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cloudyluun · 2 days ago

Text

Indigo

Summary: Famous singers Y/N and Harry Styles were once inseparable—until they weren’t. Their love was a wildfire: beautiful, reckless, impossible to contain. But when the flames died down, all that was left was ashes and silence.

A year later, they find themselves on the same stage, under the same lights, in front of the entire world. Y/N has a song to sing—a song about him. A song about what could have been, what wasn’t, and what will never be.

And for the first time since she walked away, Harry has no choice but to listen. Based on this request.

A/N: Oh, you wanted pain? You wanted heartbreak, regret, emotional devastation? Say. Less. 😈

This is for the angst lovers. The ones who thrive off right person/wrong time. The ones who scream “JUST COMMUNICATE” at fictional characters but also eat up every miscommunication trope like it’s their last meal.

You must listen to Indigo while reading. Like, I’m not even kidding. Play it, stare at the ceiling dramatically, and let the suffering consume you. 💔✨

Also, if you’re mad at me after this… fair. But don’t act like you didn’t ask for it. 😘

Word Count: 4,4k

Warnings:

Angst. Like, an unbearable amount.

Famous exes who never got closure.

Emotional damage. (Both theirs and yours.)

Regret, heartbreak, longing.

No happy ending. (Yes, I’m serious. No last-minute fix. Just vibes and suffering.)

Mentions of fame, media speculation, public scrutiny.

Lyrics used as emotional weapons.

Read at your own risk. Prepare to feel things. 😈

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The air was thick with the scent of hairspray, expensive perfume, and anticipation. That electric kind, the kind that settled heavy in your chest, thick in your throat, pressing into the spaces between your ribs.

The kind you had no choice but to swallow down.

A makeup artist dabbed concealer under your eyes, but it wouldn’t do much. Not really. The exhaustion wasn’t just skin deep, it had settled in your bones, wrapped itself around your body like a second skin. You weren’t sure if it was from the jet lag, the rehearsals, the weight of tonight, or a combination of all three.

Maybe you should have said no.

But how could you? This was the biggest night in music, and turning it down would have been like signing a confession letter that you weren’t over it, over him.

No. You weren’t giving them that narrative.

Even if every fiber of your being was screaming at you to run.

You were perched in a chair in the backstage dressing area, surrounded by the hum of the industry’s elite—stylists, managers, artists, publicists all fluttering around like moths to a flame. Everyone had a role to play, a script to follow. Yours was simple.

Smile. Walk the carpet. Perform. Leave.

And, most importantly, ignore Harry Styles.

Which, under normal circumstances, was easy.

But tonight? Tonight, it was impossible.

Because he was here.

And he was everywhere.

He was on the giant posters lining the walls of the venue. He was in the conversations drifting past you in hushed excitement. He was in the setlist, just two performances after yours.

And now—now, he was right there.

You felt him before you saw him.

A shift in the air. A current of static crawling across your skin.

And then, as if the universe had no regard for your well-being, someone moved just enough to give you a clear view across the dressing area, and there he was.

Harry.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

He looked different. Not in the obvious ways, he was still devastatingly Harry. Same green eyes, same sharp jawline, same damn hands in his pockets stance that had driven you insane for years.

But he wasn’t the same.

Maybe it was the way his mouth was set, not quite a frown but far from a smile. Maybe it was the way his curls were shorter than the last time you saw him. Maybe it was in his posture—tense, coiled like a wire stretched too thin.

Or maybe it was just the way he looked at you.

Because he did look at you.

Not long, not obviously, not in a way anyone else would catch.

But enough.

Enough for a flicker of something unreadable to pass through his expression. Enough for a memory—a thousand memories—to spark between you in the space of a heartbeat.

And then just as quickly as it happened, he looked away.

You exhaled. Slowly. Carefully. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

"Are you nervous?"

You blinked, the voice pulling you back to reality. Your stylist, pinning the final touch to your outfit, watching you with knowing eyes.

You forced a small, practiced smile. The kind you’d perfected in interviews. "No."

The lie tasted like metal on your tongue.

She smirked, but didn’t push.

"Your set is after intermission," she reminded you, standing back to check her work. "Then Harry’s is right after yours. So don’t disappear, okay? No sneaking off."

You hummed noncommittally, but you weren’t sure you believed yourself.

"By the way"—she glanced at the seating chart displayed on her phone—"looks like he’s sitting frontrow."

A knot formed in your stomach.

Front row. Direct line of sight.

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat refused to go away.

You shouldn’t care. You should be indifferent, aloof, unbothered.

But you weren’t.

And you knew why.

You knew what was coming.

Because tonight—tonight, he was going to hear it.

Your song.

Your confession.

Your heartbreak, wrapped in melody and laid bare for the world.

And for the first time since you walked away from him, Harry Styles was going to know exactly what he did to you.

But would he?

Would he truly understand?

Or would he just sit there, front row, watching you like you were nothing more than another performance—another artist on the lineup, another song that would trend for a week before fading into the noise of everything else?

Would he even realize that every note, every lyric, was a wound you never let heal?

You didn’t know.

But you knew this: once upon a time, you were everything.

It had started the way most things in the industry did—slowly, then all at once.

Banter in interviews. Side glances during afterparties. His name appearing in your text messages more often than it should.

Harry was easy to be around. He made you laugh in moments that didn’t call for it, made you feel weightless in a world that was always trying to pull you under.

The first time you met, you had rolled your eyes at something he said—something cocky, something ridiculous.

"You always this charming?" you had quipped.

He had grinned. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"

You were magnetic, drawn together in ways that felt too good, too right, too fucking inevitable.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because love with him? Love with him was never quiet.

God, the highs were blinding.

Late-night studio sessions that bled into sunrise, your laughter echoing through dimly lit recording booths. Harry sprawled out on the couch, guitar resting on his chest, humming unfinished melodies between sips of whiskey.

"Sing it again," he would say, eyes half-lidded, voice thick with sleep.

And you would.

Because you’d sing anything for him.

The first time he kissed you, it was backstage at an award show. He had just won Album of the Year, and you had thrown your arms around his neck, whispering something against his skin that neither of you would remember.

He kissed you like he had been waiting his whole life to do it.

And from that moment on, you were his.

But Harry was never just yours.

And maybe that was the problem.

It was easy to pretend it wasn’t coming apart.

Even when the fights started. Even when the space between you stretched too thin, pulled too tight, ready to snap.

It started with late nights that turned into early mornings alone.

It started with unanswered texts, with Harry missing dinner plans, with half-assed apologies that never quite felt whole.

"You can’t keep doing this," you had said one night, exhaustion weighing down every word.

He had sighed, running a hand through his curls. "I know, love. Just—just one more session. I’ll be home soon."

He never was.

The tabloids didn’t help. The endless speculation, the headlines dissecting your every move, turning your love into a spectacle.

Some nights, you would see a photo of him leaving a club, laughing with someone who wasn’t you and you would wonder if he ever felt as alone as you did.

But the worst part?

The worst part was that he never noticed.

He never saw that you were slipping through his fingers, little by little, night after night, until there was barely anything left to hold onto.

You had asked him to fight for you.

You had stood in the doorway of the home you were supposed to share, your suitcase half-zipped, your heart half-broken.

"Tell me I’m wrong," you had whispered. "Tell me I’m overreacting."

Harry had stood there, hands in his pockets, jaw clenched, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.

"You’re not wrong," he had admitted.

It was the first time in your entire relationship that he hadn’t tried to charm his way out of an argument. That he hadn’t begged you to stay.

And somehow, that was worse.

"Then fight for me," you had pleaded, voice shaking. "Tell me to stay, Harry."

His throat bobbed. His fingers twitched.

But he didn’t say it.

Not in the way you needed.

Not in the way that mattered.

"If you walk away now," you had told him, heart pounding, voice breaking, eyes burning, "I won’t wait for you."

