#mel x gn!reader

[motthe]

OKAY- idk if requesting twice is okay or not- but if you have the time! Can we see more Mel and reader (lumen au or otherwise)? Where reader has what is essentially Amara’s job but more so a bodyguard type? Mel helped them out at one point and now they protect her and help her with whatever she needs! (Like finding a gift for Jayce or Passive aggressively spitting her mother) and she does the same for them with viktor and egotistical higher ups? Basically just them being each others solace, confidant that knows of the others past while helping them get to the future they deserve with Jayce x Mel & Viktor x reader sprinkled in, (first meetings, first signs of affection, etc) for all parties!

(can be ignored if your busy or otherwise dw ;3)

I hope you enjoyed this!!! I took some creative liberties and placed this in S1 arc 1 :)

warnings: gn!reader, mention of scars and sleep problems, non-sexual nakedness (you’ll get it when you read lol)

Mel rose from her desk, the wide reaching window behind her dark. There were always a few days out of the week she would stay late. She never left anything half-finished and if it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t finished. 

“Fancy a stroll through the Academy?”

You repositioned yourself from leaning against the wall, raising an eyebrow. The woman approaching you was an esteemed council member and a child of Noxus. Above all that, she held a dangerously sharp mind. 

With you, a trained guard from birth and accepted by her bitch of a mother, you two made quite the confidants. 

“Why?” you asked, knowing you were going whether you fancied the idea or not. Where she went, you went. 

“Why not?” Her grin was infectious, but you saw the mischief swimming in her eyes. 

“It’s far past lockup, for one,” you began, grabbing the door for her. Your belt clicked with the movement, the weight of your gun and knives shifting. “We also have no business with the Academy.”

“We may not, but I have a feeling someone does.”

You hummed, your steps shadowing hers for every beat. Every turn down a hall, your eyes were skating for anything amiss. “This wouldn’t have something to do with a certain expelled scientist, would it?”

She hummed, smiling and confident from where you walked adjacent. 

That poor man, you couldn’t help but think. Catch Mel’s eye and you’re stuck under a microscope until she loses interest. 

“Maybe Heimerdinger has stayed late with that assistant of his,” she said, gaze cutting to you. Your eyes narrowed in warning. 

You changed the subject. “What makes you think that Talis fellow would sneak into the Academy the night of his expulsion?”

“His things are to be destroyed tomorrow morning.” 

“If we get all the way to the Academy and you’re wrong—” you complained. 

“A trip to your favorite spa, paid.” She stopped, tilting her head towards you. “And if I’m right?”

You grumbled, rolling your eyes. “I’ll pose for that painting.”

She pursed her lips, flexing her fingers. 

You crossed your arms and bit out, “No.”

“It’s nude or nothing, darling,” she teased. “I need the practice.”

“You need nothing,” you scoffed, continuing in front of her to check the entrance to the council’s building. The usual enforcer’s we’re making their rounds, tipping their hats to you. 

Mel stepped out next to you, shoulder nudging yours. Your sigh trailed into the night air. 

“Fine.”

Her golden freckles crinkled with the grin that pulled at her lips. 

.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” Mel asked quietly. You gave her the flattest expression known to man in response. “May I borrow it, please?”

“No, you may not,” you answered. Even in the dark you sensed her scowl as you passed, taking up the front. “If I need to shoot someone, I need to see.”

“So violent,” she murmured. “Honestly, he doesn’t seem the type.”

“Then he’d make the perfect assassin,” you chuckled, lowering your voice as you opened the door to the staircase. “Besides, we want to go undetected, don’t we?”

“If no trouble is afoot, then I wouldn’t mind a second look at this research,” she revealed, only adding to a long night ahead. 

“What are you expecting to find?” 

She chuckled. “I do love a good surprise.”

You scoffed quietly as you climbed the steps ahead of her. “You would, miss know-it-all.”

Reaching the floor that held Heimerdinger’s office, you glanced through the window on the door before slipping it open. Mel kept her steps light as you both moved through the darkness. As you crept on, you noticed a faint glow reaching around the corner and glanced at Mel, scowling. 

She wore the look of a winner in the blue-tinted of the moonlight shining through the distant window. Slowly, she mouthed the word ‘nude’.

You shook your head, pulling your flashlight out as you motioned her to follow you. The tinkling of keys and the gears of a lock turning left you with one hand on your gun and the other pointing the flashlight forward. You held off on spotlighting the infiltrator when you noticed two figures sneaking around Heimerdinger’s door. 

“So far so good,” came a familiar ethnolect. You clicked the flashlight on to confirm your suspicions. 

Oh, shit. 

Jayce Talis and Viktor, of all people, were caught red handed, hands guarding their eyes as they were overwhelmed by the brilliance. 

“Willing to risk exile for your endeavor,” Mel spoke, taking up the space on your right as she stared the two men down. “That’s quite the conviction.”

“A counselor,” Talis breathed. 

Viktor chose another path, turning towards the door in a dramatized show of confusion. “Wait a minute, this isn’t my bedroom…”

“Guess those aren’t your keys either?” you hummed, moving your hand off your weapon as he looked up at you. 

“Actually, they are permitted to be in my possession,” he corrected as he stood from his crouch.

“Just like you’re permitted to be here, past lockup,” your eyes fled towards Talis before focusing his pinched gaze “with a freshly expelled student.”

“Eh,” he shrugged, “that one, not so much.”

“Please,” Mr. Talis begged, stepping in front of Viktor, eyes locked on Mel. You positioned yourself between them, hand back on your gun as you pointed the flashlight towards the man. He winced, only passing you a slight flare in retaliation. “We can prove that it works.”

“You couldn’t do so earlier today,” Mel pointed out, expression deadened and feigning disinterest. Seen you had two actors in your midst. “How is tonight any different?”

“We figured out how to stabilize it,” Viktor explained. 

“I’m surprised to find the professor's assistant mixed up in this,” she murmured to you. 

“No, he’s my new partner,” Talis argued, placing a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. Your stomach tightened. 

“Even if you managed to prove your theory the council would destroy it.” Mel burst their bubble with brutal honesty. 

“Heimerdinger will recognize the potential,” Viktor stated. 

“He already does,” she told him, “it scares him. It scares them all.”

“What about you?” Talis asked, determined. 

“I recognize that any worthwhile venture involves risk…” 

Your head turned a second before theirs, picking up on the whistling and footsteps. The night guard was heading this way. Harold. He was always the noisiest, sweetest thing. The old man refused to retire so they put him up here at the Academy. 

“There’s your risk,” you muttered. 

“Counselor,” hissed Talis, “this technology, it’s real and no matter what happens here it’s going to change our world. We should be the ones to lead it—Piltover, the land of progress, equality, innovation. I know it sounds impossible, but when have we ever let that stop us. Please, just give us a chance!”

You stepped back beside Mel, meeting her eyes. She let the two men sweat a bit as the footsteps grew closer. 

“One night. Gentleman,” she said slowly, turning to leave. “Impress me or I’d suggest you pack your bags.”

As she walked away, you noticed the awed look in Talis’ eyes and nearly groaned. She always had to draw in the big dreamers. 

You threw Viktor a sly smile, handing him the flashlight seeing as that poor pen light wasn’t going to be much help. “Good luck, Goggles.”

You switched it off as he accepted it, fingers brushing as you left them to hide in the darkness. You caught up with your principal just as she was moving around the corner.

“Harold!” she sang, nearly sending the sweet old man into a heart attack. You held back a laugh as Me” moved him back down the hall and away from the chaotic scientists behind you. 

Left to their own devices, Viktor clicked on your flashlight and got back to opening the five-bolt door. As he crouched back down, Jayce took over holding the light for him. 

“So,” he murmured, back to the silence of an empty school, “you and the bodyguard are a thing?”

Viktor nearly dropped the keys. “Excuse me?”

“Goggles?” 

“It is a long story,” he whispered, pushing the door open as the last lock unlatched, “and we are not the ‘thing.’ Now get in.”

.

“We’re to return before dawn.”

You turned from toweling your hair to stare down Mel in her bubble bath. She hasn’t bothered to wait until you were done in your own bathroom to fetch you. She wasn’t usually so clingy, but you knew under that cool facade she was nervous of what was to come with the scientists. 

“Why do we have to lose precious sleep over this?” you grumbled, grabbing your toothbrush. 

“You?” she laughed, splashing her water over her knees. “You barely sleep as is.”

“Yeah, well,” you spit the mess of toothpaste and spit from your mouth, “blame your mother for that.”

“I blame her for many things.”

The scars over your body burned, but not from sticky, humid air. You both were quiet for a time. 

“I didn’t expect him to be there.” You turned around, pulling yourself up on the marble counter to look at her. “Viktor, I mean.”

“Guess he saw whatever you did in Talis.”

She puckered her lips at you, arms dropping over the rim of the bathtub as she laid her head on them. “Is that jealousy I hear, darling?”

“Shove it,” you scoffed, moving to do one last check of the place before heading to your room. “Also, he was definitely staring at you as you left.”

“Then you have no reason to worry.”

“Goodnight,” you bit out, shutting the bathroom door on her echoing giggles. 

.

When you knock on Mel’s door she’s back in the same clothes she wore hours earlier. It’s an hour to dawn and barely takes three minutes to reach the Academy. You hadn’t slept a wink.

Offering her a coffee, you both finished them before you were out the door. The guards at the gate gave you groggy second glances, but questioned nothing. 

You sensed the alarm in the empty halls, banging thundering through the stairwell as you both took one glance at the other and sped up your pace. 

You held an arm out as you glanced around the dark corner, eyes widening at the new blue-tinted glow that shined from Heimerdinger’s office. 

“You’ve actually done it…” The professor's voice was beyond astonishment. “But just because it can be done, doesn’t mean—will you please stop hovering?!”

“I’m not sure how to do that sir!”

Your mask nearly slipped. It was the first time you’d ever heard Viktor so…gleeful. 

Mel stalked down the hall, eyes bright with purpose. It reminded you of younger days before she slowed her steps, bringing out Counselor Medarda

“This is not what Piltover’s future looks like, my dear boys!”

The click of her heels alerted everyone as she pushed through the guards, the light of the room washing over her form. 

“That’s for the council to decide,” she stated, head turning from side to side as she observed the room. Being right behind her, you allowed awe to slip at the twinkling bits wandering the room and high above were those troublesome scientists. “Perhaps it’s time for the era of magic.”

“Uh, Hextech,” came Jayce Talis, hair sprawling out with the anti-gravity field he was caught up in. “For the era of Hextech.”

Your eyes slid from his to hers, the slender grin on her lips speaking more than praise in his direction. Rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help as they caught on Viktor who looked far too happy to be completely suspended upside down. He kept throwing little objects nearby towards the glistening orb at the center of the room, watching it with interest as it blipped from one side to the other. 

Some round object hovered a bit too close on the opposite side he was facing. You couldn’t help but laugh when it was transported to his side, knocking into his forehead with enough force to make him jump. 

Your voice alerted him, eyes finding yours as you cleared your throat and fixed your metaphorical mask back into place. 

“How long will this last?” asked Mel. 

The young men looked at each other for an answer that neither seemed to have. You eyed the bright orb between them, noticing it was slowly but surely shrinking in size. 

“I suggest you find your way down before you find out,” Heimerdinger called. 

“Right,” Jayce said, waving his arms until he was able to float to the ceiling. He pushed off it, getting about halfway down before gravity seemed to take hold again. He just missed a smaller table in the corner, landing with a painful grunt. 

Heimerdinger tested the space first, his hair seemed to react a bit, but he was able to make his way towards his previously expelled student with ease. You wandered in next, feeling your hair lift from your scalp as the guards were waved away by Mel. She ordered them to fetch the other council members for an emergency meeting in a few hours time. 

“The power source is growing smaller,” you warned Viktor who was still playing around with it near the roof. 

“Yes, without the cranking its energy is used up,” he muttered, more to himself than you as another object flashes through it. It shrunk by at least an inch. “Still such raw power…”

The bits of light hovering around the space were closing in. Your hair returned to its natural state. 

“Uh, Viktor,” Jayce called. 

“How big can the object be?” the man hummed, tossing a book to the orb. You stood below him, eyeing where he’d fall. The dots connected just as the book went through and the blue light went out like a candle flame in the wind. Jayce yelled. 

Your back connected with Heimerdinger’s desk, sending it scraping back in a chorus of something else moving just as gravity claimed Viktor. He knocked the air out of you as he landed on top of you. The ground shook as something else hit the ground nearby. 

You winced as the office lights burst above, taking in a slow, groaning breath. 

“Good heavens,” came Heimerdinger. “Are you three all right?”

Turning your head from the mess of Viktor’s hair in your vision, you saw Jayce lying face down on a tipped over chair with his hand fist glowing. 

“Yeah,” he said into the ground, “just thought I’d catch the crystal before it took out another building.”

“My apologies,” Viktor murmured, expression twisted in discomfort as he pushed himself off your chest. 

“S’fine,” you choked out, still catching your breath. “We’re all victims of physics.”

That broke the tension, or perhaps the adrenaline was still running high amongst the men because they both busted out into hysterics. Well, Jayce did. Viktor just chuckled and focused on getting his entire weight off of you. 

You slowly sat up, rubbing the back of your head where it had clipped the damn desk. 

“Did you hit it?”

You glanced at Viktor, dropping your hand. “I’m good, Goggles. Better than you would’ve been crashing into straight wood.”

“It’s pure oak!” preened Heimerdinger as he scuffled over, tapping the surface. “Very durable.”

“I’ll say,” you grumbled, feeling a headache coming on. 

“You should get that checked. You might have a concussion,” Viktor said, resting his back against the bookshelf behind him. Jayce had finally gotten to his knees, looking a bit bruised as far as his ego went when he glanced at Mel by the door. 

“I’ve seen them take a hammer to the head,” your principal chuckled. “They’ll be fine, I assure you.”

“It’s not bleeding,” Heimerdinger hummed. You balked at him peering around the desk. “How’s your eyesight?”

“Clear,” you said, getting to your feet. “Thank you, professor.”

Viktor remained on the ground. 

“Are you all right?” you asked. “I’m not the softest landing.”

“I’m unharmed,” he answered, nodding behind you. “My cane, however, will need to be replaced.”

You followed his line of sight and frowned at the white stick, cracked in two. 

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Jayce promised as he walked over, offering a hand. 

“I'll see you at the meeting,” Mel announced, eyes piercing the founder of Hextech before moving to his partner’s as he got to his feet. “Both of you.”

You moved the desk back into place, nodding to the professor as he thanked you. 

Hearing your name, you turned as Viktor offered your flashlight. 

“You dropped this,” he murmured, a smile hiding in the corner of his lips. 

“I’m sure it’s broken after that fall,” you said, checking it. The light sputtered before going out. 

“Allow me to fix it, then.”

You blinked at him, smiling at the back and forth before clearing your expression and handing it back. Your fingers brushed. 

“Sure,” you said, following after Mel. “I’ll grab it another time.”

Out in the hall, she smirked at you, unabashed. 

“You couldn’t have had the meeting in the afternoon?” you complained, rubbing your head. 

“I have an appointment at the spa with a friend of mine,” she replied. 

You sighed and kept your mouth shut, leading her out of the building and back home to freshen up again. 

“You know I might need a second opinion when I’m painting you,” she hummed as you both eased into the early light of dawn. “Viktor wouldn’t happen to be a student of the arts as well, would he?”

“You’re lucky I’m the one protecting you and not the one after you,” you growled. 

Back in Heimerdinger’s office, the men were helping clean up the mess they left behind while Heimerdinger lectured them, observing all the while from his chair. 

“Didn’t know you did repair jobs,” muttered Jayce as he shoved a book back into its shelf. 

Below him where Viktor was attempting to put the ‘cranker’ as it were back together, the man rolled his eyes. “I felt I owed it to them seeing as I failed to take care of it.”

“Right, of course.”

Viktor didn’t enjoy the amused silence seeping from his newly acclaimed business partner and slowly tilted his head to glare up at him. “Do you have something else to say?”

“Nope,” answered Jayce, eyebrows bouncing up, “nothing at all, Goggles.”

Viktor sighed. All it took was one day of brain fog and a run-in with you to earn him such a distasteful nickname. At least it taught him to check his goggles were off before leaving the lab from now on.  

“No slacking!” said the professor, swiveling in his chair to shuffle the papers scattered around his desk. “Honestly, I’m not sure how Counselor Medarda’s guard moved this desk. I thought it was bolted to the floor!”

Viktor swallowed as Jayce whistled. 

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

✧. . . NO DAWN TOMORROW ─── Arcane

Coming Soon ! ! !

「 you're far away from here

but you're alived in so many places 」

☆ . . . The days pass like blank pages, and my heart, weary, has stopped searching for reasons to keep beating. If I ever loved or was loved in past lives, those memories have lost their warmth. What once were feelings are now only pain.

Their icy blue eyes looked at me with sorrow as my body crumbled in their hands. I caressed their cheeks, so beautiful, painted with pure scarlet that mingled with crystalline, salty tears, burning my pale, cracked face, scarred by my greatest mistake.

