#Where there is always a smell of smog in the air

[bowlerhatwearer]

I honestly would be very interested in a Star Wars Story/Movie which takes places solely in Coruscant, mostly in the underground and which from the genre is a hardboiled/noir tale.

[lazy-ahh]

ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

[rcvcgers]

hello!! i really like your writng! i was hoping if i can request a one shot with sylus or zayne with a non!mc reader where she’s kinda mean and purposefully makes herself look intimidating to scare others off bc it’s a defense mechanism they developed but really the reader is actually sensitive and a bit of a crybaby and just needs someone to lean on

have a nice day!!

thank you so much for this request! i went with zayne if that's okay! i'll most likely post one for sylus within the next week or so! :)

Guarded Heart

pairing: zayne x non!mc reader

synopsis: zayne meets an icy anesthesiologist with a tough exterior

word count: 3.8k words

author's note: wrote this in one sitting so...i do apologize if it's lame and not good at all haha

content warning: brief mentions of bullying & death, slight medical descriptions, slight self deprecating thoughts

ao3 link here!

It is a sunny day in Linkon. Birds are singing, the breeze is perfectly chilled to combat the scorching heat of the sun, and the air smells crisp instead of like smog. A ladybug flies onto your shoulder, resting on the hot leather as you rush towards the hospital doors.

Once glance at your chunky black watch reminds you just how late you are to prepare for your first on-call shift at Akso Hospital.

You weave through the group of people who stand in front of the hospital doors. They stand and take pictures, balloons and signs in their hands. A sign flies in your face! You jump to the side, barely missing a man who steps away from the group. Spinning on your heels, a gasp flies from your lips, a taller and much more muscular man colliding into you.

Warmth spreads across your chest, the smell of rich, velvety chocolate filling your nostrils. Your t-shirt and leather jacket stick to your skin. The group to the side gasps, muffled laughter clouding you and the man.

“I am very sorry,” his voice is calm and steady, a little too steady for your taste. If anything, it makes you even more irritated.

“It’s fine,” you feel him wipe covered first along your chest. You push his hands away, stepping around him. He turns and grabs your wrist.

“May I get your number? Allow me to pay for the dry cleaning of the clothes,”  he continues. You turn and look up at him, ripping your hand away. His eyes are remarkable; hazel hues burn into your own. You gulp and push some hair behind your ear, taking hurried steps backwards.

“No, it’s fine,” your tone is sharper than you intended it to be.

Then again, you have never been known to be the kindest person out of the bunch.

You walk inside the hospital, catching your breath. You rip your leather jacket off of your body, your shirt stuck to your skin, leaving you feeling sticky and uncomfortable. As you walk down the halls, people avoid you and your icy glare, a snarl curled on your face. They part and hug the walls, your shoes sticking to the floor with every step you take. It only irritates you more. Your nostrils flare and you puff out steam through your nose.

You head up the stairs, not wanting to be stuck in an elevator with people looking at you as if you’re the problem, and go up the three flights of stairs with ease. As soon as you step into the small locker room for anesthesiologists, you’re met with a disapproving look.

“You’re late.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“You know you’re on call, right?”

“I was just on my lunch break, Dave,” you shoot a glare at the oversized man, shoving your belongings into your metal locker. You pull out your navy blue scrubs, eyeing the bathroom that Dave stands in front of.

“You’re lucky there wasn’t an emergency,” he slowly chews his potato chips. The crunch sends uncomfortable shivers down your spine, making your skin crawl.

“Yep. I know,” you push him out of the way, slamming the bathroom door shut behind you. You begin to chance when Dave’s voice makes you pause.

“A bitch as always.”

Your eyes close, shoulders slumping. Has your reputation come to this? Are you only known as a bitch to your peers? You’re here to do a job. So what if you don’t smile or stay in the cafeteria for lunch! They’re just your co-workers, not your friends.

The pager on your hip sounds off. You look down, sliding your feet into your designated work sneakers. The code tells you that it’s a patient coming in from an ambulance needing emergency surgery. A sigh fills the bathroom before you leave, slipping out before Dave can get in another jab.

Nurses and doctors stare at you as you pass. You push your messy hair behind your ear, the lingering smell of sugar and chocolate giving you a slight headache as you push through the emergency surgical bay doors on the first floor. You nod your head at the nurses who quickly scrub in and pluck a mask from a nearby box, placing it over your face.

The doors open once again and a tall man with dark hair steps through. The nurses’ eyes move to him; their shoulders connect as they giggle behind hushed whispers and quiet voices. You raise an eyebrow, cracking your fingers when you finally stare at the man. He’s tall and his muscles flex underneath his lab coat. He turns directly to the sinks and begins his sterilization process.

The realization hits you when you’re finally able to place his face.

He’s the man who spilled hot chocolate on you, making you late for the second half of your shift. You quickly step inside the empty surgical room, waiting for the trauma patient to be wheeled in.

A few minutes later, just as the tall man steps inside, wearing a teal surgical gown matched with light blue gloves and a mask over his face. His eyes flicker to yours while you stand by your equipment. You narrow your eyes at him, heat flooding your cheeks, the need to protect yourself rising in your chest.

Neither of you say a thing, not like you want to, and the tension filled stare is broken just as the patient is wheeled inside the room. The two of you jump into action, 

The surgery takes an hour and forty seven minutes to complete. It’s twelve minutes over Zayne’s personal best, but that’s because of the new recruits continually asking him questions while ignoring the blood that floods chest cavity.

You, on the other hand, were phenomenal. When he was able to look away, which was barely ever, he stole glances at you while you monitored the patient’s vitals. Every so often, he would ask you about the patient’s vitals and you immediately responded with the information he wanted to know. You even adjusted the anesthesia when he voiced what he was going to do next. You were able to slow the heart just right so he can focus and see where the knife sliced into the left chamber. The slow heartbeats helped him slip the near-microscopic needle in and out of the organ while he stitched it up.

It was because of you that Zayne was able to relax after the surgery knowing that his stitches were perfect and that the patient will have an easy, yet slow and meticulous, recovery.

Zayne pokes his head around the hospital trying to find you. You weren’t with the other anesthesiologists nor were you in the cafeteria or break rooms that are scattered throughout the hospital. When one of the nurses who was in the operating room with you noticed his frustration, he finally asked who you were.

“Oh her? She’s…off-putting to say the least,” she begins with an eye roll. “Nobody really likes her but she gets the job done so I guess she’s sticking round because of it.”

“Do you know where I can find her?” Zayne asks with a slight head tilt. The nurse’s eyes open wide.

“I…I don’t know, Dr. Zayne. She’s a loner and doesn’t really talk to anyone.”

Zayne frowns and crosses his arms over his chest. The nurse goes quiet, scratching the back of her neck before eventually walking away, shame written all over her face.

Why were people so cruel to you? If you were good at your job, which you are, why do they say cruel and nasty things about you? It confuses him. A person should be judged on their merit, not because of how introverted you are or if you have one bad day.

Little did he know that you pushed people away on purpose. It’s not like you wanted to. You just couldn’t bring yourself to be openly happy and carefree as others are.

You have gone through so much drama and have been through so many scandals that it has put you off from letting people in entirely. Your teenage years were cruel to you; bullies were relentless and their words and actions beat you down into nothing. It didn’t get better when you went off to university where your roommate purposefully locked you out of the dorm when you went to go take a shower.

People are cruel. You don’t need them and you certainly don’t need anyone else that’s new. The risk is too great to take on. You don’t even think you can go through another heartbreak or cruel friendship.

You always found yourself in the solitude of the hospital’s extra courtyard. It sits behind the tall building, covered in the building’s shadows when the sun moved to the other side of the sky. You liked looking at the flowers and watching the butterflies flutter past. It was also nice that nobody else really came into the courtyard. You were able to sit in solitude during your breaks or after a tension filled surgery like the one just half an hour ago.

“You’re a hard woman to find.”

You jump in the metal bench, which has been designed to look like a pair of roses that sit next to each other, and turn around to see the tall surgeon from before. He wears glasses with thin metal rims and his scrubs are covered with a new lab coat, one that isn’t covered with the remnants of his drink that morning.

“I don’t want to be found,” you respond, turning back around on the bench. You pick at the skin around your fingernails, needing to give your body to do something to distract yourself from the handsome man.

Zayne circles around and stands in front of you. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, a habit he picked up from other surgeons to protect his hands, and sighs. He sits down on a chair across from you, only a few feet away. You avoid his hazel eyes at all costs, slowly inhaling the hot summer breeze.

“My name is—”

“Dr. Zayne,” you finish his sentence for him. He slowly nods. His eyes remain on you. “I know. You have an impressive résumé.”

“Do I?” A faint smile spreads across his lips. You finally look at him, catching the tail end of his grin before it disappears. “This is my first time here. It’s nice. Are you in here often?”

“Yes,” a part of you doesn’t know why you responded to him, “nobody knows about it. It’s...nice.” You turn your body to fully face him now. He matches your movement, one eyebrow slightly quirking up, gently urging you to continue.

But you don’t.

Bugs and insects fly around you. Butterflies flap their wings and hummingbirds stop at the feeders with the sugary pink water. Zayne observes the courtyard, wondering how he has never noticed it before. It’s all thanks to you that he is able to find solitude in such a chaotic environment.

You and Zayne sit in a comfortable silence. It’s something you aren’t used to but it feels nice. You don’t know whether his intentions are pure or not. You don’t seem to mind the company though.

“May I join you for lunch here tomorrow?” Zayne requests.

“Yes,” the answer leaves your lips before you can stop it. Zayne nods, a slight smile spreading across his lips, and he stands up.

“Wonderful. I will see you tomorrow.”

The next day, Zayne is early with his lunch, even having bought you a bottle of water just in case you didn’t have one. Hydration is key, after all! You rolled your eyes and sat next to him on the bench. You finally have him your name and filled in him in on how long you’ve been working at Akso.

“How have I never seen you before?” he asked with pure and genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I don’t know. I usually work with obstetrics,” you shrug. Zayne hides a smile on his face. He likes that you help bring new life into the world. He’ll have to swing by during some downtime to see you in action.

Zayne shows up the next day even earlier just to see you. You walk out with headphones on, a small scowl on your face while you swipe through your phone. He watches you closely; he watches as a bee flies past your face and you don’t swat at it, instead smiling and waiting for it to pass before moving on.

You find out that Zayne asked around about you. You hid the blush on your face as Dave throws a note Zayne wrote at you. His kind words, and typical doctor handwriting, makes you swoon. Your icy heart melts ever so slightly.

Not even a week later, you get the request from your supervisor to be temporarily switched over to the Cardiac department. As soon as you arrive, Zayne is the first one to welcome you. While everyone else avoids you due to your bitchy reputation, Zayne is quick to show you around and introduce you to everyone despite there being no smile on your face.

Three months later Zayne asks you to be his girlfriend.

He asked you after a particularly stressful shift. He showed up to your apartment, which was surprisingly close to his place, still in his scrubs, and knocked on your door until you answered. Your hair was a mess from the deep sleep you were in matched with dark purple bags under your eyes. A yawn barely left your lips when Zayne broke the silence.

“I lost a patient today.”

“Oh…I’m so sorry, Zayne. That must have been really hard.”

“It was,” he nods and looks down at you, out of breath from running up the stairs to your door, “it made me think.”

“Yes? About what?” you raise an eyebrow and step through the door. He takes your hand and places it over his heart. His touch wakes you up, energy flushing through your body. Your eyes widen. His heart pounds inside his chest.

“Be my girlfriend.”

“What?”

“Will you please be my girlfriend?” Zayne’s voice is breathy yet steady. A small smile spreads across your face. You slowly nod.

“Yes. I would love to be your girlfriend.”

Maybe people aren’t so bad after all.

The two of you have fallen into a unique rhythm. It was convenient that the two of you worked at the hospital. Zayne even pulled a few strings for your shifts to line up, even going as far as to claim you as the Cardiac Unit’s main anesthesiologist.

Zayne slowly pushes through your icy interior, learning that you are one of the most caring and loving people he has ever met. You love your job as much as he does and also found out that you hate carrots, alongside eggplants and people who use the word ‘moist’. 

As the weeks pass, you notice that people still talk about you behind your back despite being much nicer to your face. Dave and the other anesthesiologists whisper about you when you leave the room and the nurses that work alongside Zayne always look at you like you are on the scum on the bottom of their shoes. It doesn’t bother you.

Or, at least you thought it didn’t.

You always pretended like their comments don’t mean anything to you. Zayne always moved to say something but you stopped him every time, telling him that it isn’t worth it. He always frowned when you said this but respected your choice, whisking you away to your secret place in the courtyard.

The nights you spend alone and away from him are the nights you cry yourself to sleep, the aching pain of their comments slicing into your skin, breaking the armor you built for yourself. You stayed up late those nights, staring at yourself in the mirror as the thoughts of self deprecation and sadness creeped throughout your body.

You sit in Zayne’s comfortable office, looking outside the window. A bird flies by while singing its song and chases after another, escaping your line of sight. His door is cracked open, having just steppe out for a moment. You click on your app, trying to clear the stage in the grocery store app Zayne installed for you. Your brows furrow together. The small carrot icons mock you, the third one nowhere to be found.

“Fuck you, carrots,” you murmur.

“Can you believe her?” a nurse by the name of Tabitha says outside Zayne’s door. Your ears perk up, head tilting in their direction.

“I know! How can he be with someone like her?”

Your heart sinks in your chest. Slowly pushing out of the chair, you inch towards the door. their voices grow louder. They are completely unaware of your presence lurking behind the wooden door. The more they speak, the more apparent it becomes that nobody in the hospital likes you. Everyone finds you weird, off-putting, crass, and obnoxious.

“She’s so weird! She’s probably blackmailing him to date her! How can a man like him ever go for a cold bitch like her?”

“I don’t know! Maybe she baby trapped him!”

“Cause that’s just what we need! Another version of her running around here!”

You sink away from the door, dissociating as you grab your purse. Another voice, male, comes into the mix. You don’t pay attention to it, though, and slip your phone and hospital I.D. into your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. Zayne’s office door creaks open and he kicks it closed behind him, a cup of coffee and hot chocolate in his hands.

“Sorry I’m late, my love, an intern needed help with a few questions,” Zayne’s calm voice makes your eyes sting. You keep your back to him, ashamed to even look at the man you love.

Is he aware of how the people in the hospital think of you? Does he even care that they wish nothing but the worst for you?

No…Zayne probably doesn’t know. After all, you’re just a woman who doesn’t care about what other people think, right? You’re an ice cold bitch who doesn’t have feelings so why should it even matter?

When you turn around, a pained expression on your face, Zayne pauses. You avoid his gaze, opting to look at the ground instead of him. He places the cups on the side table next to the door and immediately walks up to you. He takes the purse and places it on the chair, grabbing your hands, lacing your fingers together.

“What’s wrong, my love? Is everything okay?” Zayne asks despite the creeping suspicion that it has something to do with Tabitha and Tiffany on the other side of the door.

He was quick to put them in their place, yes, and reminded them of just how valuable and important you are to the team at Akso, but he didn’t think that you were paying attention to their words.

“I’m fine,” you groan. You try to peel your hands away from his but his grip remains firm. “Zayne, please, I need to go—”

“No, you don’t,” he retorts in a calm tone. “You offered to stay with me while I finished paperwork.”

Tears sting your eyes, threatening to fall. Shallow breaths leave your chest. Zayne pulls you to him, tucking your hair behind your ear. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

The kiss soothes you, helping calm some of your anxiety, but it’s not enough to pull the knife that was lodged into your back. You close your eyes and press your forehead against his chest. You tremble in his arms. Zayne places his hand on the back of your head, smoothing down your hair. You listen to his heartbeat. Every beat urges your tears forward and eventually you begin to cry, the weight of everyone’s dislike towards you finally causing you to crumble.

“It’s alright, honey, I got you, let it all out,” Zayne coos. You shudder into his chest, hands weakly wrapping around him. You grab a fistful of his shirt and loosen it from its tight tuck into his pants.

“I don’t know why they hate me so much,” you cry out. Your tears dampen his shirt. He rubs circles into your back, a frown overtaking his face. “I mind my own business! I say good morning and wave! I even brought donuts one day like you suggested!”

“I know, dear, I know,” Zayne sighs. He places his cheek onto the top of your head, pulling you closer into his body.

After knowing you for the past few months, Zayne has fallen in love with every side of you. He adores the hard glare you give him when he wakes you up from your morning shift. He loves the small smiles whenever he surprises you with a sweet treat after a long night shift. He loves the way you melt into his embrace when you’re in bed at night ready to go to sleep.

And most of all, Zayne loves the sweet, sensitive girl that you hide away. The one that cares about everyone and wants to save the world. That is the woman he fell in love with, not the reputation that others thrust onto you.

“You don’t need them,” Zayne sighs into your hair. Your sniffle against his chest, not daring to move. “They clearly cannot see the amazing woman that you are, but they will soon. It takes time.”

“Why are you so nice to me?” you cry even more, hugging him ever closer to you. Zayne sighs and gives you a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t deserve you.”

You believed it, too. Zayne has always been so patient with you. He’s stuck by your side through thick and thin, waiting for you to let him in. It took awhile, yes, but he got there, finally penetrating the high walls you have built around yourself. He has been so kind and gentle with you, even reassuring you that he loves and cares for you when you silently needed it the most.

“You deserve me because I love you. I want nothing but the best for best for you, even if it means I have to give a stern lecture to those who hurt you,” Zayne’s tone is unusually light. It makes you laugh through your cries. He smiles and kisses the top of your head. You slowly pull away from him and he wipes away the tears from your face.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes. I will talk to them if you want me to.”

“No, Zayne, I meant about you…loving me.”

“Oh,” Zayne smiles down at you. He nods. “Yes. I do love you. More than you can even imagine.”

“I love you too,” you smile. You stare into those beautiful hazel eyes of his and remember why he has been the only person to melt your icy exterior. “Thank you for being so patient with me. I’m…I’m trying.”

“I know, my love, and I will wait for you no matter how long it takes.”

please drop a like, reblog, & comment!! i love see what you all have to say <3

masterlist of works

[misswynters]

Baby blue and the mouse

featuring. jinx x platonic sister! reader

requested. by @mxbrahms

Zaun sure had a way of shaping people. Its smog-filled streets, the endless clang of machinery, and the shadows that clung to every corner seemed to seep into its inhabitants. For you, it had always been home, even when it wasn’t. You couldn’t remember much about your early years. Just flickers of a woman’s laugh, the warmth of arms that held you close, and a faint lullaby that had no words. That was your mother. A woman who hid you away in the cracks of Zaun, keeping you in the quiet while the world outside raged on.

It wasn’t until you were nine that the veil of safety she’d woven for you came undone. You’d come home to find her there: still, lifeless, her body sprawled across the floor of your tiny, crumbling apartment. The smell of copper and rust hung heavy in the air. Your small hands had trembled as you reached out, as though touching her would bring her back. But nothing happened. The quiet you had always clung to now felt suffocating.

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Instead, you did what she’d taught you: you hid. Hours passed in silence until the door creaked open again, and a figure stepped inside. Silco.

You didn’t know him then, not really. Just a name whispered in fear and reverence across Zaun. But he knew you. His mismatched eyes softened when they landed on you, crouched in the corner with wide, untrusting eyes. He didn’t speak at first, just offered his hand. When you finally took it, his grip was firm, a silent promise that you wouldn’t be left alone again.

After the death of your mother, the weeks that followed were a blur. Silco had taken you in, not as a burden, but as though you’d always been meant to be there. It wasn’t until much later that you learned the truth, you were his. His daughter. A piece of him that had been stolen away years ago, hidden by a woman he once trusted. He didn’t speak of her often, and neither did you. It was an unspoken understanding, a wound neither of you cared to prod.

Life with Silco was different. He wasn’t the warm, nurturing father you might have imagined in another life. He was calculated, cold at times, but never cruel. He taught you to navigate Zaun’s chaos with the same sharp mind and steady hand he used to command it. But he also gave you space to be you. Where Jinx was fire and fury, you were the quiet storm, slipping through the cracks and unraveling problems with precision rather than explosions.

Jinx took to you immediately, dubbing you her “twin” despite the lack of blood ties. Where Silco’s love was subtle and Jinx’s was overwhelming. A whirlwind of laughter, mischief, and an almost suffocating loyalty. She dragged you into her chaos at every turn, but you never minded. You understood her in a way few others could.

And though you were quieter, calmer, you matched her step for step. While she painted Zaun in vibrant colors and explosions, you moved through its shadows, making sure the aftermath didn’t swallow her whole. Jinx loved Silco in her own way, but your relationship with him was different. It was softer, quieter. He trusted you to see sides of him no one else did. The weariness in his shoulders, the small moments of pride when you succeeded, the way his voice softened when he said your name.

You never resented the life you’d been given. Zaun was harsh, but it had given you a family. A found one, a messy one, but one that was yours. That you grew to deeply love. And when the nights grew long and the memories of your mother came creeping back, you clung to that. To Silco, to Jinx, to the strange, chaotic love that bound you all together.

