#favorsnofool

⋆ — The first thing he does is glance at her guns. What? She said the words 'my guns,' it's just what the brain will naturally do! And it's not Ezreal's fault that he thinks they are really really shining specimens of hexlock pistols. He just wants a little touch. Just to—damn it, he looked at them again.

Ezreal likes Bilgewater. Its ruthlessness suits him in a way he doesn't like to let on. Doing anything to get what you want, double-crossing before you get double-crossed, knifing someone before you get knifed ... It works for him, in a backwards sort of way. Ezreal's always the first to bail, always the one to use his sticky fingers and exfiltration to get whatever he wants out of a situation and get out.

She has guns, though. He doesn't. So he'll behave, for now.

𝚃𝙷𝙴　　𝙷𝚄𝙻𝙻　　𝙲𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺𝚂　　&.　　𝚂𝙿𝙻𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂,　　　the　wooden　𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬　crumble　to　𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵　in　his　hand　　　——— —　　　a　fleet　on　the　edges　of　Bilgewater　.　　　dawn　has　barely　𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥　over　the　port,　　the　docks　𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐤　with　rain　　&.　　slime　from　the　night　before　.　　　𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙿𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽　　𝙷𝙰𝚂　　𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴,　　&.　　when　the　following　morn　rises,　　𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑒 　 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 　 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 　 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚,　　not　even　the　waves　.　　　——— —　　　a　mast　falls　,　　threatening　to　disrupt　the　clarity　of　the　somber　𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦𝘴　　&.　　𝘺𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴　dotting　the　landscape;　　it　is　warped　into　a　piece　𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞,　　before　being　dragged　into　the　𝚆𝙰𝚁𝙳𝙴𝙽'𝚂　　𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽.　　　the　docks　𝑚𝑜𝑎𝑛　under　his　weight,　　𝘩𝘦　𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵𝘴,　　noting　the　presence　of　the　living　.

“　　　HAVE　YOU　COME　TO　ADMIRE　THEIR　DESTRUCTION　　?　　　”　　　wisps　of　words　𝐩𝐨𝐮𝐫　from　the　steel　phantom,　　they　curl　around　his　frame,　　leaning　hungrily　towards　the　ships　𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨　before　him.　　　“　　　——— —　　　THE　BODIES　HAVE　ALREADY　BEEN　TAKEN　.　　THERE　IS　NOTHING　MORE　TO　LOOT　FROM　ME,　　BESIDES　ROTTING　WOOD　.　　　”

     She remembers being young. Her and her friends—Sarah, Ahri; before they’d met Rakan and Neeko—racing across sandy beaches, or counting cars from the outdoor seating of their favorite little cafe. The mid-afternoon sun had been strong that day, though the air had been cold, meaning the shade was chilly and the bright patches were warm and comfortable. She’d been leaning on someone’s shoulder. Ahri? Sarah? One of them. 

     There were very few happier memories than her early ones like that. The beach, the boardwalk, the cafe. Ahri’s room, watching a marathon of cheesy teen films. Cooking in the kitchen and being vehemently fended away from things she could pick at before they were finished. 

      Lies, every single bit of it.

      Xayah leaves a mark behind as she lands in the sand and snow. It’s not a kind landing; she stumbles and skids, leaving a trail behind her like a falling star, rolling, then catching herself on the metal rail that stands between the beach and the street beyond it.

      Had any of them seen which direction she’d gone? Xayah had hoped that the volley of daggers she’d thrown during her retreat might cover her direction, but a few of her former teammates (and their new friends, a thought that still feels poisonous in her mind) had sharp eyes. She clutches at the injury on her side, eyes screwed shut, and collapses to one knee, still gripping the rail.

      Behind her, the sound of someone else landing. Ah, shit, Xayah thinks, that would be my luck. She doesn’t turn around to see who.

      ❝ here to gloat? ❞ She breathes, ❝ ...or just to finish me off? ❞

subtle smut starters - [ x ]

That's the thing about Bilgewater: it's brought out sides of Quinn she didn't know she had. What had once rested buried under tradition and cold focus could thrive in the briny air.

Or, it could just be she's just a little bit drunk, and in the mood to show off.

"Am I, captain?" She'd be a fool to not recognize the authority of the captain with the fiery hair -- made that mistake only once, though not to her face. "I assure you, my talents are many more than just barroom tricks."

life in Bilgewater was one of various nuanced sides & double - double crosses. indeed , the alliance of Sarah Fortune was no different. he tips his hat as he sees her approaching , an amicable glow to the shine in his eye ( just barely present under that brim ). despite that , there is a weariness to his movements , perhaps practiced unconscious actions that come with living as a cardshark ( such as the way his boots wrinkle in the way or the way he shifts his weight to his toes , maybe the way his hand rests just above the pocketed cards on his hip ).