#brass is made of what two metals | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aspenmissing · 4 days ago

Note

Hi again I love your works they are amazing and they bring me so much comfort. Can you do one for the Arcane characters and the reader is really tired and overwhelmed so the reader just like zones out a lot and the Arcane character keeps having to bring them back to reality. Sorry if that made no sense but you work your magic. Love ya 🫶🫶

ᴢᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ || 6239 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴏᴠᴇʀᴡʜᴇʟᴍɴᴇꜱꜱ, ᴢᴏɴɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢ��ᴀᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ʙʀɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀʟʟ ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ! ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʀɪɴɢꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ! <3 <3

JAYCE

The lab is quiet.

Not silent—never silent. The ambient hum of arcane machinery seeps into the bones of the room, a gentle, ever-present current beneath the air. Faint blue light pulses from a hextech core on the far table, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls. Runes flicker softly along crystalline filaments overhead, like stars half-hidden by cloud.

Jayce glances up from his workbench, fingers stilling on the edge of a brass conduit. His eyes catch on you immediately—frozen in place.

You’re sitting at the other table, shoulders curved inward, your posture a fragile echo of your usual self. Your hands hover inches above the keyboard like you forgot what they were supposed to do. The screen glows faintly before you, code half-written, abandoned mid-thought.

He frowns, setting his tools down quietly. “Hey,” he says, his voice breaking gently through the quiet. “Y/N?”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your head turns slowly, almost like you’re underwater. “Hm?”

Jayce crosses the room in a few careful steps. He doesn’t want to startle you—just reach you. “You’re zoning again,” he murmurs, crouching beside you now. “That’s the third time in the past hour.”

“Oh.” Your voice is thin, brittle at the edges. You shift in your seat like you’re trying to shake off the fog, trying to pretend it’s nothing. “Sorry.”

He immediately shakes his head. “Don’t apologize.” His hand finds your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles into the fabric of your pants, grounding you. “You’re overwhelmed. I can see it in your eyes.”

Your gaze drops, shame warming your cheeks. He can tell you’re trying not to let it show, trying to seem okay. But your body is betraying you—slouched, tight, tired in every bone.

Jayce gently lifts a finger to your chin, guiding your eyes back to his. “Hey,” he whispers. “Stay with me, sweetheart. Just for a second. Breathe.”

You inhale too quickly, chest hitching, shoulders tense. It’s a shallow breath, the kind you take when your mind is buzzing too loud to find stillness.

He leans in closer, his presence anchoring. “Alright. Let’s try this.” He takes one of your hands, which is colder than he’d like, and lifts it, guiding it to his chest. He presses your palm flat over his heart.

“Feel that?”

The steady thump-thump beneath your hand is rhythmic, strong. Real. You focus on it.

“Match me,” he whispers, voice low, soft. “Just breathe with me, love. In… and out.”

You try. At first, your breath skips ahead, too fast. But he’s there, holding your hand to his chest, letting you feel the calm rhythm of his breathing. He exaggerates each inhale so you can follow. In… two… three… Out… two… three…

Eventually, your lungs fall into step with his.

The fog in your head doesn’t vanish—not completely—but something shifts. The buzzing eases. Your shoulders fall a little lower, and the room stops spinning just enough for you to notice the smell of oil and metal, the faint citrus of Jayce’s cologne, the warmth of his skin under your fingers.

“There you are,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your knuckles. His eyes are so full of softness, it almost knocks the air out of you. “Hi.”

“Hi,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. Your chest feels tight in a different way now. Not from stress—but from the sudden, overwhelming sense of how deeply this man cares for you.

Jayce leans in, lips brushing your temple in a feather-light kiss. “You don’t have to push through everything,” he says against your skin. “Not alone. Not while I’m here.”

You nod, the movement small and tired, but it means everything.

“I’ve got you,” he adds. His hand slides from your thigh to your lower back, rubbing there in comforting strokes. “How about we take a break, hmm? Just you and me. I’ll make some tea. We’ll sit by the window for a bit.”

You’re not sure you can form words yet, but the quiet hum in your chest feels like yes.

Jayce stays right there beside you, still crouched, holding your hand like he’s got nowhere else to be. And for once, the weight in your body doesn’t feel quite so impossible.

You don’t say anything else for a while. You don’t need to.

VIKTOR

The hum of machinery was familiar to Y/N now—the constant whir of gears, the soft click of metal components being carefully placed. It was Viktor’s world, a world she had come to love as much as she loved him. Yet today, it felt distant, as if she was standing on the edge of it all, barely tethered to the moment. The rhythmic sounds that normally brought her comfort now felt like a faint echo, disconnected and hollow.

Y/N leaned against the desk, eyes unfocused, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of a blueprint. Her thoughts, tangled and heavy, drifted away from the present, slipping through her mind like sand through fingers. She barely noticed Viktor moving closer until she felt the soft pressure of his hand on her shoulder, his touch grounding in its gentleness.

“Y/N?” His voice was warm, but there was a concern threaded through the words, soft but insistent. "You seem distant."

She blinked slowly, her eyes struggling to focus on him. The words didn’t quite register at first, and when they did, they felt foreign—almost like they were being spoken to someone else. Slowly, her consciousness began to clear, like rising from underwater, and she realized how long it had been since she’d truly been present. She hadn’t even realized how much her exhaustion had taken hold of her. She smiled weakly at him, brushing her hair behind her ear, trying to hide the fact that her head was spinning. “I’m fine, Viktor. Just tired.”

Viktor’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the faint tremor in her hand as she set the blueprint aside. His gaze softened with understanding, but there was no mistaking the worry there, the quiet concern he wore so carefully. He sighed softly, the kind of sigh that carried a thousand unspoken words, and his cane clicked against the floor as he shifted closer, standing just behind her.

“You’ve been working non-stop for days now. You need rest,” he said, his voice a little firmer now, though not harsh. It was a statement, not a suggestion, but it came with the gentleness of someone who understood how difficult it was to let go of the endless tasks.

Y/N let out a small, hollow laugh, her lips trembling for a moment before she found her words again. “I don’t have time for rest,” she replied softly, her voice trailing off. “There’s always something more to do. Always something… to fix.”

Viktor’s brow furrowed slightly, the concern deepening. He could hear the frustration in her voice—the frustration of someone who had reached their limit but couldn’t bring themselves to stop. His fingers brushed through her hair gently, his touch a soft reassurance, before his hand found her face. He tilted it toward him, the motion tender, and her eyes slowly met his, filled with that quiet weariness he knew so well.

“I understand,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw as though memorizing the softness of her skin. “But you can’t keep pushing yourself like this. You’re human, not a machine. I’m here. Let me help carry some of it.”

Y/N felt the weariness in her bones, the aching exhaustion that had been slowly building up over the last few days. Her body begged her to slow down, to rest, but her mind—her mind refused to relent. There was always something more to do, always another project that needed attention. She closed her eyes, pressing her face into his touch, feeling the weight of everything that had been pressing down on her.

Viktor didn’t release her, not yet. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her temple in a soft, tender kiss that lingered a moment longer than usual. His kiss was a reminder that she didn’t have to carry the world on her shoulders alone. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a grounding force, “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone in this.”

She nodded faintly, the warmth of his touch starting to seep through the cold exhaustion that clung to her. His words settled deep inside, like an anchor pulling her back to the present, away from the swirling fog in her mind. “I know… it’s just... everything feels too much right now.”

“I know,” Viktor said again, his words a gentle promise that wrapped around her like a protective cocoon. “But I’m here to remind you that it’s okay to take a break. You’ve given so much already.”

Y/N let out a small, breathless laugh, but it was strained—more of a sigh than anything else. She wanted to be strong, to meet the demands of their world with the same precision and focus that Viktor did, but at that moment, all she wanted was the quiet, the comfort of his presence, and the chance to close her eyes without guilt. To not feel the weight of endless expectations.

Her gaze flickered back to the desk again, her eyes scanning the papers, but the details began to blur. The lines of the blueprints twisted and faded, the letters becoming unreadable. The weight of her thoughts pressed in harder, her vision narrowing, and she couldn’t focus anymore. Viktor noticed the change instantly. His hand moved to her shoulder, steadying her before she could sway, before she could slip further away from reality.

"Láska," he said, his voice much firmer this time. "Look at me. Focus on me." (Love)

Her eyes struggled to focus on him, her mind desperately trying to latch onto the present. But the fog was thick, suffocating, and it felt like it was dragging her under again. His presence was the only thing she could hold onto, and his voice—deep, calm, unwavering—was the anchor that pulled her back.

She took a slow breath, trying to clear the fog that clouded her mind. Her vision was still blurry, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Sorry,” she whispered, feeling the exhaustion wrap tighter around her. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor interrupted gently, his voice filled with understanding, and maybe even a little frustration for her. He could see how hard she was fighting, how much she wanted to keep going despite everything. But he also knew that this wasn’t sustainable. He reached out, his hand resting on the small of her back, guiding her toward the nearby couch. The cane in his other hand tapped softly against the floor, echoing in the quiet of the lab.

“You’ve given enough for today,” he murmured, his voice soft but firm. “Now, let me take care of you.”

Y/N let out a small sigh of relief, her body finally giving in to the moment, the weight of the world easing off her shoulders just a little bit. She collapsed onto the couch, feeling the softness of the cushions swallow her, and Viktor settled beside her, his cane leaning against the armrest. His hand never left her side, staying steady and warm, offering her the comfort and support she so desperately needed.

“Rest, moje srdce,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, but it held a quiet insistence, like a promise. “Let the world wait for a while. You deserve this.” (My Heart)

For the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N allowed herself to close her eyes. She breathed deeply, slowly, feeling the air fill her lungs, clearing some of the fog. She allowed Viktor’s soothing presence to carry her away from the overwhelming chaos of the world, even if just for a moment. In his arms, she didn’t have to be strong, didn’t have to push through anymore.

It was enough. And for the first time in days, it was all she needed.

JAYVIK

The dim light from the lanterns flickered softly across the room, casting gentle shadows on the walls of their apartment. The air felt thick with the weight of the day's work. Y/N sat slouched in one of the chairs near the window, staring blankly at the sprawling city of Piltover below. The glowing lights of the city’s towers were a stark contrast to the weariness settling heavily in her bones. It had been another long, exhausting day—one that had left her mentally and physically drained. Her mind was foggy, the day’s tasks drifting in and out of focus. Every part of her felt like it was fighting gravity, yearning for rest that she couldn’t quite allow herself to take.

Jayce stood by the desk, his back slightly turned, deeply engrossed in some schematics. His brow furrowed in concentration, but the quiet ticking of time in the background kept pulling his attention. His gaze wandered back to Y/N. She hadn’t moved for several minutes, and he noticed the subtle way her body sagged into the chair. It didn’t take much for him to sense when she was slipping away, lost in the fog of exhaustion.

Viktor shuffled slowly across the room, his cane tapping gently on the wooden floor, each step deliberate. He caught sight of her first. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes unfocused, and there was that faraway look in her gaze that both of them had come to know all too well. It was like her mind had wandered off to a place only she could go, leaving her body behind in the apartment.

"Y/N?" Viktor’s voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern beneath it. He moved closer, leaning slightly on his cane as he reached her side. His eyes softened as he noticed the subtle tremor in her shoulders.

Y/N blinked slowly, her gaze still unfocused. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the movement barely noticeable. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came for a long moment.

"Y/N?" Viktor repeated, this time placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his touch a grounding presence.

She blinked again, her attention shifting, but there was still a fog around her thoughts. She looked up at Viktor, eyes heavy. "Hm? Oh... yeah... just tired." Her voice was distant, thick with exhaustion.

Jayce, noticing the way Y/N’s posture was slouched and how her hands lay limp at her sides, set his schematics down on the desk and approached, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. "She’s zoning out again," he muttered under his breath, worry threading through his words. He moved closer, crouching down in front of her, his hand coming to rest gently on her knee.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice gentle but insistent, trying to catch her full attention. "Hey, sweetheart. Look at me."

She blinked again, but her eyes drifted away as if the effort to stay focused was too much. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a brief moment, it seemed like she might slip back into the haze of exhaustion.

"Y/N," Viktor said again, his hand now gently brushing through her hair, his fingers soft against her scalp. "Láska, you can’t keep pushing yourself like this."

Y/N gave a soft, almost imperceptible shake of her head, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I’m fine… really…" she muttered, her words losing strength the more she spoke.

Jayce exchanged a brief glance with Viktor, both of them silently agreeing. The concern in Jayce’s eyes deepened, and Viktor’s own face softened with both affection and frustration.

"We can't let her fall asleep like this again," Jayce said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She’s been running on fumes for days now."

"Help me," Viktor’s voice was firm now, a tone that left no room for debate. He reached out, gently cupping Y/N’s face with one hand, trying to bring her attention back to them. "We need to get you to bed."

Jayce didn’t need further encouragement. He moved swiftly, kneeling beside her and wrapping his arms around her, lifting her effortlessly from the chair. Y/N let out a soft protest as she was hoisted into his arms, her head lolling slightly against his chest.

"Hey—what? No, I’m fine…" Y/N mumbled, barely able to keep her eyes open, her voice thick with the weight of her exhaustion. She rested her cheek against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath a faint lullaby in the background.

"You’re not fine, love," Viktor replied, his tone kind but unyielding. He stepped closer, brushing strands of hair away from her face, his gaze gentle but filled with concern. "You’re beyond tired. You need rest. You can’t keep doing this."

Jayce, ever the strong one, adjusted her in his arms, lifting her with ease. She leaned into him, too tired to resist or protest. The warmth of his embrace was a quiet comfort, the feeling of safety she’d come to rely on.

As they made their way to the bedroom, Viktor moved ahead, pulling back the covers and fluffing the pillows, preparing the bed. The weight of the day seemed to hang heavy in the air as the soft creak of the bed greeted them. Jayce laid Y/N down carefully, the soft sheets catching her as she sank into them, her body yielding to the comfort beneath her.

"Lay her down gently, Jayce," Viktor instructed, his voice softer now, but still filled with that steady, authoritative tone. His presence was calming, reassuring.

Jayce did as instructed, setting Y/N down with the utmost care. She let out a quiet noise of protest as her head hit the pillow, but her eyelids fluttered closed, her body sinking into the softness as though the weight of the world was lifting off her shoulders.

Viktor followed suit, laying down beside her, his body warm against hers. He moved closer, pulling her back into his embrace, his chest pressing against her back. He wrapped his arm around her waist, anchoring her with his presence, his touch grounding. She relaxed into him, a quiet hum of comfort escaping her lips.

"Stay with us, love," Viktor whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "You’re safe now."

Jayce climbed into bed beside them, his hand brushing gently against her arm. He caressed her arm softly, his touch light and tender, offering her the reassurance she needed. "We’re here," he said, his voice low and comforting. "We’ll take care of you. Don’t worry about anything right now."

Y/N let out a contented sigh, her body finally yielding to the rest it had been craving for so long. Viktor’s steady presence was a weight she could rely on, and Jayce’s warmth beside her made the world feel just a little less heavy. Slowly, she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, her body relaxed and free of tension. The soft sound of their breathing and the warmth of their embrace were the only things that filled the room, a quiet promise of protection and love.

VANDER

The dim light of the tavern flickered faintly as Vander wiped down the bar, his brow furrowed in concentration. The rhythmic motion of the rag across the wood was almost meditative, but even as he focused on the task, his thoughts were elsewhere. There was a heaviness to his heart, an unease he couldn’t shake, and it wasn’t from the usual weight of running the place or the constant danger lurking in the Undercity. No, it was something far more personal.

Y/N.

She hadn’t spoken much tonight. Her usual energy, the spark that always lit up the room when she was near, was missing. She sat quietly in the far corner, tucked away from the bustle of the tavern. Her head rested in her hand, elbow propped against the table, and her eyes stared blankly into the flickering glow of the single oil lamp casting its soft light across the room. It was as though she wasn’t really here, not fully present. She was somewhere else, somewhere distant.

Vander glanced up at her again, his gaze lingering longer than usual, a knot tightening in his stomach. She was always so strong, so full of life, but tonight there was an unmistakable weariness about her. Her shoulders were slumped, the lines of her face softer with exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her this drained, this distant.

“Y/N?” His voice was gentle, but beneath it, there was an edge of concern. He set the rag aside with a sigh and slowly made his way over to her, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when she clearly wasn’t.

She didn’t respond at first, and the silence between them stretched out, thick with unspoken tension. Her eyes remained unfocused, distant, as though she hadn’t even heard him. Vander crouched down next to her, his hand reaching out to brush a lock of hair from her face. Her skin was warm, but her gaze remained far away.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice was soft, his concern bleeding through every word.

It took a moment, but eventually, her eyes fluttered. She blinked slowly, as if she were awakening from a dream, and she let out a small, slow breath. Her lips parted as though she wanted to speak, but no words came. Instead, she simply shook her head, her eyes glazing over once more.

“I’m… I’m fine,” she murmured, the words coming out in a soft, unconvincing whisper. The slight tremor in her voice told him all he needed to know.

Vander studied her face carefully, his heart sinking. “You don’t look fine, love,” he said quietly. “You’ve been zoning out all night. Something’s going on. Talk to me.”

Y/N let out a shaky sigh, her fingers twisting around the edge of her cup absentmindedly. Her gaze flickered over to the kids running around in the background—Vi, Powder, Mylo—each of them full of youthful energy and mischief, just like they always were. Claggor was nearby too, chatting with some patrons, but Y/N couldn’t bring herself to join in. The noise of the tavern, the chaos of the kids, none of it seemed to matter. It felt like she was on the edge of everything, watching it all from afar.

“I’m just… so tired,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers tightened around the cup, knuckles white. “I don’t know how to keep up with it all anymore, Vander. It feels like everything is piling up, and I’m… I’m losing myself in all of it.”

Her words hung in the air between them, and Vander’s heart clenched at the vulnerability in her tone. He had always known her as someone who could take on the world with a fire that never seemed to burn out, but now he saw the cracks beneath that strength, the exhaustion that had slowly built up, until now, when it was too much for her to carry.

He reached for her hand, his touch firm but gentle, as if grounding her to the present moment. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, warm and steady, offering a silent promise that she wasn’t alone. “You don’t have to do it all, love,” he said softly. His voice held the calm assurance he’d always tried to give her, the kind of reassurance that made her feel safe, like she could let go, just for a while. “You’re not alone in this. The kids… they’re growing up fast. They’ll help. They’re learning, and they’re capable. You don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

Y/N met his gaze then, her eyes flickering with a mixture of exhaustion and a quiet yearning for something she couldn’t quite put into words. She searched his face, looking for some confirmation, some reminder that things would be okay. Vander’s hand squeezed hers gently, offering her the strength she needed in that moment.

“We’ll make it through this, together. You and me,” he continued, his voice low, a steady anchor. “I’m not going anywhere, love, and neither are you. We’ve built something here, something strong, something worth fighting for. I’ve got your back. You’ve always had mine.”

She let out a soft, shaky breath, and the faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of her lips. It was tired, but it was real. That small smile was enough to bring warmth to Vander’s chest. He knew she needed this, needed to hear him say it, needed to feel like she could let herself rest for a while.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice still tinged with the weight of her fatigue. But there was a subtle shift in her expression. The tension in her face softened just a little, as though his words had reached her, just enough to begin unraveling the tight knot of worry and exhaustion. “I just… need a moment. Just to breathe, you know?”

Vander nodded, his thumb continuing to caress her hand in soothing circles. “Take as many moments as you need. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

For a while, they simply sat together in silence. The noise of the tavern swirled around them—laughter, shouting, the clinking of glasses—but in that moment, it felt like the world outside didn’t exist. It was just them, here and now. Vander rested his shoulder against hers, offering her the quiet comfort of his presence, while she let the weight of the day slip away, piece by piece.

And when the world outside felt like too much, when everything seemed too overwhelming, Vander would always be there to bring her back to reality. To pull her into the present, to steady her with his love, one gentle touch at a time.

SILCO

The warm, flickering light from the lanterns cast soft shadows across the room, filling the air with a tranquil ambiance. Silco’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the polished wood of his desk, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet space. But his focus wasn’t on the documents scattered before him. His attention was on you.

You sat across from him, your posture slumped slightly in the high-backed chair, your eyes unfocused and distant. The weight of the day seemed to have settled deep into your bones, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. The usual sharpness in your demeanor was gone, replaced by an almost palpable weariness.

Silco’s gaze softened, his sharp features betraying a flicker of concern. You were always strong, always in control. But tonight, you seemed different. Quiet. Distant. He had learned over time how to read the small changes in you—how the tone of your voice could shift, how your shoulders would stiffen when something was weighing on your mind. And now, he could see it in the way you sat there, barely present.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice soft, a note of worry threading through the words. “Love, talk to me.”

You blinked slowly, your gaze drifting toward him. It took a moment before your brain caught up, fully recognizing his presence. “Hm? Oh, sorry… I didn’t mean to zone out.”

He exhaled a quiet breath, his eyes never leaving you. His fingers gently brushed the side of your cheek, his touch warm and grounding. “You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he murmured, the words almost a soft reprimand. “I can see it. You need rest.”

A tired sigh escaped your lips. “I’m fine, Silco. Just… a lot to think about.”

He shook his head, his lips curling slightly with a mixture of fondness and concern. “Come here.” The command in his voice wasn’t harsh, but it was insistent.

Without waiting for a protest, he stood and moved around the desk, his presence looming over you like a quiet storm. His hand, warm and steady, took yours, guiding you toward the plush armchair near the window. As you sat down, he followed, sinking to his knees in front of you with a care and precision that was only reserved for you.

His hands moved with purpose, untying your shoes and slipping them off gently, his touch light but firm. “I can’t have you like this,” he said, his voice smooth and calm, as he began to massage the soles of your feet. “You’re worth more than running yourself into the ground.”

You let out a soft sigh, the tension in your body slowly starting to melt away with each press of his fingers. “Silco, you really don’t have to…”

He chuckled, a quiet, amused sound. “I want to, Y/N. Let me take care of you. You’ve always taken care of everything else.”

The warmth of his touch spread up your legs as he moved his hands to your calves, working out the knots that had formed over hours of stress. Every touch, every press of his fingers seemed to pull you further into a state of relaxation, your muscles loosening beneath his careful touch.

His gaze never left you, his eyes sharp but filled with affection. “Better?” he asked softly, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Mhm…” you murmured, your eyes half-lidded, barely able to keep them open. A small smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his touch, the exhaustion lifting just enough for you to feel something else—comfort. “Thank you, Silco.”

He smiled back, a rare softness in his features. “Anything for you. I won’t let you burn yourself out. Not when I’m here.”

Your eyes fluttered open a bit more, catching the sincerity in his gaze. “You spoil me,” you whispered, half-laughing as you sank further into the chair, your muscles growing heavy with contentment.

Silco’s lips curled into a small, amused smile. “Only the best for you,” he replied, his voice low, full of a possessiveness that was both comforting and calming. His hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture tender, almost protective.

As his hands moved back to your shoulders, kneading the tight knots there, you let yourself melt further into the chair, surrendering to the care he was giving you. For a brief moment, the world outside seemed to vanish—there was no work, no expectations, no chaos. Just the two of you, and this quiet space where time seemed to slow.

His fingers dug deeper into your shoulders, each movement thoughtful, almost intimate. The weight of your worries felt lighter, as though his very presence was enough to carry some of the burden for you.

When you finally allowed your eyes to slip shut, it was with a deep, steadying breath, your mind slowing, the tension easing away. Silco’s steady, gentle presence kept you tethered to the here and now. In his care, you felt like you could truly rest. And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to.

JINX

The workshop was a cluttered chaos of half-finished gadgets, sparks flying from welding tools, and tools strewn haphazardly across every surface. The faint smell of gunpowder and metal lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of oil and solder. Despite the mess, Jinx moved like a whirlwind—hopping from one spot to another, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she hummed something that could only be described as chaotic, an off-key tune that matched the frenzied atmosphere of the room.

Y/N barely registered it.

Her head felt like it was going to implode from exhaustion. She hadn’t slept properly in days—no time between research, late-night meetings, and Jinx’s constant stream of wild, unpredictable ideas. The weight of the day, the constant pressure to keep up, was becoming unbearable, and Y/N’s focus was fading fast. Every few seconds, her vision would blur, and she would find herself zoning out, her mind wandering to places it didn’t have the energy to explore.

"Y/N!" Jinx’s voice cut through the fog in Y/N’s mind, yanking her back to reality. She blinked, rubbing her eyes as she tried to shake off the haze.

"Yeah, just... tired." Her voice was thick, heavy with the exhaustion that had seeped into her bones. She tried to focus on Jinx, but everything felt out of focus, like her body was still too heavy for her mind to catch up.

Jinx, never one to stay still for long, hopped up on the table next to her, her boots kicking up some stray bolts and scrap metal as she landed with a mischievous grin plastered on her face. "Tired? Nah, we don’t do tired here, buddy!" She beamed, her wild eyes practically sparkling with energy as she swayed from side to side. "We’re having fun, right? Right?"

