90% staring at a blinking cursor, 10% unhinged plot twists. In a toxic relationship with my own imagination. Arcane enthusiast. I like my coffee black and my fanfic devastating.
Currently: Rotting in the Undercity. Mood: Fighting my inner saboteur for one (1) sentence.
I’m @writersblockisadangbitch, currently locked in a toxic relationship with my own imagination. I like my coffee black and my fanfic devastating. If you’re looking for a happy ending, you’ve wandered into the wrong library—but if you want stories heavy with yearning and angst that leave you a little bit haunted, pull up a chair. Let's see what’s lurking in the dark.
💌 Rules of the House: Reblogs are the ink that keeps this place running—please share if a story haunts you. My inbox is always open for suggestions; if you have a devastating prompt or a "what if" that won't let you sleep, send it over. Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.
⭒❃.✮:▹ ──────────────── ◃:✮.❃ ⭒
Current Projects & Nav
Arcane (｡•ᴗ•)っ🧪 ⚙️ 💨 🟢 💊 ⛓️ 🚬 🥊 💣 💥
Cocktail Molotov (10 parts - complete) [caitvi]
Left in the wake of her breakup with Caitlyn, Vi retreats to the only place that feels like home: the blood-stained dirt of the fighting pits. She isn’t fighting for a title or a payout—she’s fighting to drown out the ghosts of Vander and the memory of a girl who called her Cupcake.
Five Minutes of Peace (3 parts - complete) [silvander]
Before the bridge, before the betrayal, and before the world turned to iron and glass—there was just the Four of them. It’s the smell of spilled ale and heavy rain, the sound of Powder’s laughter echoing in the vents, and the quiet weight of a shared look between two men who thought they had all the time in the world. Just a glimpse into the domestic heart of The Last Drop, where the hearth was warm and the family was whole.
We Will Show Them (standalone - complete) [silvander]
In the wake of the cannery explosion, the smoke of the undercity hasn't yet cleared before Silco finds the wreckage of his past. Standing over the twisted remains of Vander—the man who was once his brother, his partner, and his greatest love—Silco prepares to snuff out the final flicker of Vander’s legacy: Powder.
Oil and Water (2 parts - complete) [caitvi]
Reeling from heartbreak, Vi staggers through the rain-soaked Lanes of Zaun, drowning her grief in gutrot and bitter laughter. Enforcer Cait finds an inebriated Vi on her rounds and sobers her up in a holding cell.
A Yearning Sky (5 parts - complete) [skytor]
In the gleaming laboratories of Piltover, three minds share a single dream: to harness the impossible. For Viktor, the Hexcore is a race against a ticking clock in his own chest. For Jayce, it is the pinnacle of their partnership. And for Sky Young, it is the silent devotion of a woman who has spent her life looking at the stars—and the man who forgot to look back at her.
Love is a Luxury (5 parts - complete) [silvander]
From the smoky offices of the Last Drop to the blood-stained iron of the bridge, this is the story of a love that birthed a nation and a betrayal that shattered a heart. A deep dive into the passion, the "underlying issues," and the moment the Hound and the Eye of Zaun were forced to choose different paths.
The Kiss (standalone - complete) [caitvi]
The hunt ends in ruins. Inside, Caitlyn shatters under the ghost of her mother; outside, in the cold rain, Vi is simply terrified. She has lost a sister, a home, and a city—she will not lose the Sheriff to the dark. When the Atlas Gauntlets fall, there is only a promise sealed in salt, rain, and the heat of a collision.
Blue Hair and Burt-Orange Skies (2 parts - complete) [caitvi]
In the heights of Piltover, Caitlyn is drowning in a case with no exit. Her only company is a map of the Lanes and the dregs of cold tea—until a familiar shadow breaks her window. Startled tension dissolves into a reckless release, but in the Kiramman estate, the walls have ears, and the floorboards hold secrets even a meticulous mind can’t bury.
Zaun Still Knows My Name (standalone - complete) [caitvi]
Fresh out of Stillwater, Vi runs straight back into Zaun—and straight into Caitlyn’s orbit. As Vi reclaims the Lanes with her fists and feral hunger, Caitlyn is left trailing behind, steadying hands and careful words catching a girl who doesn’t know how to be free yet.
A Fragile Sort of Power (standalone - complete)
In the wreckage of a deal gone sideways, Silco sits alone and wounded, until Jinx finds him bleeding at his desk.
The Sandman (｡•ᴗ•)っ⏳ 🏛️ 🗝️ 🌌 🌑 🪶 🐚 🕯️
When the Dreaming Weeps (standalone - complete) [dreamienne]
In the wake of his separation from Calliope, the Dreaming doesn't just mourn—it drowns. A story of a King who loves too much (or too little) and a loyal librarian who refuses to let him weather the storm alone.
Drunk on the Dreaming (standalone - complete) [dreamienne]
After a gift from Delirium leaves his stoicism dissolved, Dream wanders his realm with an uncharacteristic, "loosened" heart. From confiding in Mervyn to confessing truths to Lucienne, the King of Dreams forgets his coldness and begins, terrifyingly, to feel.
Shadow and Bone (｡•ᴗ•)っ🦅 🗡️ 🃏 🪙 🧤 🛶 🧱 🏚️
Inej Was Right (standalone - complete) [kanej]
Kaz Brekker insists he’s fine. Inej Ghafa brings him to the ER anyway. Unfortunately for Kaz, the doctor sides with Inej—and the knife sticking out of his stomach.
Kaz Brekker insists he’s fine. Inej doesn’t argue — she just proves him wrong.Set after a bad job, this is a quiet moment of blood, ledgers, unwanted affection, and the way Kaz only ever yields when it’s already too late.
The Existential Dread Came First (standalone - complete) [kanej]
Kaz Brekker gets stabbed and decides that’s not the worst thing happening to him today.
The Last Kingdom (｡•ᴗ•)っ 🗡️ 🏰 👑🛡️🌊🩸⛓️🛶
Once a Slave (standalone - complete) [hildred]
Dedicated to Hild's supremacy and Uhtred's long road back to being more than a slave after his capture.
In the wreckage of a deal gone sideways, Silco sits alone with the quiet agony of a blade’s edge and the dull hum of smoke. But in Zaun, silence is a luxury the Eye of the Undercity can rarely afford. When Jinx returns from her own brand of chaos, the sharp reality of Silco’s mortality threatens to break the only world she has left. Amidst blood-stained shirts and bitter loyalties, a father and daughter confront the thin line between being a leader and being a ghost.
CW: Violence and Physical Injury, Substance Use, Blood and Medical Themes, Emotional Trauma and Distress.
Silco slumped in the leather chair like someone had cut his strings. The desk was an overturned battlefield: maps crumpled, glass shattered, ink bleeding across a heap of letters. He’d taken a blade through the flank, shallow enough to survive, deep enough to hurt like hell. His shirt was undone, stained dark and heavy with blood. No one else remained in the office. Sevika was sprawled on the settee, bottle half-finished, mumbling curses at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded. Useless in the way only drunk loyalty could be.
Silco’s hand trembled as he packed the pipes. Not shimmer, not now, but something duller, slower, meant to take the screaming edge off the pain. He lit it with a match, the flame flaring in the hollow of his good eye. He inhaled once, slowly. The smoke didn’t soothe; it only blurred. He didn’t need comfort. He needed silence.
That was when the footsteps came – light, out of rhythm, careless in the way only one person in his entire operation could afford to be.
The door slammed against the wall. Jinx’s laugh preceded her, bright and jagged. Powder residue stained her gloves, streaking her arms like warpaint. “You should’ve seen it, boss! Oh, they just—” She mimed heads popping with both hands, pow-pow, before actually looking at him.
The grin faltered. Her head cocked to the side.
Silco exhaled the acrid smoke, eyes half-lidded. “Jinx.”
“What… happened?” She took two steps, then another, cautious as a child walking towards an animal that might be wounded enough to bite. “Who did that? Tell me it was Piltover; please tell me it was Piltover.”
“Business.” His voice rasped. “Went sideways.”
Her gaze travelled to Sevika. “And you did nothing?” The words spat out like gunfire.
Sevika barked a laugh, waving her bottle. “I tried. Then I stopped trying.” She slumped further. “Don’t worry, princess. He didn’t die.”
Jinx ignored her. She moved behind the desk, hands hovering but not touching. “You’re bleeding,” she said, as though pointing out the weather.
“Yes,” Silco murmured. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth. “I noticed.”
She crouched, tilting her head to inspect the wound. His fingers tightened around the pipe. “Leave it,” he snapped.
“No.” Her voice was sharp, unfiltered, the kind that wasn’t a suggestion. “You can’t lead us if you’re dead.”
He held the smoke in his lungs. Let it burn. Let it numb. It came out with a wet rasp. “I can’t lead us if I’m weak.”
Jinx blinked, and for an instant the grin threatened to reappear, the manic one, the one that insisted she wasn’t scared. “Weak? Nah. Weak is…" She gestured at the door. “...everyone else.”
The room wobbled slightly in Silco’s vision. He closed his good eye. The pipe sagged from his lips.
Jinx reached for the bottle. Sevika had abandoned, sniffed it, made a face, and tossed it at him.
The liquor burnt his flesh, making him jolt back into consciousness. Glass cracked against the floor besides him. Sevika groaned but didn’t rise.
Then Jinx went quiet, truly quiet, the kind of silence that always made Silco open his eye again.
She was staring at him. Not at the blood. Not at the smoke. At him.
“Don’t do that,” she whispered.
“Do what?”
“Leave.” A beat. “Like everyone else does.”
Silco’s jaw flexed. He took another drag, steadier this time. Smoke sighed from his lungs. “I’m not leaving.”
“Promise?” Her voice shrank to something that didn’t belong in a warlord’s office.
His wounded side ached, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He reached forward and touched the side of her face with a hand gone cold from blood loss. His thumb smudged powder on her cheek.
“Jinx,” he breathed. “I built a nation for you. I don’t intend to abandon it.”
Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with calculation. Reassessing the bindings between them.
She kicked Sevika’s foot. “Get up. Fix him.”
Sevika didn’t move. Silco waved her off. “She’s useless like this. It will wait.”
“Will it?” Jinx asked, already digging through drawers for bandages or tools or anything. Panic edged the movement, the kind she hid beneath mania but never fully outran.
Silco let his head fall back against the chair. Smoke coiled upward, soft and ghostlike. “It always does.”
For a long moment neither spoke. Sevika snored. Jinx pressed her hands over the wound to stem the bleeding, muttering under her breath. Silco watched her through half-shadow and half-fog and thought, not for the first time, that she was the closest thing to certainty he had.
And certainty was a rare currency in Zaun.
The office was too quiet, save for the rhythmic, agonising pulse in my side. Every shallow breath was a reminder that survival in Zaun is never free; it is bought in blood and paid for in the slow, cold burn of recovery.
Through the haze of the pipe, I watched Jinx. Her hand was white-knuckled over the hilt of my blade, her jaw set with a defiance that mirrored my own younger self. Even as I looked at her with the full weight of my authority, she didn't flinch. She was a jagged thing, beautiful and broken, and in that moment, her stubbornness was more painful than the steel that had pierced my flank.
Then came the thud.
The sound of Singed’s cane against the floorboards was a dry, hollow rhythm that cut through the ink-stained silence of the room. He didn't knock; he never did. He moved like a shadow reclaiming its corner, his bandaged face a mask of clinical indifference. His eyes ignored the overturned battlefield of my desk, focusing instead on the dark, spreading bloom on my shirt.
"Move, girl," he rasped. His voice sounded like parchment being torn.
I expected Jinx to snap, to flare up with the same fire she’d shown Sevika, but she stepped aside in a rare show of silence. She watched him with wide, hollow eyes as he set his worn leather kit on the desk.
I tightened my grip on the pipe, the ember flaring in the hollow of my good eye. "I didn't send for you," I said, the words catching in my throat.
"You didn't have to," he replied. He didn't look at me. He didn't offer the comfort I didn't want; he offered the same mechanical necessity he had used to stitch Jinx together when the world had tried to tear her apart. "The air in Zaun carries the scent of failure long before the body drops."
He pulled a curved needle and dark thread from the kit. No anaesthetic. No gentleness. I held the smoke in my lungs, letting it burn, letting it numb. As the needle pierced the skin, I refused to give him the satisfaction of a flinch. I watched the smoke curl towards the ceiling, thin and sharp, as he began the work of anchoring my soul back to my body.
"Is he going to be ok?"
Jinx’s voice was a whisper, jagged and bright in the gloom. I didn't look at her, but I could feel her gaze, the terrifying, fierce loyalty of a daughter who couldn't bear to see her world tilt.
Singed didn't pause. "Weakness is a luxury of the dead," he muttered. "He is being repaired. Whether he leads is a matter of will, not blood."
I let the doctor work. I was no longer a man of the surface but a creature carved from the salt and grime of the Undercity. I was held together by cold iron, bitter ink, and the girl standing in the shadows, the only thing in this wretched city that was truly mine.
A study of salt, sweat, and the long road back to Bebbanburg. Deep dives into Uhtred’s recovery, Hild’s unyielding grace, and the moments where the warrior outlasts the slave.
Gif by: @bbcthelastkingdom
CW: Nothing, just fluff and yearning
The air in Northumbria was sharpening, the sweetness of the grass turning to the heavy, metallic scent of rain. It was a smell I usually loved, but today it felt heavy, pressing down on the man sitting before me in the grass.
Uhtred.
He looked like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt. He sat with his back against an ancient, moss-covered stone, his spine curved like a bow that had finally snapped. I could see the way he winced at every shift of the wind, his body still braced for the roll of the sea and the crack of the whip. Even here, in the silence of the meadow, I saw his torso swaying – just an inch, back and forth – the rhythmic, agonising ghost of the rowing bench still claiming his muscles.
I approached slowly, making sure the shush of my robes against the grass was loud enough to hear. I didn't want to startle him; he was still a creature of raw nerves and open wounds. He didn't look up. He just curled tighter, trying to pull his wrists into his sleeves. I had seen the sores there, the weeping red lines where the iron had bitten deep. The sight of them made her stomach sour.
"Uhtred," I said. My own voice felt too loud in the stillness.
He blinked, but his gaze remained fixed on the ground. "Leave me," he rasped. It was a hollow sound, as if his throat were filled with the very salt that had seasoned his skin for a year. "There is nothing left here for you to see."
I didn't answer. I simply sank to my knees beside him. The damp earth soaked into my white robes immediately, the mud staining the fabric, but I did not care. Holiness is not found in clean linen; it is found here, in the dirt, with those who are broken.
"I see a man who was lost and who now is found," I said softly.
I reached out. My hand trembled slightly before I let it rest on his matted hair. He flinched, a sharp, instinctive jerk, and a low, animal sound escaped him. It pierced my heart. He was waiting for a blow, a shove, a curse. He no longer knew what a kindness felt like.
I kept my hand there, steady and warm, refusing to let him retreat into the shadows of his mind.
"You are Uhtred of Bebbanburg," I whispered, leaning in until he had no choice but to see me. "You are a warrior. You are a lord. And you are my friend."
He finally met my eyes. They were dull, like stones pulled from a cold hearth. "I am a slave," he choked out. He showed me his hand, the skin calloused and ruined. "I pulled that oar until the wood grew into my palms. I prayed for death, Hild. I begged the gods for it."
"And He refused," I countered. I reached out and brushed a smudge of grime from his cheek. My thumb lingered there for a second. "Because your story does not end in a ditch or on a ship. It ends in Northumbria. Within the walls of Bebbanburg."
I took his hand, the one he tried so hard to pull away, and held it between mine. His skin was hot with infection, and his pulse was thrumming like a trapped bird. I didn't pray aloud; I didn't need to. I simply held him, acting as his anchor until the violent trembling in his shoulders slowed to a shudder.
I looked at his wrists, the raw skin still angry. Without a word, I pulled a small flask of water from my belt and a clean piece of linen. As I began to wash away the grime of the voyage, he tried to pull back, his face contorting in shame.
