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#are those BELTS on his shoulders??? they're running out of ideas

darklydeliciousdesires · 2 years

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Saw your Drabble list and I have to say, I have not clicked on a “ask me anything” button that quick in a very long time!

Could I pretty pretty please request Jax Teller & Number 16? Eeekkk!! 🤤

You can indeed! This one kinda got away from me a little. I'm like that, though. My drabbles get wordy, lol!

Smut below the cut, minors DNI!

You've been dating Jax for a few weeks now, spending time with him going on dates, or, more often than not, hanging out at the club. Just like tonight.

"Are we really playing this goddamned game?" Happy grunts, folding his arms. "It ain't like any of us is gonna welch on a dare, or not tell any kind of uncomfortable truth."

"Truth or dare?" Tig shouts, drumming his hands off the table.

"Truth."

"Did you really fuck Jackie Adams?" You have no idea who the woman is, but the very mention of her name seems to make Happy suddenly stiffen up.

He glares, lifting the shot glass to his lips. "Fuck you."

"Ahhhh!" Tig roars, "yeah, you did! And you don't want to give up that uncomfortable truth, that you banged a broad who's at least sixty-five!"

"She's a hot sixty-five, and shit, at least she still had a pulse, you corpse-humping motherfucker."

You stand there and laugh, shaking your head, Tig spying you.

"Hey! (Y/N), you down for a little of this?"

"Not if those are the kind of questions you're gonna ask!" you cry, laughing.

"Why, how many sixty-five women have you been banging recently?" Jax asks, bobbing his tongue between his teeth playfully with a huge grin when you scowl at him.

"I'll give you something more appropriate, that's if you pick truth. So, truth or dare, baby!"

"Dare."

A nearby Chibs winces for you. "Now you've done it, lass." He isn't wrong either.

"Flash us your tits," Tig demands.

"Told you, but I'm kinda not mad at him. Could have been a whole lot worse, that was a pretty tame ask, for him," Chibs chuckles, turning to wink at you. "No disrespect, Jackie, but your girl is crackin'."

"None taken, because I know she won't do it either," he replies, taking a sip of his beer.

You shrug, making a small humming noise. "A dare is a dare." With that, you pull your top up to an absolute barrage of whistles, yells and table thumping, Tig applauding you the loudest. "She don't even wear a bra! That's amazing! Here, hon, take a shot. Nice rack."

Pulling your top down again, you take it, tapping the shot glass off the side of his and sinking it, turning to Jax, trying not to laugh as he shakes his head, not able to bite back his grin.

“Did you really just do that?”

“I did,” you confirm, Jax still shaking his head.

"You're trouble."

Pulling him close by his belt, you plant a kiss on his lips. "Trouble you can handle." With that, he ducks down and throws you over his shoulder, his brother's wolf whistling in your wake, carrying you off to his usual bunk room, kicking the door shut and throwing you down on the bed.

He hovers above you, eyeing you in a way you can't quite read, a little flare of panic rising in your throat. "You're not mad at me, are you?"

He snorts, shaking his head. "No, darlin'. Well, maybe a little, that the guys got a better first look at your tits than I did." He then strips you of your top, kneeling between your legs, his large, ring-adorned hands stroking the soft flesh of each breast, fingertips teasing at your nipples. "Mmmm, they're pretty."

"There's something else I have that I'm told is pretty, too." He follows your gaze downwards, looking back up with a soft burst of laughter through his nose, unbuttoning your jeans, pulling them and your undies off in one swift tug.

"Well," he begins, parting your thighs, taking a very good look at you. "I'm glad I'm definitely the first to be able to agree with that." He then falls silent, except for the sound of him running licks through your folds, sucking hungrily on your clit, and making you wonder why on earth it took you three weeks to get to this point with him.

Good job you chose that moment to honour the dare and flash your tits, really, isn't it?

#jax teller #jax teller smut #jax teller x female reader #jax teller drabble #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller imagine #sons of anarchy #sons of anarchy smut #sons of anarchy imagine #sons of anarchy fanfiction #sons of anarchy fanfic #ddd drabble requests

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lullabyes22-blog · 3 months

Text

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

Summary:

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

War was simpler business…

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

Thank you for the graphics @lipsticksandmolotovs<3

Mal de Mer on AO3

Mal de Mer on FFnet

CHAPTER

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

꧁꧂

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

~ "When Doves Cry" - Prince

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

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

A pirate's dream come true.

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

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

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

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

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

"The difference?"

"A world of it."

"And yet the effect's the same."

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

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

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

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

"They're called oxfords."

"They're a disgrace."

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

"You mean, mercenary."

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

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

"Run from what?"

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

"Enforcers."

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

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

"Watch your step. Rough roads in Zaun."

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

The people, trapped beneath, dying by degrees.

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

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

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

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

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

Treasure, Mel thinks, isn't always gold.

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

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

"Oh?"

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

"You'll show me."

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

"By being your wife."

"Is that the new currency, now?"

"The press certainly say so."

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

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

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

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

A small price, Mel thinks, for shared prosperity.

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

"Takes one to know one."

"I never scheme. I merely plan ahead."

"Same difference."

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

"And what's yours?"

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

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

Whatever his plan, it involves getting their feet wet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where is he going?" Mel asks.

"To fetch something."

"Fetch what?"

"What I've asked him to."

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

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

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

His palm cups her elbow. "Mel."

She stirs from her reverie. "What?"

"I have a request."

"A request?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

"Silco—"

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

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

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

"Why would I do that?"

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

"Even if you run us aground?"

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

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

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

Now, he's asking her to—what?

Trade, or give it up?

"If," Mel says, "there's a danger—"

"There isn't."

"But you believe I'll run."

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

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

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

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

"That's the point."

"Is it?"

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

"For Zaun, and Piltover?"

"I wouldn't put it that way."

"How would you put it?"

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

Mel's pulse skitters.

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

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

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

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

Then he says, "Trust me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Never leave me," Aziz had whispered.

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

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

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

Schatze.

That was her private designation for him. Treasure.

Her one and only.

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

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

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

The choice had proven fatal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To no avail.

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

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

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

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

Aziz's mistress would learn them all.

And soon.

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

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

And she did.

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

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

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

But her husband, she never replaced.

Schatze.

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

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

Schatze.

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

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

Mel knows the price of a life-bitten heart.

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

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

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

A choice, not a compromise.

Mel, slowly, nods.

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

"If you'd heeded my advice—"

"Don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ballroom is an idyll of Art Deco delights.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mel squeezes back. Always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If they only had the will to grasp it.

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

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

The Golden Couple, the press had dubbed them.

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

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

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

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

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

Until, in the worst way, they had.

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

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

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

Rising, by any means necessary.

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

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

Mel lifts her glass in a mock-toast.

Enjoy the show.

Smiling, she steps into the fray.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do apologize for the alarm."

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

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

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

"What else would you have me say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dear heavens! You mean—?!"

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

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

"Chiefly, of my safety."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Scurrilous?"

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

"Wonders?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, indeed?"

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

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

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

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

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

"An aphro—really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mel, her work done, glides off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marriage: by any other name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would doubt that, Mel thinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That decides Mel.

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

Diplomacy, and not daggers, must prevail.

So she smiles, and tugs on a subtler string.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perpetuity?"

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

"But Mel! Surely the Council cannot condone—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vividly."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marriage: by any name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hector, wisely, does not test the theory.

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

"Of Grey Lung?"

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

Mel hides her frown.

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

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

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

The smell of death in every breath.

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

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

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

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

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

"Death?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh?"

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

"All the best?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, he does."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fighting to keep the ground under his feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In time, Mel will cultivate them all.

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

Marriage: by any other name.

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

Mel stifles a sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Mel, that is worth every sacrifice.

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

"Even love?"

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

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

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

"Surely you can wait another hour?"

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

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

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

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

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

"A detour."

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

"Mine."

Silco materializes as if risen up from the depths.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're welcome to swim."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And what would that be?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silco regards him steadily. "Is it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"War," Silco says bluntly.

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

Not erased, but halved.

Marriage: by any other name.

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

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

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

Silence falls, heavy with implication.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust me, Silco had said.

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

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

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

Then it hits her.

Waiting for me to run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except Mel cannot forgive the blindside.

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

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

Seething, Mel thinks, I will make him pay.

Then, inhaling, she steps forward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silco, at last, stirs.

"Hardly."

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

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

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

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

Silco smiles.

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

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

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

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

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kittybuggy · 2 years

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Sex Pollen | Eddie Munson + Steve Harrington

Both Eddie and Steve are littered with bruises and scratches, Steve holding a cold cloth against his eye, Eddie laying on the couch with a bandage, wrapping up the gash in his arm. You're sat between them, glancing at them, amazed they even made it out of the upside down alive.

"I don't know what you guys were thinking. You had no protection walking there. You could've gotten yourselves killed!" You scold them, both of them giving you a look of apology. You can never seem to stay mad at them, they're just too cute. Linking Steve's hand with yours, you squeeze it softly, that slightest movement causing him to whimper.

"Steve? Are you alright? Did I hurt you?" You ask frantically, taking your hand away.

"No darling, I'm okay. It didn't hurt at all", he says with a slight smile. You notice his eyes begin to darken as he looks you over, but you push it off like it's nothing. Then Eddie looks up at you with the same darkened look.

"What's wrong with you guys? Why are you looking at me like that?", You ask, the air becoming thick with tension and a full pulsing becoming present between your legs.

They mentioned a new flower on the vines, bright red in color, with a yellow center, and when touched the let off pollen. You notice their cocks straining in their jeans, their chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, their faces flushing a pink color.

An idea comes to your mind as you look at how fucked up they are. You gently slide your hand across Steve's thigh, getting so close to where he needs the attention, but never touching. A whimper erupts from his throat and his hips buck up, letting you know what he needs.

He hurriedly unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his pants, sighing at the constraints of his jeans being taken away. You finally get a good look at him, and he's massive. You catch yourself drooling over him as Eddie moans behind you, his fist moving at an impossible pace on his cock, wet noises filling the room mixed with his heavy breathes.

You whimper softly, the two hottest boys in Hawkins are around you, both practically begging for you to touch them.

"Eddie, eyes on me, alright? Want you to watch me fuck Steve real good", you say, getting Eddie's attention, his hand never faltering. You pull Steve's cock out of his boxers, your pussy clenching at his size.

You straddle him, pulling your skirt up just enough to give Eddie a full view. Pulling your panties out of the way, you lower yourself onto him, a pornographic moan coming out of Steve, something you've never heard him do before. His hands fly to your waist with a grip that's sure to leave bruises. As you set your pace on him, Eddie moans and you notice that his hand is matching your pace on Steve. You giggle and groan, speeding up just a bit.

