#((hi Tali sorry Tali <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[noamglompsky]

ERASE the plot of the whole series from your minds. they’re living a calm regular life and have their own jayviks to obsess over.

[thegatesofinfinitespace]

For Kane's shrine: Matching blades, their hilts are simple, lacking ornate carvings. They are made with only what they need. Only what could be found in the wastes. One is new and clean, the other stained with its first kill. Still sharp. Still strong. A pedant made of obsidian and bloodstone. Thorns of both stones spider around the vial at its core, before splaying out in unfinished wings. They are vines, they are nerves and sinew. The glass vial is full of deep crimson, the blood of the offeror. A gift of devotion. Of sacrifice. Preserved for all time. Last, a page of runes, hand written. Old knowledge with no purpose, no meaning, but a taste of old magic. A reverence for the unknown, and the long death of the Gods who came before.

If my Muse was a Deity, what Offerings Would you Leave at Their Shrine?

Clinking of heels cease at the scene laid before him, the sands of the Wastes scuffing under his boots. Crimson eyes narrow, a threat and an evaluation. His helmet is held at his side; he is returning from an excursion, no, an expulsion, an exorcism.

There is fresh blood on his blades, dripping fresh on the dirt, just as there is on the offerings set upon a slab of obsidian and thorn. It is not a shrine he made, but made for him, made from someone who believed they knew him.

...Their accuracy is quite impressive. Armor that ends in clawed points plucks the pendant from the bunch, holds it up to the red sun that sends it shimmering between his thumb and forefinger. It... is pretty.

He allows it to settle in his palm before closing his fist around it, squeezing until he feels the glass and gems crunch under the pressure. The remains drip like liquid to the Grounds of his Province, eaten whole. A beautiful offering, one that would be committed to memory. He has no need for such frivolous items, even if they are made with him in mind.

The God of the Wasteland's eyes drift to the paper, ancient and old. It is magic he feels, and he is far more delicate in picking it up; his clawed hands are not used, the item hovering over his open palm. Thorns rise, encircle the paper like a birdcage, kept safe. It too is swallowed by the earth, but not destroyed.

It is archived.

Finally, the blades. They are ripped from the stone, unharmed. He turns them over in his grasp, keen eyes scrolling over the craftsmanship. They are made with the intent to kill. Have been used to do so. They are... of very good make, truthfully. He'll keep them. Use them, as they were intended.

His Province's web vibrates with the steps of a stranger, the one who made this altar. He walks with purpose, with muted fury. Only a fool would dare enter the territory of the God of Destruction. At the base of his tower, a lone woman is waiting, her hands bloody. Kane's gaze is a threat, an assessment, the swords in his hands. She will be killed by her own offerings if she is not careful enough.

"...If you left those there, you must believe your plight is more important than those who came and met their end before you." He presses the end of one of her gifts to her throat, its tip swallowing the slightest drop of blood.

"Persuade me."

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

The Crew of The Normandy SR2 (2185)

They tell me it's a suicide mission. I intend to prove them wrong. Mass Effect 2: Legendary Edition (2021)

[lilix-love]

I loved this post so much I decided to write it

@eddawrites in case you wanted to read it

I have no idea what type of Mel’s magic is (I saw someone say light magic), but imagine it being able to soothe Jayce's disoriented and messy mental state? And what is Jayce's ability? I wonder how compatible their powers are. Begging for their reunion asap.

[bruhstories]

Muse II

p.1 && p.3

summary: a knock on your door, an envelope and a dress pairing: viktor x painter!reader && jayce x mel warnings: swearing, angst, descriptions of anxiety and depression, quite a lot of dialogue, veeeery slow burn, jayce being a good friend, canon divergent w/c: 3.7k

a/n: this part is a little more reader-centric, but i will fix that in the third (and potentially the last) part. liking and reblogging is encouraged and appreciated!

"May I leave now?" The bright lights of the infirmary forced Viktor to squeeze his eyes shut.

The doctor nodded, but the nurse gasped, then shook her head. She seemed to want to see him all the time, always finding a reason to stall, to buy time. Viktor never understood why, but then again, he never understood why you wanted him to be your model. 

"I think it would be prudent to run a few more tests." The nurse suggested.

Her name was Sky, and she had been nothing but kind to him. But weren't all nurses supposed to be humane? To care for the sick? Unfortunately for her, the doctor was adamant on dismissing Viktor.

"I'm afraid not, Sky. Viktor's condition isn't improving, but it isn't advancing either. It's as though his condition simply stopped. You're free to go, but please come back if you notice any changes, positive or otherwise."

"Thank you, doctor." Viktor gripped the handle of his cane and left the infirmary, strolling down the streets of Piltover. 

He had been thinking about you, about how the rune you inscribed in his portrait changed him, but his ego brought out the worst in him, and he refused to search for you, to apologise for misjudging you. Besides, you were probably busy with commissions anyway. You wouldn't make time for him after he stupidly, arrogantly tore down your pride.

You weren't busy. 

It had been days since you left your apartment, weeks since you last touched a paintbrush, months since you saw Viktor. Not having a muse incapacitated you, turned off your creativity, destroyed your imagination. You stared at the blank canvas in front of you — empty, just like your mind and your heart.

Abandoning the attempt to paint, you tried to draw instead. Fiddling with the pencil in your hand, you took a look at your previous sketches, desperate to do something, anything. But nothing came out of you. Not a single line, or dot, or sliver of hope. The sudden knock on your door had you recoil and drop your pencil. Expecting your landlord, you swung open the door. 

Jayce stared at you, at your dishevelled hair and the state of your clothes, before he peeked behind your shoulder to see the mess in your apartment. Papers tossed on the floor, clothes piled up on your bed, spoiled food on your table. He hadn't seen anyone so... pitiful. 

"Can I help you?" Your monotonous voice sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"I just wanted to check on you. Y/N, what happened?"

"Ask your partner." Venom dripped down your tongue as you closed the door, only for Jayce to stop it with his foot.

"Please, let's just talk."

"Why?" 

"That's what friends do!" His warm smile was supposed to offer you comfort, but it only offered you hate.

"We're not friends, Mr. Talis." You tried to close the door again, catching his fingers in the doorframe. The sudden shriek of pain made you violently open it, eyes wide at Jayce who was on the verge of tears. "I am so sorry, I didn't think you'd put your bloody fingers in the way!"

Ushering him inside your apartment, you kicked away the piles of clothes from the chair and sat him down. He winced, watching his fingers slowly turn purple and swollen.

"It's alright, it's nothing." His voice cracked like some prepubescent teenager, and you ran a handkerchief under cold water then gave it to him.

"I'm really sorry, Jayce."

"Aha! You used my name! Ow, shit."

You tried to stifle the chuckle that erupted from your throat, but to no avail. He managed to make you laugh, but the sweetness turned sour.

"Why are you really here?" You asked, avoiding his gaze.

"I told you, I wanted to check on you. And to ask you something."

There it was, the true reason.

"How did you do it?"

"Dunno what you're talking about." You shrugged. 

"That portrait, it somehow stopped Viktor's affliction from advancing. It's not regressing by any means, but it's keeping him in a stable condition, and I can't explain why. No one can." His forehead creased, unable to find a scientific reason.

"Maybe he got lucky." You simply said.

"Don't be modest, he told me you put some kind of magical rune in it." Jayce scoffed. 

"He spoke about me?" Was all you could think about.

"Yes, but you need to tell me how you did it."

You sighed. His scientific brain could never comprehend the intricacies of magic, the elegant enchantments, or the intuitive spellwork, but you tried your best.

"The Academy of Arts in Ionia trains artists to incorporate spells, runes and sigils into their work. Some can bring their paintings to life, others can use them to deal damage." You looked behind Jayce at the blank canvas. "I can heal. Sort of."

"That's fascinating!" He beamed at you like a child who just got a new toy. "So why didn't you fully heal Viktor?

"Ah, but what would life be if all our problems disappeared? We're all the product of our experiences, aren't we?" You mused. "I can't heal illnesses if people were born with them, I can merely hinder them, stop them from advancing, because even ailments serve a purpose. Would Viktor had become the scientist that he is without his condition?" You quirked a brow, and Jayce frowned, not in anger but in contemplation. 

"So, you could heal my fingers, then, yes?" He nodded, but you sighed again. It was something you found yourself doing quite often.

"I haven't touched a pencil in weeks. I'm useless, as you can probably tell from the state of my apartment."

"Why? Because you don't have a muse?" Jayce asked, and you nodded. "That's bullshit."

"Excuse you?" Your words came out a lot more condescending than you wanted.

"I said it's bullshit. You're a damn artist, you find beauty where others don't. You don't need a muse for that." He scoffed.

"It's not that simple-"

"It is! Science and art are not that different, Y/N! They're both attempts to comprehend the world around us. They require research, analytical processes, resilience. Not a muse." Jayce picked up a sheet of paper and a piece of coal and slammed them on the table. "Draw my hand."

You stared at him, dumbfounded by the sheer willpower that this man had. No wonder he was an innovator. You could've kicked him out of your house, shut the door and never look back, but you didn't. Picking up the coal, you studied his hand first — the length of his fingers, width of his palm, the swirls of his fingerprints. Then, you let the coal glide down the paper, tracing lines, smudging them with your index finger and thumb. Your own fingers were sore from the lack of practice, but you sketched his hand nonetheless, and just as you did with Viktor's portrait, you scribbled a rune in the corner of the paper.

Showing Jayce the sketch, he could feel his numb fingers return to their normal size, the black and blue disappearing by the minute. He knew you could do it, you just needed a little push.

"See, that wasn't so hard." Jayce grinned, but you stared daggers at him. "Oh, before I go, Mel wanted you to have this." He reached into the inner pocket of his cream jacket and handed you an envelope. 

"What's this?"

"An invitation. I hope to see you soon." 

You locked the door after he was gone and studied the wax sigil on the envelope. Red and golden, with the head of a wolf embedded in it. It was too beautiful to tear it open, but curiosity got the better of you, and you used a knife to cut open the envelope, not wanting to ruin the sigil.

Just as Jayce said, it was an invitation to a fundraiser. All of Piltover's finest would be there, and you were asked to attend as a guest of honour, to be appointed the Master of Arts, the head of Piltover's Guild of Artists. Disbelief settled in your mind, despite rereading the same words, over and over again. Every councillor agreed to that, you could tell from their signatures. But you haven't painted in weeks, so how could you represent all the artists in the city? You were a hypocrite at best, a failure at worst. 

And yet, you were chosen for that. Not your colleagues, not someone from the Academy — you. Did you need to prepare a speech? Bloody hell, you did. No one went up that stage without delivering one. But there was time, the fundraiser was only in a few weeks, right? Wrong. Your eyes scanned the words once more — it was three days away. Panic seeped into your veins. You had no dress, no shoes, no speech, no muse.

No, fuck the muse. Fuck Viktor. 

You were still bitter about the last conversation you exchanged with him, but you couldn't throw away such an opportunity, such an honour, for some guy. A very handsome, very clever guy, but still a guy nonetheless. No, Jayce was right — you didn't need a muse. You didn't have one in Ionia, didn't have one when you taught yourself how to draw and paint. You were your own muse. And you needed a damn good dress to impress. 

Forcing yourself to clean the mess in your apartment was easy. But showering and going out wasn't, not when the probability of bumping into Viktor was there. A slim chance, but not impossible, and you couldn’t afford to get distracted. You wrecked your brain trying to remember his schedule, because he never deviated from it. Thursday — he would have a doctor's appointment in the morning, then he would have lunch, and go to the lab. Or was it the other way around?

"Ugh!" You kicked the foot of your bed in anger and disgust. You were disgusted with yourself for even sparing him a single thought — the man who insulted you and your work.

So what if you bumped into him? He wasn't going to talk you, anyway, he made that quite clear when he didn't even say goodbye to you. Ungrateful fucking prick. No more. No more wallowing in self-pity, no more victimisation, no more emotion. How foolish of you to even think he'd see you as more than some dumb painter, that you were his equal in any way, shape or form. It was a facade, a mask, playing the innocent sick man when behind that mask was a god complex.

You found a dress, purple and golden. It reminded you of Viktor, but how else were you supposed to get over him if not by proudly wearing the colours of the enemy? Were you overreacting? Perhaps. Too dramatic? Definitely, but it helped process the pain attached to those stupid colours. Spending time to write a speech also helped take your mind off of him. It gave you a purpose, something you thought was lost.

There was one thing you didn't like about the dress — it was too modest. And while it wasn't a gathering of prudes, you wanted to find the perfect mix of elegance and vulgarity. Studying the dress that was hanging on an iron hook on the back of your bathroom door, you grabbed a pair of scissors and cut a slit up its side. You wanted to stop at knee's length, but something possessed you to cut higher, stopping well above the knee. Was it too much? Maybe, but you were about to become leader of an entire guild, and you needed to look your best. Besides, the thought of hooking up with someone at the fundraiser didn't sound so bad. You had needs after all, and you were going to satisfy them.

"There she is!" Jayce spotted you through the crowd of people, with Mel's arm looped around his.

You were glad that they were officially together. Too long they played pretend. You greeted them, deciding to be their third wheel since you didn't know that many people there. The life of an artist was quite lonely.

"I'm so glad you accepted my invitation." Councillor Medarda smiled. She seemed happier, and you wondered what it was like to have someone who made you laugh, who supported you and your work.

"It's an honour, Councillor. An unexpected one, I'll be honest." You quickly snatched a glass of champagne from a waiter. "But I've had something on my mind since I received your invitation. What exactly is the fundraiser about? The letter didn't mention anything."

"Ah, I must have forgotten to write that down." She scoffed. "The University of Piltover has decided to create a new department of arts and science combined."

"Oh, that is intriguing." You pondered the innovative idea. "How will that work?"

"Well, Jayce has been inspired by your talent. He believes that there are plenty of future students with the potential of incorporating both arts and science in their work." Mel said. "He'll explain more in the following days, but for now, enjoy the event."

"Thank you, Councillor." You nodded with a smile. "Are you alright, Jayce? You look impatient."

"Yeah, I'm just keeping an eye on the entrance. Viktor should be here soon." He nonchalantly said.

"Sorry? Viktor?" The smile disappeared from your lips as quickly as it appeared. 

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Jayce avoided looking into your eyes, fearing for his life. He could feel you seething at the mere mention of Viktor's name.

"No. No, you didn't fucking tell me." You whispered the obscene word, not wanting to draw any attention. "What else haven't you told me?"

"Well, um-" He fumbled for words, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. 

"Spit it out, Talis."

"You'll be working together."

"What? We'll be what?" You couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth. And it didn't help that you heard his familiar voice and thick accent creeping behind your back.

"Good evening, Jayce. Councillor." Viktor greeted them, but you couldn't turn around. You couldn't face him.

So much for being tough. Your heart was beating against your ribcage, desperately trying to crawl out of your chest and run away from him. The pit in your stomach made you sick — you could actually taste bile on your tongue, and the champagne glass slowly slipped from your fingers as your palms became clammy with sweat. Not even the exams in Ionia made you feel as panicked as he did. But you were a grown woman. You couldn't let him put you down like that.

"Viktor." You articulated his name without an ounce of anxiety in your voice, then turned around to look at him.

You were pleased to see he was just as shocked to see you there as you were to see him — even more shocked to see you dressed so differently than how he remembered. Good. The bastard needed a reminder that you weren't a coward, nor a prude. And it made you consider that he also didn't know you two would be working together. How convenient for you.

"Miss Painter." Venom dripped down his tongue. How dare he be affected by your presence? "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He didn't know. You thanked your stars for that. A shit-eating grin crept on your lips, and just as Jayce was about to open his mouth, you said it.