"Don't," he whispered. "What is on me cannot be washed off."
"It is only salt, Uhtred," I said, meeting his gaze. "And salt is what we use to preserve what is precious. It has kept you alive. Held your infections at bay. And now it can be washed away."
I worked in silence, cleaning the wounds with a tenderness I hadn't known I possessed. With every stroke of the cloth, the phantom rhythm of his swaying body seemed to slow. I was unmasking the man I had always admired.
I noticed the faint staining of blood on the back of his shirt and my chest tightened.
"Take off your clothes." I said softly.
He stiffened, and made no move to obey. With trembling fingers, I cut open his shirt, holding a breath as I peeled back the fabric and saw a map of the past year written across his skin.
Angry, red scars in lines across his back.
Those fucking bastards.
My eyes welled with tears and I wordlessly began cleaning those as well, trying to distract myself from the visible spine protruding from his salt-cracked skin.
"The soul does not break, Uhtred," I told him, putting all the iron I possessed into my voice. "It only bends. We will straighten it together."
He was silent, and my attention turned to his hair.
His beautiful, chestnut hair.
It fell in filthy strands around his pale face, twisted and knotted by the salt water. It would have to be cut.
"Uhtred..."
"Do it."
His voice was not his own, and his head bowed as the locks fell to the grass around him.
He looked towards the stream, his expression one of pure grief. "I looked in the water today... I did not recognise the man looking back. His eyes... they belong to a corpse. I am not a warrior anymore. I don't feel the gods. I don't feel... anything."
His voice broke and my heart trembled. I drew him towards me, resting my brow against his, feeling his trembling breath on my face.
It was time.
I gently pulled back. I took a shuddering breath and reached for the wool-wrapped bundle I had carried from the camp. I laid it across his knees. It settled with a heavy, metallic thud, the weight of a life he thought he’d lost.
"Then let your hand remember what your mind has forgotten," I said.
I watched his breath hitch as the wool fell away. The amber pommel caught the weak sunlight, glowing with a dull, ancient fire.
Serpent-Breath.
His beloved sword, made by the famed smith Ealdwulf.
"I am not worthy of it," he whispered, drawing his hands back as if the steel were white-hot. "A lord who allows himself to be chained is no lord. My men..." His voice pitched. "How can they follow me now?"
I didn't give him the chance to retreat. I reached out, grabbed his scarred wrist with a grip that would not be denied, and forced his fingers onto the leather hilt.
"Listen to me, Uhtred of Bebbanburg," I said, my eyes boring into his. "You think you were broken, but you were forged. That awful weight did not break you; it tempered you. You are the blade that has been through the fire and the hammer. You are stronger now than the man who left these shores."
I squeezed his wrist harder, forcing him to feel the familiar notch in the guard. "You say you don't know who you are? This blade knows. It has tasted the blood of your enemies, and it has defended the gates of kings. It does not recognise a slave; it recognises its master."
Slowly, so slowly I almost held my breath, his fingers tightened. I felt the shift in him. The slump in his shoulders vanished. The blurred, distant look in his eyes sharpened into a focus I hadn't seen since the day we were separated. He didn't just touch the sword; he claimed it.
"Stand up," I commanded.
He rose. He was thin, and his legs were unsteady, but as he drew the blade, the sound of the steel rasping against the wool was a benediction. He held it out, and though the tip wavered for a heartbeat, it soon went still. Solid. True.
The wind caught his hair, and for a moment, the sun broke through the clouds, striking the amber hilt. He looked down at the sword, then back at me. The corpse-light in his eyes was gone, replaced by a flicker of the man I knew, a spark of the fire that would eventually burn Bebbanburg back into his hands.
"There," I whispered, and I couldn't stop the small smile of triumph. "There he is."
Uhtred didn't speak, but he lowered the sword and reached out, his hand, no longer trembling, settling briefly on my shoulder. It wasn't the touch of a slave seeking mercy; it was the touch of a warrior acknowledging his sister. He wasn't whole yet, not by a long crawl, but as he gripped that hilt, I knew the slave was dead, and the lord was beginning to breathe again.
« Tenderness is the art of personifying, of sharing feelings, and thus endlessly discovering similarities. Creating stories means constantly bringing things to life, giving an existence to all the tiny pieces of the world that are represented by human experiences […]. Tenderness personalizes everything to which it relates, making it possible to give it a voice, to give it the space and the time to come into existence, and to be expressed. It is thanks to tenderness that the teapot starts to talk.
Tenderness is the most modest form of love. […] It appears wherever we take a close and careful look at another being, at something that is not our “self”. Tenderness is spontaneous and disinterested; it goes far beyond empathetic fellow feeling. Instead it is the conscious, though perhaps slightly melancholy, common sharing of fate. Tenderness is deep emotional concern about another being, its fragility, its unique nature, and its lack of immunity to suffering and the effects of time. Tenderness perceives the bonds that connect us, the similarities and sameness between us. It is a way of looking that shows the world as being alive, living, interconnected, cooperating with, and codependent on itself.
Literature is built on tenderness […]. »
— Olga Tokarczuk in her Nobel speech, December 2019
In the lawless dark of a Nassau tavern, Captain James Flint is a man drowning in more than just rum. When Eleanor Guthrie finds him unsteady, unmasked, and dangerously vulnerable she doesn't leave him to the sharks. A long walk to the Walrus and a desperate, uncalculated kiss in the quiet of his cabin change the gravity of their alliance. By morning, the scent of orange blossoms remains, but in a world built on power and perception, can they afford the cost of being seen?
CW: Nothing, just fluff and yearning
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The air in the tavern was thick with the scent of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and the low, guttering smoke of cheap tallow candles. It was well past the hour when any respectable merchant would be seen here, but Eleanor Guthrie had never been particularly concerned with respectability.
Pirates filled every nook and cranny of the place, belching, drinking, and eating like starved men. She paid their lewd comments no mind as she hastily collected half-empty mugs, pouring them into a jug to be used the following night.
It was getting heavy; she'd need to fetch a fresh one soon.
She rounded the corner, checking the booths for any of the ladies still waiting for custom.
Empty.
Thank the Gods.
She headed into the shadows of the tables beyond the booths, where a single candle lit the space.
She stopped short as she heard a mug hit the table.
"This area is closed, head back to..."
The figure gave a humourless chuckle and she cursed under her breath.
Flint sat in a shadowed corner, slumped over a table that had seen better days. He wasn't the terrifying pirate king of the Walrus tonight; he was a man drowning in a bottle of dark, cheap rum.
"Captain," she said, her voice cutting through the ambient noise.
Flint didn't look up, but he shifted, his hand tightening around the neck of the bottle. "Go away, Eleanor. Nassau has already taken enough from me today."
She took in the sea of bottles around him and her stomach dropped.
"If I leave you here, Captain, you’ll be gutted by a rival before dawn just for the gold in your pockets," she snapped, grabbing his arm. "Stand up. Now."
It took a surprising amount of effort to get him to his feet. Flint was a heavy man, built of muscle and stubbornness, and the rum had made him uncharacteristically clumsy. He leaned on her, his shoulder pressing against hers, his breath hot and smelling of molasses. He raised his right arm to swig from the bottle, but she swiped it out of his grip, letting the liquour spill across the floor.
"Eleanor..." He growled.
"Shut it. You're in no state to argue."
He fell silent as they moved through the darkened streets of Nassau, a pair of ghosts weaving between the crates and the sleeping dogs. Eleanor felt the weight of him, not just the physical mass, but the sheer, exhausting gravity of this ambitious, powerful man.
"You're a fool," she whispered as they reached the pier.
"I am but a man." He said, so softly it was barely a whisper.
The watch on the Walrus knew better than to question the lady of the island. They gave her a wide berth as she hauled the Captain up the gangway and into the sanctuary of the Great Cabin.
The room was filled with the usual clutter of a man obsessed: charts, sextants, and the heavy, leather-bound books that felt like remnants of a life he had long since burned. She steered him toward the cot in the corner, but as she tried to pull away, Flint’s hand shot out, catching her wrist.
He didn't pull her closer, not at first. He just looked at her. His eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, were clouded and desperately tired.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because our plan needs you," she said, though the words felt hollow even to her.
"The plan," he spat. He stood, swaying slightly, his face inches from hers. The candlelight caught the red in his beard and the deep lines of exhaustion around his eyes. "Always the island. Always the gold. Is there ever a moment where you aren't calculating, Eleanor?"
"Is there ever a moment where you aren't warring with the world?"
He ran a hand over his face, peering at the shelves of books behind his desk.
She followed his gaze, her expression softening.
"When was the last time you simply sat and read something?"
Flint scoffed at that, shaking his head. "A lifetime ago."
Eleanor traced a finger along the spines of the numerous volumes, the titles scratching something in the back of her mind. Of a time when she was a proud student, learning languages and history and science.
Her finger stopped on the spine of a thick volume, worn with age: The Odyssey.
"Of all the creatures that breathe and move upon the earth..." She recited softly. "...nothing is bred that is feebler than man."
Flint's gaze lifted, and she felt her skin prickle at the sudden attention.
"A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time." He slurred in response, and she smiled softly, approaching his cot. She sat next to him, heart and mind softening.
She reached out to gently lift his chin with a finger, daring him to meet her gaze. "Even a fool learns something once it hits him."
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with years of unspoken alliances and betrayals. It was Flint who moved first, closing the remaining distance. It wasn't the kiss of a lover; it was a collision, hard, desperate, and tasting of salt and liquor.
Eleanor met it with a fervor that surprised her. For a heartbeat, the politics of Nassau, the Spanish gold, and the looming shadow of the British Navy didn't exist. There was only the rough press of his coat against her palms and the terrifying, shared understanding that they were the only two people on this godforsaken sandbar who truly understood the cost of power.
She was the one to break it. She pushed back, her breathing ragged, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"I am at your knees, O queen." He recited, his words slurring more than ever. "Are you a goddess, or a mortal?"
She smiled despite herself.
"Sleep it off, James," she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft as she kissed his forehead.
Flint collapsed back onto the cot, the fire in his eyes fading as the drink reclaimed him. Eleanor didn't look back as she stepped out into the humid night air, her lips still stinging from the salt of him. She had a harbor to run, and the Captain had a war to fight, even if they both knew they were already losing it.
The morning after in Nassau is rarely kind, especially when viewed through the lens of a rum-induced haze.
The sun was a physical assault. It pierced through the stern windows of the Walrus, reflecting off the water in jagged, rhythmic flashes that felt like needles against Flint’s retinas.
Christ.
He groaned, the sound catching in a throat that felt like it had been lined with dry sand. He didn’t remember the climb up the gangway. He didn’t remember the walk through the shantytown. The last thing he recalled with any clarity was the bottom of a bottle at the The Flying Dutchman and a crushing sense of isolation.
But as he rolled onto his side, his face pressing into the rough wool of his pillow, he didn't smell the usual scent of damp canvas and gunpowder.
He smelt clove and orange blossoms.
It was faint. A ghost of a scent clinging to the fabric of his cot, but it was unmistakable.
Eleanor.
It wasn't just a dream born of fever; she had been here. The memory of the kiss hit him then, not as a romantic sentiment, but as a sharp, sudden ache in his chest. It had been desperate, a collision of two drowning people catching a single breath of air.
Flint didn't wait to find his boots. He shoved his feet into them, ignored the protest of his pounding head, and threw on his coat. On deck, the crew moved with practiced silence, sensing the Captain’s foul mood, but he didn't spare them a glance.
He went over the side and into a skiff, rowing himself toward the Guthrie compound with a frantic, steady pull. The harbor was already waking up, the shouts of merchants, the creak of rigging, the smell of drying fish, but Flint saw none of it. He was navigating by that lingering scent of orange blossoms.
He found her on the balcony of her office, overlooking the bay. She was perfectly composed, a contrast to his dishevelled state. Her hair was pinned back tight, and she held a ledger in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
She didn't turn when he stepped onto the wood planks, his heavy tread announcing him.
"You're awake," she said, her voice cool and professional. "I expected you'd sleep until noon."
"You brought me back," Flint said, stopping a few feet behind her. He didn't thank her; they didn't trade in gratitudes. "And you stayed."
Eleanor finally turned. The morning light was unforgiving, showing the dark circles under her eyes that suggested she hadn't slept much better than he had. She looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes, her expression unreadable.
"I brought a valuable asset back to his post," she replied, though the grip on her tea cup tightened. "The 'moment' was a lapse in judgment. One I'm sure we've both already accounted for."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Flint stepped closer, into her space, forcing her to look up. The salt air between them was charged again, the ghost of the previous night's desperation hovering over the ledger. "An accounting error?"
Eleanor didn't flinch. She set the cup down on the railing and stepped toward him, her finger pressing into the center of his chest, right over his heart.
"In this town, James, we are what people perceive us to be. Last night, we were two fools. This morning, you are Captain, and I am Queen of this bay. Don't let the lines blur again. It's too expensive a mistake for either of us to make."
But for all her cold words, she didn't pull her hand away.
"There's a line from the old books, Eleanor. About two people being 'one in thought.' I used to think it was a poet’s lie. But standing here… I think it might just be the most dangerous thing in the world."
"Stop it with the poetics." She chided, but he saw the flicker of something more in those dangerous eyes. The sight was enough to sober him up.
Plenty of time. He promised himself.
"I am at your knees, O queen." He recited as he turned on his heels back to the harbous. He had the satisfaction of hearing her choke on her tea as he walked away.
A little something for @c0rrupted-mov. Thanks for the inspo! Hope you enjoy ;)
“You will work here, Sky. With me.”
An exploration of the unspoken history between Sky Young and Viktor. From a fleeting childhood moment by a polluted stream in Zaun, to a warm partnership in the hallowed halls of Piltover, these are the moments they shared before everything fell apart.
CW: Nothing, just fluff and yearning
⚬───────────────✧──────────────⚬
The air in the Undercity was thick, tasting of rust and stagnant water, but by the drainage pipe where the current ran just a little faster, it was almost bearable.
I was ten, maybe eleven, running with the other kids from the lower level. We were chasing a stray cat when I saw him.
He wasn't playing. He was sitting on a rusted-out pipe, hunched over something small and metal. His clothes were filthy, just like ours, but his hands moved with a strange, delicate precision that none of the other kids had.
"What's that weirdo doing?" Riko whispered, nudging me.
I didn't answer. I just watched.
He was assembling something out of scrap; a discarded gear, a shard of mirror, a piece of copper tubing. It looked like a boat. A tiny, shining thing that didn't belong in this muddy, grey world.
Riko threw a rock near the boy's feet, trying to get a reaction. "Hey, trash-diver! What you makin'?"
The boy didn't even flinch. He just kept working, focused entirely on balancing the gear on the tiny copper hull. It was so intense, so quiet, that I felt a strange sense of awe.
"Leave him alone," I snapped at Riko, pushing past him.
I walked closer, stopping just outside the boy's personal bubble. He finally looked up, his eyes sharp and serious behind grime-smeared skin. He didn't look scared; he looked annoyed that his concentration had been broken.
"It’s not finished," he said, his voice raspy.
"It's beautiful," I breathed out.
His eyes softened, just for a second, a flicker of surprise breaking through the intensity. He turned back to the boat, making one final adjustment with a pair of makeshift tweezers.
I wanted to say something else, to ask him how he made things shine like that out of trash, but Riko called me again, louder this time.
"Sky! Come on, we're leaving!"
I hesitated, looking back at the boy. He had already forgotten I was there, gently placing his tiny metal boat into the filthy water to see if it would float.
It didn't sink. It bobbed perfectly on the surface, catching a rare ray of light that broke through the smog. I smiled, a secret, happy feeling in my chest, and ran to catch up with my friends.
The air in the Academy laboratory was always too thin, too recycled, and smelled faintly of ozone and stale coffee. For Viktor, it was a sterile contrast to the damp, chemical tang of his childhood in Zaun.
He was pouring over schematics for the Hexcore, his eyes straining, his breath slow, when he heard the timid knock on his doorframe.