Y/N’s gaze drifted to Jinx’s hands, watching as she twirled a makeshift wrench between her fingers. The motion was rhythmic, almost soothing in the midst of the madness, and Y/N couldn’t help but nod absently. It wasn’t that she wasn’t enjoying herself; it was just that her body was running on fumes, and the mental exhaustion had her drifting in and out of awareness.

The overwhelming feeling pressed against her chest like a weight, suffocating. She tried to shake it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

"Y/N!" Jinx’s voice was suddenly sharper, her face dangerously close to Y/N’s, her exaggerated concern making Y/N blink in surprise. "You’re starting to drift again! If you’re gonna sleep, you gotta do it in a bed, not on my workbench!" Her wide eyes glinted with playful mischief as she leaned in closer, almost nose-to-nose.

Y/N startled, her breath hitching as she jerked back slightly. "Sorry... just... a little overwhelmed." She rubbed at her eyes again, feeling the exhaustion creep in even deeper.

Jinx didn’t buy it for a second. "Overwhelmed?" She scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest as if the very idea was absurd. "You know what happens when you zone out too much, right?"

Y/N frowned, too tired to keep up with Jinx’s high-energy antics. "What?"

Jinx’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous kind of delight, and Y/N knew exactly what that look meant. "I’ll tickle you until you can’t think straight! That’s what!" Her voice was a mock threat, but Y/N knew there was no escaping it once Jinx decided on something.

Before Y/N could even get a word out, Jinx pounced, her fingers darting to Y/N’s sides with quick, practiced movements. The sensation caught Y/N completely off-guard, and a startled laugh burst from her lips before she could stop it.

"No, Jinx! Stop—!" Y/N gasped, her body squirming in an attempt to escape, but Jinx was relentless. She had her pinned, hands flying with precision, making it impossible to avoid the ticklish torment.

Jinx laughed gleefully, the sound like a bell in the chaos of the workshop. "Told you to stay with me!" she teased, leaning back just for a moment, clearly satisfied with her successful mission. Her grin widened as she saw Y/N’s exhaustion-laden face light up with a reluctant smile. "See? You’re back! No more zoning out for you!"

Y/N gasped for breath, a shaky laugh escaping as she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Okay, okay... you win. You really don’t let up, do you?"

Jinx’s expression softened for just a moment, the wild grin fading into something softer. The gleam in her eyes was still there, but now there was a hint of protectiveness behind it. "You're my best friend, Y/N," she said, her voice gentler than usual. "And I’m not gonna let you fall asleep on me, alright? Not when there’s so much to blow up."

Y/N chuckled weakly, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the day. "I think I might need a nap first... before the next explosion."

Jinx snorted, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "You always need a nap!" She wagged her finger at Y/N with mock disapproval. "Fine, but you better be awake for when the fun starts. I’m serious!"

Y/N managed a smile, but it was weak, her eyelids threatening to close despite her best efforts. "I promise I won’t fall asleep on you," she murmured, feeling the tug of sleep creeping in again, despite Jinx’s energetic antics.

Jinx’s grin returned, wider than ever. "Good! Because I’m gonna make sure you stay awake!" She leaned over her workbench, rummaging through one of her many bags of random things before pulling out a small firecracker, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "You’re gonna need this to keep you up, right?" She held the firecracker up like it was the solution to all of Y/N’s problems.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her exhaustion pushing her to the edge, but there was something about Jinx’s unpredictable energy that was just... comforting. It made everything feel a little less heavy, if only for a moment.

Y/N shook her head with a soft smile, despite the exhaustion weighing her down. "You’re insane," she muttered, but there was affection in her voice, the kind of fondness that only Jinx could inspire, even when she was being a whirlwind of madness.

Jinx merely beamed back at her, unbothered by the exhaustion that clung to her best friend. "And you love me for it," she teased, clearly expecting no less than complete and total agreement.

"I do," Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyelids finally closing despite her best efforts. "I really do."

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader

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writella · 1 year ago

Text

Screwed Up and Brilliant

Synopsis: Negan is ready for you. Daryl isn’t; and maybe he’ll never be. Negan makes that clear to you tonight.

Details: Negan Smith x fem!reader, Daryl Dixon x fem!reader (mentioned), Negan is a bad guy but there is nuance— at least I hope I accomplished doing so, angst, guilt, forbidden love, probably super stereotypical, reader at the Sanctuary, moral dilemma reader (but you got to understand, they’re both so fine!!), I feel like I need more cws but I can’t think of them and of course, smut, 18+: consensual, unprotected, vague dacryphilia, soft? dom!Negan, lite daddy kink, fingerings, riding, and basically just Negan blowing your brains out… but not in the walker way— the good way, the way we like. Amen.

A/N: Could you believe I started writing this in October or something? This is my first time writing Negan and I’m scared I may not have gotten it right so definitely feel free to give notes! This is set during season 7/8, I’m picturing Negan at the end of 8 and later seasons but there’s something about him older that gives me heart eyes everywhere, but whatever you prefer makes me happy. Anyway, from my heart, and maybe somewhere a little lower, to yours; with love from writella. ♡

You’re screwed up and brilliant, look like a million-dollar man; so why is my heart broke?

—— LDR, Million Dollar Man

The space was clean; minimal. The kind that let out no secrets of the owner that inhabited its insides. And of course there were the little things that let out some slight details: the ashtray on the nightstand— a smoking habit; a ring, a metal chain, another of black rope— an unsuspected, albeit small, interest in jewelry; the bottom nightstand closed by a lock—mysterious and cautious, though that was to be expected. It was only reasonable he’d have something he wanted hide. But other than that, Negan’s bedroom was quite unreadable; almost purposefully mundane.

There was a fireplace, a window at the corner, and a bed at the center. It had a dark, brass, rusted headboard that leaned against the wall. Two pillows at either side. The sheets were white, and the large blanket was of fur, a tan or medium brown, it was thick and heavy. Probably unnecessary for the approaching spring heat, but it adored the bed end well; matching the other bronze, or brown, wooden and darker aspects of the room. Even the light from the small fire, though you could see clearly, made everything mildly dim— the Sanctuary wasn’t known for its brightness after all.

And truly, nothing in this bedroom, or in this fortress of a place could be described as anything close to bright. Unless you counted the sun outside in the courtyard, or the largest fireplace that blazed in the main hall, or Negan’s piercing, priceless smile— so pristinely white, so wide it almost looked painful to perform. There was an eeriness to it as well. That was at the forefront, and everyone saw it. With the way he maintained their cleanliness, it was something that could look so pure, so put-together on any other; but on him, its power could scare you into worthlessness. It’s the one he used when he told someone what to do even if they hated it; it’s the one he used when killing someone’s best friend.

It’s also the one he used on the first day he ever spoke to you. The first time that truly mattered, really.

It was during Negan’s first supply gathering at Alexandria.

You still remember it well.

Your faces filled with desolation, but chins held high; you were strong— good at hiding the pain, the fear— only straight, pokered eyes and mouths allowed as everyone silently agreed with you. You had told Negan that Maggie was dead.

The Widow, he had coined her. The wife of your good friend that he killed— so generous a man was Glenn, even when he wasn’t trying to be. And she’s your friend too, brave Maggie. That’s the one he wanted, but as far as he knew, she was gone.

Thank God, you thought, Thank God, yes, indeed, until—

Negan’s eyes glazed over your frame for just a moment too long.

You weren’t speaking anymore. You kept it short enough. He should have turned his attention back to Rick but he didn’t.

Where there was sly roguery in Negan’s eyes, anxiety weld in the looks of all others: Rick’s throat tensed and tightened uneasily, sweat trailing down his curls and onto his forehead; Rosita’s jaw clenched with bitterness, brows furrowing under her green khaki cap with anger; and then there was Gabriel: his eyes turned from solemnity and pretend peacefulness to wide bewilderment. The plan you two exchanged had worked: you would tell Negan of Maggie’s passing, as per your idea, and Gabriel would swiftly solidified your lie by saying he was the one who officiated the short funeral. But then, another problem arose; one where he could be nothing else but helpless in aiding you. What was he, or anyone to do? It was easy to help Maggie, she was more than twenty miles away. But you, you were here. Right in front of him.

“Wait a minute…” Negan’s pointer shakes lightly by his temple, his mind turning curiously. “You.” He said, shooting his finger in the direction of your chest.

His smile, mischievous as ever, only grew wider as a moment passed and he made his realization: “You’re the one with that- tight- grip!” He balled his raised hand into a fist as he said it. A slight snicker came after, proud of his entendre. “My men were tryna put Daryl in the trunk and you latched onto his foot like it was your dying- act- which—” you attempt to lessen the startle in your eyes at his upward hitch in tone, “—it most certainly could have been.”

Negan comes closer now, his face nearing your own, “But you know better now, right?”

Obviously, you did not.

Or you would have stayed home, not given him the chance to remember you as he said he would after your nails could no longer claw into Daryl’s ankle. He was thrashing too much and Negan’s men pushed you away; they were too strong together against the two of you. They kicked dirt in your face for it, held a gun to your head until Negan told them to stop. His point was made with your two friends he had killed, no need for another— especially not one who amused him like you had just done.

‘DAYUM. She is surprisingly strong!’ He had yelled, ignoring the weeping faces of you and the group kneeling in a line on the ground; sweat, blood, and tears dripping everywhere. ‘And I do like ‘em loyal…’ He had given you a once over while telling his men, ‘Hands off, gentlemen,’ and before returning his attention back to Rick, he added, ‘I’ll keep my eye on you.’

And he did.

You made an impression.

Now you’ll pay.

Rick should have told you why he wanted you to stay with Judith. He remembered what Negan said too. He remembered what Negan said to everyone. He couldn’t forget. But maybe it didn’t matter. It was only the start of Negan’s day here. Maybe he would have found you anyway.

Rick would feel it was all his fault nonetheless, but all you could think about is how truly, it was your own, and no one’s at all.

The sun allows glints of wickedness to sparkle in the whites of Negan’s teeth as he continues imparts his demand, “From now on, don’t stop me when I’m giving an order, okay?” It’s like you can hear him underlining his words just with his darkened voice. Turning his waist, he extends his hand to everyone as he finishes, “And that goes for all of you.”

You force your face to remain leveled as he meets your eyes again, that cheshire look returning directly toward you. He curls his head to the side, whispering near your profile, “So… you’re his girl, huh?”

Your mouth becomes slightly agape. You don’t even realize it before you can try to close it. He asked the question of aversion, or at least that’s what you assumed it was to Daryl.

You knew it was just his way, that speaking about things like this might have not been his strong suit. Besides, there were more things to worry about almost all the time, but it still hurt to know that when asked, the only complete and honest answer there could be was no.

Your eyes trail down slowly, desperate to avoid his, and Daryl’s face— a few feet away from you— turning to the side, looking at nothing. He could not hear what was being asked, but maybe Rick did, Rosita and Gabriel too. It was unclear, but their eyes prodded with more tension, more worry, Daryl could register that, and even more so, he could not stand Negan’s face that close to yours; he was probably trying to make an advance on you, scare you, or both. He pretends not to care, but ultimately it’s useless. Negan detects your expression and turns to look at Daryl’s; he notices both failing attempts at impassivity.

“Oh,” he muses, voice returning to its normal volume, “or not, my bad…. I guess that does make more sense though.” He speaks louder now, casually, like he’s a close friend consoling you about your boy troubles, “I personally haven’t been able to hold a conversation with the guy either, and I’m just tryna be friends.”

Daryl was right. Negan was weaseling his way in. He snarls because of it.

Only Dwight hears this and sends him a warning glare.

You feel the sweat beading from your hairline to the nape of your neck. The danger felt from Negan’s presence was as thick as the sun’s heat that shone directly on the cemetery grove. It’s hard to look up and especially to look at him directly for that long as if he truly was the fire in the sky, so you look down again.

Negan pats your shoulder sympathetically, his hand then going to hold up your chin, his thumb tracing your jaw softly.

It makes Daryl’s arms twitch and his stance jerks forward, but he’s pushed back, Dwight beating him on the chest. It’s only once but you can hear it, everyone heard it.

It only makes Negan’s grin become more sly because— there it is— a reaction; an answer. It makes what he’s about to do that much more sweet: “Fuck, darlin’. I’m sorry. Idiot,” he tisks. Then more quietly he adds, “I’m not one though.”

This time it’s for sure: Rick caught that, and Rosita too. They give each other an alarming look as Negan continues to trail over your dispirited form, like a wilted flower. His hand lowers back down to your shoulder, then trails to your arm, to the elbow, and then off of you entirely.

Despite the feeling of Lucille under his grasp telling him he shouldn’t, Rick urges himself to speak before Negan says what they all know is coming. “Negan,” he starts, swallowing the slight shake in his voice, “would you like to see the pantry—”

“Did I ask you to speak, Rick?” Negan states, his frame still positioned in front of you. “I’m thinkin’ here… I’m thinkin’… particularly, that you should come with me.”

Daryl makes a sound that you couldn’t hear, for Dwight was already barking a “Shut up,” at him. Only the swat he gives to Daryl’s shoulder is what is once again heard by all.

You almost choke on your gasp, but you hold it in. Only letting out the faintest sound as you ask, “What?”

“You heard me,” he plainly says. “I mean, what do you even do here anyway?”

You almost felt embarrassed to answer.

“No, I’m askin’. Seriously. Does Rick actually utilize you?”

As you begin, your voice is still quiet, “I… I work in the garden, with the produce… I help tutor the kids… I go on runs, gather supplies. I cook. Help with weapons maintenance, I—” you stop, realizing your grocery list of jobs probably sounds pathetic to him, you’re like a chore boy, “— I do a lot. But everyone does.”

“Hm,” Negan responds, playing with his nails nonchalantly. Your thoughts come to fruition with his next words, “So you’re just everyone’s helper?”

He noticed the sad offense emanating from your eyes, so he raised his hands, “And those are important things to do, I mean it. It must mean you know quite a bit from everyone, that’s smart, and there’s no trouble in it. But… I saw you. I think you can do more.”

“How?” You can still only gasp out your words. “I’m not Maggie. And she’s not here.”

“No.” He brings up one finger, “But you’re clever,” you look at him confused as he brings up his middle finger to join the first, “and quick on your feet, that I now know.” A third and fourth finger comes up, “You’re strong, you’re loyal— things I’ve stated before.” Then the fifth he says with a smug smile, “And you’re a looker, I must admit.” He moves his hand to one side of his mouth, pretending to secretly tell you, “But that’s just a plus,” he winks. “And more importantly, it seems to me that just like most people in Prick’s community, you are undervalued and not paid attention to whereas I see potential.” He says it all so simply, he truly believes he’s offering you so much better that he finally ends by saying: “Hm. Yeah. I think you’ll be much better off with me.”

And so, with no true goodbyes said, in a van you went after Negan’s visit was done. A different one from Daryl’s, of course. Taken away from the first home you had in ages.

Before the trunk door closed, Negan gave you parting words: “You see?” He had said, “I told you I’d remember you, didn’t I?”

The words rang in your ears for the entire ride as they still do now, even more or less than two months later as you sit in his room.

Your heartbeat started to rise little by little as time went on and he hadn’t arrived. With the window allowing you to escape into thought, you were left to think about the last couple of days, and specifically, the last time you were in here:

You were sitting with him on his bed. You had asked if you could talk about anything other than the world you two lived in now, and surprisingly, he obliged. It was nice. Sometime later, he had finally opened that locked drawer.

You heard him suck his teeth, what he was getting seemed lost, which allowed you to take a closer peek inside.

There was a picture of a woman. The first wife? The only real one? You couldn’t tell and you wouldn’t ask, it would have been too much. You didn’t even get a good look at the woman anyway— part of her face was covered and he was fast. But he saw your eyes, so you decided to take note of the books you caught a glimpse of, pretending it was the only thing you saw. You try to think of something to say… It did make sense he was a reader, at least even mildly if that was all it was. The way he describes his ideals, his persuasiveness, his diction— it impressed you, even if you disagreed with a lot of it. It was almost ironic that the only cover you saw was of a dictionary, the more valuable ones probably hidden under. “Is that where you get all your big boy words from?” You asked.

“Some of them,” he joked back, composing himself.

It was strange to almost catch him off guard. It was so unlike him to allow it, but what happened next felt even more surprising.

Whatever he got from the drawer was enclosed in his hand. He put the free one on top of the other as he started, “Now… I don’t want you thinking I’m growing soft on you. I just thought you deserve it because—” and then his voice fades. Even Negan, the ever curse-filled wordsmith, was finding it hard to describe in any other way that he was pleased with something as absurd as you not trying to escape anymore. He knew you would probably think that was the only reason for a gift, but then he opted for something that even you couldn’t help but know was equally true, “You don’t seem to proactively hate me anymore. You’re here. I appreciate it, so I wanted to,” he says sincerely. “That’s all.”

Negan opened his hand, resting the piece in your palm— it was a locket; lovely and rusted floral engravings all over it.

You felt sad that you thought it was beautiful, and even worse for knowing the reasons why he was giving it to you. No wonder his voice had faltered.

You remember the soft shock and awe on your face, how you said thank you and how your face felt so hot when you said it, how he asked you to turn, and how you looked at him from behind you after he put the piece on. He was so close and it felt like he was coming closer. You don’t remember if that part was real, but you can see it so clearly that it must have been. Unfortunately, the only thing you remember for certain is that knock at the door that sent Negan away to handle whatever was going on downstairs.

Had you almost let him kiss you? Would you have liked it? Are you the most deplorable person for even thinking that while Daryl was somewhere else locked up at the time?

“I see they delivered my message.”

You return from your daze, your startle leaving as soon as it comes.

It was just him. There Negan finally was.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to just come in. The door was unlocked.”

“I knew the meeting was gonna go longer than expected; thought you might as well make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to you, “which I see you did, and no—“ you were getting up from his bed, “it’s fine.” Negan sets Lucille near the door. He walks over to you, sitting down on the edge of his bed as well. There is a bit of distance between you two.

“You know, I came back the other day,” he informs, “I was actually going to talk to you last night, but then I heard you tried to leave. Again.” His eyebrows furrow, “We still on that?” He asks. “Thought we had a breakthrough the other night.”

“But after Carl—“

“—Carl,” he interjects, “came here all by his badass self, and for that, I did not lay even my pinky fuckin’ finger on him.” His hand goes to his chest, “I even took him home like a gentleman. And after I got here and found out they put you in a cell without supper, I had you back in your bed before midnight yesterday, so I’d say I’m doing pretty well.”

“Seriously?” Your incredulity is hidden under the softness of your voice as you say it, but it’s cracking.

“As a heart attack. It’s your ex-people who don’t listen. At least I was nice this time.”

You sigh heavily, docility officially fading. You shake your head with a slight chuckle, “That’s hard to believe. Especially if you were gone for most of the day. I know what that means. You had whatever the fuck your version of fun is.”

He grits his teeth, holding his words back. You’ve gotten a little too comfortable with the back talk, and you especially shouldn’t be saying anything after the night you had yesterday, but he allows it.

This time.

Of course, he didn’t like you leaving, but he rather that it was Daryl who escaped than you. And based on the bruises: one on the side of your head, one high on your shoulder— he imagines you might have gotten pushed against a wall— and the light ones that littered in a couple of spots on both your arms— he could tell his men must have been rough with you as they brought you back. He didn’t like that; therefore, he lets you quip. Someone would be getting their own bruises for it some time later anyway. He would take your smartass mouth out on them to cover for it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Nothing was undeserved though.”

You breathe in, the back and forth was no use. “What happened yesterday?” You asked, losing the sarcasm. Your eyes peered into his for honesty, hoping to skip the sly replies and get to the truth. “Just tell me what happened at home.”

Home. You knew better than to use that word. In fact, you have just stopped using that word. He let out an exasperated laugh, but skipped the lecture. “You want the truth? Or just the SparkNotes?”

You roll your eyes lightly. You probably don’t even notice you did it. Despite the situation being discussed, it makes Negan’s head turn endearingly— your tone of voice, the things you say, the way you react to him… you still don’t realize how fresh you’ve gotten with him, how comfortable. But he sees it.

“Alright. Well, Spencer’s gone.” He reveals offhandedly, replying to your silence.

Your eyes do not widen, you know what gone means. You simply nod and try to not think about how the now-cleaned bat most likely looked before.

“And don’t tell me that you care,” he says, pretending to interject to your continuing silence. “You gotta know he was a small dick nepo-prick, right?”

You bite the inside of your lip, shaking your head slightly. You won’t give in to a cheap joke even if it was pretty accurate, so he beckons you by name, “C’mon, that was funny.”

Still, you give him nothing.

He sighs; taking off his leather; and sits near you on the bed, his hands cupping the ledge. “Thought we were finally over this quiet thing.”

“A lot has happened this week.”

“Like…” he prodes. He would only talk about it if you brought it up.

Your eyes shut tightly before opening again. You didn’t want to say it, but you had to. “You know what. Daryl.”

He states the fact plainly, “Daryl left you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Your voice is fierce now. You can’t believe it. You won’t. “He’s not that kind of person and this isn’t an easy place to get out of— I obviously know that— he wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I know,” he jeers, “but he did and he didn’t bring you with him. Even though you were found trying to find his cell. That’s some real idiotic bullshit right there, isn’t it? From both of you.”

You glared at him hotly, you wouldn’t give it up, but unfortunately you had no rebuttal. Both of you would just continue on with the same argument, the conversation going nowhere. And not because either side knew they were completely right; in truth, neither of you actually knew what happened the other day. But in this regard, you felt there was no other choice: you believed in Daryl fully.

Because he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Right?

You continue shaking your head, trying to find something to say in retaliation as you feel your sureness withering. Separating you two was the smartest tactic. You now have nothing to hold onto. “He wouldn’t,” you repeat pathetically, “I don’t believe you.” Unfortunately it’s not quite enough, so he continues with a rant you know all too well.

“You don’t believe me?” He cups the ends of the bed more tightly, positioning himself closer to you. “When I’m the one who gave you the safest roof? Secure food, clean water, access to all these pretty dresses, which, I know you’ve become accustomed to—” and here it comes— “I saved you!”

Saviors and their “saving,” you sneered at it. What bullshit. “You didn’t save me.”

“But I gave you someone to talk to… Huh?” He taunts, waiting for your response but nothing comes. He uses it to his advantage, “You’re quiet cause you know it’s true.”

But you know something too. He says it before you can.

“Or fuck, maybe I just gave myself someone to talk to.”

You pretend you can’t hear the earnesty in it. “Stop,” you scoff. “Don’t treat me like I’m special. I was the second choice.”

“I think with my dick sometimes. You’re the only choice.”

You start to shake your head, your face is flushed; scared, hot, and a little bit of something else that you refuse to let out. Then the tears come— the room feels so big and you two are so close and there are so many feelings you’re trying to push down. “It doesn’t matter,” you say wearily, “You took me. And you took him. You hurt him, I saw his face.” Your voice begins to tremble, almost in unison with the tears that peak out on your eyelids. “And that outfit you put him in. He didn’t even look me in the eye.”

“Stop,” he warns.

“You didn’t even let me see him.”

“He doesn’t notice you.”

“You don’t know us.”

“I know you.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know you’re not happy… What about the other night?”

You ignore him, shaking your head: “You hurt my friends.”

“What about the other night?” He persists, his voice slowly growing louder. “What about every time I let you sit in on my meetings? What about how you have your own room? What about how I actually talk to you?”

“You let him get hurt—” the tears start to fall, there is a quiver in your voice but you still match his near shout, “And you almost killed Carl—”

“Shut up.”

“And you killed Abraham—”

He warns you by name.

“And Glenn! Maggie’s husband—”

“SHUT. UP.”

“The baby won’t have a father, Negan!”

His voice is low and grim as he demands you to “Stop. Now.” Negan grabs the sides of your neck as he says his next line, it comes out brisk and harsh and heavy like his touch as his hand wraps around your neck. “I knew you lied to me.”

Your voice is hushed, feeling his lightly pressed thumbs on the front of your throat as you speak shakily, “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Maybe not since you’ve been here, but did you hear yourself right now?” He pauses, allowing you a second to let it sink in. “You just fucking proved it.”

Your eyes widen at the realization. The baby, you had said. Fuck.

“See? Told you, you were smart.”

And he did. Brave Maggie. Clever you. That was his reason number one.

“You have to get why.”

His voice remains eerily calm. “I do.”

Another tear falls and his thumb presses its pad under your eye, spreading a tear on your face as the next one comes down.

“Negan…” you say. It’s a mix of a warning and a plea but you can’t tell for what, both fear and fire mix together because of his proximity. His touch and stare was dangerous, you wouldn’t be surprised if he was pleased he caught your slip up, thrilled to see you cry, but there was also something about it— his touch, his eyes— that was equally intoxicating. There was something more tender there as well, something you didn’t want to turn away from, he wasn’t as rough as you thought. Nonetheless, your answer to these conflicting feelings are ones of neglect, you stay your course. “You’re a bad person,” you tell him.

“Please,” he whispers back, “just stop.”

