#blood and chocolate: viktor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tseecka · 5 months ago

Text

I peel oranges neatly.

The sections come apart cleanly, perfectly in my hands.

***

One day, Ximena buys Jayce a crate of oranges.

She hands it to him one Sunday morning; he still visits every Sunday, makes time early in the morning before the sun has even risen to find his way to the meagre Talis estate and let himself through the front gate and into her warm kitchen, where spiced chocolate is always steaming and waiting for him. She asks him about his work; she asks him about the Council, and about Hextech, and about the forge, and about Viktor and Heimerdinger and the Academy.

He asks her about her garden, and helps her remove and clean and oil the joints of her digital prostheses.

She tuts over a new burn or scrape on his hands--which have never been cared for properly, the skin red and inflamed around the site, a mild infection setting in. She finds the antiseptic and the gauze, withdrawn from the first aid kid mounted next to the kitchen sink, and does her best to clean it, and he indulges her. She is, after all, his mother. He hasn't needed her in a long time, but this is something he can do for her, let her mother him, and it's nice to sit in his childhood home with her fussing over his hand while the mug of chocolate warms his palm, a pleasant soothe against the sharp sting of disinfectant.

This is their weekly morning ritual; it does not typically involve oranges.

(Remaining fic under the cut, or you can read it on Archive of Our Own!)

"I know for a fact," she tells him mildly, digging out a sharp splinter of metal that got lodged at the base of his thumb two nights ago, "that you and that Viktor of yours don't eat nearly enough."

"Ma..." Jayce sighs, shaking his head. His tone is long-suffering, teasingly weary; but he can't say anything more than that, because she is unfortunately, right. There is an icebox in their lab, just a small one, installed in the corner next to the futon he liberated from his old bedroom. It's not wise to argue with Ximena Talis.

She clicks her tongue at him, and the sliver comes out, captured neatly between the precision points of her prostheses--more effective than tweezers. He winces, flexes his hand, and a drop of blood beads on his skin. He'd honestly figured it would work itself out, but she'd spotted it immediately.

"You're so busy, Jayce, I understand this; but you must eat, if only to give that brain of yours the nourishment it needs, hm? Coffee is not enough."

"Okay--but oranges?"

She tears open a small foil packet, withdrawing an antiseptic wipe from inside--a folded piece of damp towel, soaked with solution. She swipes it over the pinprick wound, wiping away the blood. "Your father always kept a crate in the forge," she says, her voice soft and fond. "He was like you--or you are like him. Always working, always moving, never a moment to stop and care for himself. But he liked oranges. The juice for his thirst, the pulp for his stomach, and the sugar for his energy. Convenient; clean." The towelette is set aside. She plucks a small square bandage out of the first aid kit, fitting the adhesive to the skin around the wound. The pale fabric stands out against his darker skin. "I used to come and sit in the forge with him while he worked and peel oranges for him." She laughs, "Useless man. For how fine his smithing was, he never could manage to peel them without smashing them to pulp."

Jaye laughs with her. He doesn't remember his father very well, but the recollection of a toddler brings to mind an enormous bear of a man, with strong, large hands. Maybe larger than they would have been in reality, memory unable to adjust to the passing of time, still remembering a palm and fingers broad enough to encompass the top of his head. It's easy to imagine hands as massive as that trying, and failing, in the delicate operation of removing a peel without damanging the fruit inside.

"Anyways," Ximena continues, folding both her hands over Jayce's one and smiling at him. Crow's feet wrinkle at the corners of her eyes; deep lines form from her nose to the corners of her mouth, etched by the years. "They were on sale. Take them with you and keep them in your lab. Then I will worry less, hm?"

"All right," Jayce agrees, laying his other hand on top of hers and squeezing gently. She is his mother; far be it from him to reject this expression of her love. At worst, they will turn green and fuzzy and end up in next week's trash. At best--a juicy segment of orange now and again does sound nice, against the dry acrid metallic taste of the lab's stagnant air. The bid for time doesn't go unnoticed, though, and he lingers a little longer with his mother today, seeing the gift as emblematic of her maternal worry, and doing what he can to assuage it.

She seems less sad when he leaves, the crate of oranges cradled in his arms. It is early enough still that he thinks he will reach the lab before Viktor does (unless his partner has stayed working through the night; he does that, sometimes, but if that's the case, Jayce was never going to beat him there). The aroma of citrus oil wafts into his nose the entire way to the Academy.

***

Of course they don't have fresh citrus in the Undercity.

It's not like Viktor doesn't know what they are, when he arrives at the lab later that morning (Jayce is pleased at the hour; it means Viktor likely got some real sleep the night before, and even if it was just because he was too exhausted from too many sleepness nights to fight it back any longer--a win is a win). His eyes land on the crate as he hooks his stool with his cane, pulling it over to him; he pauses, as it caught off guard.

"What...are those?"

"...Oranges?"

VIktor sighs impatiently, waving a hand at Jayce as though he's swatting at an insect nuisance. "Yes, I know what oranges are, Jayce. Why are they here?"

"Oh! My mother--a gift. She thought having some fresh fruit in the lab might encourage us to eat better."

Viktor's face shifts into a thoughtful moue, lips pulling down and eyebrows lifting as he considers, shrugs. He settles into his stool and sets the cane aside, leaning against the worktop. Jayce resists needling, asking if Viktor has had breakfast. He'll go for the oranges on his own time. It's irrational to think Ximena would somehow know, or sense, if her gift of care had been rejected. The two men settle into their work--Viktor pulling over an opened notebook and setting his pencil to the page, presumably picking up where he left off in navigating the complex mathematical proofs that have been occupying his mind, Jayce sliding his goggles down over his eyes as he turns his attention to soldering together a number of small components that, he hopes, will one day be capable of housing and conducting energy from a Hexstone. They work in a comfortable silence.

It's a couple of hours later, that Jayce--intent on his work, goggles magnifying the connections in the metal in front of him and by extension blocking out everything else in his surroundings--hears a pained hiss, followed by Viktor's huff of frustration. His back complains as he straightens--how did he end up slouched so far over--and he turns to look at Viktor. The magnification restricts his range of vision, and so it is that he sees--in extensive detail--Viktor's fingers digging like claws into the pitted skin of an orange. His index is buried in the fruit to the first knuckle; there is juice spattering the back of his hand. Hurriedly, he pushes the goggles up off of his eyes, and its in time to see the irritated embarrassment before Viktor wips it from his expression.

"...Doing okay there, Viktor?"

"No, Jayce," comes the exasperated reply. "I have citric acid in my nail bed, and this--impossible fruit refuses to come apart for me. And now my notes are covered in orange juice!"

Wordlessly, Jayce holds out a hand for the orange. Viktor drops it into his palm with another irritated eye roll, withdrawing his finger with a wet popping sound. His face twists in disgust, and he shoves his stool away from the workbench, grabbing up his cane so he can cross to where they keep the cleaning rags. Jayce listens to the retreating tapping of his cane as he considers the orange in his hands.

There are pale grooves in the skin, the pitted surface not quite scraped clean of zest, where Viktor clearly had tried to peel it; scratching at the tough exterior with blunted, chewed-off nails, obviously to no avail. He rotates it in his hands, unable to keep the bemused expression from his face as he notes the evidence of all of Viktor's attempts, culminating, finally, in a singular frustrated stab through the peel and into the flesh beneath.

"Viktor," he calls out, as he fits his own index finger into the wound and pulls, gently, teasing the pith away from the segments as the peel comes away, "what did the orange do to you?"

He hears the tapping of the cane as Viktor comes back to the workbench. He pauses next to Jayce's shoulder, watching as Jayce strips the flesh of its rind in large chunks, tugging away reluctant bits of the pith that refuse to come away cleanly. "Nothing," comes the reply. Jayce glances up at his face, then away; there's a faint tinge of pink to his cheeks, as Jayce peels the fruit with ease. "I just--didn't know the trick of it."

Which is how Jayce learns that, indeed, there are no oranges in the Undercity. And Viktor, for all that he lives in Piltover and has advantages he never could have enjoyed at home, is still staunchly loyal to the Undercity; he tends not to indulge in luxuries that are denied his compatriots. So he never had them at home; and never bothered to seek them out up here.

It's not the first time Jayce has unexpectedly run up against Viktor's rigid internal moral code, manifesting in unexpected ways in how he lives his life as a transplant from disadvantage to relative privilege. Privately, he adds this to his own list of grievances, which grows every time he learns some new angle as to how badly Piltover keeps the Undercity ground below its genteel boot.

He finishes peeling the orange for Viktor, setting the fruit on the pile of discarded rind, and shows him how to tease apart the segments so that they separate cleanly in his hands. Points out where the seeds can sometimes live, so that Viktor won't crack his teeth biting down on one. Viktor nods to him, offering a crooked little half smile, and turns back to his work, wiping away the splatters of orange juice on his notebook pages before turning over to a fresh one. Jayce waits, and watches for a moment, but Viktor seems uninterested in pursuing the fruit any further. Still--it's a good reminder to himself, as well, so he reaches out to snag his own orange from the box, rolling it along the countertop to loosen the peel before quickly stripping it down.

The taste bursts sweet across his tongue. Of course Piltover won't export oranges to the Undercity. They can't have Zaunites developing a taste for sunlight.

***

Viktor's hands are deft and skilled. Jayce knows this; has seen the evidence of his work, his elegant script in their shared notebooks, the fine detail work on the pieces and components of their creations. He has a light touch, deliberate and confident, and more than once Jayce has gotten distracted watching Viktor work. He compares Viktor's hands to his own, often; he knows his broad palms and thick fingers speak of strength, but Viktor's are no more delicate than his own, for all that they are lighter and more nimble. The both bear collections of small wounds; Viktor's nailbeds are often torn and shredded, red and inflamed at the corners where he nibbles off his hangnails and teases at flaps of loose cuticle.

And maybe that's the reason why--the remembered sting of citrus in an open wound making him shy of it--but despite his very adept hands, Viktor seems absolutely useless at peeling oranges. His nails, chewed bluntly down to the quick, can't pierce the skin; no matter how Jayce tries to help, showing him tricks of rolling the orange across a surface or digging in to the navel where it once hung from the branch, Viktor inevitably tears holes into the delicate flesh, juice squirting out in all directions as he craters into the skin. He tries, once, to bite through it with his teeth; Jayce can't help but laugh at the disgusted expression his face shifts into when the bitter oil lands on his tongue and gums.

He doesn't think Ximena would quite approve of the way in which they devour the crate of oranges between them, especially as it makes the need for trips out of the lab to the cafeteria or to the food carts on the streets outside less and less necessary; their diet dwindles down to primarily oranges, for 8 to 12 hours out of the day, when they remember to eat at all, both of them appreicative of the chance to fulfill their bodies' needs without having to get up from their work stations at all. But they're healthy, and its better than not eating anything at all, Jayce thinks--which has often been the case for Viktor, at least, unwilling to abandon his train of thought for even an hour to satisfy his body's demand for nourishment. And for all that trying to peel them frustrates the hell out of his partner, Viktor seems to have developed a taste for them.

Eventually, Viktor stops even trying. He'll reach for an orange and roll it about mindlessly on the table top for a few minutes as he thinks, or ponders a particularly challenging runic equation. He'll roll one of them back and forth between his palms as he stands at the chalkboard, eyes raking over their scrawled notes and diagrams. And sometimes, he simply grabs an orange out of their dwindling supply, and plops it next to Jayce's elbow without a word. In all cases, the wordless request is there; and every time, Jayce takes up the orange, peels it, and sets it back on Viktor's side of the table. Often--not always, but often enough--he'll get a quick smile from Viktor, a duck of his head in thanks, before he goes back to whatever he was working on or talking about.

Sometimes, he pushes the orange back to Jayce's side, and Jayce realizes that he has not in fact eaten yet that day.

Sometimes, when they get stuck, Viktor pushes his rolling stool a few more feet away. They bandy ideas back and forth, hypotheses and refutations, as they toss an orange to and fro across the lab; a break from the monotony, the bright scent of citrus oil sinking into their palms, waking up their tired minds, until one or the other has a sudden brainwave and they can get back to work.

Sometimes, in the time it takes for Jayce to peel the fruit, Viktor's mind has already moved on to something else; and the orange sits, bare and shining, skin slowly drying out in the staticky, dehumidified air of the lab. Jayce takes a certain kind of glee in pulling off a segment when this happens and waiting for an opportune moment--usually while Viktor is expounding on his latest theory, or ripping into one of Jayce's--to pop the orange into his mouth, interrupting him for a brief moment. Viktor's expression is always a delight--first the irate response to having food shoved in his mouth, but then, usually, a look of resigned bliss as he bites down, filling his mouth with a burst of flavour and brightness, and inevitably holding out his hand for the rest of his orange as he continues.

***

When Jayce visits his mother the next week, she doesn't seem surprised when he tells her, a bit sheepishly, that they've already worked through most of the crate. He tells her about peeling oranges for Viktor; he relays the series of misfortunes that Viktor has encountered, watching a soft smile spread, unconsciously, over her features. It makes him feel warm; he stumbles over the rest of his words, finishing the story lamely, but she doesn't say anything about it. Her hand rests over her heart, over the locket she wears around her neck. He doesn't know what her expression is saying.

She walks with him to work that day, forcing a detour to the produce market, where she insists on buying another crate and placing it in his arms. "You boys need to eat," she says, "and a mother worries. Oranges are better than a diet of coffee."

Its not until he kisses her cheek at the entrance to the Academy grounds and bids her a good day, tells her he loves her, that he realizes how similar his orange-story must sound to her own memories, peeling oranges for his father in the forge.

***

"More oranges, Jayce--!" is Viktor's exclamation when Jayce arrives, grimacing a little as he walks into the lab. The market detour made him later than usual. He thinks if he had gotten here first, Viktor probably wouldn't have even noticed the supply replenish, but it's hard to obscure an entire crate of fruit in ones arms.