"Yes? Come in." He said, not bothering to look up from his work. He heard several small steps before they stopped at the landing. "Dr. Talis is out, I assume?"
Dr. Talis? No-one ever called Jayce that.
Viktor looked up, blinking. Standing there was a young woman with intense, intelligent eyes, holding a stack of papers so high it threatened to topple. She was new to the upper levels of the lab, likely transferred from the lower-division labs where the work was tedious and the funding sparse.
"He is," Viktor said, his voice raspy. "And you are?"
"Sky Young, sir. Professor Heimerdinger assigned me as a research assistant for the semester. I was told to drop these off."
She stepped forward, and as she did, a small, intricate metal component fell from her pocket, skittering across the floor. It was a stabilizer valve, but it had been modified; re-wired in a way that was unconventional, yet genius.
Viktor didn't look at her face; he looked at the valve. It reminded him of something.
"You...modified this," Viktor stated, not really asking.
"I..." Sky looked panicked, rushing to retrieve it. "Yes. The standard regulator was inefficient for high-voltage transfer. It was just a small adjustment."
Viktor picked up the valve before she could. He felt the weight of it, the specific craftsmanship. He looked at her closely now, seeing past the pristine Academy robes to the smudge of grease on her jawline and the calluses on her fingertips.
A memory came to him. A dirty, winding stream in Zaun. A girl watching him build a boat out of scrap, her kind eyes following him in curiosity.
"You're from the Undercity," Viktor murmuredm, still caught in his memories. It wasn't a question, but a recognition.
Sky froze, her breath catching in her throat. "I am," she replied softly. He saw her gaze soften, as if reading his thoughts.
Avoiding her gaze, Viktor gestured to a free workbench cluttered with half-finished components. "The stabilizer you modified...show me how you calculated the power output."
Sky’s eyes widened, a flicker of hope and sheer adoration crossing her face. She rushed to the bench, instantly at ease talking about complex mechanics.
As she explained her theory, Viktor didn't just hear the science; he remembered a small child looking at his boat with wonder. He realized he had seen her work before, in the lower labs, and had quietly pushed for her transfer, recognizing a spark he thought had gone out in Zaun.
"Efficient," Viktor said, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "You will work here, Sky. With me." He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "And Jayce."
Sky stood frozen, the stabilizer valve still cradled in her hands as if it were a fragile artifact. Viktor, usually composed and distant, seemed almost to be holding his breath, waiting to see if she would accept the offer, or perhaps waiting for the guilt of pulling her into his orbit to dissipate.
“Thank you, Viktor,” Sky finally managed, her voice barely a whisper, yet vibrating with intense emotion. “I won’t let you down.”
Viktor nodded, a small, barely perceptible gesture, but one that signaled a profound shift in the lab’s hierarchy. He watched her return to her work, her movements faster, more confident than before.
Weeks later, the laboratory hummed with palpable excitement. They were building the future, one Hexgate at a time.
Sky stood at a sprawling workbench, her brow furrowed in concentration as she recalibrated a stabilization housing. Across the room, Viktor was reviewing data streams on a massive monitor, his movements fluid and precise, his health not yet a barrier to his work.
“The power output is fluctuating at the tertiary relay,” Sky called out, not looking up from her task. “If we don’t stabilize the containment field, the jump will be too volatile for safe passage.”
Viktor walked over, pausing beside her workbench to look at the schematics she had laid out. He recognized the genius in her design, it was daring, bordering on reckless, but entirely brilliant.
“If you bypass the primary limiter,” Viktor murmured, tracing a line on the blueprint with his finger, “you can reroute the excess energy directly into the cooling system.”
Sky looked up, a bright, eager smile breaking through her focus. “Yes! And that would prevent the overheating issue we had last week.”
Just then, the heavy doors slid open, and Jayce strode in, looking energized. He was holding two cups of coffee, which he offered to them with a grin.
“Progress report, team? I just left Council meeting, and they are demanding a demo of the new gate by the end of the month.” Jayce paused, noticing the complex schematics on Sky’s desk. “Wow. Did you two come up with this?”
“Sky did,” Viktor said, a note of pride in his voice that was rare for him. “She found a way to stabilize the tertiary relay.”
Jayce looked at Sky with genuine respect, handing her a cup of coffee. “Nice work, Sky. We were hitting a wall with that one. You’re becoming a real asset to this team.”
Sky took the coffee, blushing slightly at the praise from both men. “Thank you, Jayce. I just...I want to make sure the gates are safe for everyone.”
“They will be,” Viktor said firmly, looking between them. “With this modification, the Hexgates won’t just be fast. They will be reliable.”
He turned back to the schematics, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. In that moment, looking at Sky’s focused expression and Jayce’s enthusiastic planning, Viktor felt a profound sense of hope. They were not just changing Piltover; they were changing the world.
Weeks had passed, and the frantic pace of the Hexgate development had settled into a comfortable, productive routine. It was late, the rest of the Academy was asleep, but the lights in the lab remained on.
Viktor was hunched over a workbench, meticulously soldering a delicate component for the guidance system. His eyes were tired, and his shoulder cramped from holding the same position for too long.
A pair of hands gently reached over his shoulder, placing a steaming mug of tea precisely where he usually kept it. Sky leaned in to examine his work, her face close enough to his that he could smell the faint scent of lavender on her clothes.
"You’re going to give yourself a migraine if you don't take a break," she murmured, her voice soft in the quiet lab.
Viktor paused, setting down the soldering iron. He looked up at her, finding her looking down at him with a mixture of professional concern and something much warmer. He didn't pull away.
"The resonance is almost balanced," he justified, though his voice lacked its usual sharpness.
"It will still be balanced in five minutes," she replied, gently reaching out to adjust his collar, which was turned up awkwardly.
Her fingers brushed against the back of his neck, a fleeting touch that made Viktor’s breath hitch. He felt an unusual urge to grab her hand, to hold it there, but instead, he simply looked at her, truly seeing her, not just as an assistant, or the girl from Zaun, but as someone who understood the chaotic brilliance of his mind.
"Thank you, Sky," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "For the tea. And...for being here."
Sky’s cheeks flushed a light pink, and she offered a shy, genuine smile. "Always, Viktor."
She didn't move away immediately, and for a moment, the only sound in the lab was the hum of the machinery.
Sky lingered for a heartbeat longer, her gaze locked with his, before the professional boundary reasserted itself. With a soft, lingering smile, she stepped back, turning toward her own workbench to resume her calculations.
"Don't stay up too late, Viktor," she called over her shoulder, though her tone held a gentle playfulness.
Viktor watched her walk away, the lab feeling inexplicably colder and quieter in her absence. He looked at the steaming mug of tea she had brought him, then down at the soldering iron in his hand. A slow, rare smile touched his lips, a genuine expression of warmth that reached his tired eyes.
He took a sip of the tea, finding it perfectly sweetened, just the way he liked it, and turned back to his work. The complex schematics for the Hexcore suddenly seemed a little less daunting, and the future a little brighter.
I’ve finally hit the bottom of my backlog! Every fic I’ve posted (minus The Dreaming Weeps) was actually written a while back, and while it's been great sharing those older projects, the "stash" is officially empty. It’s time for some fresh ink.
I’m currently staring at a blank page and debating which world to dive into next. I have a few paths in mind, but I’d love to know what you’re craving.
The Options:
More of the same: The Dreaming (reading the comics rn so lots of ideas for fics), Arcane (finished my rewatch and hot to trot), Crooked Kingdom and Shadow and Bone (more Kanej and maybe some Darklina content).
OR
Something Brand New: Black Sails (gotta love some gay pirates), Assassin’s Creed (currently replaying the games so I’m keen af), Grishaverse (gahh my obsession for years), A Darker Shade of Magic (easily my fave series ever), or the worlds of Holly Black and Sarah J Maas (fairy smut heck yeah).
I’m also totally open to suggestions! If there’s a specific ship, dynamic, scene, or prompt you’ve been dying to see some content on pls let me know!!
Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends Pairing: Cait and Vi (Caitvi) Rating: Mature (for sexual contnet) Status: Completed
Synopsis: Drowning in a cold case and the sterile silence of Piltover, Caitlyn Kiramman’s obsession is interrupted when Vi breaks through her window. What starts as a late-night visit evolves into a heated morning spar to burn off mounting tension. As the blows fly, the professional distance between Enforcer and brawler dissolves, transforming a physical test of skill into a raw, undeniable collision of intimacy.
CW: Graphic Violence, Body Horror (Chemical Burns), Near-Drowning, Major Character Death, Childhood Trauma.
Chapters
Part 1: The Visit: In the quiet, sterile heights of Piltover, Caitlyn Kiramman is drowning in the details of a case that refuses to be solved. Her only company is a map of The Lanes and the bitter taste of black tea—until a familiar shadow breaks through her window.
Part 2: The Spar: What begins as a heated morning spar between a Piltovian Enforcer and a Zaunite brawler quickly dissolves into something far more intimate.
The Kiramman estate is a place of silence, marble, and rigid expectations—until Vi steps into the training room. What begins as a heated morning spar between a Piltovian Enforcer and a Zaunite brawler quickly dissolves into something far more intimate. But as the sweat cools and the sun rises over the City of Progress, Caitlyn and Vi are forced to confront the shadows between their two worlds. It’s a story of bruises and silk, trauma and touch, and the realization that home isn't a city—it’s the person holding you when the masks come off.
CW: Sexual content, mild language, and themes of class conflict.
Caitlyn stirred as a sliver of Piltovian sun sliced across her pillow, sharp and unforgiving. She cast an arm over her eyes, a faint frown creasing her brow as her senses fought to reconcile the clinical perfection of the morning with the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It was heavy, rhythmic, and unmistakably violent—a blunt, percussive roar that fractured the curated silence of the Kiramman estate. It was an unapologetic heartbeat of Zaunite grit pulsing in the very center of Piltovian luxury.
A slow, sleepy smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. She knew that rhythm. It was the sound of a heart that couldn't stay still, a body that only felt at peace when it was in motion.
Vi
Reluctantly leaving the warmth of the sheets, Caitlyn slid out of bed. She grabbed her silk robe from the foot of the bed—the deep indigo fabric a stark contrast to her pale skin—and tied the sash loosely around her waist.
She sleepily followed the sound, her bare feet silent on the cold marble of the hallway. The closer she got to the training wing, the more the air changed—growing warmer, charged with the metallic tang of sweat and the friction of leather against sand.
She reached the arched doorway and paused, leaning her shoulder against the frame. There, in the center of the grit and the cedar scent, was Vi.
She didn’t move at first. She simply watched the play of light over the landscape of Vi’s back. Every muscle shifted like tectonic plates under sweat-slicked skin; every time Vi pivoted, her core tightened, her abs etching deep lines of definition that Caitlyn found herself tracing with her eyes. Vi was a masterpiece of motion, and she was all hers.
A faint, private smile tugged at Caitlyn’s lips. She began to wrap her hands, the rhythmic snip-snip of the fabric the only warning of her presence. She relished the ritual—the tightening of the gauze, the focus—before stepping onto the mats.
"Good," Caitlyn teased, her voice cool and melodic, cutting through the heavy silence. "But you’re leaving your left side open. You could be better."
Vi stopped mid-swing, the heavy bag groaning on its chain as it swayed. Her chest rose and fell in jagged, heavy heaves, a stray droplet of sweat racing down the bridge of her nose. She wiped her brow with a taped forearm, her grey eyes darkening as they tracked Caitlyn’s slow, deliberate approach.
"Is that so, Kiramman?" Vi’s voice was a low rasp, thick with exertion. Her gaze didn't just meet Caitlyn’s; it devoured her, roaming hungrily over the Enforcer’s poised frame and the way the morning light caught the deep blue of her robe.
Vi let out a short, breathless huff, leaning one arm against the swaying heavy bag. "Coming in here to give Zaun’s finest some pointers? 'Cause, and don't take this the wrong way, Cupcake... you’re looking a little over-dressed for a scrap." She gestured with a wrapped hand toward the floor-length silk. "Might be hard to move in that. Or were you just planning on boring me to death with a lecture?"
Caitlyn didn't lose her composure. Instead, her smile sharpened into something devastatingly smug. "I find that I can be quite flexible, regardless of the attire," she countered.
With a slow, deliberate movement of her hands, Caitlyn tugged at the sash of her robe. She let the heavy silk slide off her shoulders, the fabric pooling in a shimmering heap at her heels. Beneath it, she wore her sleepwear—a set of tailored silk pajamas consisting of a crisp collared shirt and wide, flowing pants. It was modest, Piltovian, and yet, on Caitlyn, it felt entirely provocative.
Vi’s throat went dry. Her eyes tracked the way the soft fabric draped over Caitlyn’s silhouette, the tailored lines doing little to hide the athlete beneath.
"Better?" Caitlyn asked, stepping onto the mat with a predator’s grace.
Vi wiped a bead of sweat from her lip, a dangerous spark igniting in her eyes. "Yeah," she grunted, squaring her shoulders. "Way better. Come here and prove it."
They didn't need further words. They moved into the center of the ring, a dance of practiced, intimate violence. Vi was all power and forward momentum, a storm Caitlyn had learned not just to weather, but to anticipate. Vi lunged, a mock-heavy hook that Caitlyn slipped with a graceful dip of her shoulder.
Caitlyn was precision—a scalpel to Vi's sledgehammer. She redirected Vi’s weight with a hand on her hip that lingered a second too long, her thumb grazing the bare skin above Vi's waistband. Vi let out a sharp huff of laughter, spinning back into Caitlyn's space, their movements blurring from a spar into something far more rhythmic.
"Focus, Cupcake," Vi breathed, catching Caitlyn’s wrist in a grip of iron and velvet.
"I am perfectly focused," Caitlyn countered, tripping Vi's heel and pulling her close until their heartbeats hammered against one another in a frantic, shared tempo.
Soon, the technicality dissolved entirely. Their breath came in synchronized gasps, the air between them superheated. They were chest-to-chest, tangled in a stalemate of limbs and heat.
"Careful, Vi," she whispered, her voice a low, sultry vibration. She let her lower lip graze the sensitive cuff of Vi’s ear, a deliberate, slow friction that made Vi’s breath hitch. "If I become a brawler, you’ll have no excuse to keep 'protecting' me. And we both know how much you enjoy the overtime."
As she spoke, Caitlyn let her hand slide down Vi’s sweat-slicked back, her palm catching on the hard ridges of muscle before resting at the small of her back, pulling her just a fraction closer.
The praise—and the devastatingly cheeky retort—was the final thread to snap. The air between them seemed to ignite. Caitlyn surged forward, her fingers tangling deep in the damp, pink strands of Vi’s hair, tilting her head back to claim a kiss that tasted of salt, heat, and pure desperation.
Vi let out a low, guttural groan against Caitlyn’s mouth—a sound of total, unadulterated surrender. Her large, taped hands found purchase on Caitlyn’s small waist, her fingers digging into the silk of the pajama pants as she dragged Caitlyn flush against her, needing to feel every inch of the contact.
The polished floor of the training room was cold, but as they sank down together, the world outside the mat vanished. There was only the frantic, beautiful heat of skin on skin, and the echoing rhythm of two hearts finally beating at the same frantic pace.
The transition from the heat of the training room to the sterile elegance of the Kiramman dining hall was jarring. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the fine bone china and the sharp, expectant silence of Caitlyn’s parents.
Vi sat at the mahogany table, looking decidedly out of place in a borrowed vest that strained against her broad shoulders. Her pink hair still dripped from the shower they had shared moments before, the dampness darkening the fabric of her collar. The Zaunite was focused entirely on her plate, attacking a stack of pancakes with the same startling intensity she had used on the heavy bag an hour earlier.
To the Kirammans, it was a meal; to Vi, it was a rare bounty. She ate with the focused, quiet desperation of a starved animal—shoulders hunched slightly over her plate as if to guard it, her movements efficient and hurried. There was no lingering over the fluffiness of the batter or the clarity of the syrup. She didn't use the small silver fruit fork, instead using her spoon to shovel large, sugar-drenched bites into her mouth as if she expected the plate to be snatched away at any moment.
