperately needed to tell Agatha you had been offered a spot in Natasha’s group. You had managed to get more time to decide, as Natasha reached out to you saying she would be busy with a project for the next few weeks. But you knew time was running out, and you’d have to make a decision sooner rather than later.

However, when you arrived at work, your dilemmas were put on hold as you saw the chaos that was Agatha’s office. Music scores and sheet music were scattered across the floor, and you clocked two batons that were snapped in half. You would have assumed someone had broken in if the conductor wasn’t standing in front of her book case, holding a giant binder. Her hair was pulled back by a giant clip, and she was so focused on whatever it was she was reading that she didn’t notice you come in.

Attempting to avoid stepping on the various piles of papers on the floor, you cleared your throat. “Agatha? Is everything alright?”

The conductor hummed, but continued reading. “Yes, dear. Give me just a moment, hm?” She flipped through, mindlessly humming along to…Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. Interesting. As you tried picking up the overwhelming amount of things on the floor, you heard her make a noise of disapproval, and without even looking up she said, “Leave it, I’ll clean it up later.”

You wanted to check to see if she somehow acquired a concussion this morning, but chose instead to begin compiling the rehearsal schedule for the week when you noticed something strange. Every Monday when you logged on, Agatha had an updated list of what she wanted to rehearse for the week. Only now it looked like she deleted the file. Or an intern did. For the sake of the remaining interns, you hoped it was the former.

“Agatha? Do you have this week’s rehearsal schedule on a different file? I can’t find it anywhere.”

Agatha had turned her attention back to her bookshelf, and she must still be searching for whatever it was she needed. “I haven’t gotten around to it yet darling.”

Feeling uncomfortable just sitting around with the mess surrounding you. “Well, is there something I can help with?”

“Mmm yes actually,” Agatha replied, grabbing two more binders before finally going to sit across from you at her desk. “I need you to go to the symphony’s music library and pull the orchestra parts for a few pieces.”

The conductor handed you a piece of paper, and you frowned at Agatha’s messy scribble. “Why do you need pieces by Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky?”

“Well I’ve decided to switch around the concert programming,” Agatha explained, as if that was a totally normal and not insane thing to do a month out from the debut. “I need to challenge the orchestra more, and I don’t feel that Dvorak is providing that. Shostakovich’s Symphony No. 5 will be perfect.”

“Right, but what Tchaikovsky piece did you choose? Something in addition to the Rachmanioff?”

Agatha had turned her attention back to the binders on her desk as she replied. “Well, after selecting Shotakovich, I decided to make it a concert filled with only Russian composers. So we’re scrapping Rachmanioff and bringing in a violin soloist for Tchaikovsky.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at her comment, she was getting rid of Wanda? From what you gathered, it was Hayward’s decision to hire Wanda to begin with, and it seemed like her contract was near impossible to break. Then you wondered what soloist had the time and skills to be brought on this late into the concert season. Instead of asking any of those more difficult questions, you opened your mouth and asked the first thing that came to mind- “But isn’t Rachmaninoff a Russian composer?”

The conductor gave you a pointed look, but before she could continue there was a loud and insistent knock on the door. Agatha sighed, “If it’s one of those interns with the wrong coffee order, I’m not going to be happy. Come in.”

The door opened and Hayward came barging in, looking entirely displeased. You always felt rather uncomfortable in the CFO’s presence, and could never quite figure out why; whenever you interacted with him, he just always seemed so calculated and cold. It was far too unnerving and you were thankful Agatha was here with you.

Hayward stopped to catch his breath, as if he had run all the way from his office to the conductor’s, his face red. “I’m not allowing you to do this.”

“Well good morning to you too, Mr. Hayward,” Agatha drawled as you suddenly became quite interested in looking at the updated seating chart. “How can I be of service?”

He looked more annoyed than amused. “Cut the shit, Harkness. You can’t do it, I’m not going to stand by and allow you to blow hundreds of thousands of dollars due to your inability to make up your mind.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re referring to,” Agatha replied, and you could practically taste the sarcasm dripping off her lips as she added. “Care to elaborate?”

It seemed Hayward wasn’t in the mood for Agatha’s witty banter, and you grew more uncomfortable by the minute. “You cannot change the entire fall concert repertoire this late in the season!”

