#source: forged in fire

[tf2incorrectquotes]

Medic: My saw reminds me of my husband. Strong and very sexy! ♡

[emmikay]

Sig: This blade reminds me of my wife. Strong and very sexy.

[daybreakrising]

@resolutepath: "Here. As is customary." The package handed to Cyno within the confines of Lambad's is almost immediately forgotten about as Alhaitham waves for some wine and then opens his book. With the absence of their other friends he is content to simply read while Cyno fills the space with greetings from other patrons who know of the day. He does not acknowledge it, but as the fabric is unravelled, he glances up from the book to see the shirt he bought and let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. An inside joke, perhaps. He returns his eyes to his book before the real present is unveiled, a tome on gaming strategies and the history of card games that had taken some time to procure. "Many happy returns."

To most, the rather brusque nature of the scribe's greeting would seem almost rude, but the general sees past it to the sentiment it truly carries. Neither of them have any great need for overt exchanges that are more typical of others around them. The very fact Alhaitham is here says enough.

He lets the scribe bury himself in his book whilst he turns his own attention to the package set upon the table before him, quietly picking apart the wrapping to reveal what lies inside. A sly glance is shot sideward at his companion when the first item becomes clear: a shirt - plain, unadorned, simple, yet it summons a smirk to the general's face.

A joke of theirs, certainly, and he'll find some way to pay it back in kind another time.

The gift that sits beneath, however, steals the smirk from his face and replaces it, instead, with a look of genuine surprise. The gift of a book from the scribe isn't uncommon, but given the subject of this particular tome, he suspects this was not something so easily procured. He runs a hand over the cover, then flips it open to scan a few of the opening pages, already knowing he is going to study this at length the first chance he gets.

No words are said. The general simply leans sideways until his shoulder can bump gently against Alhaitham's, an affectionate nudge that speaks volumes. He sits there for a moment in comfortable silence, with just that barest physical contact, before he lets out a soft breath.

"That's quite a tight shirt you gave me." A pause, a smirk. "I don't think I'll be able to pull it off."

[warrenwaskilledbyadeer]

Febail: I just want to help orphans and make the world a better place :)))

Patty: I want cash money and I want it illegally B)

[deikshen]

More ghost Shen Yuan because he lives rent-free in my head

Qing Jing's dead disciple? Actually, I guess, it would be Shen Yuan who transmigrated to PIDW excitedly seeing Luo Binghe, but risking too much on a night hunt he is simply RIP - however, HA! Who says death will prevent Shen Yuan from seeing his blorbo?

So, he's a ghost. A ghost fire that goes back and forth through Qing Jing, that perhaps takes humanoid form the first night it sees little Luo Binghe beaten and bleeding in the shed. Visceral hatred burns so strong that it turns into a Menace rank ghost, helping Luo Binghe, taking care of him.

And Shen Yuan befriends Luo Binghe. He only appears at night! He doesn't need to eat or drink, and he accompanies Luo Binghe, helping him heal, practicing meditation with him, sharing his own knowledge in the absence of an appropriate cultivation manual. Luo Binghe looks forward to the night. He knows his friend is a ghost, and that he should technically exorcise him... But he's harmless!

Shen Yuan is the only company Luo Binghe has, and Luo Binghe is the only company Shen Yuan cares about.

Eventually, everything happens. Shen Yuan tells him that as a ghost he can know that some things will happen. His System is gone with his death, so he explains to him about the Endless Abyss, having weapons and provisions. Shen Yuan tries to get away, but with his ashes in Qing Jing, it is extremely difficult and dangerous for him to go any further. He becomes weaker.

Finally, Luo Binghe is thrown into the Abyss. Shen Yuan is alone, again.

So, start training.

It feeds on anger, on bad emotions; it clings like a ghostly chaos to heavy emotions, to hatred, to jealousy, to the evils of the heart. Shen Qingqiu is an endless source of food. Advance to the Wrath rank, with effort and care not to be noticed so as not to be exorcised. Shen Yuan obtains his own ashes, forges them, and once he is stronger he leaves Qing Jing.

The road to the Demon Realm is chaotic, even more so for a ghost; they vibrate on the same wavelength, but there is a huge difference in their treatment and behavior. Ghost City is a distant dream that Shen Yuan is curious, but not curious enough to go. He has to be available when Luo Binghe comes out of the Abyss. After The Horrors, he'll need a friend!!

Shen Yuan clings to Mobei Jun; the truth is that Mobei Jun cannot hurt him or drive him away, and the threat to exorcise him is never fulfilled - so, he just resigns himself to the fact that it is in his palace. And Shen Yuan proves to know more than meets the eye: he is a strategist, fixes political scandals, knows who are enemies and who will be, and is in charge of making clean war plans. (Shen Yuan might find Shang Qinghua too, recognize him as a transmigrator, and make his life miserable sometimes. Just for fun.)

Finally Luo Binghe shows up to take Mobei Jun's palace. He has left the Abyss in just three years! Shen Yuan is proud!!

There is a rough fight, but an easy surrender. Shen Yuan is excited to see Luo Binghe in all his glory, huge and strong, and when Luo Binghe spots him among the crowd of surrendered people in the palace, running towards Shen Yuan is all he can do.

(But it's Bingyuan, so if we don't have a little bit of relations without lack of communication I don't know what we have.)

Because eventually, Shen Yuan gives his ashes to Luo Binghe; forged into a jade pendant practically identical to the one Luo Binghe lost. The only difference is that it is crystal clear like diamond. Shen Yuan gives it as a meaningless gift - in reality, he knows that if his ashes are with Luo Binghe, there is no way they can be destroyed! He's the Protagonist! He has his protagonist halo! No one can ever beat him!

Luo Binghe, on the other hand, who has been learning everything he can about ghosts, he is suddenly overwhelmed that his feelings for Shen Yuan are reciprocated. Shen Yuan has given him his ashes! Luo Binghe has heard that certain ghosts give their ashes to their loved ones as a demonstration of deep love... And it's not that Luo Binghe was expecting it. He had always believed that his feelings for Shen Yuan were not noticed, but besides being noticed, they are reciprocal!! Shen Yuan's thin face had made him say that it had no meaning, but Luo Binghe knows the truth!!

It's not that Luo Binghe has ashes to exchange with him, but he will definitely give and do his best. It will show his beloved A-Yuan that he doesn't need to be shy and can express his feelings with confidence!!

...

And Shen Yuan doesn't understand why Luo Binghe is suddenly so intense with him. He doesn't complain! He doesn't need to eat, but Luo Binghe cooks him delicacies. He doesn't sleep, but Luo Binghe insists that they share a bed, and Shen Yuan assumes it's to feel protected like when they were together in the woodshed. He hands over important decisions of his kingdoms to him. Shen Yuan believes it is to test his intelligence and see how well he has been doing! Luo Binghe spends his free time just listening to him talk about monsters and plants, and Shen Yuan believes it is to continue learning from him as before.

Shen Yuan notes, with some apprehension, that there are two things missing from this Binghe: plans for revenge... and all his wives. Shouldn't he have at least fifty at this point in the plot!?

However, the first time Shen Yuan asks Luo Binghe if he has thought about marriage, Luo Binghe... cries? He looks at him with huge eyes full of tears and hugs him? What does this "thank A-Yuan for granting me the privilege" mean? Protagonist, did you think you needed your best friend's approval to get married!?

... Why do the servants take his measurements for wedding robes!?

[ozzgin]

Yandere! Demon King Headcanons

You have accepted the Demon King’s marriage proposal! Content: gender neutral reader, monster romance

[Main Story]

The proposal, as you quickly found out, came as a surprise to everyone. Not even the King’s loyal butler knew of such intentions; he’d assumed they were finally going to destroy everything and everyone at once. To him, the dramatic scene of you and his Lord enveloped in flames was anything but a romantic confession. It was your final battle. So one might imagine the poor lizard’s confusion when the Demon King returned with you following behind. “S-sir?” He questioned meekly. The armored creature nodded at his servant. “It has been done. We’ll plan the wedding upon our arrival home.” The what? His baffled expression must’ve given him away, because the Demon continued: “What’re you gawking like that for? Didn’t I ask you earlier how humans forge a bond?” The butler stumbled to search for his words, swallowing dryly. “Well y-yes, your Majesty…I just didn’t expect it to be anything more than curiosity.”

The same speechless reaction repeated itself all the way to the Kingdom. Soldiers, diplomats, other monstrous entities of the unknown Land, they all greeted you in disbelief. So much, in fact, that you began to poke fun at their hesitant response: “I am his mortal enemy”, you’d announce with a dramatic bow. “Spouse! We talked about this!” the Demon Lord would quickly correct you, flustered.

Truth be told, you're not quite sure what made you accept this ridiculous offer. Perhaps a mixture of intrigue and disillusionment. The city you've dedicated yourself to stood no longer, burnt to a crisp along with its corruption and crookery. In a way, the monster had unshackled you from a responsibility you no longer wanted to bear. And if that wasn't enough to convince you, well, the sight of the Ruler himself kneeling before you certainly sealed the deal.

Although it may take a while for you to accept the idea that your worst adversary had actually been infatuated with you this entire time. Were there even any hints? During your last battle you nearly died. You'd crawled out of an enormous crater on your fours, bones shattered and ligaments torn. When you pointed this out to your groom-to-be, he stared at you in horror. "I had no idea humans were that fragile. I was trying to adjust my strength so as to not do any harm." You could only nod, patting away the sweat beads forming on your forehead. Uh huh. Maybe it's better you didn't experience his full range of attacks.

Ever since the devastating revelation, he's been extra careful when handling you. Sometimes he'll awkwardly hover his large hands above you, with a concentrated frown on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" you ask, eyeing him suspiciously. "I'm trying to be gentle." he'll answer. "You're not even touching me." Fair point, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

The Demon King will often ask you about customs from your world as a way to make you comfortable, just in case you get struck by the occasional homesickness. His Realm is very different from what you're used to, after all. Lamentably, his own years spent in the human world were not too fruitful from a cultural point of view. He was either busy stalking you or devouring the souls of the innocent. Now that he has nothing else to worry about, he will gladly listen and even do his best to actively participate.

You wake up shrouded in thick smoke. Overwhelmed by heavy déjà vu, you rush down the grand stairs, searching for the source of the fire. Are you being attacked? Enemies of the Demon King? You elbow yourself against the kitchen door, similar to when you left your home to find the city ablaze. The Demon Lord turns to face you, visibly overwhelmed and exhausted. You gawk at the scene unfolding before you and remember to close your mouth, mainly out of politeness. "It's too small. I'm afraid I cannot use it", he reveals timidly, holding a human spatula between his fingers to showcase the impractical size difference. You glance at the disastrous attempt behind him and manage to deduce he'd been trying to make breakfast. In an unspoken agreement, he steps back and allows you to take over.

"I'm surprised you let him burn down the kitchen", you mention to the butler once you get a moment to yourself. The scaly servant sighs, and theatrically lifts his clawed hands in hopelessness. "Pointless to argue with him when he's like this, (Y/N). In my entire life serving the Family, I've never witnessed a more stubborn leader." He points to the lavish portraits adorning the walls with a faint smile. "And, to put it frankly, he's obsessed with you. I've never seen him in a more deplorable state. Marrying a human?! The shame, the outrage!” he cries out. “No offense intended to you, of course. You must understand." You hum in agreement, a tad uncomfortable, yet sympathetic. "M-maybe it'll tone down after the wedding?" you suggest as encouragement. "Oh, no, I suspect it will only get worse", he bemoans in return. Then, he promptly straightens his back and resumes his duties.

You go on your own way, not wanting to burden the lizard in his work. As you cross the hallway, you find the Demon King himself scanning each room, somewhat agitated. He notices you and his features soften. "I was wondering where you'd vanished." You approach him with the words of the butler still ringing in your ears.

[serpentface]

The pylidaigh, a type of vampiric snow ghost, as imagined in folklore in and around the Highlands.

This is a ghost believed to come into being when a person dies in the snow and their body is not found before their soul (still trapped without its funeral rites) 'freezes' inside of it. The body then reanimates into a pylidaigh's twisted form. It looks like someone who slowly died of starvation, just a thin layer of flesh over bones. Its skin is as white as the snow itself, so pale it can blend seamlessly into a blizzard. Most of its body appears subtly stretched and lanky, save for its exceptionally unsubtle long, skinny arms, which drag on the ground behind it when it walks. After a big meal of blood, its belly swells like the abdomen of a tick.

A pylidaigh can only tread across snow and ice, and so doorways and windows are best kept clear of snowfall during the winter in order to prevent it from reaching inside. It mostly comes out to hunt during blizzards when there is little that can prevent it from catching its victims.

In spite of its fragile appearance, a pylidaigh is supernaturally strong, and can run at great speeds when it wants to. No mortal weapons can pierce its body, nor can any bonds known to craftsmen hold it in place. It is usually said that chains forged like iron but made out of ice can bind a pylidaigh and render it immobile, but this smithing technique remains tragically elusive to the average joe.

This ghost is either cast as a wildly dangerous but tragic figure, or one that is more simply malicious. In either case, it is described as experiencing nothing but bitter cold. It shivers endlessly. It retains distant memories of what it was to be alive, and it is motivated by a futile desperation to experience the feeling of warmth again.

In more sympathetic framings, it is described as using its freaky gibbon arms to capture its victims and pull them into an embrace, rather innocently trying to warm itself against their body. This inevitably fails, and the embrace becomes a bone crushing squeeze. When that too fails to warm the ghost, it rips out the person's throat and drinks their blood until the victim is as cold and drained as the pylidaigh itself.

In other cases, this more pitiable narrative of a ghost seeking warmth with no comprehension of its actions is discarded in favor of making it purely monstrous. Here it is a type of vampire with an insatiable thirst, practically a physical manifestation of the worst of winter itself. Some tales acknowledge both variants, suggesting a pylidaigh's violent attempts to warm itself may be initially devoid of malice, but turns into an act of furious jealousy of the warmth of the living after years of suffering.

The only (more or less) surefire method to permanently kill a roaming pylidaigh involves trapping it with fire. They are attracted to any source of heat, and will attempt to warm themselves with the flames (if not tempted away by a juicy living human body). The fire itself cannot kill them (as the sheer cold of their body is more powerful even than flame) but they can be trapped if kept near the fire long enough for the snow it depends upon to melt. This does not kill the pylidaigh either. The monster will remain in stuck in place (and potentially become a threat again if it snows more) for the duration of the winter. Only when the spring comes and all the snow melts does it revert into a normal human carcass (though mysteriously invulnerable to decay), at which point it can be cremated.

Pylidaigh in the wilds also revert to a human corpse during the snowless seasons, but will roam again each following winter unless it is burnt in the interim. It is of critical importance that any human corpse found in high mountain pasture is cremated- not only out of respect for the poor soul trapped as an earthbound ghost, but to prevent the threat of the possible dormant pylidaigh emerging next winter.

[aeth-eris]

★ aries moon: burnt sienna feels like desert sands at dusk, rugged and warm, with a raw intensity that draws you in. it carries the energy of clay pots hardened in fire, bold and unbreakable, yet shaped by the hands that mold it. aries moons reflect this untamed aesthetic, their emotions erupting with the fierce vitality of something freshly forged. their love burns hot and immediate, like the glow of embers in the dark, and their anger is primal, quick to ignite but just as quick to cool. burnt sienna inspires action—a charge forward, unafraid of the scars that passion leaves.

★ taurus moon: rose gold is the quiet luxury of a soft-lit room, glowing with warmth and understated elegance. it’s the sheen of polished metal, the gentle curve of something crafted with care, timeless and grounding. taurus moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions wrapped in a soothing steadiness that feels like home. their love is rich and tangible, like velvet under fingertips or the scent of fresh roses. they crave beauty that endures, a life touched by comfort and stability. rose gold whispers of devotion that lingers, of love that doesn’t shout but instead holds you gently, unshaken by chaos.

★ gemini moon: periwinkle is the pastel buzz of ideas, soft and curious, flitting between lavender clouds and pale blue skies. it feels like delicate notebooks filled with sketches, like laughter drifting across a summer breeze. gemini moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions light and playful, shifting like watercolors blending on paper. their love is full of questions, their heart a kaleidoscope of wonder, always seeking new connections. periwinkle reminds us that emotions don’t need to be heavy to be meaningful—they can dance lightly, like petals falling from a tree, leaving beauty in their wake without needing to stay.