"God, you guys are so good for me, doing everything I say", you coo, both of them keening at the praise.

"Oh my God, mmm, m'gonna cum. Can I cum please? I've been so good", Eddie whines, fucking up into his hand now, having a death grip on the couch cushion.

"Go ahead sweet boy, you've earned it", you say with a moan as you bottom out on Steve. Eddie's voice cracks as he chants 'thank you's, white ribbons decorating his bare stomach, his back arching impossibly far off the couch. You feel Steve's cock twitch inside you, signalling that he's close as well.

"Come on darling, come for me, want you to breed me, want your kids", you moan, gripping onto his shoulders. With those few words he's coming inside you, making you feel so full. Soon after, you are coming on his cock, not slowing your pace, almost pushing Steve into overstimulation.

After all of you gain your composure, the pollen has worn off of the boys, and you get up to run a shower for them, just in case there's anymore lingering in their skin.

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #steve harrington smut #steve harrington #stranger things

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am-i-obsessed---maybe · 2 years

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Star Wars Rebels x GN!Reader (Platonic)

I recently became obsessed with Star Wars and since I'm currently almost done with Rebels I thought I'd write a little blurb.

If you wanna see more prequels - rebels era Star Wars fics my requests are open, just let me know!

FYI this is very poorly written cause it was done at like midnight and I was tired but it's a decent start

Word count: 644

Main Masterlist

You groaned as you were thrown back into your cell on the imperial star destroyer. The last "interrogation" session you had been a part of had been incredibly rough and you could only hope someone came to rescue you soon. Just as you finished force healing the brand new cut on your forehead the door to your cell opened again and you were ready to attack with full force. "I'll tell you the same thing I told the last interrogator and the one before that- I won't be telling you druk so save your breath!" You yelled only to see the storm troopers at your door weren't doing anything. They simply stood there.

The one on the right took of his helmet revealing a young boy- maybe 15 years old.

"Master L/N, I'm Ezra Bridger. We're here to rescue you" He said and you looked at him scrutinously before holding out your bound hands.

"Took you long enough" You said as he released the cuffs.

"Follow us" His companion said and you nodded, running through hallways with them.

"We have to find where they're holding my lightsabers" You told them and each of them produced a saber.

"Don't worry about that" Ezra said as he passed you both sabers and you nodded thankfully.

"Thank you young one" You said.

Surprisingly you managed to leave the ship without much incident (partially because you Jedi mind tricked most of the Storm Troopers who saw you).

After weeks in captivity you finally got to relax once you were on the ship Ezra and his friend came on. You attached your light sabers to your belt and straightened your robes. Most surviving jedi decided against wearing robes if only to not be recognized you purposefully wore them. They were one of the only things connecting you back to your culture and people.

Once you were safely in hyperspace Ezra and his companion turned to you.

"Thank you for the rescue Ezra bridger and..." You trailed off when Ezra's companion finally removed his helmet. You recognized his face and you froze.

"Caleb?" You asked and he looked away.

"It's Kanan now" He said but you continued to look at him, shocked.

After a second you snapped out of it and hugged him.

"I am so happy to see you" You said and you could feel how awkward he felt in the force.

"After I heard about your master I feared the worst" You told him and he nodded.

"I didn't know you were alive either" He said and Ezra looked between the two of you confused.

"You two know each other?" He asked and you chuckled.

"Master L/N was a friend of my master back during the Clone Wars" Kanan explained and you smiled.

"Master L/N, this is my padawan, Ezra" Kanan said, pointing to Ezra and you looked shocked at Kanan.

"You took on a padawan?" You asked and he looked at you sheepishly.

"We found him on Lothal, he stole my holocron and lightsaber so I thought- might as well" Kanan said and you laughed.

"You haven't changed a bit" You told him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Master Billaba would be very proud" You told him before turning to Ezra.

"And it's a pleasure to meet you Ezra" You told the young boy.

"I had no idea there were other Jedi in the rebellion, I thought it was just me and Kanan" Ezra said and you smiled sadly.

"Those of us still out there are in hiding. But the jedi are supposed to be peacekeepers, we are charged with fighting for those who cannot fight for themselves so many of us have joined the rebellion in one way or another" You explain.

"But I'm glad to see that another generation of jedi will rise from the ashes of the past" You told him.

#star wars #star wars rebels #star wars x reader #ezra bridger #kanan jarrus #kanan jarrus x reader #star wars rebels x reader #gn reader #reader inster #sw #star wars animated #ficlet #drabble

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cosplayassistant · 2 years

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costume reference hunt : Engineer Mark !

below the cut, you will find an assortment of references as well as an analysis of what I could find for Markiplier's Head Engineer outfit from In Space with Markiplier !

yes I'm doing this because I'm back into Markiplier and I want to make this cosplay why do you ask

( all images are screencapped from iswm part 1, iswm part 2, and the bts video ! )

let's get to it !

thankfully, the base itself isn't that difficult. it's just a tan one - piece jumpsuit with pockets ( one on each side of the chest, one on each upper arm, and two on each leg ) and white zippers. a pretty typical pattern for a jumpsuit ( there's an almost perfect one sold by simplicity patterns here, which can also be found on amazon & the like ) . it's hard to get a clear view of his boots, but i'm fairly sure they're just black work boots. he wears a while shirt under it all ( you can see in the bts video that it doesn't really have sleeves ) .

we can also see the belt, which is a black belt with a silver buckle ( with a funky little circular design on the front ) that seems to clip at an angle. there are also little cases / pods ( four on each side in a square pattern ) strapped to the belt on each hip.

with some better close - ups to the upper portion of his jumpsuit, we can see the patches as well as his pins. for some reason, some of the shots have mark with his orange patch on his lower right hand torso as well as his shoulder, but sometimes the torso one isn't there. i have no idea if that's an error or intentional, but. it's a thing. and it happens.

anyways ! he has a little blue pin on his collar ( which i'm having trouble figuring out what it's meant to be; i think it's a cube of some sort but i have no idea ) , as well as a little space Chica pin!

he has a patch on the left - hand side of his torso that's just a white rectangle with a black outline that reads M2702 in black ( which is his number ) .

we can also see his lil hat ! he only wears it for the very beginning of the loop, but it's still silly ( affectionate ) . he has an invincible ii pin on it that seems to match the pattern on his left - arm invincible ii patch. otherwise it's just an orange beret with a black bias along the bottom.

here are some better views of the patches !! funnily enough, the best view of the invincible ii patch was on mack's uniform lmao

the blue one ( left arm ) is the generic invincible ii patch that all of the crewmates have, while the yellow and orange one ( right arm ) is i think only for mark ( it's probably meant to be specifically for the head engineer ) . it has the same M2702 that his chest patch has.

and then there's the gauntlet ! ( mack istg why do you keep having the better views of everything )

it has a white upper part with silver detail on top, and the bottom half ( presumably made of fabric; to keep it in place ) is black. he wears gloves ( not sure if they're attatched to the gauntlets ) , though Mark's are partially fingerless ( pointer, middle, and thumb aren't gloved ) .

the opposite hand has a funky little holder for mark's lil phone - size device. it honestly looks like one of those phone cases where it has a front flap that holds back; or, just. one of those phone cases you use to keep your phone propped up in your car. tbh this could be a modified phone holder made for running. either or any way, has a case that's strapped to a gauntlet that goes around his wrist, atop his glove. you can get a sort of better view of it in the other images on this post, too.