Smirking, Agatha stood up and walked around her desk, holding open one of the binders she had grabbed earlier. “Actually, I can.” All but shoving the binder in Hayward’s hands, she pointed to a paragraph you couldn’t make out. “If you could do me the honors of reading that aloud, Mr. Hayward.”

“I’m perfectly aware of what’s in your contract, Agatha. I signed off on it.” Hayward slammed the binder shut. “But you need a majority board approval to make any changes to the concert repertoire, and I know for a fact you do not have it.”

Agatha let out a dramatic sigh, and you were frozen in your seat, pretending to not listen to every word. “I was hoping you would mention that. Y/N, could you please hand me my phone?”

Why, oh why, does she always insist on dragging you in the middle of these uncomfortable situations? Grabbing the phone, you swiftly handed it to the conductor while trying to avoid eye contact with Hayward.

This exchange was growing more and more uncomfortable and in desperation,you tried to think of an excuse, any excuse to get you out of this room. “Maestra, maybe I should go grab those parts for you?”

Agatha waved off your suggestion, keeping her gaze locked on Hayward. “That’s unnecessary, Y/N. We’re almost done here.”

“We are nowhere near being done,” Hayward argued, throwing you a glance as an afterthought before adding, “So perhaps your assistant should leave to get some work done. You do have her doing actual work, right?”

The jab was subtle enough that anyone else in the room would have failed to pick up on it, but it was obvious to you that he was insinuating something. If Agatha had noticed, she didn’t dare react. Instead, she completely ignored Hayward and began scrolling through her phone, intent on finding whatever it was she needed. In the interim, you went back to nervously studying the seating list, hoping that Hayward would decide to leave you alone.

Finally, the conductor seemed to find what she was looking for, as a satisfied smirk settled over her face. “Ah yes. If you wouldn’t mind checking your email, Mr. Hayward. You’ll find that ten board members signed off on my request to change the fall concert programming. With those votes and my two votes as being both Music Director and conductor of the MSO, I have enough to change the program to Tchaikovsky and Shostakovich.”

Hayward read the email and shut his phone’s screen off with so much aggression you thought he was going to crack it in half. “This isn’t over, Harkness.”

Hayward stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him, and you waited until you were sure he was gone before looking back at Agatha. “So, how did you convince the majority of the board to vote for your idea?”

Agatha gave you a mischievous smirk, as she began picking up the heap of papers scattered across the floor. “The way everyone does, darling. I’ve spent enough time with the board to know how to entice them to do what I want.”

Letting the conductor’s words sink in, you let out a slightly horrified gasp, staring at the woman in disbelief. “Please do not tell me you’re blackmailing the entire MSO Board.”

Shrugging, Agatha dropped a ream of papers on her desk and after they landed with a heavy thud she replied, “I’m not blackmailing the entire MSO Board.” She paused for dramatic effect before adding, “I’m only blackmailing half of the MSO Board.”

“Agatha!”

“It’s not my fault those buffoons don’t know how to hold their liquor,” Agatha argued, setting down another pile of papers, accidentally dropping some on your lap in the process. Before you could react, she leaned over to grab them, her hands lingering on your thighs a moment longer than necessary.

Up until that point you had forgotten entirely about your dream. But feeling Agatha’s fingers on you caused you to shift uncomfortably, as flashbacks from your dream began to play on a loop. The way she looked at you as if she was going to devour you. Having her drag you by your hair to settle between her legs; how close you were to tasting her.

“Y/N?” Agatha was staring at you with a curious expression on her face, and you blushed as you quickly tried to put the dream out of your mind once more. “Is everything alright, dear? You seem distracted.”

The conductor’s question was innocent, but with her eyes glued to you, it felt as if she was peering into your soul. Agatha possessed that rare ability to read you better than anyone ever had before. Nodding, you cleared your throat, and decided walking around would help clear your head. “Yeah, I’m fine. How about I go grab those pieces for you, and while I’m grabbing your morning coffee, I can ask a few of the interns to start making copies of the music?”

Agatha was looking at you with a suspicious expression, as if she didn’t believe you. “Don’t worry about the coffee, dear. I already sent Marcus out to get everyone’s orders.”