. . .

“Mousie,” she’d call out, her voice brimming with excitement. It was a name she had given you, and despite its loudness, you had taken it with affection. She was always the one pulling you into her chaos, dragging you from one wild adventure to the next, making sure you were always beside her. The first time you met her, it was during one of her more "creative" escapades. She was no more than a whirlwind of blue hair and erratic energy, her hands constantly on the move as she tinkered with a bomb. You had been observing from the shadows, as usual, when she caught sight of you.

"What are you doing back there, Mouse?" she had asked, her voice catching on your quiet demeanor. "Don’t be shy, come on! I’ve got a plan, and I need your help!"

You didn’t say much, as always, but you followed her. You had learned to do so over time, a silent presence at her side as she ran through her unpredictable schemes. She was loud, yes, but she had a way of making things feel... alive. And for the first time since the murder of your mother, you didn’t feel alone.

You became her constant companion, the calm to her storm. Jinx's chaos, her explosions, her manic energy, became something you learned to navigate with a careful hand. She would get into trouble, and you would be there to pull her back. She was fire, and you were the soft, quiet water, always there to temper her flames.

“Come on, we’ve got stuff to blow up!” she would shout, her eyes sparkling with mischief. And while you’d never fully understand her love for the explosions, the danger, you couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. You had never known anyone like her before, someone who was so unapologetically themselves.

Silco, too, grew to rely on you. He never demanded anything of you that you couldn’t give. You were always there, quietly taking care of things. He never needed you to be loud, never asked you to be anything other than what you were. And just like him, a part of the system, working in the background.

It was a strange family you’d found. Silco, your actual father and Jinx, the "twin" sister you never asked for but would never trade her in for anything else. You didn’t talk about it much, didn’t say the words that would have made it feel official, but in your quiet way, you knew it was real. You had found your place, even if the world around you was broken and full of noise. Thought you couldn't admit that you never truly felt like Silco was your dad. That you were his biological daughter. You were the complete opposite than he was.

But things were never simple. The scars of the past followed you like a shadow. The loss of your mother, the chaos nature of Zaun. It all weighed heavily on you, even when you pretended it didn’t. Jinx always seemed to know when you were spiraling, when your thoughts would drift to that place you didn’t want to go.

"Hey," she’d say, her voice softer than usual, something rare and gentle in her tone. "You’re gonna be okay. I gotcha, okay?"

And you’d nod, your lips twitching into a small smile, even though you didn’t have the words. She always knew when you needed her, and even though she was often the cause of the chaos, she was also the one who could pull you back from it. You both needed each other, she with her explosive energy and you with your quiet steadiness. The perfect pair, Yin and Yang, the calm and the chaos.

Sometimes, Silco would find you two together, Jinx sprawled across the floor, laughing at something ridiculous, while you sat quietly beside her, watching her with a quiet fondness. He would look at the two of you, his cold exterior softening just a little.

“You two,” he would mutter, though there was an unspoken warmth in his voice. “Always together. Never far apart. It’s good to have someone to rely on.”

And you would nod, though the words never seemed to come. You had someone now. Someone who understood you in a way that others never could. Someone who needed your quiet, just as you needed her chaos.

You’d lost everything once, but in the wreckage of it all, you had found something new. A broken family. Not the loud, demanding kind, but a family of your own. Silent, steady, and always together.

. . .

There was of course an instance were things didn’t go as planned. The warehouse was supposed to be quiet. You had slipped into the building alongside Jinx, the two of you tasked with scouting out an area for Silco’s latest dealings. In typical fashion, Jinx’s interpretation of “quiet” skewed toward chaos. While you stuck to the shadows, cataloging the crates and memorizing the guards’ routes, she was already toying with her explosives, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“C’mon, Twinny,” Jinx whispered loudly, twirling a grenade in her hand as she crouched behind a pile of crates. “You’re taking forever! We could blow this place sky-high and still be home for dinner.”

You sighed, slipping up beside her. “We’re not blowing anything up, Jinx. Not yet, anyway.” Your voice was low and steady, a stark contrast to her barely-contained excitement. “Silco wants intel first, remember?”

She groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Boooring.” But even as she said it, she pocketed the grenade. You knew she couldn’t resist a little fun, though, and you braced yourself for whatever small bit of chaos she was about to unleash.

Jinx’s “fun” started small. A wrench tossed into a spinning fan, creating a loud, metallic screech. A stack of boxes pushed just enough to topple over, startling a few guards nearby. She was like a storm, restless and wild, but she always stayed close to you. Her self-proclaimed twin.

You weren’t sure how long the two of you had been weaving through the building when it happened. Jinx had been rigging a small contraption to set off a harmless distraction. A flick of her wrist, a sudden flash, and a sound that was far louder than you had anticipated. The guards reacted instantly, shouting orders and scattering as the explosion rattled the building. Jinx laughed, a manic, gleeful sound as she grabbed your arm, dragging you toward an exit.

“Wasn’t that awesome?!” she exclaimed, her blue hair whipping behind her as she ran.

“Too awesome,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’re coming this way.”

“Good! I could use the exercise,” Jinx shot back, but her grip on your arm tightened. No matter how reckless she seemed, she always made sure you were close. The two of you darted through the maze of crates and equipment, the sound of boots pounding after you. Jinx reached for one of her gadgets, probably to unleash more chaos, but in her haste, she fumbled.

The explosion wasn’t huge considering her standards. However the force of it sent you sprawling. A sharp pain shot through your leg as you hit the ground, biting back a cry. Jinx was by your side in an instant, her eyes wide with a mix of guilt and panic.

“Hey, hey! You good?” she asked, her voice unusually soft as she crouched beside you. Her hands hovered, unsure where to touch without causing more harm.

“I’m fine,” you lied, trying to push yourself up. The sharp sting in your leg betrayed you, and you winced.

“Liar,” Jinx muttered. She glanced at the approaching guards, then back at you. Without hesitation, she hauled you up, slinging your arm over her shoulder. “C’mon, Twinny. We’re getting outta here.”

She moved fast, supporting your weight with surprising strength. Despite the pain, you couldn’t help but smile at her determination. By the time you made it back to Silco’s office, your leg was throbbing, and Jinx was muttering apologies under her breath. Silco was waiting, his sharp gaze immediately locking onto you.

“What happened?” he demanded, his voice cold but edged with concern. His eyes flicked to your leg, then to Jinx, who was already fidgeting under his scrutiny.

“It was an accident!” Jinx blurted out before you could speak. “I mean, kinda. I didn’t mean to—”

“Enough,” Silco interrupted, his voice stern. He stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “You were supposed to be careful. This—” He gestured to your leg, then to Jinx. “—is the opposite of that.”

Jinx looked like she’d been struck. Her usual tone faltered, and for a moment, she was just a kid being scolded by her father. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she mumbled, her gaze dropping to the floor.

Silco’s anger softened, though his voice remained firm. “Intentions don’t erase consequences, Jinx. You know better.”

You, ever the mediator, stepped in. “It’s not all her fault,” you said, your tone calm despite the pain. “I should’ve stopped her sooner.”

Silco’s eyes softened as they landed on you. “You shouldn’t have to,” he replied simply. Then, turning back to Jinx, he added, “You need to be more careful, especially with her.”

Jinx nodded, her shoulders slumping. “Got it boss,” she muttered. The tension eased as Silco called in a medic to tend to your leg. Jinx hovered nearby, her usual energy replaced with uncharacteristic quiet. When the medic left and Silco returned to his desk, you and Jinx were alone.

Jinx shifted awkwardly, her fingers twitching as she sat beside you. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

You glanced at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “I know,” you replied.

She hesitated, then grinned—small and tentative but real. “You’re lucky that you are my sister, Mousie. Otherwise, I’d let you hobble around on your own.”

You laughed softly, nudging her with your elbow. “Lucky me.”

Jinx’s grin widened, and for a moment, everything felt normal again. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Next time, we’ll make it even bigger. But, you know, safer. Maybe.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help but smile. With Jinx, chaos was inevitable, but so was her loyalty. No matter how wild things got, you knew she’d always have your back, just as you had hers.

taglist. @kaixvdenny @winxthinxs @ekkosh @inguuuuu @pearldaisy @jannesyjane @thesecondhandwoman @halle5s @comfortweeb @bubblespopblue @mellowzhi @mbekgsv

[fortunxa]

the sound of her absence

Jinx and Isha

summary: Bravery wasn’t in the noise, the chaos—it was in the silence that stood still against the storm.

cw: pain. nothing act II didn’t already deliver. reader not mentioned.

author’s note: i’m quick with it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Zaun was a furnace, its heart always burning, always devouring. The city had been forged in suffering, a machine that never stopped grinding down the weak. And yet, somehow, in all its fire and ruin, a single spark of warmth had dared to flicker. A warmth impossibly out of place in the cold steel of Jinx's world.

Isha.

Her face came back to her, vivid and bright in her mind's eye. Wide, eager eyes that shined brighter than the neon glow of the city, full of a hope that had no place here, sparkling with questions, with admiration, with trust. The small, knowing smile of hers or the shrug of her shoulders, the one that said, "I'll be fine". And that moment—that moment—when Jinx's gaze locked with hers in the middle of the battle, when the world around them turned to fire and blood.

When the child who didn’t speak answered the world’s violence with bravery.

She had looked so steady. So determined.

So much like Jinx—staring down the chaos as if daring it to break her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the image. Isha, tiny and frail and far too fearless, standing in the firestorm. Her chest puffed up like Jinx's always did, that same reckless grin trying to stretch across her soft, round face. She had called out for her, her voice tearing raw against the chaos, but Isha didn’t hear her.

Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the problem.

She had always listened too closely.

The hideout was too quiet now, smothered beneath the weight of an absence Jinx couldn’t ignore, louder than any explosion she could create.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms and leaving bloody crescent shapes. The smog-heavy air seemed thicker tonight, each breath heavier than the last. She paced back and forth, her boots scuffing the floor, the sound filling the oppressive silence. She couldn't stop replaying it in her mind.

The air still smelled of gunpowder, acrid and sour, like a wound festering. Her fingers, smudged with grease and blood, itched for something to fix, but there was nothing left to save.

Jinx hadn’t been fast enough.

She hadn’t been good enough.

She hadn’t saved her.

She dropped to her knees, her fists slamming against the floor. The sound echoed through the empty space, but it did nothing to drown out the memory of Isha’s final moments. The way she’d thrown herself forward, packing gemstone after gemstone—overloading the power source of the pistol—before firing it at Vander. Or what used to be Vander, at least.

Hot and bitter tears blurred Jinx’s vision, dripping down onto the cold floor beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head as if she could shake away the weight in her chest.

“Why’d you do it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. It cracked beneath the weight of the question, but the silence gave no answers. “You were supposed to stick around. You were supposed to live. Not… not this. Not for me.” Not for anyone.

But there had been no hesitation in Isha’s eyes.

Jinx slammed her fist into the floor again, harder this time, until pain bloomed across her knuckles like some cruel reminder that she was still here, alive, while Isha wasn’t. “You didn’t have to prove anything!” she shouted into the void. “You were already… You were perfect. You didn’t have to—” Her voice broke, the words dying in her throat.

She crumpled in on herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, as though folding herself small enough could make the world rewind. Make it undo itself.

She opened her eyes to the dim, scattered wreckage of her hideout and glanced up at the walls, where one of Isha’s stick figures still smiled beside a crooked sun.

“Stop haunting me,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last word. But they stayed, stubborn in their simplicity, a silent declaration of the joy she had tried to bring into Jinx’s chaos.

She crawled to the wall, her fingers brushing over the faint lines. The chalk smudged under her touch, disappearing just like Isha had—too easily, too quickly.

Jinx’s hands trembled as she picked up one of the little girl’s old chalks, the color a soft yellow that barely showed against the grime of the walls. Her fingers shook as she pressed it to the floor instead, sketching the outline of a sun. The lines wavered, uneven and fragile, and she hated how much it looked like Isha’s.

Hated how much it didn’t.

She snapped the chalk in half, the pieces tumbling from her fingers, and rested her head against the wall, her blue hair spilling over her face like a curtain, hiding her tears from the empty room. “I wasn't worth it.” Her voice broke again. “Why'd you try to be like me?”

But hadn’t she wanted this? To be someone worth admiring? To be someone a kid like Isha could look up to? And now that it had happened, all she could feel was the weight of it, heavy and suffocating, like chains around her chest—grief.

Grieve.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, but the apology fell apart in the still air. "I'm so sorry." The tears come harder now, Jinx’s shoulders shaking with the force of them. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

Her pink eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where Isha’s jacket still hung on a nail. It was too small, patched and frayed, the kind of thing someone would have laughed at in Piltover. But Isha had worn it with pride, like it was armor.

Jinx got up and dragged herself across the room, her footsteps heavy in the silence. She pulled the jacket from the nail and held it close, the fabric rough against her fingers. It still smelled faintly of her—chalk dust and grease and something warm Jinx could never name.

She sank to the floor again, rocking back and forth with the jacket clutched tightly in her arms, as if holding it could somehow hold Isha, too. But the fabric was empty, and her hands came away as hollow as the rest of her.

Be like you.

Jinx shook her head violently, a sob tearing from her throat. “Not like me,” she spat, her voice cracking. “Not like me, Isha. You were supposed to be better. You were supposed to—” Her words disintegrated into ragged breaths, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears came in full force.

She couldn't breathe.

In the dim, flickering light, she felt her world splinter further while the quiet mocked her.

Jinx pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply as if the lingering scent could anchor her to a world that lost its sense once again. But all it did was remind her of how empty everything felt.

She sat there for hours, her breath hitching, hiccuping, her heart racing as her tears soaked into the grime of the floor, her sobs echoing through the empty space. And when she finally looked up, the room was still the same.

Isha was still gone.

All that remained was smoke from that single spark of warmth that had dared to flicker.

[chimielie]

pretty damn close

summary: Suna x F!Reader. he picks you up.

wc: 1.3k

cw: none. reader is having a bad night for unspecified reasons and suna makes her feel better by being his weird aquarius self

a/n: i think i may be more attracted to suna’s car than i am to suna because i feature it so often

It’s a bad night. The stars are hidden behind a thick haze of city smog, the honking of cars is obscured by the thick ringing in your ears. Your knees touch through the rips in your jeans as you shiver, trying not to think about the germs on the sidewalk.

The scent of a cigarette floats through the air. You don’t smoke, but you could.

Before you ask the stranger for a light, a car pulls up in front of you, braking loudly through the miasma.

You put a hand on the door handle and pull yourself up, waiting for the click of the lock’s release before you pull it open and slide inside.

“Hey,” Suna says, and you chatter your teeth together in response.

He reaches over and turns up the heat in his car three notches. You sigh and drop your shoulders at the rush of warm air that comes through the vents, tucking your legs up as he speeds away from the potential of a nicotine buzz.

“Can we go to your place tonight?”

You expect a side glance or a questioning tone. You have a defensive answer prepared, brushing off your growing discomfort with your roommates, the way their eyes track you as you lead him through the common area to your bedroom. You don’t want to field their assumptions tonight, the ones you know they make because of the smudged eyeliner around his waterline, the black swoop of his hair, the careless way he walks, his center of gravity pulled back toward wherever it is he wants to be that is never, ever where he is.

“Sure,” he says, like it’s nothing. Maybe it is. Maybe the little world you occupy, your mini-lanterns dangling from the ceiling and tchotchkes lining the windowsill, can expand outside its limits.

The lines of Shizuoka’s road shine bright white under his headlights, toothpaste and baking soda strips against the asphalt. You twist your head so you can see the sky out the window and try to take a deep sniff of his car door’s lining without his noticing. Teak and gasoline, you like this smell so much you imagine it when you’re at work, when you’re walking to the grocery.

“This was our first time calling, you know,” you say to the stars.

“Was it?” There’s a little frown in his voice. “No way, we’ve gotta have called before.”

You shake your head.

“I checked my call log, and I never clear it.”

“Huh.”

“Huh,” you echo. “And I don’t like calling, so that’s probably why. I feel so awkward.”

“You’re always awkward,” he says.

“Not true!” You try to punch his arm, but you’re still pressed up against the window so now you’re lying across his passenger seat, twisted into a bow. You graze his sleeve. “I’m whimsical. On the phone, I feel like I’m in a business meeting.”

“I am not a business-y person,” he says.

“No, you’re really matter-of-fact,” you respond. Your punching hand is limp at your side now and he reaches over, picks it up and shakes it side to side like it’s something dead. He folds his fingers over yours and you stay carefully still. “I can see it in another universe.”

“Then in that universe you must be an heiress,” he says. “I’ll seduce you for your money.”

“I hope you’re not doing that now,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “I don’t make half as much as you, with tips.”

“But you’re so high-class,” he says, in a terrible tone that makes you suspicious that he’s making fun of you. You stick your tongue out and blow a raspberry, ladylike. “And I’m not seducing you.”

It’s true. Suna comes over, toes off his big boots made bigger by their chunky soles, sits on your bed and plays games with you. He eats all your snacks and he puts his hands up under your shirt, but just to trace his fingers over your skin in patterns to feel your stomach flip. He calls you a masochist but he never does anything about it.

“But you told ‘Samu I was your girlfriend,” you say, a whine that’s really a needle, sliding into his pressure points.

He throws the car into reverse and you cling to his hand, startled. Suna parallel parks in one try, showboating bastard, and gets out of the car and opens your door before you’re finished putting everything that spilled out of your purse on his floorboard back into it. You get out and he finds your hand again, but changes his mind and exchanges it to flatten his palm against the small of your back, burning a hole through your thin t-shirt.

You cross your arms and let him guide you into the building. His doorman is a blinking red button on a keypad that needs, counterintuitively, to be pressed if you want it to open. You poke his side, but he’s too well-trained by your boss and his twin brother, too hard to provoke. You don’t try very hard; you don’t like bothering Suna, you just want him to get tired of not telling you his secrets.

Suna’s apartment is enclosed behind a grey door marked 221. There’s no welcome mat, and inside isn’t welcoming either. He has nondescript dark grey furniture facing a big TV you can see your reflection in, sucking in your cheeks and pursing your lips. Behind you, he’s miming clawed hands and a snarling bite into your neck. When you turn to him, he’s very busy adjusting the way his keys hang on their hook.

“I didn’t say that,” Suna says, leading you to the kitchen, which has a butcher block island you’d like to kill him for. He opens his fridge and hands you a chilled bottle of water, a bar of dark chocolate with a bite taken out of it. You don’t like the texture but you take it to be polite. “I told ‘Samu you were my soulmate.”

“I just don’t feel like those two things are distinct,” you say. “I also really like being made aware of it when I’m in a relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” he says, putting his hands on your hips and hoisting you up onto the counter, you bending your knees and pushing to help him out a little. “I’m still working on that.”

“When’re you gonna be done?”

He puts his face in your chest, cheek against your heartbeat. You flush, lean your head on top of his, slide a hand into the gap between the collar of his shirt and his neck, your cold fingers raising goosebumps but garnering no other reaction. Annoying, annoying, annoying.

“When you’re not having a bad night,” his voice is muffled by your shirt. “But soon. Just be patient with me.”

“I’m not having a bad night anymore,” your face, twisting into a scowl, says otherwise. “And I’ve waited a bunch of lifetimes. How soon is soon?”

“When I’ve cleaned my bedroom,” he says. You can see into the room if you look left, a sliver of spare, clean space just like the rest of the apartment. “And when I stop being scared that I’m gonna screw it up.”

“I see,” you say thoughtfully, tapping your fingers against his neck in a staccato beat. “The relationship or the asking?”

“Asking,” he says, and then, very quiet, “you make me nervous.”

“That’s silly,” you laugh, “I’m half as scary as you are. You’re like a black hole. I’m just, like, a rock or something that got pulled in.”

When he pulls back to look at you, Suna’s eyes are haloed with a bright ring of yellow-grey lustre, a pinprick of pupil expanding to swallow the universe. There’s something crackling all around you, the buzz of atoms getting closer to combustion. He’s not actually touching you, but you can still feel it.

“Nah,” he says. “If you were anything, you’d be stars.”

[transboyswitchytales]

'Warm All Night'

🦊Request: 4. I actually want to see rio sleeping outside for once, would be fun and ags would just tease her by saying "oh, don't worry rio, i will keep our baby warm all night"🦊

SORRY FOX I FORGOT TO FINISH IT! HERE IT IS <3 I only have one fox request left!

Warning: Daddy Mommy Kink / Fluff / Tension / Hurt /Comfort / Domestic Fluff / Triad Polyamory / Therapist Rio / Psych Agatha / Reader Trains Service Dogs / Arguements / Backstory / No Magic AU / Smoking Cigarettes / Drinking / Campfires / Wanted to go camping but I can't lol so they will!

