#angst probably

Another tadc au ive recently fallen in love with is this Ctrl-Alt-Del au from @ctrl-alt-del-au who was blessed ny muses

you, a variable that was never meant to exist in the prophecy he has followed across countless iterations of the world.

he wasn't supposed to remember the previous cycles.

and yet he does.

but only you.

and in all of them, without exception, he has loved you.

except his love has never been gentle, it always come with a price too steep to bear, carved into the same ending no matter how the story begines.

for ever since phainon met you, he has witnessed your untimely demise at the end of every single cycle.

even when be learns to avoid you entirely, even when he keeps his feelings buried and watches you only from afar, fate still leads him back to you.

in which phainon, who has spent eternity trying to save the world, comes to understand the cruelest truth:

the only world he cannot save is his world.

art belongs to @/oyakorodesu on X

just a small idea i had on the train :D i'll get back to writing the smau soon..

The voice inside Ilya's head is nagging him like clock work once again. He's tired. If a piece of him is lost, does he still want this?

Our dedicated song of the day is - Heaven, Troy Sivan ft. Betty Who

(I am just dumping this here..)

※ ※ ※

2013, June

There is no shortage of delightfully hot women in Boston. Being a hockey superstar, tall, attractive as hell, outwardly charismatic and, seemingly open, Ilya can go home and spend a night with practically anybody with just a wink.

It flares up physical desires instantly, doesn't it? Imagine THE Ilya Rozanov walking towards you with a drink on hand? I'm pretty sure 'no' isn't an answer at that moment in time. Who hasn't thought of crawling into his bed and spend a lustful night even just once?

“Marly,” Ilya calls him out. “I'm out.”

Cliff gives him a once over and a knowing look. He knew at this moment the man just wants to be distracted and how does that work? For Ilya.. to bring back this woman he's been looking at the past 30 minutes. “Okay. See you then.”

“Thank you.” a lot of people may have assumed how much of an asshole he is but not to the people that mattered to him, one way or another. Ilya gives Cliff's shoulder a squeeze before he exhales.

Dark long hair (black as a raven to be exact), brownish eyes and luscious lips. Ilya takes in the image right in front of him. Drunk at the thought of.. what if she is him and what if he's doing to her what he really wants to do to him.. all of these what ifs swirling around wasted brain. Holy Shit! This is just making him less horny. Alcohol and forcing your mind to conjure an image of someone is not the best combination to ever exist. He is certainly flaccid. What else can he do?

The hot wet mouth that's been giving his dick attention isn't stimulating enough. This is supposed to be a good distraction tonight.. a lick on the underside, a pop on the tip and a few bobs and yet nothing. She must have noticed and to try to please Ilya she tried to move up, hoping for some hot kisses. She tries to bring their faces closer but right then and there Ilya made a decision—he lightly pushes her away.

Ilya exhales and shakes his head. “I'm sorry.”

“Wha-” she is dumbfounded. Confused even.

Ilya immediately zips his pants up and walks over one of his night stands. He pulls out some cash to give to her. It is not payment for her service, to some degree he wanted her tonight, rather it is payment for her to take a cab home. If it was any other day, maybe Ilya would have atleast walked her out and called a cab for her but not tonight. He is mentally checked out, so it seems. He is purposefully pushing her away and the least he could do is pay for a mere cab fare.

Fuck! Now he feels even shittier. The situation couldn't get any worse, could it? It was just a series of text messages earlier, as usual. But the distance and the yearning shakes him to his core.

They're friendly, yes and that's cute in private but they're also rivals in public. They're both living a complex life—expected to present as one thing but truly wants to become another thing.

Ilya: Hey Ilya: Should I give you a tour of Boston? Shane: Why?

Ilya snorts before firing off another text.

Ilya: Because why not? Shane: I will think about it. Thank you for the offer.

Ilya shakes his head, even in text Shane sounds as polite.