I cried and suffered in their arms while everyone watched.

There was no reason, no justification for what they did, beyond greed. The fear faded from their eyes, but betrayal lingered in mine.

I could hate them, of course I could. But deep down, I only wish to see them again someday, to meet them once more, perhaps under different circumstances... Maybe when we are all children again.

Even though I know we are different, I swore to protect them.

You may kill me over and over, as many times as you wish. But a king is always there to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

No matter how much they hurt me, no matter how much they break me, my heart keeps finding a way to love them, because the pain has never been stronger than what I feel for them.

█║▌│║▌║▌│█│▌║│█║█║│▌║│█║▌

Yandere! Arcane x Reincarnated! Reader

I want to include this text in future fanfics, but I feel that both this and other projects need a separate introduction before I publish them. I want them to have the proper context and truly reflect what I want to convey. I’m not sure if I was under some kind of intense inspiration when I wrote this (or maybe my blood sugar just dropped!), but I’m so eager to start giving it shape. Plus, I finally created an account on Ao3 (at last!), which makes me even more excited to share these stories with you all. I know it’ll be a challenge, but I’m ready to let these ideas come to life. I hope you enjoy them as much as I’m excited to write them

Ao3 User → @MarcyVamp1re

marcyvamp1re-blog © 2025 !

[theapollochronicles]

Arcane Imagines

Vi/Violet — The Fist of The Undercity

BANDIT — vi x vanders!daughter!reader

I Learned From You — vi x middle!sister!reader x jinx

Caitlyn Kiramman — The Sheriff of Piltover

World Gone Mad — caitlyn kiramman x female!zaunite!reader

Big Jet Plane — caitlyn kiramman x female!zaunite!reader

Heart to Heart — modern!au caitlyn kiramman x female!reader (Pt.1 - Pt.2 - possibly more?)

Powder/Jinx — The Zaun Royalty

Disease — jinx x silcos!daughter!reader

Taking What’s Not Yours — jinx x female!vastaya!reader

I Learned From You — jinx x middle!sister!reader x vi

Blue — jinx x black!male!reader

Viktor — The Machine Herald

Jayce Talis — The Defender of Tomorrow

Mel Medarda — The Wolf

Silco — The Eye of Zaun

Daddy Dearest — silco x vastaya!adopted!daughter!reader

Broken Bones — silco x biological!son!reader

Eat Your Young — silco x gn!vastaya!reader

Sevika — The Eye’s Left Hand

Ekko — The Boy Savior

[melit0n]

Half-Starved

- Synopsis: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry. Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he could never have; affection. But then there's you. The night owl so willing to offer the one thing he can't have.

And he finds that he'd bleed out if you told him you liked the colour red.

- Oneshot

- Obsessive! Ghost/Reader

- Word Count: 3.7k

- Warnings: Descriptions of gore, canabalism as a metaphor for love, mentions of past domestic abuse, implied past sexual assult, implied stalking

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52474849

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley was born hungry. 

Born with a relentless nagging feeling curled up right between his oesophagus and the squirming muscle of his stomach. From the very moment Simon opened his eyes, he was hungry for something he would never have. Left to starve in the gloom of the locked cupboard he was shoved into for not shutting up. He spent fifteen-odd years greedy for any drop of affection he could get. Anything he could grasp and hold onto, no matter how many bruises it would leave him with. No matter how long he would have to spend chained up like a bad dog in the corner of his room licking his wounds telling himself that it was worth it. That the blood was worth it. The pain was worth it. 

Anything to be acknowledged. 

Now, once again finding comfort in the gloom of his home, he is still hungry. Even more so. 

To him, touch is a fragile subject. A broken subject he hates talking about because of him.

Gunfire and stab wounds are nothing in the face of a father’s punch. Intimate, innocent digits can still feel like creeping, coercive hands.

Yet, a fasting man’s stomach still growls. 

Fragile subject or not, he still craved it. Maybe too much. He wanted, wants, to be held tight enough so he doesn’t break. Wants to be vulnerable. But he’s still afraid he’ll end up being a scared kid looking into the slit eyes of a snake again.

He blames his younger self for the predicament he’s found himself in. Wants sit down with the kid and shake him by the shoulders and ask why. Why he put himself through that for that long. 

Even so, he can’t blame him. 

He knows how hungry he is now; feels the scraping like dull claws against the soft spot between his liver and his spleen. He can only imagine what it was like for him as a child. 

He’s blocked most of those memories out now, though.

He sits through the tugging, the pulling, through each dull meeting. Each dark night spent alone in his bunk. Each evening he spends licking wounds that just won't close. 

Unfortunately, this issue, this dilemma, is a hard one to fix. A hard want to satiate. His callsign is well earned, afterall. Sometimes even he blurs the lines of the dead man walking and the human being hidden behind layers of constantly taught muscle and scarred skin. Makes it a bit hard to gain attention other than fear and unease, let alone affection.

But then there’s you. 

The first word that would come to his mind is kind. 

Out of the blue, draped in moonlight and glimmering stars, you appear, seemingly out of nowhere. But, you’re here. And there. And everywhere, really. 

He sees you in the local corner shop, holding tightly onto the sleeve of whoever you’ve brought along. 

He doesn’t see their face. Too obscured by the dim lighting

He sees you on the train, and occasionally on the bus: brushing your hand, intently, against that of your work friend’s. You both take the same one into the city, bright and early hoping to miss the morning crowd but never succeeding. 

He doesn’t see their face, either. 

Bit by bit, he begins to notice things. Notice habits that shouldn’t be his to examine. 

You use physical affection as not only a way to show affection itself, platonic or romantic–he isn’t particularly good at guessing unless it’s glaringly obvious–but as a form of comfort and encouragement as well. 

In less than a month into his leave, you’ve managed to become a staple in his civilian life. 

He sees you in the morning, always at the train station with breakfast and lunch in hand, looking quizzically around to see if you’ve missed your train like a doubtful deer. 

He knows you know you haven’t. You’re like him; you’ve got an obsession with time. 

While his is instilled by the harsh words of the military, yours is brought about by a tight work schedule. And maybe something else. He wonders what that something else is as you both board the already stuffed train, both standing in the same carriage full of warm, already tired bodies. 

He sees you in the afternoon as well, sitting outside on a park bench with a friend and eating lunch. While you talk, you have a habit of taking tiny crumbs off of your sandwich, flicking them off to the ratty pigeons that flock around your feet like moths to a flame. 

You always have the same lunch; the same sandwich bread from the same corner shop with the same filing. You have a thing with regularity, routine, as well, it seems. 

Just like him. 

Of course, he sees you in the evenings too. You both take the same train home, and almost always end up so close yet so far from each other on the carriage. Your work friend gets off at the stop two before yours and Simon’s; always leaving you with a pat on the shoulder and a closed eye smile, which you almost always return. 

You have a habit of jumping, ever so slightly, when you get off the train. Simon finds it quite cute. It’s almost as if you’re actually afraid of the gap.

Of the fall. 

Either way, you part ways without knowing you’re parting from him, leaving you missing from him, and head back to your home. Ghost has an impulse to follow you, spurred on by a mix of curiosity at where you live and wanting to make sure you’re safe.

From what, Simon doesn’t truly know. 

He almost does. Stands awkwardly in front of the station watching your figure turn into a small dot, but Simon urges himself to head home. To sleep. 

You linger in his thoughts each time he walks back. 

At first, he’s oddly amazed, a bit in awe, if he were honest, that you can give so much affection so easily, touch so easily, and receive it tenfold from the people around you. 

Then, there’s annoyance, titering on the fine, chipped-away line of anger. Like a mantra, he asks why it’s fair someone can give, give and keep on giving, let alone receive something back, and he can’t? How can you hold someone so closely and not be afraid of a knife in your back? 

Maybe that’s Ghost talking, he thinks. 

Eventually, he falls off the flimsy line of annoyance and anger and into the muddied trench that is jealousy. Jealous not only of you, how you can give and receive so easily, but of the people in your life who get to experience the affection that you give to any warm body that passes by you. Said people who don’t understand how precious and rare that experience is to others. 

To him. 

He wants to taste it. Badly. 

Then, it morphs. Twists and turns like a dying thing, all red with chunks of fur sticking at odd angles, into attraction. Turning from a want to be held, a quiet plea to the God they taught him about in primary school for you to keep him together for just a little bit longer, to a need. A need to kiss until both your lips are bloody and raw, bitten and chewed like a pomegranate, seeping your liquid life for him to drink as an elixir. 

He’s seen the way you kiss, and God above he needs it. Needs you. He doesn’t care if it’s the fleeting, platonic kisses you gift to your friends on the cheek (he wants you to take a chunk out of his cheek. Wants you to chew on the fat like the gum you always have in your mouth), or if it’s the rough ones you give to the people you bring home. The ones that have them chasing your lips for more, which you always allow because you never stop giving. 

Simon wants it. Ghost needs it. 

Consequently, the dull scratching of the claws in between his liver and his spleen grows sharper. After years of the scratching, the pulling, the tugging, he’d thought his hunger pang’s talons had grown weary, thought he’d grown accustomed, but he feels them. Feels the sharp pang like a pistol’s bullet and it bloody hurts. Has him hunched over on his bed trying to claw out his stomach because, for the first time in years, it's hurting him. 

And, for the first time in years, Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley decides to listen.  

As more time passes, more time spent getting soaked outside your house in the rain waiting for you to come home because you’re oddly late for all the time he’s known you, it changes again. Writhes around in his stomach and the fat in his veins, to something much worse. Much more harmful, at least, to you. In all the pain of his hunger, he contemplates taking chunks out of you. Maybe that will satiate the creature that squirms in his bloody viscera, laying claim to all of his innards in an attempt to get him to feed for once in his life. 

He wants, needs, hungers to feel the comforting weight of your blood in the bottom of his stomach. 

Zoning out during meetings easily turns to daydreaming of taking one of his hunting knives to your flesh. Cut strips of skin, like you’re his sacrificial lamb to slaughter and devour, and finally put those butchering skills he gained to work somewhere other than on the field. 

He promises he’ll be delicate. Promises he’ll be kind. Promises Simon, and not Ghost.

Promises Simon, who’s more corpse than he likes to think.

He can’t help but imagine how you’d cry when he’d do so. Fat tears dribbling down your soft cheeks and getting caught in the corners of your lips.

He hates hearing people cry. 

In his dreams and his waking hours, he’s endlessly followed, stalked, haunted by the echoing sobs of someone lost to him in some distant sun-stunned, sand-smothered land.

But you?

He doesn’t mind one bit.

It’s another piece of you for him to consume, another piece of you that you can offer to him–gift to him–to bring you two together. 

He knows, God knows he knows, how much it takes to be vulnerable. He doesn’t think he’d be able to describe what he’d do to taste your tears. To savour your salty sadness upon his tongue and be able to offer comfort. To lick your face dry and hold you in his arms; warm body against warm body just like he’s daydreamed about.

The more time that passes, the further he falls. 

On slightly rarer occasions, ones where he’s alone in the leaden quiet of his room for longer than a human, a soldier, should be, he thinks about feeding your own lovingly cooked gore to you. Get’s him more riled up than he’d like to admit.

At first, it’s a blurry image. Murky and obscured by a civilian subconscious that tries to remind him of who he is. But, slowly, it dissipates. Becomes as clear as a mirror reflection: a candle-lit dinner, like the one’s his mum had in the pictures that used to hang on the wall. Warm lighting. He’s tried his hardest to cover up the smell of his cigarettes for you, a scent that clings to his walls like mould. Hopes that the smell of whatever he’s cooked for you overwhelms it. 

Soup sounds good, doesn’t it, ey? 

It’s a macabre yet intimate fairytale that finds its way into his thoughts when all else is quiet. Leaves him tossing and turning in his bed because the scraping just won't stop. He swears he's bleeding out from the inside, and he’ll break his own kneecaps from how long he’s been on the floor at your feet begging you to make it stop. To stop the scratching, the itching, the nagging feeling. For you to clean and stitch up his wounds, new and old. 

Quickly, he finds he’s utterly enamoured with the thought. Obsessed with it the way Price does with his plans. Fixated on the idea of being that close to another human being. To be able to physically intertwine each other’s cells through mutual consumption. To be sewn into the quantum patterns of your being. For you to feed him a proper meal like his parents never could.

He remembers being taught in his History class–the one with the old hag of a teacher who, with her droning words alone, convinced him not to take it for GCSEs–that in some old, archaic civilisations, people used to eat each other as well. Cooked an arm or a hand for their lover as a promise. A promise that in life, and eventually in death, the two of them would share an utterly unique bond. Eternally linked to each other's souls. 

If he were honest, he didn’t listen for shit in those lessons. Only really paid attention when they had a sub, and even then half the class was too rambunctious for anything to really get taught. The only reason he remembers was because his mates joked about Victorians eating long-dead mummies like it was a five-star meal for weeks after that lesson. The joke got old quickly, but it stuck with him.

Even so, Ghost decides he could die happy on the field–layered in mud and blood that wasn’t his–knowing that a part of you was anatomically intertwined with him. That, even when he was dead and gone, probably much earlier than he should be, you two would still be connected. He would have a piece of you, and you him.

And you, him. It’s another idea that stays with him, plagues his mind and every meal he eats: mutual consumption.

He decides he doesn’t mind extra scars, extra wounds, because he knows you’ll lick them clean for him. Knows you wash them, stitch them up and check on them so they heal properly. 

In the end, that is the intimacy he dreams of. The affection he wants from someone. Wants from you. 

His body is yours, as yours is his. So let him be yours. Give him that chance. Let him feed. Let him fulfil you. 

The idea leaves him with a small smirk on his face, one he doesn’t do well to hide. One that has Soap nudging him in the ribs for with a prodding grin of his own. 

So, he makes a decision. For once, Simon and Ghost agree on something and work together as one, instead of turning the other off for the greater good. 

The decision? To feed. 

To finally know what it is like to be full instead of half-starved. 

The scraping, the nagging, only grows stronger. 

He makes it a point to bump into you as much as he can before his next mission. 

Anywhere is a dinner table to him. On the crowded train, brushing his rough hand against yours to ease the hunger for even a second. In the artificial lighting of the run-down corner shop, grabbing that bag of snacks that are just out of reach for you. ‘Accidently’ bumping shoulders with you on the pavement. That one allows him to talk to you, too. 

If only for a moment. 

All he wants is anything. Anything will do. But it only temporarily satiates the pang, doesn’t satisfy it. He just gets hungrier and hungrier and hungrier. 

He knows you’ve begun to notice him. You’re getting hungry too. He just hopes it’s in the same way he hungers for you. 

He hopes you’re hungry for him, and him alone.

At first, you attempt to offer him platonic comfort, which, God above, tastes so sweet. You offer soft touches on his shoulder. You gift fingers intertwining with his own as you cross the street to his home because he’s gone off on another bender trying to stop turning over in his bed and seeing the inside of a coffin that he has to dig his way out of again. 

‘N you’re just some poor night owl who’s trying to be kind. 

It becomes a routine. Both for you and him. You know he’ll come out of the pub at quarter to one and you know he’s expecting you. You’ll walk the same walk to his home, fumbling with his keys as he looks at you with the softest eyes you’ve ever seen on a man, hands intertwined. You’ll still carry him home and close the door softly with your foot as you lay him on his couch and get him a glass of water and whatever painkiller he has lying around. You’ll still stay as he chats, drunkenly, to you. You’ll take care of him and he’ll be whole, for just a moment. 

At least until the morning comes, anyways. 

He begins to hate the sunrise. Hate the light and the work and the people which drag you away from him. 

He hungers for your touch the same way water hungers for the cavities of people’s lungs. Hungers for your skin like he hungers for the nicotine in his cigarettes. Hungers and begs and pleads until you both fall like Icarus; wax melting and dripping off your backs as you try and crawl your way back to the sun, back to the light, while he drags you down into the depths of the deep blue. Keeps you tight in his embrace so you can’t disappear into the blue again. Disappear like the moon and the stars that hide their fires and fade away when the sun comes up.

It's almost poetic.

In the midst of your drowning, the front door opening startles you out of your stupor. 

You do that a lot, Simon notes. You’ll black out and stare at a wall blankly for hours, either in dead silence or to some piece of music too quiet for him to know the name of. He doesn’t question it. Verbally, at least. 

From how easily you dissociate, he’d say it’s something you picked up a long time ago. He’ll find out when, eventually.

He knows the face of it, afterall. The blank eyes that see nothing and everything. He isn’t wrong to wonder what you’re thinking about, or what memory plays on loop that keeps you a temporarily vacant statue. 

Sometimes, something small in him wonders if he's the cause of it. 

Then he remembers he’s human. He’s human and it’s normal to seek affection, and he carries on eating. 

Carefully, you get up from the couch, approaching him as he walks over to the kitchen counter. The blue plastic bag he has rustles loudly in the spotless kitchen. 

