#uniform alteration near me

[bxtailoralteration]

The Best Professional Uniform Alteration Services Tailor Near You

Whether you’re preparing for a new job, need a uniform tailored for comfort, or simply want to make sure your work attire fits perfectly, uniform alteration near me services provide expert solutions. The right fit can make all the difference in how you feel and perform in your uniform, and professional alteration services ensure your clothing complements your body and lifestyle, giving you confidence at work.

Uniforms come in various fabrics, styles, and designs, from corporate office attire to industrial wear or even uniforms for schools, healthcare, and hospitality. Often, the standard sizing of these garments doesn’t fit every individual perfectly, leaving you with too much slack or tightness in certain areas. That's where professional uniform alteration near me come into play, adjusting the fit to your unique shape and needs.

When you opt for uniform alteration near me, experienced tailors will assess your uniform and determine what alterations are necessary. For example, if your pants are too long or too short, they can be hemmed to the perfect length. If your shirt is too tight around the shoulders or chest, it can be taken in for a more comfortable and flattering fit. Even alterations like adjusting sleeve lengths, waistbands, or adding vents for better mobility can all be handled by a skilled professional.

In addition to the typical size adjustments, uniform alteration services can also address more specific needs, such as adding custom embroidery or patches, replacing buttons, or adding extra pockets for functionality. Whether it's creating a more professional look or improving your comfort, a local tailor will ensure that every detail of your uniform is to your exact specifications.

If your uniform includes heavy-duty fabric like denim or canvas, professional alteration services can ensure that the tough material is handled properly, avoiding any damage during the alteration process. They also have access to specialized equipment that allows them to perform adjustments that aren’t possible with regular sewing machines. For uniforms made from delicate or performance fabrics like stretch materials or breathable textiles, you can trust local experts to make adjustments without compromising the garment’s integrity or performance.

By choosing uniform alteration near me, you're not only getting the perfect fit but also supporting your local businesses. Professional tailors understand the importance of getting your uniform just right, whether you need it for a special event or daily wear. They provide fast turnaround times and excellent customer service, ensuring your uniform looks and feels great.

So, if your uniform doesn’t fit perfectly or you need adjustments to make it more comfortable or functional, consider visiting uniform alteration near me services. With expert craftsmanship and attention to detail, they’ll ensure that your uniform provides the best fit and makes you feel confident and ready to tackle your day.

[aspenmissing]

Oooookay okay okay. I will never be over those accidental babies but I come in with a new request!

I'm thinking something along the lines of a super creative reader; a fiber artist and seamstress making clothes and quilts and anything that can be made with a sewing machine. I'm a sucker for pining (like, SUCH a sucker for pining), but instances of pre-relationships where she's made something for the one(s) she's secretly pining for (and is definitely a little shy about it).

I'd like to see with just about all the guys from Arcane and JayVik (your other writing is slowly turning me into a Silco fan, too.)

ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

10364 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀʜʜ ʏᴀʀɴ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ! (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ;)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Y/N sat in the quiet of her room, the soft hum of the sewing machine her only company as the late evening light streamed through the window. Her fingers moved nimbly, guiding the fabric through the machine, her mind lost in the rhythm of creation. She loved this; the flow of creativity, the way each stitch brought something new to life. It was her escape, a refuge where she could shut out the world and pour her heart into the things she made.

Today, however, her thoughts were far from the quilt she was piecing together. They kept drifting back to Jayce.

She had always admired him from a distance, Jayce being the best friend of her late mother’s brother—her only family. A brilliant inventor, a man who could charm anyone with a smile, his aura of intelligence and quiet confidence often drew others to him, but Y/N had always found herself fascinated not just by his mind but by the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed to those he cared about. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in—Y/N included. And she had tried, for months, to ignore the fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, but that never worked. The feelings only grew stronger. He never seemed to notice her the way she wished he would, always lost in his inventions and work, but she found her own way to show her affection through little, quiet gestures. She didn’t need him to know. She just needed to feel close to him.

=

It had been weeks since she'd secretly altered his academy uniform. The buttons on the jacket had been loose and misaligned, a small detail that bothered her every time she saw him in it. He was always so engrossed in his work, often absent-minded, that she knew he’d never notice the small imperfections. Without him knowing, she’d carefully fixed them, stitching each button with precision and care, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. She even added a small decorative patch inside the sleeve, something no one would ever see, just because she knew that if he ever did, it would make him smile.

But he hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, too consumed by his genius to care about such small things.

Y/N let out a deep, frustrated sigh, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe she should just tell him. The thought of confessing her feelings made her heart race, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. What if it ruined everything? What if it ruined their easy camaraderie, their friendship?

She sighed again and glanced at the quilt she was working on, but her mind refused to settle. The patchwork of colours, the simple joy of creating, felt like a distant memory as her thoughts turned once again to him.

Meanwhile, across town, Jayce sat in his cluttered workshop, deep in thought. The plans for his latest invention were sprawled across the desk in front of him, an amalgamation of ideas and blueprints that he hoped would take his research to the next level. But his mind kept wandering. To Y/N.

It had become almost impossible to ignore her presence lately, and not just because she was constantly in his orbit, helping with errands or offering encouragement in quiet moments. No, it was the way she made him feel that had started to occupy his thoughts. How her creativity seemed to weave light into everything she touched. How she was always so thoughtful, so dedicated. Whether she was sewing a piece of clothing or making quilts, her focus and artistry were awe-inspiring. Even when she wasn’t directly around, he would think of her in the quiet moments—her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of something she loved.

Then there was that one moment when he had caught a glimpse of the patch inside his academy jacket sleeve. It was small—almost hidden—but it had made him pause. Someone had taken the time to fix his uniform without his asking. A simple gesture, one that made him smile. But he hadn’t been able to figure out who had done it. Whoever it was hadn’t mentioned it, and Jayce hadn’t thought to ask, dismissing it as a small thing. But it lingered in his mind. The patch, the care, the mystery of it.

=

That night, after a particularly long day filled with setbacks in his work, Jayce found himself walking past her door, drawn by the familiar hum of the sewing machine. He knocked lightly, hesitant, before stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tired smile softening the exhaustion on his face.

Y/N looked up from her work, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. She quickly tried to hide the quilt she was piecing together, knowing that if he saw it, he’d ask about it. She hadn’t finished it yet, and it was still too personal for her to share. But Jayce had already noticed the burst of colour.

“What are you making?” he asked, his voice warm, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

Y/N chuckled nervously and shrugged casually, hoping her emotions weren’t as visible as she felt they were. “Oh, just a quilt,” she replied, her voice a little too nonchalant. “I like to keep my hands busy, you know?”

Jayce smiled, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to her. “You always make the most beautiful things. I don’t know how you do it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “It’s just a bit of practice,” she said, trying to downplay her skill. “You can make anything if you put your mind to it.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve always been so creative, Y/N. It’s not just the things you make, but how you bring everything to life. You inspire me more than you know.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. His words were unexpected, leaving her momentarily speechless. There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made her feel as though he might just be seeing her for the first time in the way she’d hoped. “I… I’m just making things for fun,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, hoping he couldn’t hear the longing that crept in.

Jayce, however, didn’t miss the way her fingers fidgeted with the fabric, nor did he miss the way her gaze dropped for a moment as if she were hiding something. His heart tightened in his chest. He had noticed the little things—her quiet glances, the way she would always be there with a thoughtful gesture or comment when he needed it most—but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly acknowledge the growing feelings inside him. He had convinced himself that it was just a fleeting thought, nothing more.

But standing in front of her now, feeling the electricity in the air, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Well, I just wanted to thank you, by the way,” Jayce said, shifting the weight in his posture as though he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her gaze still downcast. “Thank me? For what?”

“The jacket,” he said, lifting his sleeve slightly to show her the small patch inside. “I noticed it, and… I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to, but it’s a nice touch. You’ve always been so thoughtful, Y/N.”

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. He had noticed. She hadn’t expected him to, but the way he was looking at her now made her feel exposed. She didn’t know what to say, so she spoke quickly, desperately. “I… I just thought it needed fixing,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It was nothing.”

Jayce smiled, a tenderness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped lower, filled with sincerity. “It wasn’t nothing. It meant a lot to me. You’ve always been the one who makes everything a little bit better, just by being you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She looked up at him, her heart beating faster as the air around them felt heavier. The unspoken words between them seemed to hang like a thick fog, waiting to be broken.

“I…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I need to tell you something.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat at the vulnerability in her voice, and he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. “What is it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. Could she really say it? Could she expose her feelings after all this time? She inhaled deeply, steeling herself before speaking.

“I’ve been making these things for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “For a while now. Without you knowing. I’ve been trying to show you how much I care, in little ways, even if you don’t notice. But I didn’t know if you’d ever see it... or if you’d even care.”

Jayce reached out gently, his hand cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. “Y/N, I care. More than you could ever know. I think I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that for a long time.”

The words hung between them, a confession unspoken until now. Before Y/N could respond, Jayce closed the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. It was soft, tentative, but there was something undeniable in it—a recognition of the love they had both kept hidden for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads touched, and they shared a quiet laugh, realising that this had been what they had both wanted all along.

“I think I’ll need more of your little creations,” Jayce murmured against her lips, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask you to fix my clothes more often.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the weight of her secret finally lift. “Maybe you will, Jayce. Maybe you will.”

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

VIKTOR

Y/N’s fingers worked in a rhythm that had become second nature to her over the years—stitch, pull, knot, repeat. The sewing machine hummed steadily beneath her as the hours passed, unnoticed by her. The soft light in her workshop cast gentle shadows over the shelves of colourful threads, piles of fabric, and completed projects. Yet, among all the fabric she had touched in her life, this one felt different. Every strand, every stitch, felt like an expression of something more than just creativity—it was a piece of her heart woven into every seam.

Her mind had once again drifted back to Viktor. She found herself in a state of constant yearning for him, even if she tried to suppress it. After all, Viktor was brilliant and driven, a man consumed by his work. She had spent so many years working alongside him, but she’d never found the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, she focused on her creations, using her hands to express what her words could not.

The thought of Viktor was never far from her mind. She remembered the time, months ago, when she’d first noticed how his leg brace seemed to rub uncomfortably against his skin. Viktor, always so absorbed in his work, never seemed to notice the discomfort, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. So, without a word, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quietly, late at night, she had added some extra padding to his brace, making it a little softer. She didn’t tell him. She couldn’t bring herself to. But when he had worn it for the first time, she had caught him glancing at her with a look of surprise—and something more, something unspoken, that made her heart race. It wasn’t the most dramatic gesture, but it was hers, and that small act of care had meant everything to her.

=

Now, as she sat at her sewing machine, Y/N was working on something far more personal, something that she wasn’t sure Viktor would even notice—but it was something she needed to do for him. It had started out as a simple act of wanting to do something nice for him, but it had quickly turned into something far more complicated, the emotions woven into the fabric of every stitch.

She was making him a jacket—tailored to perfection, fitted to his form, with a deep, rich burgundy fabric that would complement the shade of his eyes. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the kind of material that could withstand long hours in his workshop while still offering him comfort. She added small, intricate details—a delicate embroidered pattern at the cuff, a hidden pocket inside the lining, just for him. The embroidery wasn’t loud or obvious. In fact, it was so subtle that it could only be appreciated by someone who took the time to look closely. Viktor would never be one to wear anything flamboyant, but she knew he would appreciate the effort, the quiet care put into it.

The jacket was far more than just a gift. It was her way of showing Viktor that she saw him—that she saw not only his brilliance, but also his quiet struggles. She noticed the way he winced sometimes as he moved, the tension in his body from working so tirelessly, his reliance on the cane to support him when his leg ached. This jacket, she hoped, would offer him not just warmth, but a sense of care—a small token of comfort.