Ilya: There's a great place I know you would like. Shane: Oh? Are you sure? Ilya: Yes! Shane: I am curious. Where? Ilya: my apartment 😏

Boston and Montreal faces off each other frequently through out the season and thus, an agreement has been made. Ilya and Shane will meet only when they are playing in each other's cities. Easy, isn't it? It should have been. It's just about a handful of days out of 365.

Ilya takes his forgotten phone from the bed, opens gallery and scrolls through his albums. He is looking for something from a while back. This is the only thing he has for now and he's been able to keep it as it poses less suspicion. Atleast, that's what he thinks.

He stares at it longingly—a photo of him and Shane in their sleek black suits while presenting at the MLH awards show. They look awkward as hell but what matters is he has a tangible proof that a man named Shane Hollander exists. A photo he can always look back on. “Shane,” he utters the name tenderly.

※ ※ ※

[Yapping below. TW very brief mention of abuse if you squint, and mentions of self harm. This takes a few weird turns.]

Okay, I know I just said that I won't have a constant updating schedule, but I have only just realized that if I get so stressed over uni, I'll have more drive to actually make fanfics, what kind of sick joke is this? My thesis is waving at me from my desk but I'll have to turn a blind eye to it for now. Actually, the idea for this one-shot just popped up into my head, it was an idea I really would have loved to read, but I'll have to sacrifice and actually do it myself, sigh. Well, here you guys go! Feeding the Grayson stans, yay! (Me and 8 other people cheered!!)

Grayson had always believed in the law. It was the foundation of her very existence, the force that shaped her into the stalwart Enforcer of Piltover. Her badge was more than just a symbol of authority—it was a promise to uphold justice, to protect the city, and to ensure order prevailed over chaos.

And yet, here she was, tangled in the sheets with the very embodiment of everything she stood against.

You were a shadow from Zaun, an assassin who had long since abandoned the luxury of morality. In the Lanes, survival was an art, and you had honed yours with a blade. Where Grayson upheld the law, you defied it. Where she saved lives, you took them. You were the dark to her light, the sin to her virtue. And yet, something about her made you linger when you should have vanished into the night.

It had started with a hunt.

The first time Grayson saw you, you were little more than a silhouette against the neon-drenched skyline of Zaun. A flicker of motion, a whisper in the wind, gone before she could even draw her weapon. You were fast, impossibly so, and the only thing left in your wake was a corpse still warm, a signature carved into the victim’s throat with a steady, practiced hand. Grayson had crouched beside the body, tracing the initials with gloved fingers, her jaw tightening.

She expected you to be a ghost, a fleeting myth among the criminals of Zaun.

And then, you taunted her.

Their next encounter had been deliberate. You had left a trail—just enough to pique her curiosity, to draw her into the undercity's depths where the golden luster of Piltover dimmed to flickering lights and suffocating smog. She had known it was a trap, and yet she had followed, her pulse steady, her grip firm around her baton. What she hadn’t expected was you leaning against a rusted railing, twirling a dagger between your fingers like you had all the time in the world.

"Took you long enough," you had said, a smirk playing on your lips.

Grayson had narrowed her eyes, stepping closer, her stance solid. "You must be either foolish or desperate to want my attention."

"Neither," you had replied, tilting your head. "I just like seeing the look on your face when you think you've caught me."

She had lunged then, her patience thinning, her training kicking in—but you were faster. Like smoke slipping through her fingers, you had evaded every strike, danced just beyond her reach, teasing her with a blade that never quite touched skin. And then, just as swiftly, you had disappeared, leaving behind only the echo of your laughter in the alleyway.

That night, Grayson had laid awake, frustration simmering beneath her ribs. She should have been furious. She should have been plotting her next move, strategizing how best to track you down.

Instead, she found herself wondering about the glint in your eyes.

It had started with chance encounters—at crime scenes, in back alleys, on rooftops overlooking Piltover. You should have been just another fugitive in her crosshairs, but something deeper had stirred between you. Perhaps it was the way her tired eyes softened when she spoke to you, or the way your presence made her question the rigid lines she had drawn between right and wrong.

Then she caught you.