"It's my mother," he explains, sheepish. "She is convinced we don't eat enough, and now that she knows we've been going through the oranges at a breakneck pace..." He shrugs, and sets the crate on the countertop. He tips the last few oranges from the week before on top, and tosses the empty rigid-paper crate in the direction of the door.

Viktor squints at him. "You are just enjoying my torment. You enjoy mocking me. 'Ah, poor Viktor, he is so incompetent he cannot even peel a fruit.'" The way his tongue rolls on fruit sounds like music to Jayce's ears; he can't help but laugh a little at it, which just causes Viktor's playful scowl to deepen further. "'I must continue to ply him with citrus, to keep him humble, in the hopes that he forgets that I am incompetent in everything but the peeling of oranges."

Jayce has already pulled out two oranges to approximate a breakfast for them both. He peels one in a long, continuous spiral while Viktor continues on his "tirade", plopping it down in one open palm as the gesticulations--a habit of Viktor's whenever he sets out to mock Jayce, exagerrating his admittedly expansive hand movements--come to a pause. Viktor looks down at the orange, then back up at Jayce, who grins, shrugs, and pops an orange segment into his own mouth. "You done?" he asks. "Because I can take that back, if you don't want it." Viktor's fingers curl around the globe, settling into the slight divots between the segments, cleaned of pith as best as Jayce can manage. "Mmm. That's what I thought." He turns away from Viktor, and pulls over a tray holding a pile of metal discs and a handheld grinder.

"Ridiculous man," he hears Viktor mutter; then again, the consonants shaped this time around a mouthful of orange, "absolutely ridiculous." It sounds affectionate, and pleased, and warm; like the sunshine in the orange is beaming out from Viktor's lips, washing over Jayce like a warm summer morning. Jayce shoves the remaining quarter of his own orange into his mouth, cheek bulging out as he chews, and begins notching gears.

***

It's not as though they only eat oranges. Jayce is well aware of his body's needs, to maintain his physical ability in the forge, to retain his muscle definition and physique; he takes pride in his body, he won't be ashamed of it. And, too, he is hyper aware of the needs ot Viktor's body; as it rebels against him, as it deteriorates, the need to eat a balanced diet and intake all of the essential macronutrients for survival becomes ever more present. Viktor doesn't thank him for the fuss, but Jayce keeps a careful tally of everything Viktor eats, to his knowledge, and tries to force himself out of his hyperfocused headspace when it's necessary to ensure they are both getting what their bodies need.

They still take short walks--shorter, now, than they used to be, and Jayce knows that Viktor knows even if he doesn't comment on it--to some of their favourite places, when the need to consume something that is not either coffee or an orange becomes strong enough to pull them away from the lab. When they have a breakthrough, they celebrate at a restaurant, rewarding themselves with a socially acceptable dinner (instead of digging into the work with even more fervour than before).

But every week, Ximena buys a new crate of oranges, and Jayce brings it in to the lab. The space constantly smells of citrus, now--it's a clean, bright, fresh scent, combating the metals and oils and the ozone-copper tang of magic that suffuses their working space. Jayce feels more awake when he walks in each morning, the sharpness hitting his olfactory senses and sending a signal to his brain that makes him alert and attentive. He thinks it is having an impact on Viktor, too--his mood noticeably lightens, his sharp edges of frustration growing a little fuzzier, a little softer, whenever Jayce hands him a freshly peeled orange to combat an ornery mood. He starts collecting the peels, tipping handfuls of them into the jar of vinegar they keep for cleaning their work surfaces. The orange oil infuses into the sharp, acrid vinegar, balancing out the harsh scents with something bright and warm.

And Jayce's hands--they smell like oranges all the time, the scent of it lingering in the bits of zest caught under his nails, the oils worked into his skin. He is surrounded by it; he closes his eyes and feels sun-warmed, comfortable, memories of walking through orange groves flitting through his mind's eye. It's comforting in a way that feels strange until he makes the connection--his mother, peeling oranges for his father in the forge, then coming to gather him up from his minder with orange oil on her own skin. It awakens something in his subconscious, a feeling of home and safety and family, and he realizes--

It's a scent he's started to associate with Viktor, too.

Which doesn't quite make sense--after all, Viktor doesn't peel the oranges, isn't getting his hands and fingernails sticky with orange juice, doesn't have to pry clumps of rind from under his nails when he goes home every day. It makes Jayce a little sad, to realize that this smell he associates so strongly now with Viktor and with their lab might solely be from his perspective. That maybe Viktor doesn't smell of oranges at all. That they haven't left their mark on him the same way as they leave their mark on Jayce.

How many oranges, he wonders, does a person need to eat per day before the essence starts to bleed through their skin; before their cells are infused, like the vinegar in the jar, before that brightness is lent out to their fingertips and palms? If he breathed Viktor in, would he smell of sun-bright citrus, warm and energizing, waking up Jayce's senses?

If he kissed him, would he taste oranges on his breath?

The grinder slips, scoring a rough scrape along his finger, and he bites back a yelp as he is brought forcibly back down to earth from wherever his thoughts have been wandering. Viktor's head shoots up from where he has been working on screwing together the framework for a calibrator, eyes wide and alarmed. Their gazes meet, and Jayce feels a flush creep over his cheeks.

Where did that thought come from?

***

Ximena tuts over the scrape, spanning along the side of his finger nearly from the mound of his knuckle all the way to the tip. The antiseptic solution stings, entering his skin and contacting his nerves through what must be hundreds of tiny nicks, each grain of the rough sandpaper abrading away a tiny piece of his skin.

There is another crate of oranges sitting on the counter, waiting for him to take it to the lab with him when he leaves.

He wants to ask her a question; but he doesn't know how to put it into words. About peeling oranges. About infusion. About how long something can sit in solution with something else before they become inseparable, orange oil in vinegar. It's a silly urge; he is the scientist, after all, these are things he should know, but its less about the combination of molecules than it is about something...more. Something he has no experience with, but which he knows she does; knows it in the way he thinks back to that conversation about peeling oranges, the expression on her face when she spoke about care, her hand resting over the locket, over her heart, the way his foggy memories of both his parents sharpen whenever he first splits an orange peel with his thumbnail and feels that fine mist spray into the air.

He doesn't ask her anything about that, doesn't say anything at all as she tends to his hand, wraps it up with thing gauze to prevent infection. "You're quiet today, caro," she remarks when she's done. He offers her an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Thinking through a hypothesis. I'm fairly certain I know the answer, but...I'm having trouble testing it."

She tidies away the first aid supplies, taking them back to their place. Jayce cradles his hand, still stinging, against his chest. When she returns to the kitchen table, she's carrying a small plate with half a dozen golden-brown muffins. Their tops are dotted with gleaming jewels of candied peel, and large crystals of sugar, and curls of pale yellow zest.

"Maybe you're not asking the right question, then," she suggests. "Or maybe your heads addled from too many oranges, and not enough of anything else. Are you actually managing to eat a balanced diet? Or did I condemn my son to a lifetime of nutritional deficiency?"

Jayce has to laugh, as he takes a muffin at her urging. "Well, at least you know I won't die of scurvy," he jokes back as he tears off a bite. Her comment sends him back, to long hours bent over schoolwork; the frustration of trying to sort through scientific procedure, of having to rein in his instinct and enthusiasm for something testable and repeatable, experimental design.

The muffin is sweet and warm, a little bitter from the copious amount of zest inside. He groans his appreciation, and she answers it with a beatific smile. "These are so damn good, Ma," he tells her. She swats his arm for swearing. "Can I take one with me? For Viktor?"

She looks at him, and he swallows as the weight of her regard falls on him. There's something significant in her even gaze, as it flicks down to the muffins, then back up at him. He knows, before she tells him--

Viktor made them.

***

Jayce does take a muffin for the road--for himself, seeing as Viktor likely has as many as he would want after having baked the batch. He tucks it into a corner of the box of oranges as he walks, his mind racing. It's not--it doesn't need to mean anything. Anyone can slice an orange in half with a knife, cut through the barrier to get at the flesh inside, juice it and squeeze it into a batter. It's just--the peel. Diced, and finely, but not enough to hide the pieces with a rough and ragged edge, distinct from the knife work on the other four sides. The way some of the little chunks, enrobed in sugary syrup, still have tiny shreds of pith clinging to them, encased like a bug in amber. That's not--if you cut an orange apart to get at the pieces you needed, or if you bought those pieces already prepared, those things wouldn't be--

And of course, it's not like Viktor is incompetent. One doesn't need a pristinely peeled orange for use in baking, it's not like it matters, he could massacre a pile of oranges and still get what he needs for the recipe, but--

If I kissed him, would Viktor taste of oranges?

"Maybe you're not asking the right question."

Do I...want to kiss Viktor?

***

Jayce feels himself moving slowly, when he pushes open the door to the lab. There is a reluctance to it; not fear, but hesitance. For a man normally so bold with discovery, it doesn't quite feel like him, but for all their talk of changing the world--this hypothesis feels like it could shake every foundation of everything Jayce has known, up to this point, more than any he has had before.

He sets down the box of oranges; there are none left to replace on top, and he's fairly certain there were some still in the box last night, which means the fruit in the muffins came from their supply. Viktor took them home; he didn't buy the ingredients pre-prepared. He takes out the muffin, and sets it, carefully, at Viktor's work station; in the space where he normally deposits his coffee mug. It's maybe a bit overdramatic; the morning sun slants in through the window and falls directly on it, setting the candied peel to glistening.

He takes a few moments to bustle about the lab, pouring clearning vinegar onto a rag and wiping down the stainless steel surfaces until they are gleaming, until the only thing he can smell is oranges. His pulse is pounding in his ears.

"Maybe you're not asking the right question."

Does Viktor...want to kiss me?

An hour passes; two. Jayce can't sit still; he grabs Viktor's notebook, and flips through the pages, reviewing the work from the last week, jotting down some observations in the margins and copying some thoughts down into his own collection of notes. He grabs a second book, comparing work from two months ago to the work they are refining now; finds an inconsistency, corrects it, copies it into both books so that they are each correct. He balances them in one hand and copies a few figures onto the chalkboard, the chalk screeching against the slate, his lines shaky.

Finally, he hears the door open ehind him, the tapping of Viktor's cane as it hits the ground with every step. He hears the unusual pause as Viktor comes intot he room, enough to see the muffin sitting in its beam of light--or where it used to be; the sun has moved, and the shaft from the window is creeping now along the very edge of the workbench and up the wall, putting the pastry back into shadow. Still, he knows he sees it. He thinks he can hear Viktor's brain calculating from here. The other man says nothing. The tapping of the cane resumes, and when he hears the creak of the stool settling under Viktor's weight, he turns on his heel, plastering a nonchalant, sunny smile onto his face.

"Good morning," he offers, and aims for casual as he closes Viktor's notebook, tossing it gently towards the the end of the workbench so that Viktor can re-shelve it in the stack of books and notes and loose papers accoring to whatever strange filing system he's adopted. "Everything okay? You were a little late getting in."

"I am fine, Jayce," Viktor says. He doesn't sound quite fine; his voice sounds a little strained. Kind of like his own. Viktor clears his throat. "Just had a rough start to the morning. Pain acting up; I opted to move a bit more slowly, and allowed myself some time to soak in epsom salts before I made my way here."

Jayce makes a sympathetic noise, settling into his own chair, tossing his own notebook down onto the work surface. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says, and he means it. "You've been having a good couple of weeks; sorry that the pain's back."

"Eh. It is what it is. I will deal with it as I always do," is Viktor's reply.

"Is there anything I can do?"

The question is met with silence. Jayce tries to keep his hands busy, as though the question isn't loaded with weight and meaning, as though he hasn't placed an accusatory muffin right in pride of place on Viktor's work station, like he doesn't have a hypothesis buzzing in his head based on nothing more than instinct and disconnected observations. But his eyes flit to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of Viktor--his posture, his body language, his expression. HIs partner is extremely still, for a moment, then a moment omre.

Then he moves. Jayce watches as he reaches out, past the muffin, and snags an orange from the box. "I'm a little hungry," Viktor murmurs quietly. Jayce turns a bit more, swiveling in his seat to face him more directly. Viktor isn't looking at him; his eyes are watching the orange as he rolls it back and forth on the countertop, smooth, measured motions, flicking from it to the muffin and back again. The motion stops, the orange pinned between his fingertips--deft, nimble, strong--and the desktop. There's an orange tinge under his fingernails.

Then, decisively, Viktor flicks his fingers, sending the orange rolling to nudge up against Jayce's elbow. Viktor's eyes lift to his face, and there's a sweet, tentative half-smile there. Jayce isn't sure he's ever seen an expression like it, not on Viktor, at least. He can see the small gap in his teeth, the crooked line of his lower jaw. He's close; closer than Jayce realized. When he speaks, Jayce swears he smells oranges.

"Would you mind peeling an orange for me?"

***

"Kate," she says, "I don't know how you do it!"

When Emily peels an orange, she tears holes in it.

Juice squirts in all directions.

- Oranges, Jean Little

Emily is my best friend.

I hope she never learns how to peel oranges.

ETA: There is an edited, polished, better version of this fic at that AO3 link now--this one is much rougher!

Peeling oranges 🍊🧡

#tsee writes shit #jayvik #arcane #so I fully was expecting to write just a sweet little one shot #when i started typing this in the reblog window #and then it grew legs on me and became *gestures* this #anyways i immediately had this idea when i saw this art and I desperately needed to write it #I hope you enjoy <3 #please let me know if you have an AO3 account so I can mark it as a gift!

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soulstumble · 5 months ago

Note

Eliza would place a basket of chocolates, and blood bags, at the door to the agency Elosia worked for and knock, once the other vampire opened the door, she would smile.

“it is…rare that I celebrate Saint Valentine’s Day, but maybe with you I could try again Elosia. What I mean to say is Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Sweet, simple and to the point, much different from Viktor’s idea, but Eliza seemed genuinely happy.

Her eyes look down to the basket of chocolates, and the blood bags. She doesn't show it immediately, letting Eliza step inside for a moment before Eloisa takes Eliza's hand and pulls her forward.

She dips her backwards and smiles, "And you are my Valentine? But more importantly, don't you know?"