Cassandra watched her, her tea cooling, forgotten. There was a flicker of something—not quite pity, but a sharp, uncomfortable realization—as she watched a girl who had clearly spent a lifetime never knowing where her next meal was coming from.
"The kitchen staff can always bring more, Vi," Tobias said gently, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "There is no need to... rush."
Vi slowed for a fraction of a second, her jaw working as she swallowed. She looked up, a bit of syrup glistening on her lip, her grey eyes momentarily wide and guarded. "Right," she rasped, her voice still rough from the morning's exertion. She glanced at Caitlyn, then back at the silver-rimmed plate. "S’just... better than the grey sludge back home. Hard to slow down when it actually tastes like something."
Caitlyn reached out, her fingers brushing Vi’s forearm—a grounding touch that finally made Vi’s shoulders drop an inch. "Eat as much as you like," Caitlyn murmured, her heart aching at the raw reminder of the gap between them. "We have all morning."
Across from her, Cassandra Kiramman sipped her tea, her gaze tracking every movement Vi made. Beside her, Tobias attempted a polite smile, though his eyes kept flickering to the faint, fresh friction burn on Caitlyn’s neck—partially hidden by her collar, but not quite enough.
"You're quite... energetic this morning, Vi," Cassandra remarked, her voice like a cool silk ribbon. "I imagine training with my daughter is a strenuous affair."
Vi coughed mid-bite, a bit of syrup sliding onto her lip. "Uh, yeah. She’s a handful," Vi said, then immediately realized how that sounded. She cleared her throat, her ears turning a bright shade of pink that matched her hair. "I mean, she’s got a mean right hook. Keeps me on my toes."
Cassandra delicately sipper her tea, sending the room into a deafening silence.
"Caitlyn has always been a quick study," Tobias said, trying to bridge the gap. "Though I don't recall her ever being quite this dedicated to 'hand-to-hand' drills before you arrived."
Caitlyn didn't flinch. She took a calm sip of her coffee, her expression the picture of Piltovian composure. "Vi has a very... hands-on teaching style, Father. It’s proven to be far more effective than the academy manuals."
Vi kicked Caitlyn gently under the table, a silent stop-teasing-them, but she couldn't hide her smirk. She looked over at Caitlyn, and for a second, the tension of the room faded. They shared a private, heated look—a flash of the training room floor, of sweat and tangled limbs—that was so loud it practically vibrated.
Cassandra set her teacup down with a definitive clink. "I’m sure. We simply want to ensure that our daughter isn't... overexerting herself. Or being led into habits that are too 'unconventional' for a Kiramman."
"Don't worry, Ma'am," Vi said, leaning back as if she finally felt at home in the Kiramman dining room. She met Cassandra's eyes with a look that was entirely too knowing. "Caitlyn is perfectly capable. In fact, when things get 'unconventional,' I’m usually just trying to keep up with her."
Caitlyn nearly choked on her coffee, and Tobias suddenly found his toast very interesting. The suspicion in the room remained, but beneath the table, Vi’s heavy boot rested firmly against Caitlyn’s slipper—a secret anchor in the middle of the storm.
By the time the last plate was cleared, Vi looked uncharacteristically sluggish. The sheer volume of real, butter-heavy food had done what a dozen Enforcers couldn't: it had slowed her down. Her usual sharp, predatory edge had softened into a heavy-lidded daze, the "food coma" hitting her with the force of a hex-bolt.
They made their excuses to the senior Kirammans—who were still reeling from the sight of the empty serving platters—and retreated toward the safety of the residential wing.
Once inside Caitlyn’s room, the world narrowed down to the scent of lavender and the invitation of the unmade bed. Caitlyn didn't even bother with her robe; she simply let the silk Pajamas carry her back into the cool embrace of the sheets. "I am... utterly spent," she groaned, her head sinking into the plush pillow.
Vi didn't hesitate. She kicked off her heavy boots, the dull thud on the rug signaling the end of her guard. She crawled in beside Caitlyn, the expensive mattress dipping deeply under her solid weight. She moved with a slow, sated grace, pulling Caitlyn into the warm curve of her body.
Her calloused hand, still smelling faintly of the training wraps and maple syrup, rested gently on Caitlyn’s hip. For the first time in her life, Vi wasn't hungry, she wasn't cold, and she wasn't looking for a fight.
"You Pilties really know how to... uh... do breakfast," Vi mumbled against the back of Caitlyn’s neck, her voice thick with sleepiness. "Might never get out of this bed."
Caitlyn hummed, reaching back to lace her fingers with Vi's. "Good. I have no intention of letting you."
The playfulness faded into the quiet intimacy of the room, the air cooling as their heart rates finally began to settle.
Caitlyn reached out, her fingers tracing a jagged scar on Vi’s forearm, her touch as light as a prayer. "It’s different when the adrenaline wears off, isn't it?" she whispered. "The world feels so much louder when you're trying to be still."
Vi shifted, pulling the duvet higher around them, but her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. "Down there, stillness is a luxury you can't afford. You stop moving, you're dead. Up here..." She paused, her voice cracking slightly. "Up here, the silence is so loud it makes my skin crawl. Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Caitlyn reached out, her long fingers tracing the jagged, white lines of the scars on Vi’s knuckles—a history written in bone and skin.
"Does it ever stop?" Caitlyn whispered, her voice barely audible. "The feeling that you have to carry the whole world on your shoulders just to prove you deserve to stand on it?"
Vi’s grip tightened around her waist, her chin resting on Caitlyn’s shoulder. "It’s not the world, Cupcake. It’s the people. Down there, if you stop swinging, someone you love pays for it. I’ve spent my life terrified that one day I’ll be too slow, or too tired, and the floor will just... drop from under me."
Caitlyn let out a shaky breath, her thumb brushing over a particularly deep scar on Vi's index finger. "My cage is made of gold, but it’s still a cage. Every time I walk into a room, I’m not 'Caitlyn.' I’m a Kiramman. I’m a legacy. I’m expected to fix a city that’s breaking under the weight of its own progress, while my own parents watch me for any sign of 'unconventional' failure."
She looked up, meeting Vi’s grey eyes in the dim light. "And now... now there’s you. It’s terrifying, Vi. Knowing that my heart doesn't belong to the Council or the Kiramman name anymore. It belongs to a girl who runs toward every fire she sees. I’m terrified of the day I can’t reach you in time."
The confession hung in the air, thick and fragile. Caitlyn felt a sharp ache in her chest—a need to overwrite every cold, hard thing Vi believed about herself. She shifted, sliding her hand up to cup Vi’s cheek, her thumb grazing the scar beneath her eye.
"Then let me be the one who isn't afraid," Caitlyn whispered. She watched Vi’s pupils dilate, the air between them suddenly charged with a different kind of tension—one that wasn't born of trauma, but of an undeniable, gravitational pull.
Caitlyn leaned in, her lips grazing the sharp line of Vi’s jaw, moving with a slow, deliberate heat that made the air in the room feel heavy. Her hands shifted down to the swell of Vi's breasts, and then lower, to the psace between her thighs. She felt Vi’s pulse jump under her touch.
"You talk too much, Zaunie," she breathed, her hand sliding lower, beneath the band of Vi's pants. Vi’s hands—hands that were built for destruction, for heavy iron and stone—moved to cradle the back of her neck with a reverent softness that made Caitlyn’s heart ache. Her calloused palms moved down over the silk of Caitlyn’s pajamas, the friction creating a searing warmth against her pale skin.
When Vi’s hands slid beneath the fabric to find the soft, aching swell of Caitlyn’s breasts, the breath left Caitlyn in a jagged, shaky moan. Her head fell back into the pillow, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into the touch. Every graze of a knuckle, every press of a thumb was an unspoken question, a plea for connection. And every time Caitlyn arched her back, every low sound that escaped her throat, was a definitive, desperate yes.
The shadows of the morning faded, replaced entirely by the tactile reality of each other—the scent of cedar and lavender, the taste of salt, and the electricity of a touch that finally had nowhere else to go.
They moved together with a frantic, desperate grace—a bridge built between two worlds through skin and heat. In that space, there was no Enforcer, no Hound of the Underground. There was only the salt of sweat, the arch of a back, and the quiet, rhythmic sounds of two people becoming one.
As they lay back onto the silk sheets, naked and entwined, Caitlyn began to giggle—a light, bubbly sound that seemed out of place in the silent room.
Vi frowned, propping herself up on an elbow. "What? Did I do something weird?"
Caitlyn reached up, poking Vi’s nose. "No, it’s just... look at us. A Kiramman and a child of the lanes, sharing a bed in the most prestigious estate in Piltover. If my mother knew the half of it, she’d have the room exorcised."
Vi’s frown softened into a lopsided grin. She let out a huff of a laugh, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to Caitlyn’s forehead. "Yeah, well. We always did like breaking things, didn't we?"
Vi rose from the bed, leaving the warmth of the sheets. She didn't put her shirt back on, her bare back a map of muscle and history that Cait was hungry to read. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sparkling spires of the City of Progress.
Caitlyn stayed in bed for a moment, her eyes tracing the powerful lines of Vi’s shoulders and the way the morning sun highlighted every ripple of muscle. From this height, the world looked perfect, but she knew Vi was seeing something else.
"It’s strange," Vi said at last, her palm leaving a faint fog on the glass. "Thinking my whole life was lived down there... under all this gold. I spent years looking up at these lights and hating them. Now I’m standing behind them, looking down at the shadows."
Caitlyn slid out of bed, her footsteps silent as she padded across the rug. She stepped into Vi’s space, her arms encircling her bare waist and her cheek pressing against the warm, scarred skin of Vi’s back. She felt the steady, heavy thrum of Vi’s heart.
"For a long time, I only saw the shine of the spires," Caitlyn whispered, her grip tightening as if to anchor both of them to the moment. "But you—you’re the one who taught me to look through the glare and see the shadows. Because of you, I don't just see a 'City of Progress'. I look down and see the Lanes. I see the heart of Zaun, and the souls that this city tried so hard to forget."
Vi turned within the circle of Caitlyn’s arms, pulling her into a slow, tethering embrace. She rested her forehead against Caitlyn’s, her eyes closing as she finally let the tension of two worlds go.
“You are indispensable, Lucienne,” he whispered, the truth of the wine stripping away his pride. “In all my ages, you are the only one who has never felt like a dream. You are real.”
After accepting a shimmering gift from his sister Delirium, Dream of the Endless finds himself in an uncharacteristic state of "loosened gravity." As the boundaries of his stoicism dissolve into the vintage of the youngest, Morpheus wanders his palace with an unfiltered heart—confiding in a pumpkin-headed janitor and confessing terrifyingly honest truths to his librarian. In the quiet of a humming Dreaming, Lucienne is left to hold the weight of a King who has forgotten how to be cold, and a man who is beginning to remember how to feel.
Dream of the Endless did not intend to become drunk.
Intention, however, is not the same as outcome—especially when the youngest of his siblings was involved.
The wine had been a gift from Delirium. She had appeared in a swirl of bubbles and the smell of wet pavement, handing him a bottle that shimmered with a logic he couldn't quite decipher. It was ancient, sealed in glass that seemed to breathe, and it insisted it had been waiting for the right moment to come undone. Ordinarily, Morpheus might have shared a glass of vintage with an old friend or a rival, but Delirium’s gifts were different. They didn't follow the rules of the Endless; they were a leak from the subconscious, potent enough to tilt the axis of the Dreaming itself.
One glass did nothing.
The second made the stars over the Dreaming rearrange themselves into shapes Dream found personally irritating. By the third, the very air in the throne room began to taste like a memory he couldn't quite place. His raven, Matthew, sighed very loudly.
“Master,” Matthew said, wings ruffling. “You’re… smiling.”
Dream stared at his own hand, turning it slowly as though it had only just been invented. “Am I.”
“Yes. It's...unnerving.”
Dream considered this gravely, then drank again. The gravity in the room felt optional. The walls seemed to lean closer, curious to see their master so unmoored. The fire crackled with unnecessary enthusiasm. Dream sat sprawled on the steps of his palace, cloak pooled around him like a spill of night, his helm abandoned several steps above him.
“I do not see the appeal,” he said, his voice looser than it had been in several centuries. “Mortals drink like this and then… talk.”
“You’ve been talking for ten minutes,” Matthew cawed.
Dream frowned. “That seems unlikely.” He paused, then added with a sudden spark of indignation, “Lucifer cheats at chess.”
Matthew blinked. “That’s what you’ve been talking about?”
“Yes. They move pieces when I am not looking. Subtly. With smugness.” Dream took another drink, squinting at the swirling liquid. “You taste… nostalgic.”
The bottle did not deny this. It only glowed brighter, the colors of Delirium’s realm swirling in its depths. A passing nightmare drifted by and bowed too deeply. Dream waved at it. The nightmare froze, deeply confused, then waved back.
“Oh no,” Matthew muttered. “You’re being friendly. We’re in trouble.”
Dream leaned his head back against the obsidian stone and gazed up at the sky. “Do you ever think,” he said slowly, “that existence is very serious about things that are, objectively, quite strange?" He took another swig. "I have been very stern, Matthew. Perhaps unnecessarily. I should apologize to someone.”
“Who?”
“I do not know yet,” Dream said, nodding decisively. “But I am certain they deserve it. Also,” he added, his voice dropping to a whisper, “the stars are humming.”
They were. The entire Dreaming was vibrating in tune with its master’s loosened mind. Matthew hopped closer, settling beside him. “Master… maybe that’s enough.”
Dream looked at him, eyes bright with reflected constellations and something dangerously close to warmth. “Very well. I will stop.” He set the bottle down, then, after a moment, slid it slightly closer again. “For later,” he explained.
The Dreaming sighed, resigned, and quietly rearranged its architecture to make sure Dream would not attempt to walk anywhere important.
Lucienne found him a short while later.
At first, her heart lurched into her throat. Dream lay sprawled across the stairs, his cloak tangled, his pale skin glowing against the dark stone. He looked like a fallen monument.
“Lord Morpheus?” she said sharply, her footsteps echoing as she rushed forward. She knelt beside him, her hand hovering just inches from his shoulder, eyes scanning for fractures in his form—until she followed his gaze.
Dream was staring at the ceiling. Not unfocused. Not vacant. He was rapt.
“The ceiling,” he murmured, his voice a low thrum of reverence. “Has always been very honest with me.”
Lucienne froze. “…My lord?”
“The way it does not fall,” Dream continued thoughtfully. “Despite the weight of the sky above it. Very admirable.”
Across the hall, Matthew made a noise that was halfway between a cough and a laugh. Lucienne’s eyes snapped to him. “Matthew. Why is the Lord of Dreams lying on the steps like a discarded rag?”
Dream lifted one finger, still staring upward. “I am not discarded.” He turned his head toward her, dark hair falling into his eyes, his expression bright with a gentle delight she had seen perhaps twice in all her millennia of service. It made something in her stir intensely. “I am resting.”
Lucienne looked at the bottle beside the throne. She saw the iridescent, chaotic shimmer of the glass and felt her mouth twitch. “Delirium,” she whispered. “Oh, that would do it.”
She looked back at Dream, who was now smiling at her as though she were the most welcome sight in all the realms.
“Lucienne,” he said, his voice dropping into a register that made her breath catch. “You are here.”
“I am,” she said, regaining her composure. “As I usually am.”
“This is excellent. I have been meaning to give you advice.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, leaning into her space. He smelled of starlight and the wild, sweet tang of his sister’s madness. “You must always catalog things as they are, not as you fear they will become.”
Lucienne paused. The advice was sound, yet hearing it from a man currently mesmerized by his own ceiling was disorienting. “I...shall keep that in mind.”
“But also—” He squinted, his hand reaching out as if to catch a stray thought. His fingers brushed the fabric of her vest, a touch so light it was almost a ghost. It felt as if his fingers were molten, and she flinched, her heart catching in her chest. “Sometimes books want to be misplaced. For enrichment. And when order becomes too rigid, it begins to dream of chaos.”