“What’s that?” You ask, gently, placing a hand on his shoulder to get a better look. 

Please give me more. 

He lets out a knowing grunt and pulls out two round, red fruits. At first, you mistake them for apples, but the star-shaped top throws you off. 

“Pomegranates?”

He nods, looking into your eyes for some sort of approval. 

Gingerly, you take one of the pomegranates out of his hand, his fingers twitching as the pads of your digits brush against his. 

I’ll take anything you give. 

Your eyes dart back and forth between him and the fruit as you do so, careful to earn his compliance as you inspect the fruit. 

Just please give me more. 

They’re a deep red, almost crimson, and the shine reflects your face on its vermilion skin. 

“Chopping board,” He pauses. “Please?”

Nodding absent-mindedly, you place the fruit back into his cupped hands. 

You open the drawer behind the both of you and pull out an old chopping board, red soaked and stained into the wood that Ghost just can’t seem to get out. You place it on the counter next to the pomegranates, along with a clean bowl he didn’t even hear you grab, and then find your way to the knife block. Hearing the subtle shink of a blade against wood, Ghost turns and scrutinises you as you try to remember which knife is the fruit knife. 

Choosing the shortest one, you hold it by the handle, facing downwards just like Simon taught you, and place it on top of the chopping board with stitched-up hands and missing fingers from all the times he’s begged for more. From all the times you’ve said you have nothing more to give, but he knows you always have more. Knows you’ll always keep giving.

I’ll take even the spare and broken bits. The parts you don’t even want.

You watch, intently, as he delicately cuts the top of the pomegranate off, slicing through the thick skin. 

Just look at me. 

Gently, he peels the layers of the pomegranate back, kissing each one with the tips of his fingers, letting it stain them something beautifully violent. 

Touch me. 

He reveals the soft viscera inside, glancing back over to you again and again. Looking for something in your eyes. 

Let me be full.

Then, he cuts it into quarters–continuously surprising you how gentle he is with it–but not down to the skin. Leaving it in a filleted star-like shape, he turns it upside down on the bowl, and, using his hand, slowly shakes the seeds off of the fruit into the bowl. 

Once he’s finished, sure he’s got all of the seeds off, he moves onto the next. Repeats the same process. Maybe he repeats the same thoughts, too. 

After he’s done, he sets the empty corpses aside. The red spills out onto the counter. You’re worried it’ll drip down onto the tile. 

He’s staring. Not at you, but at the bowl of red. It’s almost eerie, how still, how quiet he can become. 

The silence is deafening. You want to fill it.

Suddenly, he takes a bloody scoop of the red viscera with his hands. 

Be full. 

Lets the pinkish liquid dribble down his hand. 

Let me fill you, and in turn, you me. 

Then his forearm. 

Feed on me until there is nothing left.

Then down onto the immaculately clean counter.

Let us decompose, intertwined. 

The kitchen smells like bleach. It makes the back of your throat itch. 

He offers his hands out towards you, like an olive branch, like some lurid type of eucharist, and, like the obedient dog you are, you feast. 

Please. Please. Please, please, please, please-

“I love you.” He mumbles, fondly watching the muscle of your tongue dart out to catch the pinkish juice dribbling from your frothing maw. 

-just say you love me, too. 

You’re eating, and you begin to repeat it, but Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley has taught you well not to speak with your mouth full. 

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

I've spent the past week hearing 'Abbey' by Mitski at every turn, so it's safe to say that was the main force driving me to write this lmao. I'm pretty sure that if I heard that song or saw something about bloody pomegranates one more time I would've started chewing the flesh off of my own bones. 

Cannibalism as a metaphor for love is an incredibly profound, and, in some ways, poetic literature device for the sheer destruction a toxic relationship can cause, so, I wanted to try my hand at it! And also to stop myself from clawing my face off from hearing anything about this cannibalism metaphor from literally everywhere on the internet.

Do tell if this feels too out of character for Ghost. I originally planned this for König, but I ended up changing it. Overall, thank you for sitting down and reading my work! It means a lot <3

I'll leave it up to you if the metaphor is really a metaphor in the end. 

[stillwattergossip]

Arcane requests! (My rules)

- i do both interactions with arcane characters or female!character x female!/gender neutral reader (platonically & romantically!)

- i can do suggestive stuff but no full-on smut 🙏🏾

-no weird shit like ince$t, grape or too dark content pls

- currently drabbles/headcanons only, but I can also think of a one-shot. To see how my writing style is see/read here.

That's all to respect: I'm looking forward to everyone's ideas🤭❗️

[waywardsou2]

Just letting y'all know I write...I write x reader and ships

So if y'all are looking for arcane content...hit a home boy up

That is all

[swiftholic-13]

I’m taking requests for Arcane. Anything for Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Mel, Ekko, Viktor (romantic or platonic but no smut).

[tales-from-elysivm]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ arcane masterlist ꒱ ˎˊ˗

~ a masterlist for my arcane fanfics ~

vi

bark like you want it (vi x f!reader, sevika x f!reader)

just keep driving (vi x gn!reader, jinx x gn!reader)

jinx

get jinxed (jinx x f!reader)

just keep driving (vi x gn!reader, jinx x gn!reader)

sevika

bark like you want it (vi x f!reader, sevika x f!reader)

mel

n/a

jayce

n/a

viktor

n/a

silco

n/a

vander

n/a

caitlyn

n/a

ekko

n/a

[1-danid]

Mel's Masterlist

Arcane Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Imagines

nothing here yet.

Headcannons

nothing here yet.

One Shots

nothing here yet.

Series

nothing here yet.

Preferences

nothing here yet.

[cosmicporos]

Arcane character x GN! Reader on Period.

synopsis: Just some period comfort hcs with Viktor, Jayce, Vi, Ekko, Mel and Jinx!

Warning: Cursing. 18+ FOR JINX, no smut but somewhat spicy. Rest of the characters are fluff.

Please enjoy! So sorry it took me so long!

Viktor

He’s very educated on menstrual cycles to begin with! (Biology nerd)

Definitely has a calendar and keeps track of all your cycles.

The day before you’re supposed to get your period he comes home from shopping and restocks on food and pads, tampons, ibuprofen etc.

Would definitely give you a massage to help with cramps.

“Beloved?” Viktor knocked from behind the door before proceeding to enter your shared room. "I got what you needed," he said, setting down the grocery bag containing both the tampons and pads. “And these," he added, revealing a variety of your favorite chocolates, salty chips, and even a bottle of your preferred tea.

You blinked at him, your expression shifting from surprise to gratitude. "You didn't have to-"

“Tsk, tsk, tsk” He quickly shushed you. His free hand reaching to brush a strand of hair from your face. "I wanted to. Now, do me a favor and relax." Before you could protest or question any further, he knelt down by your side, his clever hands carefully lifting the edge of the blanket. "Turn over, Darling” he coaxed, and when you complied, he placed his hands on your lower back, his touch warm and deliberate.

"I read this helps," Viktor murmured as his fingers began to work small, soothing circles into your tense muscles. You feel your muscles loosen and quickly melt into Viktor’s touch.

His hands run a little on the colder side, yet they still work their magic and alleviate the pain in your abdomen.

"You're too good to me," you murmured, your voice muffled as you rested your head against your arm.

"Nonsense," Viktor replied, his voice low and unwavering. "You endure so much… this is the least I can do." He says leaving a small gentle kiss on your cheek.

Jayce

He’s the biggest softy for you on your period oh boy oh boy oh boy. He is completely at your beck and call.

He’s also super carful about your emotional during this time. He tries his hardest to leave work on time and come home!

He understands mood swings can happen and he’s very patient! He accidentally messed up and ticked you off? He’ll nod along as you lecture him and act like a kicked puppy. Then afterwards will ask if you’re okay and if you need space. Will 100% make up and apologize by getting you a sweet treat :3

Jayce finally made his way back home, shoulders heavy and tense. his tie askew and his hair slightly mussed, looking like he'd run the entire way home. You stand up from your place on the couch and place a soft kiss on his lips. “Welcome home” you smile at home before your eyes lower to see an empty handed Jayce. "You forgot?" you said quietly, your voice heavy with disappointment.

Jayce froze, guilt washing over his face. "Forgot what?"

"The heating pad," you replied, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. "You said you'd grab it on your way home. I've been in pain all day, Jayce."

His heart sank. "Oh no," he whispered moving to run a hand down his hair. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I don't know how I missed it…”. He thinks for a moment before he says, “That’s on me, and I'll fix it right now!" He turned to leave, planning to head straight back to the lab.

"No... that's alright Jayce, just please remember next time." You grab hold of his sleeve. He let out a soft sigh and turned around to face you.

"I'm so sorry about that sweetheart... Honestly I was just excited to get back home to you is all." He mumbled into your hair as he pulled you into a hug.

"No no it's fine really, it's not too big of a deal" The warmth of his body slowly encapsulating itself protectively over you.

“No you should be upset it’s okay! I’ll be more responsible next time.” His puppy eyes glowing as if he almost wanted you to be mad at him. It was incredibly difficult to deny Jayce whenever he would behave like this…

“I uh…. O-okay?…. Please do better next time.” Your eyes are looking at anything else but at him.

"... you need to be mad at me until I figure out how to make it up to you." His strong arm coming up from behind to softly pat your side. "How does that sound?"

You laugh off the pervious nerves “I think that sounds perfect" You tilt your head up to face him and press a warm soft kiss to his cheek.

Vi

Okay I feel like for Vi for some reason you two would always be synced

She’s all tough and prepared on day one until day two hits and… that’s a different story

You always end up completely staying home together on the second day of your periods

You groaned as another cramp hit, curling further into yourself under the layers of warmth. Next to you, Vi let out a sharp exhale through her nose, gripping the heat pack on her stomach.

"This is some sick joke," Vi muttered, her voice heavy with irritation. She shifts on the bed, but the movement only made her wince. "I could take a punch to the gut, no problem, but this? This is worse than any fight I've been in."

You scoot closer towards Vi drapes an arm over you, pulling you snug against her chest. Her hand found your hair, fingers threading through it lazily.

"We're a mess," you mumbled into her tank top.

"Yeah," she admitted, pressing her cheek against the top of your head. "But at least we're a mess together."

Vi is totally one to do a complete 180 on the next day.

While you’re still dying of pain she manages to get out of bed early and heads to the store to pick up some stuff

Vi's heavy boots thudded softly against the floor, the sound bringing a flicker of relief. "Alright, babe," her familiar rasp broke the silence, “I got a couple of things for you”

“Don’t you mean us?” You sit up straight and tilt your head a little confused.

“Oh no, I’m doing fine sweetheart don’t you worry. But… I know you probably still feel like a sack of shit so I picked up some goodies for you.” she pulled out an assortment of snacks like chips, gummy candy, soda, juice..(if it had sugar she’s go it!…)

“If these cramps won’t kill me… the amount of sugar here will…” Your eyebrows furrowed at the mess of snacks in front of you.

“Oh pip down will you? Haven’t even gotten to the best part.” What she pulled out next made your breath hitch. It was a small, ridiculously cute plushie. A chubby fox with big shiny eyes and a fluffy tail. Vi plopped it onto your lap as she smirked from your reaction. “Cute huh?” She sits down next to you. “I picked it out cuz it reminded me of you”

Your face flushed instantly, a mix of embarrassment and warmth flooding through you. You picked up the fox, turning it over in your hands. Its fluffy tail was so soft it almost felt unreal, and the wide, shiny eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim light of the room. "Reminded you of me?" you asked, glancing at Vi with a raised brow.

“Yeah well… it’s cute and small.. so it reminds me of you.” She leaned back against the headboard, “And it’s a little spunky. Just like you.”

You roll your eyes and softly punch her shoulder. "It does cheer me up," you admitted softly, clutching the plush fox closer. "Thank you, Vi."

She wraps an arm around you shoulder and pulls you in “No problem Cupcake, anything for you.”

Ekko

HES PANICKING

but in the outside he’s cool as a cucumber

The inside? oh god. He’s stressing out about making sure all your needs are met.

You are not allowed to go on missions during this time at all. He doesn’t exactly forbid it per say but he does shoot a glare whenever you flinch due to the pain of your cramps. He’s always behind you making sure you’re okay

He’s like a little momma bird

You were currently getting ready for a mission, bag laying across the table as you carefully prepare stuffing it full of food, medical supplies, bombs and your trusty lock pick. Ekko leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with that ever so perceptive gaze of his.

"You good?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Yeah, fine," you replied, wincing as another cramp twisted in your stomach. You shake your head cursing at your own reaction.

He was by your side in seconds, gently taking the pack from your hands. "You're lying."

“Ekko please…” you straightened your back. "I'm fine," you insisted, reaching for the pack again, but Ekko held it out of reach.

reach.

"You think I don't notice you wincing every five seconds?" His voice softened, though his eyes stayed firm. "You can't go out like this.”

“I’m not some baby. Believe me I’ll be just fine.”you protested, though even you could hear how unconvincing you

“Look… you sound way too unconvincing and because you’re way too stubborn…” He paused looking at you and finally smiling. “How about I skip out on this mission too? And you know.. take care of my girl?.” A proud and playful smile adorns his lips while he waits for your response.

You’re a little surprised, not because he doesn’t put you first but because he’s allowing himself to relax in a way as well. “Are you sure about that?" you ask, your voice softer than you intended. "I mean... this mission sounds important. I don't want you to–“

"Stop." He cuts you off gently, stepping closer. The distance between you shrinks, and you feel his hand come to rest on your shoulder, steady and warm. "I've been out there long enough to know the world ain't gonna fall apart if I sit one out." He takes a deep breath and continues, "I know I push myself too hard sometimes. And yeah, protecting our people is important and all, but so is being here. With you. What's the point of fighting if I can't take a moment to enjoy what I'm fighting for?"

“Ekko…” His words hit you harder than you expected, the vulnerability in them catching you off guard.

"Yeah firefly?…” He tilts his head, watching you carefully. His hands fidgeting together like a nervous child.

You let out a small sigh, your resolve crumbling. "Just... don't make a habit of this, okay? The Firelights need you."

"They'll manage," he says with a wink. "I'll make it up to 'em. Promise." He finally makes his way over to you placing a small kiss on your neck before continuing. “But let me make it up to you first okay?”

Jinx

18+

Okay jinx is an absolute horndog when you’re on your period

You got cramps? Uhhhh…. Solution????… her mouth and fingers.

“Love bug come onnnnnn! You know making you cum will help with cramps! What’s the big deal?” She sighed dramatically flopping over the table in front of her.

“Love bug?…” You questioned. “And the deal is I’m on my period!…. I don’t want to make a big mess for you to deal with okay.” You huffed out embarrassed at her playful yet lewd antics.

“Yeah! Love bug cuz you love me and you’re always buzzing around me! Like a bug!” Jinx proudly exclaimed her bright idea of a nickname, perhaps a bit too proudly… “And besides! Me?… care about a mess? You’re kidding right?” she looks almost offended but the fact you assumed she wouldn't do this for you.

“Jinx… I just feel gross okay… I don’t really feel super desirable right now.” You sighed placing your face into your hands.

She bangs her fists on the table and jumps up from her seat. “You’re fucking joking right? You’re smoking babe. SMOKING. Like SMOKING HOT! Her arms waved around as she talked to draw out more emphasis to her claim. She lets out a playful scoff “It’s taking every fiber of my being to not pounce on you right now!”

“Jinx… knock it off…” you bit your lip embarrassed and turned away. “I know that isn’t true at all… quit being too nice.”

“Doll…. You’re way too into your own head! I’m saying I wanna bang and you think I’m lyin?” She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head. “No no no we can’t be having that! Doll come here.”

Your expression as you looked at her told Jinx you in fact did not know who to believe. You’re corrupt emotions or your loving girlfriend? Either way you walked to her and stopped till you were in front of her. She quickly cupped your face and pulled you into a deep inviting kiss. Her hands roam softly along your body, gently holding and squeezing every part she loved.

She breaks away from the kiss and looks at you, her voice more serious than you’d like it to be. “Y/N you’re always going to be perfect to me, there’s no way in hell l’d ever be grossed out by you.” She leans in closer and softly leaves kisses along your collar “Besides I wanna love you. I wanna make you feel so crazy good you won’t even remember all your dumb troubles.”

Mel

MEL MEL MEL MEL MEL 😻 fancy rich lady who spoils you

While I do think she’ll still be super busy with work, she’ll most definitely make sure your body is been taken care of.

She lets the chef know your nutritional needs, taking notes you need more iron in your diet.

And when she does come home it’s all kisses, cuddles and praise getting sent your way!

Since she could remember, Mel could take care of just about anything. It didn’t matter if it was a delicate political negotiation or ensuring you felt cared for on your worst days, she had an effortless way of making you feel like the center of her world

The moment she left for the council meeting that morning, you heard her speaking quietly with the private chef, listing off ingredients and dietary adjustments with her usual precision. "She needs more iron," you overheard her say, her voice warm yet firm. "Spinach, lentils, maybe some lean meat. And add something sweet but not too high in sugar content. She deserves to enjoy herself, but make sure it stay healthy for my sake.