aside from that, he just has his bangs swept to the side ( though they could be a lot messier if you're going for a look later in the loop ) .

~~~

and, that's the look !

hope this helps !

#cosplay ref hunt!#cosplay refs #cosplay reference #markiplier #in space with markiplier #iswm #iswm 2 #iswm cosplay #iswm costume reference #engineer mark #iswm cosplay refs #head engineer mark #engineer mark cosplay

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barrelcrow · 1 year

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{ ♠️ x @crowshoots x}‌ “ yeah, because i’m real concerned about how much the key cares. ” jesper rolled his eyes, weighing it still in his palm. it was no longer than one of his fingers, and jesper had no idea what kaz did or what strings he pulled to get him to drop it into their hand like this.

it took a split second. the instant kaz said i know you don’t like it, jesper’s eyes flashed to him. the change in her posture was instant, too, the tight way her shoulders knit. “ i don’t like busting into the most impenetrable prison out there without my guns? yeah, of course i don’t, ” they said, pressing their lips together. play it off. “ it’s not the type of thing where you can reach through the bars and swipe this off their belts and set us free. ”

Sometimes.. No, most of the time, Jesper could be a real pain in the ass. And, right now, was most certainly one of those times. They both knew exactly what Kaz was talking about, and yet, Jesper chose to ignore it despite the gravity of what was at stake.

It wasn't that Kaz didn't understand. He did. It was easier, safer, to keep it a secret. Once upon a time being Grisha might've been a gift, but nowadays it was little more than a dangerous curse. And now he was asking Jesper to walk into the territory of a Grisha's biggest enemy and openly make use of it. "Guns would be of very little use anyway, and you know it."

Tapping his cane on the ground, Kaz let out another sigh, and leaned back. "You're right. It's not. That's why I need your help." Not exactly words he liked to say out loud. "I will try my best to smuggle in a set of lockpicks. But there's a very good chance they won't make it. From what I've heard, they're fairly thorough with their search of new prisoners." There was a brief moment in which he paused, a shiver running down his spine at the thought. "So if they find them, I need to know I can rely on you Jesper. I need to know that you will be my Plan B, should I fail as Plan A."

#{ ♠️ x v; Brick by brick‚ I will destroy you [MAIN] x}#crowshoots #Let's try this again..#Sorry tumblr's being such a fucking pain

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heretherebedork · 2 years

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Someone brought up that there are multiple tools in the room Pete's in that he could've used to escape. I wonder if that's intentional?

I mean, if there, it's intentional. But we've also seen Pete seek to escape every chance he gets so far so I'm not so sure they're accessible to him.

I mean, Vegas left the key and the only reason Pete truly didn't leave is because he saw Vegas have a breakdown and Pete has always taken on other people's breakdowns and taken on other people's pain and he's never been able to walk away from someone's suffering.

But Pete used the belt to unlock his cuffs and used the key and tried to run. After the first time, though, I will say that he might have realized that running might not have worked as well as he hoped.

Pete learns from his mistakes. Pete learns fast. He's very smart and very aware and he knows that Vegas is watching him and when he runs after Vegas takes his hedgehog out Pete knows that's his best chance because Vegas is truly distracted.

There might more tools in the room but I don't think there were other real chances for Pete to take to escape. The idea that Pete chose to stay chained before this moment is... not one I think is true. Pete wants freedom, he wants to live his life, he wants to go back to his responsibilities.

As much as he enjoys Vegas taking over and taking those weights off his shoulders he also took those weights on himself and he will still choose to return to them. Pete wants to be with Vegas but he will also want to return to his life. He is a whole person, he is more than just who he is in the bedroom.

Pete does not want to live his life chained up in Vegas' safehouse. Pete might be falling in love with Vegas and he might want Vegas to be his Dom and to part of his life but that doesn't mean he wants to stay here forever. Because the rest of his life matters as well.

It's important not to forget that characters have aspects outside of their relationship and their sexual preferences.

... Look, what I'm saying is that Pete keeps trying to escape for a reason and I don't think he's surrounded by things he could escape with and just twiddling his thumbs and being a captive because Vegas enchanted him with a sad backstory. Pete has been fighting to get out since day 1 and he has almost escaped twice and once he was tricked and the other time it was his own compassion and empathy that brought him back.

If Pete could escape at any time... he'd be gone long before.

#vegaspete #vegas x pete #vegas theerapanyakul #pete kinnporsche #bl drama #thai drama #thaibl #thai series #thai bl #bl series #i hope this is all true #please let this be true #please don't subsume pete into this relationship #please let him still be pete

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autistic-sidestep · 7 months

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yay further sura cane ramblings as a followup from this and this

so my logic is that the fall Did fuck sidestep's body up and presumably the farm's intent was to fix them up enough to be a Functional asset once wiped/reset (as far as pain's concerned and the lack of pain-gate either from being broken by the fall, or being removed, as long as it doesn't interfere with function). this was before they realised step was resisting the reset and an absurdly strong telepath to boot. so maybe there was some stuff that didn't end up happening.

anyway. sura's second escape from the farm. in a hell of a lot of pain from fucked up nerves (particularly lower back) and other things that didn't heal quite right (very much missing having a pain-gate), plus balance issues and fatigue. suddenly sura's seeing things Very differently now they're not abled + noticing a lot of people don't like looking at others with mobility aids, and maybe being useful camo. sura doesn't much Like the idea of being pitied and seen as weak, but making it easier to just be able to get through the day is worth it.

so. sura steals a nondescript folding cane from a small pharmacy (who cares, there's like, a million of em). and wow! it's not just camo, it helps with the exhaustion! great! she can even put it away when it gets inconvenient.

this also means he overcompensates the first few times learning the ropes as juno cos 1, the almost entire foot height difference and 2, reflexively moving as though putting weight on a non-existent walking aid = lotta bruises

(yes, the argos suit is kinda a mobility aid if we're being generous with definitions.)

except sura just grabbing any old cane w/o checking means they don't realize it's too tall for her for THREE. YEARS. and that causes a lot of unnecessary shoulder/upper back/wrist pain.

chen points it out during one of the early hq visits in retri while helping out, suggests to get a shorter one and maybe with offset handles. (maybe he's known a few ex-military people using canes? i feel he'd run in enough circles like that to have some passing knowledge.) and sura just. seething when they begrudgingly take up his advice and find it IS actually helping. cos chen was right and it doesn't want to admit that lmao.

at least chen has the decency not to dwell too long on it when he notices the change in canes. but he is a little smug. (it's fine. she can retaliate with useful suggestions about the new shoulder joint mod.)

but anyway, sura starts customizing the canes by painting/engraving designs on them for a little personalised touch. tech savviness comes in handy! and then there's a variety to match outfits (it counts as an accessory!) + one or two inspired by this one i saw (look at it. LOOK HOW COOL IT IS.) that that May or may not have some plausible deniability about resembling the argos suit's stained glass look lol.

(chen, narrowing his eyes, with a little "set steel_clue + 10" pop-up.)

the ones with offset and orthopedic handles for the more heavy duty days (maybe even branching out into crutches, since those give more support, though those would have to be customized) + derby handle for when they want to be more discreet. the mob crew might even pool some of their earnings to buy something resembling a makhila as a present further down the line :D

they also have two styles of cane holster, one from the belt, and the other on the thigh like what they used for the energy-caster as sidestep.

(on the viability of canes as self-defense, it's hit or miss on how good they actually are; what's good for mobility and weight distribution isn't ideal for defense - trying to hybridize the design means you get something that's not really useful in either direction. ie. telescopic stuff is convenient for folding away, but doesn't have much structural integrity if you tried swinging it at someone. same goes for folding canes w/ the bungee cord inside. idk what the capabilities in fh verse's are for materials but i'm erring on the side of caution and saying sura doesn't rely on their canes as a main defensive weapon. there's telepathy for that. they've been working out more anyway what with being argos and training daniel, so some of their pain symptoms improve a bit too! just making sure not to overdo it.)

something abt growing into not being ashamed of needing mobility aids (in fact, being empowering) and that being a sign of growth. absolute power move rocking up the hg meeting with a cane and 120 hgrep like "so? what you gonna do about it"

(too bad they immediately get bodied by a truck after leaving parkfield tho. whoops.)

#oc: suranga fernando #ramblings

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wrlckd · 7 months

Text

For @dreadspvwn, because the rolls said so.

Worn in boot soles drag their heels along the dirt as the half elf walks himself through camp, helping to distribute the days loot earnings. There's a new black shirt slung over his shoulder that he intends to make into something of a nightshirt, and a pair of new leather boots hanging from two fingers. Not that they really intended to help when the wiry drow woman cried to them about the thugs inside her small village, it just ended up happening that way. Sylvn had quipped that the woman's cries would span the expanse of a tenday, and that he didn't really care for bunking down anywhere close to it. Turns out the village couldn't rid themselves of a group of wanna be bad guys in their search for a seat of power among those less fortunate, and lets face it, not very smart.

Lorn, looming in the back of the group, agreed before Sylvn even had a chance to turn around to ask him. He guessed it was a matter of sating the urges, as Sylvn had no intention of leaving the wandering band of assholes alive after how the Drow woman had described them. It's with a smirk that Sylvn turned back and agreed to a deal, but not before they got paid in full, and had made it worth their while. After dealing with the rather easy task, the little town had been so grateful that not one person in the adventuring group had left empty handed. Some had more than most, only because their wingspan was larger.

Sylvn sets down a case of dark glass bottles, of which he believes them to be wine. The bottles are too dark to show the color, making him unsure of it's contents. It doesn't sparkle, it doesn't emit any crazy auras, so he deems it safe for consumption. He pulls two from the case, brushing the dust off with long fingers, and makes his way to Lorn, who seems to just be....looming in the shadows, bright eyes reflecting the fire light. "Care for a drink?" Sylvn asks, the corner of his mouth lifting as he inclines his head. "For a job well done." He offers then, enticing the bhaalspawn into joining him by the fire. Their track record isn't the best when it came to fire side antics, but they're all fond* memories in his book. Though he's sure the rest of the party, Withers included, are all quite ready for them to stop their extra curriculars. They're running out of health potions.

"And since no one else wants the trouble of carrying the case of alcohol all over the forgotten realms, I propose an idea, a wager, of sorts."

He presses a bottle into Lorn's hand, tapping the tip of another bottle against his chest, the liquid sloshing inside. "Let's make it interesting, yeah? There's 12 bottle's here, that means six for the each of us. Whoever can outlast the other, wins. Say... 100 gold?" Sylvn's light eyes sparkle with the challenge, always finding a good time with Lorn. He never seems to back down to the half elf's taunts, Sylvn finding it more addicting than anything to play with death itself. It doesn't always have to be playful choking that turns not so playful, or teasing the other with graphic thoughts of what their entrails would look like as a belt. Sometimes it could be a simple drinking challenge between friends, and perhaps some minor alcohol poisoning. Who's to say really. Sylvn sticks out his hand, looking the other in the eye. "What say you? Be you a champion, or be you a pussy?"