Silence.

Long. Painful.

And then, the worst fucking words you had ever heard.

"Maybe you shouldn’t."

And just like that, you were done.

For the first time, he didn’t stop you.

The weight of the memory settled heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs.

You had spent so long convincing yourself that leaving had been the right choice. That it had been necessary.

And maybe it had.

But tonight you were about to rip that wound open all over again.

Because the truth was, Harry might not have fought for you then.

But tonight, when the stage lights flickered to life and the first chords of Indigo filled the arena—

He would have no choice but to listen.

The air in the venue shifted the second the first note rang out.

A single piano chord, haunting and slow, echoed through the arena, the kind of sound that curled around the ribcage and settled deep. The kind of sound that made everything else go quiet.

You stepped forward.

The crowd roared, thousands of voices screaming your name, but it all felt distant like white noise beneath the weight pressing against your chest.

Because none of them knew.

None of them understood what this song really was.

But he did.

The camera cut to the front row, where Harry Styles sat frozen.

For the first time that night, his expression wasn’t carefully curated charm. It wasn’t polite, or unreadable, or distant.

It was wrecked.

Jaw tight. Knuckles white where his hands gripped his thighs.

His lips barely parted, as if he had just remembered how to breathe.

He knew.

You inhaled, eyes fluttering shut for half a second before you parted your lips—

And you sang.

"And I know you're worried at night / I won't find my way..."

The words fell from your mouth like something fragile, something breaking apart mid-air.

The audience sighed in unison, as if they could feel it, too.

But Harry—Harry looked like the breath had been punched from his lungs.

Because he knew exactly where those lines had come from.

You had always been terrified of being alone.

The kind of alone that didn’t just mean an empty house or a quiet room. The kind that crept into your bones even when you were surrounded by people.

He had known that.

And for a while, he had promised—sworn—that you’d never have to feel that way again.

"You’re alright, love," he had murmured once, voice thick with sleep, his arm draped over your waist. "You’ll always be alright. I’ve got you."

You had believed him.

Maybe that was the cruelest part.

Because when you needed him most, he hadn’t been there.

Your voice didn’t waver.

Not yet.

You kept singing, pushing through, letting the melody wrap around the memories like silk.

"My head says I should've never left / And then my feet will soon lead to my death..."

Harry’s throat bobbed.

His fingers twitched against his knee, like he was fighting the urge to move, to do something.

But he didn’t.

Because that was the thing about Harry, he was always just a second too late.

You had waited.

You had stood in that doorway, your suitcase by your side, waiting for him to tell you not to go.

You had needed him to give you something— anything.

But he had just stared at you, eyes stormy, fists clenched at his sides.

"I can’t—" he had started, voice thick, torn between emotion and exhaustion.

"You won’t," you had corrected.

And he hadn’t argued.

That had been the worst part.

The chorus climbed higher, each note sharper than the last.

"I used to shine bright like gold / Now I'm all indigo."

It echoed. Reverberated.

The crowd swayed, entranced by the weight of it.

But Harry looked like he was drowning.

His lips pressed together, his jaw clenched so tight you thought he might break his teeth.

Because he understood it now.

You hadn’t just left.

You had lost yourself.

And he had been the one to turn you blue.

"You don’t get it," you had whispered one night, voice raw, your hands balled into fists at your sides.

Harry had sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Then tell me, love. Tell me what you need."

You had swallowed down the lump in your throat.

"I need you to choose me."

Something flickered across his expression. Something sharp.

"That's not fair," he had murmured.

Your breath had caught.

And maybe that was when you knew.

Maybe that was when you realized you would never come first.

The song swelled.

Your voice cracked on the next lyric, but you pushed through, letting the tremor in your voice become part of the story.

"I think it’s time that I went home."

The moment shattered something.

A slow, invisible break, one only the two of you could feel.

Because this was it.

This was your closure.

Your goodbye.

And Harry knew it.

His hand finally moved—just barely—fingers twitching, shifting toward where his ring should have been.

But it wasn’t there.

Because he had taken it off.

Because he had let you slip through his fingers.

And now—now, all he could do was watch.

The last chord faded, soft, lingering.

The arena was silent. For just a moment.

Then the crowd erupted.

A standing ovation. Cheers. Flashes of camera lights.

And through it all, you lifted your eyes toward the front row.

Your gaze locked onto Harry’s.

He was still staring.

Still frozen.

Still reeling.

And for the first time in years, he looked at you the way he had always meant to.

Like he finally understood.

Like he finally saw you.

Your chest ached.

Because you should have felt victorious. Powerful.

But all you felt was tired.

So you looked away first.

And then, without another glance, you walked off the stage.

The applause followed you down the hall, echoing off the walls, loud, deafening, hollow.

Your breath was uneven. Your fingers trembled. The adrenaline still buzzed beneath your skin, but it wasn’t the high people always talked about. It wasn’t the euphoric rush of a perfect performance.

It was exhaustion.

It was the weight of him still pressing against your ribs, suffocating, drowning you in a sea of memories you had spent so long trying to escape.

You kept walking. Past the stagehands, the producers, the people offering breathless congratulations you barely registered.

All you wanted was to get to your dressing room. To lock the door. To close your eyes.

To forget how he looked at you.

But of course, the universe didn’t believe in mercy.

Because the second you turned the corner—

Harry was there.

He was waiting.

Leaning against the wall, one foot crossed over the other, hands still shoved into his pockets like he hadn’t spent the last fifteen minutes coming undone.

Like he hadn’t just sat there, front row, watching you bleed your heartbreak into a song.

But you knew better.

You saw it in the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly. In the way his jaw was still tight, his fingers flexing at his sides like he had no idea what to do with them.

In the way his eyes found yours immediately, unflinching, unreadable.

You exhaled slowly. Braced yourself.

Then—silence.

The kind that was too heavy. The kind that made your throat tighten, your pulse hammer against your ribs.

Because what was there left to say?

You almost turned away. Almost walked past him, because this wasn’t a conversation you needed to have.

But before you could take a single step, his voice—hoarse, quiet—stopped you in your tracks.

"Was that song for me?"

You hesitated.

Not because you didn’t know the answer.

But because the answer wouldn’t change anything.

And still you looked at him.

Met his gaze, even as something sharp twisted in your stomach, even as his green eyes flickered with something dangerously close to regret.

"It was for me," you said finally, your voice even. Careful. True.

A flicker of something crossed his face.

Something that almost looked like pain.

Another silence.

Thick. Suffocating. Unforgiving.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you broke.

And maybe that was the problem—you had always been two people too stubborn to bend, too proud to reach for each other first.

Harry swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

You knew what was coming before he said it.

"I should have stopped you."

It wasn’t an apology.

It wasn’t a plea.

It was just the truth.

Your chest ached. A deep, familiar ache.

One you had buried. One you had ignored. One that had been waiting for the moment to resurface.

"Yeah."

Your lips tilted, just slightly. A sad, barely-there smile. The kind people gave when they already knew how the story ended.

"But you didn’t."

The words hung between you, suspended in time.

His shoulders tensed. His fingers twitched.

But he didn’t argue.

Because he couldn’t.

Because this was where you had always been leading.

Not to some grand reconciliation.

Not to some last-minute, dramatic love confession that would undo all the damage, erase all the nights spent apart, rewrite the ending to something less tragic.

No.

This was closure.

And that was the cruelest part of all.

You stepped back first.

A breath. A beat. A quiet kind of surrender.

Then, softly—"Goodbye, Harry."

His lips parted. His chest rose, fell. Like he wanted to stop you.

Like he wanted to change his mind.

Like he wanted to say all the things he never did.

But he didn’t.

And you—you didn’t wait.

You turned.

And this time, he let you go.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click.

That was it.