4. I actually want to see rio sleeping outside for once, would be fun and ags would just tease her by saying "oh, don't worry rio, i will keep our baby warm all night"

You and Rio loved camping every summer. Agatha pretended not to like it but something about seeing you and Rio skinny dipping always cheered her up.

But Agatha demanded you at least rent a cabin. So that is how this whole mess started.

It was Thursday and all of you had taken Friday and Monday off to go to this gorgeous cabin. You were excited as Agatha drove your old pickup truck. The bed was full to the max of stuff you probably didn’t need. Rio had cracked open another Arizona mango tea. She had a map pulled open as she told Agatha which back roads to go down. There was zero service where you were. Which you knew was Rio’s preference. No electronics, no checking on work emails. 

You had appointed yourself as DJ because one time you got your partners lost in Yellowstone, and now you never got the chance to give directions ever again. And Agatha got car sick way too easily so she drove the majority of the long car trips, which always made Rio antsy to get out and walk around. 

You opened the music that you’d spent hours downloading last night instead of packing. Your sunglasses pulled over your forehead as you picked another tune. Agatha and Rio rolled down the windows a few miles back to smell how delicious the air was. 

No smog here. 

It felt cleaner now, as you sped down gravel roads. The tree’s getting taller and taller as you got closer to the cabin. 

You put on Caamp ‘ All the Debts I Owe.’ And you sang the lyrics obnoxiously loud and threw the dial all the way up so that the sound system vibrated the bench seat. 

“Honey, honey, get the kids in the car now

Put the cash in the trunk, get the keys, let's go

Hit the biggest bank in Chicago

For all it had, we're thieves you know

Remember the thing that I told ya'

Three years, two moons ago?

I promise I’ll be right behind you

But you’re gonna die if you don’t hit the road”

You kiss Agatha’s cheek, and she smiles as the wind whips her hair. Rio puts her arm out across the back of the bench, and you place your warm palm against the inside of her thigh and she instinctively grins happily at the contact. 

Keep your lights down, keep your voice down low

Wear your hair down, whichever way you go

And I’ll meet you in Idaho

Three kids in the back of a Caddy

She said, "Come here and kiss your wife"

And I know you’re real mad at me

But you’re on your way to some kind of life

Daniel, John, and Abby

Promise me you’ll treat your mother nice

Keep your lights down, keep your voice down low

You sing along too loudly, and the car slows eventually as Agatha knows the turn into the dirt driveway to the cabin. She turns off the engine, and you and Rio are out of the truck so fast. She doesn’t have time to yell at either of you. 

You throw your old David Bowie T-shirt at your wife and Rio barely avoids getting hit with it as she takes off her tank top and throws it at you to slow you down.

 You two have an ongoing tradition that the first to get into the water doesn’t have to do dishes the whole weekend. Agatha has tried to stop you two from doing this, but no such luck. 

You grab Rio around the waist, and she yells at you, but you pull her back, and you don’t take your red vans off as you dive off the dock and into the water. 

You let your body be unguled by the ice cold water. You hear the water splash under the lake, but you were still surprised when Rio’s hands find your hips and she guided you up to the surface.

You wrapped your legs around her and you both broke the water above cuddling her hands found your thighs and held onto you. 

“You little cheat!” Rio spits out lake water and pushes one hand to smooth her hair. 

“You are always such a sore loser!” You tease, and Rio grabs your chin and pulls you in for a wet kiss. Her lips are wet but you push your body into hers so you can kiss her even closer. 

Rio bites your bottom lip and you moan and she dunks your face under the water while you are distracted. You pop back up and spit out water. 

“That is me being a sore loser! You wanna see a sore loser!” Rio teased but you splashed her while you started to swim away from your wife. “Hey! Where do you think you are going, Ariel? Come back here and kiss me! I’ll be your pretty Prince Eric! Oh my god you swim fast, what are you part fish? I married a mermaid! Or are you a Selkie? DON’T IGNORE ME!” Rio tried to swim after you but you were faster. And she was talking too much.  

Grabbing the edge of the old dock, you easily hoisted your wet, dripping body onto the old wood. Your vans made a squishy noise as you put wait on them once more. Water pouring out of your poor shoes. 

Agatha sauntered overpulling her sunglasses up to her hair, and threw a towel at you. You caught it and wrapped it around your shoulders. 

“I will not be unpacking the truck alone, get your tight ass OUT OF THE WATER RIO HARKNESS!”  Agatha yells at the one wife still trying to swim to the dock. 

You ignored your wives walking up to the doc with your wet vans until you get to the truck. You find a large, dark green duffle bag with all three of your clothes, and you pull out a sweatshirt from a greenhouse Rio worked in when she was twenty-two. You take off your wet bra. Throwing it across the inside dash to dry. No one is around for miles, so you can be naked and no one but your wives is gonna see it. Your nipples harden from the cold water, and you put the tie-dye green house sweatshirt on. 

Kicking your shoes off and throwing them on your truck rooftop. You grab the two biggest duffels and start to unload the truck. Opening the old cabin door and throwing the stuff down. You heard Rio and Agatha outside flirting and bickering, which was the same thing for them. 

You came back out, and Rio eyed you like you had hurt her sense of self. 

“You are on my shit list pretty lady.”

“Oh no, what’ll I do. You are so scary.” You tease, and Rio is gawking in offense at you. Agatha just rolls her eyes and shoves three brown bags of groceries into Rio’s wet arms. 

“You know you could have brought me a towel too,” Rio complains at Aggie who just takes the cooler with the ice and starts to walk towards the cabin. You find your phone and the small JBL speaker that you’d stolen from Rio. Turning your tunes back on, you finished bringing it all in. 

Aggie was sorting the dry food into the pantry, and all the cold stuff was in the fridge. Rio found the big bag of charcoal and started up the grill. You made the bed, putting your pillows and sheets on. It just felt better to have the smell of home. So you threw the summer quilt across the bed and then found the toiletry bag to locate a hair tie. You grabbed two onto your arm, and then went back into the kitchen.

Agatha put the tea kettle on, which was so on brand. She’d been here less than thirty minutes and needed tea. You located the ‘Southern Comfort’ and put it on the counter. Agatha saw it and took out three mugs, being together this long meant words weren’t needed. 

You opened the fridge to find one of the giant containers of ground beef and two portobello mushrooms. You took out a clean plate and formed the burgers, and salted the mushrooms. Agatha sliced the cheese and put it on the side of the plate you were working on. Aggie leaned across the small space to kiss your cheek. Your lips curled at the corners in pleasure at her touch, then you turned and walked out to your cranky wife. 

Rio, howeve,r was a lot less cranky when you walked out. She’d stolen the speaker back. And she was playing your playlist, continuing the song from the drive. You always liked it when Rio and Agatha enjoyed your extremely thought out playlists. 

You wrapped your arms around Rio from behind, who put her hand over your arms. 

You released Rio and then pulled her wet hair back with the secon hair tie and put it in a messy bun on top of her hair. She thanked you in spanish and you squeezed her butt before going back inside to help Aggie. The song played through the screendoor now. 

‘Wear your hair down, whichever way you go

And I’ll meet you in Idaho

I know you’ll miss me, I’m barely fifty

Ain't comin' with me are all the debts I owe

You don’t have to kiss me, just bear with me

And I'll be back someday I hope

I know you’ll miss me, I’m barely fifty

Ain't comin' with me are all the debts I owe

You don’t have to kiss me, just bear with me

And I'll be back someday I hope

Oh, I hope

Oh, oh, oh, I hope’

You three work together to make dinner, and you eat on the picnic table on the back deck looking out onto the lake. 

You pass Rio her vegan ketchup, and Agatha pours you ice water to go with your hot toddy. Which was another tradition for camping. 

Rio reaches over to hand you the bread and butter pickles as you build your burger. 

“Rio, are you wearing the strap?” Agatha asks as she serves the salad onto Rio’s plate. 

Just as Rio is about to take a bite of her portobello she stops. She looks confused for a minute. 

“I thought you packed it?”

“Rio! I told you to pack it or wear it! You said ‘Yeah of course.’”

“No, no, you asked me to pack the straps to the truck! Like the bungee cords!”

“Rio Harkness, why would I tell you to pack it or WEAR IT, if it was bungee cords?” Agatha groaned in frustration, throwing her napkin at Rio’s face. 

The crumpled napkin hit Rio in the face as she panicked. 

You took a knife and cut your burger as the two tops freaked out over sex toys. You were so hungry you weren’t super worried about it right now. 

“It’s not a big deal! We don’t need sex toys! We got fingers and mouths!” Rio says, and Agatha grinds her jaw. 

“Sex toys, as in you didn’t pack any! As in you didn’t pack the rope or I don’t know, after care pack?” That was what Agatha was really upset about. 

Rio gulped now, and you turned to look at your wife. 

Now she was in real trouble. You three lived a pretty kinky life style. You had specific aftercare things. It was one of Aggie’s rules that no kink scene could take place without proper aftercare. You loved it about your wife.

That didn’t mean you couldn’t get spanked in a bathroom in Ross for being a brat. Because that still happened a lot… 

But no care kit meant no kinky scenes….

Rio knew in this moment, that she’d fucked up. 

“I thought you we-” She scrambles for help. 

“No! We made a list! You read the list you were in charge of after care packs! You were in charge of sex toys! You were in charge of shampoo an-” Agatha realized in that moment that she didn’t have shampoo for this trick. 

“Can I start by throwing our younger wife under the bus by saying she was downloading music for hours? ” Rio tried for comedy and you shrieked with a mouth full of burger. 

“No, you cannot throw Bunny under because you were inept! Did you even read the list?” Agatha wasn’t a happy camper. 

“If I plead the fifth, can I maybe g-”

“You are so getting punished. And tomorrow you can drive three hours to the nearest town and buy us shampoo and conditioner. And I don’t know, fucking soap!” Agatha is peeved to say the least, but Rio is joking too much. And you know that she’s not taking this seriously, and that means it’ll only get worse. 

But you eat your burger. Part of being married to Agatha and Rio for the past ten years means you know when to join in and when to hang back. 

And you didn’t want or need to be in this fight. 

You three eat, and Agatha throws barbs at Rio every now and then, and Rio only makes it worse. 

Rio is stuck on dish duty as you go take a shower with no soap, just to get the lake water out of your hair a little. 

When you come back, Rio is in her boxers and baggy grey sleep shirt and she’s on the bed smoking a cigarette. 

Oh shit, this wasn’t good. 

“Forget it, I’m not doing it!” Agatha growled but didn’t look up from her book. 

Oh man, you wondered when this would come up. 

Rio always tried to get Agatha and you to go sleep in the tent the first night. She’d pack a tent and say just one night in the tent. 

Agatha did not sleep in tents.

Agatha was a tough mother fucker, she worked hard, she liked nice things. Agatha could tie you and suspend you in under five minutes. 

But Agatha liked bubble baths, soft plum colored cashmere sweaters, and a good cup of tea. You loved this about Aggie, you loved that after a long day of work you could crawl into Agatha’s lap in the study. Where she’d have a book and a steaming cupa. Where she’d play with your hair like you were her kitty curled up. Agatha was hard as nails to defend you and she’d proven time and time again that she was your protector.  

Rio on the other hand. 

Rio was just as smart and just as protective over you. But Rio was way more rough and tumble. Rio had grown up with a lot of brothers. Rio was way more likely to wear biker boots and a flannel. Rio listened to rock music and was obsessed with getting the slugs to leave your veggie garden alone.

Rio was thoughtful, keeping Agatha’s favorite flowers in the garden. 

Rio loved sex rough; she’d get this pent-up energy, and you two would end up wrestling. Somehow, it always ended with you naked, even if it didn’t start sexual.

Where Agatha liked to leave big bite marks, Rio liked to suck and give hickies. 

They were opposite sides of the same coin. 

Agatha was cool and calculated but had a slicing tone. Rio was loud and abrasive and spoke before she thought. 

The first time you ever went home to meet Rio’s family, they instantly loved you. Agatha would constantly get overstimulated, having grown up with a single mother who was cruel. 

Rio’s Abuela understood this, she loved Agatha and would often pull her off to the side away from the nine cousins and many brothers who tried to play with you and get you drunk. 

Rio and you always made sure Agatha didn’t get uncomfortable in these parties. Because they were a lot. But you could tell a lot about Rio from her large family.

Your home was the perfect mix of rainy sunday spent curled up on the sofa, talking. Rio and you had Friday horror movie nights, and Agatha rolled her eyes but spoke through the whole film. 

Agatha bought tickets to the Opera, and you had Thai food Wednesday dates. 

Rio was an early riser ,and you two went to endless greenhouses as Aggie slept in. 

They were opposites. 

Though Rio and Agatha had their own things too. 

You got out of work later than they did, which always bothered your wives. They texted you throughout the day, making sure you’d eaten the lunch Rio packed or drank the water bottle Agatha demanded you consume. 

Every night, you’d come home to see them playing Scrabble. Their weird thing. 

You don’t know why or how they’d started this.

But dirty words were double points, and on the fridge, they kept a scoreboard. Making wagers and sexual favors for whoever won. 

It was hilarious to come home to Rio shouting and Agatha sipping her wine in victory. Rio won too, but not as often. 

You’d come in to the smell of dinner waiting for you, they always waited no matter how late. 

And Rio was usually screaming at the top of her lungs. 

“YOUR FATHER WAS A HAMPSTER AND YOUR MOTHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES! YOU CUNT! THAT IS NOT A WORD! AND IT’S NOT ON A DOUBLE POINT SPACE!” 

Agatha would cackle her witch's laugh, and you knew Rio had lost again.

They argued about philosophy and weather or not a therapy technicuqe was sound. They’d talk about their patients, never names of course,  but questions for each other. It was like they got a kick out of each other’s brains, and you would quietly watch the two of them. 

Like they played their own game, and you were the only one who understood the rules. 

There were things that drove you all insane that each of you did. Rio refused to drink out of a glass for milk and juice. She always forgot to remembered to write food you were out of on the grocery list. You hadn’t ever put your socks in the hamper and never remembered to bring your to-go mugs in from your truck. Agatha had never, not once, thrown her tea bag out in the trash.  Always leaving it in the mug in the sink. And she left more hair in the drain then a yeti.

But you had your rules, house rules; like everyone in bed by ten pm no matter what. This was a hard rule for you and Rio.

You had your intimacy rules, Rio would get really upset if you and Agatha watched a documentary without her. Even though she slept through documentaries.

 Neither of them liked it if you didn’t text them that you got to work safely. Or if you left them on read for more than thirty minutes in fact.

You hated it when Agatha got angry and raised her voice, so Aggie had learned to keep her tone lower even in arguments with you. Because she understood it was a trauma point for you. She yelled at Rio who grew up in yelling and didn’t mind though. This didn’t bother you. 

You had your kink rules, no one choked Agatha, not ever. Rio loved using knives on you but did not like being tied up with rope at all. You didn’t usually top but Rio switched back and forth every now and then. You didn’t like queer slurs used in bed, and disliked being blindfolded, stuff like that. 

Agatha was a licensed Psychiatrist. 

Rio was a licensed Adolescent and Family Therapist. 

You taught service dogs and worked with people with varying disabilities. 

Which is how you’d all met. You’d started the organization, and met them at a conference. You three spoke on a panel for mental health.

You didn’t know each other. But the more each of you spoke, the more turned on by how fucking smart each of you were you all got.

Rio would always claim she was first.

But at the hotel, which was comped, you were at the bar with one of your free drink tokens. You were looking at the list of cocktails. 

It was really Agatha who walked up first.

“You know, the martini is actually very good.” 

You looked up to see her, her hair no longer up tight, but gorgeous and long around her shoulders. Her lipstick not as dark a red as it was on the panel.

“Good to know, but I’m not big on olives.” You say conversationaly, always unaware of a gorgeous woman hitting on you. But Agatha wasn’t deterred, and she found you adorable. You both sat at a table as you decided on a drink. But her company was so distracting that you didn’t order. 

You both talked for about twelve minutes (yes, it matters) before Rio came over.

“What are you two beautiful women doing here at the bar?” She teased, and Agatha arched an eyebrow. Unsure of who Rio was flirting with, but never one to lose. Agatha had decided she liked you, and she wouldn’t be going back to  her hotel room alone. If things went how she wanted, you’d both be spending a lot more than a night together.  

“Where else would we be, Doc?” You teased, fingers still holding the menu and Rio’s face lit up, enjoying your game. 

“Well, most people are at the pool.” Rio sat down at your table.

“I work with service animals for a living, if I wanted to swim in urine I’d go back to the kennel. Besides I didn’t bring a bathing suit, and this doesn’t seem like the place for skinny dipping.” You said and both Agatha and Rio’s eyebrows raised. 

They liked you. 

“Kinky girl, and perhaps we can skinny dip later, I didn’t see any signs against it.” Rio flirts back easy and Agatha is both turned on and frustrated by the Therapist. 

“Well, right now she’s picking a drink.” Agatha states like she was ‘here first’ and she wasn’t sure what Rio was doing, but she wasn’t getting the signs. 

“Oh, what are you having?” Rio asked and you eyed the list. Unaware of Rio and Agatha looking at each other.  

“Haven’t made up my mind.” You say not realizing they weren’t talking about drinks right now. 

“Let me choose one for you,” Rio states, doesn’t ask, but she eyes Agatha. 

“No, I’m sure she’s going to try a martini. They’re very good, even without olives.” Agatha’s eyes turn stern and full of seduction at Rio. You lick your lips still looking down, still unaware. 

“No, you have to try the Mexican Muel, it’s got tequila. Nothing is as good as tequila. Especially if we move this party over to the pool.”

Agatha chuckles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Rio licks her top lip and Agatha’s eyes fall down to it. But they both turn to look at you, wondering if you feel how hot it’s gotten at your table. 

Their eyes fall to your neck and cleavage. You tilt your head to the side and they both trail their gaze down your throat to the small bit of lacey bra peaking out to play with them. 

Agatha is the first to snap out of her hunger to speak, realizing no one had in a minute. 

“Tequilia  may be fun, but it’s not good long term. And everyone regrets it in the morning. A martini has class. It’s made for more than a good time.” 

Rio laughs now and Agatha smirks like she’s winning. 

You look up now and realize finally that the conversation is flirtatious. You don’t know people, not like the doctors at your table. 

But you knew animals. 

Rio’s eyes were dilated, and it wasn’t the drink. And she kept licking her lips like she had a juicy bone. 

Where as Agatha’s voice had dropped a level, she had a flush at the base of her neck. And she was playing with the stem of her glass like it had an erogenous zone. 

You understood now. 

They were flirting, you realized you were a third wheel here. That was a bummer, seeing as they were both gorgeous. You would have killed to be a fly on the wall of their hotel room tonight.  

“You know, I think I’ll go order that drink. You two have fun.” You say with a knowing expression but Agatha and Rio both grab your arms gently. 

“Where are you going?” Agatha’s voice cracks in panic. 

“You don’t want to go swimming?” Rio says ontop of Agatha.

You were half standing up and you realized you’d misread this situation. Much like you always did with people who were flirting with you. 

You slowly sat back down and the waiter came over and both Agatha and Rio were looking at you expectantly. 

“Do you know what you’d like to drink?”

They waited for you to decide and you thought about it for a moment.

Go big or go home, you figured. 

“I have two free drink chips, can I cash them both in now?” You asked him, not looking at either women. 

“Of course, you want both now?”

“Yes, I want both.” You said and your life was never the same. 

As for your job. You’d always had a thing for dogs. And you had what the person who trained you a decade and a half ago called “Alpha temperament.” Which you’d always thought was a fucking joke.

But Rio said it made ‘perfect sense’. Because when you walked into a room full of dogs, you were calm and assertive. 

All eyes were on yo,u waiting for a command.

You’d joked while tipsy that it didn’t transfer to the bedroom once at dinner, and Agatha snorted. Before feeding you a piece of her pasta off her fork. You bit it and she told you very flirtatiously in front of work friends;

“I think your wives would disagree, you always have our attention in the bedroom.”

You didn’t consider yourself the alpha of much of anything in life.

Agatha and Rio were the ones who grabbed your arm that evening at the bar. 

But you were in these times, an emotional power bottom for sure.

You knew you could fix this fight in a matter of sentences. But you felt like you shouldn’t have to.

Rio was being stubborn and waiting for Agatha to go pitch a fucking tent. So she was punishing her by smoking inside.

Agatha was sitting on the wooden kitchen chair. Her glasses were on as she pretended to read. You knew for a fact she wasn’t reading, her eyebrows said it all.

She was being passive aggressive, which was very scary on Agatha. 

Rio had taken out a pack of cigarettes. And was smoking inside, two things Aggie hated.

Rio had argued for the rule to be made that while we were camping, she was allowed such luxuries. Agatha didn’t agree, thus the tension. 

You stepped into the main room of the cabin and sighed. 

Eyeing Aggie and turning to the right and looking at Rio. The two of them were in a power play standoff.

You groaned and went outside, letting the old door slam behind you.

This was supposed to be fun. This was a vacation. 