"Oh, you didn't know? We'll be working together. I'm absolutely thrilled!" You lied through your teeth and Jayce slowly turned his head to glare at you. A minute ago, you looked like you were about to have a heart attack, now you were thrilled to work with him?

"How utterly... terrific." Viktor forced a smile. "No, I didn't know. Jayce, a word?"

"No need, I'll leave you to it. Gentlemen, Councillor." You nodded and stepped away, blending with the crowd, eyes set on some poor man who was about to be your distraction for the night.

His name was Alfred, or Arthur. Something with an A. It didn't matter. He was good looking, with broad shoulders and much taller than you. But he talked. A lot. You politely nodded at everything he said, trying to keep up with the conversation, but anything he said fell on deaf ears. You weren't interested in him, not after seeing Viktor, who looked much better than last time, healthier. He went so far as to adjust his cane to look similar to the one in your portrait — the fucking hypocrite. And even the suit he was wearing was purple. You matched, and your stomach churned at that epiphany. What if people thought you were together?

You rolled your eyes when Arthur, or Alfred, spoke about how ridiculous the idea of combining science and arts was. The desire to pour your champagne in his lap was great, but your self-restraint was greater. Somehow. Paying him no mind, you dissociated, daydreaming of being in your atelier and working on a new painting, of buying new materials, new canvases. Yes, that was much better than listening to Alfred, or Arthur, yap about something his small brain couldn't comprehend. 

Even amongst hundreds of people, Viktor only saw you, and the thousand-yard stare on your face. You were quite obviously bored, and there was an impulse, an instinct to go and save you from the dull conversation that you weren't even a part of. But he couldn't. Deep down, Viktor knew he might have overreacted when he last saw you, but you made it quite clear that you wanted nothing to do with him, and he respected that. It pained him, because he grew used to your presence in the lab, but what could he do? 

He found it comforting that you wore the colours of his suit — of his portrait. It gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, there was a minuscule possibility that you weren't upset with him anymore. But Viktor wasn't an idiot. He knew all too well that the wrath of a woman scorned wasn't something that passed so easily. And he felt the spite in your voice when you blatantly lied about being thrilled to work with him. Oh, right, he forgot about that when he got lost in your eyes, even from across the ballroom. 

How were you going to work together when neither of you wanted that? Surely you could set aside any grudges, he thought. But could he? While the portrait did hinder his illness, Viktor still assumed that you weren't serious about him being your model. Your muse, even. How could someone like him be the object of your artistic desire? No, that was improbable. Impossible. 

"And that's when I said what do you call a woman who has lost 95% of her intelligence? Divorced!" Arthur, or Alfred, slapped his knee, laughing at his own sexist joke, and that was enough for you to regret your decision of approaching him.

"Excuse me, I'm going for some fresh air." You walked away from him as fast as you could.

Stepping out on the balcony, you shivered when the cool air kissed your skin. A coat would've been smarter than a slit in your dress, but freezing to death was better than hearing one more fucking joke about women. You just hoped Alfred, or Arthur, or whatever the fuck his name was, wasn't going to come looking for you. Leaning on the handrail, you sighed. What were you going to do? How were you going to work with Viktor for an indefinite amount of time? There was so much uncertainty about the future, and it scared you. The responsibilities of leading a guild scared you. The changes in your routine scared you. The idea of working with someone who hated you scared you.

The speech! You forgot about the blasted speech, and you ran back inside at the right time. Councillor Shoola invited you on the stage just as you entered the ballroom, and with a fake smile and complaisant nods, you walked up the few steps, blinded by the lights directed on you. Shoola shook your hand, and awarded you with a silver pin — a symbol of your new status as Guild Leader. The amount of people staring at you was overwhelming, but you took a deep breath in and adjusted microphone on the stand. When you looked down at your hands, you were surprised to find them empty. Where were the cards you had prepared? Where was your speech?

Then you remembered the balcony. You had forgotten the cards outside. Shit. Fuck. No matter, you could improvise. Even if your throat was dry, and your legs were numb, you could improvise. You did that before, plenty of times. But the hundreds of eyes that stared into your soul made it impossible to think, to breathe, to exist.

Um, good evening, everyone." You started, eyes narrowed down on Mel, who nodded in encouragement. Licking your chapped lips, you continued. "It brings me great honour to stand here in front of you..." Cringing at the crack in your voice, you found Jayce, who beamed at you, like he always did. That gave you a bit more hope. "...as the new Master of Arts."

You couldn't do this. 

They weren't looking at you, they were looking inside of you. They could see every fibre of your body, every imperfection, every weakness. You tried closing your eyes and pretending they weren't there, but when you opened them, it was worse. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you tried to steady your breathing, to stop yourself from hyperventilating. 

A pair of soft amber eyes found yours, and you couldn’t believe how calming they were. Even after the fiasco that was your meeting with Viktor, you still found inspiration in him, and that offended you. 

"We are here to celebrate a marriage." You spoke with newfound confidence stemming from sheer anger. "A marriage between science and art. A sacred union that some find ridiculous, others impossible. I find it a splendid symbiosis of reason and emotion. Too long art and science have mutually excluded each other, and while they both individually progressed immeasurably, their union has the potential to break boundaries, to make new discoveries, to bring people together. I will proudly represent the Guild of Artists in this new and fascinating adventure. Thank you, Councillors, for the distinction bestowed upon me. Thank you to Professor Heimerdinger for allowing this journey to happen. And thank you to everyone who believes in this pursuit of knowledge."

[avelera]

hi, I hope you don't mind me coming to kind of vent in your inbox (please toss this out if you do) but I was reading your post on the contrasting way Viktor and Jayce view their first meeting and it got me thinking about how some people just sorta brush aside Jayce's suicide attempt here as being somehow pathetic or an overreaction to what they consider a slap on the wrist and I kinda get really mad about that perspective because I don't think people really follow through on what the trial actually meant for Jayce and what the consequences reasonably could have been. people seem to think he was just embarrassed by the trial without understanding that that kind of reputational hit can be, and clearly was, ruinous.

setting aside entirely the emotional/psychological repercussions of having the thing he'd dedicated roughly 2/3's of his life to taken away, his very public trial ended with his own mother making an insanity plea on his behalf and his extremely wealthy and influential sponsor dropping him like he was radioactive and the actual ruling body of the city declaring him dangerously incompetent. do any of those people who deride him for the suicide attempt actually take the time to think about what that outcome means for him in a social and professional context? he jokes to Caitlyn about working in his family factory but honestly, it is entirely within the realm of possibility that the fallout of the trial has made him a social and professional pariah and his reputation is in such dire straits that he may be entirely unemployable within Piltover, perhaps even to the point of being toxic to his own family business if they take the reputation hit by association with him.

it's not actually hyperbole or an overreaction for him to stand in the wreckage of his life and think his life is over, to be at a complete loss as to how to move forward or come to the belief that moving forward is impossible and despair, especially if he doesn't have a support network which he pretty clearly doesn't. his only connections appear to be his mother and Caitlyn and, for obvious reasons, they're not viable at this time.

he was drowning and Viktor threw him a lifeline and he spends the literal rest of the story trying to return the favor.

Sorry for the delay in responding, there's a lot here I want to address.

First of all, I absolutely agree. I think people underestimate just how much that trial left his life in wreckage. That said, there's a few points I'd like to add some nuance to from my perspective, along the lines of YEAH THIS WAS REALLY BAD and people underestimate how much Viktor did for Jayce with his vote of confidence.

(This is gonna be a long post y'all but I have a LOT of thoughts and feelings about Jayce here so buckle up if you do proceed.)

1 ) The Kirammans dropping him as his patrons is absolutely devastating. It's actually the moment I think I hated Cassandra Kiramman for the most, which was turning Jayce away from her door at his lowest point, and cutting him off from Caitlyn, who seems to be his only friend before Viktor. I think it also demonstrates just how severe the crime was that she did so, by the way, I don't think she was just being cruel for the sake of it. But the fact that in 1.04 she's then showing off Jayce as an accomplishment of her house is particularly infuriating as a result. It's also no exaggeration to say that the Kiramman rejection was the final straw for him. After that, he decided to take his own life, so Cassandra would have been, in my opinion, directly responsible for his death (ironically saving her own life down the line, but then Arcane S1 is a series of hinging butterfly effect moments) if not for Viktor.

2 ) One layer of nuance I wanted to add to the Kiramman rejection in particular that you mentioned is the idea of him working at the Talis hammer factory because I think about this a LOT.

I do want to push back a little on the idea that he wouldn't be able to make a living for himself at the Talis hammer factory. To me (as someone whose family has a family business, though I don't work for it), it was never in doubt Jayce would have been able to work there the rest of his life. It might have been the only place he could get a job in Piltover, in fact, at least one with any sort of prestige or intellectual pursuit attached (basically, with anyone attached or graduated from the Academy).

However, I think Jayce would have had to work in a non-scientific part of the factory, either out on the floor or in the back office. And this is what I've been wanting to address in meta for a while now.

Caitlyn asks him what he's going to do next and Jayce says, "Work for the Talis hammer factory, I guess?" and she exclaims, "You can't do that!"

I think the nuance missing from your point that I'd like to add my view of that scene to is that Caitlyn is essentially saying, "That would kill you."

I get the very strong impression that Caitlyn and Jayce bonded over being members of their family who wanted bigger things than what their parents wanted for them. It's basically there on the page in this exchange.

We explore directly that Caitlyn wants to be a detective instead of working in politics like her mother, and pursues her dream despite adversity and her mother's disapproval.

But I think from this exchange and the one Jayce also has with his mother Ximena, we can glean that the Talis's also wanted Jayce to work for the factory, the family business, instead of going to the Academy to pursue his dream of magic.

(Also as a person whose family has a family business, that I don't work for, that has their own career and faced a lot of consternation from my family in my desire to be a writer, I feel this one very keenly.)

Jayce to me reads as someone who had to fight his family all his life to avoid going into the family business, in his pursuit of something greater.

With the Hextech dream taken away, all that's left to him is his family business, the thing I'd argue we have evidence that he's been fighting to avoid his whole life. It doesn't inspire him. It's not what he wants.

Joining the Talis factory would kill him. And that's what Caitlyn points out, and that's when he realizes she's right and goes to finish the job by his own hand instead. Further evidence I would say that working for his family business would represent a death of the soul to him, such that a physical death is preferable. But since his family built the business, and his mother clearly has reservations about his pursuit of magic, I think we can safely say he's been feeling similar pressures to Caitlyn to conform and join the business instead.

3 ) Now to go back to Viktor, I think this is another reason that Viktor literally and spiritually saved Jayce's life. Jayce outright says to his mother that if his own family won't believe in him, he'll find someone who will. Whether you read Viktor/Jayce as platonic or romantic (spouses are family, after all, which is how I read it), Viktor is Jayce's family from that point forward.

But Viktor doesn't bring Jayce back from the brink just by believing in him at his lowest moment (which is so powerful it can't be underestimated, btw) he also gives Jayce a bit of tough love too just when Jayce needs it.

Like many children of privilege (I'd firmly put Mel in this category, since she too is "trapped in the family business" I'd argue), Jayce saw himself at rock bottom after he lost his patron, the benefits of his House name, his family's support, his research, his equipment, access to his one friend, his access to the Academy, and his reputation.

Viktor points out that he never had any of those things growing up.

I think this is a welcome slap in the face for Jayce. Viktor rose to be the Dean's assistant on ability alone, without any of the scaffolding of privilege, and it humbles Jayce just when he needs it. Viktor is telling him that Jayce already has everything he needs to succeed and that others like Viktor have gotten further with less.

So not only does Viktor give his vote of confidence, he materially shows Jayce there is a way to achieving his dreams without all of the things he just lost.

Not only that, he's won the respect and assistance of someone who has done it before, someone who admires him for what he's done, someone who will help him make this dream a reality when no one else would.

Of course Jayce dedicated his life to Viktor after that. Of course he saw Hextech as their shared dream after that. I'd argue that of course he saw his life as belonging to Viktor after that point, because Viktor saved it.

[littlekingterry]

Thinking about the au/hc of Jayce giving Viktor his last name after marryin him. Now in House Talis, very quickly Viktor is being given all the spoils he missed out on, mainly the food such as new dishes and tons of wine at all those fancy gatherings Jayce has to attend. At first he's clearly like yuck this is a lot, but very quickly his appetite grows in size along with his waistline, something that can't be said for his thigh gap nor his clothing. Quickly he gains the reputation as Jayce's plus one who never turns down food or drinks, in fact it's the one thing he's always seen doing. They thought Jayce would be tired of him by now when in reality, he still absolutely loves his huge husband <3

Sorry for the bulky paragraph, just had to get this out!

Oh my god! I'm appreciating every word of this paragraph! I've been thinking for weeks about what would happen if Jayce started actively taking care of Viktor after they both became married, and I can only imagine how much of a heavy Viktor would become as a result of a sweet and sweet husband who never stops spoiling him.

By the way! I made a little sketch inspired by your question 🥺💖 I wanted it to be a sequence but I have a bit of a creative block, but I tried to make them both look especially sweet and happy 💖

[realitycanbewhateveridesire]

ABOUT MY ARCANE DR <3

ngl, talking about my dr feels so embarassing

In this reality, I am the second Kiramman daughter and younger sister of Caitlyn Kirmman by 3 years. Due to me being kidnapped as a toddler and...shenanigans happening I guess, I spent a big portion of my childhood in the Undercity/Zaun living with Vander as part of his makeshift family. I haven't thought much about my place in the story, but I am supplying the Firelights with info and tech from Topside and trying to help as much as I can while living in Piltover (and kinda under the watchful gaze of my parents). There's also the part, where I basically died in my CR and got isekai'ed into Arcane-verse.

To be honest, I am just dropping myself into the story with only a barebones backstory and no idea what I wanna do.

☆ MY BACKSTORY

i am just gonna directly drop what's currently in my script here

(also please, just keep in mind that i based my backstory kinda on a fanfic and also am horrible at writing stuff. and i apologize for it being kinda long and goofy...and frankly, not making sense in some parts. i'm sorry vera leigh, please forgive me.)

In my first life (my CR life), I was a mediocre girl-woman-child. One, dissatisfied with her life. Age-wise, I barely made it out of the girlhood. Still yet, I lacked the maturity of an adult and desparately clung to my fleeting childhood years. I clung to childish daydreams and fantasies. Dreaming of life filled with wonder, comfort and magic. I was spoiled and ungrateful for all the things others have done for me. That life ended rather pathetically. At the age of nineteen, being hit by a truck after trying to cross the road.

I was floating in the vast nothingness. At ease, almost unfeeling, unthinking. Numb. It was the strangest feeling. I felt…almost glad. Satisfied.

That peace did not last, it seemed, as I was pulled, torn, from it and made to wake up anew.

I was born again on a late morning/near noon of February 28th 973 AN, a second child and daughter to Cassandra Kiramman and Tobias Kiramman. As Lillian Kiramman. Sister of Caitlyn Kiramman.

I had no recollection of my past life. Not yet, at least. It would only come to me later on.

I was a difficult and needy child. Unaware of it at the time, I was born with the ability to “dream”. Not prophetic visions of future, but visions of the present. Those mental images came to me in bursts, sometimes threatening to tear at my sanity bit by bit. The resulting outbursts went far beyond that of a normal infant/small child. It made me wail and cry, and scream for hours on end, without a sign of stopping. Day and night. Hitting my head with my tiny hands in distress, until a maid or nanny would come to pry them away from it. Little could calm me, aside from the calming touch and proximity of one of my parents. Especially, my mother. Yet even then, it didn’t seem enough. My suffering tore their hearts, as they tried to find anything to help me, to fix it. Fix me. They had various doctors check my health, spoke with scholars and psychologists, etc. But nothing helped as they still couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Between the helplessness and exhaustion, the situation overwhelmed them. Even as they loved me fiercely, they couldn’t help to sometimes wish for an “easier” child.