“Wait, everyone’s orders?”

“The interns haven’t been annoying me as much lately, so I decided to treat them to coffee,” Agatha explained, causing you to arch an eyebrow. “What? I have high standards, but I’m not a tyrant.”

“And who’s Marcus?” You ran through the names of the interns in your head and couldn’t remember there ever being a Marcus.

“Marcus is the really tall, sort of scrawny one.” Agatha replied, giving you a description which could fit over half of the interns working at the MSO.

“Agatha, there isn’t an intern named Marcus.”

Agatha frowned, clearly perplexed. “I’ve been calling him Marcus for months and he’s never said anything.”

You were tempted to say that he was probably too afraid to correct the conductor, but refrained. Agatha was making a lot of progress with the interns, and you were weirdly proud of her. “Well, then while ‘Marcus’ is getting your coffee I’ll get started on grabbing the pieces.”——————————————————————————Agatha’s POV

Shortly after Y/N went off to get her work done, you were in the midst of sending emails to the social media manager regarding new publicity for the fall concert when the red haired menace popped her head in your doorway. Frowning, you pointed to the Do Not Disturb sign you had one of the interns tape to your door. “Are you incapable of reading English in addition to notation now too, Maximoff? I’m busy.”

Wanda rolled her eyes as she ripped the sign off your door before walking it in, closing it behind her. “You have a lot of nerve, Agatha. First leaking that story, and then having my contract with the MSO voided? Are you still that upset with me?”

You wanted to inform Wanda that you weren’t upset with her, you merely had no desire or want to ever be within 100 yards of her ever again. However the first accusation caused you to grow even more irritated with the pianist. You knew perfectly well who leaked the story, but you currently had bigger fish to fry. “I know this is a difficult concept for you specifically to grasp, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. Why would I leak a story that has the potential to destroy my reputation?”

Wanda fell silent at that, appearing to allow the words to sink into her thick-headed skull. “I didn’t think of that.”

Of course she didn’t think of that. Again, you had to bite your tongue before saying something you would ultimately regret. “I have a lot of work to get through, so if you could please allow me to get back to it.”

The pianist pulled a signed check out of her coat pocket. “And I’m not taking this money either.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you tried to think of those meditation exercises Y/N had shown you. “Wanda, your contract payout stated you were to be paid fifty-thousand dollars. Not giving you that money would be a breach of contract.”

Glaring at you, Wanda waved the check in the air. “But this isn’t the MSO’s money. It’s yours, and I don’t want it.”

Ah. Yes. It was your money. Most of the board members who were not being…persuaded to vote for your concert changes had argued there wasn’t enough money to pay Wanda, and have enough funds for the soloist you were eyeing to take her place. So you proposed to pay Wanda out directly. You would do anything to not have to deal with the Sokovian nuisance any longer than you had to.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you wondered when the sweet relief of death would come. “Just take the money and go, Wanda.”

As usual, instead of following your wishes, she just stood there, staring you down. If there was one thing you would admit that Wanda was an expert at, it was being terribly, annoyingly, and extremely stubborn. Shutting your laptop, you folded your hands on top of it and looked up at her. “What is it going to take to get you to go away?”

“Let me stay on as the fall concert soloist,” Wanda requested, and you couldn’t help but let out a loud cackle. Was she insane? In what universe would that ever be a good idea?

“Wanda-” You tried to intervene but the pianist held a finger up for you to be quiet, and stunned at the audacity, you let her cut you off.

“You’re single-handedly making this orchestra the greatest it’s been in decades, and I would be honored if you let me stay on as the soloist.” Wanda stated calmly, and you tried your best not to roll her eyes. She just wouldn’t stop, would she? “I know you hate me, Agatha. But this isn’t anything personal, it’s business. I swear I won’t do anything to get under your skin, and I’ll even leave Y/N alone. I can see that it bothers you.”

If you weren’t already agitated enough, her last remark nearly sent you over the edge. “I have no idea what you are referring to. Besides, I already asked a violinist to come on for Tchaikovsky, you’re not needed.”

Wanda had unfortunately usually been able to see right past you, a trait you found maddening. “Natasha told me, but said if I was able to get my position back she would gracefully bow out.”