★ cancer moon: seafoam green feels like the pull of tides under a silver moon, gentle yet immense, quiet yet infinite. it’s the shimmer of waves against soft sand, the cool embrace of ocean foam lapping at your ankles. cancer moons carry this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions vast and ever-shifting, like the sea in all its moods. their love is a haven, protective and nurturing, like driftwood washed ashore—a reminder of safety after the storm. seafoam green whispers of connection that runs deep, of feelings that ebb and flow but never truly leave, anchoring us in their rhythm.

★ leo moon: goldenrod is sunlight spilling through open windows, radiant and bold, filling every corner with life. it’s the brilliance of gilded frames and the warmth of golden hour, a color that exudes confidence and charm. leo moons wear this aesthetic in their emotions, their love bright and unapologetic, their joy contagious. they live for moments that shine, for affection that feels like applause, for connections that make their heart blaze like the sun. goldenrod is a reminder that love, when shared freely, becomes something luminous—a source of warmth and inspiration for everyone who stands in its light.

★ virgo moon: moss green is the quiet perfection of dew-laden leaves, soft and grounding, a color steeped in the serenity of nature. it’s the texture of moss between stones, the scent of earth after rain, unassuming but rich with life. virgo moons reflect this aesthetic in their emotions, careful and deliberate, tending to feelings like a gardener nurturing fragile blooms. their love is shown in small, thoughtful acts, steady as ivy climbing a wall. moss green teaches us that growth is often quiet, that strength can be soft, and that emotions, like the earth, are most powerful when rooted deeply.

★ libra moon: blush pink feels like the soft sweep of a silk scarf, delicate and refined, with a grace that lingers. it’s the glow of twilight skies fading into pastel hues, the gentle charm of petals falling from a flower. libra moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions flowing like brushstrokes on a canvas, always seeking balance and beauty. their love feels effortless, a harmony that soothes and inspires. blush pink reminds us of the power in subtlety—how emotions can be tender yet transformative, quiet yet deeply felt. it’s the elegance of connection, the warmth of a heart longing for peace.

★ scorpio moon: black cherry is velvet cloaked in shadow, a rich and moody red that whispers of mystery. it’s the sheen of dark wine in a glass, the depth of candlelight flickering against crimson curtains. scorpio moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, raw and intense, like secrets waiting to be revealed. their love is transformative, a force that pulls you into their depths, where passion and vulnerability intertwine. black cherry reminds us that beauty often lies in darkness, that the most profound emotions are found in the shadows. it’s a color that captivates, much like the scorpio moon’s soul.

★ sagittarius moon: amber glows like resin catching the light, warm and golden, infused with ancient energy. it’s the warmth of lanterns strung in the night, the firelight reflected in curious eyes. sagittarius moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions burning with a restless optimism, always seeking the next horizon. their love is expansive, radiating joy and laughter, their heart untethered and alive. amber teaches us that emotions don’t need to be confined—they are meant to be explored, celebrated, and shared. it’s a color of hope, of adventure, a reminder that the journey is as important as the destination.

★ capricorn moon: slate gray is the polished elegance of stone, cool and timeless, a color that stands unshaken. it’s the stillness of mountain peaks cloaked in mist, the quiet resilience of marble weathered by time. capricorn moons wear this aesthetic in their hearts, their emotions steady and reserved, their love enduring and practical. they don’t express feelings with grandeur but through actions that speak louder than words. slate gray reminds us that strength is often quiet, that emotions can be profound without being loud. it’s the beauty of constancy, the comfort of knowing some things remain solid and true.

★ aquarius moon: electric teal hums with energy, vivid and magnetic, a color that feels like it’s always on the verge of transformation. it’s the glow of neon lights against a dark cityscape, the shimmer of holograms that feel just out of reach. aquarius moons carry this aesthetic in their emotions, their feelings charged with creativity and innovation. their love is unconventional, valuing freedom and individuality, their heart sparking with ideas that change the world around them. electric teal reminds us that emotions can be futuristic, that they don’t need to fit into traditional molds to be meaningful and powerful.

★ pisces moon: lavender mist drifts like a dream, soft and ethereal, a color that feels like moonlight wrapped in haze. it’s the shimmer of starlight on still waters, the quiet magic of dawn breaking through the clouds. pisces moons embody this aesthetic, their emotions boundless and fluid, like waves dissolving into the horizon. their love is empathetic and transcendent, weaving itself into the hearts of others like a whispered melody. lavender mist teaches us that emotions don’t need to be fully understood to be beautiful. it’s the quiet wonder of feeling deeply, of connecting with something greater than ourselves.

★ book a reading ★ ★ masterlist 1 ★ ★ masterlist 2 ★

[fortunxa]

the sound of her absence

Jinx and Isha

summary: Bravery wasn’t in the noise, the chaos—it was in the silence that stood still against the storm.

cw: pain. nothing act II didn’t already deliver. reader not mentioned.

author’s note: i’m quick with it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Zaun was a furnace, its heart always burning, always devouring. The city had been forged in suffering, a machine that never stopped grinding down the weak. And yet, somehow, in all its fire and ruin, a single spark of warmth had dared to flicker. A warmth impossibly out of place in the cold steel of Jinx's world.

Isha.

Her face came back to her, vivid and bright in her mind's eye. Wide, eager eyes that shined brighter than the neon glow of the city, full of a hope that had no place here, sparkling with questions, with admiration, with trust. The small, knowing smile of hers or the shrug of her shoulders, the one that said, "I'll be fine". And that moment—that moment—when Jinx's gaze locked with hers in the middle of the battle, when the world around them turned to fire and blood.

When the child who didn’t speak answered the world’s violence with bravery.

She had looked so steady. So determined.

So much like Jinx—staring down the chaos as if daring it to break her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the image. Isha, tiny and frail and far too fearless, standing in the firestorm. Her chest puffed up like Jinx's always did, that same reckless grin trying to stretch across her soft, round face. She had called out for her, her voice tearing raw against the chaos, but Isha didn’t hear her.

Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the problem.

She had always listened too closely.

The hideout was too quiet now, smothered beneath the weight of an absence Jinx couldn’t ignore, louder than any explosion she could create.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms and leaving bloody crescent shapes. The smog-heavy air seemed thicker tonight, each breath heavier than the last. She paced back and forth, her boots scuffing the floor, the sound filling the oppressive silence. She couldn't stop replaying it in her mind.

The air still smelled of gunpowder, acrid and sour, like a wound festering. Her fingers, smudged with grease and blood, itched for something to fix, but there was nothing left to save.

Jinx hadn’t been fast enough.

She hadn’t been good enough.

She hadn’t saved her.

She dropped to her knees, her fists slamming against the floor. The sound echoed through the empty space, but it did nothing to drown out the memory of Isha’s final moments. The way she’d thrown herself forward, packing gemstone after gemstone—overloading the power source of the pistol—before firing it at Vander. Or what used to be Vander, at least.

Hot and bitter tears blurred Jinx’s vision, dripping down onto the cold floor beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head as if she could shake away the weight in her chest.

“Why’d you do it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. It cracked beneath the weight of the question, but the silence gave no answers. “You were supposed to stick around. You were supposed to live. Not… not this. Not for me.” Not for anyone.

But there had been no hesitation in Isha’s eyes.

Jinx slammed her fist into the floor again, harder this time, until pain bloomed across her knuckles like some cruel reminder that she was still here, alive, while Isha wasn’t. “You didn’t have to prove anything!” she shouted into the void. “You were already… You were perfect. You didn’t have to—” Her voice broke, the words dying in her throat.

She crumpled in on herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, as though folding herself small enough could make the world rewind. Make it undo itself.

She opened her eyes to the dim, scattered wreckage of her hideout and glanced up at the walls, where one of Isha’s stick figures still smiled beside a crooked sun.

“Stop haunting me,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last word. But they stayed, stubborn in their simplicity, a silent declaration of the joy she had tried to bring into Jinx’s chaos.

She crawled to the wall, her fingers brushing over the faint lines. The chalk smudged under her touch, disappearing just like Isha had—too easily, too quickly.

Jinx’s hands trembled as she picked up one of the little girl’s old chalks, the color a soft yellow that barely showed against the grime of the walls. Her fingers shook as she pressed it to the floor instead, sketching the outline of a sun. The lines wavered, uneven and fragile, and she hated how much it looked like Isha’s.

Hated how much it didn’t.

She snapped the chalk in half, the pieces tumbling from her fingers, and rested her head against the wall, her blue hair spilling over her face like a curtain, hiding her tears from the empty room. “I wasn't worth it.” Her voice broke again. “Why'd you try to be like me?”

But hadn’t she wanted this? To be someone worth admiring? To be someone a kid like Isha could look up to? And now that it had happened, all she could feel was the weight of it, heavy and suffocating, like chains around her chest—grief.

Grieve.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, but the apology fell apart in the still air. "I'm so sorry." The tears come harder now, Jinx’s shoulders shaking with the force of them. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

Her pink eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where Isha’s jacket still hung on a nail. It was too small, patched and frayed, the kind of thing someone would have laughed at in Piltover. But Isha had worn it with pride, like it was armor.

Jinx got up and dragged herself across the room, her footsteps heavy in the silence. She pulled the jacket from the nail and held it close, the fabric rough against her fingers. It still smelled faintly of her—chalk dust and grease and something warm Jinx could never name.

She sank to the floor again, rocking back and forth with the jacket clutched tightly in her arms, as if holding it could somehow hold Isha, too. But the fabric was empty, and her hands came away as hollow as the rest of her.

Be like you.

Jinx shook her head violently, a sob tearing from her throat. “Not like me,” she spat, her voice cracking. “Not like me, Isha. You were supposed to be better. You were supposed to—” Her words disintegrated into ragged breaths, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears came in full force.

She couldn't breathe.

In the dim, flickering light, she felt her world splinter further while the quiet mocked her.

Jinx pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply as if the lingering scent could anchor her to a world that lost its sense once again. But all it did was remind her of how empty everything felt.

She sat there for hours, her breath hitching, hiccuping, her heart racing as her tears soaked into the grime of the floor, her sobs echoing through the empty space. And when she finally looked up, the room was still the same.

Isha was still gone.

All that remained was smoke from that single spark of warmth that had dared to flicker.

[13tinysocks]

My Dead Girlfriend

Good things are hard to come by in the desert, but surprisingly, not drugs. Alliances are forged over questionable motivations. A real romance takes root. 

[Part one]  [Ao3]  [10] [12]

11 * Sucker Punch [9k]

"My, my, my what a position:

The love of my life smokin' crack in the kitchen,

Lovely long nails and a nasty half grin:

"It's a livin'," she shrugs."

Some Kind Of Disaster Relief - The Taxpayers

        "Hey." You turn on your side away from the noise. "Hey." Louder. "Goddamn it," your cot was jostled under your form, "wake up shithead." 

        You peel open an eye to find Tracksuit leaned over the bed. The sun pierced through the porthole. Everyone else had gone searching, leaving him on babysitting duty. His life had been threatened approximately five times that very morning and hearing you hiss, "What?" Made you particularly unlikable in the moment.

        He stopped jostling the bed. Considered leaving you to get fucked but remembered- this was like being a producer. Nudge things the right way and the desired outcome should occur. His was mild entertainment and not the group eating itself alive so he said, "They sent me after you two last night." 

        Now you were sitting upright, bug eyed. "What-"

        "I heard you two mashing pissers-" 

        "Excuse me?" You shot out of bed, standing unsteadily.

        "-And I turned around and told 'em you were yelling at Omni Boy or whatever. I covered for you asses for like, twenty minutes. Do you know how many times I had to stop those guys from going after you? Too many. Almost beat the shit outta me and there I go thinking' you'll be smart and not super obvious. You come back, go right to sleep like you just got hit with the best dick of your life- like are you kidding?" His hands tangle in his hair. "Oooh, you're so lucky we're not full blooded dude. They would'a been able to smell that."

        "We didn't-"

        "I know fuckin' when I hear it, toots, don't even." His hand came to your face to shut you up, pressing to your lips, other arm securing you in place, "What I'm sayin' is, if they say shit to you about it at the fire tonight, you were laying into him but not laying him, ya hear? Cuz they ain't stupid, they know somethin' went down between you two and if I get caught lying- I'm fucked cuz I don't want those stupid assholes fighting and collapsing the caves- you know our only fucking source of water so sue me-" He stops himself from going on a tangent while you're effectively muted. 

        Your eyes narrow. Hands come to his wrist to peel his hand off your mouth to tell him to die. He holds firm, but not enough to hurt. 

        "Relax! I'm not a snitch and I don't fuckin' care. I just wanted to warn you that the next time you go romping around- be fuckin' careful, dude. If any of those guys went instead of me? They would'a intervened- we wouldn't be runnin' outta jerky, ya kno' what I mean. Nod if you get it." You nod. "Okay, alright, cool, I'm gonna take my hand away now and you're not gonna freak your shit on me."

        His palm, calloused and slightly sweaty unlatches from your cheeks. The arm that held your waist in place fell away. You step back. Your head swivels left, right. Double-checking you were alone. "You heard us?" 

        Under the mask his brows peak. "I'm shocked nobody else did, dude. You were like," his voice pitches, hands go to his knocking knees and chest puffing perversely, "Uhhhhnggg, fuck me Markus."

        "Shut up." He went ridged, quiet. Looks like your powers had returned for the day. You weren't foolish enough to make him hurt himself. He'd get back up and do you worse. Being found alone with his neck snapped on the cave floor also wasn't a good plan.

        He broke free about ten second later, shaking himself off like your control was slime on his skin. "Eugh, that feels like ass."

        "Don't make me do it again." You stand, stretch, feel your back crack. Find your dried underclothes neatly folded on Omni's side of the cot.        

        Tracksuit follows your gaze. "He's also not hiding it, awesome. I'd say it was nice knowing you assholes but- it hasn't really been."

        You pick up the clothes. "This doesn't mean anything."

        "That he folds your clothes like some house husband? I couldn't imagine doing that even for some bitch who gave my the messiest sloppy of my life. That's like, love, dude." 

        Your stomach curdles. "It's not." You check the multiple openings in the cave walls, where anyone could be returning at any time. "Keep your voice down."

        "I'm not being anywhere loud as you." He snickers. "Marrrrkusss, unngggnhh!"

        "Shut up, turn around."

        He did. You quickly took off the top of the armor and slapped on the tank top. You were pulling off the solider pants, back to Tracksuit when the control snapped. "You gotta- whoa! Whoa! No! I don't care how nice your ass is, I'm not getting killed over mediocre pussy!"

        You leap into the shorts. "You were supposed to stay turned around." You grab the pants and boots off the ground, slipping them back on. "And please, don't flatter yourself."

        Though your ass was hidden under tighty-whiteys, he still watched it. "I mean, you flattered him, who is also me, plenty last night."

        "Want to find out how hard you can hit yourself?" You toss the empty threat.

        He caught it. "Kind of, but I don't wanna end up lookin' like Seven. Lensless, you called 'im?" He sat pressed against the wall. "Crazy son of a bitch." Out of his pocket came that pack of alien cigarettes. Nine down to six he smoked in secret so nobody would ask for a hit. He caught your eye, "You don't plan on going out today, do you? Anywhere you could go they've already mapped beyond it like, a hundred times." He pulled the curtain from his face and tucked it to his left ear. Revealing the low of his face- Mark's. "Dunno how nobody's found shit yet."

        ***

        Sand. Lots and lots and lots of sand was shoved into every unused crevice. Mushy mold and mildew that he helped the bugs propagate, just to use as wall padding. Their super hearing was nowhere near full-blooded Viltrumite level, but he couldn't risk the others finding his personal paradise to share with you.

        It'd be ready soon, if all went to plan. Just you, him, bugs, and the dark.

        ***

        You knew you were near useless in this survival situation. They were aliens, nearly God-like. You were a doll to throw around. You yearned for normal people, to play with them the way the Marks played with you. To be in some sort of control.

        You consider leaving, knowing Tracksuit would be obligated to follow. But you also consider the more you moved, the more they'd feed you of Emperor at the campfire tonight. You could barely stomach what you'd already eaten. Puking was a constant, round the corner threat.

        The blue-wrapped cigarette was placed between his lips. A blur passed over his face and it was lit, glowing green at the end. He takes a drag, relaxing fully against the stone. A pillar of smoke forced out between his teeth, light gray, and smelling of coriander. He catches you staring and holds up the side of his hand, "Don't need a lighter when ya got friction." 