No last-minute chase. No fingers wrapping around your wrist to pull you back. No whispered stay.

Just silence.

Harry stood there for a long time, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

You were gone.

And this time, you weren’t coming back.

The performance was already going viral before you even made it back to your hotel room.

Within minutes, Twitter had been set on fire.

#Y/NIndigoLive was trending worldwide.

“Indigo isn’t just a song. It’s a confession.”

“Y/N’s voice breaking on ‘I think it’s time that I went home’ absolutely ruined me.”

“Harry’s face during the performance… yeah, that man is NOT okay.”

The side-by-side clips were everywhere.

Your voice, raw and aching.

Harry, sitting in the front row, completely still.

One video had racked up a million views in less than an hour. A slow-motion zoom-in of his fingers twitching against his knee, his jaw tightening when you sang:

"I used to shine bright like gold / Now I’m all indigo."

"Is he crying???" one tweet read.

Another: “No but the way his throat bobbed like he was trying not to break down???? HELP????”

Even worse—someone had caught the backstage moment.

The footage was shaky, taken from down the hall, but it was clear enough.

The way he stood there, waiting for you. The way you faced him, expression unreadable. The way he stepped forward, hesitated—like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

And then—the way you walked away.

"The way she says goodbye but never looks back… they’re actually killing me."

"I feel SICK watching this. He just LET HER GO???"

Somewhere, someone had already slowed it down. Had already looped the footage to overlap with the most devastating part of your song.

"I should have stopped you." "Yeah." "But you didn’t."

And in the final frame—Harry still standing there. Frozen.

Watching you leave.

He saw the clips. The headlines. The frantic speculation.

He saw his own face in the screenshots—the way he had looked at you like you were slipping through his fingers all over again.

His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Jeff: Are you okay? Call me.

Mitch: You good, mate?

His sister. His mum. His friends.

Everyone had something to say.

But Harry had nothing.

He sat in the dim glow of his hotel room, his phone heavy in his palm, the screen reflecting back everything he already knew.

He had spent a year trying to move forward, trying to not think about it. Trying to convince himself that what happened had been inevitable.

That he had made peace with it.

But watching you on that stage—watching you sing the words you never got to say—it was like watching a mirror shatter, every carefully placed piece falling apart in real time.

His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts.

He could call.

He could text.

He could type something—anything.

But what would he even say?

That he was sorry? That he had been wrong?

That he should have fought for you, should have chased after you, should have never let you leave in the first place?

Would it even matter now?

Or was he too late?

The cursor blinked in the empty message box.

He exhaled.

And then—slowly, painfully, deliberately—he locked his phone and set it face-down on the nightstand.

He didn’t type the message.

He didn’t send it.

Because the truth was—

He could have stopped you.

But he didn’t.

And now, it was too late.

The next morning, the tabloids were relentless.

Every article dissected the performance, the song, the moment.

“Indigo: A Song of Regret, or a Final Goodbye?”

“Harry Styles Watches Y/N’s Performance Like a Man Who Knows He Messed Up.”

“A Love Story Left Unfinished.”

But you didn’t read them.

You didn’t check Twitter.

You didn’t answer your phone.

You just packed your bags, slipped on your sunglasses, and left the hotel without looking back.

Harry was somewhere in that same building.

Maybe he was awake, scrolling through the same headlines. Maybe he was still in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying your voice in his head.

Maybe he was standing at his window, watching the city move below him.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you weren’t going to see him again.

You stepped into the car, pulling the door shut behind you.

And as the driver pulled away, you let your head fall back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut, the last line of the song still ringing in your ears.

"I used to shine bright like gold. Now I’m all indigo."

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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spiderb00bs · 3 days ago

Text

- Faith In Me

Anora x (g!p) reader

“You thought you and Anora were living an impossible romance, but someone always has to get in the way of the fairy tale.”

Genre – Smut Warnings – unprotected sex, mutual masturbation

(request)

Now playing – Again, by Noah Cyrus, XXXTENTATION

Working in a law firm was like a dream at first, having your own money and being able to work all day in front of a computer seemed incredible. You saw that things didn't work out like that later on, you certainly weren't complaining about the good life your job gave you, but every now and then tiredness always took over. Fortunately, you always had friends to share your happiness, frustrations and achievements with.

Ted was your closest friend at work, you always went out together for lunch and drinks after work, he was what you would call a good friend. He was always there when you needed him and always helped you with your work, and even though he was a bit too free-spirited, you could never say no to an adventure with him.

“A strip club? Dude, are you serious?" you hurried through the building, late for an important meeting with your clients.

“Bro, trust me! You need to relax a bit and this is definitely the right place.” He said, Ted was on your tail, talking about how you should have some fun after work.

“I don't know.” Passing your coworker's desk, you greeted her with a smile, which made the woman blush and reciprocate with a 'good morning'.

“Come on, Yn. When was the last time you really had fun?” Opening your mouth to answer, you were immediately cut off by Ted again. “No, building legos while watching all the Spiderman movies is not fun.”

Rushing forward, Ted stopped in front of you, putting his hands on your shoulders, making you stop walking. “I'm talking about real fun, when was the last time you had sex?”

“That's none of your business!” You say, pushing Ted aside and putting your hand on the door handle where the meeting was probably already taking place.

“Come on Yn...”

Sighing, you let your tense shoulders relax, looking over your shoulder at the blond man with the brown eyes. “You're an idiot.”

“You won't regret it!” It was the last thing you heard before closing the door in his face and facing your meeting.

The bright lights made your eyes hurt a little, but Ted's excited jumping next to you distracted you from the slight pain. The club was very well decorated, there were half-naked girls walking up and down and the space itself was very cool.

Despite the countless girls laughing and chatting around, the only thing that caught your attention was the bar, making your throat dry up almost instantly. Leaning on the counter, you asked the barman for a beer, unbuttoning the top two buttons of your shirt before looking around once more.

“Oh my God! This is all so cool!” Ted said excitedly, watching the girls walk past, winking at them and looking as excited as anyone else there. “Do you see how many beautiful women there are here? Man, this is awesome!”

Shaking your head, you took a sip of your beer, nodding in agreement as you let the cold liquid run down your throat. “It's a pretty place”

“ Pretty? The women are pretty, the place is at least okay.” Ted said, coming up to you and asking the barman for a shot.

Taking the beer from your lips and placing it on the counter, Ted put his hands on your cheeks, slapping you twice and making you jump in your seat.

“What the fuck? Are you crazy?”

“Listen here! You're going to have fun, pick up a girl and have a private dance. Do you hear me?”

“Did someone say they want a dance?”

Hearing the voice, your head turned, Ted following the movement, only to see a beautiful brunette standing next to you. The woman had skin so white it looked like porcelain, her eyes were enchanting, and she was blowing smoke out of her lips, which were showing one of the most beautiful smiles you'd ever seen.

Tapping you on the chest, Ted smiled at you, then left for another part of the club, while you stood there uncomfortably next to the most beautiful stranger in the world.

Laughing slightly, the woman approached you, taking the seat that the blonde had previously occupied. “So, cutie, what's your name?” The woman asked.

“Yn.”

“Okay, Yn. I'm Ani.” She said, moving closer to you, coming face to face with a look that could melt you to pieces. “Do you really want a dance, or did your friend make you come here?”

Raising her hand, Ani began lazily fiddling with your hair, combing it back with her fingers. Her big nails made you want to moan with satisfaction.

“It's my first time here...” Her head tilted to the right, just waiting for you to continue, but the look in her eyes made you want to drop to your knees. “I just came for a drink, but...”

Smiling at you, Ani moved a little closer, taking your hand in hers without taking her eyes off yours. “Now you kind of want a dance, don't you?”

Her hips seemed to have a life of their own, swaying majestically on top of you. You wanted to grab Ani's hips, to take control just to feel powerful, but you couldn't deny that you also loved the way she looked when she was on top of you.