His eyes glaze over your features with an intent look you’ve only seen once before, it was that other night in fact. It’s almost gentle, but maybe it’s just pity, so you don’t let it stop you. “But you are.”

“Stop,” he pleads, then it’s hushed, “just stop…” he says, “just stop.” Then he starts coming closer. “Tell me to stop.”

And you know you should get up.

You should, you should, you should, you know it but— you don’t.

You breathe into it.

His lips latch onto yours; your heads tilt; you lock perfectly.

Everything after happens fast, the instantaneous mess of it all: he waited and waited, and of course he would. He was waiting for you to see it, to feel it. He thought the other night was the breakthrough, but no, it was tonight, it was how you didn’t back away just now.

His hand goes lower on your leg, nearing your knees so he can get under your dress, trailing up your thigh, reaching the inner side that’s pressed up to the other one.

His hand on your neck brings you in closer, traveling up to under your chin and jaw, holding you so tight, but so sweetly. All you felt was surprise. He slips his tongue in, it's deep and intense. He brings a velvet warmth that you’d never expect from him. It was paradoxical; a fiery heaven of a feeling.

He starts rubbing your clit over your panties, kissing his way up to your ear as he does so to ask, “When’s the last time someone’s fucked you?”

Your lips are parted, but you cannot speak, so he continues.

“Daryl never did, did he?” He asks in a muffle, continuing to kiss and kiss. “Who was before him?”

Again, no verbal response, but your breath does hitch at his touches. He continues to draw circles, your wetness now slowly dampening the material, making it easier for his finger to place itself between your folds, so he dips his hand under the band. That and his whispering makes you feel a kind of spark that shoots all the way down to where his fingers are touching. The first press of his thumb without any material in between forces a sudden heat to rise that instantly causes a flush of liquid to slip down your hole, it feels messier than it actually is until his fingers go lower spreading it everywhere. You were much wetter than you thought, and you can’t help how good it feels, how easily you’re responding to it.

Negan calls your name, holding in every cocky reply he wanted to give about how wet you are— he needed an answer to his question first. So he looks you in the face, making sure he has your full attention, “You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” His words are meant more genuinely than his tone implies. “Not at all during any of this?”

You shake your head small and slowly. No.

He laughs pitifully, he doesn’t mean it rudely, but he just can’t help it. A touch-starved baby at the mercy of his fingertips? “Well, god-damn.”

He felt like a rich man.

He begins to kiss your lips again, now pumping his fingers into you. Your walls tighten. It’s only two, but they’re his. It’s new and exciting. His kiss makes you lean into the bed, the force of his head and tongue going deeper into your mouth guiding you to lay flat as his fingers still play.

“I hope you know how fucking soaked you are,” he finally says. “You need it so bad that it feels this damn good with me only touching you like this?” You can’t help the way your body jerks up and he can’t help but be smug about it. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Your eyes grow vicious at his grin, you almost want to hit him, but you can’t. All you can do is suppress your moan into a quiet whine. He’s so magnetic— his touch feels forbidden but so right; his voice so alluring; and his midas touch pulls you deeper and deeper into a trance, you might as well be turning into gold. Other than the involuntary reactions your body makes as his fingers continue going into your hole, now slowly going in and out as his eye gloss over your body in your favorite dress that you wore the most, you’re left paralyzed; subjected to following his lead. Wherever he wanted to go next, you’d let him.

He takes his fingers from inside of you and you look up quickly. You made sure not to whine at the loss of contact but your eyes couldn’t hide your dismay. All he did was smile and quickly lick away the wetness.

“Just takin’ this off,” he tells you as his hands cross over to the ends of his white t-shirt, slipping it off and onto the ground, one of those small rope chains hitting his chin as he does so.

It was only his shirt but you’re struck by him: to see more of his ever present sun-kissed skin felt almost godly. He was pretty lean, not too lanky like his stature, but not too broad either. Light curves of muscles adorned his chest and shoulders and arms. His chest and abdomen were slightly hairy, a tattoo placed on the upper right side and you finally saw the other tattoos placed on his upper arms more clearly. They looked nice on him. He was so handsome. You felt more wetness peeking out from down below. He looked so big above you.

“Like what you see, beautiful?” That typical snark still laced his voice, but there was a genuinity to it as well. He wanted you to like what you saw; to like him.

His words make your face hot, eyes casting off to the side. It was easier to talk to him when you were mad at him, when it was about home, even just small talk about the Sanctuary; this felt… different. Just like the other night.

You had almost already forgotten that his charm worked this way too; in a kinder way— when his eyes are wide, when his smile is soft, when he calls you sweet names without the irreverent, quip-filled pretenses.

It made you have all the words on the tip your tongue: how handsome and sexy you could say he is, how much you liked his tattoos, even all the greys that littered his hair and beard l, or how, if you had to admit it, you liked that dumb shit-eating grin of his, but all you can do is lightly smile, a quiet laugh escaping your lips at your bashfulness. You finally nod. “Yes,” you say, rolling your eyes, “maybe.”

He starts undoing his belt with a laugh of his own, “Oh I know you’re a fuckin liar if you think I’m a maybe.”

As his pants drop to the floor he takes each hand and places them over your shoulders on the bed to ask, “May I take off the lady’s dress?”

Your eyes widened, your open mouth only letting out a sweet, surprised, and whispered, “Huh?”

“What? Didn’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

You try to compose yourself, calm the fire you feel all throughout your body, and pretend you haven’t already given in completely right when he kissed you. “I just didn’t expect it would be all this slow.”

He laughs inwardly, glad to see the personality he came to know come back after all that happened these past two days. “Just give me a moment,” he jokes back. “You think I’m gonna waste seeing the reaction of you watching my cock spring out just so I can shove it in fast? ” He comes closer, his voice lowers now, “Believe it or not, I don’t think you’re just some doll or a fuck-piece.” The groundedness of his voice is something you’ve never heard before. “I’m pretty sure I’ve already stated that I see you. And truly, I think you’re damn gorgeous.”

Your eyes are stars. How can you even react? He thinks you’re gorgeous and you’re taken aback. “Thank you,” is all you can quietly say.

“You’re welcome.” He responds with eyes that have never looked so honest, so soft. You get lost in them and he has to pull you back, returning to his question, “May I?”

You nod, quick and excitedly, “You can take it off, Negan.”

He grabs your hands and stands you up. You look up at his face and his fingers move to the ends of your dress, pulling it over your head.

The tips of his fingers trace your chest and stomach lightly, delicately touching your skin as if it’s porcelain. He grabs your waist and travels up to take off your bra, then pushes down your wet underwear.

Negan’s cock stirs at the sight, you’re so pretty and so ready for him. “And I didn’t even need to see it to know I was right.” Just like he said, you’re gorgeous.

Negan pushes down his boxers. Cock springing up. Big and veiny with a red tip. He was itching to get inside of you.

And there you were, eyes and mouth open wide, scared and excited all at once. You were intimidated but surprisingly not scared if it would fit or not. You would let him do anything to get himself inside of you, even if it hurt.

“There it is,” he says, pleased with your reaction. He comes closer to your ear now, pushing you down by the hips against the bed once more. “And trust me, if you like that, you won’t fucking believe how I’ll feel inside of you. Just wait.”

“I…” He wanted to make you feel good, you’re almost speechless. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” He says, and then he places himself above you, admiring your glistening folds as he spreads your legs. He already lines himself up, he could look at you forever but he is in no desire to wait any longer. He pushes in. It’s a bit fast, a tight fit, it must have hurt you, but he’s too excited, he can’t help it. He lets out a hum and then a groan at the feeling of your walls enclosing him, and he hears you gasp at his size. He starts to pump into you immediately.

His face hovers over yours. His eyes study your features and he realizes he’s never been this close. Of course he hasn’t, he’s never fucked you, made love to you. He’s just now noticing the way your eyelashes curl, what birthmarks adorn your upper body or not, and how many earrings you may have, but most importantly, he’s noticing the way you react to him: the way your eyebrows might scrunch, or what elicits more pants and squirmings, the way your lips tug tightly against each other or open into ovals and circles depending on what he does, how he thrusts, where he touches, how he moves.

It all makes him slowly speed up. He can’t take it anymore. He kisses your neck and jaw— some kisses sweet, then others that are rough and he begins to pump and pump. Faster and faster.

“Oh,” you choke out before moaning, “ah.”

He continues, loving every facial expression you make until he finally speaks. “Alright. I gave you a break— now tell me how it feels?”

All you can do is whine incoherently.

“Excuse me?” He says more sternly. You know what he wants.

“Negan,” you whine again.

He stops. “Yes?” He asks all too knowingly. “Gonna use your words and tell me how it feels?”

You sigh, taking the hand placed on your hip and moving up toward the ends of your stomach, all the way up to your left breast. You let his hand rest there, feeling the heat and your quickened heartbeat radiating from the area. “You… you feel so good.” Your eyes are watery, “Amazing.”

You got him there, and he almost can’t help but start hammering it in, but then he remembers… he doesn’t have to help it. He could do whatever he wanted, so he does. He squeezes your breast, grinning wildly as he gives you one hard thrust. “Damn right,” he tells you, hearing your yelp before pounding fast.

You had always been quiet but he never quite saw you at a loss for words as you are now. Your mouth is completely open, your eyes threatening to roll back further, making sounds he’s sure you’ve never heard from yourself before. Have you even had it this fast? This big? This great? He knows it couldn’t be. And he’s the one who gets to show you. His eyes gloss over you with pride at the thought.

He grabs your chin to get you to look at him, “Who’s fucking you this good?”

You moan. You weren’t used to this. Your eyes roll back completely as he pounds into you with eye contact.

It makes him groan loudly, his jerks into you, letting out his own moan from the sight. “Oh fuck, baby. Don’t play with me.”

You give in, force yourself to speak, you can’t let this end. “You, Negan!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes!” It’s so hard to speak, it comes out so pathetically.

“Who's making you feel like no one else?”

“You, Negan, it’s you!” Your moan turns into a pant, “It’s you, only you.”

He comes closer, his nose touches yours. His movements slow, but they don’t stop. He’s rocking into you now. “Only me?”

You don’t even think, “Who else? It's only you.”

His teeth sparkle, “Only me.”

“Only you, daddy.”

He laughs cockily, “So Daddy’s making you feel this good?”

“Yes, daddy. So good.”

You feel the groan he makes travel right to your clit, making it throb.

He kisses you, the corners of your lips to your cheek and neck and collarbones and back up again.

He restarts his pumping into you but his head remains close to yours. You decide to wrap one of your arms around his neck, pulling his hair, and the other hand travels down his back, holding him close.

Negan breathes you in, his head near the crux of your neck, hearing every little sweet sound you make that he’s never heard before. It all drives him wild, but then his eyes open. A question comes out that surprises you both: “Am I ruining your life right now?” He quietly asks.

“That doesn’t matter,” you say, breathing heavily from his touches, your eyes are still closed.

“I think it does.”

“You make me feel like no one ever has…” The bliss you feel from his current soft strokes and touches making it hard to speak, your voice is so light. “At least I got to experience it.” You open your eyes now, fingers tracing the cross drawn into his arm, “At least I got to see the real you.”

Your eyes say more than your words do. There’s a yearning and a sadness, an answer to what feels right in this moment, but an insight that there are doubts that could creep up later the more that you think about it.

“Just keep going,” you tell him, “I want to see you.”

You want to see him, you do see him. His head connects with yours again, and you moan into each other's mouths as he keeps pumping. Your legs come up to his hips and you’re not afraid to be loud anymore, to tell him how good it feels, how much you like him.

He takes your hands and places them over your head, crossing his fingers with your. It’s so pure, so lovely even when he’s going so hard down below. You hear your breaths heavy and your bodies slapping and the bed shaking.

You think about his skin, and his scratchy beard against yours, and the way you hate how he can make you smile by making the most ridiculous and raunchy jokes, and the way you love his voice, the way you can’t help but to like the way he cares for you.

“Negan,” you say weakly.

“Yes,” he responds intently.

“I’m gonna come,” you tell him. “I think I can.”

“Come for me,” he encourages, moving one of his hands down to rub your clit. “C’mon.”

“I’m gonna come,” you repeat, edging yourself on. Bucking up at his thrusts and his fingers.

“You can do it. Be a good girl. Do it for me.”

You swear the fireplace blazes louder and bigger, lighting up the whole room as you yell out, moaning once more as you orgasm.

Negan finally breaths out after, holding in for so long, and comes after you. His hands place themselves flat on the bed and he pushes in fast, riding out the high.

He scoops you up immediately, holding you in his arms. He doesn’t want to let go.

You two stay there for a moment until you look up. His hand caresses your face, “What is it?”

“I…” you were embarrassed to admit that you weren’t ready for it to all be over yet. “Can I ride you?”

A wiley smile appears on his face. He has to admit, he’s a little shocked you’re ready to go again, but he’d never turn it down. “Well, of course you can, babygirl.”

He flips you over, completely ready, but instantly, you become hesitant, almost overwhelmed. He was the world, not you, yet you were now above him. All the allowance to touch him anywhere you want at your disposal.

He puts his hands under his head, arms flexing. An ever wide smile present as he waits for you to begin. “You asked for it. Don’t get shy on me now.”

Your eyes grow excited again, deciding not to hold back, and you start to rock against him. You place you hands on his chest, feeling him up, touching his biceps, hands going over his tattoos— you could stare at them, at him, for hours. You honestly think you’d lick his whole body if he’d let you. And of course he probably would. To feel big and proud and irresistible while you look like a little desperate freak? You wouldn’t even have to ask him twice. Thinking about it and about how full his cock is making you feel, stretching and reaching all the right places, makes you moan and whine. You bucked your hips wildly, humming and giving him “mmms” because of how yummy it feels. You could do this forever.

“Ah- uh- Negan,” you moan and your stomach caves as you whine again and you hurl forward, continuing to rock but your pace is faltering. It’s becoming too hard and Negan can tell so he takes you by the hips, helping you move. First continuing to let your grind and then pushing you up and down his shaft so you can bounce on him. You push yourself up again, hand on his chest, pushing against it and you bounce along with his help. This was fun. You try to go faster and faster. It felt like being a kid on a playground.

“Open your eyes,” he demands. “Look at who you’re fucking, sweetheart.”

So you do, and moan at the sight of him, “Ohmygod,” you say. “You’re so handsome, Negan.”

He's so proud of you. Enjoying your actions, enjoying your noises. He groans as he sees your breast bounce and it makes you squeeze against him.

“Good girl,” he coos, “finally listening when you’re spoken to, about to make yourself come on daddy’s cock again.”

He starts to rub your clit again and you continue to bounce. It almost hurts because of how overstimulated you’ve become but you don’t tell him to stop. Your hands come to reach the headboard, helping you bounce harder. He tells you again how much of a good girl you are, how he loves that you’re not stopping, then he tells you how dirty and desperate you are for wanting him again after he already made you come. But he’s obsessed. This is all he’s ever wanted since the day he brought you here. His hands trail up from your hips to your waist and breast and back down again. There is nothing more he wants than to fuck you or for you fuck him.

You look down. You both notice your necklace still wrapped around your neck, almost nearing between your breasts, bouncing along with all of you. It reminds you of why you're here, why he gave it to you. It makes you have the realization he had… Was he ruining your life? Were you ruining your own? But how could you be when it all feels this good? It was completely screwed up, but everything felt so magnificently brilliant. His touch is everything, his voice is everything, his body is everything. It makes your hips stutter, it makes you moan, and at last, it makes you come again. You ride your high, going and going and going until you fall into his chest. His hands come to hold you tight thereafter.

Unthinkable bliss is all that is felt for a long moment… then… your head turns to the window. You remember what is out there and what isn’t in here.

A tear falls down your cheek and he realizes what’s happening when it falls onto his shoulder.

It hurts him now. To see you cry. It’s not fun anymore. You feel it, yes. You see what he saw, it’s true. But you aren’t really his wife. You’re nothing that is his at all. You both know that as well.

It takes you a long time to speak, you have to force yourself, but you do. “You have to let me go now.” You say it sternly but there is a sadness to it; a small part of you wants to not mean it even though you completely do, even though you do wish to stay here, to be enveloped by his embrace— you simply cannot forget.

“Mm,” he shakes his head, remaining leveled, “you know too much.”

“I barely know anything,” you say. “And not that anything I do know matters. Knowing the way around the Sanctuary isn’t going to help anyone when I know there is no way we could actually get in…. And what’s more important anyway is that I’m not changing my mind and you’re not either.”

“I’m not.”

“And I can’t. I wouldn’t. And they’re not going to. Never…. And if some of them die…” A whimper almost leaves you but you manage to swallow it, “I have to be by their side, Negan. I can’t only hear about it. I… I can’t see it next to you.”

His lips are pressed firm, his jaw is fixed and tight, almost like he’s grinding down on his teeth. The breath he takes through his nose could be a heavy sigh if he opened his mouth, but he doesn’t. He keeps it all in.

You words and their weight hang in the air for a moment before he finally speaks: “One of my guys that watches the armory doors has a shift that ends at 6:00 am… but at 5:50 I’m going to come up to him and tell him he gets off 10 minutes early that day, that I’ll wait for the next person to come.” He lets his words hang in the air for a moment, your confusion spirals before he keeps going. “It’ll be fucking weird, but he’ll look dumb as shit if he questions me, so he won’t. Then when he’s out of sight, I’ll leave. The next person is coming right at 6. That’s all you get. 10 minutes. A little less really.”

Your eyes round slowly as the stun continues to sink in. He’s… letting you leave.

“You take one gun and one knife. Just one. Don’t make it noticeable. I’m going to check. Then you go out of the back door that’s inside.” He didn’t have to tell you the way. “It should be easy, I know you’ve tried it before.”

You look down, taking in all he says, but then he turns you face to meet his, “If anyone sees you, I’m gonna have to make a show of it when they bring you back. Not what I want. But if I get there before you get out, maybe 5:58, just cause I’m an asshole, just to see you one last time… And if I do, I’m gonna turn you around and you’re stayin’. Fair?”

You nod. It’s small and light. You don’t question any of it, you can’t. “8 minutes.” You respond.

“8 minutes.” His voice is neutral, but underneath there was a tinge of solemnity to it. “8 minutes,” he says under his breath.

“What about now?”

“Now?” He asks. He didn’t think about it. He assumed you would want to go after this, after you got what you wanted. “Well,” he turns to his nightstand, “right now it’s half past 10.” He stares at you for a moment, you can’t tell what he’s thinking. This whole moment has felt so quiet, both eerie and gentle. You still weren’t used to the latter from him, even after what just happened. “You can go if you want. Sleep in your bed for one more night, or…” he stops, “You can stay with me, if you’d like.” His sigh is short and whispered but you both hear it, you feel its weight. “It’s your choice.”

You stare at each other for a moment. Your eyes trail all of his face and the arm that is still holding your own, adorned with all the tattoos and skin you had just fallen for. You wanted to study them and hold onto him forever. And his eyes: they said so much— there were so many little inflections, ones that you had finally read, and so many others you’ve yet to decipher. You desired to know him, but you had to go, so all you decided to do was to hold him. For now, you chose to stay, and hoped that your embrace would transfer the fact that the only reason it would be hard to leave is because of him and only him. You would remember this forever. “8 hours till 8.”

“8 hours till 8, kid.”

You close your eyes tight and nuzzle into his chest, A peace you had never known in the Sanctuary finally subsumed you. You feel free to finally tell him, “Thank you. I really do miss home.”

Home. There it is again. There was no malice in the way you said it, but there was still a pang from your melancholy words that made his heart throb. You missed home. And as peaceful as you looked, and as safely as you held onto him, your words reaffirmed that home was not here and it was not with him— no matter how you looked, and no matter the fact that you were allowing him to hold you for the night, to call you his. In the end, you were not.

He had to finally accept it.

“8 hours till 8,” are your last words until you finally drift to sleep. This would be your last and most tranquil night here. To you, it felt right, almost harmonious, albeit sad. This is how it was and how it was meant to be. You needed it.

But to him, it’s shattering. He doesn’t repeat the phrase back this time because, for once, he has nothing to say. The fire glow of the night has now withered into darkness.

You won.

He lost.

But both your hearts broke.

#negan smith smut #negan smith x reader #negan smith fanfiction #negan smith x you #negan smith x y/n #negan x reader #negan x you #negan x y/n #negan smut #negan fanfiction #the walking dead smut #the walking dead fanfiction #twd smut #twd fanfiction #twd fic #the walking dead #negan smith

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leviackermanstoes · 5 months ago

Note

Girl, your stories are so GOOD! I love reading your fics. I just saw you may be taking fics for Jayce or Viktor. Is there any way I could request a Jayce x Viktor x Reader fic where the reader is very naturing, cuddly, and gentle with both of them, but maybe she hides all her stress and struggles cause she deems theirs more important? Like, she always knows when they want coffee, how they each take it, covers them up when the lab is cold or they pass out at the desk, rubs their shoulders when she sees them shrug too much, just very attentive. Yet, she’s not a scientist and thinks that being stressed over literature projects and teaching is ridiculous cause it’s not as difficult or as important (in her mind) as hextech. So she just ignores her needs until these two notice.

I’m so sorry if that is too much! I hope you enjoy the third act when it comes out. Thank you so much for reading this! 🩶

OH ABSOLUTELY I CAN DO THIS. 😭😭 THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND LIKING MY STORIES IT MEANS SO MUCH.

--fem reader. Fluff. Small sad. Angst if you squint. Cute throuple time.

The laboratory is cold, and the rain that batters piltover decorates the window like glass tears. Your eyes droop tiredly as you watched viktor twist the cogs in the next hextech project and listen to the sound of slow puffs of steam every few minutes that came from brass pipes on the walls.

Jayce is unmoving as he sits at his own desk, sorting through two stacks of papers. You hate it, hate watching them so vulnerable and so tired. Both are so hard-working and loyal to their studies.

"Allow me to help you both," you spoke as you stood up.

Reaching for two soft blue blankets stored in the corner, you walked firstly to jayce and draped the blanket across his shoulders and gave his cheek a soft kiss.

"I can't have my boys going cold now, can I?"

You spoke as you walked to viktor to drape a blanket across his much more lean shoulders, kissing his cheek, too. Viktor looked up at you and smiled tiredly.

"Thank you, my love." it never failed to make your heart flutter hearing viktor call you that, especially when his accent made it so smooth and endearing.

"Are you staying with us tonight?" Jayce spun in his chair, leaning an arm on his knee.

"I um" you cleared your throat.

The truth was, you had things to do. Your own assignments and activities to tend to. But viktor and jayce's eyes were gleaming deep brown in the dim laboratory light and so often you found yourself missing them when they would make you go to bed without them because they were afraid you would pass out after spending so long with them doing work.

"I have no where to be"

Paperwork

Documents

Assignments

Blueprints

Papers

Papers papers pap-

"No," you shook your head. "I have nowhere to be"

You smiled as you walked over to stand by the window, viktor and jayce came to stand on either side of you. The rain still pounded the glass, crystal city and enforcers were hounded the soaking streets each night, like a herd of elephants stampeding with metal boots.

"You need not worry about what's happening down there." Jayce put his hand on your shoulder.

Viktor turned his head to you. "It is not our worry, my love" he spoke ever so softly.

You pressed your lips together into a thin line, as you thought over so much.

"You both must be hungry," you stated.

You stepped away from them both before you walked over to the door. You would make them cups of hot tea and nice warm soup. bread and butter.

"Stop right there, doll" Jayce spoke loudly.

You froze and turned around to see jayce holding up your textbook. You gasped and realised they had indeed caught you.

"When were you going to tell us you had assignments to do?" Jayce asked.

Viktor turned around to face you, his head tilted. You looked at the ground defeated before them, and began to cry.

"I'm so sorry I didn't tell you both. I was so entranced with helping you with your dreams that I forgot about my own, " you frowned and sighed.

The two of them walked over to you and hugged you tightly. If they had known you were in such troubles, they would have chained you to the table and glued a pencil in your hand.

"I love you both so much, and I'm so sorry that kept it from you." .You looked at them with gentle and sorrowful eyes.

"You need not be sorry. But It's time to start taking care of yourself, my love. " viktor held you close to him

You nodded, making them both smile admiringly.

"We love you, pretty girl"

You gave them both soft kisses to their lips and smiled. "You know I'm still going to take care of you both"

They were your boys. And even if you were working every day and night on your own papers, you would find ways to still make sure they had their breakfast lunch and dinner and were always hydrated and healthy. You loved them both dearly and they too loved you too.

"If I find out you aren't focusing on yourself, I'll take back my promise to buy cupcakes" Viktor spoke.

Not only did you gasp. But beside you, the man of progress did too.

#jayvik #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane season 1 #jayvik fic #jayce talis #viktor arcane #jayvik x reader #jayce x viktor

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sweetflanfiction · 3 months ago

Text

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 23

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

A.N: Viktor's Zaunite wear is inspired by this artwork.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20 • Part 21 • Part 22

• ··········· • ············ •

It was a cold autumn morning, even as the sun started to shine down on you, bundled up in more layers of clothing than usual. You sat in a little park near the river that trespassed and separated Topside from the Undercity.