*they're actually terrible, sylvn just has issues.

#❝ —— i can finally see; you’re as fucked up as me 》 🇱🇴🇷🇳#rubbing my liddol fly hands together

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milazka · 3 years

Text

not the greatest feeling ever | 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝.

the less i know the better masterlist

main masterlist

summary: fuck it, i’m not doing a summary, i’m so bad at it. oh! there’s smut btw.

warnings: smut, cursing, mentions of blood, underrage drinking

last thought: i’m proud of this one, took me a lot of time to write, but i think it was worth it! enjoy your reading! love, milz.

─── ° • ❀ ───

The gentle breeze twirls her golden locks in all directions. She hums the lyrics of You never can tell, having watched Pulp Fiction for the hundredth time last night. Her irises are fixed to the slightly damp roadside covered with fresh fallen leaves from this morning rainstorm. The last rays of sunlight caress her baby-like skin as they disappear into the horizon, painting the sky in a mixture of orange and rose.

“C’mon grandpa, you’re slow as hell!” she teases Marcus, turning her head back to stick her tongue out at him. Standing on his skateboard, he sends her the finger, scraping the pavement with his over-used black vans to gain speed and eventually catch up with her.

“That’s how the turtle won the race, dumbass,” he gently nudges her shoulder with his hand as he rides his board besides her. She gives a sharp turn of the handlebars to move her tires out of the sand and back on the pavement, giving him a death glare.

“I almost fell in the ditch, shithead!” he simply laughs, his head falling backward. His dark colored hairs, normally slicked back, are ruffled by the warm September wind, giving him a laid back look that fits him perfectly. She adores hearing his laugh; it's one of the purest and most delightful sounds. It was only recently that she heard him laugh again, having not heard it for months after the day they lost the third musketeer of their trio. It was one of the hardest moments of their lives, but sharing this kind of experience brought them closer than ever. Charlie was there for him when he hit rock bottom, stroking his back while he cried on the shower floor, freezing water running down their damped bodies. She was also by his side the first time he went to therapy, soothingly squeezing his hand before he entered the office.

“If someone had to fall in a ditch, it would be me.”

“You know that Max and I made bet on how long it would take you to fall in a ditch?” she replies, checking his reaction at the corner of her cerulean eyes. He grins.

“How much did you bet?” he curiously asks, one eyebrow arched.

“Fifty bucks,” his eyes almost snap out of their sockets. He stops, stepping off his board.

“Fifty bucks?! That’s insulting, thought I was worth more than that,” he shouts as she makes a u-turn, retracing her steps, stopping in front of him.

“I’ll give you half of it if you wait ‘till June,” Charlie sarcastically says to him, elbows leaning on the handlebars of her bicycle. He caught a glimpse of light in her gaze; a twinkle of amusement he always finds in the corners of her softly crinkled eyes when she smiles truthfully.

“Deal,” he winks at her, drawing a small laugh from her slightly parted lips. He picks up Charlie's polaroid from the basket at the front of her bike, signaling for her to ride so he can immortalize the moment for her. Marcus knows she keeps those famous polaroids in an old converse box as a source of happiness; they're memories of moments she doesn't want to forget.

He takes the little camera to his eyes, snapping a picture when Charlie turns her head to the side to look at him, smiling like there is no tomorrow. As the picture is slowly developing, he hears a squeal of tires and a squeal of surprise from the distance.

“Fuck Charlie!” he shouts, running towards her as she sits, holding firmly her right forearm. His heart tightens at the sight of her painful face, her traits are torn by pain and he can see tears gathering at the corner of her squinted blue eyes. Marcus hates to see her in pain; he knows she's not the type to complain about anything so when he sees her azure eyes filling with water, he knows it's serious.

“You got a few scratches,” he whispers, running his eyes over her legs and arms. “We’ll go to your house and clean you up, okay?” she nods, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Marcus tucks his skateboard under his arm, grabbing the handlebars and seat of Charlie's bike simultaneously.

─── ° • ❀ ───

“Hold still,” his hazel eyes are focused on the mid-depth cut on her forearm. His bushy eyebrows furrowed, giving him a severe, almost cold sober look. She takes a big gulp of the rich whiskey she borrowed from her father's secret stash.

“Oh fucking hell!” she swears between her clenched teeth when the rubbing alcohol makes contact with the exposed flesh of her forearm. “That’s not the greatest feeling ever,” she whimpers, her forehead resting on his shoulder covered by his green olive shirt.

“I know, angel, I know,” he runs his hand through her blonde hair, gently stroking her scalp in a soothing way. She keeps her head resting against his shoulder, holding back the tears that threaten to run down her flushed cheeks.

“I’m usually the one taking care of you,” he knows it refers as much to all the times he fell off his skateboard as it does to when he hit rock bottom when their friend passed away. Charlie isn't used to being taken care of; she has always been able to look after herself without anyone's help.

Crying is for the weak.

She swallows her tears, putting her mask back on with a slight smile.

“Your new neighbor saw me fall,” she changes the subject, pausing to take another gulp directly from the whisky bottle. “Great way to make a first impression,” a light laugh escapes from her lips, but she halts when she notices his gaze turning away almost discreetly. “What’s wrong?”

Over the years, she has learned to read him like the palm of her hand; she knows he looks away to the left when he is hiding something from her and that he scrapes the back of his neck when he is embarrassed.

“I-I had sex with her,” he blurts out, avoiding her gaze while he still applies pressure on the bandage covering the wound on her forearm.

“Holy shit,” her eyes widened, not expecting this kind of disclosure. “Wait, what about Padma?”

“You know she is not my girlfriend, Charlz,” he sighs, finally sustaining her non-judgmental azure irises. It' s one of the things he likes about her; she never judges him and even if she did, he wouldn't know since she hides it so well.

“Was it good?” she does not insist about Padma, knowing perfectly well that she is the first one to know. He doesn't answer, looking thoughtful as if a million thoughts are running through his head. He steals the bottle of alcohol from her, gulping down a few ounces of the throat-burning liquid.

“What aren’t you telling me, Marcus?”

He shuts his eyes, exhaling loudly.

“I don’t know if I was good… God, I don’t even know if she came!” her heart tightens; he looks distraught and she knows that this is a big deal to him, after all, he just lost his virginity. He breathes heavily, his jaw as tightly clenched as his fists.

“Show me.”

“What?!” he opens one eye, eyebrows furrowed as if he was questioning if she was being serious.

“Show me what you did, I’ll tell you if it’s good,”

“You’re drunk, Charlz…I don-” he stops as soon as her silver rings coated hands grip the hem of his olive shirt, grazing the soft skin of his lower abdomen with her fingertips. Sitting on her knees, she brings her head up to his neck, pressing her lips against the skin. The feeling of her wet lips on his burning skin sends a shiver running through his spine.

“I’m sober enough to remember everything and give you my consent,” she whispers to his ear and he almost moans when she slightly nibbles his lobe. Her hands slips to the back of his neck, forcing him to hover over her as she lies on her back.

Both his hands are lingering on the buckle of her belt, struggling to undo it. She clutches his chin with one hand, plunging her reassuring gaze into his. He looks nervous, his hands trembling slightly when he takes off her jeans. She presses her lips to his Adam's apple, feeling him tense up at first, but relax as she sensuously slides her tongue up to his sculpted jaw.

“A-are you good with two figers?” he nervously asks, his right hand resting on the edge of her panties.

“Yes,” he hesitantly slips his hand into her panties, parting her legs with his other hand before sliding his index and middle fingers up and down her folds. She can see him blush when an almost quiet moan escapes her lips at the feeling of his fingers inside her core. He pumps them in and out slowly, as if he was afraid to hurt her.

“Try to curl them in a ‘come here’ movement,” she demonstrates with her own fingers. He nods and mimics her actions, making her whimper under him.

“That feels good,” she encourages him. “What did you do next?” she softly asks, rubbing her thumb against his cheek to sooth him.

“Hum, well, we-um, you know, did it,” he says, blushing like a little child who just got his first kiss with the popular girl.

“You didn’t go down on her?” she asks, looking quite shocked. He seemed clueless. “I mean, you didn’t use your mouth?”

“Uh no, should I have?”

“You boys really know nothing about female pleasure,” she sights. “Try watching lesbian porn next time, you will learn A LOT more,” He almost chokes, not expecting to hear this come out of his best friend's lips while his fingers are still inside her. They've always been comfortable with each other, but not to the point of talking about the kind of porn they listen to. The idea of her best friend watching porn and getting herself off almost made him cum in his pants.

“You do know what a cunniligus is, right?”

“God, Charlz, I’m not five years old! Yes, I know what it is!” he exclaims, his ego lightly bruised by her question.

“Well, show me then, playboy,” she challenges him, a cocky smile slipping on her lips. the alcohol going slightly to her head.

He pulls her to the edge of the mattress, kneeling at the foot of the bed between her legs. His lips kiss the skin on the inside of her thighs, sucking it until he sees a dark red mark appear. He gets rid of her underwear in the blink of an eye before placing her legs over his shoulders. He darts his tongue out of his mouth, licking a long strip between her folds without giving her the chance to acknowledge what was going on. He stops once his tongue rests on the bundle of nerves, licking around it in a circular motion.

“Fuck,” she moans. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“You really think I've never watched lesbian porn?” he teases her, biting the inside of her thigh, making her body jolt. He dives back his head to her core, sucking her clit into his mouth.

At leats he know where the clit is.

"Oh my god Marcus," she moans, squirming against his grip. He places his arm over her lower abdomen, pinning her body against the mattress. She can feel his two fingers sliding back into her core, the sudden feeling causing her hips to buck up against his face.

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me, hun?” he praises her, fingers curling inside her just like she taught him. She could barely feel herself, letting out a series of high-pitched moans as Marcus tongue was working on her bundle of nerves.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum,” she whimpers, her head pressed down against the matress. Her fingers tangle in his dark hair, tucking at the roots as she let out a cry, the euphoric feeling taking over her body for a moment. Marcus looks up to see her eyes shut tightly, her legs shaking on his shoulders. He can feel her core pulsating around his fingers as she comes down from her high.

He took a mental picture of her, engraving this moment in his memory forever.

─── ° • ❀ ───

taglist; @cognacdelights @ellegotohell @janedartist

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joaquinwhorres · 3 years

Text

gazes (joaquín torres x reader)

SUMMARY ››››› It's become increasingly apparent to Sam and Bucky that you and Joaquin cannot take your eyes off each other. Unfortunately for them, you two have decided to be Professionals and that means keeping your eyes, hands, and lips to yourselves. No matter how difficult it is.

WORD COUNT ››››› 3,716

WARNINGS ››››› sexy times implied

A/N ››››› Ok so these headcanons y'all have been sending me are incredible. I read these two back to back and I just had to write something connecting them.

The kid had no tact.

Sam wasn't exactly sure why he expected more from the guy who'd led into his theory that Steve was on the moon by referencing vague internet rumors, but even despite that, he'd assumed Joaquin possessed some sense of subtlety.

Instead he was over at the leg press trying and failing not to stare at Y/N as she bent over at the middle to help Bucky push deeper into the stretch.

"You know she could hit you with a harassment claim for staring at her like that."