She leans down to kiss her neck, "I drink other vampire's blood Eliza. So you're my chocolate no?"

Eloisa's being mean, but she soon brings Eliza back up and takes the basket happily. It's all useful anyways, but she just wanted to bully her. "Come in, let's celebrate."

#;;Eloisa #dracomultiverse

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naturenocturne · 5 years ago

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Noctem Task #1 - Call Me In the Afternoon || Viktor Valentina Playlist

Stay With Me - Sam Smith // All These Things That I’ve Done - The Killers // Family - Mother Mother // Call Me In The Afternoon - Half Moon Run // Hey There Delilah - Plain White T’s // Somewhere Only We Know - Keane // On Melancholy Hill - Gorillaz // FourFiveSeconds - Rihanna, Kanye West and Paul McCartney // I And Love And You - The Avett Brothers // Dark Child - Marlon Williams

#blood and chocolate: viktor #blood and chocolate: musings #nhqtask1

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thedreamlessnights · 3 years ago

Text

Not an end, but the start of all things

{chapter one} - {chapter two} - {chapter three} - {chapter four} - {chapter five} - {chapter six} - {chapter seven} - {chapter eight} - {chapter nine} - {chapter ten}

Vampire!Viktor x F!Reader AU (Eventual NSFW)

Synopsis: Spring arrives, and her gentle roots bring rebirth - in all sorts of ways.

Warnings: Mentions of blood retrieval through finger pricking, general NSFW content, oral (male and female receiving), P in V sex, fingering, edging, slight overstimulation, pulling out, intimacy and tenderness...

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: Here we go, friends! One more chapter left, a total of ten! I wrote this while I had COVID - comments are very, very appreciated if you'd like to leave them ♥

Spring comes in sweetly this year. Delicate warmth floods the sky, citrine light heals. The frost melts, the sun comes out, and you find yourself in the garden more than not, soaking up the sweetness of the light.

Viktor mostly reads in the mornings - after kissing you, of course - later venturing out into the sunshine to plant new seeds, nurturing them up with gentle hands and even softer words as you accompany him. New seedlings sprout into green leaves. Signs of winter fade.

Nox grows and grows, so much faster than you could have imagined, and spends his days lounging on windowsills, soaking up the sunlight.

Then comes the rain.

The first time it falls, it soaks you to the bone. You’re too shocked to move for cover; not for a good moment. And when you and Viktor both scatter indoors, laughing, you realize that this is how you heal. Not just your body or your mind, but your soul.

A gentle haziness that soaks deep into your core. Spending breakfasts over tea, noting how long Viktor’s hair is getting, and hugging your arms around yourself. Being grateful, mostly. Feeling free at last.

It takes you two weeks to realize that Viktor isn’t eating - at least, not human food. When you sit him down, he sheepishly confesses that he’s been nervous to finally taste things, so the two of you take a trip to the market, arm in arm.

With the winter gone, the market is bustling more than ever. Pastel greens and yellows and blues stream at the top of tents, signaling in the season. The aroma of fresh bread and pastries floats through the air, accompanied by floral notes of flowers blooming and the sweetness of warm grass and dirt.

Instead of building snowmen, the children make potions of dirt and rocks and sand, basking in the warmth of the sun as they play. You watch a child that must be Jayce’s son - he looks almost identical to him, only much smaller. He’s energetic, naturally, but he also has a kindness with the other children that must have come from Jayce.

Jayce must be around here somewhere, too, but you leave it be. Today is for you and Viktor, and you want to leave it that way.

Viktor, who’s been quiet as you’ve taken in the market. When you turn to look at him, his eyes are fixed on you. Of course they are. He offers you a small smile as you lean into him, pulling him closer to you.

“Are you ready?” you ask him. “Where do you want to start?”

“I’m ready,” he confirms. “And, eh, anywhere. You’re the one who’s tasted all of these - you tell me.”

Naturally, you head straight for the chocolate, if only to watch the way his smile softly grows wider.

He watches you with bright eyes as you flit from stand to stand - and despite the way he assures you it’s fine, it still leaves a pit in your stomach, using his money.

You can’t help wondering if they’d let you open a stall here. You can sew, if nothing else. Mostly, you just want to be useful. That all can be saved for later, though.

You spend your time picking out an assortment of things for him - candy, of course, but also lemons, scattered greenery, fresh bread and butter, and a few key ingredients of your favorite dishes.

When you end up with a basket full of food, he presses a tender kiss to your forehead.

“This will all taste good, yes?” he asks, fiddling with his cane. You immediately feel a little guilty about the lemons.

“Hopefully,” you tell him, flashing an innocent grin. “But, while we’re here, I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Viktor doesn’t exactly look fooled by your smile, but he takes the bait anyway.

“Yes?”

His hair is a warm chestnut brown in the sun, soft and glistening in the light. Gingerly, you take a strand of it between your fingers, then tuck it behind his ear.

“Are any werewolf barbers in season?”

You wouldn’t ask - even jokingly - if it wasn’t so clear that the length of his hair annoys him. He’s spent the last three weeks frustratedly shoving it away from his eyes, trying desperately to tuck it behind his ears. In fact, you’re almost surprised that he hasn’t taken scissors to it in a fit of impulsivity, but it won’t be long now, and you don’t want to risk it anymore.

For a moment, Viktor looks caught between wanting to roll his eyes or giving a laugh at your remark. Instead, he sighs, taking your hand.

“No,” he says. “I cut my own hair.”

Terror flashes through you at the thought of that.

“Let me cut it,” you nearly beg him. “I’ve cut hair before - I’ll do a good job. I promise.”

His eyes narrow for a moment, his grip tightening just the tiniest bit before he gives your hand a gentle squeeze and rubs his thumb over your knuckles.

“Alright,” he says, albeit warily. “Just don’t… make me look ridiculous.”

“I promise,” you repeat. “And if you look awful, you can chop up my hair and make me look hideous.”

That earns a small smile from him, despite the way he tries to hide it.

“Nonsense,” he says, pulling your arm into his, starting back home. “I would make your hair look nice.”

─────────────────────────────

Two hours later, the aroma of cooking food has your stomach growling. You can’t even imagine how Viktor feels. If anything, he seems nervous, his good leg bouncing when he’s sitting, his fingers twiddling when he’s standing.

You do notice that he hovers behind you, helping with the preparation, eyes fixed on you as you sample things for taste. You want everything to be the best that it can be, of course, but you do feel bad trying things without him.

Even so, he won’t take anything when you offer it to him - not before all the food is done. He’s adamant about that. And with all this food, you’re not exactly sure what to have him try first. Granted, there will be years and years of this - sampling all the different dishes that you could think of - but… you want it to be good for him. You really, really do.

Which is why, after some careful consideration, you end up giving him hot chocolate before anything else. Rich, creamy, sweet. Warm, but not hot enough to burn.

He smiles when you push it toward him, as if he’d expected it.

“Of course,” he says softly. “With the way you looked at that chocolate, I should have known.”

Without another word, he fixes his hands around the mug, eyes bright as he presses it to his lips.

He startles a little when it meets his tongue, brows creasing, which makes you quite anxious - had it been too hot? Then he takes a full swallow, throat bobbing as the liquid goes down.

The drink leaves a little residue on his top lip, which he licks off as he sets the mug down, rapping his fingers on the table as he thinks about it. Then he presses a hand to his chest, presumably feeling the warmth of it run through him.

You think of that day after the market, the two of you chatting with each other as the hot chocolate was prepared. The fact that he’d bought it for you without you even having to ask. The longing in his eyes as he watched you drink.

“I like it,” Viktor says, picking up the mug again. He downs the rest of it in two swallows and nods again, a grin fixing on his lips. “It’s - it makes me feel… warm.”

“One of its best qualities,” you say, instantly relieved, taking the empty mug from him. “A perfect winter drink, but almost as good any other time of the year.”

Next, you serve him warm bread with butter, which he insists you eat with him. You’re happy to oblige - the smell of it has been making your stomach growl.

This one, you can tell he likes immediately. After his first bite, he smiles, observing it in his hands before he takes another bite.

“Very good,” he says approvingly.

When you take a little more bread and butter and smear it with honey, his curiosity clearly piques - and he likes that even more than just the plain bread and butter. In fact, it turns out that anything sweet you put in front of him, he likes.

Viktor with a sweet tooth. It suits him.

Various sweets from the market - coconut ice, pear drops, caramels, toffee - all soon prove to be favorites of his, along with the honey-buttered bread and the hot chocolate.

As he eats dinner, he finds he likes mushrooms and sprouts and rosemary. Lemons, too, in mixtures - for instance, in the meal you cooked for him - but not on their own (as you learn from his glare, once he’s stopped puckering).

“Cruel,” he says, reaching for some water. “Very cruel.”

Still, he hides a smile as he drinks.

He’s also not fond of raw garlic; though, to your credit, you don’t give him that one. He tries it while it’s sitting on the counter after dinner, and immediately spends the next five minutes rinsing it out of his mouth before going back to his bread and butter.

“I think,” he says, looking very exhausted, “that is enough for me tonight.”

You can’t say you blame him - though, you do notice that he carries the rest of the chocolate with him upstairs when he goes to bed.

The next morning when he wakes, you slide him a cup of coffee, waiting next to him with cream and sugar at the ready.

“It’s bitter, and different people like it prepared in different ways,” you tell him as he observes it, swirling the mug around in his hand. “Some like it plain, and some prefer cream and sugar.”

As he lifts it to his lips and drinks, it’s immediately clear that he doesn’t like it black.

You can see it - the way he recoils a little, pursing his lips. The way he shakes his head, moving next to you, dumping an outrageous amount of cream and sugar in and stirring it before he takes another sip.

“It’s… an acquired taste for some, too,” you laugh, watching to see if he likes it any better.

“It’s not bad this way,” he tells you, drinking some more. “I like it, I think. Just… not plain.”

You can’t say you blame him. He likes the eggs and bacon you give him for breakfast much better, though. And, after seeing it sitting on the counter, he helps himself to more bread and butter.

Then comes a scowl, and him shoving his hair behind his ears.

“Will you let me cut your hair now?” you ask, trying to fight off another laugh. “My hands are steady.”

He nods, but not before finishing off his bread. Then he shows you where the hair shears are - which are thankfully sharp - and you pull out a tattered old sheet to wrap around his neck.

“Let us pray that you’re as skilled as you say you are,” Viktor teases, sitting down in a chair, and pressing a soft kiss to your hand. “Lest I will not be able to look in the mirror.”

“Oh, be quiet,” you say, spritzing down his hair with some water, pressing an apologetic kiss to his head when he flinches from the cold. “You’ll look alright.”

“Just alright?” he asks.

“Handsome,” you correct. “You’ll look very handsome, and every werewolf in the market will ask you where you got your hair cut, and you can direct them all to me. I’ll open up a shop, and stop using all of your money.”

You expect him to laugh, but he just goes silent for a long moment.

“I’ve told you,” he says softly, “you don’t have to worry about the money. I like using it for you. Seeing you happy.”

You pause for a moment, giving a sigh and setting the shears down.

“I know,” you murmur. “I do know that, Viktor, it’s just… I used to support myself, always. I learned all these skills so that I could have a home, and I was very happy doing it. I only stopped because I was dying. Now that I’m healthy, It feels wrong that I’m not… back at it. I’m happy here, with you, but… being able to do what I used to do would make me happy, too.”

Viktor is quiet for a bit longer, only speaking once you press a kiss to his shoulder.

“You might be able to… ask Jayce,” he tells you, turning to look at you. “About any places that you could work. Or whether the market has any open stalls. I’d be happy to help you.”

Relief floods you immediately. You have to suck in a shaky breath just so you don’t cry, mustering the biggest smile that you can for him.

You’re grateful, mostly, that he understands - or that he tries to, for you.

Viktor returns your smile, reaching around for your free hand again, wrapping his fingers around yours and giving a squeeze.

“Now that I’ve found the blood replacement, I have more time,” he continues. “I just want to make sure it’s distributed.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, throat going tight. “I’ll do that the next time I see Jayce. And, if I can help with the distribution in any way, I’d be more than happy to help you, too.”

“Thank you.” He squeezes your hand again, then releases. “I... appreciate that.”

The rest of the haircut goes smoothly.

You start by gently wetting the rest of Viktor’s hair, combing through it, and carefully beginning to trim. The gentle click of the shears becomes rhythmic to your ears, lulling you into a state of fixed concentration as loose bits of hair fall out around him and onto that tattered old sheet.

Viktor is a master at holding still for you, turning his head where you need it to be, murmuring soft responses to your requests.

He’s beautiful. You think that to yourself every day, but you mean it every day all the same. The sharp angle of his cheekbones, the golden glow of his irises, and the rosy, healthy sheen that he’s had ever since he’d started getting enough blood - they all add to it. You feel lucky just to get to look at him every day, much less kiss him.

And when you stand in front of him, combing through his hair with his hands and making final adjustments, those eyes stay fixed on you, too. Studying you. Watching your expression. Crinkling a bit, when you scrunch your nose in indecision.

You’ve been itching to cut his hair for weeks, but you can’t decide which style you’d like most. The same as when the two of you met? Shorter, but with fluffed-out bangs? Uniform and crisp?

“Let me see?” Viktor requests, and you shift from side to side anxiously.

“It’s not finished yet, Vik.”

But he still gazes up at you expectantly, so you hand him a mirror.

He looks mostly pleased, gazing at his reflection for a moment, rotating the mirror around him to see.

“A bit shorter,” he requests. “You’ve done a fine job, though.”

Ah, so he wants it how it was when you two met. Alright.

At the compliment, you shoot him a look that must contain the full smugness you feel, because he rolls his eyes as he gives the mirror back to you.

“I’m meeting up with someone tomorrow,” he tells you once you’ve started trimming again. “Another vampire - Sky. I knew her as a child. She’s been raised on animal blood.”

“Oh?” you question.