Those thoughts would come back to haunt them, after I was kidnapped as a mere toddler.

With the violent and cutthroat nature of the Undercity’s/Zaun’s criminal underbelly, it didn’t take long for my captors to be eliminated by their rivals. Following the chaos that ensued, I fell through the cracks. Ending up in the streets, before being taken to be a part of experiments conducted by a chem-baron. I was rescued by Vander, who took me in.

I spent the next years living with him and my adopted siblings: Vi/Violet, Powder, Mylo and Claggor.

At the age of around 13 years old, I took part in my siblings’ attempted heist on the Kiramman workshop/Jayce Talis’s apartment. The one ending up in the explosion caused by the hextech crystals. After that, we tried to lay low. Until we couldn’t.

And when Vander was kidnapped and my older siblings went on to rescue him, I was left behind in the Last Drop alongside Powder. And snuck out along with her, wanting to help/save my siblings.

In the end, we failed. I failed. Left unconscious among the rubble, miraculously without any lethal injuries. It was Ekko, who pulled me out of there.

And when once again, I was back on my feet even if barely, injured and running from Silco’s people as they hunted me down. I fell into the hands of enforcers.

After the Sheriff Grayson’s death, the enforcers were in disarray. My arrest case ended up getting mixed up with another case, leading to them taking a DNA sample from me. And accidentally discovering that I was the lost Kiramman child.

Marcus took this as yet another opportunity to give himself credit. As the one who arrested me, he would take all the glory. He fabricated an entire story about Vander, the Hound of the Underground possibly being my kidnapper. Of him brainwashing me into thinking of him as my family. A tale he presented to my family, in case I decided to run my mouth about his involvement in Sheriff Grayson’s death.

I was “returned home” to my biological family in Piltover.

As expected, I didn’t take well at all to this new development. I might have been a Kiramman by blood, yet I grew up as a Zaunite. My heart belonged largely in the Undercity. Furthermore, I was envelopped in grief surrounding the deaths of my adopted siblings and adoptive father. As my parents tried their best to undo the brainwashing, they assumed I was under.

To add salt to the injury, it was only by the age of fourteen, that the memories of my prievious life and my reincarnation returned to me. Only then, I became aware that I was reincarnated into the world of that distant past self’s favorite story.

It was already too late to prevent the tragedy, which split the two sisters apart. But I knew the trajectory of what would happen in years following.

I focused on getting stronger. I’ve honed my skills with the firearms. Picked up martial arts.

From young age, I exhibited a keen intellect, curiosity and thirst for knowledge that surpassed my years.

I’ve devoured any piece of knowledge I could. I collected knowledge from anything I could get my hands on and devoured books on various subjects amd topics. I educated myself about Runeterra as much as I could.

Throughout my childhood in the Undercity, I flirted with the idea of exploring my powers. The people performing experiments on me, were also quite interested by my ability to “dream”.

At the age of fourteen, I found it could prove a useful tool for my plans. I delved into my visions, almost sacrificing my sanity as I memorized all that could prove useful. I tried to get my hands on books about occult and magic tomes. Hoping they would give me the answer, one that I was looking for.

In the end, I achieved partial control over my “sight”, alongside awakening some other powers. The visions still came to me in my sleep. But most times, I was able to control it. Control myself in my dreams as I travelled wherever I wanted, separated from my physical body. In my dreams, I walked through the Undercity’s streets, burning every shortcut, nook and cranny that I’ve never seen before, into my memory. I’ve seen the inside of Noxian warrooms, the farmlands of Demacia, the ice-covered lands of Freljord, the beauty of the Ionian archipelago, the Bilgewater ports, the jungles of Ixtal, the sands of Shurima. And much more. Yet, my attention remained mostly on Piltover and Zaun. And the people, I once saw only upon a screen. Those, I knew in this life.

I observed Powder as she evolved into Jinx, under the aegis of Silco. I observed Vi, in the Stillwater’s Hold prison. I had observed Viktor and Jayce, as they developed Hextech. I had observed Ekko, as he persevered and with the help of others, created the Firelights.

The Kirammans were Jayce’s patrons. And he was somewhat of a family friend and an older brother figure to Caitlyn. It was inevitable for us to interact and become acquinted with one another. And while we never became as close, as him and Caitlyn, we somewhat got along.

It is through Jayce, that I met Viktor. With my parents trying to control who I interacted with and him being the first Zaunite living in Piltover that I met and the only Zaunite I was (begrudingly) allowed to interact with, he instantly became my friend. That and his sarcastic nature, which instantly made me like him.

Ekko was already a close childhood friend of mine. Despite my parents’ watchful gaze and them guarding me from anything Undercity-related, I was accustomed to sneaking around in the shadows and hiding secrets. Courtesy of having grown up as a Fissure-native. Ekko tracked me down. I tracked him too. We had a reunion, had a talk. About everything we’ve been up to, everything that has happened to us. Ekko brought me up to date in regards to the Undercity (I knew of some developments already through my powers). He told me about the Firelights. In the end, I became a secret informant and ally of the Firelights. Supplying them with info and tech from Topside.

...

(and that's basically it for now lol. i'll admit my backstory's unfinished. i'm just inserting myself to shift sometime close before the act 1 of season 1 events and letting stuff happen from there.)

In terms of powers and fighting, I gave myself basic things like combat skills, flexibility and speed to avoid getting killed. I haven't even fully specified in my mind what my "sight" ability is but it's sorta a cross between prophetic dreams and astral projection. I'm also probably gonna give myself airbending or waterbending. Simply because I can.

....

And...I guess that's all I have for now.

If you managed to get through that wall of text, then thank you <3

[corysmiles]

Runes and Ruin Part 3

An Arcane G/T Fic

Notes: you can have some fluff on top of the hurt/comfort I suppose. I really needed the boys to talk through some stuff so here you go I hope you all like it :>

—————————————

It was a week before Jayce couldn’t make any more excuses to get out of council duty. Surprisingly, Viktor had almost forgotten that that was still something Jayce had to do. The two had been so focused on figuring out how to solve Viktor’s problem that it almost felt like when they were young- when they’d spend hours together bouncing ideas off each other and dreaming of what they could create. The rift that had opened up between them after Jayce had taken up his spot on the council- usually gaping and hungry, too difficult to cross at best and impossible to see the other side of at worst- had closed to something almost ignorable. Almost.

“Do you think they’d believe it if I said I had another doctor’s appointment?” Jayce groaned, running his hand through his neatly groomed hair as he stared at himself in the mirror. Viktor watched from Jayce’s pillow, where he’d taken to sitting whenever Jayce wasn’t in bed, with mildly hidden amusement as Jayce picked and preened at his appearance, much like the birds that took up residence in the campus gardens, although he knew the man would argue about the comparison.

“Not unless you want them to think you’re dying,” Viktor scoffed.

Jayce groaned again, eyes falling from the mirror to Viktor apologetically, “I know. But I…I’m still sorry I have to do this.”

“It’s fine, Jayce,” Viktor shrugged, trying his hardest not to let his disdain for his partner’s position show through, “Like you said, we can go to the lab later. And what’s another late night?”

Jayce nodded halfheartedly- and the small jealous part of Viktor beamed at the knowledge that at least for once he took priority over the council. The brilliant man that all of Piltover adored would rather be with him. Viktor chose to stop that train of thought immediately.

He watched raptly as Jayce continued to get ready. The warmth of the pillow enveloping him and the smell of Jayce’s cologne still sticking to the fabric was almost enough to put him back to sleep. But sleeping would mean even more time still stuck being powerless, and that wasn’t something Viktor could afford, even if the momentary comfort of having Jayce to himself for once was rather nice.

From across the room, Jayce huffed as he brushed his hair back into something more neat, more fitting of his position, and in the mirror Viktor could see his lips quirking up into a half-smile, “You really should be sleeping more though, V.”

“Once I’m the right size again we can have that conversation,” Viktor laughed softly, “Hm?”

“Yeah, yeah,��� Jayce agreed, still visibly exasperated as he got ready, pulling on his large white jacket, the House Talis emblems on the arms shining under the soft morning light like liquid gold.

“I won’t be long,” Jayce said as he walked over to his bed, his shadow falling over Viktor.

At the mention of the time spent away, at the reminder of all the times before Jayce had chosen the council over him, Viktor felt a familiar fire burn in his chest. For a moment, the ever-closing fissure between them seemed to crack wide open again. If the meetings truly weren’t long, why hadn’t Jayce come to see him more?

“We both know that’s not true,” he frowned.

It was quiet for a moment, but a pained sigh and a quiet apology from above him followed by the soft press of a thumb against his back was all he got in response. Viktor wasn’t sure what he expected. He wanted Jayce to fight, to yell, to tell him the council was more important than him anyway- anything to make the anger that had built up inside him for months feel valid... But he also wanted something else. He wanted Jayce to touch him again, to hold him in his hands, to not leave again once this whole debacle was over, to choose him not because he had to but because he wanted to.

Yet Jayce gave him nothing but a brief warm touch. The feeling lingered in his skin long after Jayce had walked off, and Viktor swore he could feel the vibration of every step of his boots across the wood floors even from so high up.

They had argued about this, for hours almost. Jayce had to go back to his council duties, and while Viktor was keen on continuing their work while Jayce was gone, Jayce had had other ideas.

“Come with me?” he remembered Jayce asking, eyes wide and hopeful, with the same passion that had won them over so many sponsors. He had asked as if it was ever something Viktor could agree to.

Viktor had tried to end the conversation kindly, telling him he doubted the council wanted him to hear what they were saying, but Jayce persisted, as he always did. And while Jayce had been helpful throughout Viktor’s struggle, the independent nature ingrained deep into his bones from years of being looked down on caused him to snap. He hated the thought of being carted around as if he couldn’t take care of himself.

Perhaps he was being unfair to Jayce, but truly he didn’t know what the man was so worried would happen in the few hours Viktor was alone.

Viktor raised a brow as Jayce took one last look at him, eyes unfairly sad, as he left, the door locking behind him. The moment the sound of Jayce’s footsteps faded away, Viktor sunk back into the plush satin of Jayce’s pillow. He groaned, rubbing his hand over his eyes, trying to combat his body’s desire to curl up in Jayce’s bed and never leave. He had work to do still, and thankfully Jayce had left the notebook out and open on the bed so Viktor could review their calculations.

However, even though Jayce insisted he worked like a machine, Viktor was just a man; a man who couldn’t help but pretend for just a few more seconds that he was laying in Jayce Talis’ bed for different reasons.

After a few minutes, Viktor begrudgingly pushed himself up, the plush feathery mass of the pillow sinking down under his weight. It was too difficult to actually stand on it, so instead he opted for sliding down onto the bed. Jayce had moved the blankets to the bottom already, so Viktor wouldn’t have to navigate them, making the trek to the notebook much easier.

He had rolled his eyes when Jayce had sheepishly adjusted everything in the morning to be easier for him, but he was thankful now that he hadn’t told Jayce to stop… even if the acts of undue kindness made Viktor’s stomach flutter and cheeks grow warm.

It took a bit of effort but finally Viktor managed to pull himself up onto the notebook’s open pages. It was hard to read the words from that angle, and absentmindedly he found himself wishing Jayce was there to hold him up. The man’s fingers were always gentle with him, and as much as he had initially hated being manhandled, the longer he was stuck small the more he found that he didn’t really mind…as long as it was Jayce.

Viktor wasn’t sure how much time had passed with him looking over the same equations until his mind spun. He had tried to flip the page at one point but ended up falling over and giving up. Mostly, he spent the time thinking- about his predicament, about Hextech, about Jayce.

He barely noticed when a soft click came from the door’s lock. Careful yet quick footsteps came from behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The dip of the bed beside him as Jayce sat down, back straight against the backboard, almost sent him toppling off of the book. Before he could fall a hand reached out to steady him- giant fingers there for him to grab onto.

“How was it?” Viktor asked, cautious as he raised a brow at his partner.

Jayce groaned, bringing the hand that Viktor wasn’t using for stabilization up to his face and wiping his eyes, “Bad. Long. I don’t know.”

Viktor’s lips shaped into a small concerned pout as he watched Jayce, studying him like he was an equation to be solved. He hadn’t seen him so stressed in a long time, although he supposed the two of them hadn’t spent much time together in a long time either.

“Sorry,” Jayce sighed after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, “It was just pointless. They don’t want to listen to me, and all I could think about was coming back.”

At that Viktor’s face flushed undeniably red. He coughed awkwardly, and leaned a little more of his weight into Jayce’s steady fingers, needing the support but hoping the other wouldn’t notice.

“I eh…I’m sorry to hear that,” Viktor choked out, exceedingly grateful that Jayce still had his hand pressed to his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Jayce said, his voice tight, “I signed up for it didn’t I?”

And truly how could Viktor argue that when he’d said the same thing countless times before when Jayce had complained about his extra duties. When he would come to the lab after days of absence only to tell Viktor about whatever new disagreeable policy the council was pushing. He did sign up for it, and in the process made Viktor a side character in their own dream’s story.

“You can say you were right, you know?” The heavy blanket of silence in the room shattered.

Viktor’s brows drew tight, his lungs still as if any sound was too much, “What?”

“You were right- about the council,” Jayce continued, still not looking down at his partner, his eyes wide as he looked up at the ceiling, “About everything really.”

“I…I don’t know what you mean,” Viktor grimaced.

“I’m just a scientist, Vik,” Jayce said, voice monotone and resigned, “I shouldn’t be there.”

“The people look up to you, you’re a symbol, Jayce,” Viktor retorted. How funny, he thought. Only weeks ago he had been dying to hear those words from Jayce.

“I didn’t ask to be.”

The expression on Jayce’s face cut right through Viktor like a blade, twisting deep in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Jayce sound so defeated. If he had been feeling like this all along, why hadn’t he stopped? ‘Why hadn’t he come back?’ the poisonous nagging voice in Viktor’s head growled.

Viktor ignored it for the moment, instead, pulling himself up as best as he could so he could lean his weight against Jayce’s hand, more for comfort than anything else. “What brought this up?”

“Hextech is both of ours. But while I’m out there you’re stuck here until we can fix you,” Jayce’s eyes fell on Viktor, and gently, he wrapped his hand around him, picking him up to bring him closer, his hand resting palm-open on his lap with Viktor carefully cupped between his fingers like he was something precious. “It’s not fair, and it’s not what I should be doing.”

“Well…we’ll fix this soon,” Viktor offered him a small sad smile, barely a quirk of lips, “Then you can go back to the council guilt-free, hm?”

Apparently, it was the wrong response, given how Jayce’s face scrunched up like he’d been hit, “I do miss you, you know. I have missed you.”

“Jayce,” Viktor warned, his expression guarded.

“It’s true Viktor. I really have,” Jayce continued, words leaving his mouth quickly like he was afraid if he didn’t get them all out they would escape him somehow, “I know I’ve done a bad job of showing it, but… this has been nice at least. And I don’t want to leave you to deal with this alone.”

Viktor sighed, uselessly rubbing his hand against Jayce’s shaking fingers, “You haven’t, Jayce.”

“But haven’t I?” Jayce scoffed, his tone venomous- aimed at himself but still burning Viktor in the process, “Not just with this, but with everything?”