The small park was almost deserted, with only a few people walking their dogs and some artists putting up their canvases and even some stalls. It was close to the artist's quarters in the city, so it was a convenient place to set up shop.

You found this place rather soothing; the Artists Quarters was always a go-to location whenever you wanted to unwind. Many festivals adjacent to bigger festivities on the top side would be done in this park. It would be filled with colorful lanterns and unusual foods from foreign, faraway places. You’d always drag Viktor to the festivals, and even though he’d mumble and grumble, you’d find him enjoying the celebrations.

“Apologies for making you wait.” You heard a familiar voice coming from beside you and looked at its owner.

Viktor smiled at you, holding on to his older leather satchel. He was once again out of his normal scientist attire, and you raised an eyebrow at his clothes. His usual white vest was traded in for a dark wine-colored vest with old golden trims, and peeking from under a tattered old blouson jacket was a creamy-colored shirt. His leg brace had black leather belts, and the metal was darker than usual, making the aid hard to see on top of his black trousers. To finish what you were now deeming his Zaunite gear, he had a pair of brown boots with brass tips and two brown leather gloves that had seen better days.

“Look at you. A Zaunite through and through.” You joked, pointing at his outfit. He looked down at himself.

“I never thought I would be wearing these old things again.” He patted the arm of his jacket, and you saw some dust come out of it.

“It suits you…” You threw him a grin and scratched the back of his head, his pale cheeks becoming pink.

“Heh. It reminds me of my childhood. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Looking down at yourself, you had to agree. The tailor-made clothes you liked to wear on this side had been discarded for today. The outfit was simple, the fabrics diverse and colorful, but not bright. A mix of loose and fitted pieces made the ensemble work. You had annoyed the housekeepers to wash them as many times as possible in two days.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You made a dramatic, dismissive gesture.

“Good to know.” He chuckled and pointed to the other side of the river with his head. “Shall we?”

You nodded and turned to make your way to the bridge when a gloved hand gently pulled you in the opposite direction by the shoulder.

“The bridge is that way.” You announced matter-of-factly, looking at the man who was now casually limping in another direction.

“First rule of being invisible: do not cross a bridge patrolled by enforcers.” He kept strolling, a finger-wagging in the air.

You sighed deeply and then chuckled, running to catch up with him. When you reached him, he tilted his head to look at you with a smug grin on his face. You rolled your eyes at him with an exaggerated head turn.

It wasn't a long walk to where he was taking you, but when you looked at where you were heading, your face fell slightly.

The water pumps were a known spot for the scientists and you. Viktor would come here when he needed to think or just be alone, and in the end, no conversation had in this location was good. The good memories of laughing and joking while sipping cold drinks and dangling your feet on the ledge were quickly replaced with fights and resentment.

“Before we go this way.” He slowed his pace as you both approached a wall of dark green ivy clumped and glued to another, less natural one. “There might be a chance that we could be committing…heh…crimes.”

You pulled yourself together, unglazing your eyes and focusing on the swaying man in front of you. With an inflated gasp, you raised your eyebrows in fake shock, placing a hand on your mouth and another on your cheek.

“Not crimes!” You shook your head, and he leaned heavily into his crutch, which was the Viktor equivalent of putting a hand on his hip.

“You are the one court-ordered to stay out of trouble.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not the one under scrutiny by the council.” He frowned for a beat and then shrugged and nodded.

“Fair. Anyway, I thought you should be aware of it.”

“It’s not a crime to go to Zaun…”

“But we might trespass a few properties to get there.” He told you in a sing-song voice that made you chortle.

“Trust me, I’ve trespassed on worse things than the aqueducts.”

“I’m starting to think the enforcers are right about you. Such a bad influence.”

He gave you a smirk and pulled the curtain of ivy aside; a wooden panel that was latched with an old and heavy lock appeared behind it. From his satchel he grabbed a set of keys, looked at them, and picked a smaller brass one, making quick work of unlocking the makeshift door.

“No need for magic.” He said proudly, gently pulling the door open for you, motioning for you to get in.

“Now you’re just showing off.” You joked as you passed him, and he shrugged, walking inside behind you.

Once you were both inside, you looked at the scientist straight in his golden orbs and moved your fingers. The sound of the lock latching in place echoed through the stone halls. His face became deadpan and unimpressed.

“That seems like cheating.” He noted, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“We set no rules for this game.” You jutted your chin up indignantly and closed your eyes, trying to look like a spoiled brat. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

You felt something hard hit the top of your head. You let out a yelp and opened your eyes to see Viktor starting to rearrange the crutch under his arm again.

“Did you just bonk my head with your crutch?” You stroked the place it hit and tried to contain the laughter. It hadn’t hurt; it just startled you, and the idea of him doing it was incredibly funny to you.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” He announced proudly, starting to walk towards the lit corridor. “And I’ll do it again if you misbehave.”

“I am being treated unfairly.” You kept joking, both of you supporting smug smirks and grins.

“Says the Piltie about to enter Zaun.” He snapped back, and once again you gasped in mock indignation.

It felt so incredibly satisfying watching this man be this carefree. You had met this Viktor at some point in your dimension, but it seemed like it was a lifetime ago, and it had lasted a blink of an eye. And you had adored him at these highs just the same as you did in his lows.

Viktor and you kept joking around as you walked through the arches and the gigantic metal gears when a particular archway caught your gaze. Not the architecture, but the view from it. The familiar perspective was burned into your memories.

In your mind's eye, the shadow of a hunched, sickly Viktor appeared. Turning away sharply, a trembling hand on the wall was the only thing supporting him after a violent coughing fit.

‘I am dying!’ his voice resonated in your mind. Hoarse, angry, desperate, cold. ‘I need to focus on my work. You are a distraction I cannot afford. A reminder of a future I can no longer grasp.’

You felt the air catch your throat, and a small whimper came out. Immediately a hand tapped your shoulder, gently snapping you out of your reverie.

“Are you alright?” the same angry voice from before now taking a softer tone to your side.

“Hmm…yes…” You gave him what you thought was a nonchalant smile, but his eyebrow furrowing on his face told you it hadn’t registered like that. “The color of the sky reminded me of something.”

It was a sheepish excuse of a lie. You knew it, and when you saw his confused expression as he looked at the completely normal blue autumn sky, you knew he was also aware.

“Would you like to stop?”

“We just started.”

“We can stop.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug, and you shook your head.

“No need. I’m alright.”

Viktor nodded and took one last glance out of the archway and then back at the way before resuming his walk. You did the same, the haunting silhouette frozen in place. You felt the need to apologize to it when you turned away and sped up towards this companion. You both walked in silence, the joyous beginning of the adventure now taking a more serious tone.

“How was the place you came from?” Viktor asked suddenly.

“Mmm?”

“The place you come from. Was it nice? Did you like it there?”

The line of questioning was expected, and it had surprised you it had taken him this long to do it. In the many times you thought about it, you had decided to be as honest as possible.

“Oh…It was nice. More topside than undercity.”

“Do you miss it?”

“I don’t know.” You answered truthfully and saw him tilt his head to look at you. “I miss what it was. Before I left, things became…rough.”

A beat of silence, and Viktor sighed. The kind of sigh that told you you weren't going to like whatever he said next.

“I…know the story you tell about Esther being your aunt is not true.” He gave you a small smile, without malice or anger in it. “You don’t need to tell me the truth now. I understand the necessity for keeping secrets, but…when you are comfortable, I’ll listen.”

Of all the things you wanted to tell him, you knew right there and then was not the time. Or maybe it was, but in your brain, something was pulling you back.

It would be so easy to sit him down and tell him. You knew he would not only understand himself but help you understand. It would be an amazing discovery for science. For him. The man whose eyes lit up every time you showed a hint of magic.

But something held you back. So many variants of what could happen after you told him quickly pushed away any willingness to do so. What if he became obsessed with jumping time and space like the other Viktor became obsessed with perfection? What if the knowledge of the other him being able to become essentially a god-like creature was enough to make him keep working on the hex-core until it corrupted him? What if his need to help others surpassed his need for self-preservation and led everything to the same path? What if knowing his cosmic twin was dying in another world made him spiral like it sometimes made you?

There were too many options that you couldn’t control, and now was not the time to gamble on which one would be on the card.

“I will…” you said meekly, not being capable of looking at him. “Thank you.”

“It’s only fair that I let you know.” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “You are not a very good liar.”

“I am.” You told him honestly. You weren't being cute or sassy or egocentric. You were good at lying. You'd lied many times since you got here. He was just privy to the moments that took more effort.

“Heh…” He swayed his head from side to side, and his hand mimicked the gesture, tilting side to side. “Perhaps to other people.”

You felt your legs stop walking, and when he realized you had paused, he turned back to you. His eyes filled with concern. He called your name gently, about to start talking, but you shook your head and interrupted him.

“I’m not always lying.” You took a deep breath. You might not tell him everything, but you had to give him something. “I’m compartmentalizing. There are two boxes, and one is filled with…the past. And the other is here and now. And that past box is filled with…memories, good and bad. And I’m trying not to let that box spill into this one. But this box, the here and the now, what’s been said, what’s been done. There are no lies.”

He limped towards you and made the move to place a hand on your shoulder but stopped midway. Instead, he grabbed your hand. He'd learned that if he did it gently enough, you would allow it.

“One day, when you let me see what's in the box, I will do my utmost best to understand.” He whispered, moving his head to catch your eyes in his warm one.

You looked up at him, his voice dripping with sincerity. Your eyebrows were furrowed in thought, and as quickly as he could, Viktor leaned down and kissed the place between them.

He did it with such confidence that all you could do was let out a tiny gasp, your hand immediately coming up to grab his arm, ready to push him away…or pull him to you.

It wasn't just the gesture that made your eyes widen. It was the familiarity that the gesture carried. The Viktor you knew did it whenever you'd frown.

'There's a line right here,' he'd say and then kiss it away.

Looking slightly up, you could feel his minty breath on your face. His nose was a breath away from yours, and your eyes landed on his lips. It would take a single motion for you to kiss him, and you knew he knew that. You saw him swallow and look back at his whiskey eyes. A small twitch telling he was expecting you to do something.

Oh, fuck it...

• ··········· • ············ •

@marshy-moo @victormydarling @blueesmiski @th3stup1dcat @22carolina08 @httpstes @that-one-shitty-blog @disa-pointment @sseleniaa @kitewa @moons-lighttrail @aysluxe @fae-doodle @local-mr-frog @bakusquadobsessed @cherry-cola-100 @optimistic-but-very-realistic @seeksrsnn @thecordelialetters @notsaelty @lansy-4 @ayupfrogg @sammypotato @wnbrw @lucycarlisleswife @noxturnalmoth @ren-ren23 @furblrwurblr @kapitankarate @mynicknameisgasoline @octo-octopie @birbwithhat @kneelarmhstrung @dedicated2viktor @elvishstudies @iamfandomnerd @jazzypop-op @jojo-at-heart

#arcane #viktor #arcane viktor #viktor x reader #arcane x reader #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #slow burn #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #arcane viktor x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane x you #arcane reader

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rakhalofthestars · 5 months ago

Text

Trust Fall

Synopsis: Boothill loves eagles and wishes to mimic their courting ritual with you <3

Tags: Boothill x gn reader, Boothill's backstory mentioned, Pre-IPC boothill, Fluff, Humor, Light angst, Established relationship, courting rituals, Boothill is native american and latino a/n: This fic also has a bit more heavy usage of cowboy slang than all my other fics

Warnings: None !!

wc: 1 496

The people of Aeragan-Espharshel had many different beliefs, each one spread through word of mouth from parent to child. From the burning hot sun that gave life to the organisms on the planet to the tiny, hard-working ants. There were stories and legends behind each and every single thing, each having their own little tidbit of wisdom to learn from. Nothing was too small or too big for the people believed that we play our own part in the cycle of life, no matter our size or role. These beliefs reflected the tribe that inhabited the planet and the respect and love they held for the land.

Naturally, it’s no surprise that there would be stories and beliefs surrounding the eagle, which was seen as the mightiest of all birds. Its feathers symbolized that which is highest, bravest, strongest and holiest. Eagles were the symbol for a warrior.

It must be why you could find the bird all across Boothill’s person. The eagle feathers in his cowboy hat, which he had once fondly told you to have found one day with his siblings whilst running through the grassy fields. The small eagle on his left shoulder, attached to the burnt red sarape that he had managed to salvage from that fateful night. The small eagle insignia on his favorite 9mm gun, one that he had commissioned to be made from brass. The eagle on the back of his leather jacket which he had carefully painted using bleach, having even added a little cowboy hat to the bird to match him. You can easily remember how eager he had been to show you his more artistic skills, at least when it came to drawing eagles.

Boothill had always admired eagles. It was one of the few aspects of him that remained from who he was before the bombing. Before everything had quite literally turned into ashes.

Him and his fellow gunslinging friends of the past would often sit by a fire at night and yarn the hours away. Boothill would be lying on the soft grass, chewing on a piece of straw, his expression thoughtful for once as he’d stare up at the vast universe up above.

“Bee in yer bonnet, [REDACTED]?” One of them would always ask, having noticed the absence of his voice amongst the crude songs they’d have started singing by then.

“Jus’ thinkin’...”, would be his short reply, followed by one or two or the whole bunch prodding at him to spill the beans.

“Share yer wisdom, why dont’cha, O’ Great [REDACTED]”, they’d all tease and the young cowboy would laugh along good-naturedly.

“Was jus’ thinkin’ that I’d like to be one a’ them eagles up in the sky. Be as brave and courageous as them.”

“See, this is why I tell y’all to keep an eye on him. He’s an odd stick, ain’tcha [REDACTED]?”

But no matter how much his friends would tease him, Boothill’s admiration for eagles would never fade. He’d look to the great birds of the sky whenever he felt at sea. An age old habit that would stick until he fulfilled his role in the cycle of life. It’s what he did when the IPC had first arrived on his planet in their foreign and menacing spaceships, spouting off what he and countless others had thought to be taradiddles. It’s what he had done when trying his damndest to keep the corporation away from disrespecting the soil he had grown up on. It’s what Boothill does now when the weight of carrying out revenge gets too heavy for his shoulders, no matter whether they were flesh and bone or cold, hard metal.

Unsurprisingly, the man knew countless facts about these mighty birds. He had made sure to infodump about them when he took you bird-watching on planets that were similar to his home, thus housing the same or similar species of birds and the like. You were always curious and wishing to know more about your partner and his roots and who was he to deny you?

“See that one right there? That’s a bald eagle”, Boothill murmured softly one time against the shell of your ear once, pointing to the sky.

“How can you tell all the way from down here?” You asked, squinting into the binoculars that you were holding in your hands.

“Well, sugar, it’s because of that white noggin of theirs. No other eagle got that same appearance.”

“Did ya know that the eagle sound you hear in Penacony’s films ain’t actually the sound they make?”, Boothill would continue, ready to tell you the same little factoids and stories that his parents had told him.

You listened while watching the eagle. Well…you weren’t really focused on following the bird’s movements anymore. You were too focused on how the cowboy’s voice had softened its usual gruffness and laced with the aching feeling of nostalgia and homesickness.

During such moments, you usually rarely interrupted the man. It was clear as day to anyone with functioning eyes how much this meant for him.

However, your eyes caught a change in the eagle’s movements and you let out a surprised gasp when you see another bald eagle locking its talons with the one you had been following. To your horror, the birds had begun hurdling down towards the hard ground below, spinning in some form of cartwheel.

“Oh no! Are they fighting?”

Boothill looked questioningly at the sky, looking for what had caught your attention and chuckled fondly.

“Naw, don’t worry darlin’. That right there is what we call a death spiral. It’s like a courting ritual. Think of it as a type of trust fall.”

“What’s the point? Won’t they get hurt?”

*I just said it’s a trust fall, didn’t I?” An exasperated tone which quickly backtracked upon receiving a fierce glare from you.

“As I was sayin’... it’s a trust fall. That pair trusts each other to let go at the last second unless they wanna bite the dust….See?”

You had sighed with relief to see the bald eagles separating just before hitting the ground, quickly flying back up to the sky.

“Thank goodness… You still haven’t explained why they do it though?”

“It’s for courting each other. Eagles are one helluva adrenaline junkie. S’pose they want a partner who can give ‘em that rush.”

The two eagles interlocked their talons once more, spinning once more in the air as they fell. You watched in awe while Boothill watched you carefully, an idea taking root in his mind.

“Say…I reckon we should give it a shot too, sugar”, the man suggested and flashed you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely not. We’re not eagles, Boothill”, you refused almost immediately.

“Oh c’mon sugar, have some faith in yer man!”

The two of you went back and forth on the matter before eventually forgetting about it. At least, that was the case on your part. Boothill on the other hand…

–

“Your bounty is complete. How would you like to land?”

“...Good question.”

In truth, Boothill wasn’t too worried about the landing since he already could see you zooming towards him on an air-hover, ready to catch the cyborg. Oh, you were mad as a march hare alright.

“I’ve told you time and time again to have a better plan for these things!” You nag at him, your pretty face contorted with exasperation.

“Don’t get yer britches in a stir, sugar. I know what I’m doin’ “, Boothill drawls, looking too carefree for someone who was free falling through the air.

“You sure? ‘Cause it sure as hell doesn’t look like it!” You roll your eyes, following him down towards the ground on your hovercraft.

“I do, thank ya kindly. I got trust in you and mahself.”

“Take my hand then, you bag of bolts!”

“Not yet.”

It takes all your strength to not just up and leave the cowboy to fend for himself in such a situation but the thought of him potentially becoming a metal pancake stops you. You decide to trust his judgment, against your own better judgment. This wasn’t your first rodeo after all.

The two of you speed towards the ground, Boothill simply leisurely holding onto his hat while you were locked in completely, waiting for his signal.

Just a few seconds before you two would’ve crashed into the rock-hard ground below, Boothill whistles and with all your strength, you pull him onto your air-hover and promptly speed the vehicle back up into the sky once more.

“This is the last time we’re doing this”, you sigh, wiping the sweat off your brow.

“Come now, lovely. Ya gots to admit that it’s fun!” Boothill grins as he wraps his strong arms around your waist and nuzzles his face against your neck. You grumble at his actions but leave him be, opting to savor his closeness instead.

“Haven’t gotten your fill yet, lil’ eagle?”

“How can I, when I trust ya’ll catch me each time?”

#hsr boothill #boothill fanfic #boothill x reader #boothill x you #boothill #hsr x reader #hsr fanfic #boothill hsr #x reader #gender neutral reader

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on-a-lucky-tide · 6 months ago

Note

teehee its my birthday buuuuuut i am here clawing for nikprice on the ground like a chicken. anyway i wonder how would a nikprice drunk confession go. i just love that trope to death lol

It's your birthday? Happy birthday, mate! A small gift...

Price gets a medal and then gets drunk at the after party. Nik is surprised to hear what he has to say. No one else - and I mean, no one else - is.

cw: alcohol, drunken kiss.

"I hate these bloody things," Price mumbled into his scotch, staring bleary-eyed at his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. His speech had been short, concise, and he had spent the majority of it talking about the bravery and dedication of his Task Force. The rest of 'em had prattled on for ages about themselves, preening their egos with the new metal on their chests.

"It is a party in your honour, captain. You did a brave thing. And," Nik leaned back to pluck a canapé from the tray of a passing waitress, "there is free food." He pulled the honey-soaked sausage off the cocktail stick and chucked it in the air, catching it in his open mouth, much to the consternation of a gaggle of RAF officers nearby.

None of them were brave enough to let Nikolai see or hear what they thought of him, because they had all heard enough whispers of his service record to steer well clear. Even top brass were scared enough of him to overlook his multiple active Interpol arrest warrants so that he could attend.

Price smiled as Nik chewed, clearly pleased with his feat of dexterity, and then proceeded to slosh his scotch all over himself as he leaned his elbow against the bar... but missed said bar by about an inch and a half. "Bollocks," he growled, as expensive alcohol soaked into the equally expensive wool of his number one uniform.

Nik chuckled, snatching up a handful of serviettes from the bar. "I am starting to think you are a lightweight," he said, swivelling around in his bar stool so that his knees bracketed Price's, a folded serviette pressed to Price's chest to soak out some of the scotch.

"'M not," Price... slurred, fuck, maybe he was. "You wearin' cologne?"

"Da, number one majesté impériale."

"Sounds posh," Price said, lifting his scotch for another swig.

"Hm, it is $215,000 a bottle."

Price choked on his drink, spluttering it back into the glass. "You spent nearly four times my salary on some cologne?" He wheezed.

"It is a special occasion."

"Bloody fucking christ, Nik. It's a medal ceremony, not a bloody coronation."

"It is more important to me," Nik said, "because it is you."

Price felt his cheeks and ears warm. It didn't help that Nik's big hands were still on his chest, careful to pluck away the stray fibres of serviette from where it clung to the damp wool. This close, Price couldn't help but stare.

Fuck, he was so... handsome.

Nik had made an effort to look, and smell, his best. In his expensive tailored three-piece, no tie, because... well, who would be brave enough to tell Nikolai to put on a fuckin' tie? The open top button gave Price a really good view of his chest hair peeking through at the top. Oh, fuckin'... Hot, it was hot in here. Damn uniform.

"Careful, captain, you will fall," Nik said softly, palm pressed to the centre of Price's chest. Price had been leaning forward. Leering. Oh, this was embarrassing. He cleared his throat, shuffled back, and beckoned the barman over for a refill.

Two more glasses, one of vodka and another of scotch, and Price chanced a glance over at Nik again. "Thanks... for, uh, coming to this. The boys like the schmoozin', Simon doesn't stay longer than the talks, don't blame him, but, I, uh..."

"You find it hard to navigate the politics because you are honest and they," Nik waved his hand vaguely around the room, "are not."

Price smiled faintly. "Yeah, guess so. Full of compliments today, Nik. Man might get the wrong idea."

"Or... the right idea."

Price froze with the glass halfway up to his mouth. Even through the drunken dog, he managed to parse the meaning behind that. In payment, however, his brain had decided to bury his entire knowledge of the English language, so all he could do was make a small noise in the back of his throat, which he smothered with a large mouthful of scotch.

Nik hadn't turned in his stool, his knees still spread wide either side of Price's, and Price wanted to shuffle a little closer. He wanted those hands back on his chest, and he wanted... Christ, he just wanted. He had wanted for a long fuckin' time.

"Here," Nik said, sliding a plate of sausages over to Price. "It will absorb some of the scotch."

"Urf, naw, can't stomach that shit..."

"Then we shall go elsewhere."

"Wot?"

"Come, captain. The sergeants left for the clubs ten minutes ago."

"They did? Bastards..."

"Da. I will get your coat."

The fresh evening air hit Price like a sledge hammer to the face, and he was pretty sure he would have fallen in the gutter without Nikolai to lean on. He was intimately aware of the strong arm around his waist, one of his hands clinging onto Nik's expensive wool coat as they staggered into the local Maccy D's for a Big Mac and chicken nugget share box.

Nik paid for it, flashing his most charming smile at the young girl behind the counter as he collected the highly decorated SAS captain from where he was clinging onto a nearby condiments bench for support, takeaway bag in hand.

They ended up sat on a bench by the Thames, dressed to the nines, Nik smelling of thousand dollar cologne as he wolfed down over-salted MacDonald's chips at Price's side, and Price couldn't stop staring at him.

Nik could be anywhere else. Anywhere. He could be partying with the wealthiest men and women in the world, walking among the elite, and yet here he was sitting in London eating shitty fast food with a drunk soldier. He chose Price every time. Every time. Price felt tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. "Nikolai..."

"Da, captain."

"I think I love you."

Nik grinned, huffing a soft chuckle. "Mmhm."

"No, no," Price swiped his beret off, which had somehow managed to cling onto his head while they had staggered through the mean streets of Westminster. "I... I'm serious. I... I love you. Have for, uh," he hiccuped, fucking hiccuped, tried to recover by puffing into his clenched fist, "...have for a while," he squeaked. Oh, fuck, was that indigestion?

Nik put his box of chicken nuggets aside and turned, arm draped over the back of the bench. He slid a gloved hand under Price's chin and turned his head up. Seconds later, they were kissing. Fucking... Nik's fucking lips were on Price's and, and...

Price hiccuped again.

Nik chuckled into his mouth, before drawing away to smooth his thumb through Price's beard. "This is not how I imagined it, but it is... somehow, right."

Price's face was bright red, he could feel it burning, and his eyes were wide. "You, uh... You..."

"For many, many years, solnyshko."

"We've... that's a... a long time." Price said softly.

"I am a patient man. And you are worth waiting for."

After that, Price didn't really recall much. The MacDonald's hit the deck and Price climbed Nikolai like a bloody tree. They ended up in his hotel room, with Nik's expensive suit and Price's (honestly, perhaps slightly less) expensive uniform on the floor. It might have gone further than boyish fumbling if Price hadn't fallen asleep face down in the pillows after saying he didn't want to take advantage of Nik in his current state. Nik had chuckled at that and laid down next to him, stroking his hair.