Hours later, as you lay curled up on the couch, a warm blanket draped over you, the scent of something savory wafted through the air. The chef had outdone himself, delivering a meal tailored exactly to what your body needed, paired with a small plate of indulgent chocolate covered fruits. It brought a soft smile to your lips. Mel always thought of everything, she always thought of you.

the front door finally opened, the sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor announced her arrival. You craned your neck to look at her, and the moment her golden eyes landed on you, her expression softened.

"There's my love," she murmured, setting her things aside and making a beeline for you.

"Hello darling, long day?" you asked, your voice soft.

"Not anymore," she replied, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead before settling beside you on the couch. Her hand came up to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing against your skin. "How are you feeling? Did you eat?"

You nodded. "The food was perfect. Thank you for taking care of it."

“Oh? So you heard me did you?”She hummed in satisfaction, pulling you gently into her. Her arms wrapped around you snugly, her fingers trailing softly along your back in soothing patterns. "You've been so strong," she whispered. "But you don't have to be right now. Let me take care of you”

You melted into her embrace, feeling the tension in your body ease as she held you. "You deserve the world," she murmured, her voice full of affection. "And I intend to give it to you, one kiss or gentle word at a time. You will be shown my love”

ERM SO A LINE FROM JAYCE’S PART IS FROM XAVIER’S NEW CARD FROM LOVE AND DEEPSPACE! I recently pulled it and oh my god…. It’s been stuck in my mind…. ANYWAYS HOPE YOU ENJOYED

[narnian-neverlander]

For You, Always [Viktor x GN!Reader]

Plot Summary: You press your forehead to his lightly and whisper your thanks again, and “What you did was more than enough. You will always be more than enough.” He tightens the arm still looped around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer, the hand on your face slipping to the back of your neck, mirroring you. This is how things have always been between you two and how they should stay: clearly caring and loving, yet a certain line never crossed.

Word Count: 4,7k

Warnings: slight angst, self-worth issues (both of them need a freaking hug), internalized ableism, talk about a non-consensual relationship (nothing explicit/graphic or sexual, but reader’s ex is clearly an abusive, ableist pos)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Jayce is playing matchmaker, because both Viktor and the Reader have such bad self-worth issues, they’re not gonna get anywhere unless he whacks them over the head with his hammer

“According to Mel, he is an absolute ass, but unfortunately one of the most influential people in Piltover, so—“

“Unfortunately, he’s also kinda, sorta my ex…” you mumble into the rim of your glass, interrupting Jayce and it is comical, cartoonish almost, how his head turns to look at you so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap. Not to mention Viktor accompanying his reaction perfectly by choking on his own drink. You watch Jayce open and close his mouth several times until he finally settles on: “That guy? Seriously? Didn’t think that was your type…”

He casts an incredibly unsubtle, overly obvious glance over at Viktor as he says this and you would’ve loved to strangle him for it; thankfully the man in question is too busy coughing up fancy champagne to notice, he does however manage to get out a “Oh please tell me you lost a bet.”

Downing the rest of your drink in one go, you shake your head. “Gods, I wish. Just… young and stupid and naive and always too eager to please and — and he’s coming this way. Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” You all but flee the scene about to unfold, grabbing another glass off a passing waiter’s tray as you make a break for the nearest balcony. Your friends watch you disappear into the crowd with worried frowns; Jayce’s statement of “Probably a pretty bad breakup…” getting answered with an eye roll and a heavily sarcastic “You think so? I never would have guessed.”

The next hours are spent hopping from hiding spot to hiding spot, snatching drinks and snacks off trays whenever you manage while keeping an eye out for your personified worst nightmare. By some godly miracle you manage to utterly avoid the man and the next familiar face you spot when you dare venture back into the crowds is the Man of Progress himself, surrounded by nobles and merchants alike, polite smile on his face as he makes conversation. A polite, fake smile in danger of slipping that you spot from a mile away. Catching a glimpse of the band getting ready to strike up another song, you decide to be merciful and rescue him. It’s not entirely selfless though, as you figure if the asshole does end up spotting you, watching you dance with Piltover’s very own golden boy might be a good enough repellant.

“Excuse me, Mr. Talis?” Relief floods his features as he turns around to find you right behind him, having shoved your way through the circle of admirers. “I hate to interrupt, but you did promise me a dance. You’re not the kind of man to go back on his word are you?” Voice all sweet and coy and honeyed, batting your lashes at him; the picture perfect flirt making starry eyes at the man leading the city of progress into a brighter future. And it takes all he has not to burst out laughing, because he’s seen this from you before, except it’s usually not him on the receiving end of it, but his partner. It is charming, endearing even, he will admit. No wonder Viktor can never say no to you when you look at him like that. And right now he’s beyond elated you’ve decided to play his saving grace for some reason, so he wouldn’t even dream of turning you down.

“Of course not. If you’ll excuse me.” he states, ignoring any protests from bystanders and guides you to the dance floor with a hand on the small of your back. He leads you into a waltz and waits until you’re swallowed by dancing couples until he lets his face drop into an exhausted grimace. “Oh sweet Gods, thank you. Anymore of that and I would’ve driven the cocktail sticks into my ears.”

“You’re welcome. How did you even end up like that, though? Where’s your better half? He’s usually pretty capable of getting you both out of situations like that.” He sends you a knowing grin as he spins you. “Oh so you think he’s the better half? Ouch.” It earns him an eye roll, but you’re smiling nonetheless. “Like you don’t know I have a favorite. Now answer the question, golden boy.” There’s hesitation before he answers with, “He went home for the evening.” and you almost fumble your next steps. “Excuse me? The bastard begged me to come along for weeks and now he just ditches? The only reason I agreed to come was because he actually promised me a dance.”

Jayce hems and haws and you’re ridiculously close to intentionally stomping on his foot to get him to cough up an explanation; luckily for him he manages in time. “No, no, it’s more like… I sent him home cause if he would’ve had to be in the same room as your ex any longer, I was genuinely afraid he’d take the guy’s head off with his cane.” The laugh that bubbles up from your throat is joyful and real; Jayce has always been good at defusing your irritation with humor. It takes another few seconds and another look at his face to realize that he’s dead serious and your laughter dies on your tongue, leaving behind the taste of ashes. “You can’t be— He— What?! I left you guys for two hours max!”

“Yeah, well…” he starts as he dips you, “your ex has a way of getting under people’s skin.” No shit. But you’d honestly thought Viktor was above it. “What did the asshole do? Dismiss Hextech as an obsolete fantasy?” Shaking his head, he leads you into another turn. “No, quite the opposite, actually. He was incredibly interested, but his demands for becoming a sponsor were ludicrous, to put it mildly. Final say in the direction of Hextech, majority of the shares, unrestricted access to all stages of development and… you.” This time, you do stumble over your own feet in shock, falling straight into his chest. “Pardon?!”

The poor man looks as uncomfortable as you feel as he explains. “Apparently he saw the three of us talking earlier and one thing led to another and— fuck, I don’t know what happened between you, but that man is absolutely not over you. For some reason that is entirely beyond me, he was under the impression that because we’re friends we’d somehow be able to coerce you into being with him again. And the way he was talking about you? Gods, it made me wanna punch him in the face; it was so utterly vile I can’t even repeat it. Scratch that, I just really don’t want to.” All things considered, you’re glad for his hands steadying you, cause the room’s spinning even without the dance you’re still enagaged in and you feel like you’re gonna loose all the fancy hors-d’oeuvres from earlier on the polished marble floor any second now. “Great. Lovely. Perfect. And how exactly does Viktor fit into this now?”

He sighs. “Honestly, I can’t repeat what he said either.” This seems to ground your spiraling for a moment and you cock a brow at him. “Are you kidding? He’s usually pretty eloquent.” To say you’re surprised when he snorts in amusement would be an understatement. “I mean I literally can’t repeat it, because he was so utterly livid, he slipped into his mother tongue and while I can’t be sure, it didn’t exactly sound like he was complimenting the guy.”

Finally all the pieces click into place and when they do, you slow your steps to a stop and blink up at your friend owlishly. “He… Viktor got upset on my behalf?” The way he so openly laughs at you makes your ears burn and your fist connects with his chest in a halfhearted punch. “I don’t see what’s so funny about that!” Catching your hand as you ready yourself for another swing, this time aimed at his stupid, handsome face, he reigns in his laughter and simply smiles at you; not mean spirited or teasing, but shockingly gentle and sweet. “You really can’t even begin to understand the way he sees you, huh? The lengths he’d go to for you?”

The anger and embarrassment in your veins all but evaporates, replaced by something soft and warm; heat gathering at the back of your neck and the balls of your cheeks for an entirely different reason now. Your mouth drops open as you try to formulate some sort of response, only to fail miserably; incoherent stuttering and beginnings of words the only thing you manage to produce. The music finally fades out and is replaced by applause for the band as your friend chuckles and inclines his head towards the door. “You should go talk to him.” A glance over his shoulder shows you the gaggle of potential investors you’d saved him from earlier already making their way towards you again. “And you’ll survive if I leave you alone with these people?” An overly dramatic sigh is your answer. “I’ll gladly sacrifice myself for your happiness.” The ‘my hero’ he gets in return is dripping with sarcasm as he winks at you and makes a shooing motion towards the exit, then turns around to head back into the fray, giving you a clean escape.

Freezing winter air hits you as you exit the venue; bitingly cold but a welcome change from the sweltering warmth of the gala nonetheless. Starting left, you catch yourself after only a few steps to reconsider. Left would be Viktor’s apartment. Right would be the lab. You know him better than that, don’t you? So you change directions, readjusting your scarf over your nose. It’s a relatively short distance to the academy, even so your fingers are starting to go numb when you reach one of the big, heavy doors leading inside. The hallowed halls are quiet and dark, making the high ceilings and ornate walls seem even more imposing than usual as you make your way towards the lab with hurried steps. It all feels like you’re doing something illegal - or maybe it would, if all the security guards hadn’t seen you hang around the two Hextech pioneers often enough for you to know all their names by heart at this point. Arriving at the lab, first glance tells you it’s as empty as the rest of the building. Except for the tiny sliver of light peeking out from under the door. Bingo.

You gingerly, quietly press down on the handle, not wanting to involuntarily startle the man you know to be inside, just in case he’s handling something explosive. One experience like that had been enough to last you a lifetime. You’re in luck, as you instead find him hunched over one of the desks, furiously scribbling notes onto various scattered pieces of paper, muttering under his breath. The small lamp at his side casts deep shadows across his face, but you’re still able to make out the frown; thick eyebrows drawn together in irritation and lips pressed into a thin line. He couldn’t possibly still be upset about what happened at the gala, could he? No, impossible. Preposterous. Idiotic. He’s hit a roadblock in his equations, that had to be it. But seeing as you’re not in any danger of accidentally causing him to blow you both to pieces you make your presence known to him.

“I do believe Jayce told you to go home, didn’t he?” Viktor almost drops his pen in alarm, swiveling around on his stool to find you have sidled up to him, leaning against the desk, in the process of ridding yourself of your coat and scarf, an amused grin on your lips. He puts a hand over his racing heart, as he says “And a heart attack is a fitting reprimand for my crime in your eyes, yes?” You only raise your brows in return, smile slipping from your face, disapproval obvious in your eyes as they flit towards the clock in the corner of the room for just a second; it’s the same look he always gets from you when he’s working when he clearly shouldn’t be. Running a hand through his already messy, chestnut hair, he shrugs. “I simply didn’t feel particularly tired when I left.”

“So I’ve heard.” you muse and pick up a random cogwheel from the table to fiddle with. “Apparently you had some… disagreements with a potential investor?” He clicks his tongue in annoyance and all but chucks the pen still in his hand across the desk. “Potential investor, don’t make me laugh. That appalling, pathetic excuse of a man shouldn’t be allowed in a five mile radius of anything Hextech. Or a five mile radius of you, for that matter.” Humming in both agreement and intrigue, you continue with what’s really been eating you up. “Jayce said you hit him with some choice words. Mind repeating those for me?” A sideways glance your way to confirm you’re certain and then he launches into a repeat of his rant from earlier that evening. He gets about three or four words into it before you throw the cogwheel at him; it bounces off his shoulder and lands on the floor with a ping. “Oh someone thinks he’s particularly funny tonight. In a language I understand, maybe?” Try as he might to hide it, you catch the corners of his mouth tugging upward slightly. “That’s not what you asked of me, though.” Know-it-all bastard.

“Oh how dare you?” Hopping up on the table for additional theatrics, you grip your chest in mock offense and throw your head back dramatically. “Here I am, having braved a journey of freezing winds and complete darkness, to bestow my thanks upon you and you don’t even have the courtesy to thrill me with a retelling of your courageous deeds. Disappointing, truly.” A pointed cough into his fist does little to hide the laugh at your antics. “Please, the venue is a ten minute walk from here and all the streets are lined with lanterns. You’ll need to try a little harder, miláčku.”

Huffing, you run a hand over your face, desperately trying to hide how much the nickname affects you and give you a second to think. Your salvation stares at you from the other end of the lab, the golden horn of the phonograph glinting in the light of the moon that filters through the windows. And he immediately knows he won’t like what comes out of your mouth next, with the way your eyes flash and your lips curl in an absolutely wicked smile. “Well you see, I still haven’t been paid for tonight.” Confusion is clear as day in both his face and his voice. “I do not recall discussing payment for your participation in the gala…?”

“Oh but we did!” you giggle as you hook your foot around the center of his roller stool to drag him closer, very much enjoying the look of utter shock on his face and the slight graze of his hands on the sides of your things as they land on the desk next to you to try and regain his balance. “A certain someone promised to dance with me if I showed up. Guess who ditched before he made good on that?” At least he has the courtesy to look sheepish, a little knowing ‘Ah…’ sound escaping him as he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and drops his gaze to his lap. With how the night had gone, he’d genuinely forgotten all about it. And before the night had even started he’d hoped you’d forget. He really should’ve known better. A finger enters his field of vision to poke him in the chest. “You’re in luck; I am nothing if not merciful, so I’ll leave it up to you: a dance or an explanation. So what’ll it be, darling?”

He’s beyond grateful you can’t get a proper look at his face at the moment, with how pink he knows his cheeks to be, lest you realize how much the nickname actually affects him. And this shouldn’t be such a hard choice, really; the way his heart stutters at just the thought of either, he should be doing both. Besides, you deserve to know. Deserve to know that he’d told that pompous swine to go choke on his wine the moment he’d as much as uttered your name. Told him that he shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe the same air as you, much less be allowed close enough to touch you. That he could amass as much money and power as he liked, he’d never be worth even a fraction of you.

You deserve to know all of that. And yet he doesn’t tell you. Because while he did what he did for your sake, it had still been selfishly motivated. Because if he tells someone interested in you off, then at least it feels like you’re his, even for just a second. Because the irony of the situation is that while your ex might be undeserving of you, so is he. For different reasons, yes, but he feels it’s true nonetheless.

So he doesn’t tell you any of it, his personal demons are not your burden to bear after all, simply grabs his cane in silence and walks over to the phonograph. Slow notes of a gentle melody fill the air a few moments later, as he turns and offers you his hand.

And you’re absolutely shell shocked, to say the least. This is… not the choice you’d been expecting. Words are his forte; he’d always choose them over physicality if given the opportunity. Or so you’d thought. This doesn’t make sense to you; why was he so desperately trying to keep what he’d said about you a secret? Or had Jayce completely misunderstood the situation he’d recounted to you and Viktor had never said anything about you at all? Why would he bother to anyways? You and your past demons aren’t his burden to bear, after all. The uncertainty must be written all over your face, as you’re met with a concerned, “Are you alright?”

It’s a simple enough question, with a simple enough answer, yes or no, but all of a sudden, you’re a child again. Sitting bruised, bleeding, soaked to the bone and crying your little heart out in the shallows of one of the offshoots of the river, an altercation between you and some other kids having turned out to be another case of you biting off more than you could chew. And then a little pale hand holding out a dirty handkerchief had appeared in your peripheral, belonging to a small, lanky boy with a cane and big, worried golden eyes.

Are you alright?

You hadn’t known him then. But you’d taken his hand anyways. Had decided to trust him. He’d never once let you down since and you have no reason to doubt him now. So you do the same thing in this exact moment as you did all those years ago: just take his hand and trust him.

He pulls you flush against him, hands linked behind your lower back, your own coming up to rest on his shoulders. It’s nowhere near as elaborate and elegant as your waltz earlier this evening, more of a simple swaying from side to side, but it doesn’t have to be. Not for you. Not as long as it’s him.

Smiling softly, you say, “A dance with each one of the Hextech geniuses in one night. I must be the luckiest person in Piltover.” He hums in acknowledgment. “And do you have a preference?”