“Are you enjoying that, pretty girl?” Her smile made your heart skip beats, and that felt strangely good.

Your dick was starting to come alive in your pants, and as much as you didn't want it to, it was kind of inevitable. With so much work, you didn't have time to build up any romantic attachments, and it was never really your thing to go to bed with someone you'd only just met. So put that together with the fact that Ani's hips were the eighth wonder of the world, and it was inevitable that your little friend wouldn't show any signs of life.

Rubbing herself harder against you, Ani put her hands on your neck, biting her lower lip as she looked into your face. “You come with a nice little surprise, don't you?”

Shaking your head, you gripped the armchair you were sitting on tighter, your knuckles turning white with the force you applied. “Is that a problem for you?” Ani could sense the slight tone of desperation in your voice

Reassuring you as quickly as possible, the brunette shook her head with a smile. “I think you're going to make me fall in love.”

Before you knew it, Ani's lips were glued to yours, the kiss was a little messy, but you could clearly feel her soft lips, the taste of strawberries and alcohol on her tongue made you feel dizzy. Inevitably, your hands ended up on her hips, as you had wanted from the start.

“Can we do this?” You asked between kisses. You had never known that you could kiss girls who worked in clubs, even if you were paying for a dance.

“Not technically...” Ani said, looking at you with those mesmerizing eyes before giving you a smile. “But I liked you...” stroking your hair and moving her hips slowly over your bulge, Ani continued: ”Did you like me too?”

Shaking your head positively, you grabbed her ass, pulling Ani back into a thirsty kiss.

Things went well, hell, things were going very well. You went back to HQ a few times, just to see Ani. You ended up getting her number weeks later, which only brought you closer and closer together. Now you were going out together on Ani's days off, having dinner in nice restaurants - which Ani was sure she would never go to alone - and walking down the street holding hands like teenagers in love, dropping her off at home after her shift at the club and making phone calls to talk about the smallest things on your minds, you even found out that Ani's real name is Anora.

“So I'd rather people didn't call me by my name.” Ani finishes explaining, sitting on your lap in one of the club's private dance booths.

By this point, you weren't even interested in the dances anymore, just paying to hear Ani speak. You loved the way she rambled on about everything while playing with your hair or comparing the size of your hands. It was all very comfortable and you both loved it.

“But you tell everyone your name is Ani...” Seeing your confused countenance, Ani tilts her head to the right, a sarcastic look passes through her eyes before the brunette starts laughing, making you laugh along, even if confused.

“I thought lawyers were smarter.” Ani says, leaning in and leaving a kiss on your lips, hearing you let out a small “ HEY!” at what she said. “My name is Anora.”

“Anora.”

You tested the name on your lips, savoring the sensation of discovering more about the woman on top of you. Ani never really liked people who weren't her family calling her by her real name, but something about the way you said it, the tone of your voice when you said her name, made her shiver. Maybe she didn't hate it when you called her by her real name, at least not the way she does when others call her.

The important thing is that things were going well, and after a hectic day at work, you couldn't wait to see Ani again.

When you arrived at the club, things seemed different, the lights seemed less bright and something seemed wrong, even if you had no idea what. It was only when you got deeper into the place that you saw, now you knew why things were grayer, the world was preparing you for this.

You didn't know who the boy was, but you certainly wanted to break his face. In the middle of everyone, Ani's lips were on his, his hands on her hips, aggressively pulling her close, a stark contrast to how you put your hands there. Ani's hands were on his neck, and it honestly felt very different from anything you'd ever experienced.

It was aggressive, fast, amateurish, without passion, without love.

Turning around, you started walking towards the exit. Was it all a lie? Did Ani do this with anyone, just for the money? You didn't want to think like that, you didn't know Ani like that, Ani was never like that, Anora wasn't like that.

“Where are you going in such a hurry, sweetie?” Making you stop your hurried steps, the woman in front of you put her hand on your chest, making you jump back slightly.

You knew her name was Diamond, you'd heard Ani complain about her being a pain in the ass once or twice.

“Just because Ani's busy doesn't mean you can't have fun with someone else, someone better than her...” Approaching you, Diamond grabbed your hands, making you hold onto her waist while she put her hands on your neck.

Nodding your head, you broke away from the woman, not having the patience or sanity for this shit right now. Leaving the woman behind, you left the club. You thought things would be different, but it was business as usual, just you putting expectations on impossible things.

Hey, I didn't see u this week are you okay?

I have a day off, wanna hang?

I saw Ted today he pretty much ran away when he saw me What's going on w u?

It's okay if you're busy but why are you ignoring me???

Anora stared at the phone screen, wondering why you hadn't replied, even after so many months.

Things weren't going well for Ani, after a month, she stopped messaging you, seeing that you didn't reply, she focused on something else, or rather, someone else.

Vanya seemed like a dream at first, he was charming, funny, had a lot of money, and Ani ended up getting carried away. She didn't fully understand why she did it, she thought that maybe, if you had replied to her messages, she wouldn't have taken things seriously with that Russian boy. She wouldn't have allowed herself to like him, she wouldn't have allowed herself to marry him, fuck, she wouldn't have allowed him to make her life a living hell.

Ani didn't know where you were, when she went back to work at the club, she thought she'd see you occasionally, but things weren't like that. She never heard from you again, she didn't know where you lived or where you worked, she only knew that you were a lawyer, but that was it. She always looked at the photos she had on her phone when she was down, the photos she took when the two of you went on dates, or a photo of you standing in front of her house after dropping her off, or simply a photo of your hand holding hers as the two of you walked down the sidewalk.

Anora always loved how you never tried to hide her from anyone, how you were always proud to walk with her by your side and take her to fancy places even if those mean people judged her for the clothes she wore. Anora loved that, Anora loves you, and the thought of how quickly things ended, without her even being able to tell you, makes her chest ache.

“Get over it.” Diamond's annoying voice rang in Ani's ears, giving the woman sitting in the rest room a fright.

“Jezz! Get a bell, don't you ever let people know when you're coming?” Ani says, the annoyed look on her face not making Diamond move an inch.

“You know, you should get over her. One failed marriage at a time, right?!”

Rising from her chair, Ani advanced on Diamond, frustrated enough that any comment would be enough to set her off. “Repeat what you said, you slut, I dare you!”

The surrounding girls watched without getting involved, they certainly didn't want to be among Ani and Diamond's bloody war.

“I'm just saying that you've already lost her. She even tried something better than you while you were gone.”

Ani's eyes filled with fury, anger bubbling up inside her body. How could you? You had sex with Diamond? Did you just look for another woman to replace her as soon as she left?

Stomping her feet, Ani hurried towards the exit, unable to spend another minute in Diamond's presence without punching her. Passing all those disgusting, stupified men, Ani bumped her body hard into someone's. When she looked up, she could see that someone was there. When she looked up, she could see the stupid blond hair she knew well. Ted.

In one swift movement, Ani pushed the tall man hard into the nearest wall, trapping the blond boy, who was now slightly wide-eyed. “Where does Yn work?”

“I can't-”

Cutting him off, Ani resorted to violence. Ted's body froze completely as he felt Ani's knee collide with his lower body, and he fell to his knees and groaned in pain against the corner of the club wall.

“WHERE DOES SHE WORK?”

“Upper West Side!” The poor man said, holding back the tears in his eyes.

“Is she still there?” Ani asked, even though she knew it was seven in the evening, the brunette also knew you were a workaholic, so she tested the waters.

“Yeah, she's staying late tonight, dammit!”

Grabbing a napkin from the drinks counter, Ani asked the bartender for a pen, throwing the objects at Ted. “Write down the address. And you'll pay for my Uber.”

After almost an hour in the car, Anora finally arrived at the building where you work, not interested in the stares she would receive for only wearing a very short dress and pretty heels. She entered the building without looking back, the reception quiet, probably because of the time of day.