Lucienne sat back on her heels, studying him. This wasn't the cold King or the brooding Master. This was the heart of the Dreaming, laid bare for all to see.
“You are enjoying yourself,” she observed softly.
“I am,” Dream said, beaming. “It is alarming.” He looked around the vast, silent hall, then his gaze returned to her, locking onto her eyes with a terrifying intensity. “You do excellent work. I do not say this often enough. I do not say much of anything often enough.”
Lucienne felt a heat settle in her chest, the kind of yearning she usually kept locked behind the heavy doors of her library. “Thank you, my lord.”
Dream nodded solemnly. Then he reached out, his cool fingers briefly grazing the back of her hand—a collision of two worlds that rarely touched.
“You are indispensable, Lucienne,” he whispered, the truth of the wine stripping away his pride. “In all my ages, you are the only one who has never felt like a dream. You are real.”
Lucienne felt her heart shatter and reform in the span of a second. She reached out, finally allowing herself to steady him, her hand firm on his arm.
“Come along, my lord,” she said, her voice a fragile whisper. “Let us get you somewhere more comfortable.”
Dream allowed himself to be helped up, leaning heavily against her. He continued to hum in time with stars only he could hear, his head resting briefly against her temple as they walked.
“The ceiling agrees,” he muttered one last time.
Lucienne smiled—small, fond, and entirely genuine. “Yes,” she said, leadng the King of Stories back into the heart of his home. “I beleive it does.”
They did not make it far.
They had just reached the long, curving corridor that led toward Dream’s chambers when Lucienne felt the air shift—subtle, familiar. A dream brushing against waking thought.
She slowed.
“Matthew,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he replied. “I felt it too.”
Dream, between them, tilted his head. “Oh.”
They turned the corner, the obsidian floors of the palace feeling more like a moving sea under Dream’s unsteady feet.
Mervyn sat cross-legged on the floor, back against one of the pale stone pillars, a worn tally-sheet balanced precariously on his knee. He looked small in the vastness of the palace—a jagged-mouthed, orange-headed figure of borrowed patience.
When he saw them, his head tilted back, the light in his triangular eyes flickering. “Oh, great. The cavalry’s here. Boss, you look like you’ve been run over by a rogue nightmare. Twice.”
Lucienne tensed automatically, already calculating how to explain… this. But Dream reacted first.
His entire expression changed—softened, brightened, something open and unguarded breaking through centuries of reserve. “Mervyn,” Dream said, sounding genuinely delighted. “You’re here.”
He slipped free of Lucienne’s steadying hand and crossed the remaining distance in three unsteady steps, crouching so they were eye level. Mervyn blinked, his wooden neck creaking. “Are you… okay? You seem different."
Dream considered this seriously. “I believe I am experiencing enthusiasm.”
Mervyn stared. “That’s… good? I guess? Usually when you're enthusiastic, I end up having to rebuild a wing of the palace.”
“Yes,” Dream said earnestly. “You are very good at arriving at appropriate moments, Mervyn.”
Lucienne exchanged a look with Matthew. “This is new,” the raven mouthed.
Mervyn glanced between them, looking suspicious. “Did I do something wrong? Is this about the breakroom? I told you, those weren't my dishes.”
“No,” Dream said immediately, a little too quickly. “Absolutely not. In fact—” He placed one hand over his chest, solemn. “You did something right. You are braver than you think. Most people are. But you…” He gestured vaguely at Merv’s pumpkin head. “You keep going even when the dream becomes unpleasant. You sweep the dust of lost hopes without complaint.”
“I complain plenty,” Mervyn corrected. “I’m complaining right now.”
“Trying,” Dream said gravely, ignoring the interruption, “is severely underrated.”
Lucienne felt her throat tighten. Even in this state, the King saw the heart of his realm—the small, gritty parts that kept it breathing.
Dream straightened with a soft groan, then placed both hands on Mervyn’s burlap shoulders, his gaze intent but gentle. “You should remember, Mervyn, that nightmares end. Even long ones. Especially long ones. They only feel endless while you are inside them.”
Mervyn went still, his snark failing him for a split second. “They do?”
“They do,” Dream said. “And when they end, you are still you. Which is important.” He smiled again—warm, luminous, entirely unguarded. “I am glad you stayed. I am… very glad.”
There was a long pause. Mervyn cleared his throat, a sound like dry leaves rustling. “Right. Thanks, Boss. I’ll… put that on a Hallmark card.” He frowned slightly. “Why are you walking funny?”
Matthew lost it. Full cawing laughter, hopping in a tight circle on a nearby railing.
Lucienne cleared her throat, stepping back in to provide some dignity. “Lord Morpheus has had… an unusual evening. A gift from Lady Delirium.”
“Oh,” Mervyn said. “Like when humans drink stuff they’re not supposed to? My cousin did that with some fermented swamp juice once. Ended up thinking he was a swan.”
Dream considered this. “I was supposed to,” he said. “But perhaps not so much.”
Mervyn giggled—a dry, raspy sound.
Lucienne rested a hand on Dream’s arm. “We were just taking him to his chambers.”
Dream sighed, long and dramatic. “The corridor keeps moving, Lucienne.”
“It is not,” she said patiently.
“It is,” Dream insisted, pointing an accusing finger at a perfectly still hallway. “See.”
Mervyn looked. “It’s not moving, Boss. You’re just leaning.”
Dream blinked. Then he nodded. “Ah. Thank you. That helps.” He turned back to Mervyn, reaching out to gently tap the side of the pumpkin head with two fingers. “You should sleep soon. Good dreams prefer punctuality.”
“I’m a pumpkin, Boss. I don't sleep, I just sit in the dark and contemplate my questionable life choices.”
“Sweet dreams regardless,” Dream said softly. The air shimmered—just enough. Mervyn’s shoulders relaxed, his jagged mouth softening as something warm and peaceful settled over his weary wooden frame.
“Night, Dream,” Mervyn muttered.
As Mervyn went back to his tally-sheet, Lucienne watched Dream carefully. His smile lingered a moment longer than usual. Then he sagged slightly, the effort of standing catching up with him.
Lucienne took his arm again, her touch lingering on his sleeve. “Come along, my lord.”
“Yes,” Dream said agreeably. “I have done enough wisdom for one night.”
“More than enough,” Lucienne whispered, her heart full of the devastating reality that tomorrow, the crown would return, the walls would go back up, and the King would forget he ever called a pumpkin brave or a librarian indispensable.
But for tonight, in the quiet of the shifting palace, he was just hers to look after.
They reached his chambers without further incident.
Lucienne guided Dream inside, already turning toward the bed out of long habit—only to stop short.
Dream had slipped free again.
He crossed the room with sudden purpose and threw open the tall windows, curtains billowing outward as night rushed in. Starlight flooded the chamber, cool and endless, carrying the distant hush of the Dreaming.
Dream inhaled sharply.
“Oh,” he said, awed. “I had forgotten how beautiful you are.”
“My lord—” Lucienne began.
But he was already climbing onto the sill.
“Master,” Matthew said urgently. “That is a window.”
“Yes,” Dream agreed, pleased. “An excellent one.”
Before either of them could protest, Dream stepped forward—
—and did not fall.
Starlight gathered beneath his bare feet, forming delicate steps that unfolded into the open air like a promise remembered. The very fabric of the air thickened to support his weight, the shadows softening like velvet cushions beneath his heels. The Dreaming would not let its King fall, not even from himself.
He laughed softly, delighted, and descended into the night.
Lucienne hurried to the window just in time to see him walking away from the palace, cloak trailing behind him like a torn constellation.
“…He’s gone for a walk,” she said faintly.
Matthew flapped after him. “I told you this would happen.”
Lucienne stood at the edge of the stone, her hand still hovering in the empty air where his arm had been. She watched him walk upon the stars, a King untethered. The palace walls seemed to thrum with a protective, possessive pulse, guarding his path as he drifted through the constellations of his own mind.
Dream walked as though rediscovering the Dreaming for the first time.
Each step carried him farther from the palace, down toward the great gates that marked the boundary of his realm. The stars brightened as he approached, eager, curious.
At the gates, his guardians waited.
The wyvern lowered its barbed head in confusion, the gryphon shifted its golden weight, and the hippogriff let out a soft, melodic trill. They were ancient creatures of law, used to a King of iron and shadow—but tonight, they felt the shift in the air. They sensed the starlight beneath his feet and bowed deeper than they ever had before, their massive forms forming a silent, living wall of protection as their master stumbled forward into the dark.
Dream stopped in front of them and smiled, wide and radiant.
“There you are,” he said fondly. “You’ve grown.”
“You are… unsteady,” the wyvern observed.
“I am celebratory,” Dream corrected. “It is different.”
Dream smiled and passed through the gates and into the open expanse beyond.
There, he stopped.
He lifted his hands.
And dreamed.
Not with his usual precision—no careful balance of fear and meaning, no strict lines between nightmare and vision—but with reckless generosity. Dreams spilled from him like breath after a long drowning.
A child’s dream of flying without fear.
A nightmare that ended in laughter instead of terror.
A city made of paper lanterns drifting safely through darkness.
A shadow that turned out to be a friend.
Creatures formed that defied classification—soft-edged horrors with kind eyes, beautiful dreams threaded with melancholy instead of triumph.
They were imperfect.
They were strange.
They were alive.
By the time Lucienne and Matthew reached him, the field beyond the gates shimmered with new creations, wandering, testing their shapes, humming softly with possibility.
Lucienne stopped short, breath catching.
“These are…” she began, then faltered.
“Different,” Matthew supplied.
“They are perfect,” she said softly.
Dream stood in the center of it all, swaying slightly, stars reflected in his eyes, looking profoundly pleased.
“I thought,” he said, turning to them, “that perhaps dreams do not always need to teach lessons.”
Lucienne approached slowly, reverent. “What do they need, my lord?”
Dream considered this, watching one of the new dreams curl around his wrist like a curious cat.
“…Kindness,” he said at last. “Occasionally.”
The gryphon huffed approvingly from the gates.
The wyvern lowered its great head, nostrils flaring as it regarded the creations with something like respect.
Lucienne felt tears prick at her eyes and did not bother to hide them.
“Yes,” she said. “I believe you are correct.”
Dream smiled, then sagged a little, the effort finally catching up to him.
Matthew swooped down to land on his shoulder. “Okay, that was beautiful and all, but I think you’re done inventing reality for the night.”
Dream laughed softly. “Very well.”
He glanced once more at the field of new dreams, expression tender and faintly bewildered.
“We should keep them,” he said. “Even if they are… odd.”
Lucienne nodded. “We will.”
Dream leaned into her support as she took his arm, allowing himself—finally—to be guided back toward the palace.
Behind them, the Dreaming glowed just a little brighter, as though pleased to have been surprised.
Later that night, Lucienne catalogued the new dreams personally.
She did not delegate. She did not rush.
Each creation was observed, named, and recorded with care, though she found herself pausing far more often than usual—watching a nightmare that dissolved into relief halfway through, or a dream that hummed with quiet reassurance instead of triumph.
She adjusted her glasses and wrote:
Provisional Classification: Liminal Dreamform.Notes: Displays empathy. Unstable, but benevolent.
Lucienne hesitated, then added in smaller script:
Do not cull.
By the time she reached the last entry, the Dreaming had settled around the new creations as though they had always belonged.
She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile.
The next morning...
Dream approached the throne with his usual measured stride.
The Dreaming straightened at his presence. Shadows fell into order. The stars above the palace ceiling aligned with practiced reverence.
Then he saw it.
The bottle rested at the foot of the throne, precisely where he had left it.
He stopped.
Slowly, as if approaching a dangerous artifact, Dream bent and lifted it. He uncorked it and inhaled—
—and felt the unmistakable ache of memory bloom behind his eyes.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
He straightened, jaw tightening.
“…Delerium.”
Somewhere, impossibly far away, a page turned.
Dream replaced the cork with unnecessary force and set the bottle down again, as though it might argue with him.
He pressed two fingers to his temple, recalling flashes he would very much prefer to forget: the ceiling. The corridor. Merv's face. His own unguarded warmth.
He closed his eyes.
“I was,” he said flatly, “unprofessional.”
Matthew, perched nearby and watching with barely contained delight, said nothing.
Dream exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Embarrassment—a rare, sharp thing—settled into his chest.
He straightened his unruly hair.
Then he looked beyond the throne, out across the Dreaming—and stilled.
The new dreams still wandered the edges of the realm.
They glowed softly. They endured.
Dream’s expression shifted, conflicted.
Lucienne appeared beside him, silent as ever.
“My lord,” she said, “the creations from last night have been catalogued.”
Dream did not look at her. “I see.”
“They are… unconventional.”
“Yes.”
“But,” Lucienne continued gently, “they are being received well.”
He finally turned, dark eyes searching her face. “You did not dismantle them.”
“No,” she said simply.
A pause.
Dream nodded once. “Good.”
He glanced down again at the bottle, lips thinning.
“I will speak with Delerium,” he said.
Lucienne’s mouth twitched. “I suspected you might.”
“And,” Dream added, resigned, “I will endeavor not to repeat the experience.”
Matthew cawed loudly.
Dream shot him a look.
Lucienne allowed herself a fond smile as she returned to her work.
Dream ascended the steps to his throne and sat, posture perfect, expression serene—if one looked closely, perhaps slightly haunted.
The bottle remained where it was.
Unmoved.
Unrepentant.
And somewhere in the Dreaming, a child dreamed a dream that did not vanish when the sun rose.
For @reyjakestherapist and @zoegrimess. I went heavy on the 'godly angst' for this one. Enjoy the heartbreak! I had a lot of fun with this one. lmk if you have any other requests!
“It is a cruel design, Lucienne... to be fashioned from the stuff of stars and yet feel the weight of mortal emotion.”
In the wake of his separation from Calliope, the Dreaming doesn't just mourn—it drowns. A story of a King who loves too much (or too little) and a loyal librarian who refuses to let him weather the storm alone.
⚬───────────────✧──────────────⚬
The ink on the ledger was still wet when the heavy oak doors of the throne room swung open with a violence that rattled the very foundations of the palace.
Lucienne looked up, her heart stuttering.
Morpheus didn’t just walk; he moved like a jagged shadow, cutting through the air with a terrifying, silent momentum. His face was ashen, his shoulders pulled so tight they looked as though they might snap.
He did not look at her. He did not stop at the throne, or greet his denizens. He made straight for the high balcony, his long coat snapping behind him like a funeral shroud.
The nib of Lucienne’s pen scratched a jagged line across the page before she dropped it entirely. The clatter echoed in the sudden, suffocating silence of the hall. She didn't hesitate; she followed, stopping only to retrieve her umbrella.
By the time she reached the balcony, the Dreaming had already begun to react. The once-clear sky had bruised into an angry, swollen purple, and the rain was falling in heavy, vertical sheets that turned the world a dreary grey.
Morpheus stood at the railing, his knuckles white where they gripped the stone. He looked as though he were trying to hold the entire realm together by sheer force of will, but he was failing.
"My Lord?" Lucienne’s voice was small against the rising roar of the wind.
He didn't turn. He was a ghost at the railing, breathless and still. Then the air left him in a jagged, shuddering wreck—a sound like velvet filled with broken glass.
"She has decided," he whispered, the words nearly vanishing in the rain. "Calliope... she will not return. She has decided she no longer loves me."
This adds a beautiful layer of history to her character. Lucienne isn't just an observer; she is the keeper of his entire romantic lineage. She knows the patterns, which makes this deviation all the more painful.
"She has decided," he whispered, the words nearly vanishing in the rain. "Calliope... she will not return. She has decided she no longer loves me."
The name sat heavy in the air, thick with a finality that made Lucienne’s chest ache. She had seen the others, of course. She had watched him chase many lovers through the centuries—passions that burned like magnesium, brilliant and blinding, only to leave him cold and more arrogant than before. Those had been storms of ego, tempests she could weather with a weary mind and a fresh pot of tea.