“Oh come now, that is an utterly unfair comparison.” And your heart aches at the way his face falls just the tiniest bit. “I’ve had my preference for years, regardless of dancing abilities; poor Jayce never even stood a chance.” It’s quiet and subtle, barely more than a deep breath in and out, but it’s a laugh nonetheless. “Don’t tell him that, it’ll break his heart.” In direct comparison to him, the bark of laughter that escapes you is loud and boisterous, only amplified by the muted, soft atmosphere surrounding you both. “Please, he knows. He’s been yanking my chain about that for a bit.” Not that you particularly mind; it’s a chain you wear proudly and for all to see after all. You’d shout your love for this man from the highest towers of Piltover if only he asked. “Besides…” you start while tucking your head into the crook of his neck, “I’m here dancing with you because I want to be. I really only danced with Jayce because I thought if… if you-know-who saw it, it might keep him off my back a little longer.”

A slight turn of his head has him nuzzling your hair; the hushed whisper of your name almost sounds pained as his arms tighten around you protectively. He isn’t sure what exactly happened between you and your ex, but he’d be willing to bet that the nature of your relationship hadn’t been… consensual. It’s plain to see that the man scares you and it makes him sick. Angry. Desperate. But most of all, he’s disappointed - in himself. The conversation him and Jayce had had with him had been one thing; the bastard knew how to behave at least somewhat diplomatically while there were people of importance present. Of course, Jayce, and by extension, you, couldn’t know that he’d had the misfortune of running into him yet again while he was leaving. He’d had to listen to that waste of oxygen in expensive clothing talk about you like you were nothing more than a filthy piece of his property yet again and this time around he hadn’t managed to remain even remotely civil. Had thrown every curse and threat under the sun in two different languages his way. Had hissed at him that he’d turn him inside out if he ever even looked at you again - only for the pig to laugh in his face, pat his cheek condescendingly and give a disgusted, embarrassed look at his cane, telling him that he was ’welcome to try’ before vanishing back into the crowd. Viktor had wanted to scream at the top his lungs; it had been a while since he’d felt so utterly livid, yet so humiliated and useless at the same time.

And here you are, wanting to thank him for some courageous, chivalrous deed he didn’t actually commit. Looking at him with the biggest eyes, like he’d hung the stars in the sky just for you, when in reality, he couldn’t even properly defend you against someone who’d clearly hurt you. He has to tell you. He’s not the hero you think him to be.

“About what I said to him—“ is as far as he gets, as you promptly cut him off with, “Don’t tell me. It doesn’t matter.” Not even ten minutes ago, you were essentially blackmailing him into spilling this secret and now you don’t care anymore? “I would argue that it does.” He feels more than sees you shake your head, your hair tickling his cheek. “You stood up for me, right? That’s all I have to know. It’s enough.”

Anger and disgust come back full force, choking him like bile rising in the back of his throat, not aimed at you, never at you, but at himself.

“It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out so harsh and bitter and cold.

“It’s plenty.”

Soft and sweet and warm, the exact opposite of his own words in every way; the reassurance and comfort he’s supposed to be offering you dripping from every word. When did your roles get reversed? You’re the one in distress and you’re comforting him? He’s not just useless, he’s absolutely pathetic. And even though you might be none the wiser to his self destructive thoughts, some part of you seems to know; it always seems to know as your fingers dance across his shoulders to busy themselves with the hair at the nape of his neck, calming his nerves.

“I haven’t had— I mean, no one’s ever— Most people—“ A sigh, a clear sign of frustration as you try to get your thoughts in order, warm breath fanning over his neck, leaving goosebumps in it’s wake. “I can count the people who ever stood up for me over the course of my life on one hand; I mean, my birth parents never even bothered to. So knowing there’s someone who has my back, even when I’m not present? It’s…” Pulling back to look at him, his breath catches at the way the silvery light from outside empathizes the affection in your eyes and the tenderness of your smile. “It’s a nice feeling. Thank you.”

His hand is moving before his brain has time to play catch up, cupping your cheek and all but melting when you nuzzle into his warmth, eyes fluttering closed.

“For you? Always.”

He’s not sure he’s ever seen you look quite so peaceful and at ease and it feels like his heart is gonna jump right out of his chest; his gaze is drawn to your lips before he can fully think about what that could entail.

He watches your lips part slightly and when he manages to wrench his golden eyes back up, he finds yours already on him, wide in astonishment and he knows he’s been caught red handed.

And you consider yourself most fortunate, cause if he’d looked up even a second earlier, he would’ve caught you staring. The air is heavy and promising and whoever makes the next move decides wether or not things between you both are gonna change irrevocably.

Tonight, you’re the one that makes that decision. The decision that you’re not ready for things to change. You like what you have and are too scared of losing it. Instead, you settle for something different, yet just as poignant and important; a clear and explicit expression of love for people from Zaun. Softly tugging on his neck, he goes oh so willingly, happily even. You press your forehead to his lightly and whisper your thanks again, and “What you did was more than enough. You will always be more than enough.”

He tightens the arm still looped around your waist and pulls you impossibly closer, the hand on your face slipping to the back of your neck, mirroring you. This is how things have always been between you two and how they should stay: clearly caring and loving, yet a certain line never crossed.

Neither one of you notices the music coming to an end, replaced by the scratchy static of needle against vinyl, too wrapped up in the moment, in each other. A bell tolls outside, signaling the coming of midnight and just like in a fairytale, the spell you seem to be under comes to an abrupt end. With a deep breath, you step back, putting some much needed distance between you, if you want your brain to function properly again, that is, and clear your throat awkwardly. “I uh… I should be getting home. Some people still have a regular day and night schedule, unlike you.”

With a small smile, you go to gather your coat as he switches off the phonograph. When he turns back to you, his heart falls in disappointment; you’re already dressed and halfway to the door. He would’ve liked to walk you home, at least, but you honestly look like you’re fleeing from something; he apparently has imposed on you enough for tonight. Pausing with your hand on the handle, you call his name again, delicately, quietly. When your gaze finds him, you’re pleased to find his full attention already on you.

“Next time you’re pulling an all-nighter… save me another dance?”

And with the way his golden eyes start to shine like the stars and his beautiful lips quirk up into that crooked half smile you adore, you can almost believe Jayce’s words - almost.

You really can’t even begin to understand the way he sees you, huh? The lengths he’d go to for you?

“For you? Always.”

[motthe]

@idkducker : Can you do another lumen au for Mel with a pitfighter fem!reader please 🙏

The delicate scribbling of a fine point pen kept the silence at bay, weaving with the ticking clock in the office. They danced in the late nights, a song Mel knew by heart.

Your lumen, as always, nearby. It had taken to the corner of her desk, its luminance low but steady.

She hadn’t been able to focus an hour ago when it’d gone into a blinking fit. Deep down, she knew you were just fighting again, but it never ceased to worry her that something else might be taking place. What if you were in trouble? What if your opponent wouldn’t stop swinging even after the ref called it quits?

A knock cut through the room, soft but strong. Elora entered soon after, notebook in hand.

She glanced at your lumen before stopping in front of the desk. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m nearly done,” Mel promised, finishing writing down a sentence before she looked up at her assistant. “Any news?”

“Your home guards alerted me.” The look Elora gave was enough of an explanation.

“Should I call for a doctor?” she sighed, gathering the papers.

“I’m sure if she made it back to your place, she’s well enough.” She grabbed the rest of the work before Mel could, eyes slimming. “You’ll get these back tomorrow. Go get some real rest.” She turned to leave.

“Did she win, at least?” Mel called, standing to follow.

“Has she ever lost?”

She hummed, steps measured. “Not yet.”

.

You were on the bed when she returned to her residence, an ice back on your jaw as you dozed. Her golden lumen was resting on your chest, still and bright.

She noticed your hand wraps were still on, hair greasy from sweat. But as you laid there with one leg swinging ever so slightly as it hung from the bed, Mel wondered if the gods had a hand in sculpting you.

“Tough fight, my love?” she murmured, bending over you. “You’re usually washed up by now.”

Your lumen fell from her shoulder and into her own ball of light, the two rolling into the bed as the warmth of their love flashed over the two of you.

“Waiting on you,” you grumbled, peaking one eye open as she combed your hair back from your forehead. “Worked late again.”

“I knew you’d be a while,” she replied, smiling as you wrapped a hand around her waist.

“Hmm.”

She sat beside you, seeping in your warmth as you curled around her like some spoiled feline. “Well? Was it a knockout?”

“They got a few hits in,” you scoffed.”

“Your winning streak is still pristine then,” she hummed.

“I’ll lose someday.”

“That won’t stop you.”

You shifted back to look up at her. “You want to have that conversation again?”

“No,” she said, quiet as she pulled away from you. “It will only end the same.”

“This is my job—my passion,” you began again, trailing after her to the bathroom. “I know you worry, but I haven’t asked you to quit your job, especially after the attack.”

“I know!” she sighed, crossing her arms. Yours weren’t far behind, your chest against her back as you enveloped her frame. “I know, I just hate to see you hurt, my love. That’s all.”

“I know,” you murmured, lips soft against her cheek before trailing to her neck. “That’s why I train so hard.”

“To win?”

“To take the hits,” you chuckled, nudging her fully into the bathroom and closing the door behind you as the lumens slipped in. “Now, can you please join me for a shower? I need to get all this sweat and grime off and I’d like to do it with your marvelous company.”

Rolling her eyes, Mel tapped your nose before going to start the water.

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymmetrical Symphony - Part 1

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 and GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know.

··········· • ············ •

There was a second. Less than a second before Ekko's time flowed again. In that, second before Jayce and Viktor vanished into nothingness, before time turned in your favor. In that second you felt your mind separate from your body, your consciousness being bent into a spiraling corridor of Hextech, your soul being erased and repainted with the runes you studied. And then…white…a flash of nothingness and the ticking sound of a clock and in a blink of an eye you jolted awake.

The impact with something cold and hard took the breath out of you, feeling it hit right below the diaphragm. You kept sliding down something until you woke up enough to figure out where you were and how fast gravity was working against you.

You quickly figure out where you were: the Hexgate rooftop. The place you had been standing a second ago, looking at a white construct plucking all your memories away, now a dark slide with a not-so-fun ending. You cured under your breath, your hands finding anything they could grab and stop the swift descent. Finally, your fingers clawed at a sill and you haphazardly stopped your death by floor. 

With two big puffs of air, you managed to pull yourself up the ledge and immediately fall on your back, when you figured the ground was straight. You could feel your lungs explode with cold air, the tears you had before drying out in the night air. 

You frowned. Night air? Something snapped in your brain and straightened your back, sitting on your small perch. It was broad daylight … The flood of memories and images hit you all at once, and you felt all of them all at once. You felt your brain split open and be sewn back together. Jayce, Viktor, your two friends, broken and made whole again. The hextech, the hex core, and its idea of a hive mind world. Mel, a force of nature finally found what she was truly made of, marble and gold. Caitlyn and Vi, the backbone of the enforcers. You, a high society figure tangled in the science you patronized, turned fighter for Piltover's survival. 

You heard the chaos of the last hour in your mind, the screams, the clinking of swords and blasts of guns. The smell of blood, fear, and magic. 

You felt it all until…you didn’t. And it all became quiet. The silent whisper of the wind on your face and the normal sound of a city under your feet.

You got up on unsteady feet, realizing you were still wearing your makeshift enforcer armor. You looked around, seeing the skyline of the city, bathed in an orange moonlight, until you reached the Academy’s dome. A silent gasp came out of your mouth.

It was still intact. 

The gasp turned to frown and the hope to realization. You took a step back as you watched the red moon reflected on the glass pane.

It was still intact, but not for long.

You remembered Jayce talking about how he got to go to a different time, an alternate universe. A divergence in reality that sent him somewhere. His description was dire, filled with what he called ‘Hex Angels’ coming after him. But this seemed like your world, your time. Before Jinx attacked the council.

Before Jayce placed Viktor in the hextech bath, turning him into the Herald.

You had one chance. One impossible chance. 

The urgency of needing to get to council chambers hit you like a brick and you started to try and make your way inside the hexgate. Find an enforcer, tell them to get you into the chamber, and warn the councilors of the attack. If it would be easy, you were a well-known face in Piltover. Your father was a respected figure, an old councilman, only giving up his seat when your mother died 20 years ago. Getting into that chamber would be easier than getting down from this rooftop.

Which you managed with surprising ease, thanking Caitlyn for showing you the many ventilation entryways where the enemies could try and get inside.

And your feet hit the metallic floor of a walkway you ran as fast you could to any place you deemed safe to jump down. It seemed like a never-ending spiral that was clawing into your anxiety. But when you were about to scream you found yourself face to face with a door with a sign “Maintenance. Do not open it if Hexgate is hot.”

You gave it a few tugs. Nothing. You groaned and started pounding on it, until you saw an enforcer come to the door, frowning. 

He opened the door, a hand on the handle, another on his electric baton.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” 

You frowned at the first question but answered it. His eyes looked nonplussed and you frowned deeper. You hated to pull this card but you didn’t know how much time you had.

“Do you not know who I am?” Your voice echoes through the tube. “I don’t care who you are! You are trespassing on government grounds” He grabbed your forearm and roughly pushed you into a small corridor. “How did you even get in there?” He mumbled to himself, losing the door. “Doesn’t matter. I need to get to the council chamber.” You blurted out, knowing by his demeanor it was futile.  “Pal, you're going straight to HQ to answer how you got into a place with only three guarded doors, and why.”

He once more grabbed your elbow and dragged you away from the metal door towards a minuscule industrial elevator. With his free hand, he grabbed the key ring around his belt and unlocked it. It was beautifully crafted, as was everything in Piltover, but the cramped space and your shoulder pauldron made it difficult for both of you to get inside at the same time. 

You looked at the Enforcer, while he was trying to figure out if going down the thousands and thousands of stairs was worth it. The stairs were barely used, placed there by an overzealous engineer and much like the door to the elevator, it was locked. 

“I’m sorry…” you whispered to the guy and when he turned you did your best Vi impression and head-butted him, leaving him hurting and confused. You quickly snatched the keys from him and rushed to the stairs.

“Stop!” You heard him mumble, trying to regain his balance.

Yanking the door open you rushed down the stairs, jumping whole sets of stairs at a time, using the walls as a concrete cushion to break your descent. You kept jumping and running and colliding with the walls, begging that the ground floor appeared soon. 

The last landing was below you and you saw four enforcers open the door below you and rushed in, looking up and spotting you. You couldn’t take them all. 

Before you could do anything you felt something shift. Similar to when someone stretched after a good nap, but it was in the air around you. Not the air you realized, the reality around you awakened. It whispered something unintelligible, but you heard it even above the guards shouting at you. A faint piano note followed and right in front of you a rune appeared. Like a pattern on a broken mirror. 

A magical rune, you remembered talking with Jayce and Viktor about it.

The officers were approaching and without thinking you inscribed the rune with your foot on the dusty floor of the stairwell. Once made you waited. The guards stopped for a moment looking confused. Nothing happened.

A conversation between you and your father flashed in your head. You had finished practicing a piece on the piano, your father, ever the willing audience sat with a frown on his face. 

“What's wrong?” you asked, turning to him and he shook his head. “Is it supposed to be a happy song?” He asked and you shook your head. “No, it’s a requiem, but I didn’t feel like playing a sad song, so I changed the note.”

Your father smiled sadly and got up from his armchair.

“My dear child, if a song is intended to be sad, then it must be played as such. That was its intended purpose.” He placed a hand on your shoulder “You are only a tool to bring that song to life, your aim should be to bring it to life.”

Intention. You’re a tool with a purpose. You nodded and took a deep breath. Looking up at the enforcers you thought about what the objective of your plan was. Leave. Move from here. And then, you stomped your boot to the ground and a wave of air burst from it. Like a gust of powerful wind, knocking the enforcers down.

You looked at the groaning bodies on the floor, your chest heaving in deep breaths. For a second you were frozen to the ground, until the clanking of metal armor and footfalls snapped you out of it. 

“I’m so sorry…” You whispered to the guards on the ground and ran outside the hexgate, shoving whoever stepped in your path out of the way. 

You relied on your muscle memory of Pilltover to get you to the University where the Council of Clans was to be taking place. You managed to lose most of the enforcers by swerving into the building’s back alleys, stopping only by a garbage chute to dispose of the outer layer of armor you still had on, leaving you with a simple pair of blue pants and a tank top.

Arriving at the University steps you slowed down and walked confidently towards the enforcers at the door, hoping they had not been warned about your encounter at the Hexgated and that they knew about who you were. The last part was quickly dismantled as they stepped towards you with a hand up. 

“I am here for the Council meeting.” You announced, your tone showing the confidence you didn’t have, but that years of practice made second nature. “Good evening. We are not expecting any visitors.” The enforcer replied, politely. “Please turn back and come back tomorrow with an appointment.”  “Councilwoman Mel Medarda is expecting me.” Your tone dripped with the impatience only a Topsider was known to have. “I am truly sorry, but we are not expecting visitors. If any member of the Council was expecting you we would have been warned.” The other enforcer repeated and started towards you. “This is astounding. How dare you stop me from an engagement with a Councillor? Preposterous. I will tell your supervisor about this…” “As is your right. Now please turn around.”