        You point at the thing. "Give me a hit."

        He leaned forward, held the cigarette out to you, glowing end first. You take it in two fingers and place it into your mouth. The pale filter still damp with his spit. (You hadn't smoked in a long time / You'd never smoked) and were nervous to see how this would go. If alien tobacco would kill you or not. You don't think, feel the hold loosening, so you suck it down.

        Lemongrass and rotten laundry had a baby that shit acid down your throat- that's what it felt like. You jerked, folding forward, hacking up wispy clouds of smoke and spittle. The control breaks and the cigarette is snatched away. Your hands are propped on your knees. You could only see his boots as tears stung the corners of your eyes.

        "I'd whoop your ass for that," the cigarette is placed back where it belonged between his lips, "but you're kinda doin' that for me."

        You'd curse him if you could.

        "Dude, this shit kills like, most alien species. Didn't you look at the warning on the box?" He points at a struck-through red circle with alien looking lungs in the middle. "No baby-shit lungs can touch this shit."

        "Obviously," you hack out the syllables one by one, trying hard not to puke on your shoes, "I didn't."

        "No dip." It pissed you off how easily he breathed the acrid air in. 

        You straighten up, pounding your chest, "What's in that?"

        "Uhhhh," he flipped the box in his hand, squinting behind the lenses, "a hundred percent pure Loethicainian root. Huh, thought it was laced with something else."

        "You didn't even know what was in it before you started smoking it?" Your voice cracks. Throat feeling like an uncleaned chimney after one puff.

        "You didn't either." The box disappeared into his pocket. His palm outstretched in front of you, "Alright, now give it."

        "What?"

        "You took a hit'a my shit, I'ma take a hit'a yours." His fingers flexed, "Hand it over."

        You flinched back, hands going defensively to your pockets. "No way."

        "I could just take it, but I'm being nice and asking."

        That was true. You preferred to have some dignity, so you pulled out a bottle. "Just don't over-"

        The lid was crushed off the top, thrown aside. He knocked his head back, thumb punching a hole in the bottle bottom. Cigarette held off to the side in his spare hand. The bottle was shotgunned before you could blink.

        "-dose."

        He groaned, threw the bottle to the floor. "Tastes like shit."

        "So does that." You watch him chase the bitter cough syrup taste with a pull off the cigarette. Man had taste buds of steel.

        He shrugged, "Ya get used to it. When's it supposed to kick?" He sat himself on the closest cot. Gray's. He'd definitely notice things shifted about but Tracksuit couldn't care less.

        "Uhm, I thought you've done codeine before?" 

        "Nah, buddy Rex did, though. Guy did everything he got his hands on." He sighed, hands going behind his head, now sprawled on Gray's cot. "Miss 'im."

        You stand by the cot edge, watching him smoke. Feeling no difference beside the burning in your throat. Maybe one hit wasn't bad. "That Guardians of The Globe dickhead?"

        Tracksuit smiled around the cigarette. "He made it to The Guardians in your world? Good for him."

        You sit, pulling the last bottle of codeine out of your pants. "Should be a half hour before that kicks in. You sure you'll be fine? That's way more than most people can take. I don't feel like eating you." Though there was enough of Emperor left to last you all a week at this rate. Hell, all of him hadn't been smoked yet. Apparently without green plants to burn there was less smoke, the process took days longer. What hadn't been cooked yet started to rot. Gray set aside the first cooked, stalest, safest jerky for you to eat. You hadn't today, though you should.

        "I'm an alien." He laughs, "I'm smoking the cheapest, but deadliest smokes in the galaxy. I'll be cool." 

        You tell yourself you don't care, that you're just killing time but you still ask. "So Rex Splode." You'd never met the guy but there was news here and there. People he saved said he was a douche, reckless, almost got them killed while saving them. 

        "We slummed it together awhile." He blew smoke past your shoulder to the ceiling. "Roommates while my parents were figuring out their relationship shit. Cuz like, Dad sprung all that crazy alien-invasion shit on mom and she was like 'what the fuck?' And who would want to live with those assholes anyway? Like rabbits those two, then they'd get on my ass for bein' loud. So, Rex 'n I got ourselves this piece 'a shit place in Queens. Roaches all over the place, you should'a seen it." He talked plenty but not normally this much, not so openly. Whatever hundred percent pure Loethicainian root was chilled him the hell out.

        "I lived in New York," you crack the bottle, "I know." You knock your head back. Feel the sour syrup slide cross your tongue. Your body goes slack, like all your problems have been solved when it hits your throat. You flop onto the cot beside him. 

        "Crazy how I never met you." He says, and you can feel his eyes on you. "And everyone else but that one dude is all over you. Makes me wonder."

         You tilt the bottle forward, cut yourself off before you really wanted to. High soon to go feather-light in your dome. "If you're gonna get all misty-eyed on me I'm fucking off." 

        "'M not." He says, "Just wonder how it didn't happen." He keeps out the part he'd been wondering about lately. That maybe, if he'd had you, things wouldn't have gotten so messy. Rex wouldn't be dead. That Eve bitch wouldn't be alive with the resistance. His Dad would've never called the Viltrum Empire to Earth. Things would've been normal and he could've lived his life doing fuck-all-bullshit till he died in a million years. Dad made sure things didn't dice out that way. 

        He could hardly see how you'd change a thing. Why you and Mark Grayson seemed to be so inter-dimensionally intertwined. Was it just cuz he was biologically wired to think your ass was nice?

        "Tell me about your Rex." He said instead. 

        You did, as much as you remembered from the papers. You mostly avoided supes, bad for business if you were caught. Worse for you if they wound up being psychic and didn't listen. Tracksuit listened aptly, smoking the cigarette down to the filter. 

        The high began to wax. Your brain felt fat in your head, skull gone, cheeks like jelly, everything easy. You'd missed being high. Angsted that the only reason you were was because of Mark. Always because of Mark. 

        You're looking down at Tracksuit, elbow on knee when you say, "I really hate him, you know."

        "The other me?"

        "Yeah." You can't get over how good he looks with a septum, even though you can't see his whole face. You wonder if there are any more piercings, any scars to further differentiate him. "Yeah, that dickhead." The words spill out, stupid, slow. "Ruined my life, that..." What's the word? "Dickhead." Yeah, exactly.

        Tracksuit flicked ashes onto the ground and dusted them away. Gray would notice later anyway. He couldn't care, these details were juicy. "What'd he do?"

        "He-" You look up to the porthole. Watch sand specs idly floating in the sun. Then you are there in the sunbeam. Naked, glowing, floating.

        You fall hard next to Tracksuit. He jumps up, watching you twitch. "Shit!" He'd forgotten you'd taken a hit of his cigarette. That you probably had minutes left to live at best. "Shit! Hey!" He shakes your shoulders but your eyes, rolled back to your skull, don't fix. You are stiff, then twitching, stiff, then twitching. 

        Then you're upright like a bolt cracking your skull against his, "What?" 

        He is unaffected, head like a cinder block. "I thought you were like, seizing." 

       "Me too." You rub your pulsing forehead, the only part of your head you could feel. 

        His breathing, that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding, hitched, began to even. "Scarred the piss outta me." 

        "Me too." 

        "Sure you're not still seizing or whatever?"

        Your muscles contract tight, tighter, then let go. "Think I'm just..." Your fingers find your eyes, push into the lids. Thinking slow. "I'm just stressed and that Loethicainian shit is making me tic." Better than being dead.

        "I mean yeah, you almost starved to death and now you've got like," he counts on his fingers, "seven super crazy boyfriends. No, six, and husband guy."

        "I'm not dating a guy who killed a different version of me in literally any timeline." You looked around for any broken hearted faces but find none. 

        "I don't think all of 'em did." He says.

        "A concerning amount of them have." 

        His arms go out to his sides, defensive, "We've all killed people. It's not that big a deal. You're still alive."

        "Not my Mark." You leave out the 'not on purpose' part. The Chicago disaster part. "He didn't kill people." You don't know why you feel the need to go to bat for him.

        "Good for him I guess, but he's a giant pussy."

        Your lips thin, defense came up your throat just to be swallowed because Tracksuit was right. "His girlfriend got hurt when you guys came," you start, unable to look at him and his stupid Mark face, "he wouldn't leave her. She was unconscious and probably would've told him to go help, but he wouldn't. Refused to fight you guys. I know he could've taken more of you out but he just-" You shrug, hands slapping against you thighs, "He was just a giant pussy."

        You lick at the codeine bottle edge just for the taste. You recap it before you lapse into shotgunning the whole thing and dying on the cave floor. 

        "Wow. That's insane." Tracksuit didn't care much for humanity or anyone in his life these days, but he couldn't imagine not fighting. Deciding one person was worth the effort to ignore everything else. 

        "Right?" You felt vindicated. You needed him to know, "I've killed more people on purpose than he has. He won't even kill people that he knows will bust outta prison. Just, lets 'em go and-" You laughed, shaking your head, like it was no big deal, like your sad, angry little life didn't revolve around him. Who cares about Mark when you're getting high with a different Mark? Mark would've never touched a cigarette let alone shotgun codeine just to try it.

        "He broke up with me." Words come out in a hot puke spray. Tracksuit's head snaps to you. Surprised you'd share anything about yourself with him of all people- seemed like you only shared to hurt the others' feelings. "It ruined my life."

        He's quiet a moment before saying, "Dick that good?"

        "No. I just-" Your fingers press to your eyes, head light, spinning. You knew you shouldn't tell anybody but keeping it in felt so bad. And you just wanted to feel good again, enjoy the high the same way you enjoyed Omni's fingers. Purge. "I did something for us, and it went so bad, and I just- God. He didn't want me or the baggage I came with." You felt like you were about to cry so you unscrewed the codeine for one more sip. Wouldn't kick in for awhile but you couldn't stand feeling like this. 

        "I'm not a snitch if you wanna spill." He offered. You accepted. Reluctantly at first, voice low so if anyone came back they wouldn't overhear. It was bad enough telling Mark Grayson how Mark Grayson ruined your life. It'd be worse if the Mark Grayson who murdered you and was still very much in love with you, overheard. They'd never let you live it down and you'd really end up killing them all, then you'd starve to death out here. 

        By the end, you were so high you didn't care that a few tears slipped here and there. You couldn't care much for anything at all, but at least Tracksuit was good company. 

        "That's majorly fucked up." He'd said when you finished. Among much more colorful commentary during your story. Calling you stupid for being head over heels for the first guy you fucked. For not finishing school. For falling for him of all people. "But, hey, we ever get back to that shithole? I'll help you whoop his pussy ass." It was the good nurtured chiding old friends did, that kind strangers do when they get high together. You knew it didn't mean anything, and you would never get to go home, but you smiled.

        "I'll introduce you to Rex." You say because you don't know Rex is dead. Tracksuit doesn't either. The thought is nice, as it is impossible.

        "How's that high treating you?" You ask.

        "Got nothin'." Tracksuit fidgets with his pocket, thinks of pulling out another cigarette but decides against it. "Pretty sure most Earth shit won't do anythin' to me so what's the harm in tryin'? You?"

        "I think." You don't think, lost a moment as your body tensed and untensed, "Whatever you gave me isn't agreeing with me but it's okay." What wasn't okay was how bored you were. Always sitting around or walking or eating dead guy meat. Lame. 

        You want to play, be entertained. You pull out your phone and try to find some meaningless game. Tracksuit leaned over your shoulder, watching you click through apps, a smile on his face.

        "You got any tunes downloaded on that thing?"

        You did, and he helped you pull them up. He had no clue what any of the words were. Who was singing. But that was okay. You lay together on Gray's cot, letting the music bounce off the ceiling and trash down onto your bodies. You were almost asleep when an angel came down, a shadow in the sunbeam.

        "I thought I heard something." You lifted your heavy head. 

        Baldie stood over the cot. Hairless brow raised at the scene. Fabric scraps in hand.

        "It's not what it looks like." Tracksuit raised his hands in mock defense. On high alert but not looking like it. "We're just hanging out, man."

        "Uh, I can tell?" He would've been suspect if any other variant had been laying with you. Not Tracksuit. He was stupid and inconsequential, but friendly enough. 

        You sat up to talk but stop. The light frames his muscle thick form like a halo's hug. Mark's expression on his face but not Mark's face, not with all the scars. He is him but so other and so beautiful like this and the music is so nice and you are absolutely fucking blasted.

        Your body tenses again. "Are you okay?" Baldie asks.

        You stand up shakily, body swaying slightly.

         "Hey, are you alright?" His hands go to the sides of your arms to steady you but you aren't seizing, you're dancing. Terribly. You're not happy, just high, and having recently cum. You're relaxed. Listening to music you intend to enjoy because fuck the misery. 

        "No." You say, "But dancing is better than just laying there while the universe dies." 

        "Hey!" Tracksuit said from the comfort of his back. 

        Baldie pauses. "You're... dancing?" He was unsure. Partly thought the movement a mild seizure. 

        "Guess I am."

        He's taken back. Four years ago, days before the fight with Dad. He had no idea what was coming. He could feel the anxiety coming off Mom in waves, it made him edgy. But he got to your apartment, floated out the window and found you dancing with a hungry dog you'd found in the street six months ago. Skin and bones now muscle and smooth fur. You held its front paws, going back and forth in little steps while the dog's tail wagged. The other rescues crowded around your ankles. 

        He landed next to you with a smile. Problems off in the wind. You traded paws for his hands and you dance together slow in the studio apartment kitchenette to the same music you played now. 

        He smiles, nostalgic for a past you didn't know, and takes your limp hand. Opens it gently with the press of a thumb. You let it happen, staring stupidly as his marred hand slipped into yours. He pulls you in, hand set at the small of your back. Then leads you to insanely unfitting music in a waltz he could barely remember the bones of. It was more like spinning in circles while holding your bodies together but you couldn't tell. You were high and in a sun beam and he was smiling at you and the music was so nice. 

        Tracksuit watches. Thinking good for you, get some more dick. And then thinking, Jesus I'm gonna have to run interference for this horny bitch till we all die out here.

        You're across the room now. Stepping on Baldie's feet because you're so high you can't coordinate your movements well. He thinks you're still half asleep and teases you. You laugh at something Baldie says, it's quick and you immediately try to hide the joy, but Baldie hears it and glows. Because for once, the laugh wasn't a nasty sound, but genuine.

        "Hey." Maskless is knelt beside Tracksuit's head, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. "Walk with me a sec."

        "Uh? Sure." He sat up.

        Maskless led him out of the cave, into the desert sun and miles away while you danced on. He landed in a skid, turning hot on Tracksuit when he came down.

        "You need to back off." He says.

        Tracksuit paused his landing trot, "What?"

        "Those guys ruined their lives for the chance to see her again. Don't get any stupid ideas that'll cost you." His finger found home in Tracksuit's chest. Honestly, Maskless didn't give two shits who you liked and didn't. He cared about keeping the peace. He cared about how he'd feel if he had William here and some douche who didn't know him was drooling to get in his pants. It was one thing for the other guys to want their ex, a whole insult for him not to even know you in his world. He wouldn't take sides, wouldn't tattle, but he'd watch and make sure Tracksuit's tracksuit stayed on for the good of the camp.

        "Whoa! You've got the wrong idea." He says it, but it's not entirely true. Tracksuit had been starting to appreciate your appearance a tad more these last few days. You were a whole helluva lot nicer when you were high and not starving to death. You were also probably a decent fuck and he really needed to cum, but that wasn't here nor there. "We're on the same side here. I'm not gonna do nothin' stupid just cuz she's hot, man."

        That was as earnest as Tracksuit got, but to Maskless it sounded like fuck boy bullshit. "You're going to get yourself and her killed if you keep acting all buddy-buddy. You can't lay on the same cot as her and ogle, they're not stupid."

        "Dude, were you watching us? That's super fuckin' creepy!" 

        Maskless's jaw hardened. "I wouldn't be surprised if another one of us was watching too. You weren't subtle. I didn't watch for very long, but it was long enough to see you staring at her ass."

        Tracksuit wasn't an unreasonable man, but a shortsighted one. A man who thought fists would tell the truth. "Then that's long enough to see I didn't tap it!" A fist was aimed straight for Maskless's chin. Sent him into the air. He spun, stopped the spiral a hundred feet up, face hard. Absolutely sure Tracksuit had a thing for you and absolutely sure he needed to kick common sense right up his ass. 