It was so hard to get your schedules to match up for this. You had to train someone for the past two weeks to take over your main admin duties. And you knew a mess waited for you.

You went to the truck to find a pile of wood, and you reached into the glove box for your favorite lighter. 

Going out towards the river that connected to the lake. You set out to build a campfire for yourself.

It didn’t take five minutes for Rio to come find you.

She carried a folded chair, a tent, and marshmallows.

She threw the tent down and you reached out for her. She unfolded the chair and handed you the marshmallows, but you shook your head.

Rios' eyebrows raise,d and she looked over her shoulder to see if Aggie was there. Before taking the half-burnt American Spirit out of her mouth and handing it to you.

You sucked in enjoying the burn and taste of nicotine.

“Mi corazón! You tryin to get me in more trouble? Aye!” Rio teased, but you glared at her now.

“What’s that? Why are you mad at me?”

You didn’t like that. You never picked sides when they argued. And Agatha and Rio were always the voice of reason if you were mad at one of them. No one played sides, only love was there at the end of the day. 

“You couldn’t just apologize to Aggie? You had to push her buttons and make our first night all fucked up? Come on Papi! You just had to say sorry, and you wouldn’t be fighting!”

“We aren’t fighting!” Rio commented like it wasn’t her fault at all. You were getting angry now. 

“Rio, if we aren’t fighting, then why are none of us naked and making love right now under the stars?” 

Which was the plan all along.

You ask, and Rio huffs a breath and reaches for the cig. She thinks about this. 

She pats the folded chair for you, you get up, walk over to it and plop down. Not thank ing her and not leaving her.

Rio throws her cigarette into the fire. Before turning and building the tent.

You know Rio better than that. 

She’s not ignoring you, she’s asking you to sit with her while she thinks. While she processes this. Rio was a fucking shrink, of course she made mistakes, but she was nothing if not able to find a healthy way to deal with something. She was a king at looking at the bigger picture. 

Aggie had a bit more OCD, but it was way manageable. It’s what made her a great Psychiatrist, she saw it like a detective. Like a person was a puzzle and finding the right chemicals to help them were her cases. Agatha wanted people to find stability and safety. 

But she was a bit of a control freak and the OCD tendencies every now and then stopped her in her tracks. 

A random weekday Rio had broken one of Agatha’s favorite mugs and she didn’t know how to do her mornings. She didn’t get angry or complain, but you both noticed she didn’t know how to do her routine. 

It took two mornings before you and Rio talked about it. 

Rio and you dug the mug out from the outside trash bucket, found out who made it, and express-shipped a new one.

 Agatha needed structure and routine, no matter how much she pretended she didn’t.

And loving Agatha and Rio wasn’t in the big things. Not the gifts, expensive dinners, and nice clothes. It wasn’t even in camping trips and road trip playlists.

It was in the broken mugs and the intimacy of shared silence. 

You three took the time to really understand what each other needed to feel safe and loved. 

So you gave her the intimacy of shared space and waited for Rio to process and think this through. ‘Why was Rio doing this?’ ‘Why did she feel the need to pick at Agatha?’ ‘Why hadn’t Agatha reached out to solve this problem either?’ ‘Were people's boundaries crossed?’ 

You knew that these were the things Rio asked to check in with herself.

And you knew Rio would come to a decision on the best next steps shortly.

You reached over to Rio’s ass jean pocket and pulled out the pack, lighting another one. As you watched, Rios' body bend and flex as she easily put up the tent. Even in the quickly dimming light.

Only Rio didn’t get the cool-down time. A resolution didn’t happen.

Agatha came out in a blind rage.

“The fuck is that?” Agatha snapped, and you looked at Rio, and she cringed. Oh! You realized you were smoking. This wouldn’t end well for your ass cheeks. 

“Um-“ you start, and Agatha grabs it from your fingers and throws it into the fire. Before she walks over to Rio and grabs the pack you put back, tossing it in as well.

“Well, that’s not good, see it’s got plastic-“ Rio starts always the environmentalist, and Agatha is practically blue with anger. She’s past red, past the veins popping out of her neck and forehead.

“SO BOTH OF MY WIVES WANT LUNG CANCER NOW?!” Agatha fumes, and you stand up.

This was power bottom time. 

But she turned to you and held up her finger.

“No!” She snapped, and you bit your lip and sat back down. Agatha turned to Rio once more. 

“Tell you what! You want to sleep in a tent so badly? Sounds great! You sleep in the tent, in the cold, by your fucking self! I’ll keep our baby warm tonight!  Inside, without you! While punishing her for smoking a cigarette that Daddy brought!” Agatha snarls, and Rio actually looks absolutely frightened. 

You reach for the marshmallow bag, but Agatha is faster. She grabs you by your ponytail and leads you back to the cabin.

_________________________________

In the morning your ass is already deep purple from buises. And you wince and pull out from under Agatha’s body. Neither of you got much sleep, three in a bed was no longer a luxury but a necessity for sleep. 

You grimace at the cold floor but you pad over to the dufflebag and find a pair of Rio’s black loose boxers and Agatha’s dark heather crew neck. 

You don’t put shoes on as you pad outside to the tent. 

You try not to wake Rio up as you unzip the tent flap and you kneel onto the floor of the small canvas. 

But Rio’s awake and she’s got her arms behind her head to prop her up as she looks at you. 

“Morning Daddy.” You say and Rio gives you a sad smile. 

“Hey baby girl.”

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Nah, you?”

“An hour and a half. Pretty sure Agatha got less than that.”

“I was an idiot. I’m so sorry I ruined our first night of vacation. I should have apologized. Agatha was right, and I just..” Rio mused and then closed her eyes and breathed. 

You rolled onto your side on the floor and curled against her body. One of her arms immediately wrapped around your body. 

“Why did it upset you so much?” You asked the right question it seemed.

“You would have been a fantastic therapist.” Rio whispers in the early morning night. 

“Funny, Aggie always says I should have been a Psychatrist.”

“You are wicked smart, you could do either. You could do anything you want. We both believe that, anything you ever want, you can do. We believe in you, you know that right? There isn’t a thing we wouldn’t do for you.” Rio says and you turn and kiss her, used to her morning breath, marriage meant not caring. You missed her kisses last night. 

When you lean back you look into Rio’s eyes. 

“I know. But I’d hate dealing with people all the time. I like dogs, they tell you everything you need to know.” You say and Rio smirks, she liked watching you at work. You were in your element, it was clear to your wives that you were made for your line of work. 

“I think I got frustrated, I didn’t take my ADHD meds…and I didn’t want to tell either of you. So I was irritable and upset that I forgot our stuff. I could have been honest, but I was ashamed.” Rio admitted and you brushed the hair out of her eyes. 

“We love you, you don’t need to hide your mess ups. We love you no matter what, ok?” You tell her and Rio kisses your nose. 

“Let’s go make the apology breakfast of Aggies dreams.” Rio says and you chuckle.

____________________________________________________ 

When Agatha wakes up she panics, neither wife is in her bed. She’d been having a nightmare and neither of you were there. She’s sweaty and she quickly goes to the bathroom to splash water on her face. 

She looks up to see shampoo, conditioner, and face soap. Agatha smiles at the sight. 

When she opens the door you and Rio are laughing and she eyes you both. 

You turn in your seat to see her you get up and kiss Agatha’s cheek. Before taking your leave.

“Where are you going?” Agatha panics and Rio’s face says the same. 

“I am going to go for a quick dip. You two talk, then breakfast. I won’t go far.”

“Be careful!” Rio calls out, not loving you going swimming alone. But both of them could see you from the deck. 

You swim for around twenty minutes before you get out. 

You didn’t bring a towel and you are dripping wet in Rio’s boxers and no shirt. You left Aggies crew neck on the dock and quickly put it over your cold torso. 

You hear something in the distance and look back at the cabin. You can see Rio and Agatha holding each other from afar. So you decide it wouldn’t hurt to give them a few more minutes. 

So you go to investigate. 

You follow a small hiking trail head until you hear a whimper. 

Knowing for sure now it’s a dog. 

You walk faster worried that the animal is hurt. 

That’s when you meet her. 

She looked almost etherial in the morning light. 

You tilted your head to the side and put a hand out, not walking forward. Letting her come to you. 

She did, quickly too. And you pet her after she sniffed you enough. You bent down to see if she had a collar. 

“You lost gorgeous? Here with a family?” 

You spent the next thirty minutes walking with the dog, who didn’t need to be drug along. She seemed just happy to follow you. You didn’t see any other cabins, and no campers. 

Knowing that Rio and Agatha were probably worried about you now. It was time to head back. 

“Do me a favor, don’t jump on Agatha. She hates that, unless I do it and I’m naked. And if they let you in the cabin, you cannot under any circumstance eat Rio’s boots. She loves those things. They will say you can’t get up on the bed, but you can get up on the sofa with me. Because I run super cold. We’ll go to the vet tomorrow and see if you have a chip. If not, I think you and I should hang out, how does that sound” You ask as you walk with the sweet golden retriever. “You gotta follow those rules though. Because I don’t want to spend the night in the tent next.”

Her tail wags and she makes a quick detour, you stop and wait for her. 

She comes forward with a stick and you are all too happy to throw it as you walk back. 

“You know, I was a stray once too. And then these two pretty ladies found me.” You tell the dog who seems happy to rub against your leg every now and then. “I’ll tell you the story of how we fell in love while we walk ok?”

The dog listens to you, as you walk in the early morning of the woods. 

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ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ

ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ/ᴊɪɴx x ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ/ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ)

ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 4023 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ, ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ʏ/ɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢᴜɪᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴄʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴊɪɴx, ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇꜱᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟꜱ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴊɪɴx ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ɪɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴇɢʀᴇᴛꜱ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 || ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 || ᴘᴀʀᴛ 4 || ​ꜰɪɴᴀʟᴇ​

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊɪɴx/ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ | ʜᴀʟʟᴜᴄɪɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ

The sun was setting over the bustling streets of Zaun, the deep orange hues of dusk clashing with the smog that constantly clung to the city’s underbelly. Y/N had been sent on a task by Silco: retrieve the cargo from a ship that had docked near the outer docks. It was a simple job, or so it seemed.

However, things never went as planned.

By the time Y/N and her group arrived at the docks, the cargo was no longer theirs to take. Word had gotten out, and an opposing gang had already secured it. The air crackled with tension as weapons were drawn, and a vicious fight broke out.

The opposing gang had the upper hand at first, but Y/N was no stranger to fighting. Her agility and ruthless efficiency helped even the odds, but the fight was messy. She ducked under a swinging knife, slamming the hilt of her own weapon into her opponent’s stomach, sending him sprawling. But there was too much chaos, too many enemies.

A brutal exchange of gunfire erupted. Y/N’s group took cover behind crates and debris, but her pulse raced. Every moment felt like an eternity. Her sharp eyes locked onto the leader of the opposing gang, making her way through the fray with precision. A final clash between the two gangs left several dead and injured, but the cargo was still out of reach.

Barely standing and covered in bruises and blood from the fight, Y/N managed to rally what was left of her group. Retreating, she left the dock with no victory to claim, the cargo still slipping through her fingers.

When she finally returned to her factory, her boots clattered heavily against the cold concrete floor. The door creaked open, and she stumbled inside, her breath ragged, her body bruised and battered. The stench of blood was thick on her clothes as she wiped a smear of blood from her brow, and the harsh, fluorescent lights of the factory only made her injuries more evident.

The sound of metal clanking echoed through the factory as she limped toward the back, where Jinx was always tinkering away in her little workshop. There, surrounded by a mess of tools, gears, and parts, Jinx was lost in her work, humming softly to herself.

Y/N paused for a moment, watching her. Jinx looked up, her bright, manic eyes glinting with curiosity as she noticed the state Y/N was in.

"Woah, rough day?" Jinx's voice was playful, almost too carefree for the situation.

Y/N gave a tired smile, trying to hide how exhausted she truly was. "You could say that," she rasped, her voice hoarse from the fight.

Jinx's eyes widened when she noticed the blood, the bruises, and the cut along Y/N’s cheek. She hopped up from her workbench and rushed over, her face softening for a brief moment. "You're a mess, mom!" She grabbed a nearby cloth and began wiping the blood from her face, working quickly but gently.

"I couldn’t get the cargo," Y/N said, the words feeling heavier than they should. "Another gang beat us to it. Silco won't be happy."

Jinx paused, then gave Y/N a mischievous grin, her usual energy coming back. "Well, maybe we just need to find another way to make it fun, huh? You know, maybe blow something up along the way? That always makes things better!"

Y/N chuckled weakly, but the exhaustion was catching up. She leaned against the workbench as Jinx continued cleaning her up, wiping away the grime and blood.

"Next time," Y/N whispered, "we’ll make sure they don’t get the drop on us."

The hours dragged on in the factory, the air heavy with the hum of machines and the faint smell of oil. Y/N had just finished stitching up her last cut when the door slammed open, its harsh sound vibrating through the concrete walls. Silco stood in the doorway, his presence commanding and unmistakable, but his usual composed demeanor had been replaced with something raw. Anger. Concern. Fear, barely held in check.

Y/N froze at the sight of him. Her heart skipped a beat, and her hand faltered for a moment as she finished her work, the sting from the wounds a distant reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. She had seen Silco furious before, but this felt different. This wasn’t just about the failure—it was about her.

"Y/N!" His voice, rough with emotion, cut through the silence, sharp as a blade. "Where the hell have you been?" His gaze swept over her, noting the blood, the bruises, the way she stood, clearly exhausted and hurt. "I sent you on a simple job. Why the hell didn’t you report in? I thought... I thought something happened to you."

Y/N's chest tightened as she met his eyes, feeling the weight of the worry there. She hadn’t realized how much Silco could care about her safety—how much the uncertainty of her well-being might affect him. His words hit harder than anything she’d endured out in the field.

"I'm here," she muttered, trying to steady herself despite the exhaustion that clung to her like a second skin. "I’m fine, Silco. The cargo... another gang got to it first. We fought for it, but we lost. I couldn’t bring it back. I didn’t think you needed to hear it until I was back."

Silco’s gaze flickered between her and the bloodstains that marred the concrete floor. His jaw clenched as he processed her words, the rage simmering beneath the surface, but now tinged with something else. A flicker of relief? Worry? It was hard to tell, but there was no mistaking the tension in his posture.

"You didn’t think I’d need to hear it?" Silco’s voice was tight, frustration evident in every word. "I didn’t know if you were dead or alive. You didn’t check in, didn’t send a damn message... I was starting to think the worst."

Y/N’s heart sank, understanding now. This wasn’t about the job. It was about her. About Silco’s fear that she might not make it back. His anger faded slightly, replaced by something deeper, something she hadn’t expected to see from him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, the weight of her silence settling in. "I got caught up. I didn’t want to worry you, but I should’ve—"

Silco cut her off, his voice softening, but only slightly. "You should’ve reported in." He stepped closer, his dark eyes scanning her face, taking in the bruises, the cut along her cheek, the exhaustion that weighed on her like a thousand bricks. His hands were steady as he reached for her chin, gently tilting her head upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.

His thumb brushed lightly over the bruise on her cheek, the action tender in a way that sent a chill through her. "You think I don’t care about you?" His voice dropped to a near whisper, the words almost fragile in the stillness between them. "I don’t give a damn about the cargo if you’re not safe. Don’t make me lose you over some senseless fight."

Y/N swallowed hard, her chest tightening with the enormity of his words. She could feel the weight of his care pressing down on her, something she hadn’t realized she needed until that moment. Silco rarely showed this side of himself, but when he did, it was disarming. Vulnerable, in a way that made her want to reach out and steady him.

"I’ll be more careful," she promised, her voice hoarse from both the exhaustion and the gravity of their conversation. "Next time, I’ll make sure you know I’m alive."

Silco didn’t say anything for a long moment. His eyes remained locked on hers, the fire of his anger now a faint ember beneath a layer of something softer. He exhaled, the tension that had gripped him easing just a little as he studied her face, his thumb gently tracing the outline of the bruise on her cheek.

"Don’t make promises," he finally muttered, his voice low, the softness lingering in it. "Just don’t keep me in the dark next time."

Y/N nodded, her chest tight with something she couldn’t name, something between guilt and relief. She had never been in a position where Silco’s care for her had been so clear, so direct.

As the silence hung between them, Silco’s hand remained on her chin, his thumb brushing over her skin with a tenderness that sent a shiver down her spine. Then, in a rare moment of vulnerability, he pulled her close, his arms encircling her tightly, as though trying to keep the world—and his fear—at bay.

Y/N froze for a moment, shocked by the sudden closeness, but then she melted into him, her face pressed against his chest as he held her with an intensity that made her heart race. She could feel the steadiness of his breath, the rhythm of his heartbeat, grounding her in a way she didn’t expect.

"I would’ve hated for the last time we were alone to have been a fight," Silco murmured into her hair, his voice low and steady, but with an unmistakable edge of sincerity. "I’d never forgive myself if that was it."

Y/N nodded against him, the words settling deep inside her. This moment, this unexpected tenderness, was something she never expected from him. She had always seen Silco as a force, a man with an unyielding drive. But now, standing in his arms, she saw another side of him—the one that cared, fiercely, about her safety, about her life.

"I won’t let it happen again," she whispered back, her voice muffled against his chest, her heart steadying as she breathed in the scent of him. "I’ll always come back to you."

In that moment, the factory, the bruises, the chaos—they all seemed so far away.

The hideout was bathed in a dim, flickering light as the air hummed with tension. The chaos inside Jinx’s mind mirrored the storm outside. Her hands trembled as they clutched a broken toy in front of her, eyes wide and unfocused. Her breath came in shallow gasps, the voices swirling louder, more insistent. Her chest tightened as they pressed in, suffocating her.

"Jinx…" Mylo’s voice came first, soft and familiar, but it was twisted, distorted. "You always mess it up. You’re nothing without us…"

Her head jerked as if she could escape the voice, but it only seemed to grow stronger. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails digging into her skin.

Claggor's voice cut through, his tone like a distant memory. "It's your fault we're dead. You killed you You never could."

Jinx’s eyes darted around the room, trying to focus, trying to push away the overwhelming pressure of the hallucinations, but it was as if the walls themselves were closing in on her. Every shadow seemed to mock her, every sound turned into a distorted echo. She could hear the footsteps of those who had left her, could almost feel them standing just behind her.

Vander's voice came next, he deep, resonant voice, firm but filled with a sadness that gnawed at her. "You got them all killed. I looked after you. Took you in with welcome arms. And this is how you repay me. You are a monster"

"No!" Jinx cried out, pressing her hands against her ears, trying to block out the voices that circled her mind like vultures. "No, no, no, you’re wrong!" Her words were a desperate, frantic plea. Her breathing quickened, panic rising within her as tears began to spill down her cheeks.

And then, a figure stepped out of the shadows, her presence like a weight in the air. Jinx turned toward her, eyes wide and frantic. It was her sister, Vi. But something was different. Vi’s face was twisted in anger, eyes hard and unrecognizable. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her posture defensive, accusatory.

"Why didn’t you listen to me" Vi’s voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of the hallucinations. "I told you to stay home. And because of you, they're all dead!"

Jinx’s heart clenched in her chest. The image of her sister—the one person who could ground her—was slipping through her fingers, distorted, unreachable. "Vi, please… no. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want this. I’m sorry."

The hallucination of Vi stepped forward, her face hardening. "Sorry won’t fix anything. You’ve already ruined everything because you're just a JINX!"

"No!" Jinx screamed, falling to her knees, her hands clutching her head as if she could physically force the voices out. The word Jinx echoed around her, coming from every direction, distorting with cruel laughter. "Please, stop… Stop, stop, STOP!"

In the midst of the cacophony, Jinx’s breath hitched as she suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder—warm, steady. It was real. She could feel it. She turned, her tear-filled eyes meeting the concerned gaze of the one person who had vowed to always be there for her—her mother, Y/N, standing behind her.

"Jinx," Y/N’s voice was soft, grounding, like a lifeline in the storm. "Jinx, come on, Powder. I’m here."

The voices seemed to fade, the shadows retreating just slightly as Y/N’s presence pulled Jinx from the edge. The weight of the hallucinations still lingered, but they no longer pressed on her as suffocatingly as before.

Jinx looked up at her mother, her chest heaving, her body trembling with exhaustion and raw emotion. "I... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just… I just can’t stop it."

Y/N knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around Jinx and pulling her close. "There’s nothing wrong with you, Jinx. You’re not broken. You’ve been through so much, but you’re not alone in this fight. I’m right here, every step of the way."

Jinx buried her face in Y/N’s shoulder, tears streaming freely now, her body shaking with the weight of everything she had been holding in. "I’m scared, Mama. What if I can’t get better? What if I lose everyone again?"

Y/N tightened her hold on Jinx, kissing the top of her head softly. "You don’t have to do this alone, Jinx. You’re loved, just as you are. You always have been, and you always will be. I’m not going anywhere."