“I…” Viktor’s head was spinning to come up with the proper response.

Jayce’s head fell back against the headboard, but even so far away Viktor could hear the shaky breath he exhaled, “I’m really sorry, Viktor.”

And that… that was not something Viktor was ready to hear. He’d dreamed of this moment, of an apology, of Jayce coming back to him and begging at his knees for forgiveness- of going back to the way things were years ago, when they could finish each other’s thoughts without a word and work in tandem like they were both gears of the same machine. But he was finding that in reality it was much less satisfying. Especially if it meant the face of the man he adored would look so pained.

“I…I forgive you, Jayce,” and to Viktor’s surprise, his voice was steady. He never expected himself to forgive so easily, but he found it simple in the moment. What other choice did he have when he had been wanting Jayce back by his side more than anything, missing the warmth and comfortable partnership that came with it.

At that, Jayce looked at him like he was about to cry, his eyes squeezed shut, and Viktor’s face fell in sympathy as the fingers around him shook gently. The tremors ran through Viktor’s body as he tried to soothe his partner in any way he could, rubbing his hand up and down his shaking fingers, catching on every callous.

“I think you should rest, Jayce,” Viktor said gently, trying to mask his own turbulent emotions, with a softness he didn’t know he contained, “We can go to the lab tomorrow. You’re in no state to work right now.”

“No, no,” Jayce scoffed, more so at himself than anything else. “We can go. I won’t make you wait. I’ve done that enough.”

“What’s one more day?” Viktor found himself asking, surprising even himself at the honesty in the statement, “You deserve the rest. And the work will still be here.”

Jayce looked down at Viktor, and the softness on his face was almost unbearable. With a weak wet laugh he smiled, not the bright ones given to the press or possible investors, but a real one reserved for late nights at the lab when they were exhausted but so close to a discovery. “Okay, V. Yeah I…I can make lunch soon. We can still go over the notes here- talk about what you looked at-”

“Jayce,” Viktor sighed, amused at Jayce’s surprise at being cut off. He was sure the fondness in his tone wasn’t lost on Jayce, “You’re starting to sound like me. When I said rest I did mean it. You’re near tears, why don’t you just eh…take a nap?”

Jayce frowned, his nostrils flaring as he breathed out slowly, like he was trying to release the emotions so clearly welling up behind his eyes. When he spoke he sounded so desperate, so defeated, “I want to help you, Viktor.”

“And you will,” Viktor reassured, “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge. It’s okay if it doesn't happen today.”

His words finally seemed to get through to Jayce who visibly relaxed, his body practically melting into the bed as he allowed himself to lie down fully. With a look of determination Viktor stepped off of Jayce’s hand, stumbling a bit before he could steady himself on the man’s chest. Behind him, Jayce’s hand tensed, like he was waiting to catch him if he fell, and in a way Viktor thought that that explained this whole situation quite well. Jayce was always there to catch his mistakes, and he had missed the ease at which he offered his assistance- never pitying and always kind.

“You know, it’s almost like we’ve switched places,” Jayce laughed softly, his lips tilted into a smile, “Usually I’m the one convincing you you don’t have to work.”

“Well, perhaps all this time with you is starting to affect me. Just another reason to get this solved, hm?” Viktor retorted slyly, tipping his head to Jayce and earning him another deep laugh that shook under Viktor’s feet. The possessive jealous part of Viktor warmed at Jayce’s reaction- a real laugh, something he prided himself in pulling out of his partner.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jayce smiled, his face still tired, “You should sleep too though. Maybe later if I feel better we can still go over to the lab?”

“If you wish,” Viktor hummed as he stretched his arms up above him. He didn’t miss how Jayce’s eyes carefully followed his movements.

Viktor tilted his head to the side table, expecting to be placed down on his makeshift bed which consisted simply of one of Jayce’s shirts, neatly folded up into a square, but Jayce made no effort to move. Under his gaze, Viktor felt even smaller than usual- like a specimen to be studied rather than a man.

“I…” Jayce started, looking away nervously, “Is this okay?”

Before Viktor could ask what he meant, Jayce’s hand, which had been resting behind him, moved to hover right above Viktor. Viktor watched, confused for a moment, before it slowly pressed down into him, forcing him to lie down and keeping him still against Jayce’s clothed chest. He would never admit it, but the silky fabric of Jayce’s jacket felt nice against his skin. His first reaction was to push Jayce away, to reject the attempt at touch that he didn’t know how to handle. But Jayce was watching him so nervously that he couldn’t bring himself to deny Jayce the comfort, even though he could feel the warmth blossoming in his cheeks.

“Yes, this is eh..this is fine Jayce,” Viktor stumbled over his words, the almost unbearable warmth from the man’s massive hand making it hard to think about anything but every point where they touched.

Jayce’s eyes widened a bit, his hand curling around Viktor just a bit to secure him, and there was something on his face Viktor couldn’t quite put a name to. The closest expression he could think of is when he had first shown Jayce a completed Hexgem, eyes soft and almost awe-struck. His gaze caused Viktor’s skin to prickle with embarrassment.

Some part of Viktor argued that he should stop this, that he should tell Jayce to put him on the side table, so he wouldn’t be able to keep pretending that somehow Jayce held affections similar to his own. But again, he was weak. And if Jayce was offering he would be remiss to deny it.

“It’s nice- lying like this with you,” Jayce mumbled, his voice rumbling throughout Viktor’s body, and even through his embarrassment Viktor couldn’t help but agree with a slow nod.

It didn’t take long for Viktor to fall asleep like that, completely covered by Jayce’s warm hand as he leaned his body into his chest. The rhythmic up-and-down pattern of his breaths and the thumping of his heart against his entire body was like a lullaby. He was sure Jayce was still awake as he felt his thoughts grow hazy, given that every few moments Jayce’s thumb gently rubbed against his back.

Later, he was sure he’d be embarrassed for this- for allowing himself to give in to his own wants, but for the moment, he let himself accept the warmth, falling asleep in the safety of Jayce’s presence all around him.

[weltraum-vaquero]

you could have it all (my empire of dirt)

4. hold me (like a knife)

[Chapter 1] ↠ [Chapter 2] ↠ [Chapter 3] ↠ [Chapter 4] ↠ [Chapter 5] (coming soon)

[AO3 link]

Western AU

18+

Jayce Talis x GN AFAB Reader

Word count: 9.5k+

Synopsis: Now that things between you and Jayce have ended, he doesn't know what to do with himself. Until everything takes a turn for the worse.

Tags/warnings: Jayce being the world’s saddest sack of shit. Graphic violence towards the middle and end of this chapter. Character death (but it’s nobody important). Caitlyn being the only person with a brain.

Notes: I can’t quite believe that this chapter is finally done. I’ve had the plot of this specific part of the story in mind for almost two years now, and to say that executing it was daunting is an understatement. I hope I didn’t disappoint, and, just as a heads up, this is about the middle point of the fic. There is still a long way to go, and far from the end for Jayce and reader! As per usual: a big, huge thank you to my wonderful friends, who were so helpful with their valuable feedback, and helped this chapter become what it is now. Enjoy!

“Jayce?” 

The door creaks open slowly, letting in the barest, flickering sliver of light. 

It stings somewhere at the back of his already pounding head to look — he has to squint to even bear glimpsing, but he still does, delusionally hopeful in a way that’s masochistic.

The smudge of a shadow he sees through his lashes takes on the form he aches to see the most — shoulders just the right size to hang onto, neck just the right slope to nestle into, arms just the right size to wrap around him tight and hold him so he’ll stop falling apart — you. 

But it’s not you. Why would it be you? 

Cold hands, colder gaze, you hadn’t deemed him worthy of another word as he’d set to leave. He’d stopped, back turned, shaking with the tears he’d been swallowing, listened to the prairie crickets and waited. Counted all the way up to ten in his head, hoping you’d have the guts to find some inexistent panacea to the wound you’d torn into his heart. 

But you hadn’t said a thing. Why would you?

Jayce had given Topacio the spurs, riding fast enough to dry his tears before they reached his chin, and hard enough to drown his sobs out with the pounds of galloping hooves on the way back.

Why would it be you now, here, in the Kiramman estate, crawling back to him and begging for forgiveness?

“Hi, Cait,” he croaks.

And he wouldn’t fucking give it to you either way. Not after what you did to him.

“Hey.” It’s hysterical just how she draws out the e, hushed little sound, like she’s trying to soothe a spooked horse. 

Empathy’s never been her strong suit. 

But he’s sure he’s a sorry enough sight to be worthy of such a reply. He’d pulled the curtains to his room shut tight to stifle all sunlight, and sat in a sad corner of his room — hadn’t even granted himself the comfort of sitting on his bed — before he’d sobbed the night and day away. And though he’d torn his heart open and wrung it out into every tear, it had not ached any less, it hadn’t grown any lighter. 

How could it, now that he knows the most meaningful relationship of his life matters so little to the one person he would have given everything up for?

“I was sure you were still out and about but… well, Fenton said he’d seen you ride in last night, and I thought… you might be here.” She clears her throat, sliding into his room uninvited. She maneuvers it suspiciously clumsily — it takes Jayce a second to pick up on the fact that it’s because she holds a candle in one hand and a plate of sad-looking, long-cold dinner leftovers in the other. But she shuts the door with her foot, not at all silent, before she sits down across from him on the floor. 

Jayce draws his feet a little closer, hugs his knees a little tighter. Company is the last thing he needs when he wants to wallow in his own misery, when he wants to twist the knife you’ve stuck into his heart and let himself bleed.

But how could he lay in his own metaphorical puddle of blood and physical puddle of snot and tears when Cait is here to watch?

She’s trying very hard to make no big deal of it — of how much Jayce is looking like the world’s saddest sack of shit — as she sets the plate down first, then untucks whatever’s under her other arm so she can put the candle down, a safe distance from the carpet.

“I’m, really— I’m not much company right now,” Jayce tells her. His voice is so hoarse from sobbing it’s just a whistly, airy, pathetic whisper. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated feeling meek. 

You’d nurtured that part of him, had lulled him into believing it was alright for him — protector, hunter, a man of the law — to be everything he wasn’t supposed to be. And he’d let it happen.

Why does he have to be like this? Every part of him seems sculpted for power — his size, his strength, his skills — and still he yearns for weakness. To be cradled and kissed and touched like he’s none of those things.

No other lover had gotten through to him, and he doesn’t blame any single one of them — who would look at him as anything beyond a guard dog with a pretty face, when that’s all he’s supposed to be? Who would want to reach deeper and touch the parts of him that don’t fit the man he’s clearly meant to be? 

But you’d had. You’d called him princess and baby and you’d caged him in protective embraces and had let him grow soft. You’d given him everything he’d never had, and you’d done it all just to fucking hurt him. To wield his own weakness like a knife. You’d shaped it into something sharp and waited for the right time, right place, to tear him open with it.

And yet, he’d let you do it all over again — just to have a taste of the months he’d felt truly understood. He’d lay his head in your hands all the same, willing lamb under the butchering knife. If he’d be back in that saloon, he’d melt in your hands, let you lick into his mouth and sink your teeth into his neck. You wouldn’t need to even ask. He’d just tilt his head back and wait.

Because he loves you.

Choking back a sob, Jayce shivers with how much that realization shakes him — he still loves you, beaten dog licking an abusing hand, runt of the litter crawling back to warmth it will be inevitably chased out of.

You’re gone. And you’ll never care enough to come back.

“Here.” Caitlyn nudges the plate towards him in an attempt to snap him out of the incoming breakdown. “Eat up,” she encourages. “You must be hungry.”

He shakes his head.

Jayce wonders if he ever will feel anything again, except for a dreadful pit of numb pain smack in the middle of his chest. No noxious acid burning in his stomach if he avoids eating, no itch in his lungs when he holds his breath too long, nothing but the sore gaping fucking hole he can’t see but damn well feels so thoroughly he wonders if he could stick his entire hand in his chest.

“Alright.”

With that, she takes the book she’d brought with her and cracks it open. Like they’ve just finished having their late morning gossip session or like they’ve just slurped their teacups dry, like he isn’t curled up on the carpet and shaking with the effort of trying not to sob, Cait starts reading away in deafening silence.

“What… are you doing?” 

She says it like it’s easy. He knows it isn’t — not usually, and especially not now. “Keeping you company.” 

“You don’t have to,” he croaks.

Her smile is so laden with pity it makes him sick. He crawls into the comfort of it nonetheless.

“I want to.”

Jayce doesn’t know what exactly it is about that which does him in so effortlessly, so thoroughly. 

Had you ever wanted to do anything for him? Without an ulterior motive? 

That thought makes him curl in on himself like a hurt animal. A whimper scratches at his throat, and his dignity washes down the drain with a fresh set of tears.

“Shit. I’m sorry.” And he should be, he thinks; maybe it’s his fault, maybe what he had with you could have lasted just a bit longer, if he hadn’t been this… soppy. This sentimental, this needy, this much. “I’m so sorry.”

Wordlessly, Cait shuts her book, and shuffles across the carpet to plop down next to him. Her gentle hand grabs his shoulder, squeezing like she wishes she could absorb some of the pain.

“C’mere.” And he knows how much that means. Caitlyn, raised on proper etiquette and not one for more than the average friendly shoulder touch, offering to hold him though his face is slick with snot and his back’s gone sweaty and he can’t even breathe right.

But she holds him anyway. She holds him like maybe he still matters.

Jayce loathes the way his next sob wrecks him, how he quakes with his whole being. He’d give anything to have you holding him like this, and he hates himself for it.

“I really am,” he whispers. He’s sorry he wishes this weren’t her arm around his shoulders. He’s sorry he doesn’t even know what to do with all the crushing weight of his love, sorry he ever thought you’d want it — want him. He’s sorry it’s so heavy now that he thinks all his bones might crack, he’s sorry Cait has to hold him even though he’s nothing but bits and pieces of himself. “S-so, so sorry.”

She lets him sob through it, rubs at his back. Jayce settles for curling in on himself, as if making himself small would make the pain drip out of his soul any faster, or make his heart mend any quicker.

It doesn’t.

Cait brushes the hair stuck to his sweaty forehead with a careful hand.

“The only one who should be sorry is them.” Her voice is bitter — a smidge too bitter. Jayce doesn’t know why he’s offended for you.

“How do you know?” He wipes at the snot under his nose, and tries not to think about how disgusting he is. 

“I know,” Cait pauses briefly, pondering her words, “that the only mistake you could have made was loving too genuinely.”

The only thing he can think of, the only thing that comes to mind, is to say sorry again. Sorry for being so much — too much. 

And who would want to love so much of what makes him everything he shouldn’t be? 

Who would want to love so much? 

And why had he been naive enough to think you, criminal, cheater, liar, would be up for such a horrific task?

“I’m so… s-stupid,” he mutters. Stupid for believing there was something even remotely worth loving about the amalgamation of too much that he is, stupid for believing you, of all people, would be the one to take on the challenge. Caitlyn shushes him, pulling him harder into the hug. But she doesn’t deny it, which is enough of an answer to Jayce. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. 

Jayce wants to parrot it back at her, but the words seem far too small for the overwhelming amount of regret sitting heavy in his chest. So he says nothing, because he knows he’ll break if he even tries.

And they stay like that. Jayce chokes on another snotty sob when she rests her cheek against his head, a reminder of the closeness he’s lost with you scratching at the fresh wound you’d left on his heart. 

She squeezes him close when he weeps so thorough it wrecks him, she pets his disgusting sweaty back when even crying becomes too much and his body turns to breathless, embarrassing blubbering, she tells him to breathe — shows him how, in and out, slow and steady — when his breath gets stuck between more tears and hiccups, and his brain goes woozy with a lack of air and he feels like he wants to throw up the empty space inside his stomach, inside his chest, throw up the pain, purge all remnants of the ache you’ve left in him.