Price woke up in the morning with a sore head and a dry mouth, and found Nik sitting by the open window in a hotel dressing gown. "Nik, did I..."

"Nyet, captain. You were an absolute gentleman." Nik put the newspaper aside and took his glasses off, delivering the waiting pint of water and aspirin to Prices hands. "Do you... remember what you said?"

Price's cheeks reddened. "Yeah, look, I'll understand if--"

He didn't get to finish. Nik kissed him squarely on his stupid mouth, stroking a big palm through his hair. When he drew back, he hummed softly. "Drink that and then we will go to breakfast," he said, walking away. Price couldn't help but stare as the dressing gown slid down his broad back, revealing a full arse framed in black boxers. "And brush your teeth."

Price downed the water and staggered from beneath the duvet. He was ready to head down within ten minutes, desperate for a strong coffee and a greasy sarnie. Unfortunately, the rest of his task force, Los Vaqueros, Chimera, Laswell and a handful of her agents happened to be in the dining room already.

"Eyy, there he is!" Gaz called, toasting his mug of coffee.

Soap looked round, glanced at Nik and then back at Price. "Fuckin' finally."

Laswell rested her chin on her palm. "Bagged your man then, Nik. Well done."

Price blinked, squinting in the bright morning light. "So you all--"

Simon walked past, his plate heaped with bacon and eggs, and shoved a coffee into his captain's hand before patting his shoulder. "Yeah. Everyone did 'cept you."

Price looked at Nik for help, only to receive a shrug and a quirked eyebrow before Nik wandered off to the buffet.

"Bloody bastards," Price muttered, glancing at each triumphant face, thumbs up and smirk, before slumping into a nearby chair. Bloody. Bastards

#captain john price #cod nikolai #nikprice #cod #call of duty

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panharmonium · 17 days ago

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Bookbinding: The New Deal by Closer

Moar bookbinding! This one is a Suits fanfic that I bound for @brambleberrycottage's birthday (pictures shared with the author's permission).

[Same disclaimer as always applies: I do this for fun; no money has been made from this project!]

Notes on the binding: This was my third leather book, but my first time sewing on cords (my previous leather books were both split boards). The actual sewing process was definitely...something. Sewing is usually my favorite step of a bind, but not this time. (Possibly because I was sitting on the floor at the base of the stairs sewing the book on a shelf under my desk, as that was the easiest sewing frame hack I could come up with - once I rig something that will allow me to sit up like a human being and not be scrunched up like a hermit crab, I am sure I will enjoy the process more.)

So the sewing itself was a bit painful, but I did really love how the board attachment played out in the end, with the cords laced into the boards. It is SO satisfying not to be doing case bindings anymore! It's the same feeling of relief I had when I first learned how to do split board bindings - you have so much more control over the placement of the cover boards, so much less opportunity for skew, so much more stability. No more casing-in anxiety necessary. (You do acquire all-new steps to be anxious about, but for me, it's worth it).

Notes on the design: I've never actually watched Suits, but the fic itself takes place in and around Harvard Law, so I used that as my inspiration for the book's design. The book is covered in crimson leather from Siegel. Endbands are handsewn with metallic red and gold threads. The blind tooling on the cover is a street map of Cambridge, MA, which I drew onto tracing film and then tooled through the film onto the leather. (So far I've only used a foil quill heat pen to do this, because brass tools are expensive. I'm taking a class on traditional tooling soon and I'm VERY excited for it, but for now, this is what I have access to.)

The gold outlines in the design highlight the buildings of Harvard Law. (These lines are also not actual gold tooling - paint pen for now.)

^ early design work, featuring unsightly eraser smudges.

I followed a similar theme/color scheme for the interior. For the endpapers, I used acrylic paints and a dry sponge to make a crimson and gold pattern:

For the title page, I modified an image of Harvard's Veritas shield to display the fic's title and author.

The chapter headers may not immediately ping an association for anyone who doesn't live here/spend a lot of time on the T, but they were the first thing I came up with - they're designed to look like the signage for the Red Line, which is the subway route that serves Harvard Square.

Notes for future me: The one thing that went "wrong" with this bind was that the endpapers ended up being short at the foreedge. I knew this was going to happen before I pasted them down, but I had to make a choice between two undesirable results - the boards were already VERY slightly curved inwards after doing the fill-in, and if I used paste on the endpapers (so they would stretch), I was worried it would pull too hard as it dried and make the boards curve too much. But if I used PVA, the endpapers wouldn't stretch enough and would end up being short. I decided I would rather have short endpapers than warped boards, so that's what I went with, but next time I might try doing one less lining inside the boards and hope that the pastedown will handle more of the counterpull.

Despite little things like that, I had a great time with this! Every time I make something I learn new things, and every time something goes "wrong" it's good to look back and be like "ten years ago I was duct taping the spines of loose pages that I covered in cardstock! i'm doing fine, actually." Lots of progress has happened and lots of fun has been had, which is ultimately the point.

Big thank yous are owed to @brambleberrycottage for letting me send her all my bookbinding experiments, and also to Closer for a) writing this fic in the first place and b) okay'ing the sharing of photos! Much appreciation goes out to both of you :)

#i love how much i've been able to learn with the resources that are out there now #it has helped me so much!#wild to look back and remember that these things did not exist when i started doing this #there was no discord #there was no das (imagine...what a world)#every time i look at my older stuff and want to be like 'this looks it was made by a toddler' i have to check myself like #'ok but back then there was no incredibly endearing australian guy making in-depth tutorials for free' XD #bookbinding

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tangibletechnomancy · 1 year ago

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Doing It Wrong On Purpose: Episode 1 - The Un-Ship

Today's experiment: What happens if I prompt for something, and then negative prompt all the main keywords, plus various synonyms and related words?

The answer: Some gloriously weird stuff.

For example, let's look at a negative cat:

Positive prompt: A cat on a windowsill during a storm

Negative prompt: Cat, feline, felidae, kitty, kitten, animal, pet, windowsill, window, glass, pane, house, storm, rain, water, lightning, thunder, clouds, torrent, downpour, snow, blizzard, wind, windy

Interesting! Let's get a little more fantasy with it and try for an anti-deer:

Positive prompt: A deer in a peaceful flowery meadow, crystals, midnight, fantasy, colorful

Negative prompt: Deer, cervidae, animal, elk, moose, stag, doe, fawn, reindeer, antelope, cervid, antlers, flowers, night, dark, trees, foliage, bloom, stars, night, tranquil, fantastic, vibrant, cool, magic, blue, moon, sky, crystal, stone, statue, topiary, floral, blossom

Between these two experiments, including a few dozen other generations that remain unposted, one thing I can say for sure is that for living subjects, it's a great way to get the kind of anatomical wonk that older models are (in)famous for - and it makes sense why, the model is trying to make something that looks like a certain subject...but once it starts to look too much like it, well, shit, we told it NOT to do that! Break something up! Given that I love that kind of wonk, I think I've found a useful tool for myself.

One more living subject, and let's get even more abstract with our direction here:

Positive prompt: mind horse

Negative prompt: horse, equine, colt, filly, mare, stallion, bronco, pony, mind, brain, thought, essence, psyche, intelligence, consciousness, imagination, dream, soul, visualization, intellect, wit, cognizance

Now let's try something that isn't alive. One thing I love AI for is surreal settings and landscapes - lets try one now!

Positive prompt: A magic palace garden made of crystal and gold

Negative prompt: Palace, magic, crystal, gold, fantasy, castle, estate, stronghold, temple, garden, flowers, plants, blossoms, bloom, blooms, trees, grass, stems, foliage, leaves, greenery, branches, bush, bushes, hedge, hedges, metal, luxury, stone, glass, brass, rose, polished, jewel, prism, courtyard

I then tried to see if, learning from the animal subjects, I could make it more likely to return one of my favorite "mistakes" - making it impossible to discern the point where a water area ends and a sky area begins. I wasn't immediately successful, but I came up with some results I found pleasing regardless-

Positive prompt: Secret hideout in a cave behind a waterfall in the foggy forest on a floating sky island in fluffy clouds

Negative prompt: hideout, camp, campsite, home, abode, house, dwelling, rest, shelter, waterfall, water, cave, grotto, forest, woods, woodland, trees, fountain, cascade, pond, stream, lake, river, brook, puddle, creek, pool, beach, ocean, sea, cloud, clouds, sky, cumulus, cirrus, nimbus, fog, storm, rain, sunshower, falls

It seems that with landscapes it's got a much clearer and more specific "idea" of what a [SUBJECT] without [SUBJECT] looks like; it's more inclined to invent very specific, very consistent unasked for related elements. With the animals, I was tweaking the weight on the positive prompt to avoid getting straightforwardly just what I had positive (and negative) prompted, but with landscapes, I just get... almost something else entirely.

So how about inanimate objects? Let's try a ship, perhaps?

Positive prompt: A huge sailing ship with brilliant prismatic crystal sails on a stormy, turbulent sea of sunset clouds

Negative prompt: ship, boat, sailboat, sailing ship, pirate ship, galleon, ketch, schooner, sloop, cutter, sail, sea, ocean, storm, wind, rain, water, waves, cloudy, clouds, fog, sunset, dusk, dawn, sunrise, twilight, evening

...okay, I'm in love with the un-ship. It truly does manage to consistently give me results that look like, yet entirely unlike, a ship. It is everything I love about AI as a medium. More than that, it is my friend.

At lower positive prompt weights, they only get even more beautifully chaotic.

I want to live on one of these (in an alternate universe where they're geometrically possible and structurally sound, that is).

Failing that, I will be featuring them a lot from now on.

All images generated using Simple Stable, under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

#ai art #generated art #simple stable #stable diffusion

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bird-in-the-space · 5 months ago

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Echoes of the Unknown

You save Miko from a risky situation and end up losing your patience with her.

Warnings: violence, reader getting annoyed, Miko giving bad name ideas, killing a con, an outburst, some regrets, and making up.

Chapter 13

-------------------------------------

A few days have passed and you have started to get used to your new life. You worked on the hologram projector with Raf, making great progress on it. He taught you more tech stuff and even agreed to teach you a few cybertronian things. Miko started calling you two nerds when you were invested in your little project. When you were not working on the projector, you would be helping Ratchet in the sick bay. He showed you the ropes, and whenever he was done, you would help fix things or clean his tools.

Today, Emily had to go back home to check on things, so you were alone with the kids and the bots. It wasn’t too bad since you had time to get to know them better.

With Ratchet’s permission to use his tools, you worked on making your prosthetic fingers. It was challenging but with the things you learned and the parts, you had an idea of how to create the joins and make it detachable as you doubted you could modify your own hand without causing any nerve damage.

You adjusted the finger joints and the straps you used to attach the finger between your two main fingers. You placed the tool down and looked it over, testing its mobility and density. You then grabbed a box and tested how well it helped you hold it.

“Hey, not bad,” Raf complimented as he watched from the side.

“Yeah. I guess this makes holding things much easier now. Maybe I could try making a little finger as well,” you said.

“Not a bad idea, then you five fingers again,” he said.

You then heard someone come from the entrance. It was Bulkhead as he came back from his drive with Miko. The energetic girl stepped out of the passenger seat, allowing the bot to transform into his robot form.

“What’s up geeks? Got anything interesting going on?” she asked.

“Nothing much. (Name) managed to make herself a new finger,” Raf said.

“Cool. Hey, maybe you could make new weapons and stuff? Maybe you could make one of those wrist blades or brass knuckles,” she suggested, throwing punches in the air. “Oh! oh! maybe you could make a cannon to blast cons away,” she said.

“I just made a new finger. I’m not a weapon engineer,” you shook your head.

“Oh, come on. Have some fun little?” Miko pestered.

“By the way, we should come up with a bot name for you,” she said.

“What’s wrong with my current name?” you asked with a frown.

“Nothing. It’s just it's a human name. You are a giant robot now. So how about you get a cool robot name!” Miko said.

You groaned as she had been at it for a few days now. It was constantly about being a cool robot and doing cybertronian stuff. You would be lying if you said that you didn’t find it a bit annoying by now.

“How about… Skullcrusher?”

“No,” you shook your head.

“Mauveine,”

“That’s a color,” you said.

“Metallica,” she threw in

“Isn’t that the name of that one metal band?” you frowned.

“Oh, now I got it. Mirage,” she said.

“I think I am going to stay with my current name,” you stated.

“Oh, don’t be so boring,” Miko whined.

“Sometimes boring is good enough. Deal with it,” you said, taking out your finger.

A loud beeping came from the main computer. You looked over as Optimus and the other bots checked out what their computer found.

“The cons are active,” Arcee said.

“Could be a false alarm,” Bulkhead added.

“Whatever it is. It is worth investigating. “ Optimus said.

“Autobots. Transform and roll out,” he said as they opened the ground bridge. They transformed and drove into the green vortex.

After the ground bridge closed, you tried to get back on your project, but then you noticed someone missing.

“Where’s Miko?” you asked.

Ratchet, Raf, and Jack looked around but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

“She was just here a moment ago,” Jack said.

You were then reminded of what Jack said about Miko joining the missions despite the dangers. She disappeared right after the bots left through the ground bridge.

“You don’t think she went after the bots?” you asked, glancing toward the ground bridge.

“Well, it would not be the first time,” Jack said.

Ratchet groaned loudly before contacting Optimus and the other bots.

“Optimus. Miko disappeared right after you left. Did she follow you?” he asked.

“Negative. We are currently engaging the decepticons,” Optimus said.

“I have eyes on her. Miko! Get to cover!” Bulkhead yelled as you all heard blaster fire in the background.

You felt worried for Miko’s sake.

“Scrap! They sound too engaged to get Miko out of there,” Ratchet said.

“What should we do?” Jack asked.

You considered your options. Ratchet was pretty much needed at the base. Jack and Raf would be too at risk to go get her. The bots were engaging the enemy and it would be too risky just to wait and hope for the best. There was only one option.

“I could go get her,” you stood up.

“Absolutely not,” Ratchet said strictly.

“I’m not gonna join the fight. I stay hidden, find Miko, and come back,” You explained.

“Are you sure?” Raf asked.

“We could wait here and hope nothing happens to her. Besides I’m a robot now, I have the least chance of getting hurt unlike Miko,” you answered.

You all then looked at Ratchet. He groaned with a sigh.

“Fine.” he opened the ground bridge.

“But you better be quick and stay out of harm,” He said as you turned toward the ground bridge.

“Be careful,” Raf said as you ran into the vortex.

You jumped out of the ground bridge as it closed behind you. You quickly hid when you saw the bots fighting the cons. It was violent as punches and kicks were thrown at each other. You looked around for the girl. However, you couldn’t see her.

“Bulkhead! Where’s Miko?!” you called out as he was the nearest.

“I told her to hide over there!” he pointed at rocks before continuing the fight.

You quickly sneaked toward the boulders where Miko should be and soon enough, saw her watching the fight.

“Miko!” you called out.

“Huh?” Miko looked toward you, but then one of those vehicons noticed her. Your eyes widened in panic.

“Miko! Get down!” you yelled as you ran toward the vehicon and tackled him to the ground before he could grab the girl. Miko yelped then watched as you started wrestling with the con.

The vehicon was stunned but struggled hard against you. You groaned as you tried to push him down. He then tried to shoot you with his blaster arm. You tried to push it away but when he fired, you were forced back to avoid getting shot. The vehicon then tried to get up. You tried to think something then remembered you shared a similar body, which meant you should have a blaster arm as well.

“Come on…” you tried to think of your arm as a weapon, and then a click happened and your arm turned into a blaster.

“(Name)!” Miko pointed at the vehicon as it prepared to shoot you.

You aimed and a blast came out of your blaster arm. You were thrown back from the recoil, however, your shot struck the vehicon right in the core, causing it to fall and lay on the ground motionlessly with smoke rising out of it.

You both stared at the dead con in stunned silence. Your arm turned back to normal and you released a heavy breath.

“Dude! That was so cool!” Miko said beside you. You frowned and then grabbed her into your hands.

You ran away from the battlefield, returning to the spot where you first arrived.

“Ratchet! I got Miko! Bring us back!” you said through the com and he then opened the ground bridge again. You ran into the vortex, away from the battlefield.

Back at the base, after the ground bridge closed behind you, you placed Miko back on her feet.

“Are you okay?” Raf asked when he saw you rub your head.

“I’m fine,” you uttered annoyed.

“Dude! That was epic! You totally scrapped that con!” Miko said excitedly.

“You are tougher than you look,” she said.

You looked at her. “You got to be joking you could have gotten yourself killed!” You said.

“Well, it’s a good thing you came. You make one awesome bot, and I got some sweet pictures” she said like what just happened wasn’t a big deal. Your patience finally ran out. You had enough of her antics.

“Are you fucking shitting me right now?!” you snapped.

“Oh oh,” Jack said, covering Raf’s ears.

“We were on an active battlefield just now and all you cared about was getting some dumb photos? Do you think this is some kind of a game?” you asked with anger in your tone.

“Relax. It’s alright now,” Miko said.

“No! Miko! It’s not!” you stepped toward her, causing her to step back and look at you with a bewildered expression.

“We could have gotten ourselves killed! I did not want to be there, but one more second, and you would have been a goner for good. No second chances. Like, come on Miko! That was an actual battle zone! You could have actually died there!” you yelled, pointing at the ground bridge from where you came.

“I…I…” Miko stuttered under her words.

“How about you actually think with your head once in a while instead of trying to get dumb photos?!” You asked.

“Okay. Everyone calm down,” Ratchet tried to de-escalate as he stepped forward.

“(Name). How about you go outside for a moment? Cool yourself down,” he said.

“For the record, Miko. I find none of this cool. My human body is gone. I can never return to my human life, so how about you stop with the stupid name suggestions,” you marched out of the hangar while Miko looked after you with tears in her eyes.

“That was… intense,” Jack said.

“I… I didn’t mean to,” Miko sniffed.

“Calm down, Miko. Give her some alone time. She’ll come around eventually,” Ratchet said before returning to the monitors.

Miko dried her eyes and quietly walked to the yellow couch where she continued to sit in silence. Raf and Jack looked at her with worry but did not know if they should try to comfort her after that outburst.

The bots soon returned to the base after dealing with the cons. Bulkhead quickly walked over to Miko after seeing her.

“Miko. Are you alright? You didn’t get hurt, now did ya?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Miko uttered. Bulkhead immediately noticed the sullen look and tone in her voice.

“Hey, Miko. What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he asked.

“Let’s just say… when (Name) brought Miko back, she kinda lost her patience and had an outburst,” Raf explained.

“Yeah, she did not like the experience and apparently there was a con she had to scrap to save Miko,” Jack said. "I guess she also got annoyed about being a bot," he added.

“I didn’t mean to make her that upset,” Miko exclaimed.

Bumblebee beeped something.

“Understand that (Name) did not become this out of her choice and that her condition is irreversible, which means she can never return to the life she once knew,” Optimus said.

“Meaning she can’t go home or do human things anymore,” Jack said.

“Maybe she actually misses being a human,” Raf added.

“Whatever the case, perhaps giving each other time to think will help you both resolve this issue,” Optimus stated.

Arcee looked toward Miko before her thoughts came to you.

At the top of the base, you were sitting at the edge of the cliff, gazing at the view after releasing a few angry tears and thinking the whole thing through. You felt regretful for cursing out on Miko like that.

“Hey,”

You looked behind you and saw Arcee walking toward you.

“Ugh… hey,” you replied, slightly awkwardly.

“I heard you had a blowout with Miko after bringing her back,” she said.

“Yeah. I lost my patience. I shouldn’t have done that,” you sighed, holding your knee as your other feet hung from the edge.

“No. I get it. Miko does tend to get herself into dangerous situations,” Arcee said as she sat down beside you.

“Yeah, but I still shouldn't have blown up on her like that. God. I’m so stupid. I said some pretty nasty stuff to her, “ you said.

“Don’t beat yourself over that. Miko is just how she is even though she could be more considerate of her own safety, and it’s completely normal to feel the way you did after saving her from a con,” Arcee comforted.

“I really didn’t think much. When I saw that con trying to grab her, I just ran and tackled the con to the ground,” you explained.

“It was a close call and her being so careless about it kinda pissed me off,” you said. “Now she probably won’t talk to me after that whole episode,” You uttered sadly.

“Don’t overthink it. Everyone can get frustrated at times and need to blow up steam. And Miko is just a kid. Kids tend to do reckless things without considering the consequences,” Arcee said. “I doubt she thinks badly of you. You came to make sure she would come back safely and fought a con. Bulkhead already appreciates you for it,” she said.

You considered her words. “You’re right. But… I think I still need to make up to her in a way,” you said.

Arcee smiled with a nod. “ You know, you might look like a con, but you’re definitely not one from the inside,”

You chuckled as you two then gazed at the view before you.

Back inside the base, you walked up to Miko as she was sketching on the couch.

“Miko,” you said, catching her attention.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. The thing is I’m scared by this whole alien war thing, and I was really worried when that con nearly got you,” you said.

“I’m sorry too. I know I can get a bit ahead of myself. Thanks for coming to my rescue,” she said.

“It’s fine. Also… I kinda miss being a human. As a robot, there are now some things I can’t do anymore. Like I can no longer eat my favorite food. I can’t drink any of my favorite drinks, not even something as bland as water. I can’t run my fingers through my hair, and I can barely feel the wind on my face. I can’t even take casual walks outside to clear my head. Those seem like small things, but after a long time, you can’t help but grow to miss them,” you explained.

“I— didn’t really think of it that way. I can’t imagine myself never being able to drink my favorite soda again, “ Miko said thoughtfully.

“I know right? Energon doesn’t really taste much and now it’s the only thing I need to survive. Being a robot might have been cool if it was temporal. However, I’m stuck like this forever,” you said.

“(Name). I’m sorry,” Miko said.

“No. it’s okay. There are some positive perks in being a robot,” you said.

“Like what?” she said curiously.

“You do not need to worry about getting a driver’s license. You can pretty much now climb and jump from any high places that would have gravely injured you as a human. And… well, you no longer suffer from periods,” you said.

“Oh yeah, you’re right,” Miko grinned.

“Periods?” Bulkhead looked confused.

“What I wanna say is… well… don’t stop being you, but maybe be a bit more considerate of your safety. I’m pretty sure none of us here wants to see you get hurt,” you said.

“No promises,” Miko teased, making you tilt your head at her. “But I promise to try,” she said.

You smiled and then glanced at her book, having an idea.

“You know, Emily has been talking about getting a new look for me. Do you wanna help us out on that?” you asked.

“Absolutely! I can come up with the most rad colors ever,” Miko said, taking out her pencil and began drawing. She rambled ideas while you just listened, nodding along as she came up with interesting color design ideas.

#transformers x reader #transformers prime x reader #tfp x reader #transformers prime #tfp #x cybertronian reader #echoes of the unknown #various x reader #oc x reader

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dogpawsswapgod · 5 months ago

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The below draft is not the final draft. The final draft can of this work can be read here.

CaitVi love scene extended, rewrite

posted a first draft of this last week and then returned to it for edits. posting the final draft now.

CaitVi have inspired me to explore writing a lil smutty fanfic and also to get big muscles on my arms. updates on both those things to come.

Below the cut: tender but explicit sesbian lex, an extension of the s02e08 love scene between Vi and Cait

“I’m sorry to say you’ve grown a bit predictable,” Cait smiled warmly, a playful flirtiness in her eyes despite the stakes, despite everything.

In that look, Vi saw a glimmer of something she never thought possible. She thought she’d made her last wrong choice, losing both her sister and Cait as consequence. She felt stupid and broken and alone; but here was Cait, standing within arms reach, smiling, staying.

Tears welled in Vi’s eyes and she felt her heart beating thru every inch of her body as she reached out, unthinkingly, pulling Cait into her and covering her lips with desperate kisses.

Cait, surprised, let this happen, closing her eyes and thinking “Here is as good a place as any, it doesn’t matter where. It only matters that it’s her,”

Vi pressed on, sliding Cait’s jacket from her shoulders. Heavy with brass filigree, it splashed to the stone floor, a metallic ring echoing. Cait tasted Vi’s tongue as it reached out and stroked hers, but before giving in further, she pulled back, a pang of guilt pulsing through her.

“Uh, listen, while you were gone, I, erm, saw someone…” she confessed, a little sheepish.

“Cait,” Vi was reaching for her again, a hungry, charged look in her eye, “I don’t fucking care!”

Vi’s hands were rarely unwrapped as they were now, holding Cait’s face close to hers as she pulled her in and kissed her again, moaning as she did. Those hands were rough, hard, bloodied from whatever surface they’d last collided with, the cell wall most likely, or some Enforcer’s jaw… those brawler’s hands held each side of Cait’s face delicately as they kissed. Cait pushed Vi toward the wall and extended her knee, pressing between Vi’s thighs. Vi gasped quietly and rose to her tiptoes to better perch on Cait’s proffered leg, pressing her face into Cait’s warm neck, breathing in her smell, barely believing this was happening. Cait returned Vi’s kisses forcefully, pushing against her, pinning her to the wall.