But Calliope was different.
Calliope had been the steady pulse beneath the poetry of his soul.
She vividly remembered the Dreaming on the day Orpheus was born; she remembered the unprecedented softness that had settled over the King’s sharp features as he looked at his son. For a brief, shimmering window in eternity, the Lord of Dreams had looked like a man who finally understood why mortals clung so fiercely to life. He hadn't just been a King then; he had been a father, a husband, a creature rooted in something deeper than duty.
This wasn't the fleeting sting of a spurned lover; this was the amputation of his better half. The mother of his child.
Lucienne stepped closer, braving the spray. "My Lord..." She reached out, her hand hovering near his shoulder, wanting to offer a comfort that felt inadequate for a being of his magnitude. "The heart of a mortal—or even a god—is an ever shifting thing. It does not mean the end..."
Her Lord didn't reply.
He didn't move to accept her comfort, nor did he push it away. He simply hunched further over the railing, his head bowing until his dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the deluge. He looked smaller than she had ever seen him.
He looked like a boy lost in a storm of his own making.
Lucienne stayed with him as the bruised purple of the sky curdled into a suffocating, bottomless black. She remained a silent sentry in the downpour, her umbrella a small, fragile circle of defiance against a grief that felt heavy enough to drown the world.
She stood in solidarity with his silence, but she could feel the Dreaming beginning to tilt—a slow, sickening slide toward ruin. It wasn't just the rain; the very air felt waterlogged with his desolation. Behind her, the palace groaned. She could feel her library crying out; in her mind’s eye, she saw the ancient parchment of a billion dreams beginning to curl and dampen, the mahogany shelves weeping sap like blood under the weight of their King’s despair.
The realm was a mirror, and it was shattering.
There was work to be done—shelves to be braced, leaks to be plugged, and a reality to be held together.
"I will be inside, My Lord," she whispered, though she doubted he heard her. She turned to leave, her boots heavy with water. But as she reached the threshold of the doors, her stomach twisted into a cold, hard knot.
Behind her, barely audible over the rhythmic drumming of the rain, came a sound she had never heard in all her centuries of service: the low, jagged sound of a sob. It was a private, broken noise—the sound of a King finally falling apart when he thought he was alone.
Lucienne didn't look back. She couldn't. She simply walked back into the darkening palace, her own eyes stinging with a grief that wasn't hers to carry.
Weeks later, the inner circle of the realm sat in a tense, dampened silence upon the marble steps leading to the empty throne. Lucienne adjusted her spectacles, though they did nothing to clear the literal fog rolling through the corridors.
"I'm just sayin'," Mervyn grumbled, leaning on his broom as a leak from the vaulted ceiling splashed onto his orange head. "We’ve seen the show before. Boss meets a girl—or a muse, or a manifestation of a star—he falls head over heels, she realizes he’s a lot of work, and bang. Rain for a week. It’s standard procedure."
"It has been three weeks, Mervyn," Fiddler’s Green sighed, his human form looking unusually wilted. His green velvet coat was damp at the hems. "The Meadows are currently a marsh. My flowers are drowning. This is not mere drama; this is a deluge of the soul."
Matthew thopped onto the stair above Lucienne, shaking droplets from his wings with a disgruntled croak. "I tried talking to him this morning. I flew up to the balcony, gave him the whole 'plenty of fish in the sea' speech... he didn't even blink. He’s just standing there. He looks like a statue someone forgot in the rain."
"I'll go with you," Fiddler’s Green said, starting to rise, his mossy-green eyes clouded with a deep, ancestral concern. "He shouldn't be alone when the sky looks like that, Lucienne. A forest is safer when the trees stand together."
Matthew flapped his damp wings, his beak clicking nervously. "Yeah, and I can... I don't know, tell a joke? Or distract him? I’m the bird of omen, right? Maybe I can omen him into a better mood."
Even Mervyn stopped his grumbling, his pumpkin head tilting as he offered a rare, gruff moment of sincerity. "I got a spare tarp in the shed, Lu. We could at least go up and hold it over him so he doesn't melt."
Lucienne looked at them—the spirit of a place, a loyal bird, and a cynical janitor—and felt a fleeting warmth that the storm couldn't touch. She offered them a small, tired smile and placed a hand gently on Fiddler’s Green’s sleeve to stay him.
"No," she said, her voice quiet but absolute. "Thank you, but... he is not in a state for a crowd. He is in a state for a witness. And a King rarely likes his court to see him when he has forgotten how to wear his crown."
She adjusted her spectacles, her eyes fixed on the distant, dark stairs leading to the high balcony. "I will go alone. Keep the leaks at bay as best you can. If I am not back by the time the tides reach the gallery, begin the emergency enchantments for the rare manuscripts."
She left them there, her footsteps echoing across the marble floor—a small, solitary figure walking toward a storm that had already swallowed a god.
The air grew colder the higher she went. Enough that her heavy breath from the climb puffed in white clouds before her.
When she pushed open the heavy oak doors to the balcony, the wind nearly tore them from her grip. Outside, the Dreaming was a chaotic blur of black clouds and silver needles.
Morpheus stood at the very edge of the stone railing, exactly where she had left him weeks before. He was a thin, jagged silhouette against the storm, his long black coat sodden and heavy, dragging behind him like a mourning veil. He didn't move as she cautiously approached him. He didn't even seem to breathe.
As she stood beneath her umbrella, she studied him over her glasses. The rain didn't just fall on him; it seemed to originate from him, a physical manifestation of a grief too vast for a single body to hold.
"My Lord," she said softly, her words stolen by the wind.
He did not turn.
She cleared her throat. "The libraries are flooding, sir," she tried again, her voice steady despite the chill. "The dreams are becoming nightmares of drowning. Your people are...afraid."
Silence. The kind of silence that lived at the bottom of a deep well.
She stepped closer, grip tightening on her umbrella. "Matthew said you would not speak," she continued softly, moving to stand a respectful distance behind him. "I had hoped you might speak with me instead."
Finally, the King of Dreams moved. It was a slow, reluctant motion. He didn't look at her; he looked out at his crumbling kingdom, his eyes two dark voids reflecting a sky that refused to clear. Her breath caught at the flash of skin beneath his dark hair, it had become the color of a dying moon.
"Eternity," he said finally, his voice a low, jagged rasp that broke Lucienne’s heart more than the storm ever could. "Eternity is a long time to be... alone."
He turned his head slightly towards her, the rain carving deep tracks down his unusually pale face. His cheeks were gaunt, hollower than she'd ever seen them. She was too stunned to speak, her words caught in the back of her throat.
"Tell me, Lucienne," he murmured, the twin stars in his eyes swallowed in darkness. "In all your books, in all the stories of men and gods you have curated... do you think me truly capable of love?"
Lucienne opened her mouth to provide a logical answer, but the words died in her throat. She did not look at the storm; she looked only at him—at the slumped shoulders of a King who ruled everything but his own desolation. She considered her words carefully.
"My Lord," she began, her voice steady. "You ask if you are capable of love as if it were a skill you have failed to learn. But look at your kingdom. Look at this storm."
She gestured to the rain-drenched horizon, the distant rumbles of thunder and flash of lightning.
"A loveless man would not flood the world because a lover walked away from him. No, a man of 'duty' would simply close the door and return to his ledgers. You do not mimic love, Morpheus. You bleed it. Your tragedy is not that you are incapable of love—it is that you love with the terrifying, absolute scale of a god, and you expect the world not to break under the weight of it. What is this storm if not testament of your love for her?"
She looked him directly in those dark eyes, her heart shuddering at his pain. Her voice was a soft, strange thing when she next spoke. "I beleive this is the most honest, most human thing you have ever done."
He was silent then, tilting his head against the cold rain, his shoulders heaving with the force of a trembling breath.
"My Lord," she continued, softening her tone, "you are the reason the poet finds the words for his sonnet and the lover finds the courage to yearn."
She reached out, hovering her hand just inches from his sodden sleeve before curling her fingers reluctantly away from him. She took a steadying breath, her mind shifting to the countless books she has read on the subject. If she could not touch him, she would touch his heart. His very soul.
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. "Heartbreak is the proof of a life fully lived." She said, her voice gaining strength. "You are feeling the universe’s most raw reality: that every great love eventually becomes a great loss, and our only job is to try our best to endure the pain."
Morpheus turned then, his gaze falling heavy upon her. The rain seemed to pause in mid-air, suspended by the sheer gravity of his gaze. His eyes were no longer just voids; they were flickering with the barest hint of starlight.
"It is a cruel design, Lucienne," he whispered, the words trembling. "To be fashioned from the stuff of stars and yet feel the weight of mortal emotion."
She inclined her head. "Perhaps, My Lord. But stars are but distant things. They burn and they fade, and they feel nothing of the light they give away." She looked out at the drowning kingdom he had built, then back to the lonely, sodden King before her. "You were not made to be a distant light. You were made to be the bridge between what is and what could be. And a bridge must feel the weight of everything that crosses it—even the grief. Especially the grief."
She reached out, not to touch him, but to offer the warmth of her presence in the freezing downpour.
"You are not failing your nature by hurting, Morpheus. You are fulfilling it. Let it rain, My Lord. Let the Dreaming weep until the air is clear again. But do not stay out in it until you disappear. Your palace is cold, and your books are damp, and your people... we are all waiting for you to come home."
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of the deluge against the stone. Then, slowly, Morpheus reached out. His fingers, cold as ice and pale as bone, brushed against the sleeve of her coat. It wasn't a command; it was a plea for grounding.
The weight of that final word hung in the air between them, heavier than the rain. She let it linger, a silent admission she would never dare speak more plainly. For centuries, she had been the ink to his parchment, the steady hand that kept his world in order while he chased the whims of muses and the fire of stars.
She had loved him through his coldest cruelties and his most blinding brilliance, a quiet, tectonic yearning that she had buried so deep beneath her books and ledges that she sometimes forgot it was there.
But here, in the raw, stripped-back heart of the storm, the truth felt dangerously close to the surface. She didn't want him back just because the Dreaming needed a King; she wanted him to return because the silence of the palace was unbearable when he wasn't there to fill it.
She reached out, her fingers twitching with the urge to brush a wet lock of hair from his forehead, to offer a touch that wasn't subservient, but human. She pulled back just in time, curling her hand into a fist at her side. To love the King of Dreams was to love the wind or the tide; one did not possess it, one simply learned to survive it.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rhythmic drumming of the deluge against the stone. Then, slowly, Morpheus reached out. His fingers, cold as ice and pale as bone, brushed against the sleeve of her coat. It wasn't a command; it was a plea for grounding, a desperate reaching for the only thing in his universe that had never walked away.
"Lucienne."
Her name on his tongue made her traiterous heart shudder.
"Her rooms," he continued, his gaze heavy. "I should like them eliminated. Entirely."
Lucienne nodded, a sharp ache blooming in her chest. She felt the weight of every lover’s room she had ever erased from the palace—the ghosts she had shelved to make space for his next grand obsession. It was a familiar, bitter cycle, but this time it felt like tearing out a vital organ. She wasn't just clearing a room; she was once again cleaning up the wreckage of a heart that never seemed to look her way until it was broken.
"Of course," she whispered, her voice thick with a devotion that felt like a secret bruise. "I will see to it at once."
She retreated into the safety of the palace, the warmth of the hall feeling strangely hollow. She wanted to turn back. She wanted to throw her umbrella aside, walk back into that freezing deluge, and tell him that she was the one who had curated his soul for millennia—that while muses came and went like the seasons, she was the earth beneath his feet.
But Lucienne was a creature of order, and such things were merely stories—the kind of wild, impossible fantasies that belonged in the deepest sections of her own library. She knew her place. She was the anchor, and an anchor must remain submerged and silent if the ship is to weather the storm.
Just as the heavy oak doors began to swing shut, sealing the King away in his watery tomb of grief, she heard him. Two words, whispered with a broken, human sincerity that shattered her heart more than any cold command ever could.
"Thank you."
Lucienne leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the closed door, closing her eyes as a single, hot tear escaped. He had thanked her, but he was still on the other side of that door.
She would erase the rooms, she would dry the books, and she would wait—just as she had for eons—for the day he finally realized that the greatest love in the Dreaming wasn't a muse, but the woman who kept his light burning in the dark.
Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends Pairing: Vander & Silco (Vaundads) Rating: Mild (for sexual content) Status: Completed (perhaps i'll add more ;) )
Synopsis: Before the bridge, before the betrayal, and before the world turned to iron and glass—there was just the Four of them. It’s the smell of spilled ale and heavy rain, the sound of Powder’s laughter echoing in the vents, and the quiet weight of a shared look between two men who thought they had all the time in the world. Just a glimpse into the domestic heart of The Last Drop, where the hearth was warm and the family was whole.
CW: some sexual content.
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Chapters
Part 1: The Last Drop - Before the bridge, before the betrayal, Vander and Silco relish their time together. As the morning sun finally hits the front window, Silco meticulously paints the name that will define their future: The Last Drop.
Part 2: Powder Blue - In the quiet of his office, Silco’s night of logistical planning is interrupted by a shadow in the doorway and a blue-haired whirlwind named Powder.
Part 3: Peace at Last - In the rare, shimmering moments when the smoke clears over the Undercity, Silco and Vander find that their greatest revolution is simply existing together.
In the rare, shimmering moments when the smoke clears over the Undercity, Silco and Vander find that their greatest revolution is simply existing together. During a quiet morning in the Lanes, a holiday provides a temporary ceasefire from the struggles of the sump.
CW: None. Pure fluff and romantic yearning.
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The Undercity was rarely quiet, but this morning, the usual mechanical roar had softened to a low hum. There were no sirens, no shouting enforcers, and no smoke-filled riots. It was a local holiday—a day to honor the "Sump-Swell"—and the Lanes were draped in colorful, albeit frayed, banners.
Vander led the way through the market, his presence acting like a prow of a ship parting the crowd. Silco walked half a step behind, his hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning the stalls with his usual analytical detachment.
Suddenly, Vander stopped, his hand snaking out to catch Silco by the elbow. He didn't say a word; he just looked at the cuff of Silco’s coat, where the dark fabric had begun to weep threads.
"You’re fraying, Silco," Vander rumbled, steering him toward a small, cramped tailor’s stall tucked between a chemist and a grocer.
"It’s a coat, Vander, not a political statement," Silco protested, though he didn't pull away. "We have more important things to spend our coin on than vanity."
"It’s not vanity to want the man at my side to look as sharp as his tongue," Vander countered. He ignored Silco’s sighs and spoke to the tailor, a hunched man with spectacles thick as bottle glass. "The best charcoal wool you’ve got. Double-breasted. Make him look like the king he thinks he is."
Silco stood stiffly as the tailor measured him, muttering about "extravagance" and "unnecessary fluff." But as Vander watched him with that steady, warm gaze—the look that said I see you, and you are worth the best of things—Silco felt a treacherous warmth in his chest. He secretly loved it. He loved that in a world of crumbling stone and toxic air, Vander noticed a few loose threads on his sleeve.
They spent the rest of the afternoon drifting through the festivities. They shared a skewers of grilled meat from a street vendor and sat on a rusted pipe overlooking the lower levels, watching the people of the Lanes laugh for once.
"Imagine it," Vander said, gesturing to the families below. "A Zaun where every morning is like this. Where they aren't looking over their shoulders for a gold-clad boot."
Silco watched a group of children chasing a clockwork toy. "It will take more than a holiday to buy that kind of peace, Vander. It will take blood."
"Maybe," Vander agreed softly, leaning his shoulder into Silco’s. "But today? Today, let’s just pretend we’ve already won."
As evening fell, the music from the main square grew louder—a frantic, rhythmic beating of drums and strings. Vander’s feet were already tapping. He grabbed Silco’s hand, his eyes dancing.
"Absolutely not," Silco said, his back going rod-straight. "I am a man of dignity, Vander. I do not 'jig' in the streets."
"Who said anything about the streets?"