“Yes,” he confirms. “I’ve… worried, recently - that perhaps the replacement isn’t as effective to those who’ve only been exposed to animal blood. I’d like to experiment as much as I can before I begin distributing the recipe, and Sky has a steady source of human blood if it doesn’t work for her. She’s willing to try it.”

He turns his head toward you, only realizing his mistake a second too late as you trim. Your heart immediately starts pounding through your chest, and you let out a soft curse.

“Are you trying to have me chop off your ear?” you ask, half-joking. “How am I supposed to give you a good haircut in these conditions?”

“Ah,” he says, shooting you a soft, apologetic look that warms you from the inside out. “Definitely not - I’m sorry. How bad is it?”

As your heart rate slows, you let out a shaky breath and look at the damage done.

“Thankfully not bad,” you sigh. “I was already going to take off that bit. Go on?”

“Oh, eh - I was… I was hoping you would come with me,” Viktor stammers. “Tomorrow. To meet with Sky.”

“Of course,” you hum, combing through his hair one final time before setting down the shears. “I’d be happy to come with you.”

“Thank you.”

This time, Viktor reaches for your hand again, watching you as you pull the sheet away from his neck with your free hand.

“Ready to see?” you ask, grabbing the mirror and holding it to him. “You look very handsome, you know.”

“Do I?” Viktor asks, grasping the mirror from you. This time, he smiles, looking very happy with it, eyes crinkling around the corners. “Ah. You did well,” he affirms. “Just as I always knew you would.”

“Funny,” you say. “A true comic poet. I’ll ask Jayce if there are any openings for you at the market.”

“Trust me, I never doubted you for one second,” Viktor continues, reaching for his cane before he dusts the remaining hair from him and kisses you on the cheek. “I had full faith in your abilities.”

You can’t subdue the huge smile that spreads across your lips as you watch him walk away.

─────────────────────

When you wake the next morning, you walk into the kitchen to find Viktor in the midst of gathering ingredients, collecting papers, and snacking on various sweets. Ever since he found the peppermints at the bottom of the sweets bag, he’s grown quite fond of them.

When he leans in to kiss you, you find he tastes of sweet mint, scented of clean clothing and dirt and honey. You’re not one to complain about these things. You like peppermints, too.

Once afternoon has come and Viktor is fully ready, the two of you set out to meet Sky at the edge of the werewolf village, a mile past the market. It’s a brisk walk, but there’s a flat trail the whole way through - something that would have been nice to know when you’d journeyed in to meet Jayce all those months ago.

Still, birds are singing in the trees above you, the sun is warm, and Viktor is more excited than, well, you’ve ever seen him. You’re content to stay in this moment forever, if you should ever have the choice.

The time passes anyhow, but you’re determined to enjoy it all the same.

Sky is early - already waiting there when you arrive, accompanied by her husband. She’s a shy, smiley woman with curly hair and glasses, and an addictive, soothing voice. You find yourself quite liking her as the two of you chat, but it’s not long before Viktor is stealing her away, eager to get started with the replacement.

You can’t blame him. He’s been waiting his whole life for this.

Sky’s husband is a lanky brunet man who hovers at her side, mostly silent, observing you and Viktor with dark eyes - but there’s gentle warmth to them if you look long enough. You think he might have been introduced to you in the heat of everything, but you can’t remember his name.

In any case, the two of you mostly end up on the sidelines as Viktor takes Sky through the steps of the recipe. She doesn’t even flinch when Viktor pricks her finger, though the man next to you tenses.

Independence for each vampire is Viktor’s overall goal, though, so naturally, it would require each vampire to avoid becoming reliant on anyone else. Sustainable ingredients that anyone could access. A harmless amount of one’s own blood.

A small price to pay for freedom, you suppose. Hopefully, her husband will understand.

This is your first time seeing this process, too, and remembering the nasty cut you’d bandaged on Viktor’s hand those weeks ago isn’t making you feel much better. Guilt still lingers behind you when you think of it - that you hadn’t been awake to help him.

Not that you could have helped it, of course, but it pains you all the same. At least he’d gotten the replacement out of that process, if nothing else.

He looks anxious, but his hands are steadier than ever as he drops the blood from Sky into the mixture. Very, very slowly, the liquid turns a deep, inky black. Even Sky’s husband looks perplexed.

Everything halts as she drinks it. The birds go silent. The wind stills, and your breath hitches in your throat. All you can see is Sky tilting the mixture to her lips, swallowing it, and shuddering.

Very, very slowly, you exhale.

She says something very softly to Viktor - something you can’t pick up from your distance, but as soon as you see the look on his face, you understand - it worked.

A huge smile breaks out on Viktor’s lips, and he immediately pulls Sky into a hug. You can’t help rushing over to him, and his arms quickly wrap around you, so tight that it nearly crushes the air out of you.

You don’t care at all - he could break one of your ribs and you wouldn’t care at this moment. You’re so happy that you can barely breathe, clinging onto him, grasping his arm as Sky’s husband claps him on the shoulder, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived.

In the upcoming moments, you discover his name is Pierre, and he keeps thanking Viktor on repeat, despite how Viktor tries to brush off his successes.

“It’s nothing,” Viktor tells him over and over. “I’m glad to help.”

After the initial burst of joy, Viktor gives the list of ingredients to Sky, as well as some other instructions - to let him know if she notices anything off, to tell him of any heightened senses she experiences, and to share the recipe with anyone she thinks might benefit from it.

Sky seems to be floored by the latter instruction.

“What?” she asks. “Viktor, this is your recipe. I can’t just… go throwing it around without due credit! You should be the one sharing it with everyone!”

“It would be impossible for me to get it to every vampire out there,” Viktor says, tone frustratingly logical. “Paying it forward would give the best chance of it doing the most good.”

When Sky still doesn’t seem convinced, he sighs.

“Please,” he implores. “I didn’t do all that research to keep it locked up.”

“Alright,” she says warily, tucking the recipe into her coat. “But I’ll be telling them all where it came from. You still deserve credit!”

And with that, she and her husband leave.

Viktor seems to be in shock at her departure, watching the two silhouettes fade into the forest.

“She’s right, you know,” you tell him, moseying up to him. “You deserve credit for your work.”

Viktor scowls. “Getting the recipe out is more important,” he says.

Still, he spends the whole walk home chattering about his relief - about how he hadn’t been sure that it would work, and how much good it’ll do now that it’s out there. About how many vampires he knows who are in desperate need of it, that will finally be able to gain the true independence they’ve been looking for their whole life.

You can’t help but smile, arm looped in his.

“What?” he asks when he notices.

“You’re very inspiring,” you tell him. “You make me want to do good in this world.”

“You have,” Viktor tells you with a crooked grin. “For me, and undoubtedly for others. And you will, for as long as you live.”

And when the two of you get inside, he kisses you like he’s never kissed you before, tucking his cane up on his arm.

He still tastes faintly of peppermint, lips soft and sweet against yours as his hands trail down your waist, settling at your hips.

You’ve gotten to this point once or twice in the last few weeks, and every time, you’ve stopped for the same reason - neither of you has ever gone past this.

Or at least, that’s what you’ve been able to discern from Viktor’s stammered apologies, every time he’d pulled away. And you’re in no rush, despite the lingering heat his indisposition always left you with.

This time, he seems to be fueled by adrenaline - made clear by the ardor of his actions, by the way his hand fists into your hair, then relaxes, his thumb brushing at the sweet spot behind your ear.

You can’t help but shudder at that.

“I… don’t want to stop,” he murmurs against your lips, fingers tracing down your jaw. “Do you?”

“No,” you say immediately. “I want you.”

And, for as fast as life has been happening the last few weeks, the sex starts remarkably slow.

First of all, the two of you agree that you should be in Viktor’s bedroom. His bed is bigger than yours, and it just seems right. You head up there in silence, though, his hand lingering on your back speaks volumes.

When the two of you get in, Viktor sets his cane down and sits on the bed, his golden gaze trailing your every moment.

Your hands are slow, too, when they start peeling the layers off him - watching the way he takes in a startled breath, eyes dilating when they meet yours. His hand is warm when it cradles your face, thumb slow when it strokes your cheekbone.

You move slowly when you take his shirt off, pressing feather-light kisses to the skin, relishing in its softness. To his clavicle, you do the same, and to his sternum, and the soft curve of his stomach. When you go a little lower, pressing your lips against the waistband of his trousers, he makes a soft sound and places a hand on your shoulder.

He’s gotten hard in the last few minutes, and you can’t lie to say that you aren’t eager at the sight of that.

“Can I try something?” you ask, pulling up to kiss him, brushing a loose strand of hair out of your eyes. “Is that okay?”

“Alright,” he confirms breathlessly, though his hands linger on your waist like he doesn’t want to let you out of his arms.

Then, all at once, everything is fast.

You unbutton his trousers, nibbling at his ear, and it becomes clear just how affected he is - his underwear straining against him. Heat floods between your legs, the back of your neck grows hot, and you can swear that even your mouth starts to water.

As you press your palm to his erection, Viktor whimpers, and the sound opens up into a moan as you repeat the action.

You could listen to that moan forever, but you have other plans in mind. You pull at his underwear. Viktor is quick to stop you, though, tugging at your clothes.

The message is received quickly - he’d like to not be naked while you’re fully dressed, please. And you’re happy to oblige, although you can’t help but feel vulnerable as the two of you peel the layers away, exposing your chest to the balmy air.

His hands start by moving to your ribs, trailing up to your right breast almost exploratively, pinching at a nipple until it goes hard, then mirroring the movement on the other side.

“How does that feel?” he asks. “Is that alright?”

“It’s perfect,” you murmur, pulling at the last of his clothes. “Don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He circles one of the hardened buds with his finger, bending down to wet it with his mouth, sucking on it until you’re fighting back a sound. Then he repeats it on the other one, leaving you to cling to him and shudder until you remember what you’d been doing.

Soon, he’s naked, and you are too - and embarrassingly wet, despite the way you’re trying to ignore that. You know for a fact that you’re leaving a wet spot on top of the thigh you’ve been straddling, though you’re quick to move further down.

When you press a kiss to the bone of his hip, Viktor flinches hard, drawing in a shaky breath as he stammers out your name, his cheeks and the top of his chest flushing a deep, rosy color. His eyes shimmer as they look at you, glimmering like freshly fallen snow.

“Can I?” you ask, and he nods, thumb brushing against your cheek.

Your fingers trail downward, past the dark, curled hair, to the silkiness of his cock, warm and smooth in your hand. Immediately, he chokes out a groan, fingers moving to fix in your hair.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

In a moment of sheer curiosity, you circle your lips around the head of it, gently moving your mouth down. His response is similar - a hissed curse, fingers tightening into your hair. His cock twitches in your mouth, and that’s about all the encouragement you need.

You’re careful about it - the movements of it, listening for the telltale moans. You’ve never done this before, but you’ve crossed through enough dark alleyways to have seen it done - enough to at least have a general idea of what you’re doing. You mind your teeth, use your hand when you’re not sure if you can fit more of him, and eventually, you taste salt.

Not enough to be a full climax, but enough to let you know that you’re getting close. And, wanting to draw it out, you pull away.

Viktor shudders at the loss, closing his eyes for a moment. His ribs expand as he inhales deeply, then his eyes are back on you.

“Tell me what feels good,” you request, stroking his length up and down as you kiss his thigh.

He laughs a little, sighing at the sensation of your hand on him, his fingers still clenched - albeit, gently - in your hair. “E-everything,” he manages. “Everything. Please, don’t stop.”

And you don’t intend to - not until you’re satisfied.

This time, you’re a little bolder, taking him a little deeper, sucking a little harder. His moaning gets louder, which only encourages you to try more. Your free hand ghosts over his thighs, and - in a moment of impulsivity - runs over his scrotum, earning a soft whimper from him, but a hip jerk of sensitivity as well.

You try again, this time much softer, and he pants, hair plastered to his forehead, hips canting up to your mouth, cursing mixed with the sound of your name.

“I’m - close,” he grits out, hand tightening in your hair as a warning. “Fuck, I - I…”

And, well… you want to see him come. So you don’t stop. You keep the rhythm up, you keep your mouth and your hand on him, and moan around him for good measure. And that does it.

He thrusts into your mouth, letting out a soft, searching noise which turns into the sound of hissed air as his lips fall into a soft ‘o,’ his free hand gripping at the sheets as he shudders and heaves.

His release in your mouth is salty-sweet, light and warm against your tongue. On instinct, you keep swallowing until it stops, until Viktor lets out a final groan and jerks as you mouth against his now sensitive tip.

“Fuck,” he says, gently pulling you away from him. “Come here.”

You nose along his clavicle, pressing soft kisses to the bone until he tilts your chin up with his fingers and presses his lips to yours.

You wonder if he can taste himself on your tongue.

You don’t get the chance to find out. Soon, he’s kissing down your neck, and every thought in the world fades away but the feeling of his lips against the vein of your jugular, his teeth gently nibbling against the skin.

He kisses from your sternum down to your thighs, only halting to nudge your legs apart. It’s only then you realize his goal, face heating as he tucks your right thigh over his shoulder, gently nibbling at the sensitive skin.

“May I?” he asks. “I… want to taste you.”

You feel like you’re on fire, burning up from the inside out, but you muster out a nod. It’s funny how confident you’d been with your mouth around him, but you’re ready to shrivel up into a ball with the way he’s looking at you now, gold eyes flaming, slowly dilating in the low light.

“Tell me,” he requests softly.

“I want you to,” you breathe, trying not to throw your hand over your face to avoid his gaze. “Please.”

That must be enough, because he settles himself between your legs, his breath hot against you. You can’t help shivering, reaching out to grab the sheets next to you. Viktor grumbles, moving your hand into his hair.

“Pull, if you like,” he says, and without another word, his mouth closes around you.

As always, he starts off experimental, letting out a soft moan when he tastes you.

Then a gentle move of the tongue, a ghosted circle around your clit, anything that makes you tick. Whenever you make a noise, he repeats the most recent action, and soon your back is arching off the bed and he’s practically holding you down.

Then he adds his fingers.