You huffed and puffed, putting on a performance of a lifetime until you finished the rune you had learned minutes ago. Once that was done you turned to the enforcers and once again apologized, watching as they got knocked on their asses when you stomped the rune with your boot. It was enough for you to walk to them and grab another key ring for your collection. 

Unlocking the side door of the main entrance you stepped inside while hearing shouting approaching from the outside. Time is running out. You looked at the marble steps and both you and your knees groaned. You took the steps two by two until you reached the second landing and then you found the main elevator. You had no time to wait for the thing to arrive nor to go to the last floor by the stairs. 

Reality did the thing again and once more a rune whispered and showed itself as if it was a patch on the elbows of a jacket. There was no dust on the floor or walls, nothing for you to write the rune on. 

All of a sudden you felt a burning sensation in your hand and looked at it. In your palm, a bright blue rune appeared, glowing in the darkened university hall. The bright light spread, filling your palm, your knuckles and your fingers. When you moved your hand to turn it and watch the light consume the rest of your extremities, you noticed your fingers were painting light into the air. You moved your fingers in a wave a small path of light painted the air in front of you, like a stroke of a brush on canvas.

Once again, the clanking of armor and shouting kicked you out of your stupor and you used your now weirdly illuminated hand. For a second today, the rune did nothing and once again you thought of the purpose you had. Reach the last floor.

Another voice flashed in your head. Vi’s shouts when you were on the hexgate, back…back there.

“Well…don’t just stand there…push forward…get them out!”

Push forward. Quickly you drew the rune in the air and just as Vi sometimes spoke with her fists, you did the same, punching the rune with enough force to push it towards its destination.  

The elevator pinged and opened its double doors and you rushed inside. The elevator took off as fast as it could with its old gears but it was still quicker than the steps and by the quiet you were hearing, the enforcers were still finding a way up.

As soon as the elevator stopped you were darting towards the gigantic doors. Midway, you caught a glimpse of something shining through the sky through a window—the rocket. Jinx was going through the motions of pulling the trigger if she hadn’t pulled it already. If the rocket was already in the air, you had seconds to put a stop to the Herald’s ascension.

You swerved right, knowing the main doors would be guarded, but the side doors were usually…hopefully… left unattended. Never did a sigh of a door make you so happy. You grabbed the door handle. Locked.

Instinctively you made the gust of air rune in the air and punched it, the door rattled. You groaned loudly, your desperation evident. You painted the rune again but made it bigger. The door rattled again. If not size, then quantity. You made four runes on the ground, in a single line and stomped on it. 

The door flew open and you ran inside, watching as everyone in the room fell silent. You hadn’t been inside the chamber when the rocket hit, but you knew that Mel’s shield had naturally appeared to protect her. Jayce, being so close to her, had been protected, but Viktor was a breath away from it.

Mel’s eyes snapped to you as you took several gulps of air. Looking at a smaller window in the chamber you saw a light fly towards the dome. You locked eyes with Viktor, sitting on a chair, his expression confused. 

As you dashed towards him, Mel and Jayce, you were half tempted to use magic again, but when he reached for his cane you stopped that thought. You weren’t about to throw poor Viktor around, this was gonna hurt as it was.

A councilman got up in an attempt to stop you, but Vi and Caitlyn's training had paid off and you quickly skidded away. You were centimeters from Viktor when a blue glow bathed the chamber. Everyone’s face turned towards the domed ceiling. As everyone’s eyes were transfixed on the sky you grabbed Viktor's hand and pulled him to you as you rushed towards Mel. You heard the glass shattering as the rocket hit the target, the force of the impact enough to send you crashing to the ground, never letting go of the bony hand in yours. And then…blackness…

··········· • ············ •

[melit0n]

Delicate Is The Flesh - Chapter 6

- Synopsis: On the brink of the bustling new city of Rosholt lies a forgotten palisade of abandoned homes, shops and streets that sit mummified after a chemical outbreak in the 70s, leaving the city uninhabitable.

Over the years however, the place has become a hotspot for urban explorers and crime junkies alike.

Whispers of reanimated bodies stalking the dead streets and brutal murders worm their way into your friend's ears and, having nothing to do on your Winter break, you reluctantly agree to go exploring the abandoned city with them.

What could go wrong, right?

- Chapters ->

Prologue

Chapter 1: For Whom The Bell Tolls

Chapter 2: Corvus and Krater

Chapter 3: Belly of the Beast

Chapter 4: Something Forgotten

Chapter 5: Citrus and Cinnamon

Chapter 6: Mumbling Conscious (you're already here!)

Chapter 7: Heavy is The Head that Mourns The Past

Chapter 8: Be Not Afraid

Chapter 9: Eye for an Eye

Chapter 10: Blood will have Blood

- Status: Work In Progress.

- Obessive!Demon OC/Reader

- Word Count (for chp): 6.9k

- Warnings (for chp): None.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55444003/chapters/150657787

“So, are you sure you don’t want to tell me about this little love story of yours now?”

Helen giggles softly behind you. It echoes loudly in the cracking concrete bowels you trek through.

“Yes. I can assure you, the only way you will be hearing it is if you come back to Greece with me.” Something snaps under someone’s foot, either glass or the dried remains of some bug. 

You both know very well it’s a thinly veiled act of persuasion, a not-so-subtle play on your curiosity. So, somewhat determined to get whatever she had been keeping secret out of her, you put on your best pout and turn to her.

She walks right past you.

Shaking her head back and forth with a hidden knowing smile, she replies, “Making sad faces will get you nowhere, I am afraid.”

“So mean…” you grumble. Considering Helen's typical openness in her thoughts and experiences, you were genuinely intrigued. While it wasn’t mandatory, it was rare she’d hide topics she’d happily chatter about if given the chance. That said, your main aim–hidden under glass and dust–was simply to keep a conversation going. You’ve learnt very quickly that you don’t like the silence here, either. For both of your benefit, you’d much rather keep aimless chatter bouncing off the walls instead of some distant radio show. Keep your mind focused on replies and not the sickly sweet stench of flowers blooming in the middle of winter.

Of empty sockets that stare right at you.

Helen shoots a hand out, “Careful.” Puzzled, you send her a confused glance.

However, the moment she puts a foot down on the wood, you get your answer: the floorboards creaking and groaning loudly with the simple weight. While it wasn’t unexpected–every step you’d taken for the last hour or so had been accompanied by a loud squeak–what catches your attention is how far the wood visibly bends. That, and how damp it is. Damp enough that the moisture shines under the light of your torches. 

Stretching your own leg out to test them, you’re unsurprised to now physically feel how deeply they bow under your weight; whining something foreboding with each kilo you put down. Through the soles of your shoes, you can practically feel the fibres cracking. 

You sigh to yourself, half out of exasperation and something else you can’t quite pin down. 

Looking up from the rotting floor, you’re not surprised to see the rest of the story was in a similar state.

More household items are scattered across the main hall: old stuffed animals poking their saturated heads out of screeching doors. Legs, maybe once holding up sturdy tables, lean against the walls. Sodden, deflated cushions lying haphazardly on the floor slowly melt into the woodwork; plush becoming indistinguishable from the flooring.

All create a waterlogged tapestry of the past.

The wallpaper, colours faded and mixed with old graffiti not unlike a fresh watercolour, reappear in diseased patches across the walls. Even vines from downstairs creep and crawl through the crumbling structure, anchoring themselves to whatever they can find. From the withering leaves, however, you guess they aren’t having as much success as they are downstairs. 

A floorboard wails loudly from beside you. “This does not look too good.” She steps forward–really only a half-step–and begins to test the strengths of the planks in front of you. Then, she takes a full one forward with sounds from the floor that have you partially reaching your hands out, as if to catch her. You watch with a building level of unease as she attempts to spread out her weight.

Even the air is heavy. Heavy with the calm before a storm: petrichor and an electric buzz that lets you know you shouldn’t be here. Somehow, it overpowers the dust–which you’re sure sits in foetid clumps wherever the rain and wind sees fit–and worms its way into your lungs. 

It’s nothing like the air downstairs: while that was fresh, still holding hints of petrichor, this was thick. Like oil. It’s somehow worse than the stagnant air from the basement. 

Eyeing the wood, you hesitantly do the same. “Yeah.” 

Something viscous is at the back of your throat. Tastes like how decaying autumn leaves smell. 

The thin walls–either on this floor or one of the many others–waver in the wind, and you’re starting to affirm to yourself that Jeanne’s promise of the place being ‘structurally sound’ was another one of her half lies.

Four floors high, including the ground floor–five with the addition of the basement–and you’re sure you’d snap your neck. Bleed out on that ugly cream carpet with wooden wings splayed out beside you. Your only consolation is that you’re pretty sure that the main structure is made of solid concrete, sitting silently under the wood.

The gaping plaster wounds in the walls–rippling wooden muscles and creaking metal bones taught underneath–make you doubt yourself.

At best, you’d break or twist an ankle. At worst, you’ll be a bloated carcass strangled by weeds. A rotting warning to all those who enter.

No way in Hell is this safe. 

You take a few more cautious steps forwards, ears perked for the tell-tale noises of crumbling wood that would rather collapse than hold your weight. “If the rest of the floors are like this, I say we stop.” One creaks loudly, a bit too loud for your taste, and you take one backwards. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we fell straight through.”

Helen’s head lowers to stare at the floor, probably contemplating whether the risk of going crashing through four or five stories was worth taking the chance. “I think,” she takes a step forward, graceful as an onyx chess piece slid across the board. “We will be okay.” She turns to you, optimism in her eyes. It makes your shoulder sag. “We just have to keep our eyes out for any wood that is especially dark, or looks wet on the surface.” Another step forward, and you sigh as you begin to follow behind, dutiful as ever. “Is that okay?”

Kind of hard to do when all the wood looks wet, you think. Even so, you keep your nervous thoughts concealed beneath a cool facade. “Whatever you say,” you feel the cold of the water sink into your soles. “You’re paying my hospital bills if I break something, though.”

It’s sarcasm, but she still takes it somewhat seriously. “It would be my fault, so I would not mind.” She shrugs, before pausing, her weight spread between a few different planks. Then she raises her flashlight.

The centre-piece window–which never fails to draw your eye–is broken: jagged teeth glinting in the light.

A soft hum glides up her throat, “The wind and the rain from the North probably comes in here quite harshly: it is no wonder this place is so wet. Either way, I am surprised this place hasn’t fallen like, what is it- paper mache?”

It’s a simple description, one you’d easily take for an answer if not for one simple fact: both windows on the other floors were broken. Both windows faced North, as all the rest of the windows above you.

So why weren’t those as dilapidated as this one?

Wearily, you take a few more steps, trying to follow her invisible pattern of semi-promised safety. “But what about-” that is, before your feet knock into something. Something solid.

Expecting the worst, you look down with a strained look on your face. You’re met with the sight of a porcelain doll. The pale, once pretty, type you almost always see in charity shops. 

And horror movies.

Part of its silky pallor is cracked and smashed in, leaving an empty void where half its face used to be. Curly blonde hair frames what’s left of it, fading blue eyes rolled absently to the side.

“Are you scared of it?”

There’s a bit of blush on its face, too. Faded, like everything else is at the hands of time and neglect, but still there. 

“What?”

It reminds you of something freshly dead. Eyes and body empty, yet still holding onto the warmth in its fingertips.

Helen crouches down in front of it, repeating herself. “Are you afraid of it?”

You’re surprised the wood holds her weight.

Before you can say anything–let a garbled and probably incoherent answer out of your mouth–she picks it up. Handles it more like a living baby rather than a porcelain resemblance. When she cradles its head, resting stiffly in her palm, one of its eyes rolls. Rolls out of its vacant skull to stare right at you. Glossy and unblinking and reflecting flashing blue and yellow that blinds you.

Beneath light fatigue and a growing sense of alarm that refuses to go away, something rings.

“You’ll get a demon or something attached to you if you hold on to it.” You joke, eyes darting up from the glass one you’re sure sees right through your skin. Or, maybe, sees right past you.

She takes your avoidance as an unspoken yes. She isn’t wrong: if you saw that thing at the end of your hallway in the middle of the night, you’d happily give your apartment up to it.

She fiddles with the stained lace that edges the sleeves and the hem of the forget-me-not dress. “Why?”

It’s a good question–like all of her questions are. You roll thoughts around in your head, seeing how they taste on your tongue. You’d say it’s something embedded in you; embroidered into the intricate tapestry of each twitching muscle and thumping pulse of your heart. You’re afraid of the doll the same way something in the back of your mind, a knowing voice neither old nor young–simply alert–tells you to be afraid of the dark. Tells you to be wary of things that creep and slide.

Tells you to be fearful of things that try to be human.

“Probably because I’ve watched too many shitty horror films with Jeanne.” You reply. Helen simply shakes her head, and you think she knows you aren’t telling the entire truth. Either way, she doesn’t bother to pry a more self-aware answer out of you.

Gingerly, she places the doll back down where she’d found it. Its eye rolls back up into its head, having seen enough. For a few brief moments, you don’t blame it. The untouchable night that resides in its hollow head is probably a more comforting view compared to the sodden floorboards.

Both of you carry on with your hushed agreement to explore the other apartments. Helen glides across the floor with wisp-like grace, barely making a noise, while you stumble over each creaking floorboard and spend every two seconds wondering if you’re going to fall.

You stagger through a few different apartments, eyes skimming over whatever was visible and then moving on, more focused on not falling than searching for anything of interest.

After traversing the hall somewhat aimlessly–chattering to Helen along the way–you find your way into another apartment. One side of the floors has swollen, and the entire place reeks of festering mould. 

A question strikes your mind, worming its way out of your mouth as the conversation threatens to fall flat. “Hey, Helen?”

With growing confidence, you carefully step forth. The living room is lifeless; void of any furniture. It also happens to be the side where the floors rise–something very old and very slow trying to breach the surface–so you make the decision to leave the bedroom unexplored. You value your ankles a bit more than that.

“Yes?”

The kitchen is in a similar state. Woodlice crawl between the splitting wood, and a low wind meanders through the rooms like a death rattle. Between what remains of a cabinet and the wall, a cobweb hangs, weighed down by the ever present moisture that seems to loom over the entire floor. 

Its weaver is absent.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Considering her lack of reaction to your joke earlier, you’d say her answer would be a no. Either that, or she wasn’t afraid of the dead leaning over her shoulder.

“I think so. To believe in ghosts, you have to have a belief in some sort of life after the one you live, yes?”

Eventually, you find a somewhat sturdy path towards the bathroom and storage room. Much to your displeasure, the bathroom is locked tight. Even though the wood crumbles under your hands, it refuses to open. In fact, after a few tugs, the doorknob comes right off, small screws clattering to the floor.

Almost as if to spite you, the lock stays intact.

“What do you think of it?”

So, you end up trying the storage room. It’s gutted of all furniture. 

“Of what?”

The air is stagnant. Brackish. You guess it hasn’t been opened in a while. 

“The afterlife. What do you think comes after all this?” Backing up, you attempt to follow your steps back out into the hall. 

“I am not entirely sure,” she hums. As each floorboard keens under your weight, you realise that Helen is practically silent as she walks through different apartments. You only really know she’s doing so because of her voice; ebbing and flowing like a warm summer wind from the hallway. “I believe each living thing has a soul, but I am unsure on how long that soul can last.” Her voice becomes louder, “but, I think it may stay after it does not have a body to support it.” and then quieter. You don’t see her walk past your door. “Perhaps they stay because they forgot to do, or say, something before they went. Maybe they stay because they miss home too much.”

Peeking your head out of the doorframe, you can’t spot her. She must’ve already gone into another apartment. 

Looking down, you find a stuffed animal imitating you. Or, rather, you it. 

You scoff, walking out into the hall and examining the different doors. “What’s home to someone who’s already dead? You’d think a ghost would want to go wherever they please since they have no physical restrictions.” With long strides–you’re sure you look like some sort of awkward stick bug–you pass the elevator. The twin doors are wide open, and even your flashlight can’t illuminate the rubber veins that crawl along its throat.

“Home is not always a place, I think.” Her voice is closer now. 

Each door is in varying states of decay: those closer to the window in the hall are mere fragments, while those nearer to the main stairs retain some semblance to actual entryways. 

Your eyes catch onto one near the elevator: number forty-six. It’s one of the few on the floor still holding on to its once shining number, this floor being numbers thirty-three to forty-eight. Although, the four is crooked–slanted to the left like a loose skull–and the six is ever so slightly lower than it should be.

“What else could it be?”

With a jostle of the knob, you also realise it's one of the few doors that’s locked. The weight in your pockets brings a smile to your face, and you can only hope you have the right key. 

“A person.” Her voice has moved again, now on the opposite side of the hall.

You pause, if only for a second. 

You’d never really thought of it that way. 

With warmed metal under your fingers, you wonder if you’ve ever seen home inside another person. Your thumb glides over engraved numbers, hidden from your eyes underneath years of rust and oily fingers. 