        ***

        The music died with your phone. After days of being used for flashlight navigation, it was bound to die. But did it really have to die at the best part of the song? You could mope but you didn't. Sleepily happy as Baldie guided you round and round. 

        Phantom watched from the dark. He'd picked up heat signatures from Maskless's body on the outskirts of the cave minutes ago. Knew he'd likely interfere somehow, Maskless wasn't stupid. He knew any blooming romances were a danger. Maskless should've broken you and Baldie up but instead he took Tracksuit outside. Allowed this to continue.        

        Phantom tells himself it's fine. You are happy. With someone else who is him, but not him. 

        He tries telling himself Baldie is a temporary creature of comfort. Like Omni clearly had been to you last night. None of this meant a thing.

        ***

        "Hey." Behind him. Lensless turned. Lost again a few minutes into exploring these stupid caves. Maskless had drawn him a mini map but Lensless was never one for directionality. 

        Scars was there, cloaked in the dark. Wearing that same old smile. 

        "Hi?" Lensless was perfectly friendly back, but his body was tense. Come on, a lone meeting in the dark was a prime murder locale. He'd done it himself enough times to know. 

        "I think we can help each other get what we want." Scars didn't have to say it was about (Y/n). He was just as obsessed with you, the new you, as Lensless was. That was why he'd gotten so lost in the first place, he just couldn't stop thinking about you using your powers on him. 

        Lensless was the perfect partner for the job. Slower than Scars in every aspect. Feared and discomforting in your eyes. And he wanted you to use your powers just as much as Scars did.

        ***

        You were floating on a euphoric cloud because you were dancing with Mark Grayson (and peaking on a codeine high). He smiles down at you, holding you. Dancing with you like he did when he came to your place after homecoming. You had been on the stoop crying with the night sky overhead, trying to keep the tears off your thrifted outfit. He'd missed the whole thing and you were majorly pissed, but he danced with you right there on the apartment stoop in his wrinkled suit. Apologies whispered into your ear, compliments as his hands ran over the clothes you'd picked for him.

        His excuse was terrible, pissed you off more, but you ended up forgiving him. You always ended up forgiving him. He was your first serious boyfriend, how could you not? You took him inside. Things escalated. You didn't feel different the next morning, though you told yourself they did. That being each other's firsts meant you'd be together forever.

        And now, five years down the line, you were in the same man's arms, but not really. Having just spilled your guts to also the same guy because the other guys who were also the same guy couldn't be trusted with that information. You were too high to think about it. That's what you liked about being high. Not forgetting things, but not quite being smart enough to remember.

        You don't know what does it. The sun shining through his black lenses, letting you see a sliver of eye through the material. Soft, drooped with scarring but looking at you so sweetly. Or was it the gentle touch you hadn't felt in so long? Calming and grounding, but not wanting, content with the moment. His lips, twisted as they were with old wounds, smiling for you, of all the rotten people in the world- for you.

        You kiss him without thought. Standing on your toes to get the angle right. His lips are opened, a question on the tongue that is soon forgotten. When he kisses back it's tentative, hesitant. Close mouthed and chaste. He wouldn't let himself taste too much of you. He knows he'll go mad if he doses on too much of your sweet belladonna. But you smile, kiss him again, and he can't resist pulling you closer.          

        Four years since he'd kissed you. The last one a quick goodbye peck, excited for a date the next day. He never got to see you again. Not the you he knew. You were warped and scarred compared to her, a mirror held up to himself. You were and weren't her. You understood him. 

        He let himself be poisoned with a kiss. Lips parting to let in your tongue.

        ***

        Hearing you tell Tracksuit about your Mark stung. Phantom wished you could've confined in him, but he understood. He wasn't a big talker. You needed someone to bounce off of. He could do that. He just preferred it to be just you and him when he did so. But no opportunities shone through, someone was always around. Listening and watching.

        But that was a bee sting compared to the gutting that was you kissing that marred thing with his name. It was a good thing, he told himself as he watched, you were still attracted to Mark Grayson as a concept. That's all this was, a proof of concept. But you just kept going and going and going. Kissing and kissing after obviously fucking Omni last night. Stabbing him in the heart as many times as you pleased. Did you even know how this made him feel?

        Fine. It was fine, really. He had to think as he took deep breaths through his nose. 

        It was fine because Baldie couldn't be in the caves longer than a few hours without growing agitated. He kept saying he heard things but Phantom's enhanced suit didn't catch them. Baldie was cracking up. Baldie was clearly your favorite and had to go. Which was fine, because Phantom knew just where to put him.

        ***

        He pulled away, flushed. "I'm sorry." He said, though he doesn't let you go. "Is this okay?"

        You'd had a taste for blood. Were in for more, voice low and wanting "More than okay."        

        He leans back in and stops himself. He knew you were acting strange from the get go, but let himself ignore it because you seemed happy and that's all he wanted. He saw it now, your constricted pupils, they way you relied on him to hold your weight. He had thought you were finally trusting him but he was wrong. "Are you-?"

        "High?" You finish for him. "A little." It's a lie.

        He feels the kiss was a lie. Illegitimate. He wanted you plenty but not out of your head. He wanted you steady and sure. Something to even out the roaring between his ears. His touch fell away. Your body followed after him but he avoids your advance.

        "I shouldn't." He knows but seeing you chase after him, eyes searching and lips parted, made him want you more. Which means he really, really shouldn't. "I'm sorry I didn't notice I-" 

        His teeth clack together when the fists come down on the back of his head. Body hammered feet down into the rock. You don't get to see it, already hundreds of feet above the porthole. Held by the middle where your body went slack against the arms caging you in. The pressing g-force ceased. You were far above the horizon. Above where anyone could hear you scream.

        You can see his legs, coated black, going into blue boots. Feel his body pressed to your back, grip tight around your middle. Fingerless gloved hands raking across the bare skin between your tank top and pants.

        "Hey," Lensless says against your ear.

        "Lan-" His hand didn't just press to your lips, no, he forced his fingers into your mouth. Dusty skin lathed across your tongue, forced to the back of your throat where you gagged, much to his enjoyment.

        "Much as I want you to, we're not doing that. Not yet." 

        He uses his hand in your mouth to puppeteer your neck. Makes you watch the fight below as it erupts into the desert. Baldie is pissed, but smart enough to know anymore underground thrashing could collapse the cave system- kill you all without access to water. 

        Scars is a yellowjacket blaze under the afternoon sun. Back for a surprise round two with the added stressor of you being held hostage in the sky. Baldie's distracted, keeps trying to pull from Scars to get to you and Lensless, but that's what Scars had been betting on. What they'd both been betting on. 

        Lensless doesn't let you go as he drops like an anvil directly into Baldie's flight path. His heels crack something in Baldie's back while Scars fist nearly punches a hole in his belly. When the impact is done, Baldie falls to the sand. Shirt torn, bruises already blooming under his skin. Blood pooling out the side of his mouth where some of his teeth had been knocked loose. 

        You screamed against Lensless's hand. Thrash in his hold as he climbs higher in the sky. Followed by Scars sporting a fully busted lens and a purple shiner. They matched in eyelessness, cruelty, and how much you wanted to kill them. 

        Lensless propped his head on your shoulder, observing your fit hopefully. "Are you gonna cry?"

        Scars laughs but says, "Your little boyfriend will be fine." That gets your attention on him. So full of hatred and intent to kill. Just like his (Y/n) before it drained out between his legs. He doesn't know if things will end the same and that's why he's here with Lensless. To change you, make you stronger by sheer force. "Just couldn't have him interrupting. He wouldn't get it."

        You bite Lensless's fingers hard as your jaw would allow, a growl vibrating through your body.

        "So weak," Lensless says but he's shivering in delight at the attempt. "But you should quit while you're ahead. If I get too excited, I think I'll crush you." He laughs at the idea. You wet and red and all over him, makes his cock twitch.

        Much as you hate listening, you do. "Good job." Lensless bumps the top of his head against your jaw. "I knew you'd listen." 

        "Don't praise her." Scars victorious smile melts as he stares you down. "You've been bad."

        You'd ask him what he meant if you weren't murderous and gagged.

        "You don't seem to get it. Those other guys, they're weak, useless. Couldn't take a bomb to the head like I can. They don't deserve you." He hovers closer, reaches between him and Lensless and holds up your chin. Fingers pressing hard to flesh. 

        Lensless pulls you back, out of his grip. A gesture that says 'it's not your turn with my toy, yet.' "Hey bud, you forget I'm also one of those guys?"

        Annoyance flashed across Scars exposed eye. "You're smart enough to work with me." He leaves it at that, no promises of trust or friendship. Lensless grip tightens, makes your bones ache, but he doesn't pull you back when Scars reaches out. Thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "But you. You've been letting them pass you around. I get it, you're sad, you're lonely, you're looking to fill the void. And you can do that! You're your own person. I just need you to remember at the end of the day- you belong to me. Everytime you lend your lips or cunt out them?" His pointer and thumb squeeze your lip, pinching it plump and buzzing. "I see it. I feel it. I keep a tally of everytime you let them touch you, everytime you betray me. Do you know what that tally's at?" His head tilts, waiting, though you literally can't reply.

        "Come on, answer him." Lensless jostles your rear with his knee. 

        Your hands, pressed to your sides by Lensless's arms, twitch. Scars notices, looks at them smiling. Up comes a single finger. Counting off your fuck with Omni or kiss with Baldie- he can't tell. Because it's your middle finger and he's laughing at you for daring to defy him.

        "I'll take that as an 'I don't know'." He sighs, "Everytime that number goes up, know that I'm waiting for them to leave you alone or with someone weak. And they will because they all are. So I'll find you vulnerable and alone," he leaned in, pinching your lip so hard drool started to seep onto his gloves, "and make you understand how bad I feel when you're with them. And if you're not strong enough to take it, you die." He's close enough to bite your lip. For you to feel the heat of his stale breath. Then he removes himself from your personal space all at once. Skin-crawling touch gone. 

        "Ready?" Scars asked.

        Lensless grins against your neck. "Oh hell yeah."

        The flesh gag was gone, but so was the arm around your torso. You hurdled to the dunes, softer than your human body but you'd splat like it was concrete on impact. You can only see the sky, the men falling either side of you, looking bored with terminal velocity. You snap, "Catch me!" 

        They both hurdle toward you, two sets of arms under your back. Stopping the decent slowly, not too sudden. When you're finally stopped, your heart is hammering in your chest, you're still far above the ground but no longer falling. Not safe because the men you controlled were no longer held under your will. They grin down at you. Satisfied before both sets of their arms fall away again.

        It's catch and release. They let you fall, scream a command with blood pouring out of your nose. They mock praise as they drag you back up high into the sky. By the third round, you've calmed enough to know what to do when Lensless catches you before Scars. You turn to him, grinning under the perpetual summer sun and say with a finger pointed at Scars, "Kill him."

        You are dropped because in Lensless's head, he can't kill Scars while holding you. The logic and semantics work against you. And again you fall screaming, "Catch me, catch me!" But he's too fast, too far away in the atmosphere with a fist poised for Scar's throat.

        ***

        Phantom watched the exchange. Let Baldie fall without help. Because he understood and agreed with what Lensless and Scars were doing. You did need to be stronger, needed to hold your own if you were to choose one of them. Work out that muscle of power because you'd let it go so slack in the desert. 

        He knew it'd happen sooner or later. You forcing them to attack each other, forgetting that morality and gravity don't mix. Scars tries to save you, he didn't want you to die even though he acted like it. Scars wanted you to suffer the slow creep of his corruption and not wilt, but thrive under it. Phantom understood this, didn't fault him for it. They were all creatures of some desire.

        Scars could not dodge around Lensless long enough to catch you. Your hold had been getting better once you'd started eating again. There was no telling how long Lensless would attack. Scars was ruthless, trying to kill him but just couldn't. The fact was, Lensless was the faster of the two.

        When you neared the ground, Phantom was there. Shot out of the porthole as a silent shadow, slowing you down then bringing you to a stop. Your unconscious body limp in his arms, stirring after a few seconds, as your body figured out it was still alive and not falling.

        You look up at him, shaking, nose bleeding, sun in your eyes. So beautiful, weak, alive. Your hand clinging to his chest enough to bandage the wounds you'd left him. 

        ***

        They lay beside one another in the sand. Skin burst open by sheer force. Sun beating down on their bodies.

        "You get it now, asshole?" Tracksuit tried not to sound winded, but he was. That gay little fucker could move.

        There was no reply. Tracksuit heaved up onto his elbows, thinking the other dead and more jerky was on the way.

        A few of his ribs were bruised but he breathed on. "You could've just talked to me instead of hitting me." Maskless said. 

        "I tried that, 'member?" Tracksuit flopped back into the sand.

        "Yeah, well, you're not very good with words." Maskless said with no bite.

        Tracksuit slapped him across the chest, earning a groan. "Nah, but I'm pretty good with a fist."

        Maskless smacked the hand away. "Don't flatter yourself." He sat up, sand falling off his shoulders. Insides pounding. "We should get back. If the others see them together, they'll lose it."

        Tracksuit ran a hand through his hair. All the gel he'd slopped through it before coming to your Earth gone clumpy and stale. "I just don't get it, man. Why can't they leave her alone? They're pushing her away by being freaks."

        "Because we're us." Maskless stood, "We can't leave these things alone. You wanted something bad enough to make a deal with Angstrom Levy, so you're no different from the rest of us."

        Tracksuit chuffed because the guy had a point. "I can. She's just some human." 

        "Would you be saying that if she was Rex Sloan?" 

        That name from that mouth made Tracksuit go stiff. "You creepy little fucker."

        "I know if she were William, I'd be acting just as crazy." Out came Maskless's hand, offered with no smile. "If not more than some of them are."

        Tracksuit considers slapping the offer away but takes the hand, pulling himself up off an aching tailbone. "I ain't you know, man."

        "I know," Maskless says, though he doesn't believe it. He and Rex had a thing years back before it all went bad. There was bound to be another one of him who had the hots for that idiot. Still, he tacked on, "I see how you look at her, I get the picture." 

        "No, no, I mean I don't..." Tracksuit let go of his hand soon as possible. 

        Maskless held himself with a seriousness he didn't feel. He told himself the same thing a long, long time ago. "You'll figure it out." He hovered above the sand, "We going or what?"

        ***

        The fireside is chaos. 

        You are drained dry of power and want to kill despite how your body is shaking from the adrenaline and codeine come down. Baldie wants them dead more than you do. Omni more than he. Omni held you when he heard, hand cradling your head as you tried not to lean into it. You were almost glad for the distraction Scars and Lensless brought to the group, because he was being obvious, and if someone asked you were sure he wouldn't deny it.

        Tracksuit watched on, achy all over. Back to treating your personal drama like his TV after a long day. Maskless nearby considers swiping one of Tracksuit's cigarettes. Sneaking out and smoking while this fizzled out, but he had to stay. Make sure if the peace snapped that the cave didn't collapse.

        Scars and Lensless revel in the jeering and suggestions of exile from Gray. The threats of death from Omni. Regrettably, they lived through your control. Scars suit was frayed, cape torn at all the edges but he was fine. Lensless's chest was exposed, skin gone purple with bruising. 

        After Phantom caught you, the two had played it relatively smart. Avoiding camp until nightfall, where Baldie told everyone what they'd done while licking his wounds. Only when he was proclaiming his hate for the yellowjacket and his minion did they make an entrance. Leading to the current hellscape of things.

        Despite all the talk, it was Mohawk who was the first to lunge for Scars, waiting for the fight with open arms. Phantom jumped between them, just barely able to keep them off each other.

        "Stop." He says.

        "He could've fucking killed her." Spit flies off Mohawk's lip onto his mask. 

        "Please, she was fine. Aren't you, sweet thing?" The second Scars eyes land on you, Mohawk reaches around Phantom and cracks Scars in the temple. Scars cackles as he hits the ground. "You'll thank me for it later." Mohawk lunges.

        Phantom grabs his ankle and throws Mohawk across the room. "Listen to me."

        Listen, Mohawk does not. He flies for Scars. "I'm tired of your face!"

        "We have the same face!"

        The screech tears through the room. Bounces off the walls. Reverberates through your bones. Mohawk's flight waivers, he crashes in a heap, clutching his ears. The rest of them are in similar positions, groaning, hands on head. 