But that’s all he is — feels like all he’ll ever be. Purging you, purging the pain you’ve left behind… he’s not sure what else would remain of him without the ache for you. He can’t remember what he was before it. He’s terrified of what he’ll be after it.

“Believe it or not — you’ve gotten a bit better at keeping silent while you cry,” she says once he settles into just sniffles. 

“The h-hell’s that supposed to mean?”

He hates how his voice cracks on his words.

“I remember when we’d brought you here the night after we’d thrown you that big party for saving me and mother. I was two rooms away and I could hear you sobbing your heart out through the night.”

He had.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he’d first raised that rifle to protect Caitlyn and her mother, not for days. He remembers the champagne rippling in the flute he’d been clutching his fist around at that party (mrs Kiramman had to teach him how to even hold the damn thing properly), the rare steak wobbling on the silver fork. He remembers hearing his own heartbeat bouncing back at him in the egregiously fluffy pillow the first night he’d spent at the estate, the way he’d soaked it with tears and snot. He remembers wondering if he’ll ever sleep again.

“That feels like a lifetime ago.”

Cait nods. “It was. I remember thinking you were much too soft for the job mother was going to grant you, that it’d been just a stroke of luck that you’d rescued us when you did.”

“You have no idea how scared I was.” Jayce swallows thickly at the bitter memory. “Promoted from a simple cow wrangler to personal bodyguard to the mayoress and her family — god, I didn’t think I could make it either.”

“But you did.”

Jayce nods.

Caitlyn presses her cheek to him a little harder, squeezes him a little closer. “And you will.”

—

He won’t.

It’s enough to have your face flashing before his eyes, to sniff a distant replica of your leather-gunpowder-campfire scent, or to believe the sheets, damp and warm and rolled tight around his waist from all his restlessness from the previous night are your greedy, loving arms, to have his throat drawing tight and eyes brimming with tears.

And when he does close his eyes to indulge, for the briefest moment, in what he has left of you, in the cruel tricks his mind plays on him, longing shifts to rage.

Why wasn’t he enough to love? What could he have done to make you love him? Why couldn’t he be what you needed?

What was it about him that made you want to run from him, from the generous offer of a peaceful, simple life, and straight back into an existence reliant on scraps and crime? What made that life so much better than him and everything he had — everything he was more than willing to give you? 

What else could he have given you, to make you stay? What was there left to give?

That’s about the only thing that gets him out of his bedroom. Saddling up to ride out into fuck knows where and to just scream.

That’s all he’s good for, really. Weeks pass him by in the blink of an eye, spent in the darkest corner of his bed, so much so even leaving his room becomes a terrifying, daunting task.

He hates the pity the people at the estate treat him with, the way the Kirammans are so understanding. They don’t demand he joins them for dinner, not once. Food finds its way into his room at one point or another, they don’t insist he do anything, they just… let him rot away, in the most literal sense of the word.

Caitlyn spends time with him when she can find it, but as he becomes increasingly inconsolable, her visits lessen. 

Jayce can’t blame her for getting impatient with him. He is, too.

He hates that he can’t blame her, either, when he finds bullets from his drawers missing, his knife dulled, and his weapons suddenly cleaned the way they’d only require after serious use.

Of course his inaction couldn’t go on forever.

The sharp, mean daggers Cassandra’s been glaring his way whenever he did scurry out of his room and met eyes with her, Caitlyn’s growing absence around the house — they suddenly fit together like puzzle pieces: Caitlyn has begun picking up his slack.

And he wishes, god, he wishes he could be proud, because Caitlyn deserves it, she’s wanted to fill in his footsteps since the first time he’d taken her with him on a hunt all those years back — but he’s angry. 

He knows that above all else, this means he has become the last thing he’s ever wanted to be: a pathetic charity case. A failure at his one duty. 

She should not be out there by herself. He should be there. Teaching, watching, helping, but he’s not, he’s stuck, he’s drained, and he’s so bone-achingly tired, even though all he does is sleep and cry.

So when Cassandra slips into his room one evening (trying not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of his unkempt beard or food stained union suit) and hands him a bounty poster of some crooked looking outlaw, it gives him the push he needs.

She tries to put it gently — suggesting it might do him some good to get out there again — but he knows what she means. She doesn’t pay him to sit around and sob, and this bounty… he can see why she would not want her daughter anywhere near such vermin. Even with all his equipment, which by now Caitlyn undoubtedly knows how to use. That’s really all the motivation he needs, aside from some much-needed stress relief.

The fact that Caitlyn catches his wrist on his way out the front door and tells him he doesn’t have to  do this — at least not alone — does very little to deter him.

—

Match strikes matchbox. Dry wood crackles under the birth of new, tiny flames. The night grows a tiny bit less dark, but the prairie’s unbothered and taciturn.

He hasn’t smelled a campfire since… well. Since the last night he’d spent with you. But decidedly, the time you’d smelled most markedly of flames and ash was the night he’d let you kiss him after everything.

God, your eyes, glittering and gluttonous that night you’d spent with him after he’d tracked you down. And your hair, the near-animalic scent of your skin tempered by the freshness of cold air, the smell of leather clinging to you where he kissed and licked, the salt of your sweat, the musk—

God, he aches.

“Jayce, don’t shoot.”

His hand already hovers over his holster out of instinct alone, but he drops it the moment he recognizes that guilty tone.

It’s no wonder that Caitlyn’s decided to follow him.

With a sniffle, and a squeeze of his eyes, Jayce rolls his shoulders when he hears the sound of gravel under her new boots.

She’s already been holding his hand — figuratively and literally — an embarrassing amount these past months. 

Now that he’s finally trying to drag himself out of his slump (and slump is a very light word for sleeping and willing himself out of existence), she’s following him around like she knows he’ll stumble. He can practically hear the tension in her joints, ready to catch him not if but when he falls.

“I said I’d do this on my own,” he says.

Caitlin hums affirmatively. “I never said I wouldn’t let you.”

The audacity of her, to just say that like she hasn’t been doing the exact opposite for some time now.

“You’re a shit liar.”

Caitlyn sighs. “Mother told you.”

“I don’t need to be told. Do you think I wouldn’t notice? Jesus, Cait, your mother looks at me like—” Jayce catches himself before his tone grows cutting — he has no right to be mad at her for doing the job he clearly was not able to do. The very least she deserves, if not a grandiose thank you for doing my one and only job for me, is some kindness. He sighs shamefully, burying his face in his hands before he finds his words again, a smidge gentler. “You shouldn’t have to do this. Not by yourself. I should be teaching you, not letting you put yourself in danger because I’m too—“

“You’ve taught me more than enough,” she assures. Jayce wishes he could know how much of that lie is meant to comfort him, or her. 

Jayce wishes he could tell her that there’s more to it than the punches he’s taught her to throw and the target practice they’ve done. Jayce wishes he could tell her there will be bounties that break her (and that is unfortunately not limited to bounties like you).

But there’s a vigor, a hunger in her for this that he has rarely felt, if ever. His form was made for brutality, but his mind never was — and Caitlyn has the advantage of not sharing that predicament. She’s not soft in the ways Jayce is; she’s just inexperienced. And that is much more easily remedied.

“I hope so,” he decides to say. 

“We can start going on hunts together again,” she suggests. “You could teach me more — and you  wouldn’t have to do this alone.”

And that’s not a horrible thought at all. Except…

“Your mother would kill me if she knew I’d let this continue. I think she already has a quill and paper ready for my will considering what you’ve been doing because of me.”

Caitlyn laughs a little. “Let her. Would free up a position as Piltover’s best bounty hunter for me.”

“Hey.” Jayce tries his best to strike an intimidating tone, but it only makes her laughter swell. Something in his chest feels the slightest bit less empty.

Uninvited (though she knows by now that she is invited, always), Caitlyn approaches him slowly, sitting down beside him. They sit in silence for a moment while she picks at her fingernails, apparently nervous, before she puts herself back together, no less anxious, but fighting it. She lets her shoulders settle back, straightens her back, and glances Jayce’s way.

And though the air had been light and clear with shared humor mere seconds ago, the way she looks at him now is far heavier and more sombre.

“I didn’t track you down because I thought you couldn’t handle this bounty on your own.” For the first time since she’d approached him, her voice falters with uncertainty. 

And that’s a rare sight in Caitlyn. 

“Jayce, I… have to tell you something.”

In some fucked, pavlovian response, a part of Jayce rears its head and perks its ears like a starved dog at the sound of raw meat hitting the floor. 

This can only be about something she knows will hurt him. It can only be—

“It’s about them,” she says.

Every part of him hurls, every part of him hurts, every part of him hungers.

His ears ring. 

It’s about you.

Have you come back? Have you sent him a letter?

“What is it?” His voice has gone tight, throaty, and Caitlyn is overcome with immediate regret — she looks like she wishes she could swallow every word she’s just said back up.

His head reels with a thousand questions and a thousand answers. You’ve come for him. You still love him. You want the life he’s offered, finally, you want it, you want him. Maybe he’s not everything he thought he was. Maybe—

Maybe those hopes are too high, too bright, for the way in which Caitlyn stares him down like death looms behind her.

Maybe… maybe you’re gone.

But you can’t be, not, not you, slippery even in his grasp, you, with your mind just as much of a weapon as your arsenal. You, born wielding a gun, you, born holding a knife — death can’t have earned you this easily, this fast. 

Jayce repeats his question, a little more careful this time. It doesn’t seem to ease her doubts, but she gives in. And really, that’s all that Jayce is after right now.

“They’ve been caught,” she says.

That’s the only thing that could make your death sound plausible.

You… would be sooner dead than caught. He knows as much.

Caitlyn reads his disbelief with a frustrated sigh. 

“They made the front page on the Piltover gazette for it. Frankly, I… considered not even telling you.” She searches his eyes, but if she draws any conclusion, Jayce can’t read it. “You don’t deserve to be reminded of them. They’ve had it coming regardless—”

“Had what coming?”

“Jayce…” She goes silent for a beat, swallowing nervously, as if she dreads the words she’s about to speak. “They’re going to be hanged.”

Every fiber in his being protests at the mere word, but his entire body revolts once it really, truly sinks in — the mental image of your face, plum-purple, rope burns at your wrists, your own skin under your fingernails, hands bound behind your back, the body he’d kissed and loved and worshiped every inch of — lifeless.

On trembling legs, Jayce rises from beside the campfire.

You’re going to die.

The very thing he’d wished upon you, your punishment, is now imminent. And it’s only now that it hits him that he wishes his rage would have been gentler. That he realizes that even though you’d torn his heart to shreds and hurt him in ways that made him want to shove his hunting knife into the side of his neck, he doesn’t want you to die. 

He can’t let you die.

“Where?”

“Jayce—“

He takes a step closer, mustering up some of the intimidation that works so well on his targets — but it does little to Caitlyn.

Her breath leaves her lungs in a frustrated, terrified shiver. Not terrified of him — terrified for him.

And what terrifies him is how little he cares about the prospect of his own death, shall it find him when he finds you, helps you.

“Where?”

He hadn’t realized until then, how small Caitlyn’s hands were, until she took one his in both of hers. They’re not dainty — they haven’t been, since the day he’d taught her how to pick up a rifle, and they’ve grown rougher still since the day he’d taken her on a hunt with him. But they’re still smaller than his, and it hits him where it hurts.

It hits him where she wants it to, it hits him in that one spot that, in spite of being crushed under the weight of his responsibility as a protector, wants her safe. Wants her happy.

She’s like — she is family. 

“Jayce, I can’t lose you.” Her voice, though trembling with fear, does not falter. “If you go, there’s a real chance you could die saving them. I can’t let that happen.” Caitlyn swallows her tears, and something in her gaze darkens. When she speaks now, her voice is as steady as her aim. “And you will not die, not for them.“

He wants to make that promise. He wants to, but— 

“Where?”

He can’t.

She squeezes his hand tighter. And though there’s rage brewing in her eyes, Jayce knows that look — above all else, she’s terrified. 

He is, too.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you.” She grabs both his shoulders, rough now in how she nearly shakes him with how hard she turns him to face her. “Jayce.” Cait swallows her tears. “They deserve this.”

And as much as those three words sink in his gut like he’d swallowed solid lead, he knows she’s right. He can’t leave her. 

“It isn’t even about what they’ve done to you,” she continues. Her voice fades behind the ringing in his head, grows quieter still. “Think of everything else they did. All they stole, all they lied.” She goes on, somehow, but Jayce doesn’t care for any of it. Not until— “All they killed.”

That last word hits him like a jaw-dislodging punch.

“They would never— Not unless it was in self defense, I know—“

“You don’t know that.”

And she’s right. 

He hates that she’s right. 

He’d dug his head into the dirt, blissful ignorance and willful naivete, had consoled himself that surely a killer’s hands could never do what yours do. How could your hands wring throats and stab chests when they could make his body sing? 

How could he be so fucking stupid?

You will receive your punishment. Not because you deserve it after what you’ve done to him — but because of all else you’ve done.

He has to let it happen. He has stepped on his morality enough simply by being with you, by loving you. The guilt will — has to — ease once he stops doing that.

Letting you face the consequences of what you’ve done is the first thing he can do for himself.

And possibly the best. It has to be.

“Talk to me,” Caitlyn encourages just as much as she downright demands. Her hand on his shoulder grows laxer, she squeezes his deltoid gently. But behind it all, Jayce can sense the fear, the way her fingers cramp up and her nails almost cut into the leather of his jacket.

He can’t leave her. He mustn’t.

“I’m not going,” he says. “They deserve it.”

It hurts more than saying he loves you. It hurts more than anything he’s ever said — and he’s scared shitless of how little he means it, now that he’s saying it out loud.

Maybe you deserve it. And maybe he’s not going. But no form of lying to himself can change the fact that he will never want you to die, in spite of everything. And there will always be a part of him that would leave everything behind to spend the rest of his days with you, though the opportunity for that is long gone.

But Caitlyn smiles, and she pulls him into a genuine, bone-crushing hug. Jayce tries his damndest not to cry. 

You’re going to die.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she says.

God, he hopes so.

—

God, he isn’t.

It becomes evidently clear, even as he clings to the false hope that he is. He hopes this hunt will be an easy, clean affair — simply holding his bounty at gunpoint, tying her hands behind her back, then taking her to the nearest sheriff’s office. But it isn’t.

When he finds his bounty sitting by her campfire, Jayce cocks his rifle, and says the right thing.

“We can do this the easy way,” he warns. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

When she turns to lunge at him in spite of it all, he doesn’t shoot.

He meets the impact halfway as the both of them tumble into the mud. He lets her get in a punch that he somehow feels he deserves for everything, after everything, before he lets it wake his will to fight. With some difficulty, he wrestles her into the dirt, until her ribs creak under the weight of his knee on her chest.

“Don’t make me kill you.” 

But she does.

With every fiber of her being, she begs for it. Stubborn, she wriggles below his weight until her bones crack, wincing as she draws a knife from her boot. 

But Jayce is nothing, if not trained in the art of catching dirty tricks. Especially after you. His hand finds her wrist, and bends her arm until the blade stabs the mud below her.

“Don’t make me kill you,” he repeats, but it sounds less like a threat this time around. Dauntingly much more like a plea.

She senses it. They always do, the likes of her — the likes of you — feed on weakness, which is why his never goes unnoticed. Her forehead whacks Jayce’s nose so hard he swears he can see every constellation in the night sky shining twice as hard, and maybe they do, because next thing he knows he’s looking at the stars, and she’s above him, her shadow doubling, regaining its contour, then doubling again, and his head spins.