You’ve always had an admiration for them - slender, nimble, steady. Inside you, they serve to make your muscles tense, heat pooling up in your core, pleasing building in waves until Viktor abruptly stops, then starts up again a moment later - this time much softer.

When his fingers curl in just the right spot inside you, you gasp, pulling at his hair, chasing down the pleasure.

“There,” you pant. “Please, there.”

Viktor immediately fixes his fingers to the same spot they’d just been and lightning courses through your veins - sparks of pleasure, electric ecstasy, sweet release as you grind down into him.

He moans in response, and the oscillation has you whimpering, just on the verge of a climax. Your muscles are tensing up, so close, and just a moment later you’re crashing down, clenching around his fingers, bathed in ambrosial pleasure.

You definitely end up moaning out his name in the midst of it, and you think he might moan again when he hears it, but everything is too fuzzed up to really be sure.

Afterward, when you’re finally recovered enough to think, you sling your arm over your face, laughing a little.

“Christ,” you murmur. “When my parents told me a vampire would eat me, this isn’t what I pictured.”

That earns a laugh out of him.

“What a shame - vampires are completely misunderstood.” He presses a kiss to your thigh, sucking a little. “This entire time, we’ve only been trying to get between a pair of very nice legs.”

You echo his laugh, sighing deeply and contently before he speaks once more:

“Can you go again?”

You think about it for a moment, recalling some intimate previous experiences you’ve had with yourself on long nights after a day’s labor.

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Yeah, I think I can.”

And Viktor returns to his work.

This time, his tongue is softer, and you’re much more sensitive. His mouth, warm and wet, is dizzying against you. Sweet, gentle, skilled - it’s not long before you’re hovering on the edge again, only able to say his name.

He backs away like before, and after you’ve been riled up to the peak again, he slows down once more, rendering you a shaky mess.

If you’d been in any state to question him, you might have. Instead, you whine out a soft Viktor and let him do as he pleases, bringing you up and down from the edge twice more before he finally brings you all the way up to orgasm.

As it washes over you, you tremble from head to toe, panting, shuddering, crying out in ways that would be positively shameful if anyone lived close at all to the two of you.

Luckily, no one does - meaning that you’re free to moan and pull at Viktor’s hair and whimper at the aftershocks until they fade. You’re left shivering with sensation and sensitivity until Viktor finally pulls away, pressing one last kiss to your thigh before climbing up to you.

He starts by settling himself next to you, brushing damp strands of hair out of your face. Then he presses a kiss to your cheek, nosing down into your neck as he wraps his arms around you.

To your complete shock, he’s hard again - you can feel it, and it’s confirmed when you look down.

It stirs something up inside you - pumps more adrenaline into your veins and heat between your legs as you reach for him.

“Fuck me,” you breathe. “Please?”

“Demand after demand,” Viktor mumbles teasingly, but you don’t miss the way he twitches at your words.

Pushing up above you, he props most of his weight on his good knee, spreading your legs open around him as he slowly presses against your entrance.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re - so wet.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He laughs.

“Eh, mine,” he says. “But I can’t take all the credit.”

And then he’s kissing you, and slowly pressing into you, checking in soft, murmured words that you’re alright - that it doesn’t hurt.

And, after your affirmations that it doesn’t, he begins to thrust.

It immediately becomes clear that neither of you are going to last very long. The way he stretches you - the maddening roll of his hips; it drives you up and down the peak of climax, similar to his tongue. You’re both trembling, panting, trying to hold on, but you don’t care. You wouldn’t trade it for the world.

You’re very content to hook your arm around his back and press kisses to his face and shoulders, and he rocks up into you in steady motions that stoke fiery heat in you, and grow in desperation as you start to tense.

As both of you grow closer, he kisses you hard, pressing his forehead against yours. You come just as he pulls out and spends on your stomach, still heaving from the orgasm.

The two of you watch as the pearly substance drips down your abdomen, hypnotic and glistening in the light. Then Viktor heads out for a moment to get a wet cloth to clean you up with.

When he returns, his actions are gentle and tender, and the two of you change the sheets together, laughing at your new clumsiness.

Apparently, your knees don’t like to be mixed with sex.

“You need the cane more than I do,” Viktor tells you.

In response, you laugh - laying yourself down against the fresh sheets. Viktor is quick to join you, pressing a kiss to your forehead, turning down the lamps before silence falls and his breathing goes even.

He’s quick to fall asleep. You can still see him as the night goes on, your eyes adjusting to the soft glow of the moon, watching him as he rests and his eyelids flutter.

You can’t seem to find that same rest, however much you want to. Your mind races with today’s events, refusing to be quiet or still. The blood replacement. The sex. Even the bite plays on your mind, over and over again.

And Viktor tosses and turns in his sleep, mumbling softly under his breath as he dreams. You find yourself listening for words, but they’re indiscernible. His chest rises and falls, and you itch to touch him.

Eventually, you end up with his back facing you, sheets draped over his lower half. There, freckles dot the silky, porcelain skin, mapping out stars over the ridge of his shoulders, dark flecks that run down his spine. Just as beautiful as the rest of him.

You can’t resist gently tracing them. Gently smoothing fingers over soft skin, forming your own pattern of moon-kissed constellations before he stirs, turning toward you.

“Hm?” he asks, barely awake. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you murmur, fighting back a soft laugh. “Go back to bed.”

Then his arms wrap around you, and blissfully, sleep comes in the warmth of his touch.

tags: @mischievous-piltovan @yeehawbvby @dianounais @avid-main @stararctic @doctorho @mello-jello29 @arcane-is-life @am-3-thyst @thefiasco-onyourblock @glowstick-cafe @orangechickenpillow @the-lake-is-calling

Find my taglist here!

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane viktor x you #viktor x reader arcane #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #viktor #mywriting

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blackcurlsgreeneyes · 2 years ago

Text

"Fair enough," Harry said with a half-smile. "I'm hardly a beacon of familial connection, myself." It fascinated him, how Taylor seemed to both be transparent and completely reserved when she spoke. He was extremely curious about her background, what made her tick, but he also did not want to risk alienating her with too much attention.

He chuckled a bit. "It seems like everything goes wrong one way or another, every year," Harry said truthfully. "A professor possessed by Voldemort, a fifty-year-old nightmare happening again because of a cursed diary, my godfather is revealed not to be a mass murderer, and I wind up an absolute anomaly in the Triwizard Tournament. With extra death on top."

Harry had known she would likely turn down the offer, so he just smiled. "Just know the invite's there," he said firmly. "It's more fun having friends around on a holiday, I've learned since meeting the Weasleys. They're basically my family."

(~)

Harry had been dreaming something very silly, at first. Taylor and Cho were discussing Chocolate Frog collector cards, and Hermione was dancing with Viktor Krum while Ron was helping Dobby re-hang Christmas baubles, though these ones were shaped like the elf's face rather than Harry's...

The dream changed. Harry's body felt smooth, powerful, and flexible. He was gliding between shining metal bars, across dark, cold stone....flat against the floor, sliding along on his belly. It was dark, yet he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colors. He turned his head.... At first glance, the corridor was empty...but no...

A man was sitting on the floor ahead, his chin drooping onto his chest in sleep. Harry put out his tongue, finding that he could taste the man’s scent on the air. Harry longed to bite the man...but he must master the impulse. He had more important work to do.

The man stirred, a silvery cloak falling from his legs as he jumped to his feet; and Harry saw his vibrant, blurred outline towering above him, saw a wand withdrawn from a belt. Harry had no choice. He reared high from the floor and struck once, twice, three times, plunging his fangs deeply into the man’s flesh, feeling his ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood.

The man was yelling in pain, but gradually he fell silent. He slumped backward against the wall, blood splattering onto the floor.... Harry's forehead hurt terribly....

“Harry!” He opened his eyes. Every inch of his body was covered in icy sweat; his bedcovers were twisted all around him like a straitjacket, and Harry felt as though a white-hot poker was being applied to his forehead. Ron was standing over him, their dormmates gathered around, looking ashen. "Neville's gone for Professor McGonagall, just hold on...."

It took some time, absolute chaos, and Harry's desperation rising by the minute when Ron initially dismissed his panicked words as dreaming. But to his relief, McGonagall was not as unsure as his best friend; as soon as Harry told her what he'd seen, her lips settled in a thin line. “I believe you, Potter,” she said curtly. “Put on your shoes and a jumper, we’re going to see the headmaster. You as well, Weasley.”

Forty minutes later, Harry was seated in Dumbledore's office. The Weasley kids had all been collected from their varying year dorms, and Harry had choked out the summary of what he had seen. To his shock, Dumbledore had responded by calmly instructing two of the hundreds of portraits, Everard and Dilys, to go and raise the alarm for "the right people," as well as sending another--a Black, apparently, on another task.

It did not take long for them to return, affirming that Arthur Weasley had been found, and he was being rushed to St. Mungo's.

There was a flash of flame in the very middle of the office, leaving behind a single golden feather that floated gently to the floor. “It is Fawkes’s warning,” Dumbledore noted, catching the feather as it fell. “She must know you’re out of your beds. Minerva, go and head her off —tell her any story—” She nodded and left, and he focused on the teenagers. "You lot will take a Portkey to Grimmauld Place, now. You are officially on Christmas hols."

(~)

They didn't even get to get their things, mostly because they needed to dodge Umbridge's interference. Sirius welcomed them in his dressing gown, and Molly sent word before dawn that Arthur was alive, and could take visitors the next day.

It was risky, but Harry felt guilty for the sudden departure, and he desperately wished to make sure that Taylor knew why they'd vanished. So he went ahead and sent an owl--Hedwig was very disgruntled when he declined using her, as she was recognizable--with a note to say that if she changed her mind about Christmas itself, he'd ask the adults in a heartbeat to arrange a Floo for her.

#fidelixcorde #Harry x Taylor #RP: Being the Wallflower

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ransprang · 4 years ago

Note

Vampire AU prompt for viktor!

the two non-sexual admins wrote this one. we're so sorry.

100 follower event~ prompt: vampire au

Vampire!Viktor x reader - N/SFW

- Viktor became a vampire to cure his unnamed illness(es). He found a magical bat in one of the Undercity drains and decided it was a good idea to merge its cells with his body to try and cure himself. Fast-forward to 2 months later, he's worse than before, thirsting for blood constantly but unable to do anything because he doesn't want to hurt anyone. Soon enough his health worsens to the extent that he becomes unable to come to the lab too.

- Jayce would try to check on Viktor and visit his room to see why his best friend was becoming more of a recluse than he already was. He walked in, and seeing him lying in the dark, Jayce tried opening the curtains. But then Viktor screamed like a banshee and Jayce took the hint and left, thinking that it was just Viktor being Viktor.

- You were one of the lab assistants so Jayce asked you to visit him and make sure he was getting enough food. You did your best to ensure some nutrition got into the skinny lad so you brought him some warm meals and leave them at his door.

- One day you get him some lovely garlic pasta and leave it at the door. As usual you hide in the corner to make sure he takes the food in, but suddenly you hear alarming coughing noises. Worried, you rush to him to see if everything's okay.

- Inside, you see him crouched on the floor, in his boxers with a 8 inch cock out, clutching at his throat. He is coughing blood so naturally you assume he's choking. You perform the Heimlich maneuver. He spits out some of your pasta but seems to calm down.

- You rub his naked, sweaty back trying to ease his pain but then you catch his eyes. His chocolate brown orbs are sharpened to slits as you stares at your neck with an intensity that he usually reserves for the Hexcore. "Viktor?" you try to call out to him. Before you know it, you're flat on your back with him looming above you, his gaze still fixed on your throat.

- You open your mouth to call out to him again but suddenly you feel sharp teeth piercing your skin. There is a sharp sting but soon pleasure floods your senses and your words turn into a deep moan. You feel your body heat up and your nerves spark with desire as you pull Viktor closer, burying your hands into his soft brown hair. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you continue to moan and make soft noises at his ear while he laps at your throat.

- You both lie there for what feels like an eternity drowning in indescribable pleasure. When Viktor finally pulls away from you, you're both flushed and panting. He looks at you with regret in his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" he stutters out in his thick geographically questionable accent. Manly tears glitter in his eyes.

- "It's fine. I'm fine," You reassure him. "It didn't feel-" You paw at your neck lamely, "-bad. I thought my moaning was clear enough," You chuckle nervously. Viktor's eyes widen as he stares at you dumbstruck. "More importantly are you alright?" you ask him.

- "Me?" Viktor scoffs, incredulous. "I bit you and you're worried about me? I'm fine." He looks down at himself. His unhealthy grey pallor has been replaced by porcelain skin with a healthy glow, even his muscles look fuller than before. Viktor stands up shakily. "Actually, I feel amazing." He looks down at you wondrously and helps you up. You're surprised to find his grip firm and strong.

- "So, what was that?" You ask and Viktor explains his strange experiments with a bat. After having read so many Wattpad fanfics in your youth, you knew that this was the perfect opportunity. Middle school you would be thrilled to find an actual vampire. You offer to be his blood source. Viktor accepts with much gratitude.

- You both live happily ever after. You slightly anemic, and him without a stick <3

your anemic girls,

admins san & sar

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kikiiswashere · 3 years ago

Text

Children of Zaun - Chapter 6

Born in the Dirt

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, eventual smut

Chapter Summary: Heimerdinger speaks with Councilor Bone about Viktor, the Undercity prodigy. Silco gives Enyd the medicine, and she reflects on their changing roles. Katya attends her first Children of Zaun meeting, and meets a couple of its members.

Chapter CW: This chapter briefly touches on infant death and suicide; there is also a section that describes labor - not especially in-depth, but thought I would warn anyway. Take care!

Previous Chapter

Word count: 8.5K

Jarrot Bone woke up in his usual way on Wednesday morning.

In a fit of coughing, his throat clogged with mucus and pus.

He rolled out of bed, bones rattling and muscles tremoring with the force of the fit gripping his body. Unsteadily, he got to his feet and stumbled into his ensuite. A particularly forceful cough bent his spine and he tripped into the porcelain sink. His fingers found a white-knuckle grip around the edge and his balding head bowed into the bowl. He knew he should try to make his way over to the toilet, but he couldn’t guarantee that he would be able to lift himself off the floor once this fit had passed.