        Phantom does not apologize, he is not sorry. "I was hoping you wouldn't make me use this." He says cool through the modulator. During the second day of the ravaging of Earth he'd caught out one of the re-animen. Taken the speaker from its chest, a tiny thing that he hid in the pockets of his utility belt. Down to the core, he wanted to curl into a ball and scream, but the noise-canceling tech in his suit's ears helped curb the urge. It also helped that he knew it was coming, that he controlled the noise.

        "Turn it off!" Mohawk snaps. 

        "Not until you listen." He says, louder, more confident than he'd felt in his entire life. Mohawk does not protest again. "You can exile them, kill them even, but it will not fix the problem. We all want her to ourselves, but we can't fracture into factions, We'll just end up killing each other and her. The best thing for her, for all of us, is to work together."

        "Fuck that." Mohawk spat, the only one able to speak over the noise.

        "You don't have to like it, but if you don't want her to die in the crossfire, you'll do it." Phantom is right. Feels the truth sink into the bones of everyone around him. Yet he leaves the frequency playing, "You don't want her to die again, do you?"

        Mohawk doesn't. None of them do. 

        He turns it off when he senses no more fight in the room. He waits for Mohawk to lunge at Scars. He thinks about it, Phantom can see it in his spring-loaded muscles but he doesn't. 

        Scars rises to his feet, hiding the stagger Mohawk punched into him. "We'll be back." He says it as he floats towards the exit, "Remeber, I keep a tally." His eyes are on you.

        Lensless went to follow, their partnership officially cemented, "See you guys this time tomorrow, cool?"

        They were gone. You took a shuddering breath.

        Baldie shot up to follow them. But stopped when you said, "Wait."

        "Don't you want them to die for what they did to you?" He tries to keep the anger out of his voice, the accusation he wants to level at you, at the others for letting this continue. 

        Your head was pounding. You were well into come down. Regretting and not regretting the dancing from earlier that killed your only flashlight. Regretting and not regretting the kiss. "I do, but if anyone's killing them, I am."

        Baldie shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know if you could.

        "I-" His lip twisted. How could you want those two alive even a second longer? Why? Did you favor them? Like the harassment? Is that what he should be doing instead of being soft and kind? Would you like him without drugs then? The anger chewing at his insides is surprising and sharp. 

        He shot into the caves to angst alone in the quiet, familiar enclosure of darkness. Even though he knew it'd make him worse. 

        You try to rise to your feet before falling back down wobbly. Head falling to your hands. Gray quietly brings the basin of freshly boiled water to your side for you to drink. He and Omni hover within reach but say nothing. 

        Phantom disappeared into the caves behind Baldie not long after. Nobody noticed. All so fretful over you, minds racing with options. But if they really cared, they'd be doing what he was doing. Approaching Baldie from behind.

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

two four

THREE

Something ominous looms on the horizon. For days, you have been meticulously avoiding both Acacius and Hanno—a strategy that, while effective thus far, has been anything but easy. The rumors reaching you suggest that Hanno has been pestering Ravi incessantly, demanding your presence once more. Ravi, clearly exasperated, has taken to openly complaining about being forced to mediate between your "amorous entanglements," as he puts it, since your self-imposed distance began.

You had thought your withdrawal would carry no real consequences, yet this morning proved otherwise. A messenger from the emperors arrived at your doorstep, summoning you to attend the games at the Colosseum. Apparently, Emperor Geta himself wishes to extend his gratitude for your exemplary work in tending to the gladiators—his and his brother's greatest source of entertainment.

"If you wish, I could say you are unwell," Ravi murmurs as the two of you make your way toward the Colosseum.

"I cannot risk displeasing the emperors while my standing with Acacius remains fragile," you reply, touched by Ravi's unwavering support.

"You should consider mending things with one of the men in your life, for your own sake," Ravi suggests, his tone serious, ever the wise counselor.

"Hanno remains tethered to the memory of his late wife, while General Acacius refuses to release me from our former arrangement. It seems there is no simple resolution," you respond, your voice carrying the weight of your predicament, as the imposing silhouette of the Colosseum looms ever closer.

"It would be far simpler if you weren’t so stubborn. General Acacius may no longer be the ideal choice, but you and Hanno share more in common than you’re willing to admit," Ravi says with an irritating air of wisdom.

"It would be far simpler if you ceased your obstinance. General Acacius may no longer seem ideal, yet you and Hanno share far more in common than you are willing to acknowledge," Ravi remarked, his tone laden with that infuriating wisdom he so often wielded. However, the truth stands—your union with your late husband was forged more upon the bonds of friendship than the fires of passion. Before his commitment to you, he was entangled in an affair with Emperor Caracalla. That, above all, is the most profound distinction between yourself and Hanno. You grieve the loss of a cherished companion who became your husband by circumstance, whereas Hanno mourns his wife, who was, perhaps, the great love of his life.

"I shall take your counsel into consideration, my old friend, yet I beg of you to help me survive at least this day," you say, casting an apprehensive glance toward Ravi. He halts before you, placing a gentle kiss upon your forehead.

"Years ago, I vowed to your husband that I would care for you, and I shall not falter now. May the Gods watch over us," Ravi murmurs solemnly, his voice a quiet prayer as the two of you resume your path toward the arena, where the gladiators are already assembling for the commencement of the games.

Your gaze instinctively searches for Hanno, betraying a desire you would rather not acknowledge. His eyes, almost alight amidst the throng of gladiators, lock onto yours, his expression that of a man consumed by fury. You and Ravi did not take the same path as the gladiators, so it would not be prudent for you to approach him. Yet, from afar, you watch him with a quiet intensity. The courage you lack to bridge the distance is overshadowed by the boldness he possesses to close it himself.

"I shall give you a moment," Ravi murmurs, stepping aside as if sensing the gravity of the encounter. "Do not forget—Hanno may not leave the arena alive today. Be mindful to show kindness, for this could be your last exchange with him." Before you can fully process Ravi's warning, Hanno reaches you with surprising swiftness, all but sweeping you away with his commanding presence.

Hanno swiftly seized your waist with firm hands, nearly lifting you off the ground, and guided you to a secluded corner. His fury was unmistakable, reflected in the dominant grip he maintained on your waist, his hold firm enough to suggest he had no intention of letting you escape. "Have you lost your senses?" you demanded as he pressed you back against one of the great columns of the coliseum.

"I could not allow you to slip away from me again," Hanno replied, his voice low but resolute, his eyes scanning your surroundings with the precision of a predator ensuring no one dared approach.

"Our separation was necessary," you say with some difficulty, the closeness of Hanno's body to yours a maddening temptation that clouds your thoughts.

"Your master forbade you from interacting with me, and you simply obeyed, didn’t you?" Hanno says in a low, furious tone. His anger is not just visible but palpable, almost suffocating.

You seize his face with your hand, your nails pressing dangerously close to his neck. "Say once more that Acacius is my master, and I shall tear your throat out," you threaten, your voice laced with an inexplicable fury. Yet, Hanno seems to relish this, for he steps even closer, his lips curling into a wicked smile.

"I missed you, healer," Hanno replies, his eyes holding an unusual tenderness just moments before he claims your lips in a tumultuous kiss. It is as though he is consuming you, devouring you with his kiss, seeking to capture you entirely while his hands map your body with desperate reverence.

If the two of you were caught, it would mean your undoing, the end of both your lives. Yet, some part of you whispers that it would be worth it. In truth, if death awaited you for this, a kiss alone would not suffice. Each second his tongue dances with yours stirs a longing so deep it borders on madness. You yearn for him to take you, right here and now, for the feel of him within you seems the only desire worthy of risking everything. "Do not die today, gladiator," you murmur against his lips as they part, allowing you both to catch your breath.

"It will not be I who dies today, healer," Hanno says, his voice steady, before capturing your lips once more, this time with tenderness rather than desire. His grip on you tightens, as though he wishes to sink his hands into your very being, to keep your body close to his for all eternity.

"I only hope you can forgive me for what I am about to do," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. Before you can respond, one of the gladiators calls his name, and he steps away. An unease settles in your chest, fear creeping in as you wonder what he might be planning. Yet, the weight of your obligations presses against your thoughts—you must make your way to the emperors without delay.

"For what reason is the healer present here?" Lucilla, seated beside Acacius, questions sharply as you approach the section where they, the emperors, and other guests await the spectacle.

"The healer is my guest, Lucilla," Emperor Geta interjects swiftly, extending his hand toward you in expectation. Dutifully, you step forward and kiss it. Moments later, Emperor Caracalla mimics his brother’s gesture, and you lean in to kiss his hand as well.

As you rise, your gaze catches the familiar figure of Dondus, the small monkey, bounding toward you with recognition in his bright eyes. Memories of the time you were compelled to remain near the emperors, so Caracalla could indulge his desires with your late husband, flood back unbidden. "He still remembers you," Caracalla exclaims, his voice carrying an unusual note of delight as he grasps your hand.

"It is an honor to be here," you reply evenly, though the weight of his touch stirs emotions you work hard to suppress. Behind your composed words lingers the haunting memory of the cold efficiency with which Caracalla and his brother had ordered your husband's death—right here in this very arena.

"We have been separated by the misfortunes imposed upon us by the Gods, but I believe a new chapter is now opening for us, as your skills as a healer have not gone unnoticed. Hands as talented as yours deserve to care for the well-being of emperors, my dear," Geta declares, his gaze lingering on you with a fervent intensity that borders on desire. You struggle to mask the fear swirling within you, wondering what fate the Gods have in store for you next.

The weight of his words settles heavily on your chest, but before you can gather your thoughts, General Acacius rises abruptly and moves toward the two of you. Your hand lightly grazes the fabric of his attire, halting his approach. "Is there a matter of concern, General?" Emperor Caracalla inquires, his tone laced with an air of amusement, as his fingers idly stroke Dondus, who appears entirely at ease in his presence.

"There is no matter of concern, Emperor Caracalla," General Acacius responds, his hand firmly clasping yours against his chest beneath the folds of his vestment, his piercing gaze directed at the two emperors with the weight of an unspoken warning.

“Our most illustrious general appears perturbed that we extended an invitation to his mistress to grace these games in our company without first seeking his counsel,” Emperor Geta declares with an air of calculated provocation, his words laden with mockery. The faintest smirk curls his lips, as if relishing the tension he seeks to sow.

"Ah, brother, such concerns would trouble him only if he were entangled with her. Yet rumors abound that they no longer seek solace in each other's embrace and that she is no longer charged with tending to the wounds of our noble General," Emperor Caracalla remarks, his words clearly meant to provoke. However, his statement seems to have unsettled Lucilla, who shifts restlessly in her seat.

"Brother, remember that we ought not lend credence to idle gossip," Emperor Geta interjects, rising with an air of authority. "If our esteemed General Acacius insists that we disregard his lover, let him convince us that their bond remains intact. Otherwise, let him return to his rightful place beside his wife, and allow my brother and me the honor of tending to the fair healer." As Geta’s words echo, Acacius turns his gaze toward you, his eyes locking with yours in a silent exchange. Without hesitation, he pulls your face toward his, as though intending to kiss you before the eyes of all assembled.

"Do not sacrifice your marriage for me," you murmur, your voice trembling as the weight of the moment threatens to bring tears to your eyes. The inevitability of what you feared is now unfolding before you—Acacius can no longer shield you.

"You are worthy of such a sacrifice, mea domina," General Acacius murmurs near your ear, his hand gently caressing your face. His touch carries a tenderness that momentarily threatens to weaken your resolve. Yet, you grasp his hands, steadying yourself, and move them away from your face, refusing to yield to the moment. There is a depth to your bond with Acacius, a connection forged in unspoken understanding, but you cannot bring yourself to jeopardize him.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to let the healer decide where she wishes to remain," you say, your voice steady, masking the longing within you to leave this place with Acacius. Turning toward Emperor Geta, who now sits observing the exchange with keen interest alongside his brother, Caracalla. Without hesitation, Geta seizes the opportunity, pulling you onto his lap with a self-assured ease that leaves no doubt of his authority.

Your gaze meets that of General Acacius, whose displeasure grows ever more evident. His clenched fists and the tension in his posture betray the storm brewing within him. "I believe the games are about to begin, dear General Acacius," Emperor Geta states with a sly smile, his hand firmly resting on your waist to solidify his claim. "It would be most appropriate for you to take your seat and enjoy the spectacle." His words carry a subtle provocation, a challenge cloaked in politeness.

Acacius lingers, his body taut with restraint as though weighing the consequences of striking an emperor in defense of his pride. Just as the tension threatens to boil over, Macrinus approaches, his demeanor lively and oblivious to the undercurrents. "Ah, are we all ready to witness the might of my beast? My gladiator returns to the arena today!" Macrinus exclaims, his excitement cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade.

Acacius hesitates, his head tilting as though he is torn, unwilling to move from your side while you remain seated on Emperor Geta’s lap. Yet, Lucilla intervenes, her steps measured as she approaches her husband. She takes his hand with a quiet resolve, guiding him back to her side. A flicker of disappointment stirs within you, faint but undeniable. What else could you have expected? Acacius has always belonged to her, to duty, to the empire. He has never truly been yours.

The tension lingers only a moment longer before the spectacle claims everyone’s attention. The gates to the coliseum creak open, and the gladiators march into the arena. Yet something is amiss. Their faces are obscured, smeared with what appears to be blood, masking their identities. For those with inattentive eyes, it becomes nearly impossible to distinguish one from another. But not for you. No, Hanno’s eyes—those piercing, tempestuous eyes—are burned into your memory like the sharp point of a blade embedded deep into flesh. Even amid the chaos, they find you, unyielding and unforgettable.

"Macrinus, what are the gladiators scheming?" Emperor Caracalla asks, his words slurred as he drinks from his goblet, already appearing too inebriated to speak coherently.

"My esteemed Emperor Caracalla, I have no knowledge of their schemes, but I trust it is all in service of your entertainment," Macrinus responds, his gaze fixed intently on the gladiators below. He observes them with a sharpness that contrasts Caracalla's indifference, his expression unreadable.

Your eyes instinctively seek out General Acacius, silently willing him to understand that something is amiss. He meets your gaze, his brow furrowed as though catching the silent warning you convey.

"You seem unsettled, healer," Emperor Geta murmurs into your ear, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. "I am not accustomed to watching gladiators face one another, Emperor," you reply, steadying your voice. "I am more familiar with mending their wounds when they survive." The truth, however, weighs heavier on your mind—Hanno is planning something, and whatever it is, it may cost Acacius his life. A fate you cannot allow.

"Do not fret," Geta coos, lifting your chin with a deliberate gentleness that feels almost mocking. His eyes search yours, a predator relishing his control. "Guards, increase vigilance near the gladiators!" he commands suddenly, his voice sharp and resonant, slicing through the murmurs of the spectators.

"Emperor, it may not be wise to leave yourself so unguarded," General Acacius interjects, his tone firm yet controlled as he observes the guards dispersing to obey Geta's orders.

"And what greater protection could Rome offer than you, General?" Geta retorts with a smug smile, his grip on you tightening slightly, as though to assert his dominance. The tension is palpable, yet it is quickly eclipsed by the spectacle unfolding in the arena. The gates groan open once more, and three lions emerge, their emaciated forms a testament to their hunger. Their roars echo across the coliseum, a feral sound that sets the crowd alight with excitement. The gladiators ready themselves, their movements deliberate, each one measured and precise.

Your heart tightens as Hanno shouts to the other gladiators, "Remember our plan! Our enemy lies far beyond the arena!" Surely, he is plotting something, yet his precision in leading the gladiators against the lions is extraordinary. It is as if Hanno is channeling his spirit animal, his movements instinctive and deliberate.

Blood is everywhere—some gladiators brutally slaughtered by the lions. Two of the beasts have already been defeated when a revolt begins, chaos erupting as the third lion aids the gladiators in breaking through the arena gates. Suddenly, the tension in the air thickens. Panic spreads as the guards scramble to escort the emperors away from the scene.

Caught in the fray, you find yourself swept along with Emperors Geta and Caracalla, fate conspiring against you. In the madness, you lose sight of Acacius amidst the swarm of guards and gladiators. The tumult escalates into full-blown chaos until a voice pierces through the din, crying out, "Protect the Emperor!"