Joaquin jumped, the weights dropping suddenly with a loud clang. Across the gym, Bucky laughed as Y/N whipped around to face the two men. "Everything ok?" Her voice sounded genuinely concerned, and Sam couldn't help but smirk as Joaquin turned towards her, giving a little wave.

"Foot slipped," he answered, and she nodded, turning back to Bucky quickly.

"Foot slipped," Sam mocked.

"Dude, you scared the shit out of me."

"If you paid half the amount of attention you give to Y/N to your surroundings, you'd have known I'd been standing here for three minutes."

Joaquin gave a defensive scoff. "I wasn't staring at her--I was just--" he stopped, searching for an excuse, and Sam raised his eyebrows.

When it was clear Joaquin couldn't find a convincing enough lie to end the sentence, Sam shook his head. "You know, if you talk to her, she might actually let you take her out."

"I talk to her," Joaquin protested.

Sam shook his head, uncrossing his arms. "No, I mean talk to her. Chat her up. You've gotta have some game, right?"

"I've got game..." His sentence trailed off as he turned to look in her direction, finding her standing over Bucky's feet with her hands on her hips. "But like, we're co-workers, you know? I don't want to make things awkward around the gym or the compound or anything."

"Joaquin," Sam said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You're already making things awkward."

"He's staring at your ass again."

"And you're trying to get out of stretching again," you quipped, moving Bucky's leg closer to his chest. The super soldier tilted his head as if to acknowledge the legitimacy of your accusation.

"Doesn't change the fact that I think you're about to give him a heart attack."

"I highly doubt he's worried in the slightest about my ass. He's probably zoned out."

"He's definitely focused in...on--"

"On my ass," you finished, shaking your head. You might have given Bucky's claim a little more credence if it weren't for the fact that Joaquin Torres had been anything but the consummate professional towards you. He was friendly and upbeat and welcoming, and one of the few genuinely good guys you'd ever had the pleasure of working with.

You'd never caught him staring once, and it's not like the boy was exactly known for subtlety. Last time Bucky had asked him to cover for him so you couldn't come down and teach him the right way to train his body, he'd told you that Bucky had left the compound to get you a thank you gift for all of your hard work. All while staring at the gym door.

The heavy sound of weights falling against each other echoed throughout the gym, and you spun around to face the sound. Sam hovered over Joaquin's shoulder, the latter no longer working the leg press but instead looking as if he'd just received the scare of his life.

Bucky broke into laughter, and you smacked at his leg.

"Everything ok?" you called out, and Joaquin smiled, giving a sheepish little wave at you. "Foot slipped."

"It's a good thing he wasn't at the bench press. You might have killed him."

Your head snapped back to Bucky who was giving you a shit eating grin.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm right."

"Do you think if I ask nicely Wakanda will take you back?"

"So you know I'm right."

You chanced a glance back at Joaquin who was still talking to Sam before turning back around and placing your hands on your hips. "I'm calling Ayo."

You were running early.

Not to any event in particular, but just for the general course of your day. It was rare for you to wake up to your first alarm so completely refreshed, and with a fully awake brain, you found it much easier to navigate the morning. You were able to get dressed without crawling back in bed for a few more minutes, and didn't have to battle with sleepy indecision when choosing what you wanted to eat for breakfast.

One thing after another just continued to roll your way, leading you to the gym much earlier than usual.

And that's where the luck stopped.

Or maybe it didn't stop. But it definitely took a turn. Because while you fully expected someone else to be in the gym already, you hadn't expected just one person to be in the gym. And even if you had, you wouldn't have guessed that that one person would be Joaquin. And if, for some reason, you'd had the foresight to sense that, you definitely never would have pictured him to be running on the treadmill shirtless.

You stopped in your tracks, eyes falling to the bouncing dog tags on his chest and then lower to the well defined abs you'd somehow never seen before.

It felt like you'd seen just about every man in this compound shirtless. At some point, they all seemed to strip in the gym or during one of your group training classes you ran for those who weren't field agents. Bucky was shirtless half the time you worked together. It was so normal, you hardly even blinked an eye anymore. Seeing Sam without a shirt was more rare and quite the sight, but it'd never caught your breath quite like seeing Joaquin. Joaquin, who had never so much as worn a tank top in the gym, Joaquin.

And now here he was, chest bare and heaving, feet pounding rhythmically against the treadmill, hair still messy from his pillow and sweat. Your brain couldn't seem to function correctly, offering you images of the sight before you, only closer. Much closer. Hovering inches over your stretched out body as the headboard behind you rammed into the wall with the force of each thrust--

"Hey," Joaquin greeted, noticing you standing off to the side. You blinked, heat rushing to your face as he turned the treadmill down to a more leisurely pace. "Something wrong with my form?"

It was tempting to lie and offer to "help him fix it." Or to be completely honest and tell him you'd never seen a human form as perfect as his.

But neither of those responses were professional or even appropriate, and you needed this job.

You swallowed, shaking your head. "No, I was just wondering why you were wearing those," you said, gesturing to his dog tags, and allowing your eyes to fall to his chest once more. You followed a bead of sweat as it rolled down his body, heading to the waistband of his shorts. Joaquin reached to touch his tags, causing them to jingle together once more and pull your attention up to him.

"It's hard to let them go," he smiled, ruefully, hitting the button so the belt slowed even more. "I'd say it's a habit, putting them on, but at this point they're just like a part of me."

You nodded, wishing you'd taken this conversation anywhere but to the idea of dog tags and what they stood for. It wasn't so much a mood killer but a guilt inducer because instead of you feeling embarrassed and somber, all you wanted to do was grab them and pull him closer to you.

He must have read the conflict on your face because he gave a crooked smile. "Yeah, sorry, it's kinda morbid."

"No," you shook your head, clearing it of the daydream induced fog. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"No, nah, it's cool," his smile grew into grin, as the belt came to a stop. He leaned his forearms against the console, staring at you as if waiting for you to continue the conversation. Which you were not equipped to do with a smiling and shirtless and sweaty Joaquin Torres right before you.

"Well, thanks for being cool about it," you said with a nod.

My God, something was wrong with you. They were just abs. And sure, maybe the abs belonged to the man who not only found the time to moonlight as a superhero but star in your increasingly dirty dreams of late, but it was just a body party that you'd seen a million times.

But never on Joaquin.

You blamed everything your brain was doing to you on Bucky and all of his stupid comments about Joaquin's supposed fixation on your ass. You wondered what he would say if he could see you now. "And I thought I was half machine. I could practically see your brain short circuiting." or "If that's what you're like when you see him half-naked, how are you ever going to--"

"Yeah, of course," Joaquin said, still smiling, his eyes lifting up over your shoulder as the other door to the gym opened and Sam came in. "Hey," he greeted with a jerk of his chin.

"Hey," Sam said, drawing closer, his eyes on you. You forced a smile on to your own face, and lifted a hand, not trusting anything that was coming out of your mouth.

"You're here early," the other man said, stepping onto the treadmill next to Joaquin's, and putting his water bottle down next to the machine.

Both of them were looking at you now, and it's not like you could handle staying in this gym any longer. "I came down looking for my water bottle. I think I left it here yesterday."

Sam raised his eyebrows glancing around the gym, and Joaquin stepped down off of the machine. "Do you want help looking for it?" he asked, and your whole body seemed to tense up at the idea, your brain transporting you to a future scenario where the two of you wandered around the room, Joaquin next to you or behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating off of him, all the while searching for a water bottle that was sitting on your dresser.

"No." Your voice came out too high, but you tried to play it off, shaking your head. "I've already interrupted your workout enough. It's either by the weights or not in here."

"Alright," he nodded. "If you need any help looking around the compound though, let me know."

"Thanks," you said. And then you gave another stupid wave and beelined it for the weight racks because you had to get out of here.

You made a show of looking next to each section of weights, even bending over to check underneath of them as if it could have been knocked under somewhere. After you felt an appropriate amount of time had passed to be convincing, you straightened up, empty handed. You turned back to Joaquin and Sam, both watching you rather than continuing their workouts as you might have hoped.

"Not here," you called back with a shrug and then left the gym and headed straight up to your shower.

He was nothing if not predictable.

The minute Y/N bent over to check behind the weight rack, his eyes were glued to her. Or perhaps more accurately, the bright teal spandex shorts she wore. As she pulled herself back up from searching for her water bottle and turned to them, Joaquin quickly looked to Sam as if the two had been talking the whole time and then "casually" returned to her.

"Not here!" she said, shrugging and then walking out of the gym, her footsteps quick and purposeful as she left through the door Sam had just entered by.

"So, what'd I interrupt?"

Joaquin looked up at Sam as if remembering he was there. "What?"

"You know, when the two of you were sitting by this machine making eyes at each other? Did you actually say anything to her or….?"

Joaquin shook his head. "No, she just came in and, uh, we chatted for a second, and then…" he trailed off, as if not fully remembering any of the past ten, twenty, however many minutes.

"You just chatted," Sam repeated, the disbelief on his face edging into his voice.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded.

"Anywhere in this chat you finally ask her out?"

"Nah, it didn't feel right."

"It didn't--she was practically taking off the other half of your clothes with her eyes," Sam sputtered, gesturing to Joaquin's shorts.

The kid laughed and shook his head as if Sam didn't know what he was talking about. Joaquin moved to exit the gym as well. "I'll see you later, man," he said, leaving a very exasperated Sam behind.

Bucky Barnes was a motherfucking liar.

"Let's grab a drink on Friday," he said.

"Consider it me making it up to you for being such a pain in your ass," he said.

"I'll buy," he said.

Mothefucker.

This wasn't just you and your favorite co-worker getting a drink. This was a goddamn set up. Because one hour and three mojitos into the night, Sam and Joaquin walked in the front door.

"I fucking hate you," you said, glaring up at his stupid smug face.

"Well, what a surprise, he grinned, as you shook a finger up at him.

"I told you in confidence I'm a flirty drunk."

He snorted, giving you a look out the side of his eyes. "You told me you were a flirty drunk after you sent me several highly inappropriate drunk text messages about what you wanted to do to a certain Lieutenant, who," the self-satisfied smile was back on Bucky's face. "Is making his way over to us right now."

"When I get home, I swear to God, I'm buying you a ticket to Wakanda."

Bucky quirked an eyebrow. "You're not going to do it now?"

"I didn't bring my credit card because you said you were paying," you huffed.

Before Bucky could respond, Sam and Joaquin were next to the two of you, greeting Bucky with hand slaps and one armed hugs. Sam came around and wrapped an arm around you first before sliding into the seat next to Bucky, and Joaquin came forward, giving you a quick hug.

Which was a first.

More than the feeling of his back underneath your palm, or the way he seemed to emanate warmth, you were done in by how absolutely incredible he smelled. But before you could fully identify whether it was his shampoo, a cologne, or just him, he pulled away and took the only other available seat near the group--the one next to you.

"I see you started without us," Sam said, raising his eyebrows at the assortment of glasses that sat before you. Most of them were Bucky's as he downed beers faster than should have been humanly possible.