Cait stepped back again, this time pulling her turtleneck over her head in one quick motion. Vi stood stunned for a moment. Cait’s slight shoulders, milky and so clean. The kind of clean only a lifetime in the uppercrust of Piltover would allow for in such a polluted world. Her breasts hung heavy and inviting, the nipples large and brown and perked up with the chill of the drafty cell and the excitement of what was about to happen. Vi’s heart pounded faster, as she took in the site, still not quite believing what was unfolding, not quite trusting that it could be...

While Vi gawked, Cait began unfastening Vi’s undershirt. It fell away revealing her hard core and vanishingly small breasts, like her hands, also unwrapped tonight. She was covered all over with bruises, scars, grime that doesn’t really ever wash away. Over her shoulders and around her thickly muscled arms peeked the edges and lines of her tattoo.

Caitlyn’s eyes roamed down Vi’s body, and she reached a regretful hand toward the bandage on Vi’s side, stroking it gently before Vi gripped her arm, almost too hard, and pulled her into her once more. They kissed. Caitlyn reached two fingers forward and touched for the first time a new part of Vi, the smooth, surprisingly soft skin just below her collar bone. She slid her fingers softly down, offering Vi a gentleness of touch she’d rarely--maybe never--known. Pressing her to the wall again, Cait gripped one of Vi’s small breasts inside her narrow palm, massaging and exploring as their lips and tongues carried on.

Their kissing grew more frantic, their hands caressed one another and they giggled and smiled between smooches as Vi spun Cait back against the wall and fumbled with her belt. After two or three tries, she succeeded in opening the Enforcer’s uniform fully, and slid one rough-palmed hand beneath the fabric and around to the soft, round fat of Cait’s ass. Her left hand pulled Cait closer, their naked bellies and breasts pushed together, and then that hand moved to join the other, gripped tightly under Cait.

Vi lowered herself little by little, trailing soft, wet kisses down Cait’s belly while sliding the uniform down her almost endless legs to her ankles. Vi looked up a moment with eyes asking a silent question, and Cait, looking down, answered wordlessly, yes.

Vi inhaled, filling her lungs with the sweet clean scent of her lover. Before her, a dense clump of dark blue hair gave off the delicate aroma of brine. She smelled like sweat and something else… a clean salt smell of sea… nothing like the funk of polluted scum that oil slicked the puddles and harbors of the Undercity. This smell carried Vi’s memory back many years, when she was smaller, but strong enough to make her way topside, to the rooftops of Piltover where she would look over the sea surrounding the city and smell the freshness of that clear, unpolluted ocean blowing against her face… she had resented it then: another luxury reserved only for those fortunate enough to be born in the city proper. Now, that briny smell filled her with a promise of joy, and she breathed it in, her eyes closing.

Vi parted her lips to give Cait their second first kiss.

Cait, pressed by Vi’s warm, hard body against the cool stones of the cell wall, felt as Vi’s lips made contact with hers, and felt as Vi’s tongue, hot and hardened, pushed thru them, finding her clit, half erect and wanting. She gasped softly, her head lolling back and her eyes closing. Vi began firmly stroking into Cait with her practiced tongue. She was deliberate and patient, working a gentle rhythm as Cait’s hips responded. Cait exhaled, falling forward and grasping Vi’s hair in both hands, a first quiet moan escaping her throat.

Hearing this, Vi peered up once more to see the Enforcer’s face looming close. Vi’s hands moved fast, up and around Cait’s smooth hips and thighs, pulling them onto each of her tattooed shoulders. Slowly, without stopping her deep kiss, Vi began to stand. Wrapping her legs around Vi’s head, still clinging to her greasy pink locks with both hands, Cait felt herself being lifted. She opened her eyes, feeling the stone scraping against her naked back as Vi slid her up the wall, still expertly probing and exploring with her tongue and lips, nipping here and there with her teeth.

Vi rose to standing with Cait on her shoulders. Cait was looking now over the top of the cell door, which she’d left open. It was swinging slowly outward into an empty hall. This level of the prison was rarely used, and with the guards all stationed at the Hexgates–meant only to allow Vi the chance to go to her sister, whatever may have come of that–the two women were alone.

Cait knew this had been a risk, that leaving the way clear for Vi to come to Jinx meant the possibility of never seeing Vi again. There was something between the Enforcer and the ex-con, but Cait had known that Vi’s love for her sister was her first love, and had finally accepted that this meant Cait might lose Vi to Jinx forever by allowing them the chance to leave this all behind. It wasn’t a risk Cait was willing to take, it was what she had to do for Vi, bc Vi deserved to be loved like that–with abandon. So when Cait had taken the elevator down to this dungeon tonight, she had expected only to find an empty cell and had held out no hope for a happier ending than that. But there Vi had stood, her back turned to her as when they’d first met.

Cait closed her eyes again as Vi’s hands gripped her thighs and her tongue pushed past her clit and into her. She gasped, and Vi pushed harder.

Vi’s hands found their way up Cait’s back, and, pulling her away from the wall, gripped her around the middle. Cait braced herself against Vi’s forearms, the top of her head nearly brushing the ceiling of the cell as Vi stood, her back straight, sturdy, and strong in the center of it, her lover aloft on her wide shoulders, her head tilted back and her mouth buried deep into the center of this woman she loved.

They stood like this for a while, like one of the steel monuments in the carnival district. This one would read as a depiction of things as they had been for a long time: the Undercity, sturdy, but battered, carrying Piltover on its shoulders, lifting it toward “progress.” But that imbalance, that unjust arrangement was only superficially reflected here. Vi held her lover on her shoulders, feasting at last from the riches between Cait’s thighs. A Zaunite taking what’s owed from a Piltie, who was freely offering.

This image of hierarchy was a facade, a non sequitur. What lay ahead for the two cities (nations?)--if they survived the coming battle– was still unclear. But between Vi and Cait, unwilling avatars of the imbalance and disparity between their worlds, that conflict was as good as dead. Vi had come down here tonight thinking she was alone, but Cait had been with her at every step. Cait was with her now. They would draw from one another, they would hold each other up, equal partners. Friends, lovers. Tonight, on the eve of war, they lingered in this dungeon, with its open door, the permanent end of Vi’s imprisonment, and the start of Cait’s reparations.

Cait opened her eyes and looked down, laced her fingers into the black and pink locks, falling into the eyes of this woman who would hold her up like this forever, if she let her. She crossed her ankles and pressed her heels into Vi’s lower back, squeezing Vi’s working jaw between wet thighs. She felt Vi’s hands gripping her ass, pushing her hips upward as though she were a goblet, Vi tilting her to her lips to drink deeply. Cait closed her eyes once more, entrusting herself into Vi’s powerful hands and endless kiss.

“She tastes…” Vi thought, and the thought gave way to the flavor itself. Cait’s wetness was sweet, her thighs pressed hard against either side of Vi’s head, her cunt squeezing around Vi’s tongue and enticing her inward. Vi needed to be deeper inside, and fast. Her own clit was throbbing and aching with it, and blood was pounding in her ears, which Cait’s thighs were squeezing ever tighter.

For a minute, Vi winced, thinking that if this had happened at any other time, in any other place, she would have her prosthetic at hand. She could strap it on quickly. It provided an authentic haptic feedback typical of prosthetics sold in the Lanes by tinkerers who still had their wits about them along with a stockpile of pilfered parts and shimmer. It was adjustable, so she could give Cait what she wanted, no more, no less. Following what she could only assume was tampering by Jinx, who must have found it during one of their recent parlays, it could even be made to rumble and vibrate and bump with music while being used. When Vi had discovered this “upgrade” she had been annoyed, but now was thinking how Cait’s reaction to it was something she absolutely had to see.

Alas, this was happening here, now, and Vi didn’t regret that. If they survived tomorrow’s battle, there would be other chances to play with this toy, to feel each other in this way. For now, Vi would make do with her mitts, like always.

The brawler knew it was time to take this to the mat. In one deft, quick motion, Vi brought them from standing, Cait stacked on Vi’s shoulders, down to the ground. Gripping tightly around Cait’s slim waist, Vi unleashed a modified suplex, padding Cait’s landing with her arms cradled under her back, her hands stabilizing her head.

Cait opened her eyes, surprised, and let out a laugh. Vi’s smiling face swam into view. Cait placed two soft palms on either side of it and pulled her close, tasting her own salt sweetness on Vi’s lips as they kissed. They lay like this for a moment, kissing messily, breathing loudly as they did, soft whimpers and moans escaping each of them. Vi held one of Cait’s melon-sized breasts gently in one bruised hand, circling the paunchy nipple with her thumb, then her lips, then her tongue. With her other hand, she explored, sliding down Cait’s soft belly, back toward her warm, wet middle. She lightly teased the tuft of blue hair with her fingers, raising goosebumps all over Cait’s body, and brought her mouth up once more for another kiss. Cait accepted this kiss almost lazily, awash in the escalating pleasure Vi was offering. They kissed for a long time. A small string of saliva stretched then broke as Vi pulled away and looked again into Cait’s eyes as she slid the first finger inside her.

Cait’s lips parted into a slight smile as she held Vi’s gaze. Vi, taking the hint, slid a second, then a third finger inside, and felt as Cait responded reflexively, gripping the tugging on her long, hard fingers, as if to pull them in deeper. They held each other's gaze, pressing their foreheads together and breathing raggedly into each other's open mouths as Vi worked gently in and out. The prison corridor was quiet except for the pulse of their heavy breaths and the soft, wet sound of Vi massaging her right hand into Cait.

Once she’d slipped in four fingers past the knuckles, she paused, gently nuzzling Cait’s chin with her nose. Cait, lifting her head, pressed her lips into Vi’s saying “more…”

Vi closed her eyes and, folding her thumb into her palm, slowly pushed her hand into Cait, sliding carefully further and further until she was buried up to the wrist. This elicited a sharp gasp from Cait, followed by more squeezing and drawing in from inside.

Vi’s knuckles, bloodied with cuts that never had time to heal, burned in the vaguely acidic chamber of her lover’s body. She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow, relishing it–a pain sweeter than any she’d ever known. A balm for that only Cait could provide. Vi paused for a moment, overwhelmed by what was happening. Her hands were weapons! Hard fists for punishing cocky trenchers, deadly tools for causing pain! Yet here she was, wrist deep inside an Enforcer of Piltover who was moaning and quivering with the pleasure of it!

Vi curled her fingers into a fist and pushed deeper. Cait responded by spreading her legs wide and bearing down onto Vi’s advancing fist–not a weapon now, but a lover’s hungry touch. Vi opened her hand once more, turned it slightly within Cait, and set into a rhythm, in and out, rocking Cait back and forth, her perfect breasts splayed to either side of her narrow chest, bobbing with the rhythm.

Sweat dripped from Vi’s forehead onto Cait’s lips as they rocked into one another for how long, they weren’t sure. Their eyes fluttered open and closed, their lips found each other again and again in wet, loud kisses. Cait opened her mouth and began to moan steadily as Vi worked her hand inside of her, removing her thumb to rub the now-rock hard clit here and there and intensify the sensations of their coupling.

Vi, still dressed from the waist down, was soaked with sweat, the crotch of her trousers made doubly wet by her arousal. Many times, Cait slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of Vi’s pants, feeling the skin there against the backs of her fingers as she slid them down slowly, teasingly tickling the tuft of hair that trailed upward from her mons, but going no further.

“She’s toying with me,” thought Vi, “i’d hate it if it wasn’t so fucking hot,” Vi thought about the tug of war that had gone on between them when they’d started kissing and undressing each other minutes ago. Cait had met Vi’s every aggressive advance with her own strong response, but had quickly surrendered to Vi's lead. Vi realized Cait was yielding to her this time, but that she could expect her to reassert her own will–perhaps at any moment– but certainly in later encounters, if circumstances allowed for any. Vi grinned with satisfaction thinking of what discoveries were to come as she worked harder to please Cait now.

Vi drank in the sight of Cait: nude, milk white, spread out on the gray stone floor of one of her prison cells, a trencher’s deadly fist pushing and pulling screams of pleasure from her. Vi slowed her rhythm, sensing that Cait was close.

Cait gripped Vi around the neck, arching her back, squeezing her eyes closed, gasping in short little bursts, the herald of her coming climax. Vi felt the tell-tale pulse travel from deep within Cait, down along the length of Vi’s hand to her wrist. Cait’s lips curled back, exposing her white teeth, the little gap between the two front ones the only “imperfection” her upper class Piltover upbringing had allowed her to keep. Cait was beautiful, but this little imperfection made her stunning. Vi felt her passion for Cait compound as she watched her, teeth bared, begin to come.

Vi moved her face close and closed her fingers one more time into a fist while Cait rocked forward and let out a low, loud moan. Her strong, slim body trembled, the part of her gripping Vi’s fist tightly shaking and spasming wildly. Vi pressed her open mouth to Cait’s, drinking in her wail, and felt her own body quivering with little bursts of intensity followed by floods of relief; Cait’s orgasm strong enough to inspire half a dozen little ones that burst between Vi’s legs and traveled in warm, concentric circles outward, softening the tension from her hard, wartorn body.

One last string of spasms rocked through Cait and around Vi’s softening fist before she felt the Enforcer melt into the floor, spent. Vi’s hand slipped easily out of her and into the cold air of the cell.

Cait lay motionless, felt Vi’s wet, warm hand grip her thigh, then gently pinch her chin, turning her face. Opening her eyes, Cait first saw a blurry gray of the ceiling of the cell, then a flash of pink, then her lover’s eyes, looking into hers.

“Cait,” Vi’s voice shook a little, betraying her excitement. Cait gripped Vi’s hand, pressing her face into the palm, closing her eyes and wishing she could somehow move closer to her, merging their two bodies into one. Vi stroked Cait’s cheek with her thumb, ran it over her lips before laying gentle kisses onto them.

Cait opened her eyes, laced her fingers behind Vi’s neck and pulled her face close. She kissed her sweetly, differently than the hungry, passionate kisses they’d been sharing. This kiss lingered, they moved through it slowly. Cait felt the scar on Vi’s lip between her own thin, flawless lips. Their tongues met softly here and there as a final flood of endorphins pulsed through each of them. This was a kiss that sealed things, that made clear that this wasn’t a fluke, wasn’t sex like either of them had known before: Caitlyn most recently with Maddie; fun but hollow, as good as forgotten already; and Vi, in hazy, meaningless flings thru the latter Stillwater years, and later in the Undercity while she took liquor and punches to the face for months… trying and failing to erase Cait’s face from her mind’s eye.

Their kiss ended, almost regretfully, and there was nothing left to do but rest. They relaxed into each other, Cait laying flat, her head propped up on the pile of clothes she’d left on the stone floor. Vi wrapped her arms around her, and pressed her ear to the soft skin between her breasts, listening to the steady beating of Cait’s heart, slowing gradually as they came down from the excitement of what had just happened, and settled again into the world as it was: uncertain, dangerous.

Vi closed her eyes and listened to that beating sound. “Caitlyn,” she began again, but said nothing more.

Cait heard the unspoken words. They could both feel that dangerous confession hanging between them, unsaid, but plainly felt. With the threat of war looming mere hours away, neither of them would risk saying it now, it seemed too precious, too daring to tempt fate in this way. The cell smelled of sweat and seemed to thrum around the outline of their wordless confession. If they survived tomorrow, if they both escaped Ambessa’s assault, there would be time...

Cait wrapped her arms around Vi protectively, stroked her with soft fingers, tracing the lines of the large, dark tattoos on her back. They lay together like this for a long time, drifting in and out of dreamless sleep. After a while, Cait raised her head a little, Vi was chuckling.

“And what’s funny?” she asked

“Nothing,” answered Vi, “It’s just… I told you the Undercity would eat you alive!”

#arcane #arcane spoilers #arcane season 2 #caitvi #fanfic #rewrite #sesbian lex #vi and caitlyn #violyn #cait x vi #wlw #love #sapphic #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #piltover's finest

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shiftertech · 1 month ago

Text

CW: suicidal themes, institutional transphobia implied

I don't belong in this cradle.

It's the honest truth of the matter. I don't deserve to be here.

Another battlefield lays itself before my projected vision, smoldering browns and grays behind the colorful sensor overlays. In these hellish craters, I likely do belong, but not in this cockpit.

There's a sickly feeling that comes with it. Like a pair of ragged, poorly fitting clothes, carrying a detestable stench.

Its torn threads? Inch-deep gashes and mended holes in metal plating that were not acquired under my operation.

And the stench? It's her stench.

I know everything about her. It told me. It was never not gonna tell me.

Imogen died in this very same cockpit, fear flooding her veins while an armor piercing round entered through the sidewall.

It showed me this, the angle of the projectile, the internal feed playback, the sound of it, the measurements of her biometrics, the flatline and system-wide scream it deafeningly howled out as its other half ceased.

It was the first thing it ever showed me when I did my first link test. It was bitter. Wrathful.

I didn't even fucking know they could feel like that the first time I hopped in. They pulled me out of the cockpit in a sorry state, shaking and sobbing, but still figured my synchronicity scored highly enough to put me back in the thing. They can't afford to scrap a working mech anymore for "limited pilot incompatibility".

Why the fuck did Legacy stick me in the mech that was mourning?

I was mad. Real mad at the brass for denying my reassignment req's. Most of all, I was mad at her mech.

One day it responded to my anger on the trek back to exfil. It flooded my mind with just her. Her joy, determination, cockiness, care... It overlaid stored visual/audio buffers into my own vision—replayed the very sensations attached to those logs—and I was her. It flooded me with her love as if it was my own, with a closeness I never was afforded to have with such a war machine.

I felt deep envy tinging my anger.

Pilots sit in these big metal boxes because of the strategically utilized notion of it being theirs. The rumored wonders of a paired digital consciousness are allowed to spread because it pulls hopeless girls with big dreams like Imogen into the cockpit.

That's what they need in a loyal pilot. I wanted a goddamn mech to call my own, not some dead girls broken leftovers.

But then I, as Imogen, died in that seat to my mech screaming out for me.

And then there was no anger. Just emptiness.

What an awful lesson, to be taught what it feels like to lose half of yourself.

There's another sortie on another reneging territory rejecting Legacy's grand mission, fighting against mechs that used to bare the insignia of the Earth and her Moon. Again I find myself walking back a line, cover laid for my comrades while rebel hotshots push the advantage with righteous vigor.

When it isn't streaming bits of her at me over the datalines, memories lovely and tragic, it's cold. Completely silent. Somehow that's worse.

On the losing end of a war in a coffin.

Sometimes I just can't stand it, and find a boldness within me when I ask it to tell me the story of how Imogen chose her name again. That's its favorite.

(I don't call it by its chosen name because it won't tell me. I have a feeling it never will.)

I wonder often why it even lets me command it into battle after battle. I'm not who it truly wants, and its suffering because of it. I figure if it can puppet my senses just as well as I puppet its limbs, it could likely figure a way to brick itself for good.

It twitches over the link when the thought bleeds through from my end, and it goes silent once again.

Guilt writhes around my gut as I fight for a future I barely believe in anymore. I know why it wouldn't.

When I filled the forms in the service registration office, on a harbor moon in a system two jumps from Hila, I had made a decision. Bloodshed remained stark on my mind as the upheaval of Legacy control on one of its most pivotal worlds forced me away from the only place I called home.

I recall the resistance ships dropping low beneath the skyline with improvised munitions, launching off their rails at military strongholds. I recall the mandatory evacuations as uniformed Legacy troops kicked down doors and ordered us onto the evac shuttles.

I recall the very military administration building that my sister was stationed at erupting all at once as the strategic calculations for maximal military damage factored in the Department of Citizen Records field office on floor 63 as a viable target.

I checked the "F" on the form with the pride that my sister was the very reason I was allowed this privilege. I checked the box with the shame that this was considered a privilege. I checked the box with the naive ideal that once we won this war, it wouldn't be resigned to just a privilege.

(A flicker of emotion echoes across the dataline, as it picks up this memory I've never shown it before. It feels like a gentle embrace.)

Losing my sister was losing one of the few people who actually saw me. She didn't miss a beat when I told her my real name. She held me close, and I felt the most profound joy in knowing love in sisterhood.

I chose to survive because it's what she would have wanted, for me to blossom into the woman she knew me to be.

Imogen is not my sister, but she could have been.

The mech chooses to live because it's what Imogen would have wanted.

We're both stuck in this war together.

I don't know how this ends well for either of us. Defection has crossed the mind, but no certainty comes from the prospect. I could end up in a cell for the rest of my life and it could get scrapped when they realize their newly captured mech is brimming with trauma.

(The notion of it getting scrapped draws a surprisingly intense emotion out of me. I can't pin it to just one comparable feeling of a loved ones grave being bulldozed or a close friend being murdered. Maybe it's both.)

It doesn't hold feelings on what comes after, I've realized.

It does its job, comes home, and is prepared for the next sortie. This is what it was made for, despite whatever side it's on.

That's what it means to survive for a mech.

I stopped hating it long ago. I don't think it hates me.

I think we need each other.

Even if I don't belong in this cradle.

----------

This one is kind of a departure for me to write, but I hope it resonates in the right way. Thanks for sticking through it <3

#writing #mecha #transgender

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aspenmissing · 8 days ago

Note

HELLO I LOVE YOUR WRITING❤️❤️❤️

Umm can I request an angsty fic when the characters are have feelings for the reader and before she can reciprocate they get sold/trafficked to ZANU’s red light district and they don’t forget her and keep looking for her and then one day they see her and are like “ don’t worry baby g imma save you form this place” and they do?? Can you add vi and cait as well as your usual group!!?? ❤️❤️

or not that’s ok too do what you can ❤️❤️

Thank youuu ❤️❤️

ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 12005 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ᴛʀᴀꜰꜰɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ɴᴏɴᴄᴏɴ (ɴᴏ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ), ɪɴᴊᴜʀʏ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ (ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏ!! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴊᴜɪᴄʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ! ɴᴏᴡ, ɪ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱɪᴍɪʟᴀʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴀʀʀᴀɴɢᴇᴅ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ꜱᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏʟɪɴᴇ. ꜱᴏᴏᴏᴏ, ɪ'ᴠᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ 2 ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ɪᴛ. ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ!!!

ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ | ᴠɪ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴ

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ

JAYCE

The last time Jayce saw you, you were laughing.

It was well past midnight in the Piltover Academy labs—blueprints and Hextech prototypes sprawled across the polished tables, a half-eaten box of takeout abandoned beside a humming capacitor that flickered now and then with arcane energy. You should’ve gone home hours ago. Most people had. But not you.

You never left when Jayce was still working. You always said he needed someone to remind him to eat, to rest, to breathe.

The two of you had been teasing each other about a failed test earlier that day—something about overloaded gauntlets and scorched eyebrows. You were perched on the edge of one of the long, brass workbenches, swinging your legs like a student sneaking snacks after hours.

“I’m telling you,” you grinned, nudging a scorched glove with your foot, “you barely dodged that one. If I hadn’t yanked you back, you’d have been roasted like a marshmallow.”

Jayce chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “It was fine,” he said, even as the faint pink singe along his hairline betrayed him. “Just a bit of… controlled chaos.”

You arched a brow. “Jayce, you literally yelled ‘Oh no’ and dove behind a crate.”

He gasped in mock offense. “I was protecting you!”

“By throwing me behind the capacitor?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You laughed again, full and bright, the sound echoing off polished metal and crystalline light. It made the sterile lab feel warm. Alive. The glow from a Hextech crystal refracted in your eyes, making them sparkle in a way that made his heart trip over itself.

He remembered how close you were when you leaned forward to hand him a screwdriver, your fingers brushing his. The way you smiled at him when he muttered about voltage ratios. The way your presence quieted the buzz of pressure in his chest.

He remembered wanting to tell you.

That it wasn’t just your brilliance or your help he needed—it was you. That you made the long hours bearable. That he stayed late not for the work, but for the excuse to sit next to you a little longer.

But the words never came.

Instead, he cleared his throat and stood, stretching until his joints cracked. “Hey, it’s late. Let me walk you home.”

You blinked like you hadn’t even noticed the time. “It’s alright,” you said, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve still got that energy core to recalibrate. I don’t want to slow you down.”

“Still,” he said, hesitating. “ I don’t like the idea of you walking alone this late.”

Your smile widened, and you stepped closer, tapping a finger against his chest. “I’m tougher than I look, Jayce. And you’re terrible at recalibrating cores when you’re half-asleep. Focus.”

He wanted to argue. To insist. But you were already shrugging on your coat and tossing your bag over your shoulder. You paused at the threshold, silhouetted by the lab’s amber light, looking back at him one last time.

“Don’t stay up all night,” you said, the corners of your mouth curling. “You’re useless to me tomorrow if you burn out.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured, unable to hide the smile tugging at his lips. “See you in the morning.”

“See you then” you said softly, and gave him a little wink.

And then you were gone.

The next morning, you didn’t show up at the lab. Not the next day, or the one after that. You weren’t at home. You didn’t check in. Your comm stayed silent, and your desk remained untouched. No notes, no messages, not even the usual mess you left behind—your coffee mug, your half-written notes, that little gear trinket you always fidgeted with when you were thinking.