Before you can react, you feel the sharp pain of a blade slicing through your skin—or perhaps plunging into it. You cannot tell. Dazed, you glance down to see your blood staining your garments, and when you lift your gaze, you meet the eyes of your assailant. Hanno's eyes. You are certain.

The attack meant for Emperor Geta has struck you instead, delivered by the very man who has awakened feelings you dare not name. Tears well in your eyes as you feel your strength waning, your consciousness slipping into darkness.

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (17/20)

Hey!!! What's up??

Let's calm down a little? Haha I know how excited you are, but today chapter is to lighten my beloved ones who still had doubts about R being more than a source. She really is!

I really loved this chapter. So sad, but so beautiful...

And don't blame me, blame my pms! (mommy is needy 😢)

Warnings: angst chapter! Proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha and Rio seek Lilia to give her answers.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist

Amélie

At the beginning, you were just a project.

A source of energy, young and vibrant, ready to be drained to the last drop. Until your skin paled, until your breath turned into a faint whisper, and your eyes closed forever.

They prepared you carefully for this.

The plan was simple: seduce you, shape you, enchant you, make you more and more vulnerable. Make you fall in love with the illusion, lose yourself in their touch, surrender without resistance. And then, at the right moment, they would take everything.

Agatha and Rio had handpicked you, they had felt you. Wanda and Lilia agreed without hesitation. They knew what to do. They knew your last breath of life would be the sweetest.

The purest.

Rio would be the last to drink from you.

The last to hold your soul in her arms and carry it with her forever. Because that was her destiny.

Death.

The last touch, the last kiss, the last goodbye. Rio had always been there, at the threshold between the end and the eternal.

But now…

That simply can’t happen anymore.

They can’t let you go.

Now, you are not a sacrifice.

Now, you are theirs.

Only theirs.

Rio’s studio used to be a sanctuary of chaos and solitude, where she externalized the rebellious waves of emotions that devoured her.

Vidal’s fate had always been complicated.

She hadn’t asked for it.

Carrying the souls of others on her shoulders, feeling their stories, their pain, their last words embedding into her… it was too much. But death never has a choice. Only duties.

And even if Rio tried to escape, pretend she was nothing but flesh and bone, just a woman with paint-stained fingers and eternal dark circles under her eyes, she knew the truth.

Every stroke, every brush, every color carried something beyond reality. Her paintings wept. Whispered. Shattered in sighs and sins that weren’t hers.

It was a burden. A destiny.

Until you.

Most nights, she arrived home at dawn, hands and clothes dirty with paint, eyes tired, chest heavy. Agatha would already be asleep—or pretending to be. Always one step ahead, always distant enough to never be attached to anything.

It didn’t matter. Neither of them needed more.

Until you.

Until Rio discovered what it was like to come home and hear hurried footsteps on the wooden floor, feel arms wrapping around her waist before she could even drop her bag. The warmth of your body against hers, the soft sound of your voice saying, "You were late today."

She didn’t know she needed that.

Didn’t know how good it was to have someone waiting for her.

Agatha, on the other hand, never saw herself as someone who belonged to another.

She had always belonged only to herself.

To her intelligence. To her ambition.

That was how she survived for centuries. That was how she built her empire, stone by stone, blood by blood.

Evanora made sure of that.

Her mother forged her like iron in fire, breaking any weakness before it could even form.

Love? Love was a distraction. Love was a chain, an anchor dragging fools deep enough to surrender to it.

And Agatha would never be a fool.

She watched her sisters burn, saw mercy being punished, saw how those who loved too much always ended up in ashes.

So she made herself strong. Made herself unbreakable. And for a long time, she believed that’s exactly what she was.

Until Rio.

Because Rio didn’t court her with promises or ambition. Didn’t try to conquer her with power plays or seduction.

Rio was free.

And Agatha hated that.

Hated the way the woman laughed without guilt, how she spoke nonsense without fear of looking ridiculous. How she looked at her without fear, without the desire to control or be controlled.

Hated the way, beside her, Evanora’s words didn’t feel so heavy.

At first, Agatha wanted her just to spite her mother. To provoke. But then, without realizing it, she found herself lost in those brown eyes and silly smiles. In the warmth of Rio’s arms, in the way she expected nothing more than what Agatha already was.

She fought it. For two decades, she fought. Because she wasn’t capable of love.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

And then came the truth.

Because the woman who enchanted her with easy laughter and casual touches…

Was death itself.

The shock was paralyzing.

Evanora would have laughed. Oh, how she would have laughed!

The brilliant, ambitious daughter, heir to her legacy, seduced not by power, but by the one force in the universe that even magic cannot contain.

Agatha saw her break.

Saw the sweet and calm Rio obliterate everything around her in an instant.

Not out of rage.

But out of pain.

The truth burned, and as much as Agatha wanted to deny it… she knew.

Agatha loved Rio.

Loved the chaos that came with her, and over time, grew to love what she represented.

So when you entered her life, Agatha thought it would be easy and sweet, like strawberry cake.

She knew what to do.

Knew how to manipulate, how to shape, how to take whatever she wanted from you without you noticing. That’s what she did. That’s what she had always done.

And then you relaxed into her arms and called her mommy.

And for the first time in centuries, Agatha hesitated.

You weren’t supposed to unsettle her, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her heart pound in her chest, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her want more than just possession, but you did.

She felt ridiculous for liking it, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t deny the way her voice softened when you said it, the way you fit so naturally in her lap, the way your eyes shone when she praised you.

She tried to deny it. Ignore it.

But every touch of yours was different. Every time you looked at her, without fear, without reverence, something inside her trembled.

Control slipped through her fingers like fine sand.

The first time you called her that, it was a slip.

The second, a test.

Now, it’s inevitable and completely natural.

Now, she doesn’t want to hear you call anyone else that.

Before you… they were empty.

Now, they are overflowing.

And that changed everything.

[...]

The bedroom lighting was dim, and they prowled around you like wolves. Anger exploding in their hearts. Agatha knew that your shabby little friend was a young witch.

Lilia had already warned her.

That’s why, when you asked for permission to go out with Alice after class, it felt like a punch to the stomach.

She could have said no.

You would have obeyed without question.

Because you were good. The good girl of your mommies.

But Agatha didn’t want to.

Something inside her weighed on her, something unsettling and unknown. You were young. You had the right to have a life beyond them. Beyond this.

So, she let you go.

And she never regretted a decision more in her entire existence.

In mere minutes, Agatha explained the situation to Rio, the unease burning in her mind like an omen. Something was wrong. Something had been building up for weeks.

Wanda, always watching, always questioning, always wanting to know why they were taking so long to “lend” you to her and Lilia.

Why the delay?

The answer was simple.

It wasn’t going to happen.

That’s why, that day, when Wanda appeared at the mansion, sniffing the air and saying how much you reeked of Agatha and Rio—it was enough.

Sharing you with Wanda was out of the question.

Rio went back to Los Angeles; she knew Agatha might be right. She had seen this happen once before. And it didn’t end well.

So they cornered you.

Cruel. Sensual.

"Go on, pet. What else did that little whore say about us?"

The touch was gentle, but the words were chosen to hurt.

You weren’t supposed to believe other people.

You weren’t even supposed to question them.

"She said… you only want to use me." Your voice trembled in a whisper. "That I’m just a source…"

The words cut through the air like a sharp blade.

For a moment, the world stopped.

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

Agatha blinked slowly, brows furrowed, head tilted.

Rio remained still, her expression unreadable, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

The room seemed to fold around you, suffocating, heavy.

Alice was a young witch. Inexperienced. An insect compared to them.

And yet, Alice knew about the sources.

Alice.

Not Wanda.

Not Lilia.

Alice.

But Alice wasn’t supposed to know.

Because that truth existed only between the four of them.

Rio, who had never shared the burden of fate with anyone beyond them.

Agatha, who held her secrets with firm hands and a cruel smile.

Lilia, sarcastic like Agatha but level-headed.

Wanda, intense, ruthless, loyal… Or at least, that’s what they thought.

One of them had betrayed. And the puzzle that had remained intact for centuries shattered right then and there.

Rio was the first to move.

Her dark eyes glowed like a black hole about to consume everything. She stepped forward, the scent of a storm rising in the air.

"Which one was it?" Her voice was a sharp whisper. "Who opened their mouth?"

Agatha’s gaze slid to you, your exhausted figure on the bed, your body still marked by the traces of last night.

She massaged the places where the whip had passed, her hands light and warm, like those of an ancient witch.

She caressed each mark with reverent touch.

"My love," she murmured, spreading a little more ointment on the inside of your thighs. "We’ve seen Wanda do this once before."

Rio paced back and forth like a caged animal.

"But that was centuries ago!" She said, arms crossed over her chest. "And Lilia said she forgave her." Rio pondered, avoiding her wife’s gaze.

"Lilia is too sensible." Your mommy’s hands were on your back. Massaging, caressing, and she smiled when you let out a small sound at how relaxed you were. "She has never put herself or her own will above us."

Rolling her eyes, Rio huffed. "Love…"

She had always been against Agatha’s desire for immediacy. If she suspected someone in a situation, Agatha wouldn’t stop until she had proof. Even if the person was innocent.

Agatha sighed, pulling away from you. The warmth of her touch vanished in an instant, and she got up from the bed, crossing the room with the lethal calm only she possessed.

"I’ll talk to Wanda tomorrow," she announced, her voice as sharp as glass.

Rio let out a brief, incredulous laugh.

"Talk?" She tilted her head, her eyes burning with something close to hatred. "And you really think she’ll admit it?"

Agatha turned to face her. "If it was her, I’ll know."

Rio studied her for a moment. "And if it wasn’t?"

The witch smiled, slow and sharp. "Then someone will pay all the same."

Rio ran her tongue over her teeth, crossing her arms. Her throat was dry. "I’m not like Lilia, Agatha. I won’t forgive."

The subtext was there.

Cruel and clear.

The last time this happened, it almost destroyed them. Almost tore them apart.

Agatha stepped closer, aligning her body with Rio’s, the candlelight shadows dancing over them like silent witnesses.

"I know, love. And that’s why you’re perfect for me."

Their eyes met, and in that instant, an understanding was sealed between them.

They had played this game for centuries. Survived every blow, every ambush, every broken alliance.

But this time was different.

This time, you were at the center of the board.

[...]

The set was alive with the sound of cameras, directors, and extras in their proper places. But Agatha heard nothing. Saw nothing. Time had flattened into a single thought: Where the hell are you?

Minutes before the break ended, a subtle unease made her check her phone. A habit. You always answered. Always came to her. Always obeyed.

Message sent. No response.

Her fingers slid across the screen, calling your name from the contact list. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.

Agatha waited. Took a deep breath. Called again.

Nothing.

Her jaw clenched, and a weight began to settle in her chest, dense as molten lead. Irritation burned her skin like a persistent fever, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, something she refused to name.

She felt the tension in her shoulders when an assistant rushed past her. Without thinking, her hand shot out, gripping the woman's arm firmly.

"Where is she?" Agatha’s voice was low, but there was a sharpness to it, something that made the assistant blink in alarm.

"Who?"

Agatha’s patience was a thread about to snap.

She inhaled through her nose, teeth grinding as her mind processed the absurdity of the question. "The intern." The title felt weak in her mouth. Inadequate. "I need to review the script. And she’s not here."

The assistant hesitated, discomfort plain on her face. "I... I haven’t seen her. But I can find Yelena to review—"

Agatha dismissed her with an impatient gesture, her hand moving to her temple as her jaw locked even tighter.

The break ended.

The cast returned.

The extras returned.

The director returned.

But you didn’t.

The unease crept into her bones, replacing anger with something heavier, more unbearable.

That was when her assistant approached.

An uncertain gaze, hesitation in her steps.

She extended her hand. In the center of her palm, cold and silent, was your phone.

"The security guard found this..."

Agatha tore her eyes from her own screen, where she had been trying to call you for the umpteenth time.

The world stopped.

Her gaze fixed on the device, and something inside her tensed like a trap ready to spring. Her fingers wrapped around the phone, gripping it as if she could squeeze answers out of it.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

A second. Two. Her heart stuttered in her chest, erratic.

Fear.

The recognition of the emotion made her nauseous.

She lifted her eyes suddenly, her voice sharp as an ice blade:

"Where is Wanda?"

The woman’s agent barely glanced up from his phone, his expression vaguely distracted. "She went out for lunch."

And in that instant, Agatha knew.

Tension shot down her spine, a distant thunder before the storm.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles turning white.

"Fuck."

The sound was nearly lost beneath the ringing in her ears.

Her eyes darkened.

"Cancel today's scenes." Her voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it was undeniable. "Everyone is dismissed."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She didn’t notice the confused stares around her as she turned on her heel and stormed out, her purple coat billowing behind her.

Her fingers flew to her phone.

Calling Rio.

Her car was parked just outside, but the keys felt heavy in her hands.

Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the door.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Agatha gripped the steering wheel tightly, her breath quickening.

"Pick up, damn it."

The call was finally answered.

"Agatha."

Rio’s voice was steady, but Agatha recognized that hint of concern, as if she had been expecting this all along.

"Meet me at Lilia’s house."

There was a brief silence on the other end. No questions. No hesitation.

"I’m on my way."

Agatha hung up without further explanation.

Her heart pounded, her chest tight with a mix of fury and dread.

If Wanda had anything to do with this, Agatha was going to kill her.

Lilia was sitting at her desk, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose as she graded her students’ exams. The tip of the red pen struck a firm line through an incorrect answer, and she sighed.

That was when the front door slammed violently.

The sound echoed through the house, rattling the windows.

Lilia closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling a slow breath before saying, without even turning around:

"That was a bit much, don’t you think?"

Rio’s boots echoed against the wooden floor, each step like thunder ready to crash.

"Where. Is. She?"

Rio’s voice was a low growl, something primal and dangerous.

Lilia pushed her glasses up, finally looking at the woman standing in front of her. Rio was tense, shoulders rigid, dark eyes burning, fists clenched at her sides as if holding back violence by a thread.

But Lilia didn’t look surprised. Or scared.

She merely tilted her head slightly, her gaze analytical.

"You’re breaking into my house for this?"

Rio’s jaw clenched. She stepped forward, her shadow swallowing Lilia whole.

"I’m not in the mood for games, Lilia." Her voice was quieter now, more lethal. "She’s missing."

Lilia blinked slowly.

"And you think I’m involved?"

Rio narrowed her eyes, moving in like a predator scenting its prey.

"I think… you know something."

Their eyes locked in a silent duel.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

"Rio," Agatha warned, urging her to step back.

She entered the apartment, noticing the broken door, but even so, she grabbed it and fit it back into place, using her magic to repair the damage her wife had caused.

"I didn’t know you were a carpenter as well as a witch," Lilia mocked, slipping out of Rio’s grasp to sit on the couch, irritated.

"I apologize for that. But you understand what’s happening here, don’t you?"

"Understand?" Lilia scoffed, lighting a cigarette with the lighter on the coffee table.

Long centuries and she had never managed to kick the habit.

"Understand that you two got more attached than you should have?" She pointed the cigarette at both women. "I understand. It’s happened before, hasn’t it?" Lilia let out a hollow laugh, something almost melancholic behind it.

Agatha and Rio both took deep breaths, sinking into the plush cushions.

"But you should know I have nothing to do with this."

"Lilia…" Agatha began. "Where is Wanda?" Her tone was patient, too calm. She knew yelling at Lilia would only slow things down.

Lilia took another drag of her cigarette before answering. The orange glow briefly illuminated her face before she exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes locked on Agatha.

Silence stretched.

Time pulled tight like a thread about to snap.

Rio moved first. Her body leaned forward, hands landing heavy on the coffee table with a dull thud. "Answer, Lilia." Her voice was low, carrying an unspoken threat.

The other woman merely raised an eyebrow, looking bored.

"And what if I don’t know?"

"You know." Rio growled.

The laugh Lilia let out was short, devoid of humor. Her gaze drifted briefly, landing on an invisible point in the room. As if she were seeing something the others could not.

It was Agatha who spoke first, not raising her tone, yet making it impossible to ignore: "I don’t want to play with you tonight."

Lilia finally looked at her.

Her eyes gleamed under the dim light of the room. "But you always know how to play, Agatha."

Her name, coming from Lilia’s lips, sounded like a sharp blade sliding against skin.

The air grew heavier.

Rio felt her shoulders tense. It wasn’t an explicit threat. Not yet. But the game was being set before them, and the scent of danger was palpable.