A shaking hand reached for the sink’s handle and turned it. Cold, clean water gushed out of the spout and splashed into the sink. Bone set his feet and braced himself as firmly as he could. With a mighty contraction of his abdominals, he heaved and retched and sputtered.

Discolored phlegm was thrown into the sink, quickly washed down the drain by the running water. Bone wheezed and lurched as he was involuntarily taken over by an onslaught of more choking coughs. More mucus, more pus, some blood and stomach bile spattered against the porcelain. Bone’s whole body trembled with the effort, his legs unsteady beneath him and cold sweat dampening his ashen skin.

Bone didn’t dare release the death grip he had on the sink until he was absolutely certain the fit had passed. He waited for the bowl of the sink to be stark white before turning the water off. As the sound of the water washed away, his pained wheezing filled the bathroom. His chest heaved and ached. Sharp, stabbing pains that cut against his lungs like razor wire. The bellow of his diaphragm spasmed and cramped in the aftermath.

Slowly, so very slowly, Bone made to stand fully, his hands still gripping the sink for support. His vision started to become clear again, after having pitched and wavered like heat against pavement during his retching. After a couple steady breaths, he lifted his gaze to the mirror before him and it cruelly reflected his visage.

Jarrot Bone was old by Undercity standards. Having been dumped at Hope House as an infant he never knew his birthday, but he was around sixty, he supposed. Give or take.

Take, really.

He looked eighty, by Piltover standards. Ashy skin, creped by time, toxins, and years of malnutrition hung off his thin bones. What little hair he had left was white and cropped close to his head. His eyes, once chocolate brown, were now muted and milky and currently watering and red-rimmed following his morning fit.

He made to clear his throat and set off another string of hacks and chokes. The most unpleasant ripping and sucking sound emanated from Bone’s chest and he hocked a congealed hunk of . . . something (blood? Lung, maybe?) into the sink.

He flipped the faucet back on and coaxed the object down the drain with the stream of water. Taking the cup from the shelf above, he filled it and greedily drank. The cool water both eased and stung at his marred insides. He set the glass down with a shuddering breath.

Working as a Slipper for all those years was finally catching up with him.

A couple weaker coughs rattled behind his ribs and Bone finally pushed himself off the sink and opened the medicine cabinet above. Plucking out the small, brown glass bottle he gave it a swish. To mix up the medicine and to assess how much he had left. The liquid inside gently sloshed within and Bone let out a hitching sigh.

He was almost out again.

He unscrewed the dropper top and squeezed the medicine up to the line etched into the pipette. With shaky hands, Bone lifted the dropper to his mouth and released the medicine under his tongue. Just as the Academy doctor had instructed.

Bone was conflicted if he wanted to go back and see the doctor. The woman had been sympathetic but realistic, that there was no cure for what ailed the Councilman and this medicine would only make him more comfortable. Of course, Bone knew that. He had watched plenty other miners (primarily Slippers, like himself) succumb to this respiratory disease.

When Bone had finally secured a seat in Council Chambers seven years ago, it afforded him access to the care so many of his peers had needed. He felt guilt at that. He wanted to do so much for his community. Give them what was now available to him as a Councilor. His political progress was slow, burdened by generations of classism and prejudice. His health had been sacrificed and he felt himself hurtling toward his end, accelerated by the same institutions that impeded the work he wanted to do.

Whether it was fear or stubbornness, Bone didn’t know, but he felt the gripping need to hold on a little while longer. His work for the Undercity was not done.

He didn’t want it to be done.

He decided he would see the Academy doctor again. Have his dosage upped and refilled.

Reverently, he homed the vial back in his medicine cabinet and went about the rest of his morning.

He had a standing early lunch with Professor Heimerdinger he didn’t want to be late for.

Bone crossed the Bridge mid-morning, cane in hand and the sun at his back as he walked toward Piltover. He had moved to a decent loft on the edge of the Promenade soon after becoming a Councilor. Something else he felt conflict over: living so much better than he ever had, while the majority of the Undercity lay in squalor. His Council peers and the doctor had encouraged it for his health and new position. Cleaner air, shorter commute. Bone understood, but it did little to assuage the shame in his belly.

Bone slid his approval papers to the gate attendant. It was a formality he insisted on maintaining out of solidarity for his people. The attendant humored him by glancing at the papers, but they too quickly gave them back and waved him on.

The café district and adjacent mercantile streets were already in full swing for the day. Bone walked past, not tempted at all by the smells or sights. While he paid no attention to it, he knew occasional eyes would stare and sneer at him. His addition to the Council had been wrought with tension and there had been a mild upset among Piltover’s citizens. The blatant hostility settled, but Bone knew that his presence on this side of the river was not welcome.

Which was fine by him. He wasn’t here for Piltover. He was here for the Undercity.

He crossed the square and made for the Academy campus. The dean preferred his academic tasks to his duties as a Councilor, and Bone couldn’t begrudge him that. The question was where would Bone find Heimerdinger? Oddly enough, his office was not a guarantee. The science lab? A better bet, although Bone hoped not since that building was a good walk away and his joints were already beginning to ache.

A warm breeze fluttered the leaves of the tall trees lining the broad walkway to the Academy’s campus and Bone shivered. Not from cold. He still had never gotten used to the sweet, clear scent of the Piltover air.

The school bell toned loudly as the Undercity Councilor made his first uneasy steps onto the quad. A deep, rich, brassy note that quaked through his old bones. Soon, adolescents and teens began to trickle out of the surrounding buildings, books in their arms and bags slung across their backs. Older students, young adults in their late-teens and early twenties, were the last to meander out of their respective buildings, striding across the paths in front of them with great purpose and furrowed brows. The upper classmen paid Bone little to no mind. It was Wednesday and they had been at the Academy long enough to expect his presence on this day. The younger students whispered conspiratorially in small, scurrying clumps, eying the Councilor with a mixture of awe, confusion, and learned suspicion.

Bone sighed and steeled himself for the rickety walk toward the science lab. However, Janna seemed to smile upon him in a small way when Heimerdinger toddled out of a nearby lecture hall. His joyful and bright sing-song voice cut through the muted passing-period chatter like a chime. At the Yordle’s side was a boy Bone recognized as the student from the Undercity. He was pretty certain his name was ‘Viktor’, but he had never officially met the lad. A gross oversight, Bone knew, considering he was the Councilor from the Underground and Viktor was the only student from there. They should’ve met long before this moment.

‘Better late than never,’ Bone thought as he ambled in their direction.

“Oh yes, yes, yes, m’boy,” Heimerdinger chortled, “I do believe you will have the utmost interest in the upcoming section on robotics and mechanization we will be beginning in my class come next week. If your understanding of physics is anything to go by, you’ll take to it swimmingly! Oh! Jarrot! I do hope I’m not late!”

Heimerdinger was pulled from his giddy tête-à-tête by the rhythmic sound of Bone’s cane tapping towards him. His ears twitched and shot up in alarm as he scrambled for his pocket watch.

Bone chuckled. “No, no. Not late. Not at all.”

His brown eyes shifted from the dean to the boy. He saw the student’s large gold eyes flick to his cane and then up to his face. Bone’s eyes crinkled when Viktor’s hand gripped his own cane with a little more conviction.

Heimerdinger’s ears drooped in relief as he pocketed his watch.

“Well, I’m glad for that,” he sighed, “it would be like me to lose track of time talking about nuts and cogs!” A chuckle whistled from under his impressive mustache.

“Viktor,” Heimerdinger said suddenly, “have you met Councilor Bone yet?”

The student shook his head, his creased eyebrows giving away his anxiety. “No, sir, I have not.”

“Well! Isn’t that a shame!” Heimerdinger gasped. “You know, Councilor Bone here is from the Undercity as well.”

“Yes, I know,” Viktor said quietly.

“Worked in the very same mines that your sister does,” Heimerdinger continued brightly. “We brought him on the Council – what was it? – seven years ago? It’s been very eye-opening and useful for Piltover to have an Undercity citizen in Chambers. We’ve been able to do a lot of good work.”

Bone’s smile strained, but he didn’t think Heimerdinger noticed. Viktor pulled his lips into his teeth and nodded politely. Both Trenchers knew the Yordle meant well, but remained largely ignorant of just what life in the Undercity was like.

“Yes, we have,” Bone agreed. He turned fully to the boy. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Viktor.”

Bone smiled and gently dipped his head.

“P-pleasure to meet you, too, sir. Councilor,” Viktor corrected quickly, nodding his head in return.

“Viktor is one of the brightest students in his year!” Heimerdinger gushed. “We are very lucky to have him and his capabilities on Piltover’s campus. Definitely one of the most deserving recipients of the Academy’s lottery.”

Bone watched Viktor’s fingers squeeze his cane a little tighter and a furious flush tinge his cheeks.

“Your sister works in Rynweaver’s mines?” Bone questioned, trying to divert the boy’s embarrassment. Viktor looked up at him through his mop of chocolate-colored hair and nodded. “What does she do there?”

“She works in the medical clinic.”

“Ah,” the Undercity Councilor breathed. The exclamation caught in the back of his throat and he wrestled down the cough that fought to rip through. “She must be very clever, too, then. To be entrusted to patch workers up with the little resources available to her.”

Bone’s eyes flicked to Heimerdinger, looking to see if he caught the under-handed comment. He didn’t appear to.

“Yes, she’s very smart,” Viktor affirmed. “When I go home for the weekends, she helps me with assignments and studying.”

Bone was unsurprised to hear that the student did not stay on campus permanently. There would be no way to afford it, even with the scholarship he was on.

Viktor’s feet awkwardly shuffled from side to side. Whether it was from anxiety or discomfort in his bum leg, Bone wasn’t sure. In any case, the boy spoke up.

“If you’ll excuse me, Professor, I n-need to go to the Hall of History. Professor Holgren’s exam is this afternoon and I would like to review more.”

“Of course, my boy!” Heimerdinger sang. “Please, don’t let two old men keep you from the pursuit of knowledge. Go on then! Off with you!”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you Councilor, sir.”

Viktor dipped his head toward Bone again before hobbling away. His steps were hitched and painful at first, but smoothed out to a steady limp as his gait warmed up. The two Councilors watched the boy go.

“How is he doing?” Bone asked once Viktor was out of ear shot.

“He is the brightest the Preparatory school currently has,” Heimerdinger admitted. “Perhaps even brighter than the upperclassmen in the Academy. Extremely promising.”

Bone nodded, his eyes following Viktor’s angled shoulders as he slowly made his way toward the Hall of History.

“How are the other students with him?”

Heimerdinger’s pause answered Bone clearly, but he eventually said, “He is struggling socially.”

Bone’s jaw tightened. He knew Viktor wasn’t struggling socially. He was struggling under Piltover’s prejudice.

“Shall we head to my office?” Heimerdinger asked.

Bone nodded and the two Councilmen headed toward the Academy’s Quarters for Administration. Heimerdinger’s short legs and Bone’s weary body kept pace with each other well. Bone’s eyes drifted down to his peer as they walked through the campus. The Yordle was usually peppy and chatty, filling dead air with keen observations and science-based puns. Now, he was quiet, pensive. His small gloved hands clasped behind his back as they traveled.

“What’s on your mind, Professor?” Bone carefully asked.

“Hmm? Oh, my. Apologies,” Heimerdinger murmured, his twinkly blue eyes widening as he snapped back to the present. “Just . . . pondering.”

Bone hummed and lifted his eyes to the path in front of him. He didn’t press. He waited.

“May I tell you something, Jarrot?”

“Of course.”

“This is between us, you understand,” Heimerdinger started in a lowered voice. Bone nodded. After a moment, the Yordle sighed and pressed on.

“Thank you. This has been on my mind for a long while, so I appreciate you lending an ear,” whether the little stroke along his own large ear was a joking gesture or a nervous tic, Bone wasn’t sure. “I am very hopeful about Viktor’s studies here, like I said. Myself and his other professors are extremely impressed by him and his skills. Truly remarkable given his breeding.”

Bone’s brows dipped at Heimerdinger’s well-intended but still ignorant comment.

“I worry for him though,” the professor continued. “He is not well, physically. Not just the limp. His immune system is compromised.”

Another thing Bone was not surprised to hear. He knew a lot of children born with physical defects typically dealt with deeper, more internal maladies. Weak lungs, a heart that pattered too fast, reduced cognitive function . . . if the babe was even given a chance to grow old enough to present such unfortunate symptoms.

Bone remembered a time in the mine where he had helped to deliver an infant whose mother had gone into labor while chipping away at the rocks with her pick axe. The child had come out feet first, her shoulders peculiarly sloped and her head too small. The girl wailed something fierce, and he had watched a kaleidoscope of emotions sweep across her mother’s face.

Relief and joy that the baby was not still born, even after a difficult labor.

Horror when she got her first good look at her daughter. Bone remembered that moment the most. It clenched his heart then. It clenched his heart now. The horror wasn’t rooted in disgust. The horror was born of the realization of what it meant to have a child like that.

Grief flickered briefly on the woman’s face before hollow resignation forcefully settled in.

“Please,” the woman had whispered to him. She held her daughter against her chest loosely, afraid that if she dared to hold any tighter that she might never let go, and doom them both. “Please. I-I can’t do it.”

Bone couldn’t bring himself to refuse her. He took the newborn off her chest and traveled many yards down the dark and sooty tunnel so the mother wouldn’t be able to watch or hear.

He smothered the babe, and then put her small body deep into a waste trolley that would be emptied into one of the mine’s incinerators later that day.

When he walked back down the tunnel, the mother was gone.

Later that week, he heard that a young woman had thrown herself from a turbine blade into the darkness below.

She had been doomed anyway.

Bone shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memory as Heimerdinger continued.

“He would benefit from staying on campus permanently,” he said. “It may also help with his socializing.”

“But he can’t stay on campus?” Bone asked even though he knew the answer.

The two men rounded a corner and the Administrations Building came into view.