Approaching in strides, Ani leaned on the counter cheekily. “I want to speak to Yn Russel.”

The receptionist looked her up and down, judging the inappropriate dress, the bright make-up, the exaggeratedly high heels and the points of light in Ani's hair. Unfazed, Ani looked at her expectantly, as if wondering if she had heard what she had said.

“You know what, forget it. I'll find her myself!”

Heading for the elevator, Ani heard the receptionist's protests, saying something about not being allowed in without permission. Anora didn't care, she wanted to see Yn and she wanted to see her now!

As soon as the elevator doors opened, Ani clashed head-on with a tall woman. The woman she was looking for.

"Anora?" you asked, surprised to see the woman after so long.

"YOU STUPID BITCH!" Without giving you time to protect yourself, Anora began to slap you, making you walk backwards until you touched the wall of the elevator.

You tried to cover yourself, using your document folder as a shield, but the slaps from the shorter woman seemed to hit all the right spots.

"STOP IT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Dropping the bag on the floor, you tried to dodge Anora, finally managing to hold her wrists in place and immobilize the woman.

"YOU FUCKED DIAMOND!" Trying to free herself from your grip, Anora kicked and writhed.

By this time, the secretary was just standing outside the elevator, looking at the scene with a shocked expression and making sure the automatic doors wouldn't close.

"What?" You asked softly, while Anora was still struggling in your plight. Losing your temper, you wanted to understand what was really happening, and that wasn't going to happen if Ani continued with her small attack.

"ANORA!"

When you screamed, Ani shuddered, stopping moving immediately, staring at you panting and angry. "We need to talk."

The car was extremely quiet, at that moment, it was as if only you and Ani existed in the world, the empty parking lot you parked not doing much to change your thinking. It was almost ten o'clock at night, the place was half dark, but nothing compared to the darkness that was Anora by your side, the question mark, the doubt of the century. "So..." With a sigh, you started not being able to say anything else when Ani took the lead. "Why did you disappear?" Anora had her head down, as if the floor of your car was the most interesting thing in the world. "I was busy-"

"Cut that off, Yn. Too busy to answer a message? I sent you all the messages possible, and you didn't answer any!" Anora spoke, turning her head and body towards you, she had unbuckled her belt a while ago, and you couldn't lie in saying that you weren't scared that she would slap you again. "I thought you were too busy with the white boy to miss me." You said. The bitterness in your voice made Anora want to step back a bit. "Wait a minute... Vanya, are you talking about him?" Anora asked, her brows furrowed in confusion and disgust that she was remembering that idiot. With no response, Ani could see the jealousy showing through her face, making her laugh and lean back in the passenger seat. "Oh my god, you were jealous of Vanya."

Despite all the mess Ani managed to get into in the last few months, knowing that you were jealous of her was a huge relief, as it meant that she was not alone, you also felt something for her, something beyond the carnal. "I'm not jealous!" You said, crossing your arms like a spoiled child who hadn't gotten the candy she wanted. "You know the funniest thing, I didn't really like Vanya, and if you had answered my messages and not been an idiot, I wouldn't have had anything to do with him." Looking in the direction of the window, Ani wiped the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. "What happened? You know, between you both..."

"I married him, and then I separated in less than a month." Her tone made you worried, the sarcastic giggle, the denial with your head, the disgust in her voice, everything made you feel bad. "I had the worst months of my life and I regretted every second of that shit." Turning her head to you, Ani let you see her sensitive side, the tears that stained her eyes. "Nora..." "It's not your fault. I was just desperate to get out of where I was, I ended up rushing in." Placing your hands on Ani's cheeks, you wiped away her tears, kissing her salty cheeks right after. "No, I have a little guilt too. I should have told you how I felt from the beginning." You said, leaning your forehead against hers.

"I love you, Anora. From the day I saw you, I felt better with you, a better version of myself." Anora's eyes were glued to yours, occasionally stealing glances to your mouth. "I don't want to lose you ever again." As soon as you finished the sentence, Anora's lips glued to yours, a calm and tender kiss, sharing the unspoken feelings and the time they were apart. Your hands went to Anora's waist, like in the old days, the brunette's hands reaching for your hair, that feeling of love and lightness that she never felt with Vanya. In a clumsy movement, Ani quickly sat on your lap. With agility, you pulled your seat back, more space freed up for Ani to be comfortable. The woman's hands going against your pants, unbuttoning the button and opening the zipper, and then, BOOM!

"Wait!" Looking at her expectantly, you waited for what she was going to say, only for her to grab your cock through the fabric of your boxer shorts. "Did you have sex with Diamond?" Opening your mouth, you couldn't say a word if you want, the squeeze Ani had on your cock was making you lose your breath, and Ani saw your face turn red before her eyes. "Nora, this is hurting..." You spoke in a thread of voice, just making the woman squeeze your private area harder. "NO! I SWEAR I DIDN'T HAVE SEX WITH HER." "Then why did she say yes?"

"SHE TRIED, THE DAY I SAW YOU AND VANYA KISSING, BUT I PUSHED HER AWAY. I SWEAR!" Seeing the sincerity and desperation in your eyes, Ani let go of your cock, making you gasp in pain and relax your shoulders on the leather bench. Coming close to your ear just to let her warm breath tease you. "I believe in you, but don't go near her again." Shaking her head positively, you saw Anora smile contentedly, only to kiss your cheek and grab your cock again, gently this time. "Let me take care of you, baby girl."

Freeing your cock from the fabrics that bound it, Ani spat on her hand, before quickly grabbing your cock again. Spreading her saliva well, she started masturbating you with slow movements, making your friend start to get excited again. "Damn Nora, I missed you so much." You say, putting your hand under her dress, putting her panties aside in one quick motion and starting to make slow movements on her clit. The moans you two let out echoed through the car, the heavy breathing of both of you fogging up the car windows, making it difficult for anyone to see what was happening inside, but not stopping them from imagining. Luckily, you knew that there would rarely be anyone around this time, and even if it was dangerous, you couldn't think much of it with Anora on top of you. "Baby, I want you inside me." Anora said, starting to settle on your lap.

Your hands were on her hips, helping her find a position where she was comfortable. When Anora finally grabbed your cock, she lined up the tip with her pussy, impaling herself more and more with your length. Your moans echoed together, and the brunette kissed your lips to feel even more intimate with you. "Fuck baby, you're so hot when you take my cock like that." You say, making Anora wrap her arms around your neck, throwing her hair to the left side and starting to bounce on your cock. The contact was perfect, skin to skin, the souls of the two of you connected, it was everything you two ever wanted. Anora's moans echoed through the car, the movements of her hips doing wonders for you, as your cock reached all the right places inside her.

Kissing you, Ani felt your big hands grab her ass, lifting it a little before starting to hit her relentlessly. Anora's eyes rolled, and her nails slid with a pleasurable pain down your back. "FUCK, BABY!" Anora screamed, piercing her nails on your back while you continued, practically, piercing her uterus. "I'M GONNA CUM." Going faster, you held Ani closer. Your body was sweaty, and you could feel your balls weighing down as you buried yourself deeper and deeper into the brunette, and then in one swift motion, you felt Ani's pussy tighten your entire length, making you slow down but continue with the deep thrusts. "Fuck baby, you're so beautiful." You said, brushing Anora's hair from her face and kissing her cheeks as she trembled on top of you, having the strongest orgasm she's ever had in her life. "Oh, I'm gonna cum too."

Unable to speak, Anora shook her head in confirmation, moaning when she felt you lift off you with the strength of your biceps, making your cock come out of her. Putting Ani back in your lap, you grabbed your cock, masturbating until your cum stained Ani's abs. "Fuck..." You moaned as you tried to extract every last drop of cum possible. Yah, fuck. I really love you." Anora said, grabbing your cheek and kissing your lips passionately.