The rain pounded against the rooftops as she pressed you against the cold brick wall of a crumbling Zaunite building, her grip firm around your wrists. You had been careless, a miscalculation in your escape route allowing her to corner you at last. You expected the usual arrest, the click of cuffs, the righteous lecture about justice and consequences.

Instead, she hesitated.

You stared at each other, breathless, chests rising and falling in sync. The tension between you was electric, crackling in the narrow space between your bodies. Her eyes flickered from your defiant glare to your parted lips, the weight of your history thick in the air. She had spent so long chasing you, and now that she had you, she found she didn't want to let go.

"You finally got me," you murmured, your voice laced with something almost amused.

Grayson’s jaw clenched, her grip tightening, but there was no malice in it. "Yeah," she said quietly, as if the reality of it had only just settled in.

And then, before either of you could think twice, she kissed you.

It was fierce, desperate, an unspoken war between want and restraint.

You responded just as hungrily, arms breaking free from her grasp to tangle in her damp hair. The badge on her chest pressed against you, a constant reminder of the lines you were crossing, but neither of you cared.

When you finally pulled apart, your breaths mingling in the cold air, Grayson stared at you with something almost like regret.

"This is a terrible idea."

You grinned, brushing a thumb over her cheek.

"That’s the best kind."

And that was the beginning, the beginning of the end.

Grayson saw the weariness in you, the weight of your actions. And you saw in her something you never thought you'd crave—stability, security, the promise of a life where your hands were clean of blood.

But the world would never let you have it so easily.

The Piltovans saw you as a criminal. The Zaunites saw her as a tyrant. And the people you worked for—the ones who paid you to eliminate threats, to silence voices—would not accept a weakness in their blade.

Loving each other was never easy. Your relationship was built on stolen time—on moments spent in dimly lit apartments, where the weight of your respective duties was momentarily forgotten in favor of hushed conversations and lingering touches.

Some nights, Grayson would trace the scars on your back, her fingers featherlight, while you murmured half-truths about the people you had to kill. Other nights, you would help her remove her heavy Enforcer gear, listening as she vented about the endless bureaucracy that bound her hands more than any chain ever could.

Yet there was always an unspoken question between you: When would this end?

Because it had to end.

Every night Grayson left your side, she carried the knowledge that one day she might have to hunt you down. And every morning you woke up alone, you knew there would come a time when your name would cross her desk as just another target to be eliminated. The lines between love and obligation blurred until they became unbearable.

One night, as you lay together in the dim candlelight of a hidden apartment in the undercity, you traced the edge of Grayson’s jaw with calloused fingers. She caught your hand in hers, pressing it against her lips.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she murmured, but her grip on you never loosened.

“I know,” you said, and yet neither of you moved away.

The city would never understand. Piltover’s golden towers and Zaun’s poison-filled streets were not meant to intertwine.

One day, the badge she wore would force her to hunt you down.

One day, the sins on your hands would make her see you as nothing more than another mark.

And yet, in the stolen moments between duty and survival, in the fleeting touches and whispered promises, you found something neither of you ever thought possible.

Hope.

Even if it was doomed from the start.

Grayson leaned against the doorframe of your safe house, arms crossed, watching you with that ever-present look of resignation mixed with exasperation.

"Tell me you at least had a quiet night," she said, eyeing the blood on your sleeves.

You smirked, flicking a knife between your fingers. "Define quiet."

Grayson sighed and ran a hand down her face. "One of these days, I’m going to have to arrest you, you know that?"

"One of these days, you’re going to stop pretending you’d actually do it," you shot back, stepping into her space. "You like me too much."

She huffed, shaking her head, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. "Liking you is a terrible decision on my part."

"And yet, here you are. Again."

She let out a defeated chuckle. "Here I am."

Before she could say anything else, a sharp knock echoed through the room. Your casual demeanor vanished in an instant. You grabbed your knife, stepping toward the door cautiously.

When you opened it, the sight before you made your blood run cold.

The message came in the form of a severed finger—wrapped in silk, delivered to your doorstep.

The sight of it made your stomach twist into a knot.

You recognized the ring on the dismembered digit. It belonged to a fellow assassin, a woman who had served the same employers as you. She had been skilled, ruthless, efficient.