"Hard drinker, huh Y/N," Joaquin teased, shooting you a smile.

"Pfft," you dismissed. "Only three are mine."

"Three?" Sam asked, leaning forward to better look at you. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour," you said, completely unnecessarily leaning forward too.

Bucky shrugged. "I got the time wrong."

"Guess we better catch up then," Joaquin said, and you sank back into your chair, narrowing your eyes at him in challenge.

"If you can."

They did.

You were outpaced fairly quickly against the two soldiers and one super soldier. The rum-induced fuzziness around the edges of your brain was compounded by having Joaquin so close to you. At some point he'd pulled his chair a bit closer to yours so that he could better hear the conversation, and you don't remember when it happened, but his arm had also slid around the back of your chair. To your relief neither Bucky nor Sam seemed to acknowledge this. In fact, Bucky was positively quiet and normal all things considered. Everything was going better than you could have expected.

Until the music kicked up.

Sam was the first to be dragged onto the dance floor. He was Captain America. Of course he'd been targeted by the stunning girl in the red dress who'd only had to come up and ask "Does Captain America dance?" to succeed in pulling him off to the dance floor.

Bucky was next. Although he wasn't tugged onto the dance floor by his hand the way Sam was. It was the sight of the person in the tight black number that did him in, luring him away to the dance as if drawn by a magnet.

And then it was you and Joaquin, sitting at the bar. Alone. Together.

You looked up from your drink, pushing the straw down into the ice to stir up the clinking sounds, and he took a swig of his beer before putting the bottle back down on the bar.

"Alright, let's dance," he said, nodding with his head towards the crowd, and you let out a disbelieving snort.

"I don't know how to dance. I mean, I can dance," you attempted to clarify, although you had a feeling words were failing you at the moment. "But that's real dancing, and I can't do that."

"I guess you're lucky you have a really good teacher asking you to dance then," Joaquin grinned, holding out a hand. You looked down at his open palm, hesitating only for a second before you slid your hand into his and jumped down from your chair.

He led you out through the moving bodies expertly, dodging couples who were clearly more into the dancing than each other and couples where the complete opposite was true. The small bit of space he found you was closer to the center of the dance floor than you'd usually feel comfortable with, but when he turned towards you with that look on his face, any of your residual anxiety had vanished.

"Ok, come close," he said, and you took a small step closer to him, causing him to laugh. "Closer." He gestured, and you moved forward some more, Joaquin's hands finding their way to your hips and pulling you even closer. His hands rose, one finding its way to your mid-back, pushing your elbow up to rest on his, as the other took your hand and placed it over shoulder.

"This ok?" he asked, eyebrows raised, and you nodded, trying to keep your attention on him, his instructions and his words, and not the way that you could feel just about every part of him from the way he was angled against you. His right side was flush against your left, and his knee pushed between yours.

"Just follow me," he said, his head bent close to yours. Before you could even respond, he started to move, pulling you along with him through the dance. It was smooth and rolling and you'd never seen a guy able to roll his hips like Joaquin. He seemed to know exactly how to guide you, moving his body to push and pull yours along whenever you hesitated or felt lost, coaxing waves and movements out of you that you didn't know you could do. Each success was met with a small word of praise and a brilliant smile, as his hands shifted to hold you closer, and you wrapped your own hand around his neck to better feel and predict his movements.

It felt as if a fog had rolled in over the dancefloor, obstructing all else from view so it was just you and Joaquin, eyes locked to each other as you moved together, occupying the same space.

The song faded into the next one, and Joaquin stopped. You went to move backwards, to give him space and have him move on as many other of the more skilled dancing couples seemed to do, switching partners amongst each other. But he kept you close to him, hand sliding down to your waist.

"Now you can really dance," he teased, his eyes shining as they stared into yours.

"Only with you." It was supposed to be a self-deprecating joke, but it came out too quiet and earnest. Joaquin licked his lips, and your eyes followed the gesture, flickering between his mouth and his eyes.

You don't remember making the decision. You only remember, moving even further into his arms, and pushing yourself up to reach his lips with your own. He bent down to meet you, pulling you even closer and pressing his hard body into yours. His lips moved as slowly and sensually as his hips had, drawing you in and guiding you through a careful rhythm that promised much, much more.

Sam sat with Bucky at the bar. Joaquin and Y/N had disappeared somewhere amongst the dance floor, hidden amongst the crowd.

"You think it worked?" Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at Sam.

"If it didn't we're screwed," Sam shook his head, taking a swig from his drink.

As if on cue, the two emerged from the swaying bodies, hand in hand, sweaty and much happier than they had been when Sam had left them at the bar.

"We're gonna head back to the compound," Joaquin said with practiced casualness.

"Yeah?" Bucky asked, and Sam swore there was mischief literally glinting in his eyes.

"Yeah," Joaquin nodded too fast and too many times. "Yeah, Y/N forgot about something there…"

"What'd you forget?" Bucky asked, turning to Y/N with a wolfish smile.

"Nothing. We're going to have sex," Y/N said, flatly, causing Sam to nearly spit out his drink. "And if you say one more word, I know a pilot who will fly you to Wakanda himself. No ticket needed."

Bucky mimicked zippering his lips into a smug look, and she rolled her eyes before tugging Joaquin out of the bar by his hand. And he followed. Eyes glued to her ass.

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquín torres x reader #torres x reader #joaquín torres #joaquin torres #torres x y/n #joaquin torres x you #joaquín torres x you #joaquín torres x y/n #torres x you #joaquin torres x y/n #fatws fic #tfatws fic #joaquin torres fic #joaquín torres fic #torres fic #marvel fic

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dragon-kazansky · 3 years

Text

Professor | Special ending

Professor AU!

Gender neutral reader

For all the horny bitches who didn't want to choose~

SMUT!!! So much smut!

[Previous chapter]

[Lauda's ending]

[Zemo's ending]

The special ending

You turned to the tent beside you and walked inside. The smile remained present on your lips as you made your way over to the buffet table. You picked up a plate and began to pick at the options.

Both Zemo and Lauda were confused. They hadn't accounted for the fact you wouldn't choose one of them. Their time with you had been so special and wonderful, they were sure you would fall for one of them.

They look at each other and come to a silent agreement. Both men push off where they had been meaning and make their way toward the tent. They say nothing as they enter together, only Niki stands back as Helmut walks over to you. He places a hand on your back and leans in close, not caring who sees.

"What are you playing at, draga?" He asks, keeping his voice quiet.

"You want me to choose."

"Yes. Me or him. Unless, you choose neither. A heads up would have been nice. Was our time together not good enough?"

"It was amazing, but I'm not going to choose."

Zemo casts a glance at Lauda before grabbing your arm firmly and guiding you out of the tent. Niki follows behind. Zemo takes you to a secluded spot and both men stand in front of you.

"So, no one?" Lauda asks, heart aching at the thought.

You cross your arms and look at them both.

"How am I suppose to choose? It's not fair I fell in love with two of my professors. You've both been amazing, and the sex has been really good," you grin, "but you can't expect me to choose."

They look at each other and then at you.

"Then what do you want?" Zemo asks, not willing to just give up. You were the most amazing person he had ever known and he didn't want to let that go.

"Both of you or none of you."

Lauda shook his head softly, his curls bouncing with the movement. "No way."

You frown. "Then, neither of you."

Helmut clenched his jaw. He looked at Niki who looked just as unhappy. If they don't do something, they'll lose you for good.

"Then I am fine with this arrangement," Zemo said, looking at Lauda.

Niki looks up at Helmut.

"Are you serious? We can't stand each other!" He hissed.

"Only when we are competing over the one person we hold dear. If the only other option is be civil and share, then I don't see the issue. Just another person to love and spoil," Helmut smirked.

Niki seemed taken back by that, but he wasn't saying anything. This indicated to you that he didn't hate that idea.

Maybe they actually kind of like each other?

You look at Lauda and take a step closer to him. You reach out and take his hand, bringing it your lips. His eyes watch you as you kiss his fingers delicately.

"Please, Niki. I don't want to choose."

Zemo comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. You do not take our gaze away from Lauda. You keep a hold of his hand and look at him.

Niki doesn't want to lose you.

He nods.

Zemo grins as he lowers his head near your ear. He eyes are also cast upon Niki.

"Let us show our darling Y/N exactly what they're getting into," he practically growls into your ear.

Niki runs his tongue across his bottom lip as he takes hold of your hand and began to pull you away. Zemo laughs and follows.

They take you far from the celebrations and back toward the university. The halls are pretty much empty now, so there is no one to see you with your former professors. Niki takes you to his office. His desk is empty now, everything packed away in his car.

"One last fuck on the desk?" You ask, smiling at him.

Niki closes in on you and captures your lips against his. His hold is far from gentle, but you're not going to complain. You love it when Niki is hungry for your affection.

Those long fingers of his work on undressing you, but when it comes to your underwear, Zemo steps in.

"Allow me," he grins.

Niki turns you around to face Zemo. You smile at him as he leans in close and kneels down. His fingers hook under the waistband and begin to pull them down. His fingers grace your skin softly, teasing you for what's to come.

Your legs tingle where he touched you.

Now, completely bare to them, you turn back to Niki. Lauda wastes no time attaching his lips to your neck as his hands wander across the span of your body. His large hands are warm against your skin.

So focused on Niki and what he was doing, you jumped slightly when Zemo's own hands snaked around your body from behind. His fingers trailed down, down, down.

You gasp sharply.

While Niki's hands had come up to caress your chest and neck, Zemo's hands were busy down south. His fingers worked their magic, like he had done so many times before.

Zemo chuckles in your ear.

Niki chuckles against your skin.

Barely begun and you were already putty in their hands. Both of these men knew you inside and out. They knew what you liked, what you loved. Now that you were receiving attention from both of them, you were in utter and complete bliss.

You were unable to keep focusing on what Niki was doing when Helmut was curling his fingers like that. His lips were trailing along the back of your neck, causing all hairs to stand on end. A shiver ran down your spine. Zemo chuckles softly.

You tip your head back, allowing Niki better angles to leave his mark. Zemo presses kisses to your temple as his fingers continue their pleasuring. There's a slight buckle in your knees, but both men have such a good hold on you, you aren't going anywhere.

One of your hands rise up to Zemo, settling on his neck, fingers brushing the hair at the base of his neck. The other settles on Lauda's shoulder as he begins his decent, kissing down your chest, your stomach, all the way down between your legs.

Helmut removes his fingers from down there to allow Niki's mouth to take over.

Oh God!

Your fingers bury themselves into his curls, tugging. That riles him up. His nips at you, not so gently, causing you to tug a little more. Zemo chuckles against your neck, knowing you were enjoying what Lauda was doing to you.

Niki uses his tongue on you. Your eyes screw shut as you lean back against Helmut, relying totally on him to keep you up as Niki satisfies you. You can't hold back any more.

Niki licks his lips as pulls away and looks up at you. His lips curl into a mug grin, his eyes glistening with amusement.

"You taste wonderful, Maus."

You can't form any thoughts as you look at him with half lidded eyes.

"My turn?" Zemo asks, whispering.

You nibble at your lower lip as you find your strength to turn around and face him. His hands remain on you as he looks you up and down.