"I love you too, Nora."

Hi guys, what's up?

man, I'm SO tired, seriously, college is killing me.

Luckily I don't have classes this week, so I'm here writing to you.

Drink water, stay safe

xoxo, spider.

#gxg imagine #request #g!p reader #mikey madison x reader #mikey madison x you #mikey madison x f!reader #anora x reader #gxg smut #wlw smut #spiderb00bs

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imsofreakingtired · 2 days ago

Text

HI. sorry for dropping this bomb on you all right after what i said about being less active in the future BuT. i'm deleting this old fic of mine from ao3 because i'm just not interested in it anymore... but i'm kinda proud of the first chapter so i revised it to be an x reader (it was originally sevika x oc) and i'm gonna just drop it here. pls don't come at me i'm so sorry guys 🙏

"i can hear the sound of a heartbeat (before it goes out)"

content warning(s)!! graphic descriptions of injury, mentions of surgical procedure, heavy angst, hurt/comfort(?)

summary: you are the brilliant young apprentice of the undercity apothecary. after Powder's explosion, Sevika is brought into your care. notes: i wrote this like a month ago? soon after watching arcane for the first time and i started hyperfixating on who the hell performed sevika's amputation if singed was also caught in the explosion and what the process of recovery must have been like for her and oh...my baby 😞 kind of a character study more than anything. disclaimer: i'm not a doctor or even a med student. apologies for any and all inaccuracies wc: 4.7k

~~~~

What she remembered:

A blue flash. No; she recalled earlier than that. There was the acrid smell of something foreign and metallic. Something strangely human, even though she knew there was nothing human that night. Not the desperate rage in Vi’s eyes. Not the monster she was ousted by to fight in her stead. Not the pink rivers in expanding skin. Not the smoke rising lazily from the forges. Not the gleam of Silco’s glass eye, not the muscles seizing in her arms.

There was the smell; there was the impossible, cartoonish noise. Wood splintering and bodies hitting a distant floor. And then all thought gathered into one concentrated bundle of instinct, in which nothing existed, nothing in the past, present, or future—nothing mattered except leaping in the way of the blast, which Silco was standing directly in front of.

She didn’t know if he made it out of the explosion, or if he took the fall anyway. For one glorious, enormous second, her eyes were dazzled by a light so pure it felt like looking into the face of love itself. The light, blue and benign, innocent in its enormity, seared her vision and sizzled into every nerve of her brain. She was aware of a pain so distant it seemed to be happening to someone else far away from her. She was making a beautiful arc in space. She was saving a cause, she was somebody else. She was making the greatest sacrifice. She was everything that existed, from her first infant cry to this senseless blue light. And now the arc was falling. Clockwork stopping. A choking sound in the back of a scorched throat, a name dropped in the void. She was forgotten. She never mattered at all.

And then she hit the ground, and remembered nothing more.

~~~

“Is she alive?”

“She’s breathing, sir.”

“Bring her, then. See if we can save her. She’s valuable to us. Singed will handle her.”

“Sir, we found Singed in his lab. He’s not moving. Must’ve been caught in the explosion.”

“Shit.”

(Pause.)

“Just pick her up, Locke.”

(Fire. Unbearable heat everywhere. Sour smell of sweat and bitter tang of blood. And the sweet, simmering, ever-pervasive stench of Shimmer.)

(Then, a child’s weeping.)

“Hello, little girl.”

(Rain on skin. Rain, the drops feeling like acid. Makes the smell of everything worse.)

“Where is your sister?”

“She left me.” (Weeping.) “She is not my sister anymore.”

(The sounds leave. The welcome smoke of sleep curls into her brain. Her eyes close. She thinks her body is in fragments, and no one can see or touch her anymore. Before everything goes blissfully dark, she sees the Shimmer-veined mass that was and was not Vander. Is he really gone? Is she really here? Perhaps…perhaps that was not what happened at all. Perhaps they were both dead. Perhaps they would be walking side by side again soon, the way they did before everything went bad, when they were only kids, with him making jabs at her habit of drifting from one woman to another, and her countering by asking about the shifting thing he had going on with a gentle, intelligent Silco both had long stopped knowing.)

~~~

You were in the back room, mixing powders. Behind you hung a wall of carefully collected and sterilized surgical tools. The Apothecary disapproved of such tools. She had a firm belief in the old remedies, that anything short of death could be cured with a good potion and a drop or two of strong liquor. As her assistant, you could only defer to her opinions and gather the few good weeds you could find at the riverbank, make trips to Topside for the more expensive ingredients if there was a dire need. The people on the other side of the river had found out a substance with a numbing ability. They were performing amputations, open-heart operations. You felt like you were trying to breathe underwater every time you heard of such achievements. The people of the undercity were dying by the hundreds from inadequate medical means, their only hopes of surviving the pestilence in their lungs or infected flesh wounds some sham apothecary who gave them a snake oil potion and then drank away her earnings.

So you slipped away when you could. Under the pretense of gathering roots to grind into powder, you made your way across the bridge and hung around the medicine stores of Piltover. You eavesdropped on the conversations of medical scholars. You stole books from the libraries of reputable doctors and alchemists. You devoured information on the inner workings of the body, its fragility and beautiful net of nerves and cells. By degrees, you came to know everything there was to know about operating on a human body. You knew the procedures of a liver transplant in your sleep. You knew the exact place to tie a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood.

The bell chimed. Not a lick of wind had made them ring as urgently as they did now—the Apothecary’s reputation had soured as word about the uselessness of her potions went around the Lanes.

You looked up from your work, listening for the Apothecary’s steps but knowing damn well she wasn’t going to answer the call. More likely than not she was sleeping off the effects of last night’s drink. The bell chimed again, louder.

Sighing, you went to the door yourself. You slid open the window and found yourself staring into the enormous, pierced, tattooed face of a man you recognized to be Locke, a formidable henchman of Silco’s.

“We don’t want your Shimmer samples,” you snapped. “Go find another test bunny.”

That was when he stepped back, and you saw the unconscious woman in his arms.

“She ain’t got much time,” Locke said. “An’ for shit’s sake, she’s no bag of feathers.”

Even in the sparse light, you could see the woman was an inch away from death. Beneath the soot her tone was ashen. You could smell the charred skin from where you were standing.

Without another word, you swung open the door and led him into the shop.

There was nowhere to lay the woman. You spotted the table you had been working on, and swept everything off it to the floor with a deafening clatter of metal bowls and spilled dried roots. You pointed to the table. Locke laid the woman down, then stood uncertainly.

“Out,” you ordered him. “Come back when I send word.”

Not bothering to hide his relief, he disappeared. You then turned to the task at hand.

You adjusted the overhead lamp, turned it on so that the light fell brilliantly on your first ever patient.

You were not a person to turn sick easily. From a young age the things that made other kids squeamish fascinated you, enchanted you. You spent hours picking apart dead animals you found in the streets, taking as much delight in observing the small ragged caves of their rib cages, the limp softness of their organs, as other kids did in playing with toys and dolls.

But when you saw the woman you felt a small failing in your heart, a drop in your pulse.

It was the kind of burn you had only ever read about. Every inch of skin on the woman’s left arm was scorched to the bone. You could see without touching her that you could slide a knife into the flesh without the woman ever feeling it: every nerve was burned away. The left side of her face wasn’t in much better condition. You could only guess at what might have caused such a great burn as this—maybe the woman had been in a fire, or an explosion.

You closed her eyes, opened them again. Took a breath. Then the nausea passed, and left only a grim excitement. You went to the door and locked it. Then you went back to the table, with renewed resolve, to better examine the woman.

The arm would have to come off, that was certain. It was beyond saving. If she had been taken somewhere sooner—right after sustaining the burns—the arm might have been saved. But by now the flesh was eaten raw. You took a pair of shears and carefully cut the woman’s clothing away from her skin. The fabric clung to burned flesh, ripped it away, despite your caution. The woman stirred slightly but did not wake. For the first time you looked at her face.

She was handsome, with a strong jaw and dark brows. She couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. She was so tall that her boots hung over the edge of the long table.

You forced your gaze away. There was no time to lose, and you had to be meticulously careful. This was your first real operation.

You went to the cupboard and took a dose of caffeine. It steeled you, cleared your brain. You filled a syringe with the anesthetic you had swiped from the alchemist in Piltover and wiped the woman’s good arm with antiseptic before injecting it into her strong, raised vein.

Janna in Heaven, the woman was built like a god.

You were made to think rationally, scientifically. You knew the arm would have to come off, the damaged tissue rendered it useless. But it was almost tragic to think that such a substantial part of the woman would be lost, an arm that once mirrored the perfect art of its surviving counterpart, with the veins and scars and ropes of muscle telling of astounding strength.

You waited until the woman’s pulse slowed, until her breathing grew even, until you knew the woman would be far enough away from the pain to survive the loss of her left arm. Then you got to work.