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Jinx let herself go, sobbing freely in her mother’s arms, the hallucinations no longer able to drown her in their cruel whispers. Y/N held her through it, knowing that this was just one battle in the war of her mind, but she would always be there to fight beside her.

The dim glow of The Last Drop cast long shadows across the room as Y/N and Sevika sat in a quiet corner, the clinking of glasses and murmur of patrons muffled by the thick walls. They had been talking for hours, the conversation drifting from one topic to the next, but there was an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, that the fragile peace she’d managed to build with Jinx was beginning to crack.

Sevika, ever the stoic presence, leaned back in her chair, her mismatched arms crossed over her chest, a half-empty bottle of something strong sitting between them. She had been a steady presence in their lives, a protector of sorts, even if her rough exterior sometimes hid that side of her. She wasn’t one to offer reassurances or sentimental words, but Y/N knew Sevika cared—her actions spoke louder than any words ever could.

"So," Y/N began, her voice softer than usual, her gaze drifting toward the door where Jinx had been last seen, the faint sound of her laughter—hollow, manic—still lingering in the back of Y/N’s mind. "I need to ask you something, Sevika."

Sevika raised an eyebrow, her expression unreadable. "What’s on your mind?"

Y/N hesitated, the weight of the words she was about to speak sinking deep into her chest. Her gaze flicked briefly to Jinx’s empty chair before returning to Sevika’s unwavering stare. "If anything were to happen to me…" She swallowed hard, the words thick in her throat. "I need you to look after Jinx."

Sevika’s eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise flashing across her face before it disappeared. She sat up straighter, her voice low and steady. "You’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Don’t talk like that."

"I know," Y/N replied, her voice barely above a whisper, the concern evident in her tone. "But if the worst does happen, I can’t have her alone. She… she’s not the same. Her mind is… slipping, Sevika. I’ve seen it. The voices. The paranoia. She’s starting to unravel, and I can’t protect her from everything. I know Silco will try to help in his own way, but I’m not blind to the fact that, when things get too heavy, he’ll likely retreat to his office, locked away from it all. Jinx… she’ll need someone to stay with her when that happens."

Sevika studied her for a long moment, a rare vulnerability showing in her gaze. She didn’t have to ask the details—Y/N knew Sevika understood the silent battle Jinx was fighting inside her own head. The manic episodes, the hallucinations, the overwhelming guilt that twisted her mind. Sevika had seen it too, though she was more pragmatic about it, never one to show much emotion toward Jinx’s spirals.

Finally, Sevika nodded, her voice gruff but sincere. "I’ll keep an eye on her. You have my word. I won’t let her fall apart alone."

Y/N felt a wave of relief wash over her, though it was bittersweet. "I know you can’t fix her, Sevika. But just… just be there for her. She needs someone who won’t run from her when things get too dark. Someone who won’t be scared of the mess she’s become. She needs stability."

"Don’t worry," Sevika replied with a grunt, though there was a softness to her tone now. "I’m not going anywhere, either. I’ll look after her. I promise."

Y/N gave a small, grateful smile, but it quickly faded as she glanced back toward the door, knowing Jinx was somewhere in the hideout, lost in her own world. "Thank you, Sevika. You’re one of the few people I trust with her. I just… I want her to have someone when I can’t be there anymore."

Sevika didn’t offer any more words, but the weight of the promise hung in the air between them. She wasn’t one to offer comforting words, but Y/N knew that Sevika’s loyalty was unwavering. If anything were to happen, Jinx would be in good hands, even if the road ahead was uncertain.

"I’ll take care of her," Sevika repeated, her tone final, as if sealing the promise between them.

Y/N nodded, a deep sense of relief washing over her, knowing that Jinx wouldn’t be alone, no matter what happened. She could only hope that, with Sevika's help, her blue-haired girl she sees as a daughter would find her way back from the darkness before it consumed her completely.

The sky was darkening as Y/N made her way to the bridge, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. The same bridge where so many lives had been lost all those years ago—where the rebellion had taken everything from them. And now, it seemed, history was repeating itself. The distant sounds of explosions and shouting told Y/N everything she needed to know: Jinx was causing chaos again — caught in her spiralling mind, tearing through anything in her path.

As Y/N reached the edge of the bridge, she saw her in the distance. Jinx was laughing maniacally, her wild eyes flicking back and forth between the people she was tormenting. It was as if she hadn’t even noticed the growing danger around her, the imminent threat of death on every side.

Y/N’s heart twisted in her chest, but she knew she had to act fast. She couldn’t lose her now—not like this. She dashed forward, her feet pounding against the old, cracked stone of the bridge, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to close the distance between herself and Jinx.

"Jinx!" she called, her voice cutting through the chaos. "You need to stop! Now!"

Jinx’s head snapped around, her manic smile widening as she saw her mother approaching. "Y/N!" she screamed, her voice high and twisted, filled with a mix of excitement and something darker, more desperate. "Come join the fun!"

Y/N’s heart sank as she saw the look in Jinx’s eyes. The girl she once knew—the one who had loved and trusted her—was slipping further away, lost to the madness that was consuming her. But Y/N wasn’t going to give up. Not now. Not when her daughter was so close to the edge.

Without thinking, Y/N lunged forward, dodging the debris and smoke as the sound of another explosion ripped through the air. She caught sight of Jinx as she stepped too close to the edge of the bridge, unaware that the blast from a nearby explosion was heading straight for her. Y/N’s instincts kicked in just as the ground beneath them shook, sending chunks of debris flying through the air.

"POWDER!" Y/N cried out, her voice barely audible over the roar of the explosion.

But it was too late.

Y/N acted on pure instinct, her body moving before her mind could catch up. She shoved Jinx roughly, throwing her out of the blast’s path, but the explosion was too powerful. Debris rained down on them, large chunks of metal and stone tearing through the air, and Y/N felt the crushing weight of the wreckage slam into her. She crumpled to the ground, gasping for air as she felt the sting of metal against her skin.

Jinx froze, her wide eyes locking onto her mother as the dust and smoke from the explosion began to settle. The sounds of the bridge and the chaos around them were drowned out by the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears. She blinked, unable to process what had just happened. Her mother, the only person who had ever truly protected her, was lying there, crushed beneath the debris.

Jinx’s mind seemed to fracture in that moment, her vision blurring as her world spun. Her heart pounded in her chest, and for the briefest moment, she saw her mother—Felicia—exactly as she had when Jinx had last seen her, dying in the same position, blood staining the cracked stone beneath her.

A flash of memory flooded her mind—the same bridge, the same loss. She had been just a child, hiding behind the wreckage, seeing her mother and father’s bodies sprawled across the ground, knowing they would never come back. And now, here she was again, staring at her mother—Y/N—pinned beneath the rubble, a cold realization settling in her chest.

“No… no, no!” Jinx screamed, her voice raw with panic. Her trembling hands reached out, desperately trying to clear the debris from her mother’s body, her heart racing with every inch of progress she made. The images of the past, of her parents’ deaths, of that devastating moment when she was left alone with no one to turn to, came crashing back in waves.

But there was no time to wallow in the memories. Y/N’s breathing was shallow, her body barely moving beneath the weight of the rubble. Jinx had no choice. She couldn’t lose her again—not like this.

“Come on, come on,” Jinx muttered to herself as she tore away the debris, her hands covered in dirt and blood, her mind racing. "You can’t— You can’t leave me too… I… I can’t do this alone."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jinx pulled the last of the wreckage away. She gasped when she saw Y/N’s face, pale and bloodied. Her hands shook as she touched her mother’s face, a sob tearing free from her throat.

“Mama!” Jinx cried, her voice breaking. "Please, don’t go. I can’t lose you."

"MAMA!"

[yeet-me-dad-dy]

The Arcane Ch 1 - Amber Eyes

Summary: You, an ancient vampire, doctor, and expert in blood, move to Piltover to continue your research, where you are introduced to Viktor, a young inventor with a mysterious blood disease and the spark of life. If anyone can cure Viktor of his mystery illness, it's you. And who would say no to a little bit of romance along the way?

Characters: Viktor x Male Reader (Doctor Raven)

Words: 2,357

Piltover, the City of Innovation. Shining towers, bustling, colorful streets, magnificent airships… The city was magnificent – a shining beacon to all who see it, a proud example of what people can do if they set aside their differences and work together toward one grand goal. The idyllic scene was tarnished only by the smog rising from the streets across the river. The Undercity, where Piltover’s outcasts were discarded and forgotten. A neon cesspool of poverty and disease, overlooked by Piltover’s benevolent governing body. You shook your head and stepped away from the cliff’s edge, back toward the road that would take you into the city proper. You didn’t want to be here, but your research demanded travel, and so here you found yourself, despite your own wishes.

The air here was crisp and clean, and you took in the sights, sounds, and smells as you traversed the busy streets. Freshly baked goods, citrus, flowers. People laughing, chatting, working, and, somewhere in the distance, the sound of music, drifting gently on the wind. You nabbed a nearby enforcer to help you with your map, and he kindly pointed you down a nearby alley. Your new residence was around here somewhere in this labyrinth of rainbow light, you just had to find it.

Professor Heimerdinger, who had been following your research for quite some time, had been the one to invite you to Piltover, and made sure you had proper lodgings. He also offered you a lab in the academy proper in which to conduct your research, which you had graciously accepted.

The offer did have a condition, though, as they always did. Heimerdinger had an assistant, a brilliant young inventor named Viktor, who was rather ill with a mysterious disease of the blood. He wanted you, the leading blood expert in quite literally the entire world, to become Viktor’s primary doctor. He assured you that it wouldn’t get in the way of your research and might, in fact, even help to further it. You certainly weren’t going to say no to studying someone with a mysterious blood disease, so you had accepted that task as well, with an appropriate amount bellyaching.

You finally found your apartment, which was relatively nearby the academy, and dropped your only two suitcases inside beside the door. It was easier to move around when you had fewer things to take with you, so you kept your wardrobe small and never bought anything you didn’t absolutely need to survive. You had a few pieces of equipment, as well. A microscope, some vials and slides, needles and syringes. You were a master of your craft, and could make do with very little. Besides, Heimerdinger had assured you that the lab was already outfitted with all the furniture and equipment you would need.

And indeed it was. A large octagonal room with dark blue and grey walls awaited you at the top of one of the academy’s towers. A long metal workbench spanned three of the walls, there was plenty of storage – both shelving and drawers – and a huge chalkboard took up the entire left wall. A ladder sat propped up against it, set on rollers and reaching all the way to the ceiling. You would need it to reach the highest parts of the board, and you were certain that each and every inch of it would end up covered in your scribblings eventually.

You drew closed the curtains, covering the large windows on each wall behind the workbench and blocking out the sun. Then, you got to work sorting through the equipment that had been provided to you. Someone must have seen you enter the building and alerted the professor, because after only a few minutes in your new workspace, there came a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you called.

You turned as the door opened with a hiss and Heimerdinger trundled into your lab, followed closely by a skinny young man with a cane. He caught your attention immediately, and it was him you were focused on as you greeted Heimerdinger. You noticed his eyes first, bright gold and shimmering with life. He noticed you in return, his gaze raking up and down your body as you knelt down to shake the professor’s hand. You and he shook as well, when the professor finally remembered to introduce you.

“Doctor Raven is a brilliant scientist, Viktor. If anyone can help you, I know he can!”

High praise from Heimerdinger, but it wasn’t flattery. He was right. If anyone could solve the mystery of Viktor’s blood, it was you.

“Now, if you two will excuse me, I have to prepare for a council meeting.”

He made his way out with a skip in his step, leaving you alone rather abruptly with your newest patient.

“Interesting fellow, the professor…” you smiled at Viktor.

He smirked and hobbled over to the nearest chair, where he plopped down to take the weight off of his bad leg.

“I’m not sure ‘interesting’ really covers it,” he chuckled.

You watched him prop his cane up beside him and rest forward with his elbows on his thighs.

“I’m sure he wanted us to get started immediately, but I haven’t even sorted through this equipment yet,” you told Viktor.

“I can help,” he offered brightly.

You regarded him curiously.

“If you want to, I certainly won’t say no to an extra hand. I need to find the needles and syringes, the centrifuge, and the microscope first.” You glanced around at all of the gear laid out on the workbench. “There are machines here that I’ve never seen before, let alone know to use...”

Viktor pushed himself to his feet and moved to stand next to you. He picked up a small, cylindrical device and turned it over in his hand leaning his hip heavily against the edge of the table.

“I doubt you’ll use most of this,” he said.

“Then I’ll need a place to store it so it’s not in the way… Those drawers there will do for now.” You gestured with your head to a set of deep drawers beneath the rightmost workbench. “I imagine you know what most of this stuff does. If you find something that you don’t think I’ll need, just chuck it in a drawer.”

You turned your back to him, working your way across the room to a glass case encrusted with frost that you assumed was a miniature refrigerator of some kind. It was his turn to regard you, and he did so with just as much curiosity as you’d given him.

“What exactly is your research, Doctor, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You flipped through one of the newest issues of a medical journal that had been left for you.

“I’m trying to dilute my own blood while still maintaining its restorative properties in order to create medications for a range of different ills without the patient perishing.”

The answer came out sounding more rehearsed than you meant for it to. Probably because it was rehearsed.

“Dilute your own blood?” Viktor asked. “Restorative properties? I’m not sure I understand. Your blood is special somehow?”

You turned your attention away from the rectangular machine with pointy arms that you had been studying and toward Viktor.

“Heimerdinger didn’t tell you?” you asked.

A crease appeared between Viktor brows.

“Tell me what?”

You sighed. You found it was more trouble to hide your true nature than to be open about what you were, but you were at least hoping that Heimerdinger would warn Viktor ahead of time.

“I’m a vampire, Viktor,” you said plainly. “I understand if you’re not comfortable with a vampire being your doctor, I can talk to the professor-”

“It’s not a problem,” he interrupted you.

“No?”

You were surprised. Most people who found out abhorred you.

“No,” he reassured you. “It doesn’t bother me. Though, I am surprised. I thought your kind went extinct four-hundred years ago.”

You frowned and cast your gaze downward.

“I’m the last,” you said with a sad smile.

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

You composed yourself and offered him another, much brighter smile.

“The Blood War was a long time ago,” you said. “I grieved for many years, but finally accepted that I’m all that’s left and moved on. That’s when I started my research. After it had caused so much pain, I wanted to find a way to use vampire blood for something good. To help people.”

“A noble cause,” he said softly.

“I like to think so,” you chuckled.

You asked Viktor about his medical history while the two of you got your lab in order. He explained that he’d been to many doctors over the years, and they’d all come to the same conclusion. Something was wrong with his blood, but they couldn’t tell him what. No one could. It was the Great Mystery.

“Did they even give you a hint?” you asked.

“Something about toxins or a mutation of the red blood cells.”

“Those are two very different things.”

He shrugged.

“And when they realized they didn’t know how to help you, they just… gave up?”

“Mmhmm. I was told I should find a specialist.”

You nodded, dumbfounded.

“Well… It may have taken a while, but I suppose you did find a specialist.

“And a good thing, too,” Viktor chuckled and slumped back in his chair.

It was then that you realized just how tired he looked. How pale. How sick.

“And your leg?” you asked him.

He sighed.

“I was born with bones twisted and bent. This is one problem that you won’t be able to solve, Doctor. You just focus on the blood.”

He didn’t believe that you would be able to cure his blood disease either, but he didn’t say it aloud. He was interested in your research, and, by being your patient, he was in the perfect position to learn everything that you were willing to teach him.

He stayed in your lab with you for hours, helping you get everything set up just how you wanted and teaching you about any machines you didn’t recognize that you may be able to benefit from. When you finally checked the time, it was late in the evening.

You sighed and swore under your breath.

“Everything alright?” he asked as he slid the last of the medical textbooks onto a shelf.

“It’s late,” you said. “And you haven’t eaten. You must be starving.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t have much of an appetite.”

You frowned.

“As your doctor, I must insist that you have something to eat tonight.”

“Already pulling the ‘doctor’ card, huh?” he smirked.

“If I must,” you smiled.

He studied your face for a moment, then sized you up thoughtfully.

“Fine. There is a restaurant not far from here. I will show you around a bit, but you’re paying.”

“I don’t have a carriage, Viktor,” you reminded him.

He was already on his way out the door.

“I could use a walk,” he said. “It’s close, and it’s good to stretch my legs.”

He knew his body better than you, so you didn’t argue. You followed him out of the academy, back toward your apartment, and he told you all about the shops and buildings that you passed on your way there. The restaurant, when you finally came to it, was more of a cafe, built halfway between home and work, placed for the convenience of academy students. It was cozy, decorated with vibrant colors and soft lighting, like much of Piltover. The waitress greeted Viktor like an old friend, beaming when she saw him come in. He didn’t give her much attention in return. He also didn’t eat much, preferring to pick at his food rather than actually put it in his mouth. You did get him to drink some water, though he did so begrudgingly.

“What do you eat, Doctor?” he asked when you didn’t order.

“Do I really need to answer that?” you asked, brow raised.

He chuckled and nibbled a french fry.

“I’m curious. Most information on vampires was destroyed after the war, and what remains is up for debate. Am I wrong for wanting information directly from a reliable source?”

What a cheeky little fucker, you thought.

“I drink blood,” you confirmed, watching him through red eyes while he gazed back through gold.

“Human?”

“Anything I can get my hands on. But, yes, human is preferable.”

He considered that for a moment.

“Would you eat someone like Heimerdinger?”

“What, an eccentric?” you chuckled.

“That’s not what I meant,” he smiled.

“A yordle, you mean.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I can drink the blood of yordles. The fur does get in the way, though.”

“Would you drink from me?”

You smirked.

“Why? Are you offering?”

He shrugged and offered his own sly smile.

“Just wondering.”

He was very curious to know how exactly that worked. Would you take a sample with needle and vial, or drink directly from the vein?

When it was clear he wasn’t going to eat anymore, you offered to escort him home. He politely declined, saying that there was more to do at the academy.

“Heimerdinger always paperwork that needs sorting,” he said.

“Then we’ll walk back together. I’d like to get my notes organized and ready for tomorrow.”

“Will we start tomorrow?”

“I’ll draw some blood and give you a once-over, at the very least,” you replied.

You said your goodnights in the elevator, where he stopped on the floor that held the professor’s office, and you continued up to the very top. You pulled open the curtains and gazed out over the city with a sigh. New life. Same research. But this time, perhaps, with the help of your new patient, you would arrive at conclusions that you hadn’t even considered before. This time, perhaps, you would stumble upon a breakthrough. You pulled your notebook from your bag, settled back in one of the rolling chairs with it, propped your feet propped up on the worktable, and settled in for a long night.

This was Piltover, the City of Innovation, and you had work to do.

[whitewolfluvr]

ch1 Sealed with a kiss (jayvik x reader)

Summary:

After months at the Late Latte Cafe, your routine had become predictable—making coffee, jotting orders, and chatting with customers. You never imagined two of those customers were the brightest minds at the academy—or that they’d become your friends. Jayce’s booming laugh and easy charm made him impossible to miss, while Viktor’s quiet wit and sharp focus drew you in more subtly. Simple interactions grew into saved tables, shared jokes, and conversations you looked forward to more than you’d admit. Soon, it wasn’t just friendship. Every glance, touch, and late-night talk felt charged, like something unspoken was waiting to surface. And part of you didn’t want it to stop.

The undercity was always shrouded in a haze of gray, a suffocating mix of smog and shadows that seemed to cling to every surface. The streets were a labyrinth of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings, their foundations long eroded by neglect and desperation. This was where you grew up, where survival wasn’t guaranteed, and every step was taken with caution.

You remembered waking up to the hum of machinery, the clanging of metal echoing through the thin walls of what you called your apartment. It wasn’t much but it was home and that was all you needed. The air always smelled of oil, rust and another more distinct smell, one that you couldn’t put a name to but a scent you’d grown used to nonetheless. Now that you thought about it, it was most likely the smell of the smog. The one bane of your existence and the thing that set you back as soon as you came out the womb much like many other Zaunites.

The only Zaunites that weren’t set back as much by the smog were the rich ones and Janna knows you weren’t one of those. Your pathetic ragged clothes and constant dirt on your face were clear distinctions of your socioeconomic status and you were certainly not rich at all.

Your father worked in the factories, his hands constantly stained with grease and exhaustion. He always came home late, carrying the weight of the day on his slumped shoulders, but he’d still manage to put on a tired smile when he saw you.

“How’s my little Zaunite scholar?” he’d ask, his voice tinged with pride. He was a very proud Zaunite and although you never understood why you knew his pride in Zaun wasn’t entirely unaccounted for. Zaun did accomplish many things and through the danger of living here the people still survived and even sometimes thrived.

You’d show him the notes you’d scribbled on scraps of paper, equations and ideas you barely understood but wanted to learn. He’d ruffle your hair, tell you that you were destined for more than this place, that you’d make it out one day. His belief in you was unwavering, even when you doubted yourself.