And now she was dead.

With shaking hands, you unfolded the note that accompanied the grotesque warning.

"You are compromised. Fix it. Kill the Enforcer. Or she dies slow."

Your stomach clenched. You had always known this day might come, had always known that love and loyalty could not coexist in your world. But now that the ultimatum had arrived, it felt like the walls were closing in.

You had spent your life carving through the darkness, surviving on the edge of death. But for the first time, you faced a choice that had no escape. If you ran, they would hunt her. If you fought, she would be caught in the crossfire. And if you did as they asked, you would destroy the one good thing you had ever known.

But instead of submitting, you did what you did best.

You went to war.

For days, blood ran through the back alleys of Zaun. Your employers were powerful, but they had never faced an enemy like you—an assassin without chains, without a leash, fueled by desperation and love. You struck them in the dark, cut them down before they could react.

One by one, the names that had signed your death sentence fell, their corpses left as warnings to the rest.

But no matter how many you killed, more always came. The hydra had too many heads, too many contingencies. With every body that hit the ground, another took its place. You realized, too late, that you could not kill the system that had built you.

And worse, you had made Grayson an even bigger target.

“I was a loose end, Grayson.” Your voice was hollow, your eyes distant. “They don’t tolerate loose ends.”

Grayson’s fingers tightened around your wrist, unwilling to let you go. “We can find another way—”

“There is no other way.” You inhaled sharply, as if trying to steady yourself, then forced a smile that did not reach your eyes.

“This will be my final sacrifice. For you. So that you don’t have to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”

Grayson shook her head. “No. No, we fight them together. We make them regret ever thinking they could control you.”

“I already did.” Your voice wavered. “I went on a rampage. I hunted them down. And it wasn’t enough. There will always be more. This is the only way to make it stop.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she cupped your face.

“Please. Don’t do this.”

You leaned into her touch for just a moment, memorizing the warmth, the way her fingers trembled. Then you pulled away.

“This is the only way I can protect you.”

When Grayson arrived at your safe house one particular night, she saw it in your eyes before you spoke.

The exhaustion. The futility. The quiet goodbye.

“Don’t,” she whispered, stepping forward, reaching for you. “We can fight this. We can—”

“No, we can’t.” Your voice was steady, even as your heart fractured.

“They won’t stop, Grayson. Not until you’re dead.”

“Then let them come.”

You smiled—small, sad. You cupped her face in your hands, memorizing the warmth of her skin, the steel in her gaze, the love that she tried so hard to hide behind duty and reason.

“You’re too good for this world,” you murmured. “Too good for me.”

Before she could react, before she could stop you, you drove the blade into your own heart.

Her scream tore through the night, but you were already slipping, already falling. The pain was distant, drowned beneath the weight of relief. Because now, they had no reason to go after her. Because now, she would be safe.

And as the world faded to darkness, the last thing you heard was your name on her lips, the last thing you felt was her arms around you, holding on as if she could will you back to life.

But some stories were never meant to have happy endings.

Years later, now Sheriff of Piltover, Grayson found herself standing in the doorway of the run-down hidden apartment where you had once lived.

The city had changed, and so had she, but the ghosts of the past remained.

She stepped inside, her boots echoing against the worn wooden floor. Her gaze drifted downward, to the faded brown spots that still marred the ground—the only remnants of where you had fallen.

She crouched, running her fingers over the stains, tracing the place where you had taken your last breath. Slowly, she reached up, unfastening the mask she always wore in Zaun, the filter shielding her from the suffocating chemicals that tainted the air.

With deliberate reverence, she pulled it off, inhaling deeply. The toxic smog stung her lungs, burned her throat, but she did not cough.

Instead, she breathed it in, as if forcing herself to taste the world you had lived and died in.

A silent offering.

A show of respect.

A final act of love.

“You were right,” she murmured into the silence.

“The world wasn’t good enough for you, either.”

And for the first time in years, Grayson let herself grieve.

Where the Fentons successfully capture the infamous ghost boy.