~~~

Sevika saw first another bright light and thought, oh, fuck, here we go again.

She then discovered that she could not move her body. She was one tangled mass of tightness. Every fiber of her body seemed to be knotted up in another. She had the childish fear that if she made a movement she would tear apart at the seams, like a cloth left to freeze in the winter air.

She then waited—waited for the second blast, waited for the sure and swift hand of death, waited for anything, really—a fucking change—anything better than this hellish state of immobility.

The sound of metal striking metal jolted through her senses. Instinct caused her to start up, hands curled into fists.

That was when the pain hit.

She hadn’t actually moved—her body was still too sluggish for that—but the seizing of her muscles set every single cursed remaining nerve in her screaming. She couldn’t yet register what had really happened, where the sound came from, why she had tried to move so quickly. She could barely even think of who she was, her own name, why she was lying flat and shirtless on her back on a table in a chill dark room with a lamp in her face. All she could do was breathe hard and slow, trying to fight back the yell rising in her throat.

Then there was a person hovering over her. Cool hands touching her face, which she hadn’t realized until right that instant was burning like hellfire.

A voice drifting above her, like sweet rain, like mist by the river.

“You’re okay. It’s okay. Breathe. It’s over.”

What’s over? Who are you? Where am I? What did you do to me?

“Mom?” Was the only question that actually made it through Sevika’s cracked lips.

“Drink. Slow. It’s okay.”

A rim of a cup was now at her lips, and instinctively she jerked her head away. The water splashed over her cheek, a blaze of cold fire. She winced and gasped, “No.”

“Drink,” the voice repeated. “Or the shock will kill you.”

The cool fingers rested firmly on Sevika’s jaw, guiding her mouth back to the cup full of fire and glass. This woman was going to kill her. This woman had her locked in a room tied to a table and now she was trying to kill her with a cup of poison.

“Drink,” you said again. Your voice was too soft, too deep for a murderer. But Sevika had long learned not to trust any kind of exterior.

Her lips parted, nearly against her will. As if they moved in response to a thirst she wasn’t aware of herself. And then the taste of sweet, cold water on her tongue. It shocked her. Never had she tasted pure water—the filth of the river and sewage water had everyone drinking liquor or getting by on fish guts. She got over the initial shock, then reached hungrily for the rim. It was drawn cruelly away from her.

“Swallow,” you instructed her, like she was a small child. “You’ve inhaled a lot of smoke.”

She didn’t even care about the burn as the water went down. Her only thought was the cold sweetness on her tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” you said. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff pilties drink up there. Filtered water on the top of the list.”

Slowly, Sevika inhaled the water in short breaths until the cup was empty. She could feel it clear her head, move the blood in her veins. Her vision cleared until she was aware of the ring of light above her, see the outline of odd instruments hanging on the walls. And she could feel the pain coursing through her in sharp, acute waves, with nothing now to take her mind from it.

“I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to help with the pain,” you said. “The only painkilling potion we have here was recently marked down by about twenty clients as utterly useless.” Sevika could see you moving around the room, fixing up something here, cleaning something in the sink.

“Who are you?” Sevika rasped out. The movement of her voice in her throat felt like the grating of metal.

You turned to face her. Sevika could make out a young, serious face. You smiled slightly, and your exhaustion showed in the rings under your eyes. “I’m a doctor.”

It was then that Sevika realized her hands were still curled into fists. With an effort she freed the fingers of her right hand. When she moved to do the same with her left, she discovered that she could not. She turned her face to look at her left hand. It was not there.

The anesthesia was wearing off by the second, and everything was becoming bright and hot and terrifying. She could not see her left hand, but everything else began to move, as if something restraining her had suddenly broken loose and all her limbs were freed at once. Sevika struggled into a sitting position. This time she let out a ragged scream.

“Easy, easy, easy.” Your hand on her right shoulder, the other braced against the back of her neck. “Easy,” you said again in a low voice.

“What did you do, what—what the hell did you do?” Sevika gasped. “What did you do?”

“Don’t move like that. You’ll mess up the tissue.”

“What did you do what did you do what did you do?” Somewhere above her senses, even in a situation like this, Sevika was ashamed of the wild fear she knew was showing in her eyes. The crack in her voice, hinging on madness. She felt like a trapped beast waking out of a tranquilizer, looking for the first time into the eyes of its captor.

“Stay still. I’ll get you another cup of—”

Sevika’s right hand reached up and tried to close around your throat, but by then the strength had drained out of her. You calmly detached Sevika’s fingers from your neck and held her hand tightly in both your own.

“You need to calm down. I know how much pain you must be in right now, but panicking won’t help anything.”

“Woman.” Sevika’s voice was too weak for yelling, and in a whisper it sounded even more dangerous. “What. Did you do. To me.”

“It had to be done,” you said quietly. “It was beyond saving. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t want to look at it. She felt the vast absence, the great emptiness, the wide arc of space filled only by the mind-bending pain. She didn’t want to see her right hand in your grip, not when she knew she couldn’t see the left safely at her side. She closed her eyes and tried to will it all away. This was some mad dream she was in. One drink too many. Any minute now she would wake up and face a warning from Silco for drinking on the job. Any minute now this pain would all fade to a funny misunderstanding, a trick of her subconscious.

Still it pulsed on, as hot and alive as a separate being. Sevika opened her eyes and looked down at the left side of her body. Her torso was wrapped in white bandages. A million needles of light danced between her bandaged shoulder and the empty drop beneath it.

Then the tears came.

She would be embarrassed later. She would be violent later. She would make the ridiculous, childish demands later—demands for her arm back, refusing to believe she had really lost it, cursing everything and everyone and every single fucking force in the universe that had allowed this to happen. She would hate later. She would be angry later.

For now she just wept. And her head was buried in the crook of your shoulder and she could feel you holding her, rubbing circles into her back like her mother did when she was too small to know herself properly. She cried like a child who had just lost her mother. She cried as if she had lost a close friend.

“It’s okay,” you kept saying. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

The word lost its meaning, but it was strangely comforting to hear it. She was lost in a world of pain, and the word with all its nonsensical certainty was gratifying to cling to, like a rope.