Heimerdinger shook his head, his swirl of blond hair bobbing in the air. “No. His family can’t afford it. And I have yet to convince the board to expand the funding for the lottery program. And they are not willing to make an exception to allot more funding to only one student.”

Bone and Heimerdinger entered the ornate hall of the Academy’s Quarters for Administration and made for one of the golden and glass lifts. An attendant opened the partition door and the two men stepped inside. Once alone, Heimerdinger spoke again.

“I - ,” he began, seeming unsure if he should say what he wanted to say. He cleared his throat and started differently, “In Viktor’s last parent-teacher conference, I floated an idea to his guardian – “

“His sister,” Bone said.

“Yes, his older sister. I know she is concerned about his well-being, too. I – I made an offer to take Viktor on as a ward.”

Bone looked down at his companion, eyes widening. This was a development he didn’t expect. “You suggested she sign his care over to you?”

Heimerdinger nodded. “As his professor I cannot legally aid in funding his education and board. While there would be some red tape and gossip to muddle through, I could provide that assistance if the boy were under my care.”

“I’m going to guess that his sister refused.”

“Vehemently,” the professor admitted. “I can’t say that I don’t understand her hesitation – “

Bone decidedly could say that Heimerdinger did not understand Viktor’s sister’s ‘hesitation’. People of the Undercity were rightfully distrusting of Piltover politicians. And what was more, familial bonds (whether that family was blood or found) in the Lanes were sacred. When you had so little, you held tightly to what you did – your family, your friends, your community. It was something Piltover, what with their money, their things, their gluttonous abundance, could never truly understand.

“ – but I am hoping she changes her mind. For Viktor’s sake. He’s too bright to be kept in the dark.”

The lift chimed and the doors opened. As Heimerdinger and Bone stepped out, they were greeted by an agitated young aide.

“Oh! Professor Heimerdinger! Councilor Bone!” she gasped, struggling to collect the stacks of files in her arms.

“Good afternoon, Miss Banforth,” Heimerdinger greeted brightly, his previous somber tone melting away. “Do you require assistance?”

“No no no no,” Ivy breathed, catching a loose file. “I just – “she took a moment to steady herself and her load. She took a deep breath in and said, “I just hadn’t realized the time. I needed to get these papers to Ms. Clotter in mailing and then have your and the Councilman’s lunch delivered to your office.”

Heimerdinger chuckled. “No rush my dear!”

Ivy smiled weakly in thanks. “Er – Professor,” she said, “Mr. Rynweaver is waiting for you in your reception. I told him you were not available today – “

Bone’s hand involuntarily flexed around the handle of his cane. So, Rynweaver had gotten the aide flustered, throwing his station around and intimidating anyone beneath him into a quivering mess.

“Don’t fret, Miss Banforth,” Heimerdinger assured. “I’ll take care of it.”

Ivy thanked him and skirted into the elevator he and Bone had just vacated. The two Councilors walked down the hallway to Heimerdinger’s reception area and office, their footsteps muffled by the plush runner underfoot.

The suite that belonged to the dean was large and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the Academy campus and parts of Piltover. The space was sectioned off into two rooms: the reception area where Ivy would greet and intake guests, and Heimerdinger’s actual office which was sequestered behind ridiculously large ornate wooden doors.

A vacant, beautifully carved desk faced plump chairs. Thade Rynweaver sat in one of the them, his long legs crossed and hands primly folded in his lap. His dark blue eyes looked up at the sound of the hall door opening and a schooled smile cut across his lips.

“You have a jumpy assistant, Professor,” Thade said. His eyes darted to Bone and the gleam in them sharpened.

“Miss Banforth is just very meticulous in keeping to schedule,” Heimerdinger cheerfully explained. “She can get a little flustered when things don’t go to plan.”

Thade breathed a small, humorless chuckle as he made to stand up.

“I was hoping to speak with you, Councilor,” he addressed only Heimerdinger, “about the next lottery. The Kirammans heard some rumors that the Academy is trying to raise the amount of funds again?”

Bone felt the Yordle stiffen at his side before he melded back into something pleasing and palatable.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time to speak with you about that right now, Mr. Rynweaver,” Heimerdinger said kindly. “Even if I did, you know that is officially a Council matter and would need to be brought up in Assembly.”

Thade eyed the Yordle with a passive look. Too passive to not be hiding strong feelings. Too passive to not be hiding something.

He shrugged, his structured coat shifting over his shoulders. “Very well. I had time, and thought I would go to the source. I shall gather my fellow benefactors and we will put in a request for Assembly.”

Thade whisked past Heimerdinger and Bone without a second glance. “Have a lovely lunch.”

Silco sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands fidgeting the small vial of medicine Katya had gifted him a day prior. He hadn’t given it to his mother yet. He wasn’t sure how he was going to.

She would ask how he got it. She would be afraid that such a gift would come with strings, that he had gotten himself wrapped up in some kind of trouble to acquire it. She would refuse the medicine under those conditions and insist that he give it back.

Would she think he stole it? Maybe. She would refuse it then, too. Scold him and tell him to get rid of it.

Would she think he bought it . . . somehow? That he had been putting cogs and hexes aside until he could go across the river and visit a pharmacy? Unlikely. She might, even then, still refuse.

He had tried to come up with a way to slip it to her without her knowing. Could he sneak a dose into her morning tea? Maybe . . . but then he wouldn’t be around to make sure she took the midday nip.

Silco’s tongue flipped inside his mouth in time with how he spun the vial between his fingers. His boot heel vibrated and his brain buzzed.

No good options.

Decidedly, he got up and left his bedroom. He strode to the kitchen to find Enyd sitting at the table sipping her morning tea. The false medicine. She eyed him questioningly as he took the seat across from her. Before she could say anything, Silco very purposefully set the small, brown vial in front of her.

Enyd’s brow furrowed and her tea cup lowered. “What’s this?”

“Medicine. Actual medicine.”

Enyd slowly lowered her tea cup to its saucer, her gaze switching between the vial and her son, the confused crease in her brow deepening. Her mouth twitched, unsure of what to say or ask. Silco’s knee began to bob nervously as he waited for her reaction.

“What do you mean actual medicine?” Enyd finally asked, staring at the bottle as if it might explode or jump at her.

“I mean exactly what I said – “

“Where did you get this?” came Enyd’s sudden question, hissed through a tight jaw. Her teal eyes widened with worry and her brows scrunched and flew up to her hairline.

“It . . . it was given to me,” Silco decided to say. A partial truth would do. “When I had my physical day before yesterday, I mentioned to the medic on staff performing the exam that you . . . were sick. Before I left, she gave me this.”

Enyd frowned and bit her lip. “She shouldn’t have done that, Silco. It wasn’t hers to give. She could get into a lot of trouble if someone finds out. You could get into a lot of trouble – “

“No one will find out, mum,” Silco promised, leaning forward. He licked his lips and fixed her with pleading eyes. “No one will find out.”

“You don’t know that!” Enyd snapped in a strained whisper, as if she were fearful Enforcers could hear from the streets below.

Silco’s hands shot across the table and gripped hers. “Mum, please. No one will find out. Ka – The medic told me that she does the ordering for the clinic. She can account for this. They can spare it.”

Enyd’s eyes fell to the hands holding onto hers. Her son’s hands were large and svelte, wrapping protectively around hers. She felt a tightness in the back of her throat that had nothing to do with her illness.

It seemed not so long ago that her hands dwarfed his. That when he reached for her, his small fingers curling needily around hers, his bright blue-green eyes would look up into her face silently asking for comfort, guidance, protection, affirmation, love. And she would always give it, whatever it was he needed. That was her job after all, as his mother.

Enyd had been surprised and grateful that her heart, body, mind, and soul fell so willingly and completely into loving her son.

Initially, she had been nervous and unsure that she could accept the babe growing inside her womb, given how he had been forced upon her. After the first couple of months, when it was clear that the pregnancy had stuck, Enyd’s heart found a new home in her throat. Angry and ashamed how such a fate had befallen her; scared for her own well-being (birthing children in the Undercity was hazardous business); nervous and uncertain about what she was going to do with the baby when she bore it.

A large part of her – the part that jumped at shadows and woke up in the middle of the night covered in sweat and tears, the part of her that feared and hated the thought of facing a piece of him every day – was certain she couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t keep it. She steeled her nerves throughout the entirety of her pregnancy, preparing to dump the infant at Hope House the minute it passed through the birth canal.

And then . . .

Then labor began, deep in the rough fissures of a new tunnel. The fourth month of pregnancy had caused Enyd’s abdomen to pop away from her waifish frame and she was temporarily relieved of her Slipper duties, and was transferred to a unit sifting for sediment used for smelting. Getting her out of the mine’s crevasses was the one part of her condition she was grateful for.

Enyd’s water had broken in an impossibly large gush, simultaneously clumping the soot underfoot like wet sand and wafting fine dust particles up into the already thick air. Contractions were upon her fast and strong, feeling as if her body was trying to rip itself in half. The unit Enyd had been placed in gave her a wide berth, save for two other women who ushered the laboring mother-to-be to an alcove in the rocks.

One was a Vastaya who did not speak the same language, but was a strong arm to grip to when Enyd’s contractions crested into blindingly agonizing pain. The other was an old woman who began coaching the terrified young woman out of maidenhood. Her knobbily fingers pressed into Enyd’s hips and gave her firm but empathetic instructions on breathing and positioning.

Between contractions, the older woman told Enyd that she herself had given birth to twelve children in her life time. That each birth was painful, but each one was also worth it. Enyd couldn’t find the breath to tell her that she had doubts about the baby trying to make its way through her narrow hips.

Periodically, the crone would hike up Enyd’s tunic to inspect her progress (her undergarments had long been shucked to the side). In what seemed like too short of time, the old woman shoved a rock under each of Enyd’s feet.

“You’re going to feel like you need to push soon,” she had said, coming to grip the shaking arm not in the Vastaya’s hold.

Enyd’s heart moved from her throat to the back of her mouth and she choked on a sob. Her legs quivered with exhaustion and fear as she was held up. The bottoms of her dirty bare feet squeezed the stones beneath them.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She didn’t want this.

The feeling the old woman warned her about came, and a sound Enyd didn’t know she was capable of ripped from her throat as she bared down. The animalistic cry bled into an anguished wail as Enyd’s body forced an exhale. Her head lulled back on her shoulders as she cried openly.

The old woman ducked a hand between Enyd’s wet and bloody legs. She then guided Enyd’s own hand there.

“There. Feel that?” she had asked, pressing Enyd’s palm to a firm, foreign object. “That’s his head. Just a couple more big pushes and he’s out. This is over.”

“He?” Enyd sobbed. How could she be so sure of that?

The old woman didn’t answer her. “Come on, girl, push!”

Enyd cried out, her haggard voice reverberating off the rocks around them. She braced her legs and abdomen and bared down again, her cry turning into a teeth-grinding growl. She felt the babe’s head breach the birth canal and its soft mewling cries joined hers. The old woman once again guided Enyd’s hands between her thighs and had her grip the back of the infant’s neck.

“One more time. You can do it.”

The sound of the baby and the feel of its soft, slick skin under her hands ignited something deep and primal within Enyd and she unleashed what could only be described as a guttural battle cry. She pushed hard, her thin face scrunching and turning scarlet; her molars gritting together. Spittle gathered and fanned at the corners of her dry lips and veins throbbed at her temples. She felt the infant’s shoulders breach past her opening and she ripped her other hand away from the Vastaya to cradle the torso as it slid from her body.

A wail fell from Enyd’s mouth as her body suddenly felt strangely light and empty. Without a second thought, she lifted the fussing newborn to her chest. The Vastaya and old woman guided Enyd carefully to the cavern floor, allowing her wobbly, numbing legs a chance to rest. Enyd panted as she leaned her back and head against the rock wall. Sweat plastered her dark hair to her forehead and the sides of her face, tears rolled down her cheeks and neck.

“It’s a boy,” the old woman confirmed with a smile, her tone much more soothing.

Enyd kept her head pitched against the rock, staring up. She felt the baby shift and fuss against her chest and her throat constricted. She didn’t want to look down at it.

“Girl,” the crone called again, “Look at your boy. Look at what you made.”

Enyd squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed. The bumpy rocks shifted and scratched behind her head as she reluctantly ducked her chin toward her chest. She opened her eyes and her heart gently grounded back down, deep into her chest allowing her throat and lungs to fully breathe for the first time in almost a year.

The baby looked up at her. He had her eyes. She remembered his eyes, and the ones currently peering up at her looked nothing like those horrible, deep-set black pools.

Her baby had her eyes.

Her son.

He watched her. His eyes searching her face for comfort, guidance, protection, affirmation, love . . .

A soft cry hitched at the back of Enyd’s throat and she held her boy closer. Her finger tips gently grazed over his head, marveling at the soft, dark fuzz. As her hands caressed down his cheek, he flailed an arm up and firmly gripped Enyd’s index finger in his small hand.

“Strong,” the old woman murmured. “Like his mama.”

He was perfect.

He was hers.

She was his.

Hope House was forgotten.

Enyd curled her hands around Silco’s in return, her fingertips pressing and massaging against the meat of his warm palms. Her throat tightened further and a bitterness settled on the back of her tongue. The gradual reversing of their roles was difficult for her to swallow. To have him fret over her; to have him be the comforter, guider, protector . . .

She didn’t want to be done with him needing her in those ways. She carried such tremendous guilt that she had ever hoped that she would miscarry and then giving him up prior to his birth, that loving him as intensely as she could was her way of trying to right those cruel wishes and thoughts. And the shifting of their dynamic once illness took hold of her ate at her heart like the blight ate at her lungs.

“Mum,” Silco said quietly. Enyd’s gaze lifted from his hands to his eyes. Her eyes. “Please. This is the least they can do,” he nodded toward the vial. “Piltover can spare a vial or two of medicine after everything they’ve done. They won’t find out. I promise. Please.”

Enyd held his gaze for a moment longer before she sighed and lifted his hands up, resting her forehead on his knuckles.

“My perfect boy,” she whispered.