The undercity was harsh, but it taught you resilience. You learned how to navigate its dangers, how to keep your head down while quietly dreaming of a life beyond the grime and shadows. The undercity wasn’t just a place; it was a state of mind, a constant reminder of where you came from and how far you wanted to go.

You’d learned early on to read people, to gauge intent in a glance or a gesture. It was a skill that had kept you safe, but also one that made you hyper-aware of the divide between those who thrived in the undercity and those who merely survived. For you, survival had always been about keeping your head down, staying out of trouble, and planning for a future that felt impossibly far away.

When the opportunity came to attend the academy in Piltover, it felt like a lifeline. Your father had worked tirelessly to make it happen, sacrificing more than you’d ever know to give you a chance at something better. The day you left, he’d hugged you tightly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re going to make me proud, kid,” he’d said, and those words were the last he’d ever said to you before he passed away in your first year at the Academy.

Now, as you stood behind the counter at the Late Latte Cafe, the memories of the undercity felt like a distant echo, though they were never far from your mind. The warm, golden light streaming through the windows and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee were a stark contrast to the world you’d left behind. Here, the hum of espresso machines and the murmur of conversation were your new soundtrack, a soothing rhythm that brought a sense of normalcy to your days.

The door chimed softly, pulling you from your thoughts. A pair of customers walked in, their presence commanding attention even before they reached the counter. As you looked at them you felt a sense of DeJa’Vu as though you’d seen them someplace, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

One of them was tall and broad-shouldered, his confident stride and easy smile making him hard to ignore. The other was leaner, his movements measured and deliberate, a sharpness in his gaze that seemed to take in everything at once.

“What can I get for you?” you asked, your voice steady despite the slight flutter of nerves their presence brought.

The taller one spoke first, his tone warm and friendly. “Two Americanos please. Busy day ahead.”

The other simply nodded, his attention briefly flickering to the menu before settling back on you. There was something about the way he looked at you, as if he were trying to read through you, into your soul.

You prepared their order quickly, handing them the cups with a practiced smile. “Good luck with your day,” you said, and they both offered brief thanks before heading to a table by the window.

It was a fleeting interaction, one that lasted only moments, but it lingered in your mind long after they’d sat down. Something about them felt different, though you couldn’t quite place why. Shaking off the thought, you turned your attention back to the counter, wiping it down as the morning rush began to pick up.

Later, as you sat in the quiet of your shared apartment, the day’s events replayed in your mind. You should have been focusing on your biology project for university, the one that had been looming over you for weeks. Instead, your thoughts kept drifting back to the two customers, their presence as vivid in your memory as it had been in the cafe.

The undercity had taught you to read people, to notice the small details that others might miss. And something about those two told you they weren’t just ordinary patrons. You pushed the thought aside, opening your laptop and forcing yourself to concentrate on the work in front of you. There were deadlines to meet, goals to achieve, and you weren’t about to let anything distract you from the future you’d worked so hard to build.

Still, as your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the images of their faces flashed in your mind—the warmth in one’s smile, the intensity in the other’s gaze. You shook your head, trying to focus. You couldn’t afford distractions, not now. But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if that brief encounter was the start of something more significant. For now, though, all you could do was wait and see.

guys pls dont shit on this its my first jayvik fic and i promise chapters will get longer they wont stay short omg TwT

[nhmkhnh]

consume.

pairings: vi x fem!reader

preface: the love vi had for you never truly left, but the pain of losing you lingered in the corners of her soul, haunting her every step.

author's note: alright i broke my own promise not to post angst here, heh.

wrn: lowercase, angsty with a happy ending.

masterlist / janitor ai / c.ai / carrd

♫ consume - chase alantic [slowed].

"can't feel nothing"

it’s 2am. the kind of hour where even zaun goes quiet. vi’s sitting on the floor of her apartment, back against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. she hasn’t touched the light switch in hours. just the dim glow of the neon outside seeping through the cracked blinds. her gauntlets lie discarded at the door, like even they gave up on her.

there’s a bottle in her hand. something strong. strong enough to burn, but not enough to make her forget.

not enough to forget you.

vi drags in a breath, then lets it go slow, like she’s trying not to fall apart on the exhale. she stares at the ceiling, jaw tight. her voice is hoarse when she says it aloud, like it matters. like you can still hear her.

“you really left, huh.”

you did. days ago. and she didn’t stop you.

she should’ve run after you. should’ve begged. screamed. something. but all she did was clench her fists and watch your silhouette disappear into the smog. all she did was swallow the pain like it didn’t gut her. she thought she could take it. tank it. that you’d come back. that you'd miss her too much to stay away.

but you didn’t. not even a message. not even a look back.

her phone’s still beside her on the floor, screen cracked from being thrown against the wall the night you left. the picture’s still set to you. a moment from some forgotten summer — you laughing in the sunlight, hair tangled in the wind, looking at her like she was worth something.

vi can’t look at it for more than a second.

the worst part isn’t the silence.

it’s that the silence is starting to feel normal.

that the absence of your voice in her kitchen, your laugh echoing off her walls, your soft goodnights and messy handwriting on sticky notes — all of it — is becoming something she’s getting used to.

and she hates it. hates that she’s learning how to function without you. hates that she can walk to work and buy groceries and breathe without you, even if every second of it feels wrong. feels empty.

she tips the bottle back again. it doesn’t help.

you once told her she was addicted to the idea of destruction — always fighting, always pushing, always ready to burn something down before it could hurt her.

you were right. she burned you down.

and now there’s nothing left but ash in her throat and your name in the ruins.

“i don't feel alive”

the first time vi goes back to the club where you met, it’s by accident.

she didn’t mean to walk in. just wanted a drink. somewhere loud. somewhere dark. somewhere no one would ask how she’s doing because they already know the answer. and she’s tired of people looking at her with pity like she’s not the one who did the leaving, even if you were the one who walked away.

but the second she steps in, the bass hits her chest and so does the memory.

you — spinning in the strobe lights, smiling at her like you’d seen straight through the hard shell she wore and liked what was underneath. you, grabbing her wrist and pulling her into the crowd like she belonged there, with you. you, yelling your name into her ear, laughing at something she said, kissing her with sticky lip gloss and soft urgency and hope.

vi shuts her eyes, but that only makes it worse. now she can hear your laugh in the chorus. smell your perfume in the air. taste the memory of that night on her tongue like cheap whiskey and regret.

she downs her drink in one go.

two more and she’s not thinking anymore. she’s acting. moving. drowning.

there’s someone dancing too close — hands where they shouldn’t be. but she doesn’t flinch. doesn’t pull away. lets them touch her. lets them lean in and whisper, “you’re gorgeous,” like that’s all it takes to get under her skin.

it used to be. before you.

she kisses them in the back hallway. it’s sloppy. meaningless. a mess of heat and nothingness. they moan against her mouth, and for a second — just one brutal, godless second — she lets herself pretend.

pretend it’s you.

but the taste is wrong. the shape of their mouth is wrong. their hands are too cold. their voice is too high. and when she opens her eyes, she sees your ghost looking back at her, devastated.

she pushes them away. hard. mumbles an apology that barely makes it past her dry throat and stumbles out into the night like she’s being chased.

the alley’s empty. her head’s spinning. her chest is a vacuum.

vi slides down the brick wall and just sits. her hands are shaking. her jaw clenches, unclenches. there’s something thick in her throat and she doesn’t know if it’s rage or grief or the scream she’s been swallowing for days.

maybe all three.

“what the fuck did i just do?”

she knows the answer.

she was trying to fill the space you left.

but nothing fits. no one feels like you.

and the more she tries to replace you, the less human she feels.

like she’s just a shell of the girl you once held in your arms, desperately trying to convince herself she’s still worthy of being touched.

but the truth is brutal.

she doesn’t feel alive anymore.

not without you.

“mornings without you”

the worst part of the day used to be the fights. now, it’s the mornings.

the sun rises like it always does, stupid and golden and soft — like it’s trying to be gentle. like it doesn’t know. like it doesn’t remember the way your silhouette used to fill that side of the bed, tangled in sheets and dreams and vi’s arms.

now it’s just cold. the pillow still dipped where your head used to rest. still smells like you sometimes, if she doesn’t wash the covers too often. she tells herself that’s why she hasn’t done laundry. not because she’s clinging. not because she misses you. not because she lays awake at night, fingers brushing the air where you used to be.

she gets up like she’s on autopilot. same routine. same silence. same ache.

brushes her teeth, but doesn’t look in the mirror. she hasn’t in days. doesn’t want to see the dark circles or the way her eyes look like they belong to someone else — someone older. someone who let the best thing that ever happened to her walk away.

there’s a mug you left behind. pale blue, chipped at the rim. you used to say it was your favorite because it felt like “home.” vi pours coffee into it like she always did for you. sets it across from her at the kitchen table out of habit.

and then just… stares at it.

like it might warm itself in your hands again.

like you might stumble in half-asleep, wearing her shirt, grumbling about the draft and asking why she’s up so early when it’s a sunday. like it’s not all gone. like it’s not her fault.

she reaches for her phone. checks it.

nothing.

no message. no missed call. no sign that you’re thinking about her the way she’s thinking about you.

she could send something. just one line. just your name.

but what would she say? "i’m sorry?" too late. "i miss you?" you already know. "come home?" it’s not your home anymore.

the phone shakes in her hand. she almost types it anyway.

but instead, she locks the screen. face blank. breathing shallow.

she finishes her coffee in silence.

when she leaves the apartment, she turns off the lights, locks the door, and pretends she’s not carrying you in every step she takes.

because the world doesn’t stop just because she did.

and mornings come whether she wants them to or not.

“your ghost lives here”

zaun isn’t that big. not really. not when you’re trying to outrun memories.

vi keeps her head down, hoodie up. she tells herself she’s just passing through. that she’s not looking for anything. not retracing steps. not hoping she’ll see a flash of you in the crowd.

but her feet know better. they always lead her back to you.

that little café under the rusted staircase — the one where you dragged her inside during a thunderstorm and made her try “real tea” like a piltover girl. that alley where you once kissed her against the bricks, giggling into her mouth because you’d just stolen a bottle of wine and she was drunk on you. that busted neon sign where she made you promise you weren’t going anywhere.

lie after lie after lie.

she walks faster. doesn’t help. the city’s a mausoleum now. and everywhere she turns, your ghost’s waiting.

there’s a busker playing something soft on a broken synth and it sounds just like that song you used to hum when you were washing dishes. vi freezes. just for a second.

then keeps walking. jaw clenched so hard it hurts.

she sees a girl across the street with your hair. same walk. same way of holding her phone in both hands like it’s the most fragile thing in the world.

vi nearly calls out your name.

stops herself just in time.

it’s not you. of course it’s not.

you’re not here. you don’t haunt this place the way she does.

she ducks into a shadowed corner and leans against the wall like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. her lungs hurt. or maybe that’s her heart. she can’t tell anymore.

people pass by. life goes on. like she didn’t lose everything right here, on this pavement.

she hates this city. hates that it remembers you even if you’ve forgotten her.

but she can’t leave. because what if you come back?

what if one day you miss her enough to find your way home?

she knows it’s pathetic. that you’re probably fine. probably laughing. living. maybe even in someone else’s arms by now. someone who knows how to love you the right way. someone who didn’t fuck it all up.

vi digs her nails into her palms, hard enough to leave marks.

because all she has left is the echo of you in her ribcage and the sound of her own breathing in the dark.

you’re gone.

but your ghost?

your ghost never left.

“i didn't mean to let you go”

vi never planned to call.

she knew better.

but the ache gets loud sometimes. especially around 2 a.m., when the city’s quiet and she can hear herself think — and thinking is the last thing she wants to do.

she scrolls to your name without meaning to. it's still pinned. still got that stupid little heart emoji you put there when you stole her phone and said, “now you’ll never miss me.”

joke’s on her. she misses you every second.

she doesn’t hit call. not at first. just stares. thumb hovering. waiting for common sense to kick in.

it doesn’t.

the line rings once. twice. then voicemail.

your voice fills her ear. too bright. too soft. too gone.

“hi, you’ve reached—” she closes her eyes. bites her lip. waits for the beep.

then starts talking.

“hey. i’m not— i wasn’t gonna do this. i just…”

silence. deep breath.

“i saw someone today. they smiled like you. hurt like hell. thought you should know.”

another beat. her voice drops, rough around the edges.

“i miss you. i mean… fuck, of course i do. that’s not news. i just— i keep trying to be okay, you know? i’m doing the things. gym. work. sleeping, kind of. smiling when people ask. but none of it works.”

her laugh is broken glass.

“i keep expecting you to walk in. to say you were just pissed. that you didn’t mean it. that we’re still us.” “but you’re not here. and i don’t think you’re coming back.”

the silence stretches. she swallows hard.

“i didn’t mean to let you go. i thought… i thought i was doing the right thing. giving you space. not dragging you down. i didn’t realize that space meant ‘forever.’” “if you hear this — don’t call me. not if it’s just to say you’re doing fine. i don’t think i could take that. i just wanted you to know…”

her breath catches. there’s that raw edge now. the part of her voice that’s all fight or fall.

“i loved you more than i’ve ever loved anything. and i’m sorry i didn’t say it loud enough when i had the chance.”

click.

she doesn’t save the message. doesn’t send it.

just stares at the screen, tears drying on her cheeks, wondering if the universe will somehow deliver the words without her help.

it doesn’t.

you’ll never hear it.

and she’ll never stop wishing you would.

“you promised”

she throws the picture frame before she even knows what she’s doing.

it shatters against the wall. glass, splinters, the sound of something breaking that isn’t her heart for once.

but it doesn’t make her feel better.

nothing does.

she’s pacing the apartment like a caged animal. like if she moves fast enough, she can outrun what’s gnawing at her chest.

your fucking perfume still clings to her hoodie. she smells it when she breathes too deep and it burns.

she rips it off. throws it too. it lands in the corner next to the box of your stuff she’s never managed to throw out. she kicks it. the lid pops open. one of your notebooks spills out, pages creased and smudged with your stupid little hearts in the margins.

she wants to set the whole thing on fire.

but instead, she sinks to the floor, head in her hands, fists clenched so hard her knuckles go white.

“you promised,” she whispers.

then louder. again. and again.

“you promised.”

she punches the floor. once. twice. the pain shoots up her arm but she doesn’t care.

“you said you weren’t going anywhere. you looked me in the eyes and said that. you fucking liar.”

she’s not crying — not exactly. it’s worse than that. her face is dry but her voice is soaked in it. like she’s choking on everything she never got to say. everything you didn’t stay long enough to hear.

“what was it all for, huh? all that shit we went through? i fought for us. i bled for us. i would’ve taken a bullet for you and you just… left.”

the silence after is deafening. like the walls are listening. like the city is holding its breath.

she crawls over to the photo on the floor. picks it up.

it’s cracked now. your smile split right down the middle.

she stares at it, eyes wide, chest heaving.

“you ruined me,” she says, quiet now. “and i’d still take you back.”

that’s the part that breaks her. the truth of it. the raw, pathetic, real truth.

you could knock on the door right now and she’d forget every scream, every sob, every shattered piece of herself — if it meant she could hold you again.

but you won’t.

you’re not coming back.

and she’s the one who has to live with that.

“sits where you used to smile”

it’s just a bench.

cracked paint. rusted arms. a view of the old canal that doesn’t sparkle like it used to.

but it was your favorite.

vi remembers the first time you brought her here. said you liked how quiet it was. how the city felt far away, even though it wasn’t. you told her this was where you came to breathe.

she didn’t get it then.

she does now.

she’s been sitting here for hours. no music. no distractions. just the sound of the wind brushing the water and the ghosts in her chest.

you used to bring sunflower seeds in your pocket. make her guess the flavor with your eyes closed. you’d talk about the dumbest shit — cloud shapes, book endings, what you’d name your dog if you ever got one.

vi never cared about any of it. not until she lost you. now she’d sell her soul to hear you ramble about dog names again.

she sits where you used to smile. same angle. same slouch. same spot you leaned against when you kissed her like she was something soft.

now she just sits there alone.

she presses a hand against the worn wood beside her, where your leg used to be. where your warmth once bled into hers.

it's cold.

vi closes her eyes.

she imagines you sitting next to her. turning your face to the sun. nudging her knee with yours.

she imagines leaning her head on your shoulder and you letting her. imagine you saying, “i missed you.”

she imagines it so hard her throat aches with it.

but when she opens her eyes, it’s just her again. her and a dying sky and a city that doesn’t care she’s breaking.

she doesn’t cry. not this time.

just sits. still. quiet.

maybe if she stays long enough, the wind will carry your voice back to her.

maybe if she breathes slow enough, she’ll remember what your laugh sounded like.

maybe this bench can love her like you used to.

“in my dreams, you still love me”

vi’s not a heavy sleeper these days.

too many nights tangled in sweat-soaked sheets, heart pounding, brain chasing things that aren’t there anymore.

but tonight?

tonight you’re there.

you’re there.

she doesn’t remember how it starts — just that she’s suddenly holding your hand. you’re laughing. god, your laugh. she forgot how it sounded in real life. but here, it’s perfect. you’re wearing that hoodie she liked to steal from her, the one way too big, sleeves past your hands. you're looking at her like you never stopped.

like you never left.

“told you i’d come back,” you whisper.

vi’s whole body shudders.

she cups your face like it’s glass, thumbs sweeping under your eyes like she’s memorizing you. she’s crying — she knows that — but she doesn’t care. she pulls you in, breath hitching.

“please don’t go,” she begs.

you smile at her. so soft. so damn gentle.

“i never left.”

you kiss her.

and it’s everything she remembers and more.

warmth. safety. that ache in her chest that only ever quieted when your hands were on her.

she buries herself in you. holds you like the world’s about to end.

because somewhere, deep in her, she knows it’s not real.

and sure enough—

her eyes snap open.

dark room. cold sheets. empty bed.

her chest caves in.

she sits up fast, hand on her mouth like she can shove the sobs back in before they start.

“fuck—”

it all crashes down. the dream. the feel of your lips. the sound of your voice.

gone.

it was all gone.

she folds in half, forehead to knees, shaking so hard the mattress creaks beneath her.

it felt so real. you felt so real.

and now?

now there’s nothing but the aftertaste of a kiss she never got to keep.

she lies back down eventually. stares at the ceiling.

doesn’t sleep.

doesn’t try.

because what if she dreams of you again?

and this time, forgets to wake up?

“the sun was out when she saw you again”

it’s a good day.

sun’s out. streets are warm. vi’s got a coffee in one hand and her hoodie sleeves pushed up, letting the light kiss skin that’s gone cold for months.

she’s almost smiling.

almost.

then she sees you.

at first, her brain doesn’t register it. just a flash of familiar movement, a laugh like windchimes. the kind of sound that used to turn her head.

and it still does.

she stops walking.

because it’s you.

standing across the street. hair shining in the sun. that same smile she used to see first thing in the morning. you're talking to someone. laughing like your ribs don't still live in her hands.

vi's lungs forget how to work.

you don’t see her.

thank the stars, you don’t see her.

she stares.

takes a step back, coffee sloshing, heart slamming so loud it drowns out the city.

you look good. too good. better than you ever did at the end. peace looks good on you. like healing fits you just fine. like you moved on and didn’t need to take her with you.

vi’s frozen on the sidewalk.

wants to run to you. wants to scream. wants to disappear.

but she just stands there, swallowing broken glass, watching the girl she loved walk forward into a life that doesn't have her in it anymore.

you toss your head back when you laugh. the sun hits your skin. you’re glowing.

and it kills her.

because she used to be the reason for that glow.

now she’s just another shadow watching from across the street.

she doesn’t follow you. she’s not that selfish. not anymore.

but as you vanish into the crowd, she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and forces her feet to move.

the coffee’s cold now. she doesn’t care.

the sun’s still shining, bright and warm and cruel.

and vi walks home in silence, trying not to wonder who gets to kiss you goodnight now.

“you came back on a tuesday”

it was a tuesday.

not a special day. not an anniversary. just… a tuesday.

vi was fixing the goddamn window hinge. her knuckles scraped. hoodie sleeves rolled up. sweat at her temples.

the knock on her door wasn’t even loud. just two soft taps. like whoever was on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right place.

she wiped her hands on her thigh and swung the door open, annoyed.

and then —

silence.

time did that thing it always did around you.

stopped.

you were standing there. same eyes. same mouth. same weight in your stare that said, i shouldn’t be here but i am.

vi didn’t speak. couldn’t.

you looked nervous. your fingers were clenched in the sleeves of your sweater — hers. the one she gave you and thought you’d thrown away.

you didn’t smile. that hurt the most.

instead, you whispered:

“can i come in?”

vi stepped aside like her body moved before her brain did.

you walked in like a ghost. like if you looked too hard, you’d vanish.

vi shut the door. turned around. looked at you like you were the last page of a book she never got to finish.

“why are you here?” her voice broke at the end. just enough for you to hear.

you swallowed. stared at the scuffed floor like it had answers.

“i tried,” you said. “i tried to forget you. i tried to move on. i even went on dates, vi.” you laughed. bitter. cracked. “but nothing ever felt like you. not even close.”

her heart thudded once. then again.

you finally looked up at her.