Some twisted part of his mind conjures up the vision of you, framed by a backdrop of the bright night sky, smiling down at him, hands on his chest, roaming his skin in the pursuit of pleasure.

And he considers letting it happen. Whatever cruelty she has in mind for him — be it death or pain — for one brainless, blissful moment, he wants to be swidden with it. Maybe if there was something that actually hurt, other than that part of his upper stomach where it’s gaping and empty and aching, he could be cleansed of the pain, cleansed of you. 

Something in Jayce wakes when he hears the sound of iron bouncing off stone and stabbing mud, barely missing the side of his neck. That something is trained, automatic, raw, fast, unyielding. That something is the part of him that — in spite of everything — is so scared that it has sunk its teeth into staying alive and would rather lose its molars than unclench its jaw.

One of his hands finds her throat, the other crushes her nose into his second knuckle. She gasps for breath.

She loses enough of her balance to tip over, and Jayce lets his raw strength do the rest. His right hand joins the left on their throat, knuckles bloody. 

And it feels fucking good to squeeze.

It feels good, to have her at his mercy, until her chest draws up to receive air that does not come, until her throat trembles and cracks below his palms, until her hands start clawing at his wrists.

She makes a ghastly, haunting sound, guttural with broken cartilage and wet with blood.

Her windpipe cracks under his palms. It’s fucking satisfying. Like breaking a wet branch or unrooting a weed or hitting the bullseye.

Serves her right, he thinks. Serves her fucking right. She deserves this.

But the words scratch bitter at his brain, at the fresh wound of deserving — and suddenly his hands are not his, but a noose, and the flesh below his hands is not vermin, but breathing, living, eyes glittering with their final seconds of desperate fear, searching, begging, please please please I don’t want to die.

It could have been your neck between his hands all those months ago, outside that very saloon you’d first touched him. It could have been you, in that very bed, before you’d tied him to the bedpost. It could have been you, right beside that creek he’d twisted his ankle in. It could have been you, surrounded by bluebells, it could have been you, in his tent, it could—

It will be you.

It will be you, larynx crushed not by his hands, but by unyielding rope. 

And you will squirm like her. And your eyes will roll into the back of your head just like they had when he’d lick into your cunt just right and you’d squeeze his head between quaking thighs and grab his hair. And you will go slack at the very end, you will exhale what little is left in your lungs like you’re on the verge of falling asleep. 

And then you’ll die.

Her slack hands slide down his clawed up, raw forearms so gently they remind him of what it means to be touched tenderly. 

Touched by a lover.

Cicada squawks scratching at the sweet quiet of the night, arms winded around his shoulders loose, fingers brushing through his hair, reeking of campfire smoke and licking the same smell up from your skin. Kisses at his hairline, fitting together like two cats lounging in the sun, back when everything was alright with the world and he knew what love felt like. 

Before he knew what it meant to lose it.

Before he knew it wasn’t love. 

Before he knew you were going to die.

“Pl—sse…” a voice hisses, pawing at the claw marks on his wrists with a desperate gentleness, the way you would paw at his hips when he told you he had to go now, really, he said he would be back in Piltover by noon—

The neck under his palms swells, her throat gurgles with blood and spit. And he can’t help but let it happen. Jayce lets his palms go slack not because he wants to, a hunter shouldn’t spare, a guardian shouldn’t hesitate, a man shouldn’t back down.

But he’s none of those things. He was never fucking meant to be any of those things and he did them anyway because he had to and you took them from him. You took his perfected charade from him and now he has nothing. 

Not a hunter, not a guardian, not even a fucking man. 

And he can’t remember what he was before he was supposed to be anything– 

And he can’t think of a single thing he could be, when he fails, he fails, he fails. 

He fails at being a son, he fails at being a brother, he fails at being a protector, and he can’t remember the last time he wanted to be anything.

God, he wanted to be loved.

She gasps the way you did when he’d wake you as the moon slid down the sky and he wanted to steal one last kiss, she heaves ugly and pained and human, and she breathes.

It’s a disgusting, moist sound, whistling in and out as she gulps down air, and when his chest quakes and his lungs start struggling as though they’re a newborn calf tangled in barbed wire, Jayce realizes half those wretched sounds are his.

His head spins like he’s been punched again, chest tight, tight, tight, throat strung like he’s the one with a noose – your noose, you’re going to die. 

Fuck, you’re going to die. 

And he’s going to die, the empty space between his lungs constricts as though giving birth to something more rotten than all the months he’s spent hurting for you.

Jayce braces himself against the ground beside her neck with both hands, squeezing at the mud like it’s his convulsing heart. Jayce crawls away from her heaving body but doesn’t make it far.

His windpipe hurts, breathing hurts, he can’t even breathe right, what the hell is he even good for? Can’t breathe, can’t kill, can’t hunt, can’t sleep, can’t stop hurting, can’t, can’t, can’t. Fish on land, he huffs as though he was never meant to draw breath in the first place, never meant to be born at all. He’s going to die and so are you, and someone must be wringing his throat, but when he paws at it there is nothing but his own skin, and she’s heaving and coughing a few feet away, can’t be her. So who’s killing him? 

The answer is obvious. 

His arms cave below his weight, elbows crashing into the mud below him a last resort to keep his face from meeting the ground in an impact that will knock him out if the way his head is pounding doesn’t. 

His stomach clenches as if to purge itself, but there is nothing to purge — except for you, but you’re lodged deep in every fiber of his being. Jayce doubts there will ever be a version of him that isn’t tainted with you.

A gun cocks, the woman’s trembling figure stands behind it. Jayce knows she’ll do what the likes of you and her do. 

He takes his last sob and lets his body shake with the realization and disgusting but oh-so-sweet relief — finally. 

His end.

Out in the wild, bullet put through the head like a lame horse that’s served its purpose, spared from its pain. Spared from a pathetic excuse of an existence. 

The thought of a noose around your neck brings comfort. You’ll join him. It’s all he’d ever wanted.

Instead of pulling the fucking trigger already, she rests her hand on her pink-purple neck as if to appreciate it hasn’t snapped in half just yet. The hatred on her face fizzles out into disgusted pity.

“Please…” He’s not sure what he’s begging for.

Her hand lowers with a tremor, and she inhales a disgusting, cartilaginous-crackling breath that sounds as though it was never meant to enter her lungs. She spits her blood on the ground.

And she leaves. As the likes of you do.

—

Caitlyn,

All the weapons I’ve left behind are yours. 

Jayce considers leaving it at that — but she deserves more than just eight measly, splotchy, shakily penned words. 

He touches the tip of his fountain pen on the rim of the inkwell, and braces himself. Tries not to smear any of the blood dripping down his scratched up forearms on the immaculate paper as he writes, much neater, much prettier.

We both know there is no one standing in your way now that I’m gone. Piltover will be far better off with you protecting it. You have your head on straight — much straighter than I ever will. 

The best thing I ever did was raise my rifle to protect you. Now it’s your turn. May your bullets strike true.

There’s blood on the page. He considers starting anew. 

He won’t.

I love you.

As he folds up the piece of paper and slips it under her door, Jayce wonders if he loves you.

If he ever will again, after everything you’ve done. After everything he’s about to do.

—

To exchange a quarter for such vital information makes Jayce’s hands tremble with the absurdity of it. He presses the coins into the newspaper boy’s hand like it’s something solemn. 

Twenty-five cents to be let in on when and where your death awaits you.

The sound of the cicadas, awake before the first crack of dawn, scratches at the back of Jayce’s brain while the kid fumbles for the paper. He hands it to him with a sleepy smile and thanks him.

He has no idea what he’s just been the catalyst for.

Your infamy spares Jayce the need to manically tear through the whole thing; Caitlyn hadn't lied. You had made the front page, name spelled out in bold letters, the day and place of your hanging jotted down somewhere between a formal invitation and a taunting, final threat.

There will be little sleep to be had to reach you in time. 

—

By the time he makes it past Serpentine River, there’s talk of it already. He doesn’t even need to seek it out; stopping by a general store in one of the bigger but still humble towns down south is where he strikes gold. 

Or his possible death sentence, would be Caitlyn’s opinion. But she’s thankfully not here to talk sense into him — so he pushes the thought to the very back of his mind as he puts on a stunned face and questions the clerk like he’s asking for gossip.

The man is more than eager to indulge. 

“You’d think it’d take some ace-high hunter to bring the likes of them down, but…” he leans over the counter towards Jayce conspiratorially. “I tell you what, when I saw some twig of a kid ride into town with a dopey grin on his dumb face and them tied to the back of his mangled-lookin’ horse, I thought I was havin’ me one of them hallucinations.”

Jayce’s stopped listening to the clerk rambling on about the kid who’d apparently brought you in, and the continental suit he’d bought himself with the reward. He couldn’t care less about who’s caught you or what they look like. He needs to know where you are, and who’s going to stand in his way.

But the clerk has the mark of a good salesman, and he knows when he’s lost his customer’s interest. He’s quick to change the subject: “Can I interest you in some jerky? Now I know the look of hunger on a man’s face, and you, son—“

“And they’re in the sheriff’s office in town? Here?”

That was not the right question to ask. And especially not the right way to go about it. With a slightly wary tilt of his head, the man looks Jayce up and down, then nods.

“Heard so. Not for long, though — our boys — well, I mean, I have nothin’ but respect for our good ol’ sheriff Mallory and that nephew of his — but I sure as shit don’t sleep well knowin’ they’ve got such wretched scum to take care of.”

Jayce nods back, mustering up some solemnity with a dash of malice. “Glad to hear it. I hope they don’t cause any trouble — you’ve got a fine little town here.”

That’s convincing enough. 

The clerk laughs. “Don’t you worry your head, kid, from what I hear, they’ll be taken to the Great City next week and hanged there — for everyone to see. Now that’s a nasty death if I’ve ever heard o’ one; except for bein’ burned alive that is. I’d have me a public hangin’ over that any day, but — speaking of burnt, this bread right here may look it, but trust me—“

“No.” Jayce waves him off. “Thank you.”

—

A sheriff’s office that takes itself seriously would know to double their guards at night. 

This one is either understaffed or ruefully ignorant to the amount of horrifying friends in low places a real criminal could have.

The men who take care of the night watch at the prison in Piltover are some of the meanest-looking Markus has, and they’re never less than three. But you’ve been caught and brought into a scrappy prison in north Demacia, and they’ve bit off more than they can chew before the Great City lawmen show up to whisk you away in their proper prison. 

You always did end up getting too lucky for your own good.

Jayce walks in like he owns the place. His fingers are cold and trembling in his leather gloves.

Two lawmen, one younger and asleep in the corner of the room, the other sitting at a desk, poring over some paperwork with a cigarette hanging loosely from between his fingers. It smells less like tobacco and more like burnt herbs.

“What can we do for you?” He rasps, undoubtedly annoyed at being bothered with the interruption of his midnight cigarette. 

He flicks the ash onto the mucky floor, and clears his throat. Judging by the sound of a chair scratching the floor behind him, the other lawman — presumably his deputy — jolts awake.

The one at the desk not particularly big, and the golden star on his chest is dull with age and lack of care. The gray hairs in his mustache make him look tired not just momentarily, but permanently. Like he’s been plagued with nothing but apathy for well over a decade, like he loathes the day that awaits him tomorrow just like he dreads this very second. 

Jayce can relate.

“I’m here to find myself a bounty,” Jayce says, and consoles himself with the fact that it’s technically not a lie.

“I’d say you have better chances of doing that in the Great City than in this shithole, kid. Better money for it, too. We’re all outta cash ‘til the big boys from down south come to pick up the newest bounty we just had brought in.”

“I’m stuck here for a while,” Jayce insists. “Family matters. And I’d rather bring in a small bounty than nothing at all, sir.”

The man looks him up and down, then, with a lethargic sigh, gets up on his feet. 

“Follow me.”

That’s the first and last time he does as told. 

Jayce’s first step matches the man’s sluggish pace. The second is a stride; wide, quick, intentional. 

The momentum of his weight should have knocked the sheriff off his feet — he’s taken down bigger folks with just an aggressive shove of his shoulder — but all he does is stumble from the impact. So Jayce does the next best thing he can do: act fast. He wraps his arm around the man’s collarbone, kicks his knee in, and unholsters his gun. Presses it to his temple.

“Drop your weapons,” Jayce growls to the deputy. “Or I kill him.”

“Marshall.” The sheriff grits through his teeth, clawing at Jayce’s arm, “Marshall you fuckin’ listen to me, go get—“

A hefty thwack to the back of his head with the butt of his pistol shuts the sheriff up good.

The other lawman looks at him with eyes wide enough to see himself reflected in. Jayce doesn’t care to look too close. He might just throw up.

He steels himself with a breath. Makes sure his voice is as unyielding as his shooting arm.

“You heard me.”

And so he does. The lawman lets his pistol clatter to the ground, reluctantly takes his rifle off his back, and drops it next to his pistol with shaky hands.

“Good.” The sheriff wriggles. Jayce tightens his grip around him. “Kick them away.”

“Don’t do it!”

He does.

The sheriff’s feet take hold against the floor, he wriggles hard enough to make Jayce’s arm muscles strain. He has to end it now, before things get out of control. He has to, he has to— 

The butt of his pistol must have made a dent in his skull. The sound it makes — crackling, visceral — as it hits the back of his head sure as shit sounds like it. 

The sheriff drops back to his knees, then, without fanfare, onto his face. Unmoving.

That’s dealt with.

Jayce looks back to the other lawman, standing trembling and unmoving, one foot placed to make a run for where he’d kicked his guns away, but not daring. Wise move.

“You can get out of this alive.” Jayce points the gun at him. Thumbs the hammer back. A warning. “All you have to do is cooperate.”

The man — Marshall — raises his hands in submission.

“Get the cell keys.”

Cautiously, he approaches the unmoving body of his colleague, kneels beside it. Marshall’s shoulders sag with relief, however briefly, when he hears the sheriff breathing, before he retrieves the keys from his belt.

“Get up. Take me to the prisoners.”

“Mister, there’s law comin’ in from the Great City in two days.” The man’s voice trembles as he stumbles to his feet, Jayce follows him to the door at the back of the office, gun pointed at his head. He drops the keys as he tries to slot them into the keyhole, grabs them in sweaty hands once more, and tries again, the locked door pops open. Before he pushes forward, he turns to Jayce, and looks at him with something putrid. “They’re gonna— you won’t get away with this.”

His patience is running fucking thin. 

“I don’t remember asking you.” Jayce taps the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man’s neck. “Now come on.”

And it’s only now, that he follows him into the moldy, dark room, that his hands truly start to sweat and his heart leaps into his throat and his head goes icy, woozy, at the thought of you, here.

You’re here.

Clutching the bars of the cell so tight your knuckles are white; you must have gotten up because of the commotion. 

You look at him like he’s an angel. You look at him like he can’t be real. 

You’ve never looked at him like that.

“This— this cell.” Jayce croaks. He can’t bear looking at your face. You’re alive. You’re alright. He’s going to cry. He’s going to throw up. “Open it.”

The lawman looks at him over his shoulder, swallowing whatever dumb thing he has to say, before he turns to the lock on your cell.

“I knew it,” he grumbles, “we never should’ve accepted them. God.” The keys slip from his fingers again. Jayce figures a reminder would help, and presses his gun against his nape. 

“Move it. I’m losing my goddamn patience.”

He lets out a shaky, terrified breath, turns the key so hard his fingertips bend. It snaps open with rusty resistance, and slowly, the door to your cell creaks open.