She thought she felt your hand against her forehead, the brush of whispered words against her ear. She fell into a troubled sleep.

~~~

Sevika (by now you had wrenched at least that bit of information from your patient) had been in your care for several days when Silco himself came by. He spoke through the window in the door, and you did not invite him in.

“How soon can she return to work?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “She just lost her fucking arm. How soon do you think?”

He stared back, and his glass eye twitched slightly. It seemed to be a challenge of its own. She lost her arm, I lost my eye. Do you think that ever stopped us? Do you dare underestimate us?

“What is her condition?” Silco asked.

You thought back to the morning. Sevika had tried to rip the bandages off her shoulder, saying she would attach the arm back on herself or die trying.

“Furious,” you said.

“So.”

“She’s recovering. You need to give her time.”

Silco studied you through the door. “You look terribly young for someone to perform an operation so serious.”

“And you look awfully old for someone making the judgments you are now.”

Silco seemed taken aback at this, but didn’t reply immediately. He looked down—even smiled. You watched the deep scars in his face shift as his lips moved, and thought unintentionally of the healing wounds on Sevika’s face, the burn scars settling into a curious web of tissue that glowed—inexplicably—a pale blue.

“Tell her I came by,” Silco said. “Can you at least do that?”

“Yes,” you said. “Nice seeing you, Silco.”

“You’re not afraid of anything, are you?”

“Can’t afford to be, you know, in the undercity.”

He stayed a moment longer, watching you as if trying to extract a secret. You met his gaze unblinkingly. Then he turned and walked away.

You walked up the stairs into the room you had made as some kind of makeshift wing for Sevika, with a bed that hadn’t been occupied in god only knew how long and a basin for washing. It was littered now with rolls of gauze and bottles of ointment, whatever you could swipe from Piltover shelves. You didn’t like to leave Sevika long. The damned woman was filled with a dangerous restlessness. You had resorted to giving her strong doses of whiskey to knock her out for a few hours while you made the trip up and down the bridge.

When awake and sober, Sevika was calm, almost cordial. She denied that she was in much pain, even apologized for taking up so much of your time and energy. She didn’t eat much, asked only for an occasional smoke to calm her nerves. It was when she was drunk, or half-awake, when the pain seemed to trigger a primal rage in her, when the pain made her dangerous. She would cry storms of tears that quickly turned into fury against whatever lay in her line of vision. She would throw whatever she could grab with her right arm, as if trying to prove the functionality of that remaining limb. She swore at you, accusing you of mutilating her on purpose. You did not fight, did not raise your voice. You kept heavy objects out of Sevika’s reach and were careful not to hurt her even when you were forced to immobilize Sevika for your own self-defense.

It was when Sevika was asleep that tore at your heart. It was the helpless thin cries that rose from her lips, the cries for her mother, names of people you had never heard of who must have been close to Sevika once, long ago. When you changed the bandages, bathed the shoulder with pungent medicine to keep it from getting inflamed, Sevika looked so pitiful and small in her agony that your chest seized.

You would not get attached. You would stay professional. Human sympathy, that was all it was, you told yourself. It was a hard thing, losing a limb. You have seen countless people die from it. Sevika was lucky to be alive, considering everything. That was it. Basic human sympathy. You knew nothing about Sevika. If anything, you knew enough about Sevika to know you would be glad when she was fully recovered and out of your hands.

But still there were moments. You had seen her scared, you had seen her crying. Sevika knew this. Mostly it embarrassed her—all of it—and she was more than willing to pretend no such thing had ever happened. Other times, she seemed to give it all up. Abandon herself to her vulnerability. She would sit quietly and let you wash her hair. She would tell you about her dreams for the free nation of Zaun.

You didn’t care for these airheaded political ideas. You thought there was enough to do on the ground without shooting for the stars. But you still loved, with a grudging and reluctant rapture, to listen to Sevika speak. She didn’t speak like a leader—her words were too short, her feelings too strong. But she spoke what was true to her, and you knew how rare it was to come across a person like that.

~~~

Dusk was falling. You were lighting a cigarette for Sevika as she stood at the window, watching the light fall from the city rooftops. Standing so close to her, you had the urge to rest your head on Sevika’s right arm. She wore a tank top and from this angle she stood as tall and strong as a guardian angel of some sort, watching over the city and its million workings of fear and hope. The amputated shoulder was healing nicely. The burns on her skin had faded into thin veins of scarring, like cracks in the surface of a lovely broken marble statue.

Sevika turned to you, and looked down at you through the cigarette smoke as if seeing you for the first time. You rearranged your features into indifferent serenity. Sevika had caught you off-guard; you had been watching the perfect curve of her nose, the ridges of her lips, her short lashes. Now you stood as guilty as a kid caught shoplifting. You waited for whatever Sevika was going to say, or do. You waited for something without expecting anything. You wanted nothing from Sevika. You wanted nothing and everything and then some.

“Has…have you heard from Silco?”

You looked up. Sevika had turned her gaze away. She was staring at the cigarette between her fingers, knocking the ash out the window. Funny, you thought suddenly, how her eyes seemed to change color between a matter of seconds.

“I have,” you said. “He dropped by a week ago.”

“A week?” Sevika echoed. She kept her eyes down.

You thought of a soldier awaiting orders. Even if the order was for self-destruction, you realized Sevika would not hesitate to carry it out. Oh god, you thought. Oh god oh god oh god.

“I waited to tell you. I didn’t want to upset you while you were still recovering.”

“Am I done for?” Sevika asked. Her voice was quiet. “Tell me. Was it a week's notice, or am I fired immediately?”

You stared at her, unable to understand. Sevika looked at you.

“He wanted to know when you could return to work,” you said.

Then something changed in Sevika’s expression. She didn’t smile, nor did she scowl. A lightness came into her grey eyes, a hope, a lifting of a heavy weight that had been in her features all through the time she was with you. She took a long pull from the cigarette. Blew out the smoke in one long curl before speaking.

“I’m ready tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I would have gone back sooner,” Sevika explained, not quite to you, not quite to herself, “if I knew he wanted me back.”

“You’re not serious,” you said. “You’re not serious, are you? You’re not actually going back?”

“Not like this, I’m not,” Sevika said. “I need a new arm. Something better. Make up for the one I lost.”

“Sevika, he’s the reason you nearly fucking died.”

“I was doing my job.” The grey eyes cut you like a blade. “You don’t understand.”

She was right. You did not understand. You did not understand the long nights sitting by Sevika’s side, pinching yourself awake, watching like a hawk for a trace of fever, a hint of infection. You did not understand the bouts of violent grief in which you held Sevika and listened to her tears until you yourself began to weep. You did not understand the hours of shifting daylight, changing bandages and lifting from stores in Piltover and running from enforcers and brewing calming potions and doing everything you could to keep Sevika from destroying herself. You did not understand anything but the empty sense of loss, a dislodgement in your world. You did not understand how you had been so blind. In the past weeks, Sevika has been everything to you.

“You did so much for me,” Sevika said, and her words clouded into one another so that she already sounded as if she spoke from a great distance. “I won’t forget you.”

You will, you thought. You already are.

~~~

You were sleeping when Sevika left. It was in the early hours of morning, and everything was ready. You had given the name and address of a well known mechanic in the undercity. You couldn’t be sure if Smeech was still in business, but Sevika had said it was good enough for her. Then there was nothing left to do. An awkward pause had settled. You muttered something about letting her get enough rest for tomorrow. Told her not to forget to take the medicine you packed for her to help the phantom pains. Then you went to your own room, shut the door, and sat without moving or making a sound until it got dark.

You could hear your door open, and you could see through one half-opened eye that Sevika stood in the doorway. You did not get up. You feigned sleep, keeping your breaths even. You saw Sevika’s hesitation, you saw it in the uncertain way she stood. You watched Sevika raise her right hand and touch the door frame, as tenderly as if it was alive. Then she went away. You listened to her receding footsteps until a door somewhere closed and you knew for certain that Sevika had gone.

~~~

additional a/n: if you made it this far... um... pls accept my sincerest apologies🙏 ik i used the same title as my other sevika angst fic, that song breaks my heart every time i hear it. i don't know why i do this to myself. i am in tears.

#arcane #sevika #sevika x reader #sevika fanfic #character study #angst #hurt/comfort #ao3

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