“i missed you every day.”

vi didn’t cry. not yet. but something in her face cracked — like the part of her that had been bricked up just split open.

“you left.”

you nodded. “i know.”

“you didn’t say goodbye.”

your lip trembled. “i know.”

silence.

then:

“but i’m here now.”

and that’s when vi moved. fast. desperate. she crossed the room and pulled you in so tight your breath hitched.

she buried her face in your neck like it was still hers to kiss. her hands shook against your back.

“don’t leave again,” she rasped. “don’t you fucking leave me again.”

you whispered into her skin:

“i won’t.”

and she kissed you like you were air after drowning.

you stayed the night.

not in her bed — not yet. but on the couch. curled into her side. holding hands like they were anchors.

and for the first time in months, vi fell asleep to the sound of your breathing.

and it didn’t hurt.

alright and about the requests, i already received all of them! don't worry, i will write as soon as the inspiration hits!

[strawberry-bubblef]

Scarabia x zaunite reader

Request by anonymous: Maybe how about a headcanons with Yuu who is born and raised in Zaun? Most importantly how would cast reacts to Zaun's environment once Yuu trusts them enough to tell about it? (Or maybe cast would see for themselves somehow?)

Synopsis: You have always kept your past a secret, but as their relationships deepen, the truth about Zaun slowly unravels. A city of smog, struggle, and survival far from the world of NRC. How will their lover react to the harsh reality Yuu once called home? And more importantly, can they bring comfort to the one who endured it all?

Gender neutral reader

Warnings: ⚠Mentions of poverty, crime, substance abuse (shimmer), survival struggles, and environmental pollution. The setting of Zaun includes themes of danger, societal disparity, and rough living conditions. Reader's past involves hardships, but the story focuses on comfort, understanding, and romance.⚠

Heartslabyul,Savanaclaw ,Octavinelle,Scarabia Pomifiore, Ignihyde,Diasominia

Since you didn't specify her past,I'm just gonna assume that she's an orphan like 99% of the Zaunite cast.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim had always thought the world was a bright and beautiful place.

Sure, he knew there were dangers,Jamil had told him as much, over and over. But Kalim was lucky. He had a home full of warmth, a family that cared for him, and more wealth than he could ever need.

And then he met you.

You were different.

You laughed with him, joked with him, cared about him but there was always something just under the surface. Something that made your smiles feel guarded.

And Kalim didn’t get it.

At first, he thought maybe you were just shy. Maybe you needed time to open up.

So he waited.

But even after you started trusting him, even after you let him hold you close and steal kisses between classes, that something never fully went away.

And it bothered him.

Not because he was upset at you,no, never! He just… wanted to help.

But he didn’t know how.

Until, one night, you finally told him the truth.

A city full of smoke and metal, where people fought just to live. Where the rich looked down from their towers while the poor choked on the fumes below.

Where you had grown up, struggling every day to survive.

And Kalim?

He froze.

Not because he didn’t believe you,no, he did. But because he had never imagined that you were having this kind of life.

And it hurt.

Because all this time, you had smiled at him, comforted him, loved him,while carrying that.

He felt stupid.

All his life, he had never gone hungry. Never feared for his life. Never even thought about what it would be like to grow up with nothing.

And yet… here you were.

His love.

His everything.

You had suffered, and he had never even noticed.

“…Kalim?”

He flinched, realizing he had been silent for too long. You were watching him, your face unreadable.

His heart ached.

How many times had people turned away from you after learning the truth?

He hated that thought.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He grabbed you,held you tight.

“Kalim—?”

“I’m sorry.” His voice wavered. “I… I never knew.”

You sighed. “Kalim, it’s not your fault-”

“But I should have known! I should have asked! I should have realized-”

You shook your head. “No, you shouldn’t have. It’s not something people think about unless they’ve been there.”

Kalim clenched his fists. That was exactly the problem.

He had never thought about it.

But now? Now he would.

And when the chance finally came to visit Zaun, he took it without hesitation.

Jamil tried to stop him, of course.

“This is a terrible idea.”

But Kalim just grinned. “It’ll be fine, Jamil!”

(It was not fine.)

The moment he stepped into Zaun, the reality hit him like a sandstorm.

The air was thick,wrong. It burned his throat, made his head spin. He wasn’t used to the smell of metal and chemicals, the weight of the smog hanging in the air.

The streets were crowded, but not in a lively way. People moved quickly, eyes sharp, shoulders tense.

And the children

Kalim’s stomach twisted.

Thin arms. Hollow eyes. Clothes barely holding together.

And this,this was your home?

Kalim felt sick.

And then he saw you.

You stood beside him, relaxed in a way you never were at NRC.

You knew these streets. Knew these people.

You belonged here.

And yet, Kalim hated that you had ever needed to belong in a place like this.

You must have noticed his expression, because you nudged him lightly. “I told you not to come.”

“I wanted to.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

Kalim hesitated.

Then, he squeezed your hand

And smiled.

“…You’re amazing.”

You blinked. “What?”

Kalim squeezed your hand tighter. “You grew up here, in a place like this,but you’re still you. You’re still strong, still kind, still incredible.”

Your breath hitched.

Kalim wasn’t stupid. He saw the way you tensed, the way your eyes darted away.

No one had ever told you that before, had they?

Well.

He’d change that.

From now on, he’d tell you every day.

Kalim beamed, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I love you, you know that?”

You groaned, but you hugged him back. “…Yeah. I know.”

“Good! Because I’m never gonna stop saying it!”

You laughed softly. “I figured.”

Kalim grinned.

No matter what, he’d make sure you never felt alone again.

Jamil Viper

Jamil had grown up knowing what it meant to be trapped.

His entire life had been dictated by duty, expectations, and the ever-present weight of servitude.

But your life?

It was something he couldn’t have imagined.

At first, he didn’t press. He knew what it was like to keep secrets, to hold your past close because trust wasn’t something freely given.

So he waited.

And when you finally told him?

He listened.

Zaun.

A city of smog and shadows. Where survival was a battle, and the strong didn’t protect the weak,they exploited them.

Where you had learned to fight, to hide, to survive.

Jamil didn’t react right away.

He just sat there, absorbing every word.

And then he said, quietly—

“…It must have been exhausting.”

You blinked.

No pity. No shock. Just understanding.

Like he knew what it was like to wake up every day and feel like the world was against you.

Because he did.

No, his struggles weren’t the same as yours. But the feeling of being trapped, of having to fight for every bit of freedom?

That, he understood.

Jamil didn’t ask if you were okay.

That would have been insulting.

Instead, he said, “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”

And then-

“…But I’m glad you survived.”

You weren’t sure why, but that made your chest ache.

After that, Jamil changed.

He watched more closely. Took note of the way you reacted to things. How you scanned a room for exits. How you tensed at sudden noises.

He didn’t comment on it.

But he started doing things differently.

Subtle things.

Like making sure you always had an escape route.

Like handing you food without making a big deal out of it because he knew pride wouldn’t let you ask.

And then, one day, when the opportunity to visit Zaun came up,

You hesitated.

Jamil didn’t.

“I’m going with you.”

You frowned. “Jamil, you hate leaving things to chance.”

“Exactly.” His gaze was sharp. “And I don’t trust this place.”

You snorted. “Gee, thanks.”

But you let him come.

And the moment he stepped foot in Zaun

He understood.

The air was thick. Chemical-laced, sharp in a way that made his lungs burn.

The people watchful, wary, moving like they were always expecting a knife in their back.

Jamil felt the weight of the city pressing down on him, a suffocating mix of tension and decay.

And this—this—was the world you had grown up in?

He clenched his jaw.

No wonder you never let your guard down.

As you led him through the streets, Jamil walked close. Not obviously protective, but—

You noticed.

“Relax.” You nudged him. “I know my way around.”

Jamil’s eyes flickered to the shadows. “That’s what worries me.”

You smirked. “What, afraid someone’s gonna steal me?”

Jamil didn’t answer right away.

Then he mumbles quietly

“…I wouldn’t let them.”

Your breath hitched.

Jamil wasn’t the type to say things outright.

But you knew what he meant.

He wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

Not here. Not anywhere.

And later, when you sat together on a rusted rooftop, watching the city lights flicker through the smog.

Jamil spoke again.

“You don’t have to go back.”

You turned to him. “What?”

Jamil’s gaze was steady.

“You’re not trapped anymore.” His voice was soft but firm. “You have a choice now.”

You swallowed.

A choice.

How long had it been since anyone had told you that?

Jamil reached for your hand.

And for the first time in a long time.

You believed him.

English is not my first language.

[ryuzakemo128]

Beneath Your Depths ..... Do You Feel Anything?

Pairing: Poly! 141 x Reaper! Forensic Pathologist! Female Reader

Masterlist - Prequel - Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four

Content Warning: Graphic description of you and what you really look like. You are Death aka the pale horse, the grim reaper, the main dude bossing around the little reapers under your employ thing. Prequel to the series of one shot parts I have written before this one.

Note: If you prefer to remain unaware about how I want to depict you. Feel free to skip this one. It won't affect the future parts or anything. Just like an extra plate of food, you are always free to say no thanks, I already have enough here.

I won't add a summary either because I don't want to spoil anything for this one, and I want to know if anyone will like this or not.

You are always certain you knew everything there was to be in life and death. Knowing both worlds so intimately. What else could you be?

Abhorrent. Antediluvian. Colossal. Eldritch by some people's standards. The creature standing before the four of them, the four men, it was nothing like they have ever seen before.

Ethereal. Most of the time you are formless. An incarnate of death in flesh, a silent spectator of mortality's dance. But now, as you stand before the creature, the air thickens, and your form solidifies. Price's eyes narrow, taking in your sudden presence. Soap's hand tightens around his combat knife. Ghost's grip on his rifle relaxes slightly, his gaze flicking to the side to assess the new player. Gaz's eyes, however, light up with an unreadable emotion.

Necromantic as you are in fact one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. You were huge. Bugger than any monster they have come across in the past. So otherworld, outer worldly and powerful, you could feel the tremor of fear emanating from the men. Fear of death. Common among humans. Uncommon amongst other monsters.

What did they have to fear from you? You were just as freakish as they are right?

A primeval they called you. A creature related to the beginning of everything. A creature so old none could possibly comprehend you without taking the overarching risk of madness over taking them.

Some priests and nuns claim you as unholy. But you are as natural as the earth beneath their feet and the air in their lungs.

After you consume someone or something a putrid smell clings to you, your flesh, your bones and the essence of your blood. Yes. You have blood. Yes. You can bleed. No. You are incapable of dying. But you are able to appear dead to anyone who would have or have tried to kill you in the past.

Your exoskeleton is there if someone where to squint hard enough to see the shape beneath the endless smog surrounding your gargantuan form. Born of star and moon, you have no reason to harm outside your predefined nature.

You have no reason of knowing why they were there before you. They weren't supposed to die just yet. There time had not come close to arriving. You knew this. Your body knew this and your soul declined their intrepid touch.

Necrotizing the living and bringing them unto the other side where they were supposed to come to when it was their time to go. Ritualistic in behaviour but never quite fitting in. This creature before them is you.

Predatory in nature much like the sharks, the bears, the wolves, and the many animals that kill in order to endure.

Insidious, malevolent, deranged and yet eerily benevolent. Not outright kind mind you. Death is anything but kind in the hearts and minds of mankind. But for you? It's a job. Its a promise. Its a wish. Its a release.

You don't wish to end things for the sake of ending them. No matter how many might find that hard to believe or reject it completely.

The ghastly chthonic array of the deceased walking past you like you weren't even there. Like you weren't the only who brought them there. A cycle of nature you were in tune with without having to remember the tune or even explain the why of it. Wave after wave like the ocean eroding away stone and metal beneath its watery depths.

Macabre. Visceral.

Charnel. Sepulchral. Thanatoid.

Abysmal in some aspects and reflected in most cultures as something or someone most feared. Yet here you are, a being of the void, standing in front of men who have seen hell and lived to tell the tale. You look into Price's eyes and for a moment, you see a flicker of recognition, a glimmer of understanding that you are not here to do harm but to uphold a balance that has been skewed.

It didn't matter what they thought of you, You have a schedule to keep in time with. You can't afford to mess any of it up. With each heavy footstep away from the four men. Each thump on the ground beneath your feet resonated through the air like a silent drum beat. You felt the tension ease slightly as your form grew more indistinct.

Price spoke up, his voice a gravelly rumble that seemed to echo around the abandoned warehouse. "What the fuck was that?" Soap's eyes didn't leave the spot where you had been standing, knuckles white around the grip of his knife. Ghost was the first to move, holstering his weapon and walking towards the spot where your ethereal presence had been. He knelt down, inspecting the ground with a keen eye.

"Looks like it left something behind," he said, picking up a small, gleaming object that looked out of place amidst the dust and grime. It was a tooth, shaped unlike any creature they had encountered before. The serrated edge and crystalline sheen hinted at a power that was beyond their understanding.

A small piece of obsidian with red under glow just beneath the surface.

[ladybugmania]

The Lunatics’ Parade: 2025 — Twilight of the Absurd

In the House once bright, now dimmed with decay,

The Lunatics gathered at the end of the day.

Trump sat high on a throne of skulls,

Drinking Diet Coke from patriotic hulls.

He growled, “I’m chosen, I walk with the stars!”

Then misread the map and invaded Mars.

His cabinet danced to a banshee choir,

The smoke smelled like steak and executive fire.

JD Vance, Vice King of Hillbilly Hell,

Chanted slogans that rang like a Liberty Bell,

Cracked, confused, and wrapped in a flag,

Waving a torch while dragging a bag.

Rubio, the Floridian fish,

Spoke fluent evasion and granted no wish.

At State, he served diplomacy fried,

With a side of “thoughts and prayers” deep-fried.

Pete Hegseth, in camo and rage,

Declared war on books, and peace on the page.

With a bayonet pen and a helmet of lies,

He saluted the mirror with blood in his eyes.

Pam Bondi, Attorney of Doom,

Summoned subpoenas like witches in gloom.

She cross-examined ghosts and grilled thin air,

Then charged the moon with improper care.

Scott Bessent, at Treasury's gate,

Laughed while tossing coins into fate.

“Who needs math?” he asked the void.

As the dollar collapsed and Wall Street enjoyed.

Linda McMahon, the duchess of schools,

Taught “Critical Wrestling Theory” in pools.

Kids tapped out before they could read,

As she body-slammed teachers for sport and for creed.

RFK Jr., czar of the sick,

Fed vaccines to frogs with a mercury stick.

He cured the flu with lavender tears,

And called science a hoax for 73 years.

Tulsi, now whisperer of state secrets grim,

Broadcast mind-rays through every gym.

She blinked twice and satellites fell.

Then blamed it all on a gender reveal.

Duffy, Transport, paved the sky,

With TikTok lanes and jetpack pie.

No roads, no rules, just viral speed.

“Crash responsibly!” his only creed.

Brooke Rollins, in fields of ash,

Grew mutant corn with campaign cash.

Each stalk saluted, each ear did weep,

For deregulated soil that’ll never sleep.

Howard Lutnick, selling fate,

Traded ethics at a discount rate.

Commerce turned into a feast,

Where corporations dined on the Middle East.

Kristi Noem, Homeland’s queen,

Patrolled the plains with a killing machine.

She hunted threats both foreign and mild.

And shot her own shadow, then blamed a child.

Lee Zeldin, the smog baron bold,

Bottled fresh air and sold it as gold.

The EPA now stood for Everything Pollutes Always,

And rain came down in three-headed grays.

Kelly Loeffler, Small Biz, ran a scheme,

Where lemonade stands paid in Bitcoin dreams.

She smiled while taxing charity jars,

And built a Starbucks on Venus and Mars.

Ratcliffe, at CIA, watched with glee,

As pigeons turned spies for a nominal fee.

He tapped into dreams and rewrote the past.

Then tweeted classified info… fast.

Elon and Vivek, efficiency beasts,

Replaced Congress with AI priests.

The algorithms wept, the servers bled.

And democracy was quietly pronounced dead.

Stephen Miller, the hollow-eyed ghoul,

Wrote policies using virgin fossil fuel.

He whispered fear into the law,

And shaped it sharp with his demonic claw.

Susie Wiles, behind the veil,

Pulled strings like a sorceress pale.

Each move she made, a shadow would shift,

And the Earth would tilt, and the tides would lift.

And then she came, Marjorie Greene,

On a chariot made from a gym machine.

Draped in flags and CrossFit glory, Screaming,

“Demons run Congress! This is God’s story!”

She tossed books into holy flame,

While claiming Bigfoot knew her name. Laser-eyed and

Bible-armed, She stormed the stage, unvaccinated and charmed.

Last, Karoline Leavitt, voice of the throne,

Spoke in riddles, her heart a stone.

“Truth is treason,” she hissed with grace,

As her smile cracked wide across her face.

She briefed the press with puppets and flame,

Then blamed “the woke” for losing the game.

So Trump and his gang of Lunatics marched, flags aflame,

Waltzing through history with no sense of shame.

The night was their kingdom, the facts were all gone,

And satire died with the morning dawn.

So here’s to the cabinet, wild and unchained,

A circus of chaos, darkly ordained.

The nation watches, hands on their heads,

As the Lunatics’ Parade paints the town red.

The end.

[kikyoupdates]

Crushed Velvet ⭑˚🥀⭑ 𝑛𝑜 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, isekai

Your parents are thrilled to have secured an engagement for you with the royal family. Your suitor, the crown prince, has agreed to be wed to you. It seems as though your entire future has been assured, so why is it that from this moment onward, your life starts to fall apart at the seams?

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The first time Xeno saw you was four years ago.

It was the annual debutante ball, where young noble ladies who had recently turned sixteen made their official debut in high society. It served as a “coming-of-age” ritual, to some degree. There were many cases where adolescent girls met boys of a similar age at these functions, and their families negotiated to have them engaged and married once they reached adulthood. It was more symbolic than anything else, but it did provide noble families with the opportunity to show off their daughters and appeal to the attending nobility.

Xeno had always hated shallow, trivial events like such as these. He was nineteen at the time, but had already endured seeing the same thing year after year. Nothing interesting ever happened. It was all show-ponying and far too many dances. He never participated, of course. His parents had long since given up on forcing him to, but he was still required to be present and watch the mindlessness unfold. It was the same stupid scenario, each and every time.

The King and Queen considered their eldest son to be a bit of an odd case. From a young age, Xeno had always held a strange ability, but no matter how much he insisted upon it, no one ever believed him. Eventually, he’d given up on trying to convince anyone else, but it did little to alleviate his condition.

It was less of a power and more of a curse. Ever since he was a child, Xeno could make out a strange sort of smog that clung to other people. It manifested as a dark gray smoke, and it was far more pronounced in certain individuals. There was also a thick, pungent odor that clung to it. People with the smoke absolutely reeked. They smelled of rotting food and burnt soil. Simply getting close to these people was enough to make him feel sick.

It had taken him quite a bit of time to fully understand what was going on. After all, even his own family was covered in the smoke, though it was relatively faint. The smoke around his younger brother was the most pronounced. Xeno couldn’t make sense of it at all back when he was young, but now that he was older, and he’d spent much of his life as an observer, it was much clearer.

The smoke was an illness, an affliction. It was a disease of the mind that plagued those with greed and shallow ambition. It was essentially present in all members of high society, to varying degrees. The only ones that seemed absolutely devoid of it were children, because they had yet to develop a hunger for wealth and power, and there were also certain commoners that appeared to be free from its clutches. It was a sinister disease, one that was almost impossible to run from. Nearly everyone was greedy, everyone was determined to fake their true intentions in order to obtain money, social acclaim, and reputation.

Everyone but you.

He could still remember it clearly, the day of that debutante ball. Five minutes into the occasion, Xeno had already resigned himself to an evening of suffering, and he could feel his eyelids drifting to a close. With all these people gathered here, the ballroom was practically a cesspool teeming with filth. Smoke filled the air, clogging up his lungs. No one would ever understood even if he told them. He just wanted all of this to be over so that he could go back to his room and be in peace.

It just so happened, though, that as he was in the midst of closing his eyes, he noticed someone from across the room. One of the debutantes, by the looks of it, an adolescent girl with [h/c] hair and a pretty smile. For whatever reason, that girl was untouched by the smoke. Not a single wisp or tendril clung to her dress, even with all the filthy infected people that were gathered around her.

Xeno immediately sat up straighter. It couldn’t be. He had never once come across any nobleperson that wasn’t plagued by selfish, arrogant desires. He must not have seen correctly. There was just so much filth in the room that it was becoming difficult to even tell.

Still, he couldn’t help but ask.

“What is that girl’s name?” Xeno spoke up, surprising his parents with his sudden question.

William glanced over at his son. “Which girl are you referring to?”

“That one, near the center of the room. She has her hand pressed against her mouth right now. I think she’s laughing.”