Below the filth and bruises you’re covered in, you’re shining. Brimming with a kind of relieved, dreamy delight that would have made Jayce’s stomach do flips and knees go soft before everything. Some part of him wants to fall into your arms and lick at your lips until they’re raw. Another part of him has his trigger finger itching. He hopes neither part wins.

You open your mouth to say something. Jayce can’t bear the thought of hearing it, hearing you, not now, not yet—

“Wait by the door,” he interrupts. “And get your things.”

Well, what’s left of them. 

You comply without another word, hurrying to a cabinet beside the door, where you start digging through the drawers frantically.

He turns to the deputy.

“Into the cell,” Jayce commands, and makes sure to walk him to the very back of it, just in case. “On your knees.”

“Please don’t kill me—“

“Hands behind your back.”

Shakily, the man complies. Jayce bends down to hold his wrists together, and starts winding some of the rope hanging off his belt around them, nice and sturdy.

A door behind him creaks open.

“Jayce—!”

Your voice shakes him like nails on a chalkboard. Scratches at something angry and brutal in the very center of his brain, at something that doesn’t think. Something that acts.

Jayce shoots.

He hadn’t stopped to notice who it was, arm wrapped around your throat from behind and holding you close enough to be a human shield.

He hadn’t stopped to think how easily he could put a bullet through your head instead of whatever target he’d locked onto. He’d just pressed the trigger.

His bullet strikes true.

Head flying back with the impact of the lead cutting through his brain, the sheriff drops like a stringless puppet behind you. His brains splatter the wall just beside the door.

You cower, clutching your head as though you died with your attacker. You look at Jayce, meek and trembling and utterly terrified, like you fully expect him to put lead through your skull next.

He opens his mouth to say something. 

A weight collides with him before he does, knocks him onto the concrete floor with a nasty impact.

“You piece of fucking shit!” The deputy’s fist crushes his nose so hard his ears ring. The back of his head slams against the floor. 

The edge of his vision pulses, the high shrill in his ears nearly drowns out the noise of the lawman’s growl. 

“M’gonna kill you.” He mutters. “Gonna fuckin’ kill you, bastard!”

The man’s hands are at his belt, groping for a weapon, wrapping around the handle at Jayce’s left hip.

His knife. 

Jayce attempts a tried and true kick to get the man off of him, but his weight won’t budge. He should have budged, he would have, before everything. Before Jayce had spent his days wishing he was dead and eating only when the bottom of his throat burned with acid and moved only when his muscles ached from laying down. 

Before you’d made him as weak physically as he’d always been within.

But he can’t, he can’t, and this is how Jayce is going to die.

He tries a desperate right hook and hopes it will hit something.

And it does.

His arm stops mid-swing, but not because his fist has met a target.

Something in his forearm pulls, pulls at skin, pulls at muscle, pulls at nerves. He opens his eyes, tries to see, tries to see — sees red. Pain, shooting all the way up to his shoulder and down to his pinky, everything in his precious shooting arm screams.

The knife. Lodged inside his forearm.

Your voice.

“I’m gonna paint the fuckin’ floor with your goddamn brains.”  

The next thing he knows, the lawman’s weight is hauled off of him. Something rings as loud as a church bell on Sunday noon. Once. The lawman tries to scream, but only manages a moist, bloody, nasal snarl. Then that grueling sound rings out once more, a metallic resonance. Again. And again.

Blang. Blang. Blang.

Two blurred moving shadows finally fall into one coherent image as Jayce’s eyes refocus — and he’d give anything to hit his head again hard enough to make sure they don’t. 

You’ve grabbed the lawman like a mangy mutt, fingers digging into the back of his scalp. And you’re slamming his face into the prison cell bars with the relentlessness of someone who does this often. Does this easily.

“Fuckin’ filth is all you was.” You grit out. Blang. “All you’ll ever be.”

You ram his skull into the bars until the last bit of his resistance seeps from his body. With a heaving chest, you retreat to let his corpse slide down bloodied steel onto the floor. You brace yourself against the bars, then bring your foot into one last, thorough kick against the back of his head. There is no doubt about it being a killing blow.

“(L/n).”

Jayce flinches at the sound of your name, not coming from himself. A man in another cell, a fellow prisoner he hadn’t even noticed, holds his hand out between the bars of his own cell.

“Gimme the keys. Get me outta here, please.”

You bend down for the lawman’s gun. Put a bullet in the chamber, then turn to the prisoner.

“No,” the prisoner cries, “I won’t tell a soul, I swear! Not a goddamned soul, please don’t do this, please, please, please—!”

“Sorry.” You thumb down the hammer. “I can’t take that chance.”

[mxbbadperson]

my heart belongs to the lonely servant boy whos been caring for me since I was a child + jayvik..

the angst.. the drama.. the protectiveness.. ouggghh the potential......

like, noble jayce, heir to house Talis, who will inherit their riches and the young boy servant boy, viktor. young, maybe older than him by simply a year with frail hands and thin boney body with cheeks that stand out and shadow the rest of his face. with eyes so gleaming and flaxen they rival the shiniest of gold.

in the first years of their meeting their friendship was very... stiff, in words. they barely spoke to each other and it was quite awkward. but when the both of them started blooming into teenage hood? that's where jayce fell indubitably infatuated and besotted with.

sorry, anon, can you give me a moment? (aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA [deep breath] AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA)

the pining would be MAGNIFICENT. viktor realising he's in love with jayce but burying it deep down bc he'll never have a chance, he doesn't have a station to stand beside by jayce, he's only a servant after all!! while jayce loves and wants viktor just as much but not saying it bc he's the master. what would it look like if he confessed? wouldn't he look like he's forcing viktor to return his affection? viktor will be with another servant and jayce doesn't want that but what can he do but keep viktor so close? and can you imagine when the time comes to think about marriage and possible talis heirs?????!

viktor possibly being older than jayce by 2-3 years so he gets taller first but jayce quickly grows taller than him! jayce looks like lord talis day by day and viktor is proud of him but also feels sad bc he knows that one day that he'll just be a servant bc jayce will have his own family, will leave him behind

[misfit0789]

Rule 12 | Abby Scuito

Y/n's POV

"Tony, how's my little niece?" I ask my brother over the phone. He and Tali had just left Washington to travel after Ziva died. He changed for the better once he found out about Tali.

"She's fine Y/n/n, she misses you," he says, I sigh.

"I miss her too, I'll try and visit you guys soon," I say walking back to my living room in my apartment. Tony asked if I wanted to stay in his old one but after finding out about the people dying there I wasn't for it.

"Sounds good, I got to go. I'll call you later sis," He says hanging up before I got the chance to reply. I pull the phone away from my ear and roll my eyes.

"Idiot," I shake my head and sit on the couch turning Netflix on. One thing is my brother and I are both big movie people, we would always watch them when we were younger and just enjoy ourselves. We were basically all each other had.

Just as I'm about to put on Spider-Man 3 someone starts banging on my door. "Y/n open up!" I groan and get up walking to the door. I open it and glare at whose standing there.

"Can I help you Ellie? It's 11 o'Clock at night," I groan leaning on the door frame. She gives me a sheepish smile before holding up a fast food bag. I sigh and step aside letting her in. She laughs and walks past me handing me the bag as she goes to sit on the couch.

"Is it so wrong for me to want to see my best friend?" She asks, I roll my eyes eating a fry out of the bag, "No, but when it's 11 o'clock at night and you know I spend my Friday nights watching movies and hate being interrupted," I pause and pretend to think," yes," I say sitting next to her and pressing play on the movie and grabbing my burger out of the bag, taking a bite.

"Oh stop it, you can survive one night not watching a movie, besides I need your help," she says going quiet. I swallow the piece of my burger and look at her confused. "El, what's going on? Is Jake still bugging you? Because I will happily beat his ass for you...again," I say mumbling the last part but she still heard me as she shoves me to the side. "What? I had to do something. The asshole thought it was okay to cheat and expected you to take him back. Bitch no! You cheated you pay the consequences." I say getting pissed as I think about that bastard.

"No, it's not Jake, but thank you for being so protective. It's actually case related..." She trails off. I haven't been to the office since Tony left. It just didn't feel right to me to be there with my brother not there. Ellie is the only one I've kept in contact with since he left 3 months ago. She's kept me updated on everyone. McGee is gonna propose to Delilah, there's this new guy named Torres, and Gibbs is well Gibbs.

"Bishop you know I don't feel comfortable being there since Tony left. I fell like everyone judges me," I say setting my burger down on the bag on my coffee table in front of us. "You'll be fine, besides, Abby needs you," She says the last part in a slow teasing manner causing me to snap my head up and glare at her. "El stop, I told you, that was a one time thing," I get off the couch and grab what's left of my food bringing it to the kitchen. She gets up and follows after me.

"Please Y/n/n? It's the firewall on the victims computer, none of us can crack it and you're our only other option, please?" she pouts, I groan walking away knowing I'll crack.

"No"

"Please"

"No"

"Please"

"No"

"Please"

"No"

"Please"

"Ughh okay fine I'll help, now leave me alone so I can watch Toby McGuire in peace." I say falling back on my couch and lay across it giving Ellie no where to sit. "Thank you, I'm sure Abby will be pleased to see you," she smirks pushing my head up and sitting down causing my head to fall on her lap. I groan but don't respond continuing to watch the movie.

Time Skip

"Dude chill," Ellie says. We're in the elevator on the way to the squad room but I can't stop shaking my leg. "I'm sorry El, I don't even know why I'm so nervous. I guess it'll just be weird being here without Tony." I say, she rubs my arm in a comforting manner, "It'll be okay, I'll be with you the whole way," She says, I smile and give her a nod thanking her, she smiles and gives me a nod in return. The elevators ding and we walk off the elevator towards her desk.

Ellie sits at her desk while I stand behind her wall divider and lean on it, watching as Tim and some other guy talk to each other facing the monitor. "So where is this firewall THE Timothy McGee can't crack?" I ask making my presence known to them. They both turn around confused before Tim's face lights up, as he begins to walk towards me.

"Is that Y/n DiNozzo I see?" I laugh, pushing myself off the wall and meet him in the middle pulling him into a hug, "Hey Tim," I say, "How are you? How's Delilah?" I ask. He smiles, "We're both doing great, Thank you, She's actually in Dubai right now but she should be back soon. You'll have to come over for dinner soon." He says, I nod agreeing. We pull back when someone clears their throat. I look and see the guy Tim was talking too standing there with a big smile on his face.

"Hola, beautiful. I'm Special Agent Nick Torres," he says reaching for my hand, taking it in his and kissing the back of it. I look at him in disgust causing Bishop and McGee to laugh leaving Torres confused. "What?" he asks offended, letting my hand go.

"She's gay Torres," Bishop says in between laughter. He blushes in embarrassment and walks back to his desk. I join the other two in laughter. I immediately stop when I see Gibbs come in with a cup of coffee in his hand, while the others continue, I try to stop them but it doesn't work.

"Something funny McGee?" He asks, Tim immediately stops along with Bishop. "No Boss, just talking to Y/n," he says. Gibbs turns and looks at me, I smile and wave shyly. "Y/n," He smiles pulling me in for a hug, I slowly hug him back surprised at his actions. Gibbs and I never really talked when I'd visit Tony at the office so this is a big surprise.

"Uhh hey Gibbs, I just came by because Ellie mentioned some trouble with a firewall..." I trail off, he pulls back and nods. "Yea, Abby has been in the lab all night trying to crack it. Some new fresh eyes may be helpful. Do you still remember where the lab is?" He asks, I nod and give him a smile. "Yea, I should be able to make it there. I'll see you guys later." I wave to them, Bishop gives me an encouraging look. I nod and smile in thanks before turning and walking towards the elevator. I press the down button and wait for the doors to open. Looking down and noticing my shoes untied I kneel down and tie it.

As I'm tying them I hear the doors open followed by a gasp. I look up a bit and see shoes I know all to well. I slowly stand up and come face to face Abby Sciuto. "Oh uh hey," she says avoiding eye contact. "Hey," I say, "I was just on my way down, Bishop had mentioned something about a firewall." I say slowly standing up, almost eye level with her, as I'm a few inches taller even when she's wearing her boots.

"Oh, yeah, um I was just coming up to get Bishop but I guess you'll do," She says, turning back around and walking into the elevator. I stand there in a daze, "You coming or what?" She asks, I shake my head snapping out of it and follow her into the elevator. She presses the button for the floor of her lab and we are left in awkward silence.

The doors open and I let her go out first before following behind her into her lab. I stop at the door and look around smiling at the memories we shared in here when I would visit Tony.

"Y/n?" I snap out of it and look to see Abby looking at me confused, "You okay? You keep zoning out," She asks worried, I nod and give her a fake smile, which if she notices she doesn't mention. "Sorry, just got caught up in my head," I apologize, she nods and turns back to her computers.

"So, the petty officer was big into security software and ended up creating his own firewall for his computer and none of us can seem to figure out how to crack it. Bishop suggested you might be able to help." Abby explains, I nod and look at the code on the screen and smirk.

"None of you could crack this? I did this my freshman year in college. This is easy, may I?" I ask motioning to the keyboard, she nods and steps to the side letting me go ahead. I nod in thanks and step closer to her and start decoding the firewall. I get into decoding it I don't notice how close Abby and I are, nor that she is staring at me.

"Done," I say with a smile as the petty officers home screen appears. I turn to Abby and gasp at our closeness, I look down slightly and glance from her eyes to her lips as she does the same to me. Just as I'm about to lean in Gibbs comes in the room with two Caf-Pows and Bishop and McGee behind him, I jump away from Abby and clear my throat. Gibbs pays no mind while McGee and Bishop share a look and smirk at us causing me to glare slightly at them.

"Whatcha got Y/n/n and Abs?" Gibbs asks handing us both our Caf-Pows. "I was able to crack the firewall and get into his laptop but we haven't had a chance to-" Abby cuts me off before I can finish.

"Got something" I look at her surprised. "Turns out our dead petty officer had a thing for military blueprints," She pulls up the different blueprints that were on his computer.

"Never mind then," I mumble under my breath as Abby continues on talking to Gibbs. "You alright?" Bishop comes up to me and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. I nod and take a sip of my Caf-Pow. "I will be," I sigh, she gives me another comforting squeeze.

"Bishop, McGee lets go, Abby got a lead on where the petty officer was getting the blueprints from." Gibbs says, giving Abby a kiss on the cheek and walking out with Bishop and McGee not far behind leaving Abby and I in her lab...alone.

"So... about earlier before Gibbs interrupted us..." She trails off. "Oh yeah, um we can just forget that ever happened." I say rubbing the back of my neck nervously. "But what if I don't want to," she says stepping closer to me leaving little space between us. I gasp causing her to smirk. She steps even closer and wraps her arms around my neck.

"Nervous?" She asks leaning up, with a sudden burst of confidence I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her even closer to me so our bodies are pressed up against each other. This time she gasps. "No, are you?" I ask leaning down slightly, she slowly shakes her head. Tired of all this teasing I lean down fully and pull her into a kiss, she gasps but kisses back, tightening her grip on my neck.

We both get lost in the kiss, having missed the feeling of being close to each other. We pull back since breathing is still a thing. "Whoa," I whisper, after we pull away. "Yeah," she whispers back looking up into my eyes. I see something I've never seen in them before but before anything else can be said my phone goes off. I look at Abby apologetically but she waves me off and lets go making me, I sigh at the loss of contact but answer my phone anyways.