"What are you going to do?" Niki asks, licking at his lips again. He can still taste you.

"Oh, I was thinking more about what they can do for me."

You glance down as his hands leave you, fingers working away at his belt buckle. He didn't need to day any more as you knelt down and took over. He grins down at you as you pull his belt away, undoing his trousers, and freeing him from the confines of his clothing.

You wrap your hand around him as soon as his cock his free. You grin as you tease him lightly with your fingers first.

Niki Lauda watches.

Helmut struggles to keep his hands at his sides as you have your fun with him. When you take him in your mouth, he really can't hold back any more. Much like you did for Niki, he buries his fingers in your hair. He tugs just as you did.

You moan against him. The vibrations of the moan turning him on even further. You can feel him twitch in your mouth.

Niki needs to do something.

That something is undressing from the waist down to satisfy himself. He never expected to get off to seeing you pleasure Zemo, but it was certainly a sight to see.

Helmut catches his eyes and smirks.

"Like what you see?"

You hum against his dick, your way of asking what he was on about. You don't get a response. Zemo just tugs a little harder at your hair.

You suck him off a little further, taking him a little deeper.

Niki wraps a hand around his own cock, unable to hold back. He keeps his eyes trained on what you were doing to Zemo. You've done that plenty of times to him, but watching you do it someone else, someone he is suppose to hate, it does things to him.

You take Zemo as deep as you can, he let's you do this for a bit, but he knows he'll be close to coming if he let's you go on for too long. He's not about to have you bring him over the edge just yet. Before he can pull out of your mouth, Lauda serves as a distraction for you to let go of him yourself.

Niki cums over his hand.

You turn away from Zemo to face Lauda. You lick your own lips, much like Niki had done after his taste of you.

"Let me help," you say, shuffling away from Helmut to Niki.

Niki's chest rises and falls as you lick along his cock. You clean him up with your tongue, tasting him. His eyes, however, are on Helmut.

Helmut grins at Niki.

A shudder runs through Niki as you clean him up. When you're done, you stand. You lean in close and kiss him. Niki's hands settle on you as he kisses you back.

Zemo comes up behind you, his aching cock poking at you as he wraps his arms around you.

You glance back behind you to look at Helmut.

"I want Niki first. I feel bad for leaving him out of that."

Helmut grins.

"Why don't we both show him a good time? Hm?" He looks at Niki as he says that.

"What are you implying, Zemo?" Niki asks, looking at him with suspicion.

Helmut comes up behind Niki and has him bend forward a little bit. He presses into him a little.

You smile at Niki as you caress his face.

"Are my boys going to fuck for me?"

"Your boys?" Niki asks.

"Yes, my boys."

You plant a kiss to Niki's forehead as Zemo takes his distraction as an opportunity to enter him.

Lauda gasps, but you swallow most of it by kissing him. You smile against his lips as Zemo pulls out, then thrusts back into him. Slowly.

Niki clings to you.

You wrap your arms around him and make a fuss over him as Helmut fucks him to kingdom come. Helmut was going to make this man feel as good as he made you feel.

You smirk at Helmut as he grinned at you.

"How are you holding up?" You ask him, knowing you brought him pretty close before.

"I think I can manage."

You chuckle.

"Are you going to cum for Niki?" You ask, eyeing him with a smirk.

Zemo gives a violent thrust into Niki.

"Would you like me to?"

You look down at Niki, holding his face in your hands. Niki's glazed eyes gaze at you.

"Would you like him to?" You ask him.

"Do it," he snarls at Zemo.

Niki keeps a tight hold on you as Zemo picks up his pace. He has definitely fucked you like this before. You know exactly how Lauda is feeling right now.

The sound of both men moaning simultaneously turned you on even more than you already were.

Both Lauda and Zemo cum together.

You grin as Zemo pulls out of Lauda. Niki takes a second to sort himself out for a moment. Next thing you know Niki has you turned around and bent over like Zemo had him.

"Your turn, Maus."

You push back against him, wanting him inside you. Zemo took a hold of Lauda from behind, resting his face near his ear. He was giving Niki the same treatment he was giving you.

You were all the same here. You loved both of them just as much as the other. Perhaps they didn't hate each other quite as much as they seemed. Especially after that.

Niki thrusts himself into you. Helmut grins as you moan. Niki grunts, both as the sensation of you around his dick, and the hold Zemo had on him.

The rhythm he has is perfect. You're a little surprised by his momentum after taking such a fucking from Zemo, but Lauda has the stamina to give you what you want, what you deserve.

You have to support yourself against the desk. Niki's thrusts are so hard and intense, you wouldn't be surprised if it was enough force to move the desk.

Quiet doesn't exist in this room any more.

Your moaning, Niki's grunting, Helmut's chuckles. That's all there was in the room.

You scrape your nails against the hard wood of the desk. Niki was buried so deep in you, you can't think straight. Zemo was still caressing Lauda from behind, kissing along his shoulder. He was enjoying the sounds you were making.

Niki wasn't sure he would be able to hold on for much longer. Zemo was already working him up a lot, plus he was so deep in you, he was sure he was going to cum soon.

He just really wanted to pleasure you.

And he was.

The only thought you could grasp was how much you loved these two.

Niki is the perfect angle. Just a little more and you'll have to let go. You can't hold on much longer. You needed to cum all over him, and he, deep in you.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

Zemo leaves Niki to come around the other side of the desk. He sits against it, cradling your face in his hands.

"Let go for him, darling."

Apparently that's all you needed to hear. Lauda's grasp on you tightens. You can only look up at Zemo as you ride out your orgasm. Moments later, Niki cums with you.

Arms snake around you as lips Pepper your warm skin with little kisses. Helmut caress your hair and face gently, smiling softly at you.

An empty feeling takes over when Niki pulls out, but Helmut is quick to pull you into his embrace against the desk. He kisses your forehead softly. Niki takes a moment to gather himself before he comes a little closer and joins you both. You become sandwiched between them.

"Does this work for you?" Zemo asks, eyes on the other man.

"I suppose it does."

Helmut grins.

"And you?" He asks, looking at you.

You smile.

"This is perfect," you whisper, grabbing onto each of them with an arm, just wanting to keep them close to you.

They pamper you for a moment.

Niki plants a kiss to your temple just before speaking, "perhaps we should make our leave now. We have much to discuss from here and we don't want to get caught, do we?"

You shake your head.

Both men dress themselves, the pair insisting on helping you. You let them fuss over you.

When you were sure you were all ready, you all left the office. No one would know any different. You had gone ahead, agreeing to meet at Niki's car. Both of them turned up shortly after one another and you all got in.

This is the future you wanted.

How were you ever suppose to choose one over the other when both of them made you feel so special. They loved you, and you loved them.

Yes, this is happiness for you.

@ajeff855 @sky-writes-stuff @lieutenantn @lostghostgirl94 @friday18eo @yaskna @my-blood-is-maple-syrup @gingerwriter97 @luna-is-on-mars @wilder-fangirl @belle82devart @hb8301 @stardancerluv @killeromanoff @cathrin2405 @charistory @sleepyflutist18 @supercharged-tatertot @belle82devart @sexyundeadtrash @realremyd @goddessofmischief03 @myybebe @safiakillspop @scuttle-buttle @viviace @shura-gorl @fictionlandslanddreams @justfangirlthingies @zemosimp05 @celtic-witch-bitch @apparrio @thatoneartgalsstuff @somethingthatsaysbubbles @aloyssia

#professor au #smut #poly smut #poly ending #zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #au #helmut zemo #niki lauda smut #niki lauda x reader #niki lauda au #zemo smut #crossover

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reineydraws · 3 years

Text

the @kakairu-mini-bang is ending today and i wish i could have done all five days but im glad i at least got this in!!!

this is a zelda breath of the wild au for the prompt gods/monsters, more about this au under the cut :)))

our faves have just woken up a hinox and that's the monster they're running away from rn

hiruzen is the king of hyrule and iruka's one of the princes bc hiruzen took him in after ruka's parents (close friends and advisors to the king) died

(his coat design is based off of the king's coat in botw but the belt and shirt and the red insides of the coat are after zelda)

iruka's really into research and discovery for the kingdom, and kakashi's his chosen bodyguard, so they go out into the field a lot to understand the wild life

kakashi's wearing the stealth armour, which seems to be based off the sheikah (i almost designed him after impa but the stealth armour was just so perfect for kakashi-the-ninja, esp with the mask ahh)

i didnt want to add the text but theyre yelling at each other here lol; iruka's calling kakashi a dumbass for waking up the hinox and kakashi's yelling back that it was iruka's idea to throw the bomb and try out the exploding tags anyways, and then finishes off by yelling that iruka's dad's gonna murder him haha

(for all those who havent played botw, a hinox is so large you can climb them like huge boulders, and the goal is usually to steal the round ball on their necklaces because the ball is part of a key to Get Stuff; when you encounter them theyre usually napping, so if you play your cards right, you can commit theft without getting chased. iruka and kakashi did not play their cards right.)

anyways theyre yelling at each other about how dumb the other is but the truth is that theyre both stupid idiots who could stand to have more self-preservation when facing monsters LOL

the second prompt for the mini bang was "slice of life" and in an ideal world, i would have drawn a second piece of kakashi and iruka standing over a pot in a field, cooking their dinner. i was imagining kakashi's weapons down by a tree, and iruka hugging kashi from behind, chin over kashi's shoulder as they both watch the food cooking, and theyre smiling like they were quietly joking around. might even include a dog by kashi's knees, if it was a cooking pot at a stable. :')))

anyways please imagine prince iruka and champion kakashi traveling around the map taking pictures and doing science and defeating monsters and solving puzzles and finding treasure and meeting all sorts of awesome people and bantering/flirting the entire time thank u

#kakairuminibang2021 #kakairu mini bang 2021 #kakairu #kkir #kakairu fanart #naruto #naruto fanart #kakashi #hatake kakashi #kakashi hatake #iruka #umino iruka #iruka umino #iruka sensei #kakashi sensei #i just realized it would have made a lot of sense to make ruka from gerudo technically from gerudo #maybe he's half gerudo? if interspecies is a thing in zelda??? 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️#my other idea is that iruka is naruro's champion and naruto's the prince of hyrule #and kakashi's head of the sheikah clan #if this was ocarina of time kakashi could have been zelda/sheik and iruka would be the legendary hero #and iruka would adopt naruto who would be the deku kid lol #omg and hiruzen could be the deku tree ahaha imagine 😂😂😂#there's a lot of fun headcanons that can go around a zelda au :'))) pls play the games u will not regret #also tried new brushes!!! and treated it more like a painting than the way i usually do digital art! im pretty happy w it :')))#botw au

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interstellarre · 3 years

Text

Delve In The Depths. Chapter II.

Word Count. 1.5k

a/n. Just a quick btw, Meno gave Xiao the nickname "Emerald duck" because emerald ducks have greenish teal stripes on their heads and Xiao has teal undertones in his hair.

Trigger Warnings. Mentions of death and violence

Series Masterlist

Chapter II.

Again and again these waves crash over Xiao's subconscious. Riptides of lost human dreams, the tsunamis of guilt, and the eons of pain build each other up, growing larger as they drown him in endless suffering. Waves of black vapor cloud his person. He clutches his mask

He can hear their screams now as he writhes on the top floor of Wangshu Inn in agony, barely supporting the weight of his body with his arms leaning on the balcony rails.

"Xiao, Xiao!" he turns his head to see Verr Goldet franticly searching for him.

"There's someone downstairs, the-they, Verr Goldet stutters on her words, waving her arms around unlike her usual composed self.

Xiao doesn't wait for to finish, he grabs his pole arm by reflex prepared to strike the threat down.

Instead he's met with a person grappling with pain on the floor.

"Why slime condensate exactly?"