“Ah, I think that is [Name]. She is the daughter of Duke [Last Name]. I’ve heard good things about her family, though I’m not all that familiar with them myself.”

Xeno couldn’t take his eyes off you. It must’ve been the fact that you were free of that disgusting smoke, but you suddenly looked like the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. How was it possible that you were immune to this affliction that seemed to plague nearly the entire population? Was it really possible that you weren’t looking to take advantage of others like everyone else?

He yearned to go over there, to speak to you and see for himself, but he feared that if he got too close the illusion would shatter. He would realize you were selfish and vain, manipulative and shallow, just like every other person in his life. At least from a distance, he could pretend that there was another kindred soul left in his world. Someone who just wanted to live for the sake of living, and not to satiate their bottomless greed.

Perhaps it was his cowardice that prevented him from going to speak to you that day, but he didn’t see you for several years after that.

Xeno tried to forget. He didn’t want to dwell on something that could very well have been pure fantasy, but it almost served as a respite from his tiring daily life. He found his mind occasionally drifting off, and he would remember the day he’d laid eyes on you, how perfect and pure you’d been. It was better off as a dream, he decided. It was better off than facing reality.

It wasn’t as if he thought about you nonstop. His life was a busy one, and there were many things he had to deal with, but it was nice just having that memory to turn to whenever things got difficult. And if there really was someone like you, unsullied by their desires, then it was possible he might one day encounter another person like that as well.

Of course, that never happened. The older he became, the more painful marriage interviews he was put through. Each of the women he met was somehow worst than the last. They were the epitome of diseased, heavily shrouded by that pungent dark smoke. He kept holding out the hope that his parents might one day arrange a meeting with someone whose presence he could tolerate, but with each potential fiancée, the odds just seemed to be getting slimmer.

One day, his parents excitedly announced that they’d found him a very promising candidate. A girl from the Tybalt family, who had a long-running history of servitude to the King and Queen. They had been dealing with the worsening health of the mother, Duchess Tybalt, for many years, but she had recently passed several months ago and the Duke was now hoping to marry his only daughter off.

“She will be a good match,” his parents had assured him. “Don’t be discouraged. You will see.”

Oh, how utterly wrong they’d been. The woman, Annalisa Tybalt, was possibly the worst person Xeno had ever come across. The second she stepped into the room, he was overwhelmed by the sickening stench that clung to her skin. She wore a practiced smile, one that was stretched thin across her blood-red lips. He could feel bile rising to his throat from hardly ten seconds of being in her presence. Just the greedy, conniving look in her eyes was already more than enough to go off. She was filthy. She was ill. She was everything he loathed in this world.

“Get out,” Xeno had hissed, while she was still in the process of rambling and introducing herself.

Annalisa had stared back at him in shock, but rather than looking apologetic, she was practically scoffing in his face. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get the hell out of here, you filthy bitch. Get out of here before I fall ill.”

She had been stunned to silence, and he hadn’t hesitated even a moment before calling his guards to drag her out of the room. Of course, she’d made damn well sure to kick up a fuss, and by the end of it Xeno was groaning and massaging his temples, her shrill cries still resounding in his ears.

He had practically lost hope after that. She was supposed to have been the best candidate thus far, which was a sick joke in and of itself. He’d demanded the servants throw out the couch she’d been seated on and replace it with a new one. It was going to take days to cleanse the room of her foul stench.

“Xeno, I just don’t understand,” William had sighed. “You can’t make a fuss like this each and every time. You are going to be the King one day. You will need a wife.”

“Then perhaps you should find me someone less disgusting.”

“What are you talking about? She was a perfectly fine lady. Don’t tell me… you’re going off about that nonsense again? Claiming that everyone is sick?”

“She was sick,” he’d gritted out. “None of you could ever hope to understand.”

“We have tried to so many times. It’s all in your head, my boy. Everyone around you is perfectly healthy.”

Xeno hated the way they looked at him, as if he was the one who was wrong in the head. No, they just didn’t understand. They didn’t understand how so much was twisted within this world, that people didn’t care about others besides themselves. That everything anyone said was a falsehood, a fabrication. A lie.

He hated all of it. He hated feeling so alone, knowing that he was the only one who was suffering this way. He hated the judgmental looks he would get at public functions, when he would refuse to make contact with anyone else, including his own family.

He just wanted it to end.

In that moment, as his mind was spiraling more and more, he remembered that day four years ago. He remembered seeing the happily smiling girl who had become his salvation, his safe place to turn to whenever things became too horrible. He’d been so desperate to cling to the image of you, afraid that you would turn out to be completely different from the way he’d imagined, but he couldn’t hold out any longer. You were the only person he could find comfort in anymore.

“I want to meet someone else,” he’d mumbled, balling his hands into fists. “[Name]. She is the daughter of a Duke and Duchess. Summon her and her family here to meet with me. If even she doesn’t work out, I plan to never marry at all.”

His parents had looked absolutely horrified at the mere thought, but it was the first time he’d ever personally chosen a candidate for himself, so they couldn’t help but oblige.

It felt like torture knowing that the letter had been delivered, every second he spent awaiting your arrival felt like a dagger prodding at his skin. What if you’d changed? What if you had once been pure, but after all these years, you had become just like the rest? How would he recover knowing that there was no one left around him that he could ever share a life with?

There were countless fears that plagued him, but he pushed through them, determined to give this meeting a chance. As he sat there waiting in that room along with this parents, he could feel his stomach clenching from all the nerves.

When the door opened, his heart nearly burst out of his chest.

Your father was the first to make his introduction, quickly followed by your mother. They were just like the others. Friendly on the outside, but driven by nothing more than greed. The smoke that clung to their bodies was average, but still enough to make him scrunch up his nose in disgust.

But you...

You were perfect, just the way he’d remembered you being. It was his first time being so close to you, and he could say it without a doubt now—there was not a trace of impurity anywhere near you.

He almost wanted to cry for having waited so long. If only he’d tried to purse you earlier, if only he’d told his parents he was interested in getting to know you. Maybe then he wouldn’t have suffered for so long. He would have had you by his side to help you get through everything.

Once your parents had left, the two of you were alone. You were adorably nervous, he could tell that much based on your expression, but it wasn’t driven by any shameless ambition. You were probably hoping to make your family proud with this engagement. You were careful with your words, not wanting to insult him, but every time you spoke it was practically music to his ears.

You were beautiful, like a breath of fresh air. He himself was so nervous and stiff that he could hardly speak normally. He’d accidentally blurted out that he intended to go through with the engagement after hardly talking to you for a minute, but he was so excited that he decided to run right to his parents and tell them that he'd made his decision. 

And just like that, the two of you were engaged. The ceremony itself seemed to pass by in a matter of seconds. His idiot brother decided to drag you off and go get food together, but Xeno doubted you would have wanted to stay by his side anyways. You seemed a bit tense around him, nervous and uncertain. That was fine. It would take you a while to get comfortable, especially since you weren’t trying to kiss up to him and fake your emotions. He understood that. He’d waited this long already, he could be patient a little longer.

If it were up to him, he might have demanded you move into the palace right away, but something like that was not only unheard of, but it was also sure to just push you away even more. He was wary of giving you your space. For that reason, he held off on meeting with you until a good while had passed after the engagement ceremony. Now, finally, finally he could see you again.

He had been anxiously pacing for several minutes already. You were a bit late, but that was no big deal. He could forgive you. From now on, you were going to bring light into his world, a light that had been closed off for as long as he could remember.

At his servant’s notice, he made his way down the long, winding staircase, eager to greet you upon your arrival. He coughed a few times to clear his throat, quickly smoothed his hair in place, and proceeded to open the door, reminding himself not to let his excitement show.

“Hello. What took you so long?”

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[itscloudsocks]

Time and Time again - chapter 1

cw: minor injury

The first time Viktor meets Jayce, he´s nothing more than nine years old. He´s been growing a lot lately so he might need to get a new cane soon. But since his dad has died and it´s just been himself and his mum, money´s more than just tight. His mum keeps picking up shifts at that big house where the people come and go and whenever she comes home early in the morning, she smells like sweet smoke and alcohol. Viktor doesn´t like it, but he says nothing, just snuggles closer once she slips into bed next to him, chasing all the warmth he can get. His mother is skinny but she still fusses over him. Over his messed-up leg and his hair that keeps on growing, over his scrubby little hands and the motor oil that seeps into his clothes and stains his pants. Over the little cuts and bruises he comes home with every day. She´s worried that other kids are mean to him but he just shakes his head. They don´t play with him, they can´t be mean if they don´t even look at him.  

Viktor plays alone, usually. Down down down in one of the deepest, darkest parts of Zaun, where the sun hardly shines and the smog is thick and bitter on his tongue, Viktor usually plays near the small canal. It´s water coming from the Topside, he´s heard some kids say, a crack in the earth, a passageway up for everyone who´s brave enough. There are official ways, apparently, a bridge and an elevator, but they´re guarded. He´s never seen them, has never dared to wander too far from home, frightened by his mothers warnings.

They don´t play around, malá hvězda. They kill everyone from down here, they´re not your friends. Don´t ever go up there, don´t even try, you hear me?

Viktor has only ever nodded, too frightened to ask what they are. Mama had told him that they´re too far from the river and the bridge, that they don´t dare to come down here, that they´re too scared. That this means safety. Viktor isn´t too sure about that, but he trusts her. Who else can he trust, if not his Mama?

So he stays down there, rummages in the trash for metal and builds little toys. They´re wonky little things, crooked and ugly, but his mother still puts them all on the little shelf above their bed and gives him a kiss to the forehead. So Viktor keeps making them, keeps showing them to his mother who keeps kissing his forehead, keeps putting his little figurines up on the shelf for the both of them to see. 

Sometimes Viktor wonders about that place up there, where the water runs clean and the sun is supposed to shine all the time. He wonders if there are kids like himself up there, not dirty and hungry, but curious, adventurous. He wonders what he´s done to deserve the life he and his mother have to live, what he needs to do to change it. Because he would. For his mother to stop having to work in that big house where the people come and go and the air is sweet and pink and heavy, for them to be a family again. He wonders if the kids up there have dreams, or if they have everything; if they can even dream because they don´t wish for anything more, they can´t wish for anything more. That´d be sad, Viktor thinks, not being able to dream. He dreams, he does nothing but dream. Mama always calls him malá hvězda, little star. A few years ago shes told him about the place where he´s been born. Where she and his dad came from. About the clear, blue sky and the deep rich nights, about the moon and the stars. He´d love to see it some day. But he probably won´t. 

He´s nine now and last week he´s met a man named Singed. While he´d been frightened by Singed and the strange cave-like house he lives in, he´d liked his pet. A big, soft pink thing with big big eyes and a slobbery, soft tongue. Rio, his name is. He had licked the grime and dirt from Viktor´s hand as a greeting and Viktor had laughed. He´d left with the promise from Singed, that he´d be allowed to return any time, take care of Rio with him.

He´s nine and on his way down the dim, wet alley, he hears a sound. It´s strange enough to see other kids his age in the immediate vicinity of his home, but to hear someone crying? Following the sound, Viktor tries but fails to keep the tap tap tap of his cane to a minimum. People don´t cry down here. Crying means weakness and weakness means death. Sometimes, when he was younger and still afraid of the dark, he´d cry into his pillow until his mother came home in the early early mornings and pulled him against her in a bony embrace, reminding him that crying would get him nowhere. 

Rounding a corner, Viktor narrows his eyes. Nothing. Besides houses, stacked upon each other like the empty liquor boxes Viktor sometimes stumbles upon when exploring the trashcans of the bar just a couple of blocks from home. It smells like trash and smoke and very faintly like fried pine tart and Viktors stomach grumbles painfully. The noise continues, a bit louder now, and Viktor narrows his eyes at two large wooden boxes stacked upon each other against the side of a brick wall. Peaking around the corner, all he sees for a moment is a mop of dark hair and a pair of tan arms wrapped around knees. It´s a kid, he notices, a very clean, very well-dressed kid with a nasty gash on their knee. 

“Hey,” he blurts out, because he´s curious and adventurous and because nobody else is here to see him.

Startled, the kid shrieks and pulls their legs further towards their chest. Still, the kid lifts their head. Big, hazel eyes blink back at Viktor, round cheeks dirty and streaky with tears, blood trickling down the right side of their face. It´s a boy, he notices, and he´s around Viktors age. 

“Please don´t hurt me,” the boy whimpers, wiping his snotty nose on his shoulder. Tilting his head, Viktor watches the boy gasp for air and gasp for air and gasp for air. He starts breathing in a way that doesn´t sound quite right, all tight and short and shallow, so Viktor smacks his foot with the bottom of his cane.

“Ouch! What was that for?”, the boy whines, putting his hands over his feet.

“You were freaking out. Who are you? You´re not from here,” Viktor demands to know, still staring down at the boy.

“I´m Jayce,” he sniffles, then coughs. “I…was playing…and there was this crack…and I wanted to check it out and - and then I fell down and and I hit my head and my knee hurts and -”

Viktor ignores the rest of his rambling. He fell down. He could´ve only fallen down when he was at up there, the top.

“You´re a Topsider,” he interrupts, taking a little step back.

“I…I just wanna go back home to my Ma!"

A fresh batch of tears appear in Jayce´s eyes; while wiping them away, clearly frustrated, he bumps against the injury over his brow and starts crying even more, interrupted by the occasional cough that in the end makes him hiccup. He truly is a Topsider, he´s struggling with every inhale down here.

“Why´d you fall in the first place? Are you stupid?”

“N-No, I´m not stupid! Ma says I´m super smart!”

Tilting his head, Viktor absentmindedly taps his cane against the ground.

“What is that, anyways?”, Jayce asks, curiosity in his eyes while tears still roll down his cheeks. 

“My cane. Problem?”

“Hm? No! Why do you have it?”

“I need it to walk. Mama says my leg was fucked when I was born so I can´t walk like the normal kids.”

With a gasp, Jayce stares up at him.

“You said a bad word,” he whispers. “Ma always gets mad when I curse.”

“Your Ma sounds weird,” notices Viktor.

“She´s not! She´s the best in the world! Did you make that cane yourself? Can I see?”

“Don´t break it, you hear me?”

Hesitantly, Viktor hands his cane into Jayce´s patiently waiting hands and leans against the box for stability instead. But Jayce doesn´t swing it around like a sword like the other kids used to when they stole his cane - when they still paid attention to him. Instead, he carefully places it in his now folded legs and lets his finger travel over the bolts and screws and folded metal.

“You really made that yourself?” When Viktor nods, Jayce´s entire face lights up. “That´s so cool! Dad sometimes lets me help out in the forge but he says I´m too young to build my own stuff yet. I really really badly want to, though! Did your dad teach you that?”

“No,” frowns Viktor, taking his cane back. “My dad is dead. I taught me all myself.”

“Oh.” For a moment, Jayce looks unsure of what to say next. 

“I think I know how to get you back home. Come on.”

Viktor watches Jayce struggle to stand and wince when he puts weight on his hurt leg. Still, he pulls his brows together in determination and shows Viktor to lead the way.

They mostly get through without problems. Viktor has only been in the Lanes a couple of times, mostly because his mother showed him where to get help, if anything ever were to happen to her. From time to time Viktor pushes Jayce into the shadow of houses before following him. Most people here aren´t unkind to kids as long as you stay out of their way. By the time they reach the Last Drop, Viktor is shaking in exhaustion and Jayce is back to being whiny and teary-eyed. Viktor doesn´t dare enter through the main door because Jayce is a Topsider and he´s not sure what people might do if they find out, so he sneaks around the back. It takes some knocking but then, the wooden door creaks open and a large shadow falls into the alleyway.

“Viktor! Boy, are you lucky I´ve been back here. Who´s your friend?”

Vander looks like always, big and hulky and kind. He´s one of the few grownups Viktor likes. 

“That´s Jayce,” he explains. “He´s from the Topside, he´s hurt. Help him.”

He´s about to turn and leave when Vander, a laugh on his lips and a heavy hand on Viktor´s shoulder, stops him.

“Not so fast, young man. You two are gonna come inside and tell me exactly what happened. Come on, no need to look at me like that. In you go. Felicia will be excited to see you.”

Lighting up a bit, Viktor slips past Jayce and Vander and enters the backrooms of Vander´s bar. Here, between boxes upon boxes of drinks and food, stands an old, sat-through couch. Jaycee sneezes when Viktor flops down on it and temptively sits on the edge next to him, looking around with big, scared eyes.

“I´m Vander, kid, it´s alright. I´ll be right back, yeah?” Jayce nods lightly and follows Vander leaving with his eyes before turning towards Viktor.

“What is this place? I´m scared…”

“A bar,” Viktor explains, stretching his aching leg out in front of him. “Mama said that if I´m ever in trouble, Vander would know what to do. So that´s what I´m doing.”

The door opens again and Vander returns, followed by Felicia. Viktor has only seen her twice out of the few times he´s been here, but she´s nice. Her dark purple hair has been braided and she´s wearing a dress similar to the one his mother used to wear years and years ago. Nervously, she glances over towards Vander, who rolls his eyes and nudges her closer.

“They´re kids, Fel, you´ll be fine.”

Upon coming closer, Viktor notices her holding a small leather bag in a hand that she, once she´s in front of Jayce, places on the ground. 

“I´ll just patch you up, yeah?”, she smiles softly, warm eyes taking in Jayce´s frightened, dirty appearance. While his wounds get cleaned, Felicia wraps him up into a conversation exciting enough for him to chatter on and on and completely forget about the pain.

“Tell me, kid,” Vander starts, sitting on a chair opposite of Viktor. “What exactly happened here?”

“I found him,” Viktor frowns. “He was crying and I heard it. Said he fell through a crack all the way down here.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Felicia sighs, patting Jayce´s hair while putting a bandaid over the wound on his forehead.

“I was just playing and wanted to check it out,” mumbles Jayce quietly, eyes cast down to his trembling hands. “I…tried to ask for help but this guy just…yelled at me…so I ran.”

“You did good, bringing him here.” Vander nods approvingly, making Viktor´s chest swell in pride. “I´ll bring you back up, yeah? To the bridge, the Enforcers will bring you back home.”

“But my mum can´t find out where I was! She´s gonna be so mad!”

“We´ll see what I can do,” Vander calms him down, chuckling. “Let´s get you boys some food and then it´s time for you to go back home, hm?”

Vander leaves the room again, taking Felicia with him. It´s quiet for a moment before Jayce speaks up again.

“She was nice,” he mumbles, cheeks rosy. Viktor frowns, but says nothing. 

“Can…can we meet again some day?”

That makes Viktor turn his head, staring at Jayce in disbelief.

“What?”

“Meet…again…I don´t have many friends my age and…you helped me and…maybe you can teach me how to build things? I´m a really quick learner!”

“How in the world would you even manage to come down here? Fall through another crack?”

Frowning, Jayce crosses his arms in front of his chest. “No. I´ll let you know that I´m very fast and sneaky. I´ll find a way!

“You have a deathwish,” Viktor notices. It´s the next plausible explanation of why anyone would voluntarily come down here.

“I don´t! I just…don´t have anyone to play with!”

Blinking, Viktor tilts his head to the side, thinking. He would´ve thought that people up there live in gluttony, having too much of everything, even friends. Huh. 

“...fine. But I´m not coming up there. Ever.”

“And I don´t want to go back to where you found me…the air was very bad down there.”

“It´s bad everywhere down here. It´s your peoples fault,” grumbles Viktor, feeling protective for reasons he doesn´t quite understand.

“I´m sorry that my people are mean to your people,” mumbles Jayce, eyes large and honest. It´s a bit unbearable to look at him. “But I won´t be mean to you! Promise. We can be friends and friends are never ever mean to each other!”

“...okay.”

“You´re Viktor, right? Cool! Ma says it´s important to say thank you, so, thank you for helping me!”

Vander comes back with two smoking bowls of silverberry porridge and Viktor eats so fast, he burns the roof of his mouth. It´s so worth it. Jayce, next to him, is slow and careful in trying it but when he does, his eyes light up again and he grins at Viktor.

Because Jayce is a topsider and apparently gets a lot of food at home, he has some leftovers that Viktor happily devours as well. The hot food has made him warm and sleepy but there´s no time to take a nap before Vander returns once more, this time with his coat in his arm.

“Ready to go?”

Viktor follows the two outside but stops at the corner of the Last Drop. Never before has he gone even a step further. Jayce, holding onto Vanders hand, takes a couple of steps before noticing that Viktor is not behind him. Instead of asking, he just turns and waves, a huge smile on his face that shows a gap in his teeth Viktor hasn´t noticed before. 

“See you soon, yeah?”

Nodding, Viktor timidly raises a hand and waves back. He stays until Vander and Jayce, now no more than two figures in the smog, fully disappear. Then, he turns and starts the tiring, gruesome walk back home without waiting for Vander to return. That night, he doesn´t tell his mother where he´s been, what has happened, who he´s met, he just nods when she asks if he had a nice day and lets her pull him closer, lulled into sleep by her stroking his hair.