At first, Jayce tried to convince himself it was nothing. Maybe you were sick. Maybe you just needed a few days off and forgot to tell him. But the longer the silence stretched, the more it sank into his bones that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Jayce checked every corner of Piltover—every hospital, every clinic, every alleyway he thought you might’ve wandered down. He filed reports, pulled strings with the Enforcers, and hacked his way into restricted city databases in search of even the smallest clue.

There was nothing.

No trace. No leads. No ransom. Just the echo of your laugh and a hollow, gnawing place in his chest that no amount of sleepless nights, failed experiments, or council meetings could fill.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

Six months. Six agonizing months of searching.

Six months of skipping sleep and showing up at crime scenes, demanding to see unidentified bodies just to be sure it wasn’t you. Six months of running into dead ends, staring down shady information brokers, making deals he would’ve never considered before—all for a name. A location. Anything.

Even Viktor had noticed. He tried to distract Jayce with new projects, more work, better tech—but none of it mattered. Not really.

You were gone.

Most people had already written you off. Some whispered that you'd run off. Others said you were just another lost soul swallowed by the city. Even Caitlyn—kind, honest Caitlyn—eventually sat him down and said, gently, “Jayce… sometimes people don’t just disappear. Sometimes, they choose to leave.”

But Jayce didn’t believe that.

But he knew. He felt it—something wasn’t right. He knew you. You wouldn’t leave him. Not without a word. Not without goodbye.

Something had happened. Something terrible. And the city of progress didn’t want to admit it. But Jayce remembered what his mother used to say: Zaun always has room for the forgotten.

That’s when he turned his eyes downward.

He scoured the Undercity, fighting back the bile in his throat every time someone flinched when he mentioned your name. Every whisper, every bribe, every broken tooth was another step closer to the truth. And after months of chasing shadows and rumours, he finally heard it.

Babette

A place where the missing girls went. Where they were taken. Hidden in velvet rooms with locked doors and soft hands that hurt anyway. A place built on stolen lives. A den for those with money and no soul.

Jayce had a soul. And it screamed for you.

He went alone.

No backup. No badge. No grandstanding declaration to the Council. Just steel tucked into his coat and fire in his chest.

He found Babette’s buried behind layers of rusted pipes and flickering neon—one of those places that didn’t exist on any map. The entrance was tucked between the bones of old factories, lit by a single crimson lantern swinging gently in the stagnant air.

The door was guarded by men who looked like they hadn’t smiled in years—jaws set, eyes empty, knuckles tattooed with the names of sins. One look at Jayce and they tried to wave him off, but money loosened their fingers. Steel kept them still. His reputation did the rest.

The corridors inside were like a fever dream.

Mirrored walls stretched endlessly, smeared by hands and time. Perfume hung in the air like smoke, heavy and cloying. Every step deeper into the lounge was a step into rot disguised as luxury—gold leaf clinging to decay, velvet cushions masking broken bones. The music pulsed low and slow, like a heartbeat dragged through honey.

And the women—gods, the women.

They wore glitter and pain like war paint. Some danced lazily in half-lit corners, some lounged in strangers’ laps with fake smiles carved into their lips. None of them looked happy. None of them looked free.

Jayce’s heart clenched every time he turned a corner and saw a face that wasn’t yours.

He thought he might lose his mind. Until—

There you were.

You sat alone, perched delicately on the edge of a plush red chaise like a painting that had been touched up too many times. A red satin slip clung to you, thin straps falling off your shoulder like someone had dressed you in a hurry—or didn’t care how exposed you felt.

You were still. Too still. Like a doll posed for show.

But your face—your eyes—

Even through the haze of makeup, even behind the glassy stare they’d taught you to wear, you were still you. Jayce stopped breathing.

His heart beat so loudly it drowned out everything else—the music, the voices, the footsteps. All he could hear was the sound of his own hope breaking wide open.

And then— You looked at him. Really looked. The fog cracked. Your brows knit, lips parting in disbelief, and then your voice—fragile, hoarse, trembling—fell from your lips like glass shattering.

“...Jayce?”

He moved without thinking, crossing the room in seconds, not caring who saw, not caring who stopped him. He dropped to his knees in front of you, eyes wide and frantic, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you.

“It’s me,” he whispered, throat tight, vision blurring. “It’s me, I found you. I found you.”

For a moment, you didn’t move. You just stared at him like he was a dream—like he couldn’t be real. Then your lips trembled. Your hands began to shake.

And you collapsed into his arms.

Jayce caught you, arms wrapping around you like armour, holding you so close your heartbeat pressed against his chest. You were sobbing—silent, shaking sobs that made his own breath hitch. He tucked your head under his chin, kissed your hair, whispered your name over and over like a prayer.

It wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The moment one of the guards noticed who he was—who you were—everything exploded. Shouts. Steel. Screams.

Jayce shoved you behind him, eyes blazing with fury. A bottle shattered against the wall beside him. A hand reached for you, and he snapped. He fought like a man who had nothing left to lose.

Fists, elbows, furniture—anything he could use, he did. His knuckles split open on teeth and bone. Someone pulled a blade; he knocked it from their hand and cracked a chair over their back. You screamed when someone grabbed you again, and Jayce threw himself at them without hesitation.

There was blood. His. Theirs. The floor. The walls.

But Jayce never let go of you. Even when they tried to drag him back. Even when he took a hit to the ribs that made him see stars. He never let go.

He burst through the back door, into the cold, rotting air of Zaun’s lowest tier. Smoke and oil choked the wind. Rain started to fall in slow, greasy drops. And in his arms, you clung to him like a lifeline—barefoot, trembling, your fingers twisted into the fabric of his coat.

He kept walking. Didn’t stop until the sounds of Babette’s faded behind him. Didn’t look back.

Only when the noise had settled and his pulse had calmed did you speak. Your voice was small. Raw.

“I thought you forgot me.” Jayce stopped walking.

He shifted you gently in his arms until he could see your face, lit by the flickering light of an old streetlamp. Your eyes were rimmed in red, makeup streaked, hair tangled. You looked real. You looked alive.

He cupped your cheek with a bloodied hand, brushing your hair back softly.

“I never could,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

The healing was slow.

There was no dramatic moment where everything became okay again. No single night where you shed your pain like old skin and stepped back into your old life.

No, it was slower than that. Gentler.

Some days, it was a victory just to get out of bed.

Jayce brought you back to Piltover himself, carrying you past the city gates with a silent promise burning behind his eyes. He didn’t care what the Council said. Didn’t care about gossip, or questions, or the way his enemies whispered behind their hands about how far he had fallen.

All that mattered was you.

The first few nights, you barely spoke. Your voice was hoarse, your body ached in places you couldn’t name, and every time you closed your eyes, the red velvet walls of Babette’s rose up like ghosts behind your eyelids.

Jayce never left your side.

He stayed on the edge of your bed in the room he’d prepared for you—his old guest room, now filled with warm blankets, low lights, and anything he could think of to make you feel safe. He read aloud when you couldn’t sleep, his voice soft and steady. He brought you warm tea in the mornings, and your favourite foods even when you could barely stomach them. He kept the windows cracked open just a little, so the air never felt trapped.

He never pushed.

Never asked questions you weren’t ready to answer.

Sometimes, you cried. Without warning. Sometimes, you broke down mid-sentence, or froze in the middle of a room like your body had forgotten how to exist safely. And Jayce would be there—arms open, voice gentle, no expectations. He never told you to be strong. Never told you to move on. He just held you, breathing slowly until you could match his rhythm again.

Sometimes, he cried, too.

When he thought you were asleep, you’d hear him—silent sniffles, the creak of a chair as he bent forward with his head in his hands. Guilt was a heavy thing, and it weighed on him like lead. He blamed himself. For not telling you how he felt. For not protecting you. For not finding you sooner.

But he never stopped showing up.

Day after day, night after night. And slowly, painfully, you started to come back to yourself.

You began helping in the lab again—small things at first. Organizing notes. Sharpening tools. Sitting beside him while he worked, watching the light from the Hextech core reflect off the walls and dance across his face. It was quiet, but comforting. Familiar. Safe.

Sometimes, when he laughed, you found yourself smiling, too.

One night, weeks after he’d pulled you from that nightmare, Jayce sat with you on the couch, a blanket pulled over your legs and a warm cup of tea cooling in your hands. The fire crackled low in the hearth. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, but inside… it was peaceful.

You turned your head and really looked at him.

Not through the haze of fear or trauma or gratitude—but clearly, deeply, like you were seeing him for the very first time all over again.

He was staring into the fire, one hand absently curled over yours in your lap. The flames cast a golden glow across his face, softening the tired lines beneath his eyes. He looked worn. Weathered. But also—hopeful.

Like maybe, just maybe, things were going to be okay.

“I love you,” you said. Soft. Certain. Undeniably true.

Jayce froze. His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. And then, slowly, a smile broke across his face—gentle, full of something deep and aching and beautiful.

Like a dam inside him had finally burst.

He leaned in, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand before pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I never stopped loving you.”

And for the first time in months, you let yourself believe it. You were safe. You were home.

And you were loved.

VIKTOR

Viktor had always been cautious with his heart. Careful. Focused on progress, innovation, survival. The Hexcore, his magnum opus, demanded his attention more than anything else. It was an obsession—his obsession. But then, there was you.

You, with your warmth, your sharp wit, your unwavering challenge to his every thought. You were his equal, not just in intellect but in kindness. You had a knack for making him laugh when his thoughts were too heavy, for easing the tension in his shoulders that came with the weight of his inventions.

Late nights in the workshop, you would stay with him. Your presence would fill the space, brightening the otherwise sterile atmosphere. "Viktor, you’re going to turn into a permanent fixture of the lab if you keep this up," you’d tease him as you plopped down on the edge of his desk, watching him tinker away at the Hexcore.

He'd glance at you over the rim of his goggles, a small, fond smile tugging at his lips. "I’ve always been more comfortable here than anywhere else."

"You should take breaks. Stretch your legs." Your voice was light, but your eyes would linger on him with concern, noticing the stiffness in his posture, the way he winced when he stood too quickly. "You’re not a machine, Viktor. You need rest."

But it wasn’t just the laughter or the playful jabs that made him crave your company. It was the quiet moments—when the world outside was silent and your fingers would brush over a cup of tea, or when your eyes would meet his in unspoken understanding. You didn’t need to fill the air with words to understand his exhaustion, his frustrations, his hopes. And yet, Viktor never told you how he felt. Not outright.

The words, I care for you, felt foreign on his tongue, bound by his fears and uncertainties. What if you didn’t feel the same? What if he exposed his heart, only to have it rejected? The thought paralyzed him, so he said nothing. He watched you with longing, silently wishing for a future that felt just out of reach.

And then, one day, you were gone.

It started with a single, quiet day. One moment you were by his side, teasing him about his posture once more, and the next—nothing. The lab was eerily silent. His heart skipped a beat when he realized he hadn’t seen you for hours.

He searched the building, calling your name softly, his pulse quickening with each empty room. He questioned everyone—staff, colleagues, the few people who visited. No one had seen you leave. A creeping dread coiled in his stomach, and as the hours passed, he feared the worst.

Piltover authorities chalked it up to a runaway. A girl from the Undercity who had simply grown tired of her life in the upper world’s gilded cage. "She probably decided to leave," they’d said. "We’ve seen it before. Some just don’t want to conform."

But Viktor knew better. He knew you.

"I know she didn’t just leave," he muttered under his breath, his hands tightening into fists. He had to find you. There had to be a reason. There was no way you would leave without a word, without a trace.

He spent days following leads, talking to anyone he could find. The workshops were cold and unwelcoming. The city, once familiar to him, now felt like a maze, each corner holding more secrets than the last.

Zaun was a festering wound under Piltover’s gleaming spires. Viktor had walked its shadowed streets before—before he had ascended to the more polished heights of Piltover. But he knew the city too well to ignore the pull of its underbelly. He knew Babbett’s district better than he wanted to. That was where the dark souls, the forgotten ones, were lost forever. It was a black market of souls, and he could feel its gnawing hunger even as he approached it once more.

Viktor didn’t rush in headfirst. No, that wasn’t his style. He was methodical, tactical. He had to know what he was up against. He spent weeks gathering intel, working quietly from the shadows, using his knowledge of Zaun’s dark corners to find anyone who might know something about you. It wasn’t easy. Many were too afraid to talk, others had grown numb to human suffering.

He discovered that you had been sold. Not just trafficked but traded, lost to the lowest bidder in Babbett’s district. The news churned his stomach, but he refused to lose hope. There had to be a way to get you out.

And Viktor had his ways.

He wasn’t a man who relied solely on brute force. He wasn’t a man who barged into a place like a reckless fool. No, he had something better—influence. Using his wealth and his old Zaunite connections, he made discreet arrangements. He knew the people who could slip in and out of Babbett’s unnoticed. He knew which ones had their price, and Viktor paid it. Gold, promises, favours to be repaid. Nothing was too precious if it meant getting you out.

Still, that didn’t mean there weren’t risks. No one was willing to deal with Babbett herself, not directly. But Viktor had already thought of that. With a few quiet words, he purchased enough of Babbett’s ‘goods’ to earn some trust. When he was finally allowed in, he moved with purpose, navigating the labyrinth of dark rooms and empty stares. The place was vile, and each moment spent within it made his stomach twist tighter.

But then, he saw you.

"Y/N…" The whisper was barely audible, but it was enough.

You turned toward him, your eyes dull, tired. There was no recognition at first. Viktor’s breath hitched in his chest as he took in the changes—the way your face had thinned, the exhaustion in your body. You were no longer the vibrant woman he had known. He could see it in the way you moved, the weariness in your every step.

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a split second, there was hope in your eyes. But it flickered quickly, as if the thought of rescue was too unreal. "Viktor?" Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it was filled with more emotion than you could’ve known. Disbelief. Pain. Longing.

His mind was moving faster than his legs could carry him, but the plan was clear. He wasn’t asking for permission. You were coming with him.

"You’re coming with me," he repeated, his grip firm but gentle around your wrist, as though you might break if he held you too tightly.

"They won’t let me," you said, voice trembling with fear.

"I’m not asking them." His words were cold steel, final.

There was no time to waste. No time for more words. The guards would be on them soon enough. Viktor wasn’t foolish enough to think he could fight his way through Babbett’s establishment.

Viktor’s eyes darted to the nearest guard, and in an instant, he deployed a small, calculated distraction—an explosion of chemical mist that disoriented everyone around him. It was enough to create a brief window of escape. He didn’t need to kill. He didn’t need to create chaos. Just enough distraction.

As he pulled you through the maze of Babbett’s district, Viktor’s mind was already racing through the next steps. The alleyways of Zaun were even more dangerous than Babbett’s. He had to get you out of the city, and fast. But there was one more thing—he couldn't risk anyone knowing he was involved. Not yet. Not until you were safe.

He bribed a local gang to give them a safe passage out of the district. Gold exchanged hands swiftly, promises made in the dark. Viktor had no illusions that Zaun’s underworld was a place of favour or kindness, but it was a place where debts were paid, and he had made sure this one was settled.

You woke up in Piltover days later, your body heavy and sore, as though it had been through a storm. The sterile smell of the hospital mingled with the faint scent of metal and chemicals—his scent, familiar and grounding. It was the scent of Viktor’s presence, even in this sterile place that smelled of antiseptic and cold efficiency. The soft light from the hospital windows poured in, casting gentle shadows across the room. You could hear the faint hum of machinery in the background, the rhythm of life sustaining you in ways you couldn’t fully comprehend yet.

Your mind felt foggy, as if it was still trying to catch up with the events that had brought you here. But it was the warmth of the coat wrapped around your shoulders that brought you back to the moment. It was his coat, heavy and comforting, smelling faintly of something earthy and mechanical—the scent of someone who spent far too many hours buried in their work. The coat was too big, its sleeves hanging over your hands, but it was a kind of protection, like a shield against the unknown.

You shifted slightly, feeling a dull ache in your body. There was a bandage around your wrist, and as your gaze shifted to the side, you saw Viktor sitting beside the bed, his shoulders hunched with exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was a weariness in his face that made your heart ache. His hand was curled tightly around the handle of his cane, as if the pressure of it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

His other hand hovered near yours, as though he was afraid to touch you, but also couldn’t bear the distance. He hadn’t moved from your side, and the moment his eyes met yours, there was an undeniable, overwhelming relief in them.

"You’re safe now, moje láska" Viktor whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked, like someone who hadn’t spoken in days. (My Love)

Your gaze softened, and a weight you hadn’t realized was there began to lift from your chest. You blinked slowly, your thoughts coming together in a haze. "I thought you forgot me."

Viktor's heart thudded painfully in his chest at your words. The fear and doubt in your voice broke something inside him. He shook his head slowly, eyes blinking back tears he would never let fall. "I could never forget you," he whispered urgently, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "I searched for you every day. Every single day. I—I should have told you how I felt before it was too late."

His words were a confession, raw and unguarded. His fingers trembled as he reached for your hand, so tender and uncertain. It was the touch he had longed for in the days without you, the touch he hadn’t allowed himself to hope for. Your fingers curled around his, the contact sparking a warmth that spread through him, chasing away the cold fear that had lived inside him for far too long.

"It’s not too late," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. Your thumb brushed gently over the back of his hand, grounding him as you clung to him.

Those words—simple and pure—felt like a balm to Viktor’s wounded heart. The tension in his shoulders, the constant ache in his chest, seemed to melt away as he leaned closer, his forehead gently pressing against yours. In that moment, the hospital room, the machines, the pain, all of it seemed to fade into the background. There was only the two of you, breathing in the shared air, as if the world had narrowed to this single, precious moment.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. It was enough just to be there, alive, together. The weight of the past—the fear, the pain, the loss—slowly started to lift from Viktor’s heart. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself to believe in the possibility of a future. A future where the two of you could heal, where the darkness of what had been could give way to something better.

The steady rhythm of the hospital machinery was a quiet reminder that life could go on, that it wasn’t too late for either of you. Viktor’s hand, still trembling, pressed against your cheek for a moment, his thumb gently brushing away the tears that had begun to fall.

"I’m not going anywhere," he whispered, his voice steady now. "I’m here. And I’m not leaving you."

The words were a promise, one neither of you needed to say aloud to understand. It was a new beginning, a fragile, beautiful one. And in this moment, you both allowed yourselves to believe that no matter what the future held, you would face it together.

JAYVIK

The flickering lamplights of Piltover cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets, their orange glow seeping through the narrow alleyways as Viktor adjusted the weight of his cane. His gaze lingered on the ornate building before him, its towering form a stark contrast to the weathered stone beneath his boots. The cool night air felt heavy, suffused with a quiet tension. He could feel it in the space between him and Jayce, a distance that had been growing steadily over the months, a distance that both of them tried to ignore but could not.

It had been so long since they'd last felt the warmth of her touch, the gentle strength of her laughter echoing in their hearts. The air between them was thick with the weight of unspoken words, with the loss of someone who had unknowingly captured their hearts.

Since that day.

Since the day they had lost her.

The woman who had entered their lives like a soft breeze, effortlessly becoming the anchor in their otherwise stormy worlds. She had made them both feel things they thought they could never feel—her quiet strength, her boundless compassion, and the way she always knew just what to say to ease the burdens they carried. She had made their cold, hard realities feel just a little warmer, a little less lonely.

But that dream, that fragile happiness, had been shattered on a cold, moonless night.

Viktor could still remember it vividly—the way her voice had drifted through the air, soft and melodic, as she had said her farewell. He and Jayce had been caught up in their work, minds consumed by the tasks before them, hearts too preoccupied with their shared ambition to notice the subtle sadness in her eyes. By the time they turned to check on her, she was gone. Vanished. Not a single trace left behind.

And then came the truth—the terrible truth. Y/N had been taken. Sold.

To Zaun.

To a place as dark and dangerous as its name: Babbett’s.

The realization had hit Viktor like a physical blow, the shock leaving him breathless. His grip tightened around the polished handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. It wasn’t just the loss of her that tore at him. It was the undeniable, suffocating truth that they hadn’t been there for her when she needed them the most. They hadn’t been able to protect her. They had failed.

Jayce had been shattered, his usual confidence replaced by a deep, raw grief that made him unrecognizable. In the silence that had settled between them, Jayce had promised, his voice hoarse with determination, "We’ll find her. We won’t stop until we do."

And Viktor, ever the man of action, had nodded, his eyes darkened with a singular resolve. "We won’t stop. We can’t."

They had formed an unspoken agreement then, as the weight of their shared loss clung to them like a second skin: no matter how long it took, no matter the cost, they would find Y/N. And when they did, they would bring her home—not just to safety, but to the place where she had always belonged, with them. Together.

Days had bled into weeks. Viktor and Jayce had scoured every corner of Piltover and Zaun, leaving no stone unturned. They've sifted through the underbelly of the city, followed false leads, questioned dangerous people, and yet, each attempt had led to nothing. The maps he had scattered across his study remained unsullied by any significant mark. The deep wells of Zaun held its secrets tightly, and Y/N’s disappearance was one of the most elusive. Her absence was a cruel, hollow silence, pressing in on all sides.

Jayce, ever the optimist, had thrown himself into the search as well. He had called in every favour, used every connection in Piltover he could muster, and still, nothing had come of it. The city above, the gleaming beacon of progress, and the dark, treacherous streets of Zaun had kept their secrets well hidden.

But their feelings for her never waned. They couldn’t let go. Even as time passed, the quiet ache in their hearts only grew stronger, more insistent. They had shared their grief together in their quiet apartment, their shared silence louder than any words could have been. And then, one evening, as Viktor had been hunched over the desk, his eyes red from lack of sleep, Jayce had quietly approached.

"I can’t let her go, Viktor. I can’t forget her. I know you feel the same."

Viktor had closed his eyes, tired beyond measure, but his resolve had never wavered. "We won’t stop. We can’t."

In that moment, the weight of their agreement solidified. Whatever it took, they would find her, and when they did, they would make sure she knew that she was loved. That she was wanted. That she had a place with them.

Months had passed. The rhythm of their work, the pressure of their responsibilities, had only grown. Viktor had come to accept the weight of his cane more each day; though it was a reminder of his limitations, it had become a part of him, one that he could not escape.

One evening, as Viktor and Jayce made their way through the worn streets of Zaun, Viktor's cane tapping in the familiar rhythm that had become his constant companion, a flash of movement caught his eye. A shadow in the crowd. Something familiar.

And then, in the hazy light of Babbett’s, they saw her.

Y/N.

There she was. But something was wrong.

She was standing near the entrance of the neon-lit building, her shoulders tense as a rough-looking man, one of the thugs who frequented Zaun’s red-light district, shoved her back toward the entrance. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered, and wore the unmistakable arrogance of someone who thought they owned this part of the world. He grabbed her arm roughly, his fingers digging into her skin, and she winced, trying to pull away.

Viktor’s heart clenched in his chest. The sight of her—so vulnerable, so distant—was a punch to his gut. Her once-vibrant eyes were dull, her face pale and bruised, and the warm smile that had once brightened his world was nowhere to be found. This wasn’t the Y/N he had known. This was something broken, something that had been crushed by the harsh world of Zaun.

Before Viktor could process the situation fully, Jayce was already moving. His body was a blur as he surged forward, fury lighting up his eyes. With a growl of rage, he threw himself at the thug, his fist crashing into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. The thug staggered back, his hand flying to his face in shock and pain.

"Get your hands off her!" Jayce roared, his voice full of fire, as the thug stumbled backward, completely blindsided by the blow. Jayce’s chest heaved with fury, his fists clenched at his sides, but he held back the urge to hit the man again. Y/N needed them—she needed comfort, not more violence.

The thug, regaining his footing, glared at Jayce with burning anger. But before he could react, Viktor’s voice cut through the tension.

"Enough," Viktor said, his voice hard and commanding. He stepped forward, his cane tapping against the cobblestones, but there was a quiet authority in his movements that made the thug hesitate. "You’ll leave her alone. Now."

The thug’s gaze flickered between the two men—their presence unmistakable, their reputations preceding them—and he seemed to reconsider his next move. With a muttered curse, he took a step back, muttering under his breath before he turned and retreated into the shadows of Zaun’s alleyways, leaving Y/N alone with the two men who had come to find her.

Viktor turned his attention to Y/N, his gaze softening at the sight of her. She was standing there, her body trembling slightly, her face pale with exhaustion and pain. She didn’t seem to know what to do with herself, her eyes distant, as though she were somewhere far away, lost in the darkness of memories she couldn’t escape.

The spark of recognition was there, but it was buried beneath layers of pain and sorrow. She couldn’t even look at them—couldn’t bring herself to meet their gaze, as though the mere act of looking them in the eyes would trigger something far worse.

"Y/N," Viktor whispered, his voice low and tender, as he approached her. His heart twisted as he watched her flinch ever so slightly, her gaze dropping to the ground. She didn’t look up, not even once. Viktor knew why—she had been conditioned, trained to avoid looking others in the eye. A glance, a single moment of direct eye contact, had always meant pain. His chest tightened with the knowledge that the world had scarred her so deeply. The fear in her posture was unmistakable.