Maybe in Jeanne? Or Helen? Noah? A past lover?

“If you were to die,” you bring a key closer up to your eye, the number indistinguishable. “Away from ‘home’, do you think you’d try to find your way back? Or would you find somewhere else to haunt?”

Maybe…maybe in him.

“I would want to go home, definitely.” Floor six, apt eighty four… “When I do pass, I think it will be nice to be where I grew up. I would want to see the sea again, too. I would not mind staying there after I have passed.”

If so, home is long gone. The grass is dead, and there’s no soft light in the windows anymore.

Just flashing blue and glass in between in your fingers. In your skin.

“And what,”…Floor eighteen, apt two hundred and seventy-nine…not this one either. “What if you’re the type to see home as a person?”

She stays quiet for a few moments.

…Floor three…

You squint. 

“Then I trust I will find them, and them, I.”

…apt forty-eight. Shit. 

Your shoulders fall.

“Just…uhm, let me know when you make a decision about coming with me, okay?” Helen’s voice fades and flickers like candlelight. There’s almost an echo: a second whisper layered underneath her warm tone.

Wait a minute. 

You look back down at the key. Apt forty-eight. 

Slowly, your head turns to the left. 

The last door by the stairs. 

You frown. “Yeah, no- of course.” Answering absentmindedly, you begin to stalk over to the door. You trace invisible lines with your feet, and all seems silent. 

Easily, you find yourself in front of number forty-eight, your light greeting the door: a circular glimpse that pierces through the darkness. 

You feel like you’re sensing a pattern.

It’s closed, and, with a gentle tug, you find it locked as well. 

Half expecting another talking radio, or maybe a miniature desert for this one, you hesitate to even use the key you had been wanting to make use of. You turn it over in your hand: there’s nothing special about it, nor the door itself. Both are in similar stages of disrepair, the door swollen with water and the key elongated with rust. Looking at it closer, you doubt it’ll even open the lock. Hell, the lock itself has probably rusted shut. Either that, or the knob will fall right off, just like the bathroom door’s did. 

You look between the door and the key.

Well…as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The key slides in, and the mechanism opens with a quiet click. Seems the building has decided to grant you a bit of good luck.

The door opens with an ominous creak. Loud and anguished. 

When light finally enters the morose cave, you’re more than pleased–although admittedly a little disappointed–to see nothing abnormal. No radios, no luscious ferns, and best of all, no buzzing flies. 

Plus, it seemed to house more furniture than the last. The windows are layered thickly with grime and algae, and, even with your torch light, the whole place still feels utterly drenched in darkness. Blinking, it’s as if a thin haze–a light mist–hangs over the room. Or maybe just your eyes. 

Tentatively, you step forward, keeping a careful watch on the floor.

The floorboards whine underneath you, rising and falling like valleys and hills under your feet. 

The first thing that catches your eye is a large, embroidered armchair in the living room. Like the doll, it has dark, frilled edging–colour indistinguishable–at the end of the fabric. While it’s faded, the colours of the threads bleeding into themselves, you can just about make out a floral pattern; deep viridian in the centre, framed by jade and mulberry. 

The legs are made of sturdy wood–not cracking and splintering like the floor–which curls inward at the feet like a snail’s shell. An endless spiral unfurling from itself. It’s exactly the type of chair a grandfather, or maybe some old-money, rich man, would have sitting by the fireplace. You can practically see a soft cat curled up on the seat, slowly nodding off as the wood cackles and crumbles into cinders. 

Quietly, you wonder if anybody in this building had a cat. Or a dog, for that matter.

A board bends underneath you, and you take a step back before continuing. 

Someone must’ve, right? Your own apartment had a policy on them: no pets allowed aside from fish–and the odd reptile, though that depended on how much paperwork you wanted to fill out–but maybe this one didn’t.

The door to the bedroom opens easily.

You wonder if they had to leave them behind when those chemicals got out. If they did, you hadn’t seen–nor heard–any once loved strays on your way here. Then again, nature, aside from her plants, seems to have abandoned this place. Left it to the hands of Time and the ever changing faces of the seasons.

Much to your surprise, the main bedroom is almost fully furnished. The bed frame is still intact. Well, you think it is, until you notice it’s leaning on one side. Looking closer, you find one leg had rotted off, the rest in a similar condition. There’s a tall wardrobe on the left wall and, opening it, you find it empty. That is, if you don’t count the dust. Running your index finger over the flat surface, you find it comes off in one thick clump that sticks to your finger. Reminds you of the gum people always stick under the desks. 

With a look of disgust, you wipe it off and continue looking around. 

A soft wind coming from the smashed balcony doors is the only noise you can hear. 

You wonder what Helens’ doing. 

Then, there’s something in the air. Nothing like the dust or the scent of chocolate, but a noise. It’s some sort of chime; light and soft like the call bell downstairs.

You cross through the main bedroom entryway, intrigued and more awake than you had been a few minutes ago.

Who knows, maybe it’ll be this floor’s anomaly.

You wonder where it’s even coming from: quiet as a breath, it disappears behind each thump of the blood in your ears. Maybe from the storage closet, or the bathroom? Whatever–wherever–it was, you determine it must be close. 

Doing a double take, you quickly discover that the kitchen floor was very close to caving in.

Ah. 

Well, now you know why the ceiling was dipping on the other story. 

Seems the bathroom and storage room are off limits, then. 

Ding.

You turn your head. There it is again.

With only one other traversable room left, at least in this apartment, you find your way into the second bedroom. It’s smaller, and without a window it feels as if you’re staring into the endless throat of space.

The wood hums endless tunes underneath you, and there are shapes dancing in your vision, trying to convince you that they’re stars. Stars, and not hooded eyes of indistinct figures.

In the centre, backed up against the far wall–painted a stormy grey–is a cot. It used to be white, paint now peeling off of the wood and curling like angry fingers. There’s a small heart carved into the headboard. It’s obvious it wasn’t a part of the original design; scratchy, as if done with some knife instead of a well-trained machine. 

You like it better than the carbon copies, though. 

Above it hangs another reminder of one of the parent’s handiwork: something halfway between a traditional wind chime and a baby’s mobile. Falling apart as it is, you can still see the wood carved with pure love and twine threaded with nothing but adoration. Sanded wood and glass clink together, the wind from the hallway their conductor. 

There’s a few animals carved into twirling plaques, as well. At least, you think there is. There’s what looks to be a bird with a comically large beak–maybe a woodpecker?–and another that just looks like a homunculus with stick legs. 

It’s so utterly odd looking that it gets a chuckle out of you.

Asides from that, the only one that vaguely looks like anything living is one near the centre; a pig. It has sharply drawn trotters and floppy ears that cover its eyes. It spins endlessly in some subtle wind you can’t feel, glass frosted with the endless damp that coats everything in place of dust. 

But, from the darkness, something whispers.

You pay it no mind and continue staring at the cot and the home-made baby mobile. Each chime sounds like a baby’s wail: soft and nothing. It sparks something unknown in your chest. Maybe it's mourning. For who and what, you don’t really know. Provoked by some sort of empathy, perhaps.

You’re about to call for Helen–considering the large lack of somewhat interesting things here, you’re sure she’d like this–when there’s another whisper. It's closer this time.

What is that?

At first, you try to shove it off–there’s more broken windows than unbroken in this place. In the dark, it doesn’t take long for a person's mind to convince them that the wind is undead whispers, after all. 

There’s a humming in your ears. Not the sharp ring that usually finds you in calm silences and in the warmth of a sunny street, but constant all the same. It ebbs and flows like a breeze; the low mumble of a class yet to start: the distant hum of cars on the motorway: the eerie clatter of trees in the beginnings of a summer storm. 

It’s not distracting or intrusive like those invisible flies downstairs–buzzing ceaselessly around your ears–but not like the voices from the radio, either.

Sceptically, you walk out of the second bedroom with a growing frown on your face. The elastic of the mask’s straps dig into the back of your ears. 

Staying still, quieting your own breaths and trying not to focus on the constant thumping from the walls, you attempt to decipher what’s being said. 

You come up fruitless. It just sounds like an endless string of gibberish to you: too quiet to pick up and too muddled to unravel. 

Maybe you need to get your ears checked, too. 

Sliding your flashlight under your arm, you press down on a part of your ear, temporarily blocking out the noise. All you hear is the faint thrum of your body: each pulse of your heart, each twitch of your crooked fingers. Taking them away, the noise reappears. 

It’s somewhat of a relief to know that the noises weren’t phantoms created by your tired mind. But still, it begs the question of what, exactly, it was. Let alone where it was coming from. It could be an apartment on this floor, or maybe on one of the others. The staircase wasn’t exactly closed off, after all. 

Even so, you’re still sure it's close. A thin wall or two away close. 

So, you lightly step back to the main bedroom, expecting to pick up on some sort of change.

Nothing happens. 

A gentle gust of wind scrapes against the broken glass, and for a split second, you try your hardest to convince yourself that is all it is; the wind.

A gust pushes you forward and, wondering if the noise was coming from the bathroom or storage room, you try the kitchen.

Well, you get as close as you can to it without falling through.

Still no change. 

Mind busy with the hushed buzz, you temporarily disregard your fear of the boards underneath you and peek out into the hallway. As you swivel your head left and right–half searching for the source of the noise and half looking for Helen–you find nothing but air and rotting walls. 

Your light illuminates the staircase, almost hoping to see someone hiding in the darkness. It’d scare the shit out of you, Helen or stranger aside, but you’d rather find an obvious source than be left–quite literally–in the dark. 

You find no one.

Then, you try the other end of the hall. The lambent glow of the moon seems centuries away. 

Still no one.

“Helen?” Your voice cracks in your throat. “Helen! Do you,” You swallow something down. A clump of twitching nerves and bile. “Do you hear that?”

You wait a few moments for a response. You’re greeted with heavy silence. It’s deafening; somehow worse than being told a direct ‘no’. 

Wearily, you step out of the doorway, out of your damp burrow, and into the hallway. The creaking of the floor–of the walls–feels so quiet. 

Has it gotten any louder? Are you getting any closer?

Your light darts in and out of the different apartments. “Helen?”

Or is it getting closer to you?

“Helen! Where are you?” 

Passing by another apartment, you still can’t manage to find her. Either your eyesight is going, or she’s suddenly become one of the best hide and seek players you’ve known since primary school. That has to be it. She must be hiding from you for some reason, ready to jump out at you any moment.

Inside, you’re divided. Part paranoid, part annoyed–what if she just left you here?–and part confused. Both at the noise, and her sudden disappearance: you don’t remember her being a relative of Houdini. 

“I’m meant to be the one doing the scaring here!” You raise your voice, hoping to reach her. The faint whispers are your only response. “Jeeze, do you really hate me that much?” You try to play on her empathetic side, draw her out with offhanded self-deprecation that always makes her rebuke, but even that wields nothing. 

Brows furrowed, you begin to make another round. This time, you hastily search inside the different apartments too, hoping to catch a glimpse of her silky hair or the toe of her trainers.

You examine another apartment, almost skidding on the wet wood. There’s the flat face of a table leaning against a wall–legs missing–and another grimy, smashed window.

After practically running up and down the hallway, you can’t help the way your heart jumps in its marrow cage when you realise the volume of that uncanny noise hasn’t changed. At all. It’s not louder, nor quieter; just that same, off-putting, low mumble. 

“Helen! Come on, this isn’t funny. Just come out already.” You say it with a worried smile on your face and end it with a pathetic half-laugh.

Where could she be? You know you’re only skimming the apartments, wandering in and out of each room like a pacing animal, but with how many you’ve searched, you should’ve seen something by now. Plus, with how long you’ve been calling out for her, she would’ve come out of whatever dank hole she was hiding in.

If you were searching for Jeanne, you would understand. Unless you were gravely injured, she would continue playing her game for as long as she could. She was a proud winner who liked losing as much as she liked getting an injection: doing her best to avoid it by any means necessary. But this was Helen. Helen who doesn’t like silence. Helen who hates the dark.

There’s nothing in the next apartment, either. 

It strikes you then and there that the only other reason that she wasn’t responding was because she was hurt. Hurt to the point of being knocked out.

With the revelation, it doesn’t take long for your mind to dive into a worried spiral. What if the floor finally gave way? What if she’s already on the ground floor? Neck bent like your fingers. Face contorted with some unheard screech you’d been too distracted to hear. Broken and soulless, and bleeding and turning that ugly cream carpet red.

Suddenly, warm air blows over the shell of your ear, something teasing that sends a sharp spike of fear through every muscle. 

You jolt, veins thrumming with fear and relief, “Helen, you-”

Your flashlight illuminates nothing but air. 

That jumbled mumbling, that damned whispering, has risen: gotten louder without you even noticing it. It pounds against your eardrums and buzzes under your skin. It feels so close, yet so far, echoing out from every crevice. Coming from everywhere and nowhere.

With a war drum in your chest, you beg yourself to just calm down. All you’re doing by overthinking is making things worse for yourself, and probably Helen, too. It’s just the wind–just a creation of your overly-active imagination. Just that stupid, stupid effect Noah was talking about. 

What scares you, though, is that you begin to hear words. 

Last time you checked, the wind didn’t speak to anyone other than those fated for tragedy. As far as you were aware, you were no Orpheus. 

It’s like the radio all over again, yet somehow worse.

Thick, clotted air fills your lungs. Inhale and exhale. Stop yourself from getting so worked up: just inhale and exhale-

-But it’s so loud. 

You have a walkie-talkie in your pocket, don’t you? How about you put it to use? That’s what it’s-

-Louder. 

If she’s hurt, you’ll probably have to call-

-And louder.

You knew you shouldn-

-and louder. 

“Shut up!”

All goes quiet.

After all the noise, it feels wrong. 

In the blink of an eye, the class quietens, the motorway stands still, and the trees omit themselves to a vow of silence. 

There’s only you. You, your flashlight, the keys and your panicked breaths. It comes out in mist-like puffs in front of your face. 

You don’t remember dropping your flashlight. You don’t remember pressing your hands to your ears, either.

You take a few deep inhales. “I’m losing it. I’m absolutely losing it.” Bringing a hand to your eyes, you rub them, as if trying to dispel the lingering fingers of some sort of mania. You do it much more harshly than you really meant to. Feeling the soft tissue squish and scrape against the cavities of your skull, you hope it brings some sense back to you. 

You crouch down to grasp your flashlight again. You see your face, distorted, in a puddle on the wood. With your back constantly to some sort of darkness, you feel yourself teetering on some sort of edge, standing stock still as not to fall. Still as those looming trees that pray to Gods your mind is too young to even know the name of. 

A red hot blanket of indignation drapes itself over your fear for a moment. Whoever the Hell this was, whatever dim-witted asshole and their friends, was going to get an earful. Maybe even a right hook, if you were feeling ballsy. 

You scan the halls up and down, keeping a careful ear for any sort of movement, any sort of amused giggle. You almost expect a TV show presenter to appear with a bunch of cameras or something. Even something as outlandish as that would ease your mind.

Anything that gives you a logical explanation as to what you just heard.

You begin to even search the walls, almost expecting to find grinning eyes staring at you from behind the rotting pipework. What an absurd thought.

Then you see something move.

It's from the corner of your eye, and you pray to see Helen, or just someone, there.

You don’t. 

A chasmal wound sits before you, cracking at the edges like spindly fingers clawing their way up the walls.

Something skitters. Something dark and fat. Something with beady eyes and tiny feet. 

There's droning under the floorboards. A muted thrum that, for a few seconds, only your feet can pick up.

Then you see a tail.

And a foot.

And a snout.

And you realise with horror that there is something in the walls. Something that is speaking to you.

At first, it’s as indistinguishable as ever; that same endless murmur from before as thousands of voices speak over each other. 

But, slowly–like a church choir–they all come together, whispering in their whiny voices one great chant.

“We are small. We are many.”

And you finally begin to understand the words.

“We have teeth. We have tails.”

And all you can really do is stand in silent terror.

“We were here before. We will be forevermore.”

Over and over and over they repeat it: an unending mantra accompanied by chattering teeth and pattering feet.

You can’t even bring yourself to move, body completely unsure how to react. It’s like the flies; worming their way into your ears and resounding off of your skull.

There’s laughter there, too. High-pitched, shrill sniggering. Sniggering of a thousand strangers that you’re sure are mocking you. 

And they just keep getting louder. 

What are you even meant to do? You have to be hallucinating at this point–encouraged by a weird mix of sleep deprivation and sloping paranoia. 

You feel like you’re in some type of morbid comedy, and the joke is absolutely on you. 

It doesn’t take long before your synapses finally snap into action, forcing your legs forwards. It begins with a brisk walk and easily turns into a jog. You aim for the staircase, unsure whether you’ll be going up or down.

Abruptly, their chant changes, a few voices slow to catch onto the shift. 

“India, Tango-”

It almost makes you stop dead in your tracks: even more confused with the seemingly random words they begin chittering.

“-Kilo, November-”

You refuse to listen, just blocking it out. No need to make yourself more fearful than you already are.