Damn that Russian violinist. “Fine. Then I’ll cut Tchaikovsky and look elsewhere for someone to play Rachmaninoff. You’re not the only pianist in Manhattan, Maximoff.”

Wanda shrugged, thinking over what you said. “No, but I am the best.”

Cocky as ever, what a surprise. “I’m not rehiring you, Maximoff. There’s a greater chance of me giving that imbecile Dottie a raise than allowing you back on my stage.”

“You seem different with her,” Wanda noted, the sudden shift giving you whiplash, though her tone was thoughtful. “Happier.”

“If you’re trying to get in my good graces, you are failing miserably,” You deadpanned, wishing Y/N would hurry up. What was taking her so long?

“She’s a fine violinist, there’s lots of potential there. And I know Natasha was impressed with her as well,” Wanda added, and you froze. Natasha? What did Natasha have to do with this?

Your eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “What are you talking about?”

Wanda hesitated, and you watched her with a calculated frown. As talented as Wanda was at playing the piano, she was just as lousy a liar. “Nothing. We’re getting off topic.”

You knew you wouldn’t be able to get any more information out of her now that she’d clammed up, and as much as you hated to admit it, she had a point. There were at least a dozen pianists you could think of that would be available, but none of them came close to Wanda. Damn her. It was now clear that Natasha being interested in your offer was probably just some sick ploy to get her friend her job back. You missed the days where most musicians were too cut throat to even think about friendship.

Then there was the issue of Tyler Hayward. You weren’t stupid, you knew he was the one who leaked the story to The Times. How he found out was the least of your concerns; the music world was relatively small enough that once one or two people heard it would spread like wildfire. You knew it was the same reason he hired Wanda in the first place; he was trying to get rid of you. In his slimy, conniving little brain he probably assumed that if bringing Wanda in didn’t get you to quit, leaking a potentially scandalous story to the press would force you to resign.

Unfortunately for Hayward, he miscalculated; the board didn’t care that much about gossip from years ago. Even worse, now that Wanda was staying, the concert would most likely be sold out in the coming weeks. It seemed his plan was failing miserably, and as much as you wanted to relish in that delightful fact, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had any other tricks up his sleeve. To that end, you had had a rather enlightening dinner the other night with Mr. Laufeyson, where he informed you of far more interesting, recent scandals that conductors and musicians alike had been getting into- giving you enough ammunition to secure yourself against any future potential fallout from this little episode. It never hurt to be prepared, after all, and you were hellbent on not letting anything to do with Wanda Maximoff catch you flat footed ever again.

Realizing you had kept Wanda waiting long enough, you let out a bored sigh. “Fine.” You gave the pianist a cold, dead stare. “Rehearsal is tomorrow at six. Don’t be late.”

Wanda had a blank expression on her face, as if she couldn’t believe you’d actually rehired her. “You’re serious?”

Ignoring her, you went back to your work; you were behind enough as it was. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Maximoff. Now get out of my office, and rip up that check. I’m not paying you twice.”

Wanda offered a quiet, but sincere thanks as she left your office, leaving you alone to your thoughts once more

——————————————————————————

Y/N POV

The rest of the day passed by rather quickly. You were surprised when Agatha informed you that she’s decided to keep Wanda on after all as the soloist, but you were thankful she did. Even after the article was released spilling the beans about Agatha’s previous relationship with Wanda, you’d never had any negative feelings toward the pianist. If anything, it made you understand the dynamic a bit better. Wanda had been nothing but nice to you, and as far as you were aware her kindness was genuine. She was also the most talented pianist you had ever met, and watching her play was absolutely mesmerizing.

Agatha had even surprised you with your favorite coffee order when you had finished your work, and you were touched she had remembered (even though she made a teasing remark that oatmilk was an atrocity). Before you knew it, the day was over and everyone had gone home for the evening. Well…almost everyone. You were currently tuning up your violin in the symphony hall, waiting for Agatha to arrive. Right after you finished your scale warm-ups, the side entrance hall doors opened, and Agatha swept in, baton and binder in hand.

“Alright, Y/N, are you warmed up?” Agatha asked as she set her belongings down, making herself comfortable.