“C’mon Kat,” Sevika whined, as she paced the alley behind Babette’s.

“I’m almost through it all,” came a voice, echoing from within the confines of the open dumpster.

“Didn’t you make all your deliveries last night? Don’t you have enough coin for a new brassiere?”

Katya’s head popped out from over the top of the dumpster. “Will you shut up, please?”

Katya glared at Sevika, and her gold eyes scanned the alleyway.

“No one’s here,” Sevika drawled.

“You never know who might be listening,” Katya grumbled, as she dove back into the discarded clothes and trash.

She was aggravated with Sevika’s loose lips and with the lack of selection in Babette’s dumpster. She tugged on a promising looking piece of satin fabric, only finding it to be a stained robe. Her lips curled in disgust and she tossed it aside.

“We’re gonna be late!”

“I didn’t think revolutionaries cared about such things as timetables.”

The next article of clothing Katya pulled on ended up being a very abused and damp pair of underwear. She flung it across the dumpster in revulsion. However, underneath those damaged undergarments had been a simple, sheer brassiere that looked to be Katya’s size. Her breath caught in excitement as she lifted it up and inspected it. There was no sizing tag, but aside from a fraying strap and broken hook it looked to be in decent condition. Satisfied, Katya tucked it deep within her coat and hopped out of the dumpster. She dusted herself off and walked towards Sevika, who was leaning against the mouth of the alleyway, looking out onto the street.

Peering over the girl’s shoulder, Katya saw two brothel workers leaning against the front door to Babette’s, calling and reaching out to people as they passed by. The two women were beautiful. Long, shapely limbs draped in see-through fabric, slim waists cinched up in corsets that had the soft, pert flesh of their breasts and ass spilling out over the top and underneath. Sevika was staring at them, chewing her lower lip.

Katya rolled her eyes and snorted, causing the younger woman to jump. A rosy blush quickly bloomed across Sevika’s round cheeks.

“Come on,” Katya ribbed. “We’re going to be late.”

Too quickly, Sevika stalked away from the alley heading in the direction of The Last Drop, her shoulders hunching around her head in embarrassment. Katya jogged to catch up with her. Once they were in stride, she put a comforting arm on Sevika’s shoulder.

“Sorry,” Katya said as they wove through the night crowds milling about through the Lanes. “I did not mean to make you feel self-conscious.”

Sevika looked down at her friend as they walked, her tight shoulders softening under Katya’s warm gaze.

“It’s fine,” Sevika huffed, rolling her head to one side. “I suppose I deserve a little shaming after – “

“’Vika,” Katya warned.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!”

Katya’s stern look relaxed and she sighed. “You already apologized for telling . . . them,” she gestured in the direction they were walking, “and I forgive you – “

“But you’re still mad.”

“I can be both. Mad and forgiving.”

Sevika sighed.

“As long as you don’t mention it to anyone else, I won’t bring it up. I’m certainly not going to lord it over your head, nor shame you because of it. Admittedly, I may be more discerning with the information I give you.”

A small smile tilted the corners of Sevika’s lips and in a hushed voice she said, “That’s fair, I guess. I am sorry, you know.”

“I know.”

The pair continued through the bustling streets in silence. When The Last Drop came into view, Sevika felt Katya tense beside her.

“You ready to meet some of the other Sons and Daughters?”

Katya pursed her lips and continued to cross the square.

“How did you end up convincing her?” Vander asked as he and Silco moved a crate of bottles against the wall.

They were in the basement of The Drop, preparing for a meeting for the Children of Zaun. They never knew how many Brothers and Sisters might show up, but it was a good idea to clear the floor just in case. They set the crate down and Silco wiped his hands on his pants.

“I just,” he started, shrugging, “told her about our vision. About Zaun and all it deserves to be.”

Vander’s thick brows knit together. “That’s it?”

“You didn’t threaten her?” Benzo asked in a chuckle, stacking crates together.

“No, Benzo, I didn’t threaten her,” Silco spat.

“Not even with a good time?”

Vander jumped in before Silco and Benzo could hiss and spit at each other like alley cats.

“Well, whatever you told her,” he said, clapping a hand to Silco’s shoulder, “good work.”

Silco’s lips twitched and he nodded in thanks. Benzo heaved the final crate on top of the rest and muttered something about getting a drink before the meeting started as he trudged up the basement steps.

“You know he’s just goading you,” Vander said with a sly smile. “You don’t always have to take the bait.”

Silco pinched his face in a sour expression. “He’s just so . . . insufferable. I don’t understand why you like him.”

Vander smirked and pulled a cigarette and book of matches out from his vest pocket. He stuck the filter between his lips and lit it. He took a drag before blowing a string of smoke out of his mouth and presented it to Silco between pinched fingers. “He’s said the same about you.”

Silco hummed and took Vander’s offering. “And what do you tell him?”

“That you’re my best mate. That despite this hard and bony outside,” Vander poked Silco playfully in the chest. Hard.

“Vander, fucking don’t,” Silco hissed, cigarette smoke streaming out from behind his teeth, swatting the abusive finger away.

“You have a good heart,” Vander continued with a fond smile. “You convinced me to leave those mines before the Pilties could kill me, didn’ya? You also ‘ave more piss n’ vinegar in ya than all of the Brothers and Sisters put together. You believe in Zaun in a way that can keep the rest of the lot motivated.”

Silco took a second drag on the cigarette before handing it back to Vander. He found it difficult to keep his expression cool and collected as his Brother’s words of affirmation washed over him.

“Zaun is our vision, Vander,” Silco reminded as the other took the cigarette back. “It wasn’t only me dreaming it up in the mines.”

“Aye, I know,” Vander agreed, placing the filter back between his lips. “But your passion about it convinces people. Rallies ‘em. Makes ‘em believe.”

“Perhaps,” Silco conceded. “It seems to scare as many people as it rallies, though.”

Vander shrugged. “Leave that lot to me n’ ‘Zo.”

“Ah, yes, the friendly-faces of the revolution,” Silco grumbled, a fingertip absently swiping down his long nose. “Much more palatable.”

Vander’s face softened and he reach out to place a hand on the juncture between Silco’s shoulder and neck. Without thinking about it, Vander’s thumb swiped along the smooth skin of his Brother’s collar bone. “Hey. Don’ worry about it. I, for one, like your . . . intensity, let’s call it.”

Silco smirked and gently brushed Vander’s hand off his shoulder. The taller man smiled back and took one last drag off the cigarette before tapping it out against the basement wall.

Instead of going through the front door of The Last Drop, Sevika led Katya behind the building to a basement walk-out. The teen rapped on the metal door in a string of intricately timed knocks, and the squeaky door was opened by Cairn the busboy.

“Are we late?” Sevika asked as she and Katya stepped down the darkened staircase.

“Haven’t started yet, if that’s what you mean,” Cairn answered, closing and locking the door. He gave Katya a searching look as he followed behind them. “You the nurse?”

Katya’s heart skipped a beat and her jaw momentarily locked before she said, “I suppose.”

Cairn smiled widely, presenting a large gap between his front teeth. “Good. Sev’s shit at stitching.”

“Watch it, you clod,” Sevika growled over her shoulder. Katya wasn’t sure if she flexed her sculpted back on purpose or if it was a defensive reflex.

Cairn snickered and slipped past the two women. “Gotta get back upstairs,” he said. “I’m manning the bar for Van.”

“You’re not staying?” Katya asked.

“Vander will catch me up later!” the busboy called as he leapt up a set of stairs. He opened the door at the top and the warm light and sounds of The Last Drop briefly streamed down to the basement hallway before shutting again.

“C’mon. This way,” Sevika said as she directed their journey down a narrow hall to the left.

Katya was led through a door that blended seamlessly into the wooden wall and into a large storeroom. Her eyes widened and she gripped her fists in her coat pockets. The space was warmly lit, like the rest of The Drop, and there seemed to be as many people here as there were above.

Katya hadn’t outrightly thought that Vander was lying when he told her that the Children of Zaun had decent numbers, but she was truly surprised at the size of the gathering. Sevika had been right: this wasn’t just a few drunkards at the end of a bar moping and cussing about the future.

Most of the people in the storeroom looked to be late-teens to young adults. A few older individuals lurked at the sides of the room, quietly chatting with each other; and, to Katya’s dismay, there were more than a few children weaving through the crowd, giggling and chasing one another.

At what appeared to the designated front of the room, Vander and Benzo were in conversation. Silco stood off to the side, his narrow hips leaning on a crate, cigarette dangling from his lips. As if sensing her, his eyes landed immediately on Katya. His lips tightened their hold on his cigarette and he lifted his head ever so slightly.

“Hey, Sevika!”

Katya jumped at the sudden and loud cry directed and her and her friend.

“Hi Annie,” Sevika responded, hands coming to rest on her hips. “How did the observations go at the docks the other night?”

The young woman – Annie – was seated up on a stack of crates to Sevika’s right. She was a pretty thing, with deep indigo hair swept back in loose braids. Her hazel eyes gleamed under the warm chem-lights. Butted up right against her side was a young man with freckled skin and blazingly red hair. His eyes were large and dewy blue.

“They went well!” Annie chirped.

“I’m pretty sure we’re gonna go over it tonight,” the young man added.

Annie’s eyes slid over Sevika’s shoulder to Katya.

“You’re new,” she said.

“This is Katya,” Sevika introduced, stepping aside. “She’s from the mines, too. Kat, this is Annie and Beckett.”

Katya smiled at the couple and murmured a greeting.

“You’re the nurse Sev’s talked about?”

Katya looked up to Sevika, questioning. The teen shook her head, a promising look in her silver eyes.

“I work in the mine’s clinic, yes,” Katya slowly answered.

“Thank Gods!” Annie cried, rolling her head onto her shoulders dramatically. Her dark braids slipped over her shoulders and behind her back. “No one here knows how to patch and stitch. I’m surprised no one’s lost any limbs yet!”

“Do – do people get hurt often?” Katya asked.

Beckett jumped in. “Right now, only from Enforcers who get their jollies from beating up Sump Rats. Nothing too bad yet.”

Katya did not like the word yet.

Annie’s eyes left Katya’s face to look beyond her shoulder. “Hey Silco. What’s the hold up? When can this meeting get started?”

Katya turned and saw the slender young man approaching their small circle. He gave Annie an unimpressed look and said, “Have somewhere else to be?”

Annie clicked her tongue against her teeth and rolled her eyes. “No. Just the sooner we get started, the sooner we get to bothering Enforcers.”

Silco frowned. “You know this isn’t just about bothering Enforcers.”

“She knows, Sil,” Beckett interjected. “Lighten up.”

Silco’s face tightened before turning his attention to Katya.

“May I speak with you?”

Katya nodded and followed Silco to a quieter corner of the storage room. Her eyes flitted nervously around the crowded space and her fingers worried a loose thread of her father’s coat. She couldn’t help but feel the mood was too light given what they were gathered there for. The interaction with Annie and Beckett, as nice as they seemed, put her more on edge.

“I just wanted to thank you again,” Silco whispered, bowing his head towards Katya’s ear. “For the medicine.”

“Did your mother take it?” Katya asked, forcing her eyes to look away from the center of the room and up at Silco.

His face softened and he nodded. “This morning. And I told her about the dose to take in the afternoon.”

“Good,” Katya said. “And she was agreeable?”

A small smile tilted the corners of Silco’s mouth, a lovely shadow curling around its corners. “It took a little convincing, but I think you can attest to my powers of persuasion.”

Katya rolled her eyes, but smiled as well. “Yes, yes you are very good with your words.”

“Oi! Silco!” Vander called from the front of the room.

Silco glanced over his shoulder to see his friend gesturing him over. He turned back to Katya and said, “Anyway, thank you – “

“Let me know when she needs more.”

Like when she gave him the vial in the mine, Silco was lost for words. The grin that had faded from his face briefly returned, and he nodded before heading back toward the front of the room.

“Alright, alright,” Vander called out over the crowd as Silco resumed his spot, lurking just behind the bartender’s shoulder. “Quiet down everyone!”

Sevika appeared at Katya’s side once more and lightly bumped her arm. The shorter woman looked up at her friend to find her smiling excitedly. Katya reciprocated the best she could before crossing her arms over her chest and directing her attention to the front.

“For once we have some news!” Vander continued, his voice and presence easily filling the large room. An excited murmur fluttered through the crowd before dying down again. “I know you lot have been waitin’ for something to happen, something that the Children of Zaun can really sink our teeth into.”

Affirming murmurs whispered through the room. Next to Vander, Benzo knowingly nodded his head.

“Well, now that our numbers are growin’ by the day n’ now that we have Brothers and Sisters with necessary skills and access,” Katya could’ve sworn his grey eyes landed on her, “we think it’s time to make ourselves known.”

The crowd cheered. Katya winced and gripped her arms tighter.

“We’ve received word,” Vander continued, “that there’s gonna be a large shipment of weapons and artillery delivered to Piltover’s – “ a small flurry of ‘boos’ echoed around the room “– Enforcer’s Headquarters this weekend. At the Southside docks.”

“You’re welcome for that intel!” Annie called from her crate. Beckett smiled and looped his muscular, freckled arm around her shoulder. Some of the crowd giggled at her outburst.

“Yeah, you n’ the ginger did alrigh’,” Benzo replied and took a swig from the mug in his hands.

The meeting quickly turned to planning. A small team was assembled to go with Vander, Benzo, and Silco the night the shipment was due to dock; others volunteered their homes and businesses for storing the boon; some children offered to run recon the night of to distract Enforcers and keep them off of the Children of Zaun’s tails.

Katya watched from her corner. Mouth growing dryer and dryer.

Notes: You made it! Congratulations! Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a comment and reblog <3 Us writers and our fics are a lot of responsibility: we gotta be commented and reblogged to stay healthy and strong ;)

Thoughts on Annie and Beckett? (and who they might be? tee hee)

Coming Up Next: Katya picks Viktor up from the Academy, and they enjoy an evening together in the Undercity while she tries not to think about the robbery the Children are trying to pull off.

Next Chapter

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