"Her phone was found on set." Agatha continued, ignoring the provocation. "And Wanda disappeared at the exact same time."

"Coincidence." Lilia murmured, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray’s edge.

"Coincidences don’t fucking exist." Rio shot back, her patience crumbling.

"You’re right." Agatha admitted, making Lilia and Rio stare at her in disbelief. "We got attached more than we should have. Honestly, I didn’t even know that could happen to women like us…" Agatha trailed off, her eyes lost in the ashtray on the coffee table, watching the gray smoke dance in the air.

"Yeah… it can." Lilia breathed, sadly.

Agatha lifted her gaze, her eyes now firm and unyielding. "I don’t want the same thing that happened to Amélie to happen to her."

Oh.

The name was a punch. A dry crack in the air. A weight settling in Lilia’s chest, constricting each heartbeat.

Her face changed completely. The closed expression, the mask of disdain she always wore, shattered in an instant.

"Don’t say her name." Lilia’s voice was cutting, but there was something fragile beneath it. Something even she couldn’t hide.

The silence that followed screamed. It filled the room, creeping between the three of them, suffocating like an invisible presence refusing to leave.

Amélie’s name wasn’t just a name. It was a specter. A painful memory that had never found rest.

Lilia ran her tongue over her teeth, impatient. She took another cigarette, lighting it with the tip of her fingers. The flame flickered before dying, but the name still echoed in the heavy silence.

Amélie.

Agatha noticed the tremor in her friend’s hands as she brought the cigarette to her lips. "You still feel it, don’t you?"

Her voice came low, almost soft.

Lilia exhaled the smoke slowly. "What?"

Rio crossed her arms, her expression hard. "The absence. The guilt."

Lilia laughed. But it was an empty sound, dry, devoid of humor. "Guilt?" She repeated, testing the word on her tongue, as if it were something bitter. "Every single day."

She closed her eyes for a second, allowing herself to feel. And then, the memory came.

The golden hair—half blonde, half brown. Lilia never really knew for sure.

The soft texture.

The scent of eucalyptus shampoo, a common aroma, but on her, it was different. Unmistakable.

The white veil pinned to her head.

White.

Pure.

Amélie was light.

And Lilia?

"But no amount of guilt I feel. No stupid regret for not fighting for her, for us… will bring her back."

Agatha didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze landed on Lilia’s cigarette, on the way she held it, as if it were a shield. But it was useless. The past always found a way to reach them.

"Did you forgive her?" Agatha asked.

Lilia laughed again, but this time, there was pain in the sound. "Did I have another choice?" She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I was the one in the wrong. I betrayed you all. My family."

Agatha leaned forward. "Is that really what you think?"

For a moment, only silence answered. Then, finally, Lilia spoke, and her voice was a rough whisper:

"Fuck... of course not. I loved Amélie."

Her throat tightened, her lips trembling, but she kept going:

"I loved her."

Tears streamed from Lilia’s tired eyes. She had seen so many things, met so many people. But no one, no one, had ever compared to her Amélie.

"Of course you did." Rio spoke, her voice mirroring something she understood all too well. "You were never the same again, Lilia."

Lilia shook her head, letting out a shaky sigh. "She was so young. It was unbelievable that someone like her would waste her years inside that damned church. But fuck that." She shut her eyes, a weak chuckle escaping at the memory of the girl and how devoted she was. "I’d give anything to have her here with me."

Agatha blinked slowly, absorbing every word. It was like looking into a mirror.

If she let Wanda destroy everything… she’d end up like Lilia.

Or worse.

Because this time, she would watch Rio fall apart along with her.

Agatha took a deep breath. "Lilia…"

It was a plea. A silent request.

The older woman sighed again, her chest still heavy, but something in her seemed different. Maybe it was the weight shared between sisters. Maybe it was the unspoken understanding that their support for each other was non-negotiable.

Lilia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, watching the ember die.

"Wanda has too many dealings in WestView." She gave them an answer, but lifted her head to look at the women already at the door.

"Do you really think you can stop Wanda?"

Lilia studied the two women before her. The intensity in Agatha’s eyes. The ferocity in Rio’s.

The love and loyalty they shared, binding them in a way that neither time nor darkness could break.

For an instant, she saw something she thought had been lost long ago: hope.

Rio growled. "If she thinks she can touch her, she’ll have to go through me first."

Lilia smiled—a small, almost imperceptible smile, but genuine.

"Then good luck."

And with that, Agatha and Rio left, leaving behind the smoke of Lilia’s cigarette and the sweet memories of a name whispered in the air.

Amélie.

~*~

And who is Amélie? Well... I can tell you this story someday.

Tag List <3

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[zae-heeyyy]

Assuage

Summary: Arthur helps you relax. Pairing: Arthur Morgan X Female!Reader Word Count: 1,269 Tags: developing relationship, very light angst, fluff, Clemens Point, high honor

an: This was an anon request. Not a lot going on here. Simple and sweet. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoy!

Assuage: to lessen the intensity of (something that pains or distresses) 

Sloshing buckets of water weighed a thousand pounds in your clammy grip as scorching heat spread like a brush fire from your stomach. This pain had been gnawing at you for weeks, and no doctor could give you a precise diagnosis or cure. Rest, eat frequently, avoid alcohol.

They didn’t know the lifestyle of a woman in the Van Der Linde Gang.

Obedience had never come easy, so last night, when Arthur offered you a swig of whiskey, his crooked smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, you couldn’t deny him. The golden liquid stung like hellfire going down. Still, a combination of its intoxicating effects and a new closeness to the cowboy soothed the deep-seated ache in your belly. As moonlight glimmered above the lake, you wiggled your toes in the sand and failed to stifle a yawn.

“Don’t let me keep ya’, Miss.”

“It’s no trouble, Arthur.”

When you shivered, part from the lake breeze and part from discomfort, he opened his arm like a drawbridge, inviting you into the safety of his castle. You scooted in, stiff, but when his hand found your stomach, heavy and warm like a compress, the tension drained like water bled from a moat. You didn’t move for the rest of the night, forged against his iron-like muscle.

Now, the next morning, regret was setting in. The whiskey irritated whatever beast had made its home inside of you, its claws burrowing deep. Trying to stay steady on your feet, you squeezed your eyes shut and froze. But the cramps expanded outward, turning all your muscles into stone. Before you could set them down, the buckets slipped from your fingers and crashed to the ground in a piercing clatter.

Catching the edge of a nearby table, you sucked in air through your nose, puffed out through your mouth, and futilely willed yourself invisible. But your prayers fell on deaf ears because, in another second, a pair of familiar hands sank into the padding of your hips. 

“Hey, you alright?”

“M’fine, just spilled some water.”

As you reached for the fallen buckets, the ground came at you fast. Before you ate the dirt, Arthur hauled you backward into his unmoving brick frame.

“Y’shoar as hell don’t look fine.” 

“I am, really.”

You tried to meet his unbelieving gaze earnestly, but the color drained from you as bile burned at the back of your throat. Arthur didn’t wait for another fabricated explanation before he dragged you away to the shade of his tent, grumbling. 

“Can’t be pushing yerself so hard, woman. You crazy?”

His palms clasped firmly onto your shoulders, silently commanding you to stay put as he stepped away. You sank into the fluffy cloud that was his pillow, but it brought you little comfort as you drifted aimlessly through the storm of your pain. 

His voice rumbled from the sky of the phantasmagoria you were lost in, and your mind followed the sound back to the waking world.

“You still alive?” 

You whimpered in acknowledgment, and your eyes fluttered open to find him watching you.

“There she is.” His lips formed into a soft curve as he caressed your forehead with his knuckles. “You jus’ relax. I’m gonna go talk to Dutch and keep Miss Grimshaw off your heels. Don’t go anywhere, now.” 

Your mouth parted as you tried to sit up, but he raised a brow and raised a finger, shushing you. Defeated, you swallowed and sank back down, staring up at the canvas of the tent and folding your hands over the source of your affliction. 

Time dawdled on when you were sitting still. If only some mad scientist could invent a machine that took pictures of your insides, you could finally figure out what was wrong with you and fix it. Having folks, especially Arthur, fuss over you sat almost as heavy as the pain. Yeah, you’d rest, you told yourself—just until Arthur returned. Then you’d get back to it.

And when he ducked back into the tent, you tried to swing your legs over the cot, but he caught your ankle and settled it into his lap as he sank at the foot of the bed. With a sharp glance, he tugged at the shoestring of your boot.

“Spoke to Dutch. You’re on bedrest for the next few days.” 

“But—”

With a swift pull, he removed the boot and dropped it to the ground.

“Don’t wanna hear it.”

A silent joust between your leg and Arthur’s grip ensued, and you lost quickly, pouting in your defeat. 

“Arthur, I can’t just lay here. I have to—”

“Quit yer yappin,’ and let somebody help you for a change.” 

Your other boot hit the ground, and he tucked your feet back together with assertive force, glaring at you. 

“Whatever happened to a woman listening to her man?”

Your heart burst against your ribs, and oxygen fled from your brain, leaving you dizzy and wordless.

“Mmm,” he hummed in amusement. “That finally shut you up? Thought I was gonna have t’climb up there.”

When you still didn’t say anything, only gawked at him, his hand shot to the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“M’sorry, I just thought that we—the past few weeks—I should’ve—”

Even though the contraction of your muscles made the sore spot in your abdomen ache evermore, you managed to choke out a laugh.   “You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan, a sweet, sweet fool.”

As his smile returned, his shoulders relaxed, and he rolled his eyes playfully.

“I can get behind the fool part, but I don’t know too much about bein’ sweet.”

You wanted to laugh again, but your amusement was short-lived. You hugged your arms around your midsection, frown etched deep.

“You gone to a doctor ’bout that, yet?”

Arthur had noticed, after all, despite your best efforts to hide it from him, and you hated it— hated being another burden for him to carry on his shoulders with the rest of the world. And like he was reading your mind, he rubbed your leg reassuringly. 

“You ain’t easy t’ignore. Not t’me.”

“Guess I ain’t doing a good job of hiding it.”

He shook his head and put his hand over yours on your belly.

“Don’t gotta hide anything from me, darlin. Ain’t got much, and I ain’t no doctor, but whatever you need, jus’ say the word.”

But that was just the thing—you didn’t want to say it—that you wanted to take him up on his offer to climb in bed with you.  But the fear of missing the opportunity overpowered your fear of rejection. 

“Stay, please? Just for a little while.”

Your heart plummeted when his hand left yours, but you watched as he took off his boots and joined you in the cot. He spooned you, both of you turning on your side, him rubbing soothing circles on your center.

“That help?” 

Truthfully, it didn’t make the hurt go away, but you nodded anyway because another feeling, solace, was slowly forming beside it. You shifted to face him, using your arm to support your head.

“What?” 

“Your woman,” you smiled, and he brushed your hair out of your face.

“If that’s alright wi’you, miss.”

Your eyes trailed down to his lips, and you closed the gap between you. He cupped your cheek as your lips moved in sync with each other. Sharp pain nagged at your insides, but his presence alone brought a semblance of peace to your tumultuous mind. You supposed you could spend the rest of the day like this, wrapped up in the cowboy. Dutch’s orders didn’t sound so terrible, after all.

[daybreakrising]

Alhaitham throws a cloak at the General, his precision allowing it to land on top his head and drape over his back. "Cover yourself up." He does not explain further and instead shifts off to find a seat where he can resume reading his current book.

Here he was, simply minding his business, quietly absorbed in the creation of a new TCG deck (one that promised to utterly destroy future opponents, of course), when out of nowhere, he is assaulted by a piece of fabric.

His cards are - temporarily - abandoned in favour of wrestling his head out of the garment, amber eyes fixing a look upon the retreating scribe's back. "Hm." He settles the cloak around his shoulders instead - not because he needs to, or because he agrees with the scribe that he should cover up, but because it's soft and smells more than a little like the man himself.

Which, for no reason whatsoever, the general finds comforting.

"Says he of the skin-tight shirt and off-shoulder coat." He mutters, before going back to his deck building.

[specsthesecond]

Witch Troubles #3

It's a fairly common practice among witches to form pacts with demons.

The witch gains a stronger connection to magic and in exchange the demon gains easier access to the mortal realm.

You've debated this decision for awhile and you finally think you're ready to forge your own pact. Worst case scenario is the demon refuses your offer, which would be embarrassing but not the end of the world.

You shut the door of your room, close the black out curtains and light a few candles. Squinting at the diagram of the summoning circle in your grimoir you try to replicate it perfectly on the old wooden floorboards in white chalk. When it's done you dust off your hands and place the candles in the right places around the circle along with a good amount of enchanted salt around the circumference for your protection. You stand up and take a breath before reciting the ancient words in your book while channeling all your energy into the circle.

The flames burn higher, so hot you have to shrink back a little. It takes all your effort and concentration to keep the chant going without misspeaking or burning the house down. A giant fire now billows in the centre of the circle, something large rises from the middle. You finish the spell and the flames gradually flicker away to reveal exactly the entity you were trying to summon. The little candles around the circle are the only source of light now, barely illuminating your guest. Smoke smoulders off its skin as it rises to full height and stares right at you with it's flaming eyes.

The demon, male it seems, stands in the middle of the summoning circle as tall as your book shelf and just about as wide. True to the drawings and diagrams in your texts he stands on two thick furry goat-like legs. The soft looking tuft at the end of his long thin tail swishes against the old floorboards as they creak under his weight. The rest of his body is charcoal black but otherwise fairly human save for the large goat-like skull that is his head. Beautiful horns, much too majestic for a demon, sprout from the white bone and curl into a thick loop on either side of his skull.

In short; he's the definition of tall, dark and handsome.

Two flaming pits behind the eye holes in the skull serve as eyes, they burn red and hot like the flames of hell as he glares down at you. You assume it's a glare, it's hard to tell.

You clap your grimoir shut, unable to look away from the demon yet. He seems the same, quietly observing you.

"Good evening, I'm sure you know why I've summoned you."

You say as calmly as possible. The demon looks you up and down and hums lowly, sceptical.

He grunts and crosses his arms over his chest. You have to use all your self control not to look down at the incredibly distracting package he's carrying between his legs as it bobs with the movement. Obviously you were prepared for him to be naked, demons don't wear clothes but actually having to practice that self-control is another thing entirely.

You're snapped out of your thoughts when the demon speaks, low and gravely like you expected.

"Witches used to dance for us around fires, bathe in the blood of sacrifices, throw orgies. This is all I get for my pact proposal?"

That's not what you expected. You were expecting some doubt sure but he sounds... offended? He's complaining?

"I don't need to do any of that to show you my worth. You can already sense my magic capabilities, I can show you- ."

He growls again. When he speaks his jaw bone doesn't move, the voice sounds like it reverberates around the skull on its way out.

"Its about devotion, witch. You show me your devotion and I'll give mine in return. No one cares for presentation anymore."

Who needs presentation? Sure, devotion is important in a pact but he's being ridiculous. You look around the room for a moment before saying flatly,

"My apologies but I will not be sacrificing anything or throwing any orgies and I cannot dance."

The demon scoffs and adjusts his crossed arms, thick biceps flexing as he does.

"All witches dance. Your ancestors where very good at it."

You scoff, telling him about your magic capabilities definitely isn't going to work. Why'd you have to get a difficult demon? Why couldn't you get a normal power-hungry one?

"Are you truly that compelled by naked dancing women?"

You attempt to needle him in hopes of avoiding what you know is inevitable. He doesn't respond, just stands there expectantly.

Some demons may agree to pacts based only on the power of the witch but others don't care for power and value the devotion of the act much more. You were very much hoping for the former but you're going to have to deal with what you got.

After a few moments of staring at eachother you finally crack and bend down to make quick work of your shoes and socks. You dropped your skirt around your ankles, take a deep breath and slide your panties down your legs. You see the demon shift his weight in your peripheral but you don't look at him as you unbutton your blouse and unclip your bra. You leave your black pointy hat on your head, assuming that's part of the appeal.

You only look back at him when you're completely naked, standing Infront of him and crossing your arms over your tits, mirroring his own stance.

He seems amused at that, You can see the little flames in his skull move up and down in a way that indicates he's soaking in your nude body.

"Unfortunately, dancing naked around a fire was not passed down to me like the magic was."

"A pity."

You scowl and the demon huffs smoke through the holes in his skull, chuckling.