As she stitched, Y/N couldn’t help but think of how Viktor would react. He was so focused on his work, so consumed by his inventions, that she often wondered if he even had the capacity to notice things like this. Would he even recognise the effort she had put into making him something so personal? Or would it be just another object to him, like all the others she’d made for people over the years—something useful, but not anything more?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts away. She was doing this because she wanted to, because he mattered to her. That was enough.

She finished the last stitch, running her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of her emotions within it. She only hoped that Viktor would recognise the love she had woven into every thread, even if he never said it aloud.

=

The steady rhythm of the machine was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, and there stood Viktor, framed in the doorway. His figure, so familiar, yet always startling to her in moments like this, stood with his usual intensity. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw something shift in them, something softer, but it was gone in an instant.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, melodic tone that always made her stomach twist. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to—” He faltered, his gaze flicking to the fabric she was working on, then to her. “I’ve been thinking about something. Perhaps you could offer me your thoughts.”

Y/N quickly hid the jacket under a pile of fabric, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Of course, Viktor. What’s troubling you?”

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room as he seemed to search for the right words. He always did this, Y/N noticed. His mind constantly shifted between ideas, a thousand thoughts racing at once. She loved how his mind worked, even if it sometimes meant he didn’t notice the little things. Or maybe, just maybe, he did notice—but was too focused on his work to say anything.

“I’ve been refining some of my calculations,” Viktor began, his tone slightly distracted as he shifted his weight, leaning on the cane that had become a constant companion. “But I feel like there’s something I’m overlooking. You’re the only one who always sees things others miss, Y/N. I could use your perspective.”

Her heart fluttered again, but she pushed aside the longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She nodded, focusing on the task at hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

=

As they moved to his desk, Viktor still seemed a little distracted, his brow furrowed in thought as he adjusted his grip on his cane, steadying himself. His eyes darted over his notes and calculations, his mind a whirlwind of equations and hypotheses. Y/N could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he leaned into his cane when he forgot to stand fully upright.

She loved these moments with him, even if they were fleeting, even if they didn’t change anything. Viktor was here, and that was enough.

Her thoughts, however, remained on the jacket she had made for him. Would he ever wear it? Would he ever realise that it was her way of saying all the things she couldn’t say out loud? Or would it simply be another creation in his ever-growing collection of inventions and projects?

But as she helped him with his calculations, something in the air shifted—a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable. Viktor’s hand brushed against hers, just for a second, and she could have sworn she felt the softest of sparks. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to see her, to see all the things she had longed to show him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would notice the jacket. And when he did, she would be waiting, her heart laid bare in every stitch, every thread, every moment of care she had woven into it.

=

Years had passed since that quiet, unspoken connection between Y/N and Viktor had begun. What had started as a secret longing, a quiet affection woven into the fabric of every stitch she made, had evolved into something deeper, something real. She still remembered the moments they shared, the hours spent together, working side by side, exchanging glances that held a thousand words. And now, as she stood at the altar, Viktor’s eyes locked on hers, everything that had once been unsaid, unspoken, was now there in the open, in the purest form of love.

The church was dimly lit, the gentle light of candles flickering along the pews, casting soft shadows over the gathered friends and family. But the world outside had all but faded into the background. There was only Viktor, standing at the front, dressed in the jacket she had made for him all those years ago.

The deep burgundy fabric, so soft yet durable, still held the same warmth, the same careful stitches she had woven into it. It seemed to almost glow under the light of the candles, every small detail—every tiny embroidered pattern at the cuff—still as beautiful as the day she had made it. It was almost as though the jacket had waited for this moment too, holding all the years of their journey together. Viktor had worn it countless times in the years that followed, but today, it felt different. It wasn’t just an article of clothing; it was a symbol—a symbol of how far they had come, how much they had endured together. And now, on their wedding day, it was more than ever, a reminder of the quiet care she had put into it, all those years ago.

As Y/N walked toward him, her heart seemed to beat in time with the soft rustling of her gown. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but one constant remained: Viktor, the man who had quietly become the centre of her world. The jacket—his jacket—was there, a reminder of the early days when she had hidden her love for him in the softest of gestures.

Viktor’s gaze softened as she approached, and for the first time, there was no question in his eyes. He had seen it all, all that she had ever wanted to say. His eyes swept over her with the same quiet reverence that she had once felt when sewing that jacket. The jacket she had made for him, not knowing how the years would unfold, not knowing that it would one day be worn on this day—their wedding day.

When she reached him, Viktor took her hands gently, his gaze not leaving hers. "You still remember," he murmured, his voice a quiet reflection of the emotions swirling between them.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching as she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course I remember. I remember everything."

He looked down at the jacket, then back at her, his eyes soft with affection. "It’s never left me, you know. I’ve worn it more times than I can count, but today... today it feels different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to wear it today, to wear the love you put into every stitch, to wear you as we stand here."

There were so many things left unsaid between them, but in that moment, words didn’t seem necessary. The past, the present, the quiet yearning from years ago—it was all woven into the fabric of that jacket. It was in every thread, every stitch, every moment they had shared since then.

=

The officiant spoke, but Y/N's attention was entirely on Viktor, the man who had quietly stolen her heart all those years ago. As they exchanged their vows, as they promised to stand by one another through everything life had to offer, she saw it—the weight of all their shared moments reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He was wearing the jacket, yes, but more than that, he was wearing her heart, and she his.

When the ceremony came to its close and they were finally pronounced husband and wife, Viktor’s hand slipped into hers with the same tenderness she had always known, the same tenderness that had always been there, quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And as they walked down the aisle together, Viktor’s jacket—her jacket—glowed with a quiet brilliance, just as it had all those years ago, when she had stitched it with the hope that one day, he might see her love for him, in all its subtlety, in all its care.

Now, here they were, standing side by side, not just as two people who had fallen in love, but as two hearts intertwined, with all the years of longing, of creation, of care, wrapped around them like the jacket that Viktor wore so proudly. The jacket was more than just fabric. It was the fabric of their love story, woven with patience, with hope, with trust, and now with the joy of a future they would share together.

And when Viktor looked at her, his gaze as steady as it had always been, she knew one thing for certain—he had finally understood all along.

JAYVIK

The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over Piltover’s skyline. Inside her modest studio, tucked away from the noise of the city, Y/N worked with a needle and thread. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was like a familiar lullaby as she focused intently on the quilt she was creating. Each stitch was deliberate, each fabric chosen with care. Her craft was a reflection of her soul, a blend of artistry and precision, and though she had countless patients in the medical ward, this was her sanctuary. A place where she could pour her heart into every thread, even if it was a thread she couldn’t yet share.

Y/N hummed quietly to herself, her fingers deftly guiding the fabric through the machine. She had always loved the process of creation—the way a simple piece of cloth could transform into something beautiful with just a little time and patience. Yet, lately, her thoughts often drifted to Viktor and Jayce, both of whom had become so important to her in different ways. She wished she could say something, but the fear of ruining what she had with both of them kept her quiet.

Her mind wandered to the first time she had made something for Viktor. It had been a late evening when she’d been working on a jacket for him, stitching together fine, rich fabric with delicate precision. She’d hesitated before gifting it, worried it might come off as too personal, yet the soft hum of the machine had given her the courage. The quiet moment when Viktor opened the small bundle of fabric had stayed with her. His eyes softened in appreciation, and for a brief moment, she’d seen a flicker of something more—a connection that made her heart race, but one she didn’t dare name. He had simply thanked her, and in his gratitude, she had swallowed down the emotions that swirled within her.

She smiled at the memory but felt the familiar ache in her chest. The quiet pining for Viktor had always been there, simmering under the surface. He was brilliant, driven, and had a kindness about him that she admired deeply. But despite their moments of closeness, it always felt like there was an invisible wall between them. She never quite knew how to cross it. But she cherished the glances, the brief exchanges of words that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t quite control.

Then there was Jayce.

Oh, Jayce. The brilliant, exuberant force of nature who filled every room with energy. The man who had always looked out for her like a protective older brother, but she had come to realise that there was something more to his affection. He teased her relentlessly, always with that smile that never seemed to fade. Yet, she could see it—how deeply he cared. He had been there for her in countless ways, just as Viktor had, but in a different light. She remembered making him a vest once, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. The intricate patterns she stitched into the fabric had reflected the boldness of his personality. He had grinned like a child on his birthday when she handed it to him, his eyes bright with that warmth that made her heart skip a beat.

The pining had started there too, subtle and slow, like the weaving of threads in a tapestry. She had tried to dismiss it, thinking that perhaps, like Viktor, Jayce only saw her as a friend. The small acts of kindness they showed, the gentle teasing and shared moments, all remained unspoken. She kept her feelings buried deep, hoping they’d never notice. But how could they not, when every thread she wove into her creations was a secret declaration of affection?

=

But tonight, she was finished. She had just completed the last stitch of a new project—a quilt she had been working on for days. It wasn’t as intricate as some of her other creations, but it was personal. The colours were soft, the patterns intertwined—much like her thoughts of Viktor and Jayce. She had chosen the fabrics carefully, pouring into it a quiet wish that maybe one day, they would realise how much she cared. Would they ever see her as more than just their confidante? More than just the woman who made their clothes, their comfort?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Y/N?" came Viktor’s low, warm voice. "Are you still working?"

She smiled, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. She opened it to find Viktor standing there, his cane resting beside him, his sharp eyes flicking to the quilt in her hands before meeting her gaze. She noted the concern that clouded his expression.

"You’ve been working late again," he said, his voice laced with both concern and tenderness. "You really should rest. You’ve done enough for one night."

Y/N laughed softly, a playful glint in her eye despite the weight of her emotions. "I know, Viktor. But I just needed to finish this. It’s been on my mind all week."

Viktor’s eyes softened, his features betraying the faintest sign of worry. He stepped inside, glancing around the studio with an appreciation she always found comforting. His attention quickly shifted back to her, the quilt she had just finished catching his eye.

"You always put so much into your work," he said quietly, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the fabric. His touch lingered, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the closeness. "It’s beautiful."

Her heart skipped, and she fought to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

There was a brief silence, thick with the unsaid things neither of them spoke. Viktor’s gaze lingered on her, an unreadable expression on his face. And for a moment, Y/N thought she might drown in the weight of his attention.

=

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Jayce strode in, his usual confident gait betraying a tenderness in his eyes when they landed on her. The corners of his lips tugged up into a mischievous grin, but it softened as soon as he caught sight of the quilt.

"Did you finish it?" he asked, his voice light, though there was something more behind it. "I hope you’re not going to try to keep it from us."

Y/N laughed again, more freely this time. "No, it’s for both of you."

Jayce’s grin softened further as he moved closer, his gaze playful, but with an edge of something deeper—something Y/N tried not to read into. "You really do spoil us, don’t you?"

Her heart fluttered, but she held her composure, a small smile curling at her lips. "It’s just a small thing. Nothing too special."

Viktor stepped forward, his expression serious yet gentle. "To us, Y/N, everything you make is special." His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and it made her breath hitch.

Her chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Was this the moment? Would they finally see her for what she was—not just the woman who made their clothes, but the woman who had quietly loved them both for so long?

"I’m glad you like it," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between them felt charged, thick with the unsaid things that hung like delicate threads in the space between them.

Jayce’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, she could feel the tenderness he tried to hide behind his usual bravado. The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a spark through her that almost made her dizzy. "We love it. We love you, Y/N," he said softly, his words wrapping around her heart like a comforting embrace.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Jayce, and then back to her. There was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity. "Jayce is right," he agreed, his voice low and steady. "You’re important to us. More than you realise."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. They were so close now, standing in her small studio, the distance between them vanishing with every word they spoke. The connection she’d felt for so long was suddenly undeniable, woven through with every glance, every touch. She could feel it—a thread that pulled them all together.

And then, as if in unison, both Viktor and Jayce reached out, their hands brushing against hers in the same instant. The touch was soft, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her veins. It was a spark—quiet, but undeniable.

"Maybe it’s time we talk," Viktor said, his voice steady, yet there was a softness there that made her chest ache with longing. He stepped closer, his hand lingering near hers.

Jayce’s thumb brushed over her hand, sending a thrill through her that left her breathless. "We’ve been wanting to, for a while now," he added, his voice sincere.

Y/N’s heart soared, the quiet ache of unspoken affection finally breaking free. The thread of their shared feelings, woven so carefully through time, finally began to unravel, drawing them closer. It was a beginning—a slow, tender start. And for the first time, Y/N let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—her pining might finally be returned.

=

The soft hum of a crackling fire filled the cosy living room as Y/N sat comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked beneath a thick, woven blanket. The evening light bathed the room in a golden hue, and the warmth of their shared home wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

Her hands worked deftly, needle and thread gliding through the fabric of one of Jayce’s suits, mending a small tear along the seam. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the well-worn material, recalling how many times she had stitched up something for him—whether it was his suits or Viktor’s jackets, she had always taken care of the two men she loved. And now, as her gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, she knew she’d soon be caring for someone new.

Her pregnancy had been a dream so far, and despite the weight she carried, she had never felt more at peace. Viktor and Jayce had been doting beyond words, tending to her every need, often to an almost comical degree. But she loved them for it—loved them for everything they were and all they would become.

Just as she finished the final stitch, the sound of the front door opening caught her attention. She glanced up, amusement flickering in her eyes as she heard the telltale murmurs of her lovers, their voices hushed yet brimming with excitement.

Then, they appeared.

Jayce and Viktor stepped into the living room, their smiles wide and unmistakably mischievous. The sight of them—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lithe and sharp-eyed—filled her heart with warmth. They were up to something. She could see it plain as day.

Her brow arched in suspicion as she set the suit aside. “Alright,” she drawled, resting a hand on her belly, “what did you two do?”

Viktor smirked as he walked over to her, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor before he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her. Jayce, ever the dramatic one, sat on the coffee table directly in front of her, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. In his hands, he held a small bundle of fabric.

“We made something for you,” Jayce said, his voice tinged with pride. He turned the fabric over, revealing a tiny onesie—albeit, one that was crudely stitched together, the seams uneven, and the buttons slightly misaligned. It was far from perfect, but the love and effort put into it made it the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out, her fingers brushing over the soft material. “You two… made this?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

“Hand-stitched and everything,” Jayce grinned. “Well, mostly hand-stitched. Viktor got impatient with me and took over halfway through.”

“I would not call it ‘impatience,’” Viktor said with a smirk, his fingers ghosting over Y/N’s hand as she held the onesie. “I simply could not watch him continue to butcher the stitches any longer.”

Y/N let out a laugh, shaking her head as she turned the tiny garment in her hands. It was a little rough around the edges, but it was made with so much care and devotion that she couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, holding it close to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

Jayce leaned forward, resting a warm hand on her knee. “We wanted to do something special,” he said softly. “You’ve always taken care of us—always stitching up our clothes, making sure we’re looked after. We figured it was time we tried to make something for you… for them.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested over Y/N’s belly, his touch featherlight yet full of love. “We wanted to give our child something from us,” he murmured. “Something made with our hands. A beginning.”

Y/N sniffled, brushing away a stray tear as she looked between the two men who had become her world. Her heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer love she held for them.

“You two are going to be the most incredible fathers,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Jayce beamed, his fingers tightening around hers. “And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “are going to be the most incredible mother.”

Viktor pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We are a family. That is all that matters.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their love settle deep within her bones. In that quiet, precious moment, with their hands entwined and the tiny onesie cradled against her chest, she knew without a doubt—this was happiness. This was home.

VANDER

The steady hum of the sewing machine filled the dimly lit backroom of The Last Drop, the rhythmic whirring blending with the faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The scent of old wood, ale, and candle smoke mingled with the faint traces of fabric dye and thread wax, a smell that had become comfortingly familiar to Y/N. Her small workstation was cluttered but organised, bolts of fabric stacked neatly to one side, a basket of unfinished mending beside it. Spools of thread, needles, and small scraps of cloth lay scattered across the table, evidence of the late nights she spent here.

Her fingers moved with practised ease, guiding the needle through worn fabric, repairing yet another tear in Vi’s jacket. The girl was rough with her clothes—climbing, fighting, running through Zaun’s underbelly without a care. But Y/N never complained, never hesitated to patch up every tear and stitch every rip. Because Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—they were family in every way that mattered.

“You spoil them, you know.”

The familiar voice pulled her from her focus, low and gruff but tinged with something warmer than mere amusement.

Y/N didn’t have to look up to know it was Vander. The scent of ale and leather, the way his deep voice carried with a certain weight—it was unmistakable.

“They’re kids,” she replied without pause, finishing off the stitch with a deft flick of her wrist. “They tear their clothes faster than I can fix them, but they don’t have many to begin with. Least I can do is keep ‘em from falling apart at the seams.”

Vander exhaled a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway, watching her work. His broad frame nearly filled the entire space, his presence as steady and unwavering as the bar he protected.

“They adore you for it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Powder won’t let that rabbit out of her sight.”

That made Y/N smile, a small, fond expression that softened her features. She had made that stuffed rabbit from scraps of fabric, carefully stitching it together after seeing Powder clutching a threadbare piece of cloth as if it were a proper toy. It was a simple thing, but the way Powder had beamed when she received it—holding it tight like it was the most precious thing in the world—had been worth every stitch.

“She needed something to hold onto,” Y/N murmured, setting Vi’s jacket aside and reaching for another garment in need of mending. “Something that’s just hers.”

Vander was quiet for a moment, watching her hands work, the glow of the candlelight casting a golden hue over her skin. She was always doing this—fixing things, putting care into every thread, every patch. Not just for the kids. For everyone.

“And what about you?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence as she glanced up at him. “Still wearin’ that scarf I made you?”

Vander scoffed, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around the fabric. The scarf had been a gift from her last winter, something she had pressed into his hands with a quiet “Zaun gets cold, you know,” as if she wasn’t completely aware of how stubborn he was about taking care of himself. It was a simple thing—nothing extravagant—but she had chosen the fabric carefully, making sure it was thick enough to keep out the Zaun chill.

He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“Best scarf I’ve ever owned,” he admitted, voice quieter now, the words carrying more weight than he likely intended.

Their eyes met, a brief but lingering moment stretched between them. She could read him better than most, could see past the gruff exterior, past the strong front he put up for everyone else. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something in the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edges of the scarf, something in the way he stood just a little closer than necessary.

He pushed off the wall with a small shake of his head, as if breaking whatever spell had settled between them. “You should charge more for your work.”

Y/N only laughed, shaking her head. “And have half of Zaun freezing or running around with holes in their trousers? Not likely.”

Vander huffed, muttering something under his breath about her being ‘too damn kind for her own good.’ But there was no real heat behind it. He wouldn’t change her for anything.

She watched as he walked back towards the bar, the blue of her scarf still wrapped around his neck, the candlelight catching in his silvering hair.

She didn’t miss the way his eyes softened as he looked at her before turning away, the unspoken words hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Not yet. But maybe someday.

=

The following days passed in a steady rhythm, much like the quiet whir of her sewing machine. She continued her work, fixing torn garments, mending stuffed animals, and occasionally stitching together something entirely new. The bar bustled with its usual energy—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter or the distant hum of tension from the undercity’s unrest. And through it all, Vander was a constant presence.

He found excuses to stop by her small corner in the backroom. Bringing her a drink she hadn’t asked for, leaning against the doorway with a watchful gaze as she worked, making small talk about the latest scuffle at the bar or how Claggor had managed to tear a hole straight through the knee of his trousers again. He never lingered too long, never said too much—but his presence was always there, warm and steady, like the faint glow of candlelight on a cold night.

One evening, as she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece on a worn-out coat, she heard heavy footsteps approach. The familiar weight of his presence settled in the doorway before he stepped inside.

She looked up just in time to see Vander set something on the table beside her—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” he said simply.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, setting down her needle. She wiped her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the cloth, revealing a thick roll of high-quality fabric. It was unlike anything she could find in Zaun, sturdy and warm, likely bartered from Piltover’s markets. The kind of material that would hold against the bitter Zaun chill, something made to last.

“Vander, this is—”

“Figured you might need it,” he interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it, as if unsure how she’d take the gift. “For…whatever it is you’re always makin’. Consider it a thank you.”

She looked up at him then, her chest tightening slightly at the rare hint of hesitation in his voice. He wasn’t a man of grand gestures, wasn’t one to put emotions into words easily. But this—this was something.

Her fingers ran over the fabric, feeling the softness beneath her touch. The edges were neatly folded, carefully bundled together, as if he’d handled it with more care than he’d admit.

“I’ll make something good with it,” she murmured, voice softer now.

His lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that was gone too quickly but left warmth in its wake. “I know you will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of something unspoken settling between them. The candlelight flickered against the walls, stretching shadows long and soft. She could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, the quiet understanding neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, as if realising he had lingered too long, Vander exhaled and took a step back, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late workin’,” he said over his shoulder, voice gruff but tinged with something gentler.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her sitting there with warmth blooming in her chest, the weight of his quiet kindness settling over her like a well-loved quilt.

She traced the fabric with her fingertips, thoughtful. Vander wasn’t a man of words, but he had his own way of showing things—small gestures, quiet care. It had always been there, between them, stitched into every moment they shared.

Maybe someday wasn’t so far away after all.

SILCO

The first time Silco truly noticed her, it was not because of her appearance or her sharp wit. It wasn’t even the way she carried herself, though that too intrigued him. No, it was because of the rip in his coat.

It wasn’t the first time his clothes had seen damage; as a man in his position, a leader with enemies at every turn, he had grown used to the wear and tear. The fight in the Lanes had been a typical skirmish—fists, knives, and threats exchanged over petty rivalries. He’d never imagined it would result in a tear down the side of his long, dark coat. He had barely noticed it in the chaos, but when he returned to the Underbelly, the jagged tear caught his eye.

At first, he considered simply tossing the coat aside, but something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the way the fabric seemed to reflect the disarray in his mind after the conflict. His thoughts, much like his coat, felt torn and frayed at the edges. But then she appeared.

She was standing there at the entrance to his office, as though she had known he’d be there. There was something about her, something predatory in the way she stepped forward, almost as if she had been watching him for some time. Her sharp eyes assessed him immediately, but not with the usual wariness he was accustomed to. No, she took in the coat, the tear, and then—without waiting for permission—she moved to inspect the damage.

He had intended to wave her off, to brush aside the need for anything resembling care. But her presence was immediate, commanding, even without a word. The way she touched the fabric, her fingers sliding along the tear, tracing its path like a careful examination of a wound. She seemed to read the damage, as though she knew exactly how to fix it, where to pull, where to stitch.

“Leave it with me,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused, though he saw no mockery in her eyes. She said it with an assurance that left no room for argument. She already knew he would relent. And, to his own surprise, he did.

=

Silco wasn’t a man given to sentiment. His empire was built on dominance, control, and cruelty. He had no time for kindness, for softness. Yet here she was, standing before him, offering to repair a coat that, in his mind, held little value beyond its utility. But somehow, her words, her confidence, made him trust her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

She wasn’t from the grime and muck of the underbelly like most people in Zaun. She didn’t have the hardened edge that the typical denizens of the Lanes wore like a badge of honour. Instead, she had settled into the city like a delicate thread woven into an old tapestry—soft yet resilient, unfurling and unraveling at the same time. She had a sort of quiet grace about her, a sense of purpose that was both subtle and undeniable.

A seamstress. A maker of things. A woman whose hands were stained with ink and dyes, a patchwork of colours permanently imprinted into her skin from years of working with fabrics of every kind. She was a stranger to the underworld, and yet she had an undeniable place in it. The children of Zaun adored her. Her humble shop was always filled with the noise of their laughter, their cries for attention, their hands pulling at her skirts, eager to see what she was making next. They were drawn to her in a way they never were to anyone else—especially Powder, the youngest, whose fascination with Y/N’s work bordered on obsession.

And in a way, Silco found it curious. The children, so often abandoned and ignored by the world, had found solace in her presence, a warmth that he could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, he never doubted that she was something special.

After she mended his coat, a task that seemed so simple, so mundane, he found himself inspecting it more than he’d like to admit. He ran his fingers over the stitches, feeling the tightness of them, the precision in every movement. She had taken a coat that was merely a tool and turned it into something more—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to see what others might overlook.

When she returned it to him, there were no formalities. She didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t expect anything. She simply said, “Good as new,” and watched him closely, waiting to see his reaction. It was not the typical response she’d receive from others, and she seemed to know it. He nodded. That was all. But he could feel it, a certain unspoken understanding between them. The coat, now mended, was a marker of something unspoken—something subtle and deliberate.

=

And then there was the waistcoat.

It appeared one evening, folded neatly in brown paper and left at The Last Drop without a word, no explanation, no card. He found it tucked away in the corner of the bar, a surprise that didn’t fit with the usual chaos of his life. He unwrapped it carefully, the fine fabric smooth under his fingers. It was a deep charcoal, dark but with an intricate emerald design embroidered along the edges—a delicate touch, but one that spoke volumes. The kind of thing he never would have chosen himself, yet it felt... right. It was understated, quiet in its elegance, but unmistakably hers.

That night, after a particularly grueling day spent managing Piltover’s politicians and the constant friction with the people of Zaun, he wore it. He didn’t think about it much at first, just slipped it on as if it were any other garment. But when he looked in the mirror, something tugged at him. It wasn’t just a waistcoat. It was something more—a symbol of her care, of her quiet, unnoticed influence on his life.

They did not have the kind of relationship marked by loud declarations or gestures. No, their bond was built in quiet moments. In the soft rhythm of her sewing shears cutting through fabric. In the weight of the threads, carefully pulled through delicate fabric. In the way her eyes always seemed to search him, studying him like the seamstress she was, looking for the places where the seams might have frayed, where the edges might have come apart.

=

One night, he found himself standing at the threshold of her shop, unannounced, a place he rarely visited without a purpose. But that evening, there was no agenda, no business to be conducted. He simply wanted to see her, to observe her in her element. She was sitting at her workbench, the dim glow of a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she stitched together a new garment—one of her many projects, one of her endless creations.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her hands as they worked with unshaken precision. The needle passed through the fabric again and again, a rhythmic dance that felt hypnotic.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, his voice low but breaking the silence.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. “A coat. For a friend.”

“A lucky friend,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet humour.

She didn’t answer, only hummed as she threaded her needle again. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Just care.”

And for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something deeper. She cared. He could see it in her hands, in the steady way she worked. She didn’t do it for accolades, didn’t do it for recognition. She did it because she cared.

The thought unsettled him. She wasn’t like others, who cowered beneath his power or avoided his gaze. No, she studied him, watched him, as if she could see beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Silco had made his name as a man of power, a man who controlled the shadows, a man whose empire was built on fear and ambition. He had forged himself from the broken pieces of the world around him. But when she looked at him, when she saw him as she did, he wasn’t Silco the tyrant or Silco the visionary. For a brief moment, he was simply Silco, a man who had a tattered coat and a waistcoat stitched with care.

=

Weeks passed in a haze of strained negotiations, political manoeuvring, and the steady grind of maintaining his hold over Zaun. Silco didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on much outside of his empire, but there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when his thoughts wandered back to her. The way she had touched his coat, the subtle care in every stitch, the way she never flinched under his gaze. There was something there, something fragile yet strong, like an ember flickering in the dark.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Silco found himself walking toward her shop again. He had no particular reason to be there. His coat was still intact, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes repaired. But something in the back of his mind told him he should check on her, to see if she was still as steady, as unwavering as she had been the last time he’d seen her.

As he approached her shop, the dim light spilling from beneath the door caught his attention. The flicker of the lanterns inside, the soft hum of activity—it was a rhythm he had come to recognise, one that spoke to the quiet dedication she had for her craft. It was late, later than usual. Silco hesitated for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, considering whether to enter or not.

But then he heard it—the harsh rasp of voices, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle inside. His instincts kicked in, and he pushed the door open without a second thought.

=

Inside, the scene before him unfolded in a quick, brutal flash. Two men—rough, unkempt, with the stench of desperation hanging over them—had cornered her. One of them was holding a knife, its blade glinting ominously under the light of the lamp. The other was gesturing wildly at the shelves, clearly trying to intimidate her into handing over whatever they could steal.

Her back was to the door, and for a moment, Silco saw her—saw her not as the gentle seamstress who had repaired his coat, but as someone who had lived in the same world as him, someone who had faced her own battles. Her posture was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to bend to their will.

"Just give us the damn money, lady," the one with the knife spat, his voice low and rough. "We’re not here to play games."

Silco’s mind moved quickly, calculating the best way to deal with this. He didn’t care about the petty theft. What bothered him was the way they were treating her—as if she were just another victim to be taken advantage of. As if she were weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

Without a word, he stepped forward, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. The sound was enough to catch the attention of the men, who turned just as he moved closer. The one with the knife sneered at him, recognising the man who had brought Zaun to its knees.

"Who the hell are you?" the first man growled, his voice a mixture of surprise and aggression.

Silco didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment, allowing the tension to build. He wasn’t worried about them. The men were nothing more than irritants to him, mere distractions in a world full of dangers.

"You’re in the wrong place," Silco finally said, his voice low and measured, his gaze cold and unyielding.

The men exchanged wary glances. The one with the knife hesitated, but the second man, more desperate, growled. "You don’t scare us. We’ve got a knife. What’s it to you?"

Silco’s lips twitched, amused by their audacity. The tension in the room thickened, but Silco’s presence alone was enough to shift the balance.

The man with the knife stepped forward, brandishing the blade in an unsteady hand. "You want to make something of it, then? I’ll carve you up, just like I’m gonna carve her up if she doesn’t listen."

Silco’s gaze never wavered. He was calm, cold, the eye of the storm. There was no fear in him, only a sense of inevitability. Without a word, he reached for the concealed knife tucked in his belt. The men barely had time to register the movement before he had it in his hand, its cold steel glinting in the lantern light.

"Put the knife down," Silco said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife itself.

The second man, realising the situation had shifted, took a step back, his face contorted in confusion. But the first man—still gripped by his own desperation and pride—didn’t relent. He raised the blade, aiming to strike.

Silco stepped forward, his movements swift and fluid. His knife flicked in the air, and the man with the blade froze, his hand trembling.

"Now," Silco’s voice rang out like thunder.

The man’s resolve broke, and with a muttered curse, he dropped the knife to the floor. His hands raised in surrender, and the second man, seeing the fight drain out of his ally, backed away as well.

Silco didn’t need to say more. He watched as they stumbled towards the door, muttering under their breath, eager to escape the presence of the one man in Zaun they feared.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Silco turned back to her. He noticed the damage immediately—the rip along the seam of his coat where one of the men had caught it in the scuffle. A small tear, but enough to catch his eye.

Before he could brush it off, she was already moving toward him. Her gaze was focused, and without a word, she was inspecting the tear. The flickering lanterns cast a soft glow on her features, her expression filled with concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric.

"You’re going to want to get that fixed," she said, her tone both calm and concerned. "Let me—"

"I’m fine," Silco interrupted, his voice terse, though he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the care in her words. "It’s just a small tear."

She barely looked up, already beginning to gather her tools. "It’s a shame," she muttered, her hands moving quickly to pull a needle and thread from her kit. "The fabric’s too nice to let it go to waste."

Silco raised an eyebrow at her, bemused by her reaction. Most people would have been intimidated, maybe even scared, at the thought of trying to repair the coat of someone like him. But here she was, entirely unfazed, focused on restoring something that was clearly important to him.

"I’m not sure you understand, this coat isn’t just a coat," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It’s… important."

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with that same steady intensity. "I understand," she said simply, before returning to the task at hand. "I’ll make sure it’s good as new. It’ll be even better once I’ve finished."

Her certainty was palpable, and it settled over him like a weight. Silco felt something stir within him—something unfamiliar and quiet. He hadn’t expected to be here, hadn’t planned on staying this long. Yet, in this quiet moment, with her focused on repairing his coat, he realised he didn’t mind at all.

Maybe this was where he belonged, at least for now. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to stay a little longer.

[luxerians]

The Last Mask (02)

Hwang In-ho/Oh Young-il/Player 001 x Reader

Chapter 02 - Flower Has Bloomed

Story Masterlist

NEXT : Chapter 03

PREV : Chapter 01

You woke up to the sound of classical music. The soft, elegant notes felt strange against the confusion settling over you. Opening your eyes, you saw a plain, white ceiling. It wasn’t yours. That much was clear. Sitting up, your breath quickened as you took in the unfamiliar surroundings. This wasn’t your room.

You scanned the massive hall around you. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, giving the space an unsettling sense of emptiness. Rows of beds, stacked like bunk beds, lined the walls. Your bed was near the top, perched high above the others. In the center of the room, a large, open area stretched out, its cold, hard floor barren except for a pair of heavy metal double doors at one end. On either side of the doors, smaller entrances sat, unmarked. Above the double doors hung a massive screen, currently blank.

Around you, people began to stir. Disoriented faces appeared as others sat up, rubbing sleep from their eyes. Low murmurs of confusion spread through the hall. Everyone was wearing the same green tracksuit with white stripes. You glanced down and saw you were dressed the same way. The number ‘423’ was printed on your chest in bold white.

Panic prickled at your skin. The last thing you remembered was wearing your trench coat, the fabric still vivid in your memory. Your hands moved instinctively, patting yourself down. Nothing felt wrong, nothing out of place. Relief mingled with unease as you were left with more questions than answers.

The memories came flooding back. The white car. The masked driver in a pink suit. The smoke. And now… this.

The classical music continued, calm but eerie, a sharp contrast to the growing noise in the room. People climbed down from their beds, moving hesitantly toward the open space in the center. You stayed put, preferring the vantage point from above. Questions buzzed in your head. Were these people here for the same reason as you? To play games for money? What exactly had you gotten yourself into?

You pulled your knees to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, trying to piece everything together. The voices below grew louder, a chorus of confusion and fear. You were content to stay quiet, observing from your perch.

Then, a loud beeping sound cut through the air. The metal doors creaked open, and nine figures stepped into the room. They were dressed in hot pink uniforms and identical masks. Eight of them had circular symbols on their faces, while the one in the center bore a square. Their synchronized movements and the sharp contrast of their uniforms against the muted tones of the room weirded you out.

Those who had been gathering in the middle of the hall shifted their attention towards them. You and a few others remained near the beds, observing from outside the crowd. That’s when the middle one spoke up in an altered voice, “I would like to extend a hearty welcome to all of you. Everyone here will participate in six different games over six days. Those who win all six games will receive a handsome cash prize.”

“Excuse me,” a voice sounded among the participants. All eyes turned to the speaker, including yours. It was a transgender woman with flawless hair and makeup that you found yourself envious of. She added, “You said I’d be playing games, but you practically kidnapped me. So how can I believe that?”

You nodded your head in agreement.

“I apologize,” the square-masked staff responded. “Please understand that it was necessary to maintain the game’s security.”

“What’s with the mask then?” another female participant spoke up. “Is your face also a secret?”

“Yeah! Why are you hiding your face?” a male player asked warily. “Is this some kind of illegal gambling house?”

“Even the dealers don’t cover their faces in those places!”

True, true. You thought. Looks like I’m not the only one who finds this shady.

Multitude of players nodded in agreement. The staff then replied, “To ensure fair gameplay and confidentiality, it is our policy not to reveal the faces and identities of staff. Please understand.”

Your attention drifted as one pretty lady with a high ponytail asked the staff about changing the players’ clothes while they were unconscious. Another guy - who stood out too much with his purple hair - then complained about the game’s shoes and wanted his limited edition pair back.

“These don’t fit and the color sucks. Can I just have what you’re wearing instead?” the high ponytail girl said, raising a mini love with her fingers. “I like pink.”

The staff responded, “I’m sorry, but that is not possible. You must be in your uniforms for the games.”

Then another man stepped forward to inquire about their phone, claiming he needed it for checking the crypto market. You raised an eyebrow, wondering if he was one of those scammers constantly promoting investments and trades. When he kept demanding to get his phone back, the staff began:

“Player 333, Lee Myung-gi,” he paused to turn on the large monitor screen above the main double doors. Everyone in the room immediately turned their attention to the screen, where they saw footage of a man being slapped during a Ddakji game. It appeared that there was a hidden camera inside Mr. Suit’s suit all along.

Your eyes widened in alarm. Wait, does that mean you were being recorded while playing Ddakji with that guy?!

The staff continued, “Age 30, used to run a YouTube channel called MG Coin. After convincing subscribers to invest in a new crypto coin called Dalmation, causing losses of approximately 15.2 billion won, you shut down and disappeared. You’re wanted for fraud and for violating telecom and financial investment laws. Current debt levels, 1.8 billion won.”

Lee Myung-gi's face flushed in embarrassment as he hung his head in shame. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding the stares of the other participants. He looked like he wanted to disappear and not be recognized at all.

On the large TV screen, footage of the players who had spoken up before was shown. Everyone was silenced right away, including you too. Even though you hadn’t spoken up at all, you still felt like you were being forced to zip your mouth. The staff’s decision to expose those who openly talked back to them only added to everyone’s hesitation and compliance; no one wanted to be publicly embarrassed like that.

The staff ended, “Player 100, Im Jeong-dae. Ten billion won in debt.”

Your jaw dropped in shock. The quiet murmurs and shuffling feet of the players turned into a cacophony of gasps and whispers. All eyes were darting around the room, searching for the player with the staggering debt of ten billion won.

“What are you looking at?!” the exposed old man yelled in fury. He was player 100. “Do you think it’s easy to get a ten-billion won loan? They don’t lend that kind of money to just anyone! Only to those who are capable of paying it back!”

The old man's passionate words seemed to sway the crowd, their initial shock giving way to a sense of admiration and acceptance. It was as if they had all been fooled, and now they were starting to believe him. You, on the other hand, stared at him deadpanned.

The staff continued, “All of you in this room have crippling debts and are now on a cliff-edge. When we first came to you, you did not trust us either. But as you know, we played a game and gave you money as promised. And so you trusted us and volunteered to participate according to your own free will. You have one last chance to decide. Do you want to live like a piece of trash, running from creditors? Or will you seize the last opportunity we are offering?”

You frowned, disliking the way they called you trash for being in debt and running from loan sharks. But he spoke with a confidence that made it hard not to believe him. He had gathered everyone with overwhelming debts into one room, presented them with a game, promised an enormous cash prize, and they had all eagerly agreed. It was almost unbelievable that you had fallen for it too. But like the others, you couldn’t resist the promise of “easy money earned just by playing games.” Like the others, you were drowning in debt.

The staff member pressed a button on a remote, and a section of the ceiling slid open. From it descended a floating, empty piggy bank that cast a bright yellow glow over the crowd. Your eyes widened in surprise. Around you, the other players’ faces lit up with curiosity and excitement as they stared at the enormous object hovering above them.

“How much is the prize money?” one player asked.

“The prize money for the games is 45.6 billion won in total.”

You gasped lowly. The room also erupted in a symphony of gasps and excited chatter. The players' voices blended together into a cacophony of joy and disbelief.

That’s huge! You thought. At that moment, you were motivated to win this and get back home. Winning that could get you a fresh start for your family. You could start your own business too.

“And one of us will get it?” the same player asked again.

“We will give you the details about the distribution of the prize money after the first game. For these games, you will be given a special new advantage. After each game, you will be given a chance to vote on whether to continue the games or not. If the majority votes to stop the games, you can leave with the prize money accumulated up to that point.”

Your eyebrows shot up at that.

“Are you saying we’ll still receive the money, even if we leave after the first game?” one player asked as he came down the stairs between the beds.

The staff took a while to answer. “That is correct.”

Out of nowhere, a mother spotted her grown son and raced towards him through the crowd. You felt a sense of amusement wash over you as you watched their reunion unfold. What are the odds of having a mother and a son taking the same program together without each other knowing?

“Mom, why did you come here?” the son asked, pointing a finger at her as if he, too, was not the only one at fault. “Do you realize where you are? This is no place for an old lady!”

“Why did I come here?” the frail mother angrily hit his arm. “To pay off your debt, of course! Do you even have to ask?!”

The son then turned to the guards and shouted in anger, “Why would you bring a naive old woman here?! Will you take responsibility if my mom collapses?!”

“Yong-sik, I’ll stay and do this,” his mother tried to reason with him. “You go home.”

“Stop it! I’m already here. I can’t just leave,” said the son.

You started to block out their words as you absentmindedly observed them. If they accumulate enough money and quit the program together, they could clear up his debt in no time. They were two people in one team.

The staff suddenly spoke up, “If you wish to participate in the games, please sign the player consent form. Those who do not wish to participate, please speak up now. We always give you a chance to leave the games.”

You climbed down from your bed, careful not to make too much noise. Your feet hit the cold floor, sending a small shiver up your legs. Around you, others were doing the same, some still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, others moving anxiously. You joined one of the many lines forming in the open area, falling into step behind a man who muttered under his breath. The line crept forward slowly, each step bringing you closer to the front.

As you waited, fragments of conversation floated to your ears. People talked about their debts, each story heavier than the last. One man whispered about losing his home, another woman admitted to being chased by creditors for months. There was excitement too as they talked about winning the game and erasing their problems.

A few spots ahead, you noticed the mother and son duo locked in an argument. The mother insisted that her son go home and let her handle things, while the son adamantly refused, urging her to leave instead. Their bickering didn’t stop, escalating with every step they took closer to the front of the line. By the time they reached the desk, their argument had turned physical. The son repeatedly pulled his mother’s hands away from the pen and the form, while she stubbornly tried to fill it out. In the end, despite their protests, both of them signed their forms, their frustration etched on their faces.

When it was your turn, you stepped forward. A piece of paper was handed to you. At the top of the page, in bold letters, were the words “Player Consent Form.” Your eyes scanned the text.

A player is not allowed to voluntarily quit the games.

A player who refuses to play will be eliminated.

The games may be terminated upon a majority vote. In case of a tie, players will vote again.

If the games are terminated, players will divide the prize equally.

You nodded in approval. The rules did not hint that you would get injured during the program so you saw it as a green flag.

You took the pen and signed it. You handed the paper back to the staff before you stepped out of the line.

You were heading back to your bed when a sudden commotion stopped you in your tracks. Gasps rippled through the line of participants still waiting, their attention fixed on the right side of the hall. Curious, you stood on your tiptoes to get a better look.

There they were: the purple-haired guy (player 230) and the MG Coin guy (player 333). Player 230 had his hand wrapped tightly around player 333’s neck, his expression dark and threatening. The hall fell silent, making their heated exchange impossible to miss.

“You said we’d be fucking idiots if we didn’t buy it!” player 230’s voice rose in fury, his face inches from player 333’s.

Player 333 didn’t back down. “You are responsible for the final decision on your investment. Didn’t you hear me say that at the end? You said you watched every day.”

The tension escalated as Player 230 grabbed player 333’s collar, his other hand pulling back into a tight fist. But before things could spiral further, player 230’s subordinate, player 124, stepped in quickly.

“Calm down,” player 124 said firmly, placing a hand on player 230’s shoulder. The purple-haired man let go of the collar sharply, his frustration still palpable. “People are watching. You don’t want to be on the news.”

Player 230’s fists still clenched as he stood straight and faced player 333 head-on. He warned, “You’d better do well because I’m coming to get my money back.”

He turned and walked away, heading toward his bed. His subordinate, player 124, followed close behind. The participants around you exchanged uneasy glances before slowly resuming their conversations, the tension in the room easing back to normal.

Once everyone had signed their forms, the staff led all of you out of the hall. You were brought into another area, and the sudden change left you feeling disoriented. The new space was a massive, colorful hall filled with twisting staircases and walls adorned with squares, triangles, and circles. It felt more like a whimsical children’s playground than anything else. You couldn’t help but wonder what the point of it all was.

The group was directed to line up again, this time to take ID photos. As you waited in line, you noticed the purple-haired player, 230, attracting a small crowd. From the snippets of conversation you overheard, it turned out he was a rapper known as Thanos. The recognition seemed to earn him some fans among the participants.

When it was his turn for the ID photo, a group of players eagerly joined him, treating it like a group shot rather than an individual one. Thanos didn’t seem to mind, too.

Then, he glanced your way. You quickly looked down, pretending not to notice. But his voice cut through the chatter. “Hey, pretty lady.”

Curious and nervous, you peeked in his direction. He was gesturing at you, motioning for you to join them. “Come, let’s take a picture together.”

Your gaze darted back to the participant ahead of you, who had just finished taking their photo. You replied quietly, “Sorry, no thanks.”

As soon as the participant left the booth, you stepped forward quickly, relieved to have dodged more interaction with the rapper. Standing in front of the screen, you used it as a makeshift mirror to adjust your hair. From behind, you heard Thanos call out to another girl, inviting her to join the photo instead. His attention had shifted, and you were glad to blend back into the background.

When the screen prompted you to smile, you did as it asked. The camera clicked, capturing your image. The preview popped up, showing your photo. This time, you smiled naturally, finding yourself looking better than you expected.

As you stepped away, you heard a square-masked staff member in a pink uniform firmly tell Thanos that group photos weren’t allowed. You didn’t stick around to see his reaction, instead following the flow of participants up the winding staircases. The labyrinth of colorful stairs twisted and turned, making it feel like you were ascending forever.

Finally, you reached the designated area. It was an open-roofed rectangular room with wallpapers resembling a blue sky and houses in a sandy terrain.

“Welcome to the first game,” announced a robotic female voice as everyone filed onto the field. “All players, please wait a moment on the field. Let me repeat. All players, please wait a moment on the field.”

You stepped onto the field, glancing up at the clear blue sky. Birds flew lazily overhead before vanishing into the distance. For a brief moment, you marveled at the sheer scale of the place. How could something this massive and elaborate even exist? The thought nagged at you. If you had known about this sooner, you could have joined earlier and saved your family from the loan sharks.

The loud clang of metal doors shutting behind you snapped you back to the present. The robotic voice returned. “The first game is Red Light, Green Light.”

Relief washed over you, and a small smile crept onto your face. This was familiar. Simple. You could do this. Around you, others seemed to share your thoughts.

“Red Light, Green Light?” someone near you whispered. You saw shoulders relax and tension ease as the realization set in. It was just a children’s game.

“Cross the finish line in five minutes without getting caught,” the robotic voice continued. “If you do, you pass.”

Suddenly, a male player rushed to the front and shouted in panic. “Everyone!”

Startled, you turned toward the source. It was player 456. His pale face and wide eyes stood out against the calm spreading across the group. “Everyone, listen up! Pay attention!”

The murmurs and whispers stopped as heads turned to him. His urgency silenced the field.

“Listen carefully!” he shouted. “This is not just a game! If you lose the game, you die!”

You stood there, stunned, as the weight of player 456’s words settled over the group. Around you, confused chatter broke out, growing louder as disbelief spread through the players.

“What are you talking about?!” an old woman scoffed loudly. “We’re going to die playing Red Light, Green Light?!”

Player 456’s face remained pale and tense. “Yes, that’s right! If they catch you moving, they will kill you! They will shoot you from somewhere! That doll’s eyes are motion detectors!”

You stared at him, trying to gauge if this was some sort of elaborate joke. But his expression was dead serious. There was no hint of humor, just pure fear. The kind of fear that couldn’t be faked.

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“I think he’s trying to scare us so he can win the prize money.”

“Don’t pull any tricks, asshole!”

Despite the growing skepticism, player 456 stood his ground. “You have to believe me!”

A sudden mechanical whirring cut through the arguments, silencing the crowd. You turned toward the sound and saw the massive doll at the far end of the field slowly spinning around, its back now facing the group. Two circle-masked staff members stood beside it, motionless and unnerving.

“Do not be alarmed or panic!” player 456 warned, turning back to the crowd. “No matter what happens, do not panic and start running!”

This time, the players stayed quiet. Maybe it was uncertainty, or maybe his tone had finally struck a chord. Either way, the field grew eerily still.

The robotic female voice returned, “Let the game begin.”

Your heart raced as unease crept in. Was he telling the truth? Should you believe him? Doubts and fear swirled in your mind. The seriousness on his face wasn’t something you could ignore. But the uncertainty of it all weighed heavily. You had no way to know if this was just a scare tactic or something far more sinister. Your hands trembled slightly as you tried to focus.

The five-minute timer began, and a second robotic voice, likely the doll’s, began to chant, “The Mugungha Flower…”

You stepped forward cautiously, each movement slow and deliberate. Your footsteps were so light they barely made a sound. Around you, others advanced forward warily.

“…has bloomed.”

Player 456 dropped his arms in the air sharply, signaling everyone to stop. All of you froze, and your breath caught in your throat. Your muscles stiffened, and you didn’t even blink.

“Freeze!” screamed player 456, his voice cutting through the tense silence.

Silence filled the air. You froze in place, barely daring to breathe. Your wide eyes stayed locked ahead as your heartbeat thundered in your chest. That’s when you noticed movement at the front.

It was the doll. With her back to the group, her head spun around at the neck. Even from this distance, you could make out her unnerving pupils scanning the field, darting around in unnatural patterns.

“Well done!” player 456’s voice broke through the tension. “You just need to stay calm like this! We just have to move and stop at the right time!”

The doll’s head suddenly spun to face forward.

“The Mugungha Flower…”

Players began to move, jogging forward in hurried but controlled steps. Everyone tried to cover as much ground as they could before the next command.

“…has bloomed.”

The group froze instantly. The field went still, every player locked in place like statues.

“Freeze! Don’t move and stay still! Just relax!”

After scanning the field, the doll spun its head forward and began, “The Mugungha Flower…”

Everyone surged forward, moving as quickly as they could.

“…has bloomed.”

You froze, along with the rest of the players.

“Freeze!” player 456 shouted.

“The Mugungha Flower…”

The sound of shuffling feet across the sandy terrain filled the air as the group advanced again.

“…has bloomed.”

Once more, everyone came to a halt. You watched, holding your breath, as the doll’s head turned, scanning the crowd. The pattern repeated several times, and with each cycle, your confidence grew. This wasn’t so bad. You felt certain you could make it to the end, just like everyone else.

“The Mugungha Flower has bloomed.”

The players froze again.

“Freeze! Nobody move!” player 456 called out urgently.

A sudden, piercing scream broke the tense silence, coming from the right side of the crowd. You instinctively tried to glance in that direction, but your peripheral vision revealed nothing. The source of the noise remained hidden.

Then came a loud, sharp sound that echoed across the field – a noise you instantly recognized. It was the same sound your pistol had made when fired. The realization hit you hard, but you stayed frozen, uncertain of what had just happened.

“Nobody move!” player 456 screamed again. “You must not move!”

“Player 196, eliminated,” the robotic voice announced.

A piercing scream tore through the tense silence, snapping your focus. It was a woman’s voice, high and terrified, cut short by the sharp crack of a gunshot. The scream stopped abruptly, leaving an eerie void.

Gasps and panicked murmurs rippled through the crowd, but they were quickly drowned out by the sound of more gunshots. Each one sent a jolt through your body. Your eyes widened in terror, and your chest tightened as fear gripped you. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, and you felt your hands trembling uncontrollably. You cursed yourself internally, trying desperately to regain control. Stay still. Don’t move. Or else…

The gunshots continued, relentless, punctuated by more screams that were quickly silenced. The chaos made this round of the game feel like an eternity. Time dragged on, every second stretched thin by the oppressive weight of the violence around you.

“Stay still!” player 456 shouted. “If you run, you die! You will all die if you move!”

Despite his warnings, you caught glimpses from the corner of your eye. Some players couldn’t take it anymore. They broke into a panicked run, bolting toward the back of the field in a desperate bid for safety. The sound of gunfire chased after them. Each crack was accompanied by a heavy thud, the unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the ground.

Your legs trembled, the urge to move battling against your survival instincts. You couldn’t see what was happening, but you didn’t need to. The sound was enough. You knew those heavy thuds were the players who had been shot, collapsing to the ground.

“Don’t move, please!” player 456 screamed, his voice raw and desperate. “Freeze!”

Silence fell over the field, abrupt and unnerving. For a brief moment, you thought it was finally over. But then, another gunshot rang out, sharp and sudden. You flinched, your whole body jolting as if the sound had struck you. From the far back, the unmistakable noise of a body hitting the ground followed.

“Let me repeat,” the female robotic voice announced. “You can move forward while the tagger shouts, ‘The Mugungha Flower has bloomed.’ If your movement is detected afterward, you will be eliminated.”

Your arms trembled uncontrollably as you squeezed your eyes shut. Fear coursed through you, a cold, unrelenting wave. The thought of the doll catching even the smallest movement from you filled your chest with dread. You tried to will the trembling to stop, but your body refused to listen.

NEXT : Chapter 03

PREV: Chapter 01

Story Masterlist

I would love to know what you think so feel free to comment as long as you could!

Leave a comment on the masterlist post to be added to the taglist.

[thesleepyfable]

~ SWTD: Still Here AU Part 1 ~

Trots' Reflection:

A first of many chapters I have planned for the Still Here AU. This turned out to be much longer than I expected, so that might be the case for future chapters. If you enjoyed this, then thank you, and let me know if you want Muir or Gibbo's chapter next. Rennick's chapter will be released last.

Part 2:

'Oh fuck. Is that...Trots? Jesus Christ.'

Caz stared in horror at what his friend had become. From the waist down, Trots was just an amalgamation of flesh that spouted tendrils to keep his balance whilst his uniform had been torn to near shreds, leaving only pieces hanging from his arms and upper chest.

Is this why Gibbo didn't want to be looked at? He couldn't blame the poor bastard.

With his eyes wide and the muscles in his neck twitching, Caz knew this was only one way to get back to Roy.

Shit.

He gave himself a moment to calm down before turning the torch off and quietly opening the door. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and he had to hold in a gag from the rank smell that struck his nose. He couldn't afford to be spotted, but the noises from Trots' cries of pain and repeating of words carried an echo throughout the room. Caz, for a moment, thought Trots had already seen him and was playing the long game to lure him further. To make himself smaller and quieter, he crouched and awkwardly tip-toed over broken glass and anything that could make a sound.

An open cupboard gave him a moment to breathe again. It only took 10 seconds, but it felt like an eternity for the leccy. He peered out and saw Trots at a better, or in this case, worse angle. 'What the fuck...?' Caz noticed Trots' legs below the knee hanging against the growth. Every few seconds they would twitch, but The Shape had them firmly in place. And whenever they tried to move, Caz noticed Trots made a groan in agony. There was nothing to be done and Caz knew that.

Thinking quickly, he grabbed a Cadal mug by his feet and aimed it towards the other side of the room. He shuffled some of his body from his hiding spot and tossed it over the small pile of laundry machines before quickly tucking himself back in.

Clunk.

Trots reared his head with a curious 'chirp' and took the bait. No longer distracted by the strange light, he crawled along the floor, clearly in pain, as the tendrils latched and detached themselves from anything they could reach. Caz came out of hiding and slowly crept for the stairs. Just up here, and he'll be back with Roy. Then they can make a new plan to -

'W-What?'

Trots' voice made Caz stand still. He slowly looked back with a mix of shock and confusion across his face. Trots' cadence was different. It didn't sound altered by The Shape trying to copy his speech patterns. It was him.

'What the fuck is this?' Trots stared at his reflection in pure shock. His heart raced and his stomach sank as he tried to make out what he was seeing. 'Is that me? But, how - I'm...' Caz slowly followed his voice and glanced at Trots, who was holding a door with all the strength he had. At any moment he could rip it off its hinges. He saw Caz's reflection and turned to him - eyes wide and mouth dry - gesturing to the grotesque mass. 'Caz. What - what happened to me?!' Panic was now, and rightfully, starting to set in.

'Trots? Are you - Okay, okay, just calm down.'

'Calm down? Caz, I look like I've been put through a fuckin' blender!'

'Alright, alright. I'm sorry. Fuck sake.'

A small pause lingered for Trots. He wasn't one for swearing or raising his voice. Even The Shape couldn't replicate that. A tendril moved to close the machine door. It must have been subconsciously because Trots' body and breath shivered, and his eyes squinted.

But that was good, wasn't it? He could control the mass now.

'How ye' feeling?' Caz asked, unable to take the silence.

'Better,' Trots answered with an exhausted tone. 'My mind felt like it was being pulled all over the shop.' It was a strange and painful sensation. He could compare it to being in a coma. He was aware of what was going around him, but couldn't react. His mind and body were on auto-pilot yet he couldn't focus enough to fight back until he saw his reflection. Then it was like a fog had been lifted.

'I'm sorry wee man.'

'For what?'

'I heard ya through the door. I tried getting to ya, but it wouldn't budge. Do you remember what happened?'

Trots nodded. 'Aye. It just shot through the window and latched onto my leg. It felt like someone had taken a knife and was stabbing me over and fuckin' over again. And,' he scoffed. 'Now I'm here.'

'Well, I'm not leaving ya here, pal. I'm gonna to fetch Roy. He's in the pantry.'

'What about the others?'

'Brodie's with Raffs. Poor bastard was shaken after his dive. Finlay and Douglas are looking for Gibbo in engineering, and I spoke to O'Connor. He's with Bruce and Fergus.' He'll leave out Innes. 'Of course that bastard Rennick is still kicking. Probably tucked away all nice and cosy in his office.' He took a quick glance to the stairs. 'So, you with me?'

'...Alright.'

The pair moved in silence. The only thing breaking that was either the stairs echoing with Caz's footsteps or Trots letting out a groan of pain. Both of the men knew The Shape wasn't done with him yet. Trots could control his mind, body and soul, but this thing was slowly mutating him to survive. Who knew what he'd look like by the end of it.

A part of the wall had collapsed from the tendrils. A shooting pain ran through Caz and Trots' head as they approached. 'It's trying to lure us in, Caz.'

'Just ignore it, mate. Here, help me push it back.' Caz can easily slip through the smaller space, but Trots certainly wasn't. He wedged himself halfway between the wall and used his shoulder the push. The wall behind him was used as a base for his feet. 'Come on, Trots.' It wasn't going to budge by itself.

Using all the tendrils and his shoulder, Trots could feel the wall slowly move back. Caz began to slide to the other side, giving Trots room to follow and to an area where the wall wasn't leaning as much. The Shape was stubborn. It was oddly strong for something that looked like ribbons.

'I thought you were a boxer,' Trots bantered with a smirk.

'Yeah. A boxer,' Caz retorted. 'Not a heavy weight lifter, ya prick.'

Both men suddenly burst out laughing, which must have attracted Roy who awkwardly stood at the canteen door. He had noticed Trots and began to go through the same emotions as Caz, frozen in place.

'Erm, Caz.' He got their attention, and the pair turned to him, still stifling laughs.

'Oh, hey Roy. Give us a hand, will ya?'

[yet-another-haven-of-dollya]

Finally! My DoL PCs and their LIs

My friends asked me if I wanted to join the School AU with their OCs and I thought for the longest time before bringing Lya to the party. Then I kinda just felt like it and drew the whole gang :D They came out beautifully so more information and separated images undercut!

The First one is of course Lya the Blossom

Main PC

Harpy transforms, Mate for Life.

Wears all white if she can.

Very light in weight, makes her defiant attempts usually ineffective.

Went through a lot to make things easier for her loved ones.

Skilled in segg but doesn't really enjoy it anymore at this point if it's not with her loved one. What she seeks in segg with her lover is intimacy and the feeling of security.

Secretly a meanie. Gets jealous easily and envious of almost anyone, but doesn't show it or act on it often.

Despises the Temple to her core but believes Jordan is a genuinely good person. Wanted to fuck him just because.

Protective toward her lover and the children at the Orphanage.

Very insecure about her financial state. She tried to make money anytime she could.

CONSENT YOU MOTHERFU-

Can't cook. Literally. Keep her away from the kitchen.

Male Robin the Lover~ (Sorry I love this title)

The one and only.

Maybe he's trying his best, maybe he's hiding from something so terrible, who knows.

Love the purple color.

Easily scared and would cry out loud if Lya was there to reassure him and demand a lot of hugs, head pats, and kisses afterward.

Clingy as hell, but luckily he's cute just enough to let it pass.

Hell lots of freckles, everywhere all over his body even though he mostly stays at home or in the shades. Sensitive skin then.

Squishy belly.

Occasionally cross-dress when going on a date with Lya but keeps it as a hobby only.

Love to do makeup for Lya and skin care together.

Grow in height a LOT since the game started and wondering why Lya still stays the same, not that he complains about her growth of boobs and ass.

Lyah the Emancipated

The second PC, made with a lot of feast boots, almost all of the Vrel coins Lya earned.

Wears all black if he can.

Demonic Harpy Chimera Transforms.

Waiting for Robin's preg contents.

2m14. Larger body type, 6/6 physic, S athletic, Vengeful Sadist. Basically all offensive.

Fucking huge manboobs produce fucking lots of milk

Almost always wears a buttplug

The only one taller than him is Jordan.

"Blood moon? Fuck Ivory Wraith I'm out."

Still works at Strip Club, mostly because he loves wearing bunny suits and he wants to look out for Darryl.

Chef. Let him cook.

Housekeeping skill F-. Drops and crashes everything every time trying to clean or deco his room.

Doesn't know how to smile but will unconsciously do so when he's near Robin.

Doesn't understand why he's still sometimes mistaken as female.

Fem Robin the Lover~

So cute and squishy.

People unconsciously smile when she smiles.

"Too precious must protect."

Her weight is top secret.

Knows it all too well that Lyah intentionally feeds her more sweet treats and creamy drinks every day during every school break but can't resist the temptation of sweets.

Accepts gaining weight during the leisurely times, but has to lose it a bit before school starts again so she can fit into the school's uniforms.

Pretty proud that her lover is a chef at the biggest Cafe in town.

Slightly less freckle than male Robin. Just slightly.

Wardrobe full of checkered pattern clothes.

Of course she can cook well.

Perfect housewife material.

Timid when using strap-on but usually gets absorbed in the moment too much she forgor to pull the buttplug out before diving her strap in.

Lyah is not complaining though so it's all good.

Last but not least Kariya the Alter Ego!

"Well somebody has to go to prison and asylum and... hmmm"

Devil transforms

Full name Sesshouin Kariya. Kariya means "Midnight' Swallow"

Not a new save file but one of Lya's older saves. Hence the Alter Ego title.

Was born cuz I was bored and wanted to go to places Lya and Lyah can't go because they're worried about their lover being left alone.

They don't set a love interest because of that, so they can't get attached and can freely roam everywhere.

Enjoy segg as it is, purely seeking more pleasure day by day.

Drooling Masochist. Prefer group.

Get bored easily but are also quick to forget, so after a while that very same thing may pique their interest again.

Zones out a lot. Absent-minded. Sometimes clueless to things that are not segg-related.

"Ahhhh Nii-chan, nee-chan, help me it's 23:55 already and I forgor to cum inside somebody today waaaaaaaa-!!"

Intentionally dress more feminine because they love showing off.

The color palette is reversed from Lya's.

" I wonder if it's blood moon soon..."

[bellewintersroe]

okay i'm glad! then i'm sending this in if you ever get back in a BoB mood, but no pressure :)

can i request headcanons on how some of them would react (i was thinking mainly Liebgott, Roe and Speirs, but absolutely feel free to add anyone you want too like Luz or Malarkey) if the Easy company gets dispatched in a town near the sea/has to sleep in a beach or similar, and the sweet and kind nurse that is always dispatched with the second battalion (who everyone is crushing on ofc hahaha) as soon as all the high ranks are gone just, takes off her uniform (so she is like in her bra and underwear) and just bolts it towards the sea, calling for the others to join her and play around in the water, because she just loves the sea that much?

i just thought something fun and light could be cute, since the boys definitely need some fun time :)🫶🏻

heyyyy omg so sorry it’s taken so long to reply but thank you thank you thank you for your request! I love this idea sm!! I have altered it slightly to make it more realistic (don’t ask why cos I bend the rules all the time) but I hope these head cannons are okay!!! &lt;3 <3 <3 <3

Band of Brothers x Nurse!Reader Headcannons

General HC’s for 2nd battalion + some more men reacting to their well loved nurse having some fun in the water.

So first let me set the scene, you’ve all just been told you’re being shipped back off to the pacific and morale has somewhat dropped again.

theres so much anxiety snd tension in the air that nobody really can unwind, so after one particularly gruelling training session, 2nd battalions nurse decides to have a little fun…

It’s a boiling hot day in Austria, the lake looks so inviting, and she’s such a sweetheart she just wants to boost morale. All the men absolutely adore her, if they don’t have a crush on her they find her endearing and a comfort to them.

“fuck it.” She mutters, stripping off her uniform as she runs closer to the pier, dropping each piece of clothing behind her.

One by one all the men’s heads turn and then suddenly begin whooping and whistling in excitement. Joe Liebgott:

Stunned to see you stripping off, in fact he remains frozen with his jaw dropped for a few moments. He’s so used to seeing you all covered up and oh my god boobs.

“Close your trap, Joe, you’re trapping flies.”

wouldn’t take much convincing to get in, I think he’d be super playful with you, splashing you and dunking you.

deffo splashes you a little too much, but when you’d jump on his back and he feels the press of your boobs against his bare back- uhhhh his brain turns to mush.

“It’s so nice, isn't it Joe?”

“Uh- yeah, so nice…” deffo gets a boner.

Eugene Roe:

Maybe a lil different scenario, I feel like if there was a group of you he’d probably sit on the side watching and laughing in amusement.

he’d watch you strip off and immediately avert his eyes out of respect but ohmygodogogososo he’s blushing- he hasn’t seen a woman like that for years.

you’re already super close, so to be able to have downtime together creates something more… intimate.

if you’d jump in at the end of the day, the sun setting when it’s just the two of you I don’t think it would take much convincing to for him to get in the water.

you’d float further back from the surface with a smirk as he undressed, jumping in and purposefully splashing you.

would be a little more shy, especially if there’s more men around, but the second you joke about how he might need to give you cpr and the kiss of life he’s smirking and acting all cool and omg.

his hands would snake lower and lower down onto your butt and everybody would be none the wiser around you guys if there was others there.

who knew Roe could be such a flirt?

Ron Speirs:

Now this guy being your literal superior probably wouldn’t linger around to see you, 2nd battalions own nurse, strip off to go for a swim whilst all the horny men giggle like children from the land.

he’d deffo know he had to be more respectful, but let’s change the time a little, it’s just after the German army surrendered, you’re both wasted.

Rob asks you like ‘so what were you doing in the water the other day?’

You’d tell him in return you were just having some fun and he should’ve tried it. Ron, in a celebratory mood, and captivated by how fucking beautiful you are just thinks ‘fuck it’ and makes the decision to go on a ‘walk’.

You end up pushing each other into the water.

for a moment you’re probs shocked that this is literally Captain Speirs you’re swimming with, but things get… heated and there’s no time to think about being intimidated.

you’d deffo probs have the hottest, spontaneous sex with him in the water lmaooo.

George Luz:

You just know this man would be the first one to jump in with you OMG.

he’d be so excited like finally, somebody’s just as fun as he is…

Probs like that kid on holiday that takes it too far and dunks you to the point you’re so out of breath.

I feel like you two would physically play fight to playfully drowning each other. Would be chaos central and anybody who tried to come near you would get a face-full of water.

Don’t be surprised if you wake up the next day with bruises.

kinda sweet tho, you’d lay on the beach together the same night and he’d be all sweet, apologising and checking he didn’t take it too far?

Don Malarkey:

Everybody knows Don needs this time to unwind and just have some fun.

for the first time in months he feels more like himself, the two of you already have a very close bond so it makes you both so mutually happy to the see the other so care free.

I think he’d be laughing like crazy, probably throwing you off the dock and then jumping in after you, cos even tho he’s playing around he doesn’t want to be too rough with you.

would happily shove any of the other men in the water so that the two of you are left standing on the land together.

When he see’s you in your wet bikini oh my godddd- his brain turns to mush and he practically avoids even making eye contact with you he’s that nervous.

when you sit on his lap later that evening he’s done for.

he’s a little stunned cos you’re always so sweet and innocent… but it feels like a dream come true for Malarkey.

[spookypete-94]

By Definition

PricexFem!reader

Based on the mission in MW3 with Price and Soap. Price stumbles upon reader whom is protecting civilians while being hunted by what you think is your own kind. Will be a two part story.

CTW for blood, violence, and language.

In the dictionary evil is defined as morally reprehensible, sinful, wicked. If you asked John Price, he would say it is defined by heinous actions. By men and women who can harm others. He himself would fit that definition, but as much as he sees it that way, his inner voice says he does it for the greater good. Part of him will never believe it but it’s how he justifies his actions. A hard sentiment to follow through with.

When General Shepherd dispatched him and Soap to the stadium at Verdansk from an attack of of Markarov, he knew evil would be the simplest way to describe it. In reality, it was a blood bath. Morally reprehensible, more like no morals whatsoever. Sinful and wicked, not even painting the scene to full picture. Ambush. Hate. Death. All better things to describe such ill intent. It was around every corner, him and his Sergeant seeing it decorate the endless hallways and numerous rooms.

The worst part of it though is the civilians thinking they were being attacked by those that had sworn to protect and serve for them. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Terrorists adorned in peace officer’s uniforms. The blue line tainted with the permanent red stain of mistrust, a light that will forever be altered in his mind of a horrendous plan.

The order from the General himself, to take out all of those in police uniforms. Something that felt abnormal to him, shooting ones who looked like he had worked alongside with many times. But if the terrorists had done this and John had been sent, he would consider himself the undertaker. The Grimm Reaper to make things right in the world… no matter how hard he had to justify it.

If John was listed in a dictionary, he would describe himself as well trained. Hesitancy not even close to the vocabulary of words in the list of himself. So, when he found you kneeling in front of a food counter, clad in the blue uniform causing the demise at the moment he was reluctant. You see, your arm was spread around a mother and her two small children. Chest pronounced saying "Shoot me, instead." Teeth bared as if screaming, "I'll bite your fucking throat." if he were to get too close. You weren't the wolf in sheep's clothing. You were the actual thing, the guard dog that did serve and protect. The yellow stripes on the outside of your arm signifying you were of rank, from what he could tell a sergeant. Blood and sweat had been smeared across your face, black powder from your gun down your hands and arms telling him you had been at this for a while now. Your pistol in your other hand, at the open and ready for the next feeding of bullets. Looking at the carrier vest, he saw no more mags in the pockets. You were unable to curb your handgun's hunger even if you wanted to. Finally, lowering his rifle he had trained on you and moving his finger off the trigger, he lifted both his hands up hoping to prove to you that he was not the threat here.

"They are dressed like officers," he said taking quick steps to you.

"Yeah, no fuckin' shit," you spat out in between ragged breaths, puffing out further like a cobra ready to strike. Any other person might have been offended at the tone and choice of words, but to John, it meant you had your wits about still. You had been running, near drained and now only operating on pure adrenaline. As he got closer, he watched as you pushed the family further behind you. His heart ached at the muffled sobs.

"Don' wanta’ hurt any of you," his voice lower trying to find remorse for the ones you were guarding. Your eyes trained on him just like he had been with his rifle. The guard dog is planning her next move of attack even if she has no more bullets. Teeth shred just as well in close quarters, and you were baiting him at the moment come closer so you could prove it. Truly you were feral, but somehow so fucking beautiful to him.

"Do you want more bullets or do you wanta' take my spare?" he asked, trying to find common ground of trust.

"What?" You asked confused, glaring up at him. He was helping you?

"Bullets or gun?" He asked pointing down at the one on his vest, going a more direct route.

"Gun." No hesitation. Just like John.

Standing up fully, he watched as your stance widened. Well trained to keep protecting the family that was behind you. Releasing your famished firearm of its open mouth, you rehosltered it, cautiously taking the one from the man in front of you still feeling like this was a trick.

"The hallway down the stairwells behind have been cleared by us, but you need to treat them like they are still hot, don't know wha' the enemy is up to, but get them to a safe place." His arm lightly patting your shoulder making you look up from the press check you were conducting to confirm that the gun was indeed loaded. The faith and trust you had in others had been taken out at the knees and butchered from the ground up. For who knows how long, you had been thinking your own kind was hunting you. A creature they thought was docile from her given gender in nature. Little did they know, they were trying to catch and kill a dragon. A beast among pretenders.

His eyes showed you the type of man he was. At the moment, he was concerned no doubt, but he was a man true to his word. A beacon through this chaos. "Get out of this alive. I want that gun back."

Was this his way of making light of the situation? Or the fact he was trying to give you a reason to get out alive?

"Captain." The other man that was with him grunted to try urge him along from the screams that were erupting on the other side of the food court.

Nodding, you looked behind at the mother and children behind you. Again, finding the nerves and strength to keep going.

"Let's go," your head jerking the way as the new pistol in your hands helped guide your way securely. John didn't get to watch your back. It hurt that he didn't at least make sure you got out of the food court alive. Instead that inner voice that defends his work, prayed to whatever god was listening. Begging that you freed yourself unharmed with the other three trapped souls from this hell.

To you, all you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears. If you got to look back on all of this and review it, that would be the thing you remembered most, but no one would know. They cannot hear your own heart and feel the amount of fear coursing in your body right now. That man was right however, they definitely cleared their way up here. Bodies were dropped, blood running in multiple directions. It was a dog fight for sure to even make it this far. Who the hell was he? The Angel of Death himself?

Once outside, you had managed to help the family through the parking ramp. Relaxing a little, seeing them run in the direction of safety of what was Point of Command. Finally, you had found the secure safety of your own kind. In the back of the ambulance, you learned that there had been an explosion at the airport. How can there be so much chaos today? What was even happening? The ambulance soon left after your vitals were taken and it was confirmed to have no large injuries. Your Chief gave you the direct order to stand down and stay back, worried you were too shell shocked to respond to the explosion. The unknown man's gun still in your hands, unable to holster it since it didn't fit in any of yours. Sitting down on a bench, you couldn't help but stare down at it.

"Where did you get that gun?" A blonde woman asked kneeling down in front of you. Her hand rested on your knee as she spoke. Clearly, she just understood the carnage you had seen and didn't want to speak to shell you had put up to try to disassociate yourself.

"A man inside gave it to me, was wearing camo," a voice that did not sound like yourself answered. It was raspy, more than likely from fighting for your life inside out. Your lips were chapped and peeling already.

"Did he have a big beard?" She asked, her manner of speaking showing that she was hopeful.

Only being able to nod, you did so a slow motion of up and down.

"John, I found her." she said into a radio standing up.

"Bring her to me," the other side said back. The voice you knew all too well belonged to the bearded man that had given you a fighting chance. Raising the gun up, handle to this woman thinking it was what he wanted back so bad. Instead, she stuck her hand out to you, an invite to stand up.

"He wants to meet you." She clarified. "My name's Kate Laswell. And we have an offer." She was gifting you a kind smile, calm in the storm that had finally lifted. A ray of sunshine through black clouds.

Reaching up for her hand, you took it. Little did you know, everything was about to change.

Captain John Price Masterlist

Part 2

[visionsofcarnality]

Ahhh thankyou for accepting the nightwing request, I'm so excited!! 💙💙

Dude the angst in this one spoke to me Im so excited.

It Will Come Back. D. Grayson.

“Honey, don’t feed me. I will come back.”

Synopsis: In a fight with a Court of Owls’ Talon, Nightwing is exposed to the weaponized Alice Tetch Virus (Hugo Strange weaponized strain.) This preys on his fears of being unable to protect his partner… Who comes face to face with a darker version of her lover’s alter-ego…

Warnings: Hallucinations (Auditory, tactile, and visual.), kidnapping, restraints, blood contagions, needles, injuries. Mention of mild gore and violence. Toxic mindset, personality alteration. Established relationship, female partner/reader. No use of Y/N.

(mdni below the cut, i am beyond dead serious)

Dick made it as far as three blocks from the Talon’s dead body before he started to hear things.

“You need to seriously consider what being in a committed relationship means for people like us.” Bruce slammed his hand down on the table tiredly, running the other through his inky hair, the strands showing a few hairs of grey amidst the darkness. “Every second you spend with her amplifies the danger she’s in.”

“You think I don’t know that…” He whispered, replaying the past week’s conversation as he leaned against an alley wall, clutching his head.

“She’s not safe. She never will be as long as she’s in your life.” The sound of the door slamming as he remembered he’d left the room after that particular remark.

He opened his eyes and tried to stand, blood rushing through his body at unnatural speeds. He looked down at his hands and ripped one glove off, breath stuttering as he noticed red veins climbing his skin.

“No…” He whispered. “No, no, no-“ He pulled his glove back on hastily, whipping around when he caught a glimpse of gold and green.

“Get the fuck away from me!” He hissed, glaring after the invisible attacker.

“Dick…” A soft, feminine voice. “That’s not what you really want.” A tall woman in a red, gold and green outfit appeared from the shadows, blood dripping down the side of her head just like the last time he’d seen her.

“Mom-“ He reached out a hand briefly before pulling it back. “What are- You’re dead.”

“Whose fault is that, Dick…” She laughed softly. “You think changing your uniform and your name makes you any less of my little flightless Robin.” Her soothing tone was so at odds with her words.

“Stop.” He begged, covering his ears, screaming aloud when blood suddenly spurted from her skull near her ear and a large, domed piece of bone fell from her head, pulling her scalp and some of her hair with it, leaving one side of her head cracked open like an acorn.

“Do you know what it feels like to fall, Dick?” She murmured dangerously, lifting her bloodied hand and touching his cheek, the contact hot, wet, and sticky. “To hit the ground with only your body to take the fall?”

“Stop it!” He shoved her back, her spin colliding with the opposite wall of the alley, her body splaying and cracking exactly how it had looked in the crime scene photos. How it had looked in his memories. The blood pooled on the wall as though she was lying flat, her body and the liquid defying gravity. Chunks of gray matter littered the wall.

Panting, eyes flitting about wildly, sprinting away from the alley and leaping to one of the lower rooftops, hauling himself above the streets.

“You think you can protect her, but you’re wrong!” That was Bruce now, standing in his path as he sprinted across the gravel rooftop. He skidded to a halt to avoid the collision, coming nose to nose with the taller man. “Everything you touch dies!” He hissed, and when Dick looked down he was clutching a familiar bloodied Robin uniform in his white knuckles.

“Your mother!” Bruce shouted, “Your father! Jason!” He lifted the blood stained uniform, dangling it in front of his face.

“It’s not my fault!” Dick cried desperately, closing his eyes only to open them and see that there was nobody there.

He had to get home. He had to get home. He had to make sure you were safe. His thoughts ran wild, preparing for any twisted and violent scene he’d come across when he entered your apartment.

You screamed when a body tumbled through your bedroom window, scrambling from your bed and backing against the wall.

“Baby-“ The man called but you didn’t wait, spinning to sprint for the door before two wide hands caught you by the arm and the torso, tugging you back against a hard body before a hand covered your mouth and nose.

“Don’t worry. I’m gonna keep you safe.” The rough voice spoke hotly against your ear, your arms and legs thrashing violently as he cut off your oxygen. “You’re gonna be safe. Nothing will hurt you. Ever.” Your fight started to give and your eyes fluttered closed, your chest aching from the lack of oxygen… Then you were gone to sleep.

You woke next with your head on something hard, groaning at the headache. You were cold. And damp… Where the hell were you? Opening your eyes wider you looked around, spotting the steep, water-slick walls. The ceiling arching high above your head. A subway station. Abandoned by the looks of it.

“Don’t worry.” A dark voice called from the shadows, causing you to scramble to your feet and back away, tears pricking in your eyes. “You’re safe now.”

“You can’t keep me here.” You spoke shakily, hands rubbing your arms against the cold and dampness. “People will come looking for me.” Your voice shook with uncertainty, watching the stranger’s head tilt in the low light, the movement slow and unsettling. “They’ll arrest you.” You swallowed, hard. “My boyfriend is a detective he finds missing