Maddie and Jack are particularly beaming in excitement at their success they finally did it! They're long life dream finally came true! The new weapon they invented really did come in handy.

It knocked out the ghost, well not completely the ghost remained conscious it just couldn't move at all, nor use its powers.

It made it paralyzed.

As long as they went to the lab quickly the affects would last and they can whatever they wanted.

Jack secured the ghost in the back of GAV not that it could move but better be safe than sorry.

They kept discussing what they wanted to do on the ride to the lab, excitement bubbled in maddies chest, their best specimen yet. Could you really blame her? She's been dreaming of this day since the ghost portal opened.

She wanted to see how ghost worked, how they ticked, what made them.

We're the insides human or goob? Did they have pain factors? How do they behave when under these situations?

Did they even have emotions? Or is it just regrets and anger from past lives? Did they even have ones? The blob ghosts didn't.

She wanted to know it all. And what better way to find out than on phantom himself. Oh the so called "ghost hero" maddie knew better. He was no hero, it was merely an act to decisive the towns people, to gain trust? Popularity? She didn't know, all she knew was that she wanted to tear him apart piece by piece.

She was so lost in her thoughts she haven't noticed that they arrived, now reminded of her original goal she became hyper, getting out of the car while her husband bless him grabbed the ghost from the back, she unlocked the door and her husband was right behind her.

There were no words between them. Only the sound of hurried footsteps and excited breathing, they both knew what to do.

The lab was neat, the smell or sour ectoplasm in the air never quit leaving the place.

There was a table in the middle, newly made just for such occasions.

Jack set the ghost on the table, the restraints clicking immediately into place securing the ghost that laid on it.

Equipment already prepared, jack and Maddie took a step back, admiring the ghost they captured, their specimen.

They grind both looking at eachother. "Can you believe it Mads?" Jack said staring at his wife with enthusiasm, she smiled back returning his excitement.

She looked back at the table, there sat phantom hands and legs restraint in a phase proof material unmoving.

Yet...his green eyes looked at them anxiously, or was it fear? Maddie didn't know the longer she looked at his toxic green eyes the weirded she felt. He looked almost scared, but how? Did he have emotions? He looked so young up close....

Why was he looking at her like that? His eyes were pleading for something, unshed teary eyes looked at her, he looked small fragile.

She felt a knot in her stomach, she couldn't take her eyes off of phantom, and he kept staring maybe because it was all he could do, or maybe it for another reason.

The silence was painful the more she looked the more she felt conflicted.

As if feeling her conflict jack put a hand on her shoulder. "Mads? Are you okay you look pale what's wrong?" He said his voice laced with worry.

Maddie kept looking at phantom, "it's just...it's nothing" she turned her head away "we should begin the experiment let's not wait too long." She sighed Moving to grab the scissors.

"Are you sure?" Jack said still worried "I mean we did capture it we can always do the experiment once you feel better" Jack told her, she paused for a bit.

It....she hasn't realized when she started calling the ghost him instead of it.

"No...I'm fine don't worry hun" she walked to the table examining the ghost, her husband followed behind her.

"Amazing..." Jack said in awe pulling the suit of the ghost, "look Mads! It's not attached to him like we thought it would be!"

The statement pulled her away from her racing thoughts for a bit "Oh! That's interesting do you think there's skin under?" She asked glancing at her husband.

"Welp! Only one way to find out!" He said excitingly as he grabbed the scissors from her.

She watched him as he cut the ghosts suit he started cutting from the neck only stopping at the stomach.

Maddie falt sick. He had skin, he had skin and he looked so young. So human.

"Jack..." She said her voice but above a whisper. Her husband turned his attention to her She looked back at him the horror in her face so visible.

"I can't..." She muttered, "I can't do it...he looks too young...too human." Jack just looked at her then ever so slowly stared back at the ghost examining it.

"Oh..!" He whispered Maddie felt relief wash over her, she wasn't crazy he saw it too.

Phantom stared at them, the fear in his eyes replaced with something else...relief.

"Well...what are we gonna do? He's still paralyzed."

'He'....she thought.