Nodding, you adjusted your shoulder rest and your mind briefly flashed to your dream. No, you needed to focus. Being distracted over a sex dream was guaranteed to lead to disaster, and you wouldn’t be able to hold in your embarrassment if Agatha noticed your mind was elsewhere. Instead you tried thinking of the music you were working on, the notes and bow changes would surely distract you.

“Let’s start with the Vitali,” Agatha instructed as she began flipping through her score, and stood up, heading to the stage. “I’m not sure what your thoughts are on the subject, but I was thinking we could do something different this evening?”

You felt your heart rate quicken when you realized she was going to be a lot closer to you. Far too close. “What did you have in mind?”

Setting her binder down on the piano, Agatha smirked at you. “We’re just about done with this piece, and I thought it would be good to add in the piano part.”

It took you a minute to comprehend what Agatha just said. Add in the piano part…you held in the gasp you wanted to let out. Agatha was going to play? You had never heard her perform in person, only in rare archived videos that you spent hours searching for. “You’re going to play…with me?”

Chuckling, the conductor shook her head at you, clearly amused. “If that’s alright, darling. Although I can think of a few ways I’d like to play with you.”

Your breath hitched lightly, and just as you went to take a deep breath, the conductor pulled out the piano bench. As she sat down you were transported to your dream, how vivid the images were in your mind. Agatha sat at the piano bench, all but yanking you by the hair. How you could smell her. Oh, this was going to end badly.

Glancing at Agatha, you were horrified to find her staring back, an all-knowing smirk playing on her lips. Your blush deepened- she couldn’t possibly know what you were thinking, right? You took one more deep breath, and tried to get your body to relax. “From the top?” You tried to sound collected and cool.

The opening of Chaconne featured eight bars of piano accompaniment before your entrance. Agatha’s fingers gracefully swept over the keys and you felt a chill as you heard the notes. No one had heard Agatha perform live, the conductor point blank refused when she was invited to. Despite it being a simple eight bar phrase, you were blown away. She played the piano with such an ease, a rare familiarity that reminded you of breathing. It was as if the piano was a mere extension of her person.

You were so distracted from watching that you almost missed your entrance, and you swore you heard her snicker in response. Your favorite part of playing this piece with solo piano was the intimacy that came along with it. The two instruments played off each other; the piano offering the obvious backing, but there were also moments where you’d synchronize, then Agatha would pick up where your melody left off, expanding on it.

The usual closeness you felt to the conductor was amplified by a thousand while you were like this. How you made sure to play in sync with the other. The way Agatha watched you like a hawk, seemingly being able to follow all of your tempo changes without so much of a cue. It was as if your souls were intertwined, with how easily you worked together. There was something so breathtakingly beautiful about sharing this moment with her, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

As you began a particular passage you had played a million times, you allowed your mind to wander. You knew you needed to make a decision about Vienna, you owed that to Natasha. This morning you had been particularly torn, and as much as you hated to admit it you were leaning towards accepting. You loved Agatha, and you loved your job. But you had never been the kind of person to put your love life before your career. It was basically an unspoken rule in the musical world that your instrument, the music, would always be the number one love in your life. You had sacrificed so much to reach this moment, and it was so close; you were so close.

But now, as you were playing Chaconne with Agatha by your side, you found yourself realizing that you had found something you never thought to be possible. You found the kind of love that you read about growing up, only this was actually real. No, it wasn’t perfect, but you knew nothing in life was. Could you really leave this job behind, leave Agatha behind? You couldn’t. You knew you couldn’t. You didn’t want to. This was your choice, and this is what you wanted more than anything.

Deciding you would call Natasha in the morning, you knew what you needed to do at this very moment. Setting your violin down suddenly, mid-phrase and slightly out of breath, you waited for Agatha to stop too; it took her a beat to notice but when she did, she came to a jarring halt and looked at you with a bewildered expression on her face. You didn’t give her any time to berate you for stopping before you put your violin down, coming to join her on the piano bench.

“Darling, are you alright?” Agatha’s brow creased, as she was clearly torn between scolding you for the sudden pause and checking in on you

Lifting a hand up to her face, gently cupping her cheek, you nodded. Finally doing what you had wanted all day, you leaned in to kiss her. This is what you wanted, and nothing was going to stop you now.

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