Jayce stepped in beside him, his hand hovering over her shoulder but never quite touching her. His heart broke at the sight of Y/N avoiding them so completely. "We found you," Jayce said, his voice thick with emotion. "We promised we’d bring you home."

Y/N’s shoulders trembled as she took a shallow breath, her hands clenching at her sides. Her eyes flickered upward toward them for the briefest of moments, but as soon as they made contact, she quickly lowered her gaze again. The fear was there, clear as day. She had been trained to fear those who would see her fully, to avoid eyes that could demand more of her than she was willing to give. Viktor and Jayce saw that fear, felt it like a physical barrier between them, and it tore at their hearts.

"I… I don’t know if I can go back," she whispered, her voice raw with the weight of all she’d endured. "I’ve changed. I’ve been here too long. I’m not the same."

Jayce’s hand, though careful not to force any contact, hovered near her shoulder, a silent promise. His voice shook with the pain of what she’d gone through. "You don’t have to be the same," he said, his tone steady despite the heartbreak in his chest. "We love you, Y/N. We’ll never let you face this alone. Not anymore."

Viktor stepped forward then, his voice softer, filled with longing. The years of missing her weighed heavily on his words. "We want you with us, Y/N. Not just as someone we protect, but as someone we care for. Together. We both want you with us."

She didn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bring herself to. The war within her was so evident, the struggle between wanting to return to them—the safety of who she once was—and staying in the painful world she had been forced to endure. But Viktor could see it, the flicker of something fragile in her expression, a spark of hope breaking through the walls she had built to survive.

Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling with the effort to hold herself together. She hesitated, her hands clenching at her sides as she fought the overwhelming fear of what leaving might bring. The consequences of trying to escape were never far from her mind. Would they come after her? Would they punish her for daring to defy them?

Viktor took a step closer, his voice low but steady. "Y/N," he said, his words heavy with the promise he had made to her all those months ago. "No one will hurt you again. We won’t let them. You’re safe now. You don’t have to be afraid."

Jayce, standing on the other side, nodded, his expression filled with resolve. "You’re not alone anymore. You’re with us. We’ll protect you, no matter what."

For a moment, the weight of her past seemed to be pressing down on her, and she closed her eyes tightly, as if trying to block out the fear that threatened to consume her. The thoughts raced through her mind, a whirlwind of doubt and terror. But then, something shifted.

Slowly, as if it took every ounce of strength she had left, Y/N lifted her gaze to them. The eyes that met theirs were bloodshot and raw, filled with the pain and exhaustion of everything she had endured. But in that instant, Viktor and Jayce saw something they hadn’t seen in so long—a flicker of the Y/N they had once known.

And then the tears came.

Her face crumpled, the walls she had built around herself shattering in an instant. She stumbled forward, her hand reaching out as if to grasp onto the lifeline they were offering. Her breath hitched, her sobs escaping in jagged, broken gasps.

"Please," she cried, her voice thick with desperation, "Please take me home. I can't... I can't do this anymore. I’m scared. Please... don’t leave me."

Viktor’s heart shattered at the sound of her plea. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them in an instant. He reached for her, his hands trembling with a mix of tenderness and desperation, as he cupped her face gently in his palms.

"We've got you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "We’re here. You don’t have to be scared. We’ll never let you go again."

Jayce, too, was there, his hands on her arms, steadying her, offering her the strength she had been denied for so long. "We’re here for you. You’re not alone anymore."

Y/N’s tears flowed freely now, her body shaking with the release of everything she had kept buried for so long. The pain, the fear, the loneliness—she had carried it all alone for far too long. But now, with Viktor and Jayce, she was allowed to let it go. She was safe.

The healing stage was slow. It was never going to be easy, and they both knew it. But for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was hope—fragile and uncertain, but it was there.

Y/N’s return to them was not without its struggles. There were nights when she woke in a cold sweat, her body trembling from nightmares that still haunted her. The sound of distant footsteps in the alleyways, the rough hands of strangers—these things still clung to her. She had been conditioned for survival, but the world had taught her that nothing good would last, that love was just a trap.

Viktor watched her during those nights, helpless but ever-present. He would sit by her bed, his hand resting on the edge of her mattress, just so she would know he was there. And when she reached out for him in the dark, when her sobs were too much to hold in, he would gently pull her into his arms, his voice a soft reassurance in the stillness of the night.

"You're safe, miláček," he would murmur. "We’re here. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore." (Darling)

Jayce, too, would often find moments to talk to her, his voice always patient, always understanding. They both understood that her healing wasn't a process that could be rushed. It took time—more time than either of them had hoped for. But they were willing to wait.

During the day, they would walk through the quieter parts of Piltover, Viktor supporting her when she grew too tired, Jayce keeping watch over the streets, ready to step in if anything threatened to undo the fragile progress they had made. The streets that had once seemed so cold and alien to her now became a place of healing. The sunlight breaking through the haze of smoke and steam felt less oppressive, and even the sounds of the city seemed quieter somehow, as if the world was acknowledging her suffering and letting her rest.

Some days were easier than others. There were moments when Viktor would catch her smiling at a passing stranger or when Jayce would get her to laugh at one of his poorly timed jokes. Those were the days they held onto, the days where they saw glimpses of the Y/N they had once known.

But the hard days were still there—days when she couldn’t leave the room, when she would withdraw into herself, her eyes distant. On those days, Viktor and Jayce never pushed. They would sit with her, offer her quiet company, and wait for her to come back to them when she was ready.

One evening, as they sat together in the small living space they had made for her, Jayce brought out a book—a favorite of hers from their past, one they used to read together when things were simpler. He opened it carefully, his fingers brushing the yellowed pages, and he began to read aloud, his voice steady and warm.

Y/N was sitting by the window, her knees pulled to her chest, her gaze fixed on the setting sun. She hadn’t said much that day, but she had been listening. Slowly, she stood up, her body still stiff from the lingering tension. Viktor’s eyes followed her movements, sensing the shift in the air.

Without a word, she walked over to where Jayce sat, the book still open in his hands. She didn’t speak, but her eyes were wide, searching for something—something familiar. Viktor could see the question in her gaze, the hesitation.

Jayce paused in his reading, looking up at her with a gentle smile. "You want to join us?"

For a long moment, she said nothing, but then, with a deep breath, she nodded. She settled herself beside him, her body still rigid, but she was closer than she had been in days. She didn’t look directly at either of them, but her presence, the quiet way she leaned in, was a small victory.

The moment was fragile, but Viktor could see the change in her. The smallest crack in the wall she had built around herself. The warmth in her eyes, though fleeting, spoke volumes. She was still broken, still scarred, but she was letting them in, piece by piece.

And in the silence that followed, as Jayce continued to read aloud, Viktor allowed himself to hope again. Slowly but surely, Y/N was finding her way back to them.

The weeks passed, and though the weight of Y/N’s trauma was still very much present, there was a new sense of freedom beginning to blossom in her. Viktor and Jayce had made it clear from the start that she wasn’t obligated to be with them out of guilt or fear, but out of her own desire. They were determined to help her rediscover her own sense of choice—her own agency.

One evening, after dinner, the three of them sat around the table. Y/N had been quiet, her hands lightly tracing the edges of her cup. Jayce glanced at Viktor, a silent agreement passing between them. They had been giving her space, but tonight felt like a moment to ask, to make sure she was still moving at her own pace.

"Y/N," Jayce started gently, his voice soft but purposeful. "How do you feel about things now? About... staying here with us?" His eyes were filled with care, not pushing, just offering her the chance to express herself, whatever that might be.

Viktor, ever watchful, nodded in agreement. "It’s your choice, miláček. We’ve both told you before, but you don’t have to stay out of obligation. If you want to be here, if this is what you need, then we’re happy. But it’s about what you want. Always." (Darling)

Y/N stared down at her hands, her fingers intertwining nervously. She hadn’t been used to having the freedom to make decisions like this, not for a long time. Her instincts told her to hold back, to retreat into the safety of silence. But she could feel the sincerity in their words, the genuine care they had for her well-being.

She took a deep breath and looked up, her gaze meeting both of theirs for the first time in a long while. The walls she had built were still there, but she was willing to let them crack just a little more. "I want to stay," she whispered, the words barely audible, but they felt like the first step toward reclaiming herself. "I want to be here... with you."

Viktor’s heart swelled, and Jayce’s smile was like a beacon of warmth in the dimly lit room. They didn’t need to say anything; they had their answer. But Viktor couldn’t help himself.

"You’re not alone anymore," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You have a choice now, and we’ll support whatever that is. Always."

Y/N’s eyes shimmered with something between relief and disbelief. She had never thought she would be given such freedom, such agency over her life. It felt like a quiet revolution in her soul.

As the days passed, they gave her more space to explore what she wanted. There were times when she’d spend hours in Viktor’s workshop, her curiosity piqued by his work, her mind gradually unfurling in ways she hadn’t expected. Other days, she would go out with Jayce, their conversations easy and comfortable, filled with laughter that seemed to heal wounds Y/N hadn’t even realized were there.

And then, one evening, as they sat on the balcony watching the stars over Piltover, Y/N turned to face them. She wasn’t sure what had changed inside her, but it felt as if something had shifted—something deep. She could feel it in the air between them, in the way their presence was no longer just a comfort but something more.

"I love you," she said, her voice trembling slightly but full of conviction. "I love you both. I don’t know how to explain it, but... I do."

Viktor’s heart stopped for a moment, and Jayce’s breath hitched. They had waited for her to say the words when she was ready—when she felt safe enough to open up. But hearing it now, in her voice, in her eyes, made everything feel more real. They had waited, yes, but they had never doubted.

"We love you too, Y/N," Viktor replied softly, his hand finding hers. "We always have."

Jayce nodded, his eyes soft with affection. "And we’ll always be here. No matter what."

In that moment, Y/N realized something. It wasn’t just about healing the wounds of the past—it was about moving forward. Choosing her own path. And for the first time in so long, she felt like she was finally home.

VANDER

Vander had always been a protector—of his people, his family, and above all, of you. For months, he'd kept a watchful eye over you, from the shadows of Zaun to the farthest corners of the city's underbelly. He noticed the way you moved with quiet grace, like a whisper among the chaos. There was something in your eyes—an unspoken fierceness, a fire that matched his own, tempered by a deeper sorrow, a caution that spoke of a past filled with more pain than anyone should have had to bear.

Despite that, you had managed to keep your heart guarded, your walls high. Vander understood that; he'd built his own walls long ago, so he knew how it felt to keep everything locked inside, buried deep where no one could reach it.

But he had reached you, in a way no one else could. The children—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—had come to love you, and in doing so, had pulled Vander closer to you. He couldn’t ignore the way you cared for them, treated them like your own. It was something only a rare few could do in this world, and he recognized that tenderness, that understanding, which you gave so freely. You filled a gap they hadn’t even known existed—showing them compassion in a world that had only known cruelty.

The first time he’d seen you share a genuine laugh with the kids, in the old hideout, was when he’d known. It wasn’t just affection—it was something deeper, something he couldn’t ignore. It was love.

Vander’s heart had been buried under years of responsibility, but the dam had finally cracked. He had fallen for you. But in that moment, with everything that was happening around him, he couldn’t voice it. Not yet. Not when his duty to his people was so heavy. He couldn’t afford to lose you—not with everything on the line, not with so many depending on him. Still, despite that, despite his duty, his thoughts kept drifting back to you. To a future, perhaps, where he could share more with you than just his protection.

That night, after the kids had settled in, it was as if all the unsaid words he had kept locked inside for so long had finally found their escape.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice low and hesitant, as if unsure how to breach the wall between them, "I care about you."

His heart raced, pounding in his chest as he waited for your response, his eyes searching yours. There was so much unsaid between you—so much he wanted to tell you, but he was afraid. Afraid of losing you, afraid that his words would ruin the fragile connection between you both.

You looked at him, and in that moment, something shifted in the way you held yourself. The guarded walls you had built seemed to falter, just slightly, and Vander felt the air between you both grow thick with the unspoken things that hung in the balance.

"I care about you too, Vander," you said quietly, your voice soft yet laden with weight. "But... I don't know if I can let myself—"

He took a cautious step closer, his voice raw with the vulnerability he rarely showed. "What are you afraid of?"

You hesitated, eyes flickering away for a moment before returning to meet his gaze. “You’ve always been the protector, Vander. Always the one who takes care of everyone. I’ve never been someone you could count on the same way. What if I let you down? What if..." Your voice cracked for just a moment, but you quickly regained composure. "What if this... what if we... aren’t enough?”

Vander’s heart ached at the vulnerability in your words, at the self-doubt that had crept into your voice. He closed the distance between you, his hands finding yours gently, offering silent reassurance. “Y/N, you are enough. You’ve always been enough. You’ve given everything to us—more than anyone could ask for. I’m not asking for perfection. I’m asking for you.”

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. There was so much unspoken between you both, a lifetime of hesitation and fear. But in that moment, there was also something more—a flicker of hope.

“I don’t know what this means, Vander,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “but I’m willing to find out.”

The next morning, you were gone.

The air felt thinner, colder, and the world suddenly seemed darker. Vander awoke to an empty room, an empty space where you had been the night before. It was as if the very air had shifted, heavy with the absence of your presence. His heart dropped into his stomach as he realized the truth—you were gone.

He searched for you every day, his heart a lead weight, dragging him from one corner of Zaun to the next. He asked everyone—every street rat, every criminal, anyone who might have seen you. The hours stretched into days, then weeks, and then months, and still, there was no sign of you. He combed through the undercity, his eyes always scanning the shadows, always hoping for a glimpse of you, but the search felt hopeless. The kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—were devastated. They couldn’t understand why you’d left, why you’d disappeared without a word. They couldn’t grasp that you hadn’t chosen to walk away from them, not when they needed you so badly.

Powder was the hardest hit. She would stand by the window at night, her eyes fixed on the dim lights of Zaun, her little fists pressed to the glass, hoping against hope that you would walk through the door again. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that you might never come back.

"Maybe she’s just out there, looking for us," Powder would murmur to herself, her voice small, vulnerable. "She’ll come back. I know it."

Vi, in her own way, coped by taking out her frustration on the punching bags, her fists pounding with a force that seemed to match the storm inside her. Each hit was a silent plea for you to return, a way to channel the pain she couldn’t express.

Mylo kept cracking jokes, trying to cover his grief with laughter, but the pain was still there. It was clear to anyone who paid attention that it was eating him up inside. His jokes had become hollow, his grin strained, and though he tried to hide it, the ache in his eyes was always there.

And Claggor—Claggor became more withdrawn. The quiet boy who had once laughed with the others now stood apart, his once-soft demeanor hardened. He was quieter, his protective nature over the others sharper, more intense. It was as if he could sense the brokenness in their family, the gap where you had once stood, and he was desperately trying to hold it all together, even if he couldn’t fully understand the hurt.

Vander watched them all, helpless. He saw the way the kids carried their grief in silence, each one struggling with the weight of your absence in their own way. And his own heart, heavy with his own loss, ached for them. They needed you. He needed you. And he couldn’t—he wouldn’t—let you be lost to the undercity, not when there was still a chance, no matter how slim, that you were still alive.

The days turned into months, and with each passing day, the pain of your absence grew. But then, one night—thick with fog, heavy with the scent of desperation—Vander caught a whisper, a rumour, a name. It was barely more than a shadow of information, but it was enough to reignite the flicker of hope in his chest. It led him to Babbett’s, a notorious red-light district in the undercity, where the broken, the forgotten, and the desperate went to disappear. The place was a den of filth and despair, where the vulnerable were traded and left to rot.

Vander didn’t care about the risks anymore. He didn’t care who he had to face, what enemies he would make. All that mattered was finding you.

As he made his way through the dark alleyways, the stench of oil, sweat, and decay grew thicker with every step. His boots echoed off the cracked pavement, and his pulse quickened with each turn, each alley. His thoughts were a single, driving force—he had to find you.

“Y/N,” he muttered under his breath, the name almost a prayer, “Where are you?”

His hand instinctively gripped the handle of his mace, ready for anything that might stand in his way. He would face down anyone who dared stop him. The thought of you—lost and alone in a place like this—was enough to turn his blood to fire.

With each passing step, the fog seemed to get denser, but Vander didn’t hesitate. He was close. He could feel it in his bones.

“I’m coming for you,” he whispered fiercely, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the undercity. "I won’t let you slip away."

Inside Babbett’s, everything was just as he had imagined—too much luxury, too many broken souls hiding behind masks of opulence. He moved past the velvet chairs, the gold-framed mirrors, the thick scent of perfume and alcohol, until he found the narrow hallway leading to the back rooms. It was quieter here, the despair more palpable. This was where the true suffering lived.

Vander knocked on a door, the sound hollow in the heavy air. When it opened, there you were.

You looked like a stranger—hollow, exhausted, your face pale beneath layers of makeup meant to cover the bruises. The woman he had known was buried deep within the shell that stood before him. You hadn’t recognized him at first, but when you did, fear flashed across your face. Your body trembled as you took a step back, almost as if you were afraid he might shatter like glass.

“Vander…” Your voice was strained, barely above a whisper, your words laced with panic. “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here. You have to leave.”

His heart tightened at the sight of you—broken, but still there. Still you. He stepped forward, careful, not wanting to scare you away.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion, “I’ve been looking for you. Every damn day. I never stopped. I couldn’t. I—”

“Don’t,” you interrupted, shaking your head violently, tears welling in your eyes. “You shouldn’t have. I’m not the same. I’m not who you think I am anymore. I’ve done things, Vander. I’ve become part of this place. You can’t save me. I’m not worth it.”

The words stung like a slap to the face, but Vander didn’t flinch. He wouldn’t. Not now.

“No,” he whispered, his voice firm and steady. “You’re not broken. You’ve been through hell, but you’re still you. You’re still the woman I care about, the woman I’ve been searching for. None of what’s happened here changes that. I won’t let it.”

You stepped back, trembling, as if the weight of his words was too much to bear. You couldn’t go back, couldn’t face the kids—the very children who had thought you’d abandoned them. The guilt weighed heavily on you, the shame of what you’d endured, the things you had done just to survive, making your knees buckle beneath you.

“I can’t go back,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t face them. I can’t bring this nightmare back to them. They’ll hate me. They’ll see me for what I really am… and I’ll break them. I can’t do that to them.”

The vulnerability in your voice, the raw emotion, hit Vander like a punch to the gut. He didn’t move at first, just stood there, taking in your words. He could feel the pain in every syllable you spoke, could see the torment in your eyes. But he also saw the woman he loved, the woman who had given everything for them—who had loved the kids like they were her own. He couldn’t let you do this to yourself.

“They don’t hate you,” he said softly, his voice gentle but firm. “They miss you. They need you. And they don’t care what happened. They care about you, Y/N. You didn’t abandon them. You were taken from them. That’s what happened. And we’re going to fix it. Together.”

You trembled as he reached for you, his large hands gently cupping your face. There was so much to say, so much that weighed on both of you, but in that moment, all that mattered was the softness of his touch, the warmth in his eyes, the strength of his presence. He wasn’t going to leave you. He wasn’t going to let you go.

He pressed his forehead to yours, whispering, “I’m not leaving you, Y/N. Not now, not ever. I’ll help you face them. We’ll do it together.”

For the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him. With shaky breath, you nodded, the weight of the decision settling on your shoulders. It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t be quick. But with Vander by your side, and the kids waiting, there was a chance for healing. There was a chance for something more than just survival.

And so, you left the darkness behind, taking that first step back into the light, where the road ahead would be long and full of challenges. But with Vander, you would never have to face it alone. Not ever again.

Vander could feel his heart pounding as he led you back through the familiar, narrow alleyways of Zaun, his grip firm on your arm as if afraid you might vanish again. The journey had felt like a lifetime, the weight of uncertainty lifting with every step closer to the Last Drop. The undercity around them seemed to pulse with an eerie quietness, as if it too had been holding its breath, waiting for this moment.

The heavy wooden door to the Last Drop creaked as Vander pushed it open, the familiar scents of old wood and smoke greeting them. The place was dimly lit, the quiet murmur of conversation coming from the lower level. But as they stepped inside, the silence that followed was palpable, a hush falling over the room as all eyes turned toward them.

Vi, Mylo, and Claggor were sitting near the bar, their faces drawn with exhaustion, Powder was perched by the window, staring out at the dark streets of Zaun. Her little fingers clutched the edge of the sill, her expression far too quiet for her age.

As soon as the door opened, the tension in the room shifted. The kids froze, their eyes locked on you. The time of separation seemed to hang between you all, thick and heavy.

You stood just inside the doorway, your eyes scanning the room, unsure of what to do next. You could feel the weight of their gazes pressing on you, the distance, the pain, the unspoken questions. You didn’t know what they thought, what they felt, or if they even wanted you back.

Vander stood beside you, his hand on your back, offering silent reassurance. He gave a slight nod, a quiet gesture that it was okay, that they were family, and no matter what had happened, they’d want you here. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, not yet. The moment was fragile, and the tension too thick to cut through with words.

It was Powder who moved first, her small figure slowly standing from her perch by the window. She hesitated, glancing nervously from you to the others, before she stepped forward. The rest of the kids watched, motionless, as though holding their breath. The world seemed to stop, the silence deafening.

When Powder took her first hesitant step toward you, something inside you shifted. You saw the uncertainty in her small eyes, the way her hands trembled as she approached. Without thinking, you knelt down to her level, meeting her gaze as she stopped just in front of you. Her small form looked so fragile, like she could shatter under the weight of everything.

As Powder stood there, small and quiet, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at her. The weight of everything—of the years you had been gone, the pain you had caused—was too much to bear. Your heart ached as the flood of emotions threatened to overwhelm you. You didn’t know what to do, how to make it right. How could you, when you had left them all behind?

Your eyes stayed downcast, unable to meet her gaze, and the silence between you seemed to stretch on forever. But then, you felt a soft pressure on your face—her small hand, gentle but sure, resting against your cheek.

You couldn’t help it; you flinched, a sharp breath catching in your throat, unsure if you could bear the tenderness she was offering when you had caused so much hurt. But Powder didn’t pull away. Instead, she kept her hand there, her fingers brushing softly over the bruise that marred your skin, a silent understanding passing between you.

In that moment, your heart shattered. The simple, quiet touch, filled with so much unspoken love and forgiveness, cracked open the wall you had built around yourself. The guilt, the shame, everything you had buried deep inside you came rushing out, and before you could stop it, the sobs that had been building for so long finally escaped.

"I'm sorry," you whispered through your tears, voice barely audible, raw with emotion. "I’m so sorry... I didn’t mean to leave you. I didn’t... I didn’t want to hurt you." The weight of your apology, the depth of the guilt you carried, filled the room.

Vi was the next to move. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, held a flicker of hope, but the pain was still there, deep within her. She stood, slowly, and took a few steps forward, her hands trembling. She didn’t need words—she didn’t have to explain the years of hurt or the hesitation. All she needed to do was kneel beside you and wrap her arms around you.

Mylo followed, his movements awkward but steady. Without saying a word, he pulled you into an embrace of his own, his presence a quiet comfort. His touch was reassuring, as if telling you that no matter how uncertain things were, you still belonged with them.

Claggor wrapped his arms around you as well, his presence a silent promise. He didn’t need to speak; the pressure of his arms around you, his warmth, and his steady presence told you everything you needed to know. You were part of this family, always.

One by one, they gathered around you, each of them wrapping their arms around you in their own way, creating a circle of warmth and unconditional love. There were no apologies, no grand declarations, just the quiet understanding that everything was forgiven.

Vander watched from the sidelines, his heart swelling with pride and relief as he saw the kids gather around you. He knew this moment wasn’t about words—it was about the comfort of their presence, the reassurance of their love. As you pulled each of them into a hug, he saw the bond that had never truly been broken, no matter how much time had passed.

With each hug, a soft piece of the puzzle fell back into place. Vi’s arms around you were strong and full of relief, Mylo’s embrace awkward yet tender, Claggor’s quiet support a steady reminder that they were here. Each one was a small moment of healing, an unspoken forgiveness that washed over you.

But through it all, Powder didn’t let go. She remained close, her tiny arms still wrapped around you, holding on as though she couldn’t bear to let you out of her sight again. The others took their turns, but Powder stayed, her face pressed against your shoulder, her small body trembling with emotion.

Her grip tightened, not out of desperation, but a silent need to hold on to the person she had lost, the person who had come back. She didn’t need words to convey it. She simply clung to you, her presence a quiet promise that no matter how long you’d been apart, she was still here, and you were still hers.

And in that moment, as you felt her arms around you, you realized that her forgiveness was in the way she held you—tighter, perhaps, than anyone else. You didn’t need her to say anything; her hug was enough to tell you that she had forgiven you, and that she had never stopped loving you.

And with every hug, you felt yourself slowly begin to heal, the weight of guilt and loss lifting as their love surrounded you. You pulled them close, one by one, trying to make up for lost time, trying to bridge the gaps of the years that had separated you.

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