"Hm?" Xiangling gives you a genuinely confused look despite it not exactly being the social norm to add slime liquids to a meal. She was climbing up a sandbearer tree. The striped squirrels on the ground scatter upon her arrival.

"What gave you the idea to add slime into your dishes?" you clarify, trying not to come off as rude. Tossing the wicker basket between your hands as a form of entertainment while your culinary friend ducked her head underneath a branch.

The trees ruffle and flocks of crimson flinches and golden flinches fly off to the sky as Xiangling forages around in the tree branches for bird eggs.

"What gave you the idea that not everything is edible?" she playfully teases, now placing bird eggs by sets of two in the basket she previously gave you in Wanmin Restaurant.

You giggle, covering your hands with your mouth. She motions for you to put the basket down and come over while she grabs you by the shoulders ("Don't you dare-") and hops down. Unfortunately, you aren't heavy enough to support her body weight when she jumps down with her full force.

"Ugh!" you groan as you both tumble down to the floor. You raise a hand to your head and cover your forehead. "Was that really necessary?" you sigh, already far too used to her antics. She snickers.

As you regain your footing, you ask, "How far along are we exactly? My mother will have an aneurysm if we step foot in Moon City.*" Xiangling had already run off, and with the basket no doubt.

You look to your right and find her by the lake counting hydro slimes behind a crack between a few slabs of stone. You crouch down besides her. Her charcoal hair brushes against your mulberry silk skirt.

"1,2,3,4." Yes! this is definitely enough for my new dish!" she pumps her fist in the air.

You don't remember there being a lake to the far right in the places your mother told you to stick to.

"Let me guess," you strike a thinking pose, you want me to set up a new shop here for your new culinary competition?" you sarcastically muse.

She rolls her eyes. "No, silly I-," she stops at your amused expression. "Ah- well go on than."

You reach your arm to summon your now unsheathed dagger attached to the leather belt on your waist, ignoring the long bow and arrows attached on your back and rather choosing a melee weapon,

Standing up from your hiding spot, the group hydro slime flock, well bounce towards you.

The air turns frosty and Xiangling's teeth chatter while she rubs her arms in hopes of warming up. "Don't turn me into a chef popsicle before I get the slime condensate [Name]!"

As you kneel down to slam the stiletto dagger into sand, sharp edged flower patterns appear on the ground. The slimes teeter back at the sound chill between their mass before large icicles spring up, piercing their bodies and turning them into goo.

"Woo!" Xiangling jumps above the rock pile and excitedly cheers. Pumping her arms up. "That's my girl!"

"It was nothing really. What was it you needed next again? Of course after you've collected the slime condensate of course." you stop talking as Xiangling sweeps the slightly frozen slime fluids off the crystals you've created into a glass bottle.

"Well talking about other ingredients, I actually wanted to try something." she mentions with a certain twinkle in her eyes.

"You have my attention." You wave your hand at her to go on.

"You know that cooking competition? The one I had in the Mondstadt with the chef named Brooke?"

"I don't recall you telling me that, can you specify?" racking your brain for memories of Xiangling's rantings about food. You suddenly feel drops of sweat on your back despite not being lukewarm at the very best. It must just be from the excitement from fighting the slimes, you think pushing away your other thoughts on the matter.

"Well anyways, we found this extinct species of boar with the help of the traveler, I believe they're called the honorary knight now?" she taps her chin. "That's besides the point but, anyways, it made me think of the different varieties of possible meat options I could use with different monsters. Can you go with me north of Jueyun Karst with me to find a Stonehide Lawachurl?" She claps her hands together into a begging motion. "Please, Please?"

"Mhm, I'm not sure how fast we can make it there? You didn't hear my question before when I was asking where we were before. I'm planning on packing my bags early when I go home overmorrow." you say counting the possible time it would take you to pack all your belongings. Black spots appear in your vision. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Hmm, I'd say if we're lucky, a few hours? It's lucky that it's still the early morning huh?" Xiangling turned her attention to you from the mushrooms she was picking underneath the trees.

"[Name]?"

She looks over to see you on your knees, black substance withering out of your body. Sweat drips down your forehead.

She frantically shakes you, but your vision has gone black.

"[Name]!"

The blood on Bosacius' arm dripped to the ground creating a thin string trailing only to be diluted by the pouring rain water behind Bosacius and a certain teal haired adeptus. Bosacius gripped his injured arm with his other.

"You need to treat that wound," Xiao said, glaring at his fellow adeptus' wound. He could see the majority of Bosacius bone creeping out of his flesh. A familiar sight.

"Rest assured, I've been in worse state. I just never expect it to hurt as much as it always does," grimaced Bosacius through his smiling expression. The water soaked through his garments and drenched his hair.

"You sound like one of those mortals, trying to fight through their deathly injuries only not to see the next day," replied Xiao looking forward to their destination of Jueyun Karst. He could see the towering peaks getting larger and larger as they move on despite the misty atmosphere.

"We're all too mortal for our liking these days." said Bosacius, his expression unreadable.

The sound of steps softly crushing the blades of grass underneath them and thunder rumbling filled the air while their owners remained silent.

"Have you told Rex Lapis about the constant pain you've been experiencing?" said Xiao, breaking the silence.

Bosacius bit his bottom lip while his working hands, well, what was left of them tensed up. "No, I didn't see the need to bother him. I'm sure he has other pressing matters to attend to now, especially with the incline in aggression from monsters around Liyue Harbor recently. It's strange," The older man looked up to the sky, while Xiao had a distracted look on his face from thinking about the increased monster attacks. "I have yet to figure out the cause behind it."

"I believe Cloud Retainer and Mountain Shaper are free this evening, I'll ask them for their input on the situation later."

They had arrived at Jueyun Karst, the floating island in the middle of the adepti abode was lit up, symbolizing the availability of Cloud Retainer.

"I'd imagine we don't have the need to place an offering in the middle of the lake huh?" Bosacius winks at Xiao. Xiao looks down at the lake, full of ripple currently from the cloudburst. The empty bowl in the middle overflowed with liquid.

Bosacius gave a forced smile at his correct prediction of their fellow adepti's availability. "Well, I suppose it's best for me to head off and find Indarias to heal my wounds."

"That would be for the best." confirmed Xiao

"Thank you for accompanying me for this trip."

Xiao turned his back and Bosacius was gone

"Hey! Emerald duck!"

Xiao swore he heard the inter layers of hell again as he pinched the bridge of his nose

"Oh archons," he cursed under his breath. Menogias tumbled towards him, no grace or posture in her current childlike state.

*Moon City refers to Mondstadt as Mondstadt translates to Moon City in German.

a/n. Incase anyone was wondering the reader's constellation is "The Maiden" or "Virgo". I'm planning on making a character sheet for the reader soon, so watch out for that!

#genshin impact #genshin imagines #genshin xiao #genshin Zhongli #genshin x reader #xiao x reader #childe x reader #la signora #delve into the depths

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lemontongues · 3 years

Note

Ficlet prompt idea if you want it (no pressure to post this if you don't though): Y'know those stories where celebrities go in cosplay/disguised on the main floor at comic cons and no one recognizes them? That but like a hero con in the DCU and whatever characters you want to use go down on the floor in their full suits but everyone just thinks its cosplay and doesn't realize they're the real deal

hey so remember when i asked for prompts like, seven full weeks ago and you were nice enough to actually send me one lmao?? i’m so sorry it took so long skdjfnfjgnk but i finally wrote something!!! I went with the 2011 outlaws group for the characters, it was rly fun to write! thanks so much for sending this, i hope you like it!!<3

“Okay, that is not what my helmet looks like,” Jason mutters, glaring at a passing group decked out in swathes of black spandex and pleather.

The group pauses as a chattering cluster of young teens accompanied by a harried-looking father bounces over to beg for pictures—Roy watches with great amusement as a young man in black spandex with a shaky approximation of Dick’s Nightwing symbol painted on his chest slings an arm around the shoulders of the young woman with the offending helmet. The eyes are cut out of it, which Roy can admit is a little creepy, and she’s molded a glaring expression into it, furrowed brows and a downturned mouth that she matches with a cocky, hand-on-hip pose as she leans forward to take a selfie with one of the kids.

“The shorts look nice,” Kori comments, her tone thoughtful as she observes the liberties the woman has taken with Jason’s costume. The shorts are... very short. “I find pants a bit restrictive, myself. Maybe you should give that a try, Jason.”

“Why would it have eyebrows?” Jason demands, and Roy is still recovering from the image Kori just put in his head, but he manages to pat Jason's shoulder sympathetically. “It’s a helmet.”

They’re on a mission, technically, although their target is turning out to be more clever than they’d anticipated—escaping into a convention hall was something of a stroke of genius—and after nearly an hour of wading through crowds of cosplayers and excited superhero fans, Roy is just about ready to call it quits. He’s opening his mouth to suggest heading out and regrouping when someone jostles him from behind, and he shifts his grip on his bow just in case as he turns to face the offender.

“Woah, hey, sorry bud,” the man says, and Roy is mildly horrified to realize that the emerald green outfit—some sort of modified doublet with a jaunty little hat topping it off, and really, how would that stay on in the middle of a firefight?—means that the man putting a steadying hand on his shoulder is supposed to be Ollie. In his peripheral, Roy sees Jason turning to check on him, and he’s already sighing as Jason tries to mangle his laughter into a cough. He sounds like a choking dog, Roy thinks spitefully.

“No worries,” Roy says, but the man is eyeing him up and down, and Roy’s not sure he likes the appraising look. He’s just about to turn and shoulder Jason into motion, hustle them out of this god-forsaken superhero convention, when the man grins broadly at him.

“Hey, no offense, but you know the Walking Dead convention was last week, right?”

Jason doesn’t bother trying to muffle his laughter this time.

“Right. Thanks,” Roy manages through gritted teeth, and god is he tempted to let his finger “slip” on his bow string—but the guy claps him on the shoulder again and is moving on, catching back up with a woman in a black leotard and fishnets.

“Wow!”

The voice is close enough to set Roy’s teeth on edge; he officially hopes their target finds them first and puts them out of their misery. When he looks back, there’s a woman in her thirties wearing glasses, a t-shirt version of Diana’s costume, and a twisted loop of yellow rope hanging from her belt. She’s staring at Kori in awe, which is normal, and reaching out to run a finger down Kori’s shoulder, which is not. Kori flinches back, startled and beginning to look furious as the woman leans in closer, squinting at Kori’s arm.

“Is this body paint? It looks incredible! How are you keeping it so smooth? Mine always starts to crack before I even get to the convention center!”

“I did not give you permission to—” Kori starts, and Roy steps forward, fully ready to pull his bow on this lady to back Kori up if need be. Roy and Jason don’t get the chance to intervene, though, because Kori's head snaps to the side, green eyes narrowing on something in the distance. She’s off the ground before either of them can ask, starbolts forming around her hands as her hair catches fire. “There!”

The woman shrieks and scrambles back as Kori fires off a bolt, rising above the crowd and zipping off in the direction of their target—Roy can see him now, leaping a banister and sprinting to a lower level of the convention center.

“That was—oh my god, I just—oh fuck,” the woman gasps, and Roy snorts as Jason slips his guns out of their holsters. She gapes at him, and then at the bow in Roy’s hands, turning white as a sheet when Roy grins at her.

“I—tell her I said sorry!”

#jason todd #roy harper #koriand'r #sage writes #asks

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