"DiNozzo" I sigh, watching Abby move around so effortlessly. "Hey sis, did I interrupt something?" Tony asks, "No, just working in the lab with Abby, the team needed my help on a case," I explain to my older brother. "Ohhh, just working?" He asks, I can hear the smirk. "Stop it, what do you want?" I ask annoyed now.

"Just checking up on you, you know how I can get when I don't hear from you." He explains, a smile appearing on my face. "I know Tony, thank you and sorry, I've been with the team all day."

"Don't sweat it, just making sure you're good. Besides Tali wanted to say hi," He says, I hear shuffling and soon I hear the little voice of my niece speaking through the phone. "Aunt Y/n/n!!" she yells. "My little Tali! How are you?" I say back just as enthusiastically a her.

"Good, when will I see you again? I miss playing tea party with you," She asks, most likely pouting. "Awww I'm sorry sweetie, hopefully soon. I miss my little princess Tali," I say, she cheers. I'm assuming she gave Tony back the phone since he's who I hear next.

"She really does miss you Y/n/n," He sighs, I sigh too, "I know and I'm sorry Tony but it's hard for me to just drop everything and leave. My supervisor has been an ass lately and takes credit for all my work resulting in our boss pushing me harder. I got lucky to even have today off." I say walking and sitting on the chair at Abby's desk.

"I'm sorry sis, look I got to go, I'll call you later. Love you," He says. "Love you too Tony," I hang up, placing my phone on the desk and putting my head down.

"Everything okay?" Abby asks, walking over to me. I sigh and shake my head, "Not really my supervisor is an ass and keeps taking credit for everything I'm doing which makes our boss push on me even harder while my supervisor just sits there and does nothing leaving me with twice the work. It's not fun," I say leaning back in the chair throwing my arms over my eyes.

"Hey, I'm sure it'll all turn out alright. You're one of the smartest people I know. I mean aside from Bishop, McGee, Ducky, Gibbs and-"

"I get it Abs, thank you," I say laughing a bit. We sit in silence for a few before I decide to break it. "So I think we should talk about before," She sighs and nods.

"Yeah... look I like you Y/n and I have ever since we...you know. It's just I don't know. I'm scared." She says looking down.

Hey, it's okay," I reach out for her hands and pull her closer to me so she's standing in between my legs, while I'm still sitting. "I'm scared too, but I like you and I can feel something between us. Besides we don't work together all the time so there's no going against Gibbs rules." I try and joke causing her to let out a small laugh, "But if you don't want to be anything I understand," I say slowly letting her hands go.

"Y/n... I like you too, and I do want us to be something" She says taking hold of my hands again. I look up at her with a smile on my face which she returns. "Really?"

"Of course you dork," She laughs moving to sit on my lap and wrap her arms around my neck pulling me into a kiss. I pause before wrapping my arms around her waist holding her close.

"So does this mean you're my girlfriend?" I whisper as we pull away, she nods and gives me a quick kiss. I smile and give her a quick kiss.

Time Skip

Abby and I have been sitting in her lab talking for the past few hours, when Gibbs comes in the lab. "Y/n I need to speak to you," he says, I gulp but nod and stand up, walking over to him.

"Yes?" I ask. "I know how things at your job now are and after your help today I think we could use you." He says with a smile.

"What are you trying to say?" I ask him confused. "Welcome to the team Y/n," he says with a smile before walking out. I turn and look at Abby shocked.

"So much for not breaking his rules," I sigh.

[viktor-leagueoflegends]

Hi, recently found this page in these trying times and I'm so grateful for it. I love league Viktor, specifically 2016 but I'm finding 2011 Viktor just as enjoyable. With Arcane season 2 now fully out and the whole arcane is canon thing , I got so worried everything would just be gone for the league versions of Viktor that I physically summarized (it was still seven full pages) both 2011 and 2016 biographys for Viktor. So finding this has been really cool! And if you wouldn't mind, how do you think one should go about tagging say fics or fanart with 2011/2016 Viktor? I'm planning on using the year and then clarifying that its not arcane Viktor but I overthink and my brain has convinced me that's not going to cut it. BUT ANYWAY I LOVE JUST SCROLLING AND SEEING ALL THE VIKTORS HERE THANK YOU <3

Hey, thanks for stopping by! Like you, I threw myself into a project to ease my own worry of losing everything in the post-arcane depths lol. It’s really interesting how most game viktor fans I've seen do not care for arcane but the arcane merger is going through for the sake of …? appealing to tv show fans who are never gonna touch the game because they think we’re sweaty? idk. but i digress.

In terms of tagging I really don’t have a clear cut answer for you, unfortunately. I’m being 100% here when I say the worst part about arcane viktor in terms of his impact on the fan ecosystem is that he doesn’t have a last name — at least with Jayce, one could tag Jayce Talis vs Jayce “”Giopara”” in order to differentiate their arcane/2016 iterations, and the fandom more-or-less stuck to that etiquette. Viktor is a mess however because you can’t even try and tag “league of legends” because arcane fans will also use the league tag because arcane is a league show. and can’t use “the machine herald” because that’s his title, and they’re posting about viktor, aren’t they? not to mention…. whatever that was we just got. so viktor is especially difficult in terms of finding a tagging system that everyone will intuitively pick up and continue to use properly so that our spaces can be separate. 

Sorry that ended up being more of a complaint tangent than an answer, but I think the year and the “not arcane viktor” addendum is good and clear to communicate your intentions. In terms of other lore fans being able to find it, i think the best thing we can do as a fancommunity is to build these strong mutual chains and amplify each others’ creations. you know, blaze it the old fashioned way. despite not having a strong tagging system, the viktorsphere on twitter was able to survive (pre-arcane at least) just by rt-ing each other’s stuff and replying to each other so I hope we can find a way to maintain something like that in the aftermath... and of course, you can always tag me and i'll bump the new stuff to the top of the queue 👍

and i'm glad you're enjoying the archive! ty for the ask :)

[television-overload]

Just remembered there are in fact 2 full-fledged DiNozzos in the world (well, 3 including senior. 4 including 🥹Ziva🥹)

But to think that Tali probably answers to Tali DiNozzo? Sorry, I need a minute. Hearing Tony say his last name and knowing somebody else probably carries it as well brings tears to my eyes

[etho-slabbers]

I've done it for lifesteal so I think I should do it for hermitcraft... sooo,, what I think every hermit would choose in infinite realms and (maybe) why.

warning, infinite realms spoilers lie ahead.

(any names or terms I use will be explained under cut/in a reply to this post)

Bdubs- classer 100% he would choose either a gardener based class, along the lines of Ender Ornn's one or he's a builder,,, (actually he could also be a formations master, which is cultivation but he might be that too.) His secondary is definitely skills though, no doubt, he probably advances them like Zenker does.

Cub- He would be a cultivator with a secondary focus as classer 'cause he wants the perks from it. Probably on a path based around speed and empowering himself.

Doc- he's a mainly a skill user with a secondary of cultivation. He's on a destructive path, like Ryun or Tali's main paths, his second path is formations, like Eratemus.

Etho- pure skills user, like zenker. Actually, quite like zenker, but he probably did it abit faster. He spent ages building his skills up and locking in parts of himself. He is most likely an explorer.

False- classer, with a sword based class. (I don't watch false sorry </3)

Gem- cultivator, like Anrosh but kinda better, she got her own inspiration. Uses class as secondary, finds it more useful. Main weapon is a sword. Uses a formation based secondary path.

gonna make this a multi-part thing, I wanna keep rereading the book >:3.

EXPLANATIONS. (some haven't come up yet it's just so I can just link this post to all of these & add any extras here too.)

classers get perks every 5(?) levels and get 6 stat points each time, 3 are allocated to their primary and secondary attributes and the other 3 are free. They get a class evolution every 60 levels (I think) and get a class defining perk 30 levels after that. Classes are based on achievements and influence from inside.

Cultivators advance through realms, starting at early mortal and finishing at peak eternal. Each realm has three stages, early, mid and peak. They require inspiration to advance through realms, inspiration can be shared but doing so cripples the cultivator to never be able to change techniques or gain their own inspiration again. Paths influence from outside.

Skills require understanding to advance, to advance a skill you must understand how it works and you must understand yourself. To make a tier 6 skill, you must lock in part of yourself, that part can't change.

Formations- essence arranged by a cultivator to do something, such as working as a TV or to send signals from place to place. They can do basically anything.

Focus madness- having focuses too close in tiers of power, pushing and pulling. Makes the holder insane, driven to do only what the core concepts of their, class/path and twists the wording of locked skills.

Essence- what everything in the infinite realm is made of literally, from the ground to the concept of space itself. It is also used as currency. Cultivators can pull it into their core, they can also pull only certain ones in based on their qi aspect.

Aspect- what taints a cultivator's qi.

Qi- power source of a cultivator.

Ranker- someone who comes from an iteration, their wasn't always part of the framework.

Framework- what gives the ability for classes, paths and skills to even exist.

Sect- a primarily cultivator faction.

Sect head- leader/owner of a sect.

Sect leader- helps the sect head run the sect.

Runes- like really simple formations, requires a part of your soul to be infused to work.

Twin aspects of true death- Formerly the aspect of true death itself. Also formerly held by Ryun and Melody. Currently held by Ryun and Selia.

Ender Ornn- Ender Ornn Dagada. Classer. Olriginally found by Kayra Ornn, with his garden. I think he was a ranker. Originally focus mad. Died to Ra' azel.

Zenker- Zenker Brokentail, a full skill user. Reached the peak of skills. Died to Hastur.

Ryun- Ryun Nacht Wol. Cultivator. 7th iteration ranker. Killed everyone on a planet besides Zacharia Gardener. One half of the twin aspects of true death (Reaper). Sect head of the Twilight Melody Sect. Alive.

Tali- Antalien Far Sola Wol. Cultivator. Ruler of the empty skys. Formerly crippled cultivator and slave, for about 500 years. Freed by Ryun. Alive??, captured by Ra'azel.

Anrosh- Anrosh Kesh Wol. Cultivator. Sect leader of the Twilight Melody Sect. Second in command. Raised by Ryun, after she asked, to protect the sect better. Alive.

Melody- Classer. Former Scythe of true death. Ryun's former partner. Killed by governor on earth. (unsure of last name)

Selia- Selia Ha Jhan-Ekoa. Cultivator. Current Scythe of true death. Alive.

Kayra Ornn- Kayra Ornn Dagada. Classer. 3rd iteration ranker. Formerly of House Ornn in the 3rd empire. currently of the Dagada family in the Twilight Melody Sect. Alive.

Ra' azel- Yeti of a old framework attempt. Otherwise known as the Runesmith. Freed by Zacharia Gardener. Absolute menace (/hj)

Hastur- 11th dome leader. Based on lovecraftian horror.

Zacharia Gardener- Classer. 7th iteration ranker. Formerly the No.1 Ryun Nacht hater. Oldest chosen in the infinite realm. Got stuck in a mind-palace for 5000 years and can't remember most before it. Alive.

[psalacanthea]

Fanfic Friday

Y'all voted on banters this week! I went for 'end of act 1, in the Underdark' Baldur's Gate 3 banters for the companions and my drow bard Tav, Zynatheri.

There's no only Gale banter because they're not speaking to each other at that point (because Zyn will not stop bullying him).

if you see these and think the idea is fun, I would love to see yours for your Tav or Durge! Just tag me if you do so I can enjoy it! :D

...

Zynatheri: All right.  Shuffled thoroughly back into the deck.  Now, as I call upon the mystic powers of the Talis…are you watching?

Karlach:  Harder than I’ve ever watched before.

Zynatheri: I draw from the very top of the deck, and…Nine of Winds.  Is this your card?

Karlach: Holy shit.  It is!  That’s my card!

Zyn: The cards always know.

Gale:  They most certainly do not.

Karlach:  I didn’t show her the card, Gale.

Zyn: Yeah, Gale, just because the powers are beyond your comprehension doesn’t mean they’re not real.

Gale:  Your provocations fall on deaf ears.  I refuse to succumb to your clumsily strewn bait.

Zyn:  That’s fine.  Karlach, do you want to see another magic trick?

Gale: Stop calling it magic!

Karlach: You ever think of playing music while we battle?

Zyn: Would make casting spells hard.

Karlach:  What about right at the end, then?  When I crack the last skull and then we look for loot.

Zyn:  Like victory music?

Karlach:  Yeah!

Zyn:  Sure, sounds like fun.  Just save me any jewelry you find.

Karlach:  Fuck yeah!

Lae’zel:  You and Wyll fight similarly.

Zyn:  We probably learned the same style of fencing.

Lae’zel:  Why is he more skilled than you are? Was your instruction inferior, or are you?

Zyn:  Insult or observation?

Lae’zel:  If my observations insult you, that is due to your own weakness.  I only speak truth.

Zyn:  No, you speak ignorance, not truth.

Lae’zel:  Explain.  Alleviate my ignorance.

Zyn:  No thanks.

Lae’zel:  Kainyank.

Lae’zel:  During our last battle I asked repeatedly for healing and was ignored.

Zyn:  Sorry, I was feeling too weak and inferior.

Lae’zel:  Ah.  You were attempting an object lesson.

Zyn:  Sure, it was definitely that and not me being petty.

Lae’zel:  Wyll also employs magic, and his blade does not falter as yours does.

Zyn:  Wyll was given magic.  Nothing against him, but it’s true.  I earned mine through hard work, creativity, and talent.

Lae’zel:  That is no excuse to neglect your sword.

Zyn:  Ah, well, see…I’m also lazy.

Zyn:  Where there’s a Wyll, there’s a way.

Wyll:  Not bad, but I have used it before.  What’s wrong with ‘provoke the Blade and suffer its sting’?

Zyn:  The more mottoes the better.  How about ‘if you seek the Blade, be ready to pay’.

Wyll:  It does rhyme.  ‘Anger the Blade, and prepare to pay?’  It’s quite pithy.

Zyn:  Oh, you’re talking about revenge.  I was working from more of an advertisement angle.

Wyll:  (Laughs.) I am not an adventurer for hire, my friend.

Zyn:  I could make a poster that might change your mind…

Wyll:  Hmm.  Show it to me later.

Shadowheart:  I believe I found some of that moss you mentioned.

Zyn:  Great!  I’ll show you how to prepare it tonight.  We’ll just need oil.  I’m going to need some of the eyeshadow for my own uses, though.

Shadowheart:  Since you’re the one teaching me to make it, I assumed as much.

Zyn: Oh, not for me.  I was going to paint all over Astarion’s face while he’s in reverie.  Of course a cock is classic, but a giant glowing eye on his forehead in the dark would look striking.

Shadowheart: (Laughs.) Why are you so terrible?

Zyn:  I’ll save the cock for Gale.  He deserves it.

Astarion:  What were you and Shadowheart whispering about?

Zyn:  You.

Astarion:  Well, naturally, darling.  What about me?  Hopefully not spilling too many intimate secrets…though I wouldn’t blame you, of course.

Zyn:  She was asking me if the giant mole on your face made it difficult for me to kiss you.

Astarion:  The what?

Zyn:  Did you not– okay, calm down. Calm down! It was a joke.

Astarion: Don’t talk to me.

Zyn: My dear, sweet viper.  Please, stop sulking.

Astarion:  I am not sulking.  I simply have no desire to speak to you.  Or look at you.

Zyn:  Such a shame.  I guess Drizzt isn’t sneaking into your tent tonight.

Astarion:  How dare you threaten me!

Zyn:  It works and has no repercussions.

Astarion: Well, yes, but that isn’t the point.

Zyn: I’m teasing you.  Don’t worry.  Just a quick polymorph, and you’ll finally get your hands on the legendary blade Icingdeath.

Astarion: Gods, you ruin everything.