“-Oscar, Whiskey, Sierra-”

And you’re almost at the staircase, when-

SNAP.

-The floor finally collapses under your weight. 

“Y/N!”

You feel your head slam against the wet, wooden flooring. For a split second, no longer than a blink, everything goes blank. 

Then there’s a strain in your ankle. And water soaking into your hoodie.

And you are very much so awake. 

“Γαμώτο- Y/N? Y/N! Are you alright?”

Your brain throbs underneath your sweat sheened skin. Something wet slides down your cheek, and you wonder if it's blood. Looking up, partially balanced on your hands, all you can really do is stare at Helen with a mixture of utter horror and confusion. You open your mouth. Your jaw whines like one of the doors, and you taste wood on your tongue. “What the fuck.”

She hooks her arms under your shoulders, mumbling apologies under her breath as she drags you forward like a limp corpse. Easily, your foot is freed. Back on your feet, you wipe any residue off of your hands and face with frantic fingers. 

Turning and looking down, you see that your luck had quickly run out: the wood had finally broken through.

Knowing that there’s concrete under it doesn’t bring you as much comfort as you thought it would. 

A cold buzz overtakes the hot pain.

“Is your foot normal? Does it hurt?”

You swing your head back around. “Where were you?”

Her face twitches in surprise, not expecting your harsh tone. “Where were you? I was asking for you to see if you wanted to go up to the next floor to see if it was like this one. I couldn’t find you so I went up to see if you were there: I came down when I heard the wood snap.”

You watch her for a moment, thinking. ‘I came down when I heard the wood’, not ‘I came down when I heard you calling for me.’

Did she…did she not hear you?

Did she not hear that?

You think your ankle should hurt a lot more than it does. You think there should be pain jumping up your leg when you put your weight down.

“I was…” Swallowing, your eyes search the floor for something you don’t know the name of. Your flashlight has skidded to the foot of the staircase. “...I was in the last apartment by the staircase.”

Her brows furrow. “Why did you not come out when I asked?” 

Your mouth is dry.

You desperately want to explain it to her. Tell her you’d be calling out for her for the last who knows how long, stalking up and down the hall. Tell her that there is something in the walls and you fear they know things you’ve tried to bury. However, the moment you re-run the memories, think over how to even begin to describe what just happened, you realise you sound mad. The epitome of it.

As supportive and believing as Helen was, there was no way she was going to believe you.

“I just…”

There’d be that look on her face. It’d be there for a second, but you’d still see it. It’d be on Noah’s face when she tells him–clear as freshwater–as well. 

“...got scared by some rats.”

You may be human, and it may be right to accept help when you’re hurting, but you still refuse to be seen as mad. 

Sick.

Her face softens. Still somewhat annoyed–for a fair reason from her perspective–but lesser so.

Nobody likes not being believed, after all.

“Rats?”

You nod. 

“I have never liked rats,” there's a smile in her eyes. You think it’s meant to comfort you. “Maybe we should leave if there’s more?”

You hope you do. You pray to Gods who have long averted their gaze from this place of endless night and thumping walls to allow you to leave. 

“Hm…well, we do not scare easy, do we? We aren’t afraid of the dark or,” she pauses for a moment. You don’t know if it's for effect or not. “Rats, are we?”

Something in you wilts when you realise she’s trying to encourage you. Encourage you to go through with things. To overcome what she thinks is just a minor fear. 

You spite August winds and cigarette smoke for sewing your mouth shut.

There’s an attempt at a smile underneath your mask. It doesn’t reach your eyes. “Yeah.”

Smoothly, her fingers intertwine with yours. She feels blisteringly warm. 

“Is your foot and ankle okay?”

You can’t bring yourself to lie. 

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

In all their ‘nonsensical’ murmuring, the words the Things speak do have some meaning behind it, if you look close enough.

IMPORTANT: If you, or any of your friends, are going urban exploring, and stumble upon a building like this (incredibly damp, rotting wood, mould etc.) do not enter. Please do not risk an injury, or your life, for the sake of an experience or some cool photos. Further, if you visibly see your friend get injured, actually check them over to make sure they're genuinely okay. 

On note of updates: expect an update every three weeks on a Friday. If it doesn’t come then, expect it on the Saturday, and, if it doesn’t come until then, expect that I’m busy and won’t be able to update until next week. As much as I’d like to write to my heart’s content, I unfortunately don’t have all that time :’]

- Γαμώτο = Damn it

[ode-to-melpomene]

hi hi mel!!! i love all your works and your writing is so wonderful ^^

was wondering if you could write something where one of the bat boys reaches the reader right before they’re about to get kidnapped by some criminals?? like maybe they’re publicly in a relationship w the batboy’s wayne identity n get targeted for that reason but one of the boys gets there js in the nick of time :)

thank u sm and have a great rest of ur day ^^

Love this prompt! Some of these are pre-kidnapping, some are mid-kidnapping. If anyone wants additional characters added, let me know! Hope you enjoy 💛

Daring Rescues

Pairings: Bruce Wayne x gn!reader, Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Who comes to your aid when you find yourself in need of saving? Word Count: 2466 Warnings: Established relationship! Kidnapping, minor injuries, general mortal peril.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce knew better than to associate you with Batman. He had learned that lesson a hundred times over by now, how dangerous it was to associate the people he cared for with the cowl. But now wasn't the time to dwell on the blunder.

“Oracle, update,” he barked over the communication device. Bruce perched atop a balcony, staring down at the street below.

“Black SUV turning onto Carlton,” Barbera replied, the sound of her fingers furiously working over the keys of the Batcomputer meeting his ears. “The car is registered to a loan shark put away a few years ago. Suspected ties to Falcone.”

Bruce uttered a grunted mm in response, eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. His eyes scanned the road below. He caught the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. “GCPD?”

“I’ve got them cutting off side roads. Headed your way now.”

He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to launch from the balcony, one hand braced on the ledge beneath him and the other on his belt. He cocked his head to the East and narrowed his eyes- yes, there. He watched the SUV turn the corner, skidding as it spun around the sharp turn and narrowly avoided oncoming traffic.

“Sixty-three miles an hour?” he guessed.

“Sixty-six. Sounds like you might be losing your touch.”

“Oracle,” Bruce warned. He scowled. That extra speed would change his entry angle.

“Sorry. Dropping in three-”

Bruce’s hand shot to his belt.

“Two-”

The end of the grappling hook shot out from the device in his hand and buried itself within the construction scaffolding across from him. He gave a single tug, then launched himself from the balcony-

“One-”

- And crashed feet first into the rear passenger window of the interior of the modified SUV, seats removed to provide more space in the back. Panicked shouts rang out as glass shards shattered across the interior. Bruce pulled his cape over the lower half of his face, preventing glass from cutting his skin as he hit the floor.

The vehicle swerved and he used the momentum to bring his elbow into collision with a man’s partially covered face, his jaw making a distressing crack at the impact. His other hand lashed out, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his face against the steering wheel. The driver’s nose crunched and blood sprayed against the vehicle’s dash.

Hands grasped at his suit and he drove his knee into the third assailant’s ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Your muffled shriek filled the interior of the SUV as the vehicle swerved and momentarily rocked into the curb.

The driver’s hands gripped at Bruce’s wrist behind his head, his foot flooring the accelerator. Bruce let out a tsk as he lunged forward and looped his arm around the driver’s neck. The man’s shrill scream was quickly silenced as Bruce squeezed the man’s neck in the juncture of his elbow and bicep.

He pulled the man backwards and used his opposite hand to stabilize the chokehold. His freehand reached for the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle down the road. He just needed a moment-

The driver finally went limp in Bruce’s arms. He tugged, pulling the man from his seat and wedged a batarang against the brake, quickly bleeding off speed.

Muffled screams filled the room, followed by a grunt of pain. Familiar hands raked over Bruce’s belt. He gripped the wheel with one hand and turned his head just in time to see a zap of electricity come to life.

You dove towards the third kidnapper, barreling into him and driving the taser into the side of his neck. The man screamed, spasmed, and went limp.

You panted around the gag in your mouth, your hands chained together in front of you. You held the taser tightly in your hands, glaring down with a fiery expression.

When you turned your gaze on him, that fiery passion was replaced with a soft, mirthful glint in your eye. You gave him your best smile, despite the gag, and a cheesy thumbs up.

Bruce scowled, despite the way his heart skipped a beat.

Dick Grayson:

Why did you always have to rush into things?

Of course it was a set up. That was so obvious now that you had a split lip and blood trickling from your nose. It was a last ditch effort on the part of some petty criminals who wanted a piece of the Wayne wealth in exchange for Dick’s hapless partner.

The masked goons cornered you in your own apartment, toying with you like cats stalking a mouse. One swung a pipe wrench and you skittered backwards, nearly bumping into the end table next to your couch. You really needed to move that when this was all over, and make sure the space was less cluttered so you wouldn’t get tripped up like this again-

A blade came slashing down, glinting in the waning sunlight that filled your apartment as it narrowly missed your face. Your curse was met by vicious laughter. With a snarl, you gripped the end table and hucked it at the figure holding the blade. 

Two of the goons jumped away from the end table as it flung towards them. You took the chance to dash to the kitchen, knocking over and tossing random items in your wake. As much as you appreciated the self defense training Dick had put you through, you didn’t trust yourself against their weapons. You took solace in knowing they weren’t here to kill you… but that didn’t mean they weren’t more than willing to rough you up.

You just needed to waste some time. So you threw a plate, a beautiful, arbor rimmed plate that had been a gift to you and Dick from Selina and Bruce (you suspected Selina stole them.) The assailants dodged the ceramic, so you snatched the detachable faucet and sprayed the nearest goon in the face with cold water. Too bad they were smart enough to wear masks.

And then you saw the balcony door slide open. It all happened so fast, a flash of black, blue, and silver darting into the space. Metal clashed with skin, a sickening thunk sounding as an escrima collided with an attacker’s skull. An angered shout tore through the air, only to be quickly silenced by a thud as the outspoken figure hit the floor.

It was over in a matter of moments. Three unconscious bodies on the floor, tucked out of sight behind your kitchen island, and a shadowed figure huffing agitated breaths through gritted teeth. Spots of blood on the escrima, on his face.

You blinked once, twice, clearing the fog from your vision. Nightwing- Dick loomed across from you. He tucked the escrimas behind his back and turned to face you, the scrunch in his brow covered by his mask.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice barely above a tremble.

His expression softened immediately. He heaved a sigh and dashed around the kitchen island, sweeping you into his tight grasp. You wrapped your arms around him just as eagerly, pressing your face to the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Should be asking you that, love.” Dick pulled away slightly, holding you at arms length. Though you couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, you knew he was carefully taking stock of your injuries.

“Just a few scrapes,” you said with a reassuring smile in spite of the way your swollen lip burned. “You should see the other guys.”

Dick barked out a laugh and pulled you flush against him once again, burying you in a tight embrace.

Jason Todd:

You should have called a cab.

Rain poured down on you, drenching you to the skin. Rain hadn’t been on the forecast today–you always made sure to check on days you chose to walk to-and-from work. When you had stepped out of the office building to find a slight drizzle dappling the sidewalk, you had thought nothing of it. Like many other Gothamites, you had assumed it was a passing spring weather.

Now the storm drains gurgled pitifully as water gushed into it. Your clothes were sodden, shoes waterlogged, mood dampened. You squelched down the sidewalk with a sour expression plastered across your features. The torrential downpour quieted your sentences, muffling your ears to the acute sound of footsteps following you from a distance.

You turned onto the next block and huffed, the wind now buffeting you face on. What a dreary, horrible day to be let off late from work. Jason would likely be on patrol by now, leaving you to sit alone in your shared apartment, reheating whatever he had left over from lunch. Maybe you could curl up in your bed and dive into that novel you had both been reading. That could make for a good conversation to wind him down from the emotional high of his patrol-

Foreign hands snatched you from your thoughts and dragged you into a dark alley, your scream muffled by a gloved palm.

You were slammed face first into a brick wall, the rough texture scraping your cheek. You bit back a snarl as the hands turned you around and smacked the back of your head against the hard stone. The chill edge of a blade was pressed to your throat and when your eyes readjusted to the sudden darkness and stinging pain in your head you were met with a masked figure. Great, because what you really needed after a long day was a mugging.

You fought viciously as the figures around you herded you down the back alley like a spitting, snarling animal. You stomped your heel on their feet, bit at their hands, kicked and flailed until you heard muffled requests for rope and chloroform. It wasn’t until you saw the van tucked away beside an industrial grade dumpster that you began caterwauling like an anguished banshee.

You were relieved by the sound of a familiar thump at the edge of the alleyway–you would recognize the sound of those heavy boots dropping anywhere, with how often you heard them on your fire escape. Your attackers slammed you against the van and you barked out a gleeful laugh at the sight. The attackers had a moment to turn their heads before Red Hood was descending on them with ferocity. You turned away, pressing your forehead to the van.

Screams, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. It was over quickly. When you turned to face him, his armored chest was heaving and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. You knew better than to touch him when he was this high strung, so you settled for the safer option.

“Took you look enough,” you teased breathlessly, keeping your gaze one the way the red surface of his helmet snapped to face you instead of on the (you hoped) unconscious kidnappers. “I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to take care of this myself.”

The toe of Jason’s boot nudged an unconscious figure, a red and rapidly welting bite mark blossoming on the individual’s hand and wrist. “I don’t doubt you could’ve, but a little help never hurt.”

You cracked a smile, softening the hard lines of your expression in the hopes it would ease him. His shoulders relaxed at your placating gesture. You extended a hand, fingers spread in a silent offer.

“Walk me home?” you asked, more for his benefit than yours. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but the tightness eased when he interlaced his gloved fingers with yours.

Tim Drake:

Warehouses were such a cliché place to harbor an abductee. What happened to creativity? Tim crawled through an upper window of the dilapidated warehouse, some thirty feet above the ground. He stepped carefully across the rafters as he surveyed the scene.

There you were, a normal college student tied to a chair–well, normal if you ignore the fact that you were rumored to be in a relationship with the Timothy Drake-Wayne. He frowned at the sight of your arms twisted behind you and tied to the back of the chair. They had you situated in the center of the empty room with goons patrolling around you. His eyes sought a singular figure atop a pile of scrap, a rifle in hand. The figure searched the rafters–Tim would have to be careful to avoid him.

Tim stalked across the rafters, keeping to the shadows. He crept across one of the beams that bridged the center of the warehouse, ducking low and staying out of the light. His eyes were fixed on you-

Oh. You perked up, your head lifting and shoulders easing. You knew he was there somewhere, judging by the way your head turned slightly to scan the open room. You tilted your head, a flimsy gesture towards a second figure, patrolling near you with one hand tucked away in her coat. A hidden weapon? He bit back a smile at your clever aid.

Tim took another step, and something clanged. He looked below him, spotting a hook hanging from a long chain, the chain swinging under the beams subtle movements. He turned just in time to see the sniper swing his rifle in the direction of the sound-

You screamed.

The shrill shriek shook each of the assailants and all eyes turned to you. He exhaled a harsh breath of relief as you wailed and the masked figures moved in towards you. The sniper’s weapons whipped towards you and away from Tim.

Tim dropped. His landing was cushioned by the goon you had pointed out, knocking the figure to the ground. He used the momentum to carry himself into a roll, then launched to his feet and barrelled into the next unsuspecting kidnapper. This one was ready, his hands up in fists. Tim gave an opening and ducked as the man’s fist sailed past Tim. He gripped the attacker's arm and yanked, tossing him over Tim’s shoulder. The man landed with a thunk and Tim was quick to follow, extracting a pair of cuffs from his belt and linking the two fallen attackers together.

A shot rang out. It seemed the sniper wasn’t very good, considering Tim remained fully intact. His hands dipped to his belt again and withdrew a few batarangs. A quick volley knocked the sniper's mask askew and sent them stumbling down the rickety pile of scrap they stood upon. He used the opening to launch himself across the room, bo staff extending in hand. He swept the kidnapper’s legs, sending the figure tumbling down the pile.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he knelt to cuff and gag the attacker, kicking the rifle aside in the process.

“It got drafty,” you called back from where you sat tied in the center of the room. “Must’ve left the window open.”

[bunnyluvx]

the arcane characters missing you!

featuring: caitlyn x f/non-binary!reader. mel, jayce & finn x gn!reader.

summary: what do the arcane characters text you when they miss you?

warnings: minors and ageless blogs dni regardless of content. do not spoil season 2 in the replies. violence mention (heimerdinger being annoyed with hoskel overexaggerated). nothing else!

tags: smau | spoiler-free! | fluff | physical affection mentions | pet names | lesbian caitlyn | canon lesbian character | jayce misses you so bad that he picks you up early

divider credit: heart by @isisjupiter, support by @cafekitsune

a/n: hi my dears!! i have been very fixated on arcane ever since season 2 came out so i present you with these! i'm very excited for the new episodes tomorrow! i hope you enjoy the silliness! <3