Vander led him away from the lights, down a flight of narrow stairs to a secluded wooden dock jutting out over the dark, quiet water of the Pilt. The music was a faint, melodic echo here, filtered through the metal and stone of the city.
The air was cool, smelling of salt and damp wood. Vander turned, taking Silco’s hands and placing them firmly on his own broad shoulders.
"Vander, this is ridiculous," Silco whispered, though his heart was hammering against his ribs.
"Just follow my lead. It’s a simple two-step," Vander murmured. He slid his hands to Silco’s waist, his grip firm and grounding.
They moved together in the shadows. Silco was stiff at first, his mind trying to calculate the rhythm like a math problem, but Vander’s presence was impossible to resist. Slowly, Silco relaxed, his head coming to rest against Vander’s chest. He could hear the steady, powerful thrum of Vander’s heart—the real rhythm of his world.
For a few precious moments, there were just two men, swaying in the dark, holding onto the only version of peace they would ever truly know.
The walk back to the Last Drop was punctuated by the rhythmic brush of their shoulders. The new wool of Silco’s coat felt heavy and substantial, a tactile reminder of Vander’s hand on his back. By the time they reached the side entrance, the festivities in the square had reached a fever pitch, but inside the bar, the air was cool and still.
The walk back to the Last Drop was punctuated by the rhythmic brush of their shoulders. The new wool of Silco’s coat felt heavy and substantial, a tactile reminder of Vander’s hand on his back. By the time they reached the side entrance, the festivities in the square had reached a fever pitch, but inside the bar, the air was cool and still.
Vander didn't head for the office. He went straight behind the bar, the amber light of the lamps catching the glint in his eyes. "One more for the road?" he asked, already reaching for a bottle of the 'good stuff'—the glass reserved for celebrations and survival.
Silco leaned against the polished wood of the bar, the charcoal wool of his new coat making his pale features look even more striking. He looked every bit the strategist, the architect, and—as Vander noted with a slow, appreciative scan—the most handsome man in the Lanes.
"I suppose it would be a waste of a holiday to go to bed sober," Silco replied, his voice a low, teasing rasp.
Vander poured two glasses, the liquid catching the light like liquid topaz. He slid one toward Silco but didn't let go of the glass until Silco’s fingers brushed his own.
"I have to say," Vander murmured, his gaze lingering on the sharp lines of Silco’s lapels. "The tailor outdid himself. Or maybe it’s just the man wearing it. You look... dangerous, Silco."
Silco took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Vander’s. "And here I thought you bought it to make me look 'respectable.' Are you admitting you have a penchant for danger, Vander?"
"I’m admitting I have a penchant for you," Vander countered, his voice dropping an octave. "Always have."
The flirting was easy, a familiar dance they performed better than any two-step. Silco set his glass down with a soft clink and reached across the bar, grabbing Vander by the front of his shirt to pull him into a deep, slow kiss that tasted of peat and promises.
They were so lost in the moment—Vander’s hands finding the soft wool of the new coat, Silco’s fingers tangling in Vander’s beard—that they didn't hear the front door creak open.
"Oh, for the love of the Founders—get a fucking room!"
The voice cracked through the romance like a gunshot.
They broke apart instantly. Benzo was standing by the door, holding a crate of mechanical parts and looking like he’d just swallowed a lemon. He groaned, a deep, theatrical sound of pure exasperation, and didn't even wait for an explanation.
"I come back to drop off these gears and I have to see the Hound of the Underground playing tongue-wrestle? Disgusting. Absolutely unprofessional."
Benzo didn't even set the crate down. He just turned right back around, kicked the door shut with a resounding SLAM that made the glasses on the shelves rattle, and vanished back into the night.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, Vander let out a bark of a laugh that started deep in his chest and filled the entire room. Silco followed, a rare, genuine sound of amusement that smoothed away the sharp edges of his face.
"He’s never going to let us hear the end of that," Silco managed to say, leaning his forehead against Vander’s shoulder as the laughter subsided.
"Let him talk," Vander said, wrapping his arms around Silco and pulling him close. His heart felt huge, swelling with a happiness so profound it almost hurt. "He’s just jealous he doesn't have a partner with such excellent taste in coats."
They stood there in the quiet of their bar, two revolutionaries whose chests were full of something much lighter than air.
Synopsis: In the quiet of his office, Silco’s night of logistical planning is interrupted by a shadow in the doorway and a blue-haired whirlwind named Powder. While Vander watches with a smirk, the young girl presents Silco with a "broken" invention that turns out to be a bomb. Finding a kindred spark of brilliance in the child, Silco pushes aside his ledgers to teach his first lesson in demolition. Once the girls are gone, Silco and Vander share an intimate moment, until Felicia catches them in the act.
CW: Explicit sexual content (desk/office setting), mild language, and comedic depictions of child endangerment (it’s a bomb, but it’s Arcane so are we surprised??).
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The air was biting, a thick fog rolling off the Pilt as Felicia hurried through the back entrance of the half-finished bar. She looked exhausted, her coat threadbare and her eyes darting toward the street. In her arms, she balanced a sleeping Powder, while a very small, very fierce-looking Vi gripped the hem of her shirt.
Vander was behind the bar, polishing a brass rail, while Silco sat at a nearby table, buried in a mountain of blueprints and supply manifests.
"Vander," Felicia whispered, her voice tight. "I can’t keep them tonight. The Enforcers are sweeping the block, and I—I have to move. Just for a few days."
Vander dropped his rag instantly, his face softening into that look of mountainous empathy that always made Silco’s chest tighten. "Of course, Felicia. Bring them in."
Silco, however, didn't look up from his blueprints. "We are running a business, not a crèche, Felicia. The basement is still flooded and the electrical is a death trap."
"They're not 'electrical,' Silco, they're kids," Vander countered, stepping around the bar to take the sleeping Powder from Felicia’s arms.
Felicia looked at Silco, then back at Vander, a weary smile touching her lips. "Vi, stay with Vander. Be good for Powder."
Vi, who couldn't have been more than six, didn't look at Vander. She marched straight over to Silco’s table. She was high enough to see over the edge, and she stared at his blueprints with a defiant, judgmental pout.
Silco finally looked up, his good eye narrowing as he met the gaze of the pink-haired child. "You are standing in my light," he said coldly.
Vi didn't flinch. She reached out a small, grubby hand and poked the center of his map. "That’s a bad drawing. The bridge is over there."
Silco’s pen snapped.
"Vander," Silco hissed, his voice like sliding glass. "Remove this... creature. It’s critiquing my logistics."
"She’s got a point about the bridge, Silco," Vander laughed, walking over with Powder tucked against his shoulder like a sack of flour. He looked at Felicia and nodded. "Go. Stay safe. They’re home."
Felicia blew a kiss to the girls and vanished back into the fog, the door clicking shut behind her.
The silence that followed was heavy. Vander looked down at the two children, then at Silco, who looked as if he were being asked to handle a box of unstable hex-crystals.
"Well," Vander said, his voice echoing in the empty room. "I’ll go get some blankets. Silco, watch them for two minutes."
"I will do no such thing—Vander! Vander, come back here!"
But Vander was already heading for the stairs. Silco was left alone at the table with Vi, who was still staring at him, and Powder, who had just woken up and was beginning to lip-tremble in a way that suggested a localized monsoon was imminent.
Silco looked at the blueprints, then at the children, and let out a long, suffering sigh. "I suppose we aren't getting any work done tonight."
A few hours later, the bar had quieted down. Vander was busy helping a regular, and Vi was occupied with a training dummy Vander had rigged up for her.
Vander realized he hadn't seen the younger one, Powder, in a while. He wiped his hands on his apron and headed toward the back, half-expecting to find Silco in a state of nervous collapse.
He stopped at the doorframe of the workshop.
The room was dim, lit only by a single green-shaded lamp. Silco was hunched over his workbench, his jeweler’s loupe pressed to his eye. He looked like he was defusing a bomb.
Sitting on the stool beside him was Powder. She was so small her feet didn't reach the rungs, her eyes wide as she watched Silco’s every move. Between them lay a small, battered mechanical bird—a toy that had clearly seen better days, its wings hanging at a tragic angle.
Silco was using a pair of surgical-grade tweezers to realign a microscopic spring. His movements were fluid, his breathing rhythmic.
"If you move the tensioner here," Silco murmured, his voice low and devoid of its usual sharp edge, "the gear won't slip. It requires... finesse. Not the brute force your sister uses."
Powder nodded solemnly, leaning in until her blue hair brushed Silco’s shoulder. He didn't pull away.
Vander leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. He watched as Silco clicked a final piece into place. With a flick of a tiny lever, the bird’s wings gave a rusty whirr and began to flap.
Powder gasped, her face lighting up with a joy so bright it seemed to startle Silco. "You fixed it!"
Silco cleared his throat and immediately pulled back, snatching the loupe from his eye and assuming his usual rigid posture. He began frantically wiping his tools with a silk cloth.
"It was an affront to engineering," Silco snapped, his voice returning to its cool, detached rasp. He didn't look up, but his ears were suspiciously red. "The constant sniveling was distracting me from my work. I merely silenced the source of the noise."
Vander stepped into the room, his shadow falling over the workbench. "Right. Total coincidence that you used your most expensive set of tweezers for a 'noise-reduction' project."
Silco finally looked up, narrowing his eyes at Vander’s smug expression. "Don't start, Vander."
"I didn't say a word," Vander raised his hands in mock innocence, his eyes twinkling. He reached down and scooped Powder up, setting her on his hip. "Come on, little bird. Let’s go show Vi. Say goodbye to your favorite uncle."
"I am not an uncle," Silco muttered after them as they headed back to the bar.
But as the door swung shut, Silco looked down at the workbench. He picked up a tiny, stray blue thread that had fallen from Powder’s sleeve. He hesitated for a second, then tucked it into his vest pocket before returning to his ledger.
The next day...
The atmosphere in the office was thick with the scent of old parchment and the sharp, medicinal tang of ink. Silco leaned over his desk, his pen scratching out logistical notes for the next Shimmer shipment—until the light from the hallway was abruptly severed.
A massive, familiar shadow stretched across the floor.
Silco didn't need to look up to know who it was. The tension in his shoulders bled away, replaced by a rare, private warmth. "You’re late, Vander," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I brought a guest," Vander’s rumble was full of suppressed amusement.
Silco looked up, expecting a stray informant or perhaps Benzo. Instead, he saw a shock of blue hair. Powder stood there, clutching what looked like a pile of discarded scrap metal and rusted springs against her chest. Her eyes were wide, glowing with a frantic, inventive light.
"It won't work," she whispered. Before Vander could even introduce her properly, she bolted from his side, scurrying to Silco’s desk and plopping the mechanical lump directly onto his meticulously organized ledgers.
Vander leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes crinkling. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said, throwing a wink toward Silco before retreating into the bar.
Silco let out a long, weary sigh, looking down at the "junk." It was covered in neon-pink sketches and crude markings, but as he began to study the internal alignment, his eyes widened.
It wasn't a toy. It was a bomb.
He looked at the small girl again. Respect, sharp and unexpected, bloomed in his chest. The mind on this one, he thought. A little spark of chaos.
"Well," Silco murmured, his voice losing its edge. "We can't have it failing at the crucial moment, can we?"
He pulled his tools towards him. "You’ve miscalculated the fulcrum," he explained, his voice low and instructional. He was surprised by her grasp of volatile chemistry—at such a young age, she understood the marriage of fire and pressure better than most of his grown men. "The trigger needs a secondary catch. Otherwise, it's just a paperweight."
He showed her the inner workings, his steady hands guiding her small, trembling ones. To prove the logic held, he clicked a gear into place and activated the mechanism. A sharp, rhythmic ticking filled the room. Powder held her breath.
With a practiced flick of his thumb, Silco hit the failsafe. The ticking died instantly.
"There," he said, setting her back on her feet. He gave her a pointed, stern look—the picture of a blase father who had just helped with a science project. "Don't set it off in the tavern. Take it to the sumps if you must witness the explosion."
"Thank you, Silco!" she chirped, scooping up her lethal treasure and darting out the door.
Silco leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh, pushing his dark hair back from his forehead. He stayed like that for a moment, the silence of the room returning, until the shadow returned.
Vander stepped back in, his shoulders heavy and rolling with the exhaustion of a day spent keeping the peace. "They’ve gone home," he said, his voice dropping into a deeper, more intimate register. "Felicia picked them up."
Silco didn't move. He sat in his high-backed chair, watching Vander move into the room. He looked over him hungrily, a sudden, sharp desire blooming in his gut. He wanted the weight of the man, the heat of him, to erase the lingering traces of the day. He wanted to be taken right there, draped over the desk amongst the blueprints and inkwells.
Vander saw the look. His gaze shifted, darkening as his lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. He didn't say a word as he reached out, his large hands sweeping the ledgers and tools to the floor with one decisive motion.
He stepped between Silco’s legs, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. "You were saying?" Vander whispered, pulling Silco forward.
The desk groaned under their weight as they came together, a frantic, desperate collision of skin and leather. The heat in the office was stifling, the kind that made the fine silk of Silco’s shirt cling to his skin. Vander’s hands were a rough, welcome anchor on his hips, pulling him to the very edge of the desk until the wood bit into his thighs. Silco’s breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound that was lost against the junction of Vander’s neck. He felt unraveled, his usual composure melting under the sheer, bruising weight of Vander’s presence.
Vander leaned in, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against Silco's ear. "Always so tense, Silco. Even now."
"Shut up," Silco hissed, his fingers digging into the muscle of Vander’s shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of salt and obsession. Silco let himself be consumed by the only man who truly knew the monster beneath the suit.
The door didn't just open; it slammed against the stone wall with the force of a tectonic shift.
"VANDER! SILCO!"
The two men scrambled, a chaotic tangle of limbs and frantic adjustments. Silco practically vaulted backward toward his chair, his hair a wild mess and his vest hanging open, while Vander nearly knocked over a heavy inkwell trying to stand upright, desperately pulling up his slacks.
Felicia stood in the doorway, her chest heaving, her face a mask of parental fury. She wasn't empty-handed—she was holding the mechanical bomb, now glowing with a faint, ominous violet light.
"You gave my girl a fucking bomb?!" she roared, her voice echoing off the rafters.
The silence that followed was deafening. Vander looked to Silco, his eyes wide and pleading for a miracle. Silco looked back at Vander, his expression slowly settling into a mask of pure, unbothered nonchalance. Finally, they both turned to look at Felicia.
"Technically," Silco said, leaning back in his chair and coolly smoothing his hair, "she made it. I merely improved the internal combustion ratio. It was a matter of professional pride."
"It’s. A. Bomb," Felicia seethed, slamming the device down on the desk (luckily, on its side). "She’s six, Silco! She should be playing with dolls, not demolition!"
Silco shrugged, one elegant shoulder rising and falling as if they were discussing the price of grain. "She’s talented. It would be a crime to stifle such... explosive potential."
Vander, seeing the vein throbbing in Felicia’s forehead, quickly stepped between them. He cleared his throat, his face still dangerously flushed, and put on his best 'Peacemaker' voice.
"Silco is sorry for building your daughter a bomb, Fel," Vander said, casting a sharp, warning glance over his shoulder at his partner. "Really. Truly sorry. It won't happen again."
Silco opened his mouth to argue, but Vander’s look promised a very different kind of 'desk time' if he didn't shut up. Silco went quiet, though he looked distinctly bored by the lecture.
Felicia’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Silco’s disheveled state, then at Vander’s undone slacks and the sheer amount of sweat on both of them. Her anger didn't vanish, but it was suddenly joined by a sharp, knowing smirk.
"It better not happen again," she said, her voice dropping an octave as her gaze swept the room. She looked at the desk, then back at their flushed, guilty faces. "Though I suppose I should be glad you were... occupied. Might have given her a grenade launcher if I’d left her another hour."
She grabbed the bomb back up, tucked it under her arm, and turned on her heel.
"Lock the door next time, boys," she called out over her shoulder. "Some of us have lives to lead."
The door clicked shut, leaving the two men in a stunned, vibrating silence.
Vander let out a long, shaky breath and looked at Silco. "A bomb, Silco? Really?"
Silco just reached out, snagging the front of Vander’s shirt and pulling him roughly back into the space between his legs. Vanders anger slipped from his face, his jaw feathering at the impact. "I told you. She’s a natural." He rached up and grabbed the collar of Vander's shirt. "Now, where were we?"
Before the bridge, before the betrayal, Vander and Silco relish their time together. As the morning sun finally hits the front window, Silco meticulously paints the name that will define their future: The Last Drop. Before they throw open the doors to the chaos of the world, they claim five final minutes of stillness. In a moment of gold leaf and shared heat, they seal a pact of love and revolution, unaware that the foundation they are building is destined to eventually crack.
CW: Minimal. Mentions of manual labor, mild injury (bruised knuckles), and brief, non-explicit sexual intimacy.
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The air in the basement was thick with the scent of damp earth and rust, a far cry from the smell of expensive cigars and fine spirits that would one day define it. For now, it was just a hole in the ground—a hollowed-out dream held together by stubbornness and prayer.
"I’m telling you, the pressure is coming from the main junction, not the valve!" Silco hissed, his voice echoing off the limestone walls. He was shoved waist-deep into a crawlspace, his usually sharp silhouette obscured by a thick coating of grey sludge.
"And I’m telling you," Vander’s voice boomed from the other side of the room, followed by the heavy clink of a massive wrench hitting iron, "that if you tighten that junction any more, the whole system is going to blow back into our faces."
"Your lack of faith in engineering is exactly why we’re currently standing in three inches of sewer water, Vander."
Vander let out a huff of a laugh, wiping a smear of grease across his forehead. He looked at Silco—the man was a mess. His hair was matted, his sleeves were rolled up to reveal thin, wiry arms stained with oil, and his eyes were narrowed in that fierce, obsessive focus that Vander loved and feared in equal measure.
"Come out of there," Vander said, his voice softening. "You’ve been at it for three hours. The pipe is winning."
"The pipe is a mindless hunk of metal," Silco muttered, though he finally backed out of the crawlspace with a wet squelch. He stood up, shaking his hands like a cat, and glared at the offending plumbing. "It’s the principle of the thing."
Silco walked over to the center of the room, ignoring his ruined boots. He began pacing a dry-ish patch of floor. "If we put the bar here, we’ll have to reroute the entire cooling system. It makes more sense against the north wall."
Vander leaned against a support beam, arms crossed over his massive chest. "And leave the customers with their backs to the only exit? No. The bar goes center-left. It’s a place for people to gather, Silco. To feel safe. Not a laboratory."
"It’s a place of business," Silco countered, though there was no real bite in it. "Efficiency matters."
"Warmth matters more," Vander stepped closer, reaching out to pluck a piece of debris from Silco’s shoulder. "People will come for the drink, but they’ll stay because it feels like home."
Silco went quiet, the word home settling between them like a heavy, golden weight. He looked around the empty, dusty shell of the building. It was hard to see the vision through the grime, but with Vander standing there, it felt almost tangible.
"Fine," Silco sighed, his shoulders finally dropping. "Center-left. But I’m choosing the wood for the finish."
"Deal."
Vander reached into a crate and pulled out a single, dusty bottle. He popped the cork with his thumb—a cheap, biting grog that smelled of fermented grain and desperation. He took a swig and passed it to Silco.
They sank down together, sitting side-by-side on the cold floor, their backs against the stone. The basement was silent now, save for the rhythmic drip... drip... drip... of the pipe they hadn't quite fixed.
"It needs a name," Vander said, staring at the moonlight filtering through the street-level grates above. "Something... respectable. 'Vander’s Tavern.' 'The Lanes’ Rest.'"
Silco took a long pull from the bottle, grimacing as the liquid burned its way down. He looked at the glass, then up at the dark ceiling. His eyes began to shimmer—not with Shimmer, but with a raw, unshielded excitement that he rarely let show.
"No," Silco said softly. "It should be something that reminds them why they're here. Why we're all here. Fighting for the scrapings at the bottom of the glass."
He looked at Vander, a small, rare smirk playing on his lips.
"The Last Drop."
Vander barked a laugh, shaking his head. "The Last Drop? God, Silco. You’re so dramatic. Why not just call it 'The Bitter End' and be done with it?"
"It’s evocative," Silco insisted, his eyes bright and fixed on Vander’s face. "It’s about what’s worth holding onto."
Vander looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the way Silco was practically vibrating with the idea. The grime, the leaky pipes, and the cold water didn't matter. In Silco’s eyes, the bar was already full, the revolution was already won, and they were at the center of it all.
Vander sighed, a warm, helpless smile spreading across his face. He bumped his shoulder against Silco’s.
"The Last Drop," Vander conceded, raising the bottle in a mock toast. "It’s a terrible name. But if it makes you look like that... I suppose I can learn to like it."
Silco leaned his head back against the wall, a soft sigh escaping him. For one night, the world above didn't exist. There was only the rust, the grog, and the man beside him.
The sun didn’t often reach the depths of the Lanes, but today, a thin, buttery spear of light managed to wedge itself between the soot-stained buildings, illuminating the front window of their new domain.
The glass was polished—a miracle in itself—and the wood of the door had been sanded down until it was smooth enough to catch the light.
Silco stood on a small wooden crate, his frame tense with concentration. He held a slender brush between his fingers, his hand rock-steady despite the lack of sleep. He was painting the lettering in reverse on the inside of the glass, a task that required a mind as meticulous as his.
Vander stood outside on the cobblestones, acting as the "eyes," gesturing left and right with his massive hands to ensure the alignment was perfect.
"A hair to the left, Silco," Vander called out, his voice full of an easy, rumbling pride. "There. Right there."
Silco finished the curve of the 'P' in Drop, pulling the brush away with a flourish. He stepped down from the crate, his eyes scanning his handiwork. Gold leaf caught the dim light, making the words glow against the dark interior of the bar.
THE LAST DROP
"It looks... finished," Silco murmured, almost as if he were afraid the words might vanish if he spoke too loudly.
Vander pushed through the door, the bell they had installed overhead giving a bright, silver chim. He didn't look at the window. He looked at Silco, who was still holding the brush, a streak of gold paint smeared across his cheekbone.
"It’s not just finished," Vander said, stepping into Silco’s space. He smelled of sawdust and the heavy, sweet scent of the first kegs they’d tapped that morning. "It’s ours."
Silco looked up at him, the sharp lines of his face softening in a way he only allowed when the doors were locked. The cynicism that usually shielded his heart was gone, replaced by a raw, quiet vulnerability. "We actually did it, didn't we?"
"We’re going to change everything, Silco," Vander promised. He reached out, his large, calloused thumb gently wiping away the gold paint from Silco's cheek. "You and me."
Silco leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a brief second before reaching up to snag the lapels of Vander’s heavy vest. He pulled him down, and Vander met him halfway.
The kiss was slow and tasted of shared dreams and cheap grog. It was the culmination of months of labor, of bruised knuckles and arguments over floorboards. It was a seal on a pact that felt sturdier than the stone walls surrounding them. In the quiet of the empty bar, with the dust motes dancing in the light and the name of their future gleaming on the glass, they weren't just rebels or business partners.
They were home.
Vander pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against Silco’s. "Think we should open the doors?"
Silco smirked, his fingers lingering in the hair at the nape of Vander’s neck. "Give me five more minutes of peace. Once we open those doors, Vander, the world is never going to leave us alone again."
Vander chuckled, wrapping his arms around Silco’s waist and pulling him flush against his chest. "Five minutes, then. I’m not going anywhere."
Vander’s arms were a heavy, grounding weight around Silco’s waist, pulling him flush against the sturdy canvas of his apron. The bell above the door had stopped its frantic jingle, leaving the basement in a ringing sort of silence that felt sacred.
Five minutes. It was a meager ransom to ask from the revolution, but Silco intended to claim every second.
Silco let the paintbrush clatter onto the top of a barrel, his hands immediately finding their way back to Vander’s neck. His fingers tangled in the thick, dark hair at the nape, pulling Vander closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them. Silco was usually a creature of words and calculated distance, but here, in the golden-hued dimness of their creation, he was all hunger.
Vander groaned low in his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated want—and backed Silco against the newly polished bar top. The wood was cool against Silco’s lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off Vander’s body.
"The paint is still wet," Silco whispered against Vander’s lips, though he was already arching his neck to give Vander better access.
"Let it dry," Vander murmured, his voice a rough vibration against Silco’s skin as he buried his face in the crook of his neck. He kissed the sensitive pulse point there, his beard scruffy and familiar. "The world can wait five minutes for a drink."
Vander’s hands, vast and scarred from the mines, traveled upward. They weren't the hands of the 'Hound' right now; they were careful, almost reverent, as they slid beneath Silco’s vest to find the thin warmth of his ribs. Silco let out a jagged breath, his head hitting the back of the bar with a soft thud. He felt small in Vander’s embrace, but never weak—never diminished. With Vander, he felt like a blade being held by its rightful owner.
He pulled Vander back up for another kiss, this one deeper, more desperate. It tasted of the salt on their skin and the electric tension of a life lived on the edge of a knife. Silco’s eyes fluttered open for a moment, catching the reversed glow of THE LAST DROP on the floorboards.
He gripped Vander’s shoulders, his nails digging in through the heavy fabric. This was the foundation. Not the stone, not the pipes, but this—the heat of the man who looked at Silco and saw a king instead of a monster.
Vander pulled back just enough to look Silco in the eye, his expression uncharacteristically soft, his thumb tracing the line of Silco's jaw. "I’ve got you," he whispered, a vow that meant more than any political manifesto.
Silco reached up, pulling Vander’s head down for one last, lingering press of their lips—a final, private communion before they invited the chaos of the Undercity inside.
"Open the doors, Vander," Silco breathed, his voice steadying as he straightened his vest, though his eyes remained dark with lingering heat. "Let’s show them what we’ve built."
Synopsis: In the wake of the cannery explosion, the smoke of the undercity hasn't yet cleared before Silco finds the wreckage of his past. Standing over the twisted remains of Vander—the man who was once his brother, his partner, and his greatest love—Silco prepares to snuff out the final flicker of Vander’s legacy: a broken, sobbing Powder.
CW: Graphic depictions of aftermath/death, body horror, child distress, and themes of abandonment/betrayal.
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The air in the Lanes was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid sting of hextech exhaust. Silco stepped through the haze, the embers of the cannery casting flickering, orange shadows against his sharp features.
Rain began to fall, turning the ash to a grey sludge beneath his boots. He surveyed the wreckage—Vander’s legacy, smoldering in the dirt. It should have felt like a triumph, but the silence was wrong.
As the smoke curled around him, the present began to bleed into the past. The orange glow of the burning cannery flickered, and suddenly, it wasn't the Lanes—it was the river.
The heat. The roar of the water. The suffocating weight of hands he once trusted wrapped around his throat.
Silco’s breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound in the quiet of the aftermath. He could almost feel the silt in his lungs and the searing agony of the toxic water eating into his eye. He remembered the betrayal—the way the man he called a brother had tried to drown the very vision they had built together.
His gaze drifted to the hulking, twisted mass of flesh that had been Vander. He had done it. He had finally pushed Vander to his death, watching the life leave those eyes just moments ago. It was supposed to be the end of a cycle, a cleansing of the old world.
But the chaos around him—the screaming metal, the scent of chemical fire—mirrored that night at the river too perfectly. The world was breaking again.
Then, he heard it. A jagged, rhythmic sobbing that cut through the hiss of the rain.
Silco’s head snapped toward the sound. He moved through the smoke, Sevika and his remaining lackeys trailing behind like loyal hounds. He stopped short as the silhouette came into focus.
There lay Vander. The "Hound of the Underground" was a bloated, purple mess of Shimmer-warped flesh and broken dreams. He was finally still. Silco felt a cold flicker of satisfaction, quickly eclipsed by the sight of the girl.
Vander’s girl. Powder.
She was a fractured thing, screaming at the sky, her small frame vibrating with a grief so violent it seemed she might simply shatter into a million jagged pieces. Behind him, his men shifted, blades sliding from sheaths with a predatory metallic shink. Silco raised a gloved hand, a silent command that froze them in place.
He began to stalk forward, his movements fluid and predatory, like a hunter closing in on a wounded animal. Logic dictated his next move: the girl was a loose end. Vander’s prodigy had to die if his new world was to be born without shadows.
With a flick of his wrist, the hidden blade slid from his sleeve, the cold steel biting into his palm as he gripped the hilt.
He slowed as he reached her, crouching low to the ground to keep his height from spooking her.
"Where is your sister?" he asked, his voice a low rasp.
He peered into the shifting smoke behind her, his good eye narrowing as he scanned the wreckage. He stayed alert, muscles coiled; Vi would be a problem if she emerged. The girl was a firebrand, all knuckles and righteous fury—a mirror of Vander in his youth. If she was lurking in the shadows, she was a threat that needed to be neutralized before he could claim this victory.
But no roar of defiance came. No heavy boots crunched over the debris. Only the rain hissed against the cooling metal of the cannery.
Powder didn’t answer. She only bowed her head, her sobs turning into hitching gasps. Silco’s fingers tightened on the dagger. He just had to lean forward. One quick motion, and the last of Vander’s world would be gone.
Suddenly, she lunged.
The impact caught him off guard. Silco staggered back on his haunches, his boots slipping on the slick, rain-greased cobblestones. He hit the ground hard, the breath driven out of him. In the tumble, his grip failed; the dagger clattered away, spinning into the darkness and settling somewhere in the grime beyond his reach.
He braced for an attack, for teeth or nails, but instead, he felt small, trembling arms wrap around his neck with a desperate, crushing strength. Her head buried itself into his chest, her tears soaking into the heavy fabric of his coat.
The warmth of her grief triggered a sudden, violent fracture in his mind.
For a heartbeat, he wasn't sitting in the filth of the Lanes; he was back in the amber-lit warmth of the Last Drop. The air there had smelled of yeast and cheap tobacco, not blood and Shimmer.
He saw them. Two girls, smaller then, chasing each other between the heavy wooden tables. He heard their laughter—bright, piercing, and untainted.
In the memory, he was sitting across from Vander. They were young, their dreams still shared, their hands scarred only by honest work. He remembered the weight of Vander’s hand on his shoulder, the rough rumble of a shared joke, and the way the world felt solid and right. They had leaned in, the space between them closing until they kissed—a moment of quiet, unspoken promise amidst the chaos of their revolution.
The memory shattered.
The heat of the Last Drop was replaced by the icy rain of the present. The man who had kissed him was now a bloated corpse rotting a few feet away. The girl who had laughed was now a broken thing clinging to his neck for dear life.
The realization left him hollow, a cavernous ache opening in his chest that felt more dangerous than any blade. He felt empty, and the emotion surprised him.
"She left me," Powder choked out, her voice a shredded whisper. "She’s not my sister anymore!"
Silco looked over the girl’s blue hair to Vander’s cooling corpse. His gut twisted—not with guilt, but with a sudden, piercing recognition. He knew this betrayal. He knew the feeling of the water filling your lungs while someone you loved watched from the shore.
His hand hovered over the girl’s back, trembling slightly. His fingers brushed the handle of the fallen dagger, but the cold iron no longer felt like the answer.
"Boss..." Sevika’s voice was a low warning, a reminder of the practicalities of war.
Silco ignored her. Slowly, warily, he wrapped his arms around the shivering child, pulling her into the hollow of his chest.
"It’s okay," he murmured, his voice gaining a dark, steady edge.
He felt her shift, pulling back just enough to look at him. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a madness he recognized all too well. It wasn't just grief in those eyes; it was a volatile, untapped power.
"We will show them," he promised, his gaze locking onto hers. "We will show them all."
In that moment, Silco didn't see a victim. He saw the sharpest blade he had ever held. One he would forge into the greatest weapon The Zaun Nation had ever seen.