"You're a witch, magic exists in your very veins. Use it. Caress your body. Sway your hips. Feel the power in your body and worship it as you would a god."

He says it like it's incredibly obvious and you actually feel inclined to listen to him. You close your eyes and try to "feel the power" whatever that means. You uncross your arms and place them on your thighs, slowly moving them up your waist and back down again.

Your skin feels especially sensitive being completely bare in front of such a powerful being, who is also naked. Just the light touch of your hand makes your skin prickle as you move your fingers slowly across yourself.

You start to arch and sway, hands moving up your thighs, across your stomach, along your neck. You free yourself, offering your body to this demon. The demon growls lowly and says in a deeper tone than before,

"The point of the pact is the connection. You summoned me, This is your pact to forge so show me your devotion."

His fiery eyes follow your every move, every sway of your hips and bounce of your tits.

You carefully run your hands from your waist up to your tits, briefly feeling the soft fat before moving up your shoulders. You stretch your arms high, now putting your tits on full display for your demon guest, the attention and cool air makes your nipples harden.

You turn around, your back facing the demon and he huffs irritably at being denied the sight of your perfect tits. His grievances are smothered when you bend down and run your hands up the back of your legs all the way to your ass, gripping the fat just enough to make it jiggle for him.

You can feel the room getting hotter, you can see his cock getting harder and you can feel the wetness In-between your legs as you dance.

You give one last tantalising hip sway before slowly dropping to your knees in front of him, on the edge of the salt circle. You look up at him while sliding your hands up your thighs, from here you have a perfect view of his half hard cock, looking so thick and heavy the sight has you nearly panting like a dog.

You rest your hands behind you, now presenting your entire body to him, tits perked and pussy drooling, devilishly tempting.

"Does that satisfy."

You say gazing up at him sultry gaze flicking down to his cock, you swear you saw it twitch.

"You know exactly what would satisfy me."

His voice is deeper than before, more gutteral and it makes you squirm. You might have been embarrassed about being so open about his effect on you if it wasn't for his obvious arousal for you. You're honestly just glad this is going well so far.

You lean forward, shuffle closer to the salt barrier and stick your tongue out, mouth open and waiting, silently begging for him.

The demon's hand goes to hold his cock immediately and he steps towards the barrier holding his cock out, but before he can place the tip on your hot tongue, you pull back slightly with a sick grin on your face.

The demon tries to grab your face but you retreat further, past the salt circle and therefore out of reach. You look up at his collosal frame with a smug smirk as he growls in irritation and the candle flames flicker violently.

"Don't forget, this is a mutual pact, demon. You don't call the shots... I want to be on top."

"What makes you thin-“

"I'm on top or you can go back home."

He grumbles something unintelligible, shaking his head in disbelief. One hand goes back to his cock idly stroking the thick member as he nods his head, accepting the terms.

You stand and steel yourself before wiping away a portion of the salt line with your foot, breaking the circle. You reach out for his hand and he accepts it with the hand not stroking his dick, stepping out of the circle and into your bedroom. His hands are immediately on your skin, thick fingers running along your waist and down to your hip. His skin is so warm, like the blood running through his veins is boiling hot giving the surface skin a pleasant warmth.

He stares down at you in suspense waiting for your go ahead.

You bring your hands up his chest and around his broad shoulders, and pull him down to your height only to push him down your body until his skull face is right Infront of your pussy. You let him get a good sniff of your smell before pushing him down to the ground with your foot, standing above him looking very tryumphant.

He doesn't have much time to marvel at your figure above him because before he knows it you're sitting on his dick, pussy pressing right against his cock, he bucks on instinct, the wet warmth of your pussy against the heat of his cock makes him let out a gutteral moan.

You slowly rock your hips back and forth the length of his cock, an impressive length but one you could manage. Neither of you can stand the foreplay any longer, his hands grip your waist at the same time you finally slide his cock into your waiting cunt.

You both groan at the feeling as you pop the mushroom head into your cunt and you slide your pussy down to the hilt, feeling every vein of his hot cock against your walls. You're so slick and needy the fat cock slides in with surprisingly little resistance. That makes him chuckle, which you cut off with a deliberate thrust of your hips.

You plant your feet on either side of his waist, moving all the way up back to the tip and then plunging back down again taking him as deep as he'll go. You bounce and hump on this demons fat cock, tits bouncing in tandem, pretty face in the throws of pleasure. It's a sight to see and he loves every minute of it, clutching your hips but letting you control the pace.

The fur covering his legs is soft and warm against your ass as you ride your new pact mate. Your hands rest on his strong chest as you lose yourself even more in the intense pleasure. Panting and groaning, as you approach your high, your thrusts get more frantic as if you're trying to get him even deeper into your cunt. Your eyes are locked onto the way his pretty cock disappears Into to your cunt, the fur at the hilt becoming wet with your slick.

"Ah~ cum inside, cum inside, cum inside me!"

Your frantic pleas are heard when he wraps one arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his chest, his other hand firmly on your ass pushing into you as deep as possible. You finally cum around the throbbing cock clenching your walls deliciously, pressed into his chest. He cums seconds after you, shooting abnormally hot cum deep inside you. Your body stills as you cum down, his strong arms move you body against him in shallow thrusts as he bucks up into you, riding out his high.

You limply lie on his massive chest catching your breath as you come down, ignoring the drool you left on his pec. You realise he's eerily quiet and look up only to find he's staring at your face in a manner you think is expecant? Only then do you actually realise that his dick hasn't gone down at all. You can't help but laugh, pussy involuntarily clenching making the demon clutch your hips tighter.

"Is this all for me or is it just a demon thing?"

He huffs out camp fire smelling smoke from his skull and leans up into a seated position. The change in position makes his cock adjust and you moan softly at the feeling while grasping his large biceps.

"You've got jokes."

He looks down at you, you try to read his expression but it's really hard when his hands are massaging your hips so nicely and his cock is touching new spots inside you making your head all fuzzy. He smoothly lifts your thighs and flips you both over so that you're laying on your back and he's hovering above you.

It's such a glorious sight. This massive sexy otherworldly creature staring down at you with such lust. You can't stop yourself from pulling him in closer by the back of his neck and mumbling,

"Do demons kiss?"

The demon huffs again and opens his jaw showing his razor sharp teeth, from the darkness behind the skull comes three appendages, long and wet. Those are his tongues, and you moan a little when you realise that. He leans closer and the prehensile tongues worm their way to your mouth where you greet them, mouth ready and open. All three appendages slip into your mouth to explore and rub against your tongue, it's so messy and gross it makes you clench around his cock.

He grunts and thrusts into you, thrusting his tongues deeper into your mouth making you gag. You stick your head in his open maw, pulling him in closer by his thick horns. You take the tongues with vigor and suck on them like you would a cock. He seems to like this quite a bit as he grabs both your legs and pulls your knees up to your ears, bending you in half and presenting your dripping pussy to him. He starts thrusting his cock much deeper in your pussy than before while thrusting his tongues down your throat simultaneously.

The pleasure is so intense as he gradually speeds up, working up to a brutal pace. He fucks you into the floor, so deep, so good. It's so animalistic it makes you go feral. He tongue fucks your throat with fever, his dangerous maw wide open. Knowing that he could tear your flesh easily if he just closed his jaws around your head turns you on an unthinkable amount as you take his tongues deeper down your already full throat.

You want him deeper in your throat even as you choke and gag. You want him deeper in your pussy even as he pounds you raw and hard, reaching so deep he kisses your cervix. Your brain is mush and your thighs burn, you scratch and claw his back for some kind of grounding as you quickly reach your peak again.

Your screams are muffled and gargled but the sound of your wet pussy slapping and squelching around his cock as you cum echos throughout the room. He growls and snarls into your mouth when he gets close, tilting his head back in absolute bliss.

He wraps his arms under your thighs and around your back to lift you up and squeeze you against his hot body. He pounds you even harder now with gravity on his side, forcing you down on his cock as he thrusts up in time.

His tongues leaves your mouth suddenly as he cums hard, groaning loudly as he fucks his seed deeper into your already soaked cunt. With your mouth free you groan like an snimal, tongue out, tears streaking down your face, spit running down your neck. You soak up the feeling of being folded in half and filled to the fucking brim by this demonic beast.

Your moans mix in the hot air between you. His cum is so thick and hot inside you, filling you up once again. You're so full you can't contain it all as it pours out of you and onto the floor. He gives a few slow, deep thrusts, milking his cock with your tight pussy as you lay limply in his hold.

You sit on the floor for a few minutes holding each other close and catching your breath. He nuzzles his head into your sweaty neck and moves your body into a more relaxed position so that he's hugging around your waist and your legs rest around his torso. You feel each other for a moment, his cock still plugging up your messy cunt. Hes quiet, like he's thinking about something. You're not sure you can even speak but if you could you don't really know what you would say.

He leans back to look at your face, you realise you probably look an absolute mess, tear streaked face with spit all over your mouth and chin. He looks into your eyes like he's looking for something specific and you look back into his two small flames. He slightly nods and then holds you close to his chest once more, enveloping you with his body.

Suddenly your body gets hot, he gets hot. His hold is like a hot vice and you struggle against it on instinct but he just holds you tighter. You almost scream when you feel a red hot flash in every artery and vein in your body. The heat is gone just as quickly as it came and you sigh in relief before looking up at him in shock when you suddenly realise what he just did.

He accepted the pact proposal.

You let out a breathless laugh and lean up to place wet kisses all over his skull head.

He growls low and irritable like a cat.

"That's not necessary."

He grumbles like he's annoyed but doesn't move away from you as you give a few more kisses along his jaw. His tail swishes idly behind him.

"Well neither was fucking me. Twice."

You tease him while reaching for your discarded hat and plopping it back on your head. You shakily stand up on wobbly legs, he holds his hands out to your hips to stabilise you. Cum drips out of your cunt and his gaze is drawn to where it oozes down your thighs.

"Not that I'm complaining."

You balance yourself with your hands on his shoulders and clear your throat, trying to seem a little put together as he stares up at you. You very casually lift your leg to rest it on his shoulder, presenting your puffy, dripping cunt to him.

"Are you the fuck and leave type or do you stay for the cleanup? "

The demon chuckles and opens his maw again, wet tongues slipping out and reaching for you, licking up your cum covered thighs and up to the source of the mess.

You're both going to make very good use of this pact.

[insomniaccorner]

Blood and Ectoplasm

Crime Alley had always felt haunted. Jason Todd knew that better than anyone.

But this? This was different.

The night pressed heavy against the streets, the usual Gotham smog thickened by something deeper, something unseen. Jason moved through the alleys like a shadow, boots silent on damp pavement. The smell of rain clung to the air, mixing with the ever-present stench of cigarette smoke and old blood.

The reports had been vague, scattered whispers from the usual lowlifes. Muggers jumped by something glowing. Thugs left unconscious, their victims unharmed. Some swore they saw a figure floating, eyes burning neon green.

Normally, Jason would brush it off as another rogue metahuman or maybe one of Bruce’s new recruits playing hero without backup. But the way they described it—

"It wasn’t human."

Jason adjusted his grip on his pistol. Whatever was out here, he was about to find it.

Then, a flash of green light flickered in the distance. A rooftop, just ahead.

Jason exhaled slowly, and moved.

Danny Phantom had been to a lot of places in his time as a ghost. The Ghost Zone, Amity Park, alternate dimensions. But Gotham?

Gotham felt wrong.

The ectoplasmic corruption here was thick, choking the air like poison. It wasn't just the standard residue from restless spirits—it was alive, shifting beneath the city's surface, coiling like a sickness that had long since taken root.

Danny floated above the alleyways, scanning the streets below. His aura burned brighter than usual, reacting to the energy pulsing beneath his feet.

He’d been tracking the source for hours, but now he was sure.

Something in this city was infected with corrupted ectoplasm. And it was close.

Too close.

A gunshot rang out.

Danny turned just in time to see the bullet coming straight for his head.

His instincts kicked in. He phased, the round passing harmlessly through his skull as he twisted midair.

Below him, standing in the streetlight’s glow, was a man in red and black armor.

Helmeted. Armed. And already aiming again.

Danny barely had time to register him before another shot rang out.

Jason didn’t hesitate. He fired again, watching as the figure dodged—no, phased through the bullet like it was nothing.

Definitely not a metahuman.

Jason’s grip on his gun tightened. "You’ve got three seconds to tell me what the hell you are before I make sure you can’t float away, Casper."

The glowing figure, still hovering a few feet above the ground, raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Jeez, ever heard of saying hello first?"

Jason didn't answer. He moved.

A flick of his wrist, and his pistol was holstered, replaced with a throwing knife laced in Lazarus-forged steel.

The knife flew.

Danny dodged—but not fast enough. The blade sliced through his arm, burning in a way that made his entire body seize.

Danny hissed, gripping his arm. His fingers came away stained in ectoplasm.

Jason took a slow step forward, watching him closely. "Huh. So you can bleed."

Danny’s glowing green eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, Jason saw recognition.

"You—" Danny inhaled sharply, eyes narrowing. His gaze flickered over Jason, the glow in his irises deepening. "You're—this energy—"

Then his expression hardened.

"Oh," he muttered. "You're the problem."

Jason didn’t know what that meant, and he didn’t care.

Because the next second, Danny attacked.

Jason had fought metas before. He’d fought monsters, assassins, even demons. But fighting Danny Phantom was like fighting a ghost made of lightning.

Danny moved too fast, blinking in and out of tangibility, dodging bullets, appearing behind Jason before he could react. Jason barely managed to block an ectoplasmic blast with his armored gauntlet before swinging one of his knives straight for Danny’s throat.

Danny phased—only to curse when Jason switched hands, slashing upward.

The Lazarus-infused blade met ghostly flesh.

Danny choked back a shout as the steel burned through his shoulder.

Jason saw the flicker of pain across Danny’s face.

Then, the air cracked.

Jason felt it before he understood it—something surging, thickening between them. The air burned cold and hot all at once. The moment Jason reached out—the moment he grabbed Danny by the wrist—

The world collapsed.

It was like being submerged in ice.

Jason staggered, his vision ripped away. No longer in the alley. No longer in Gotham.

He stood in a swirling void of green and black, weightless.

Doors floated in the distance, stretching into infinity. Whispers crawled through the mist.

Ahead of him, Danny Phantom hovered—but he wasn’t the same.

A crown of spectral energy burned above his head. His form flickered, no longer just a teenager in a hazmat suit, but something older. More.

Jason exhaled, his breath misting in the unnatural cold.

His rage—the fire that had burned beneath his skin since his resurrection—was gone.

For the first time in years, his mind was quiet.

Danny’s voice came slow, careful. "The Lazarus Pit’s hold on you—it doesn’t work here."

Jason didn’t answer, staring at his hands. They weren’t trembling.

Danny floated closer. "You’re drowning in it, aren’t you?"

Jason’s jaw clenched. "I don’t need a damn intervention."

Danny sighed, tilting his head toward the floating doors around them. "You don’t have a choice. The longer we fight, the worse the Pit’s corruption gets. For both of us."

Jason barely heard him. Because now, he was seeing.

The Ghost Zone pulsed around him, warping, shifting. And within it, like reflections in glass—

His own memories.

Pain. Agony. Hands clawing against a coffin lid.

A child's scream.

The roar of the Pit as it dragged him back.

Jason’s breath hitched. He staggered back, head pounding.

Danny’s expression softened. "Jason—"

Jason’s fist clenched. "Get me the hell out of here."

Danny studied him for a moment longer. Then, with a quiet sigh, he raised his hand.

The world snapped back into place.

Jason landed hard, boots scraping against Gotham pavement. His pulse hammered in his ears. The Pit’s energy returned, but it was weaker now. Fading at the edges.

Danny dusted himself off, his glow dimming slightly. "Well," he muttered. "That was fun. Let’s not do that again."

Jason exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "No promises."

Danny studied him. Then, after a beat, he tilted his head. "You know, I could help."

Jason scoffed. "I don’t need—"

Danny raised an eyebrow.

Jason scowled. Looked away.

Danny smirked. "Alright, Red. See you around."

Then, with a flicker of green light, he vanished.

Jason stood in the alley for a long moment, staring at the empty space where Danny had been.

For the first time in a long time, the whispers of the Pit didn’t feel so loud.

(Kinda had this in my notes for awhile, edited it a bit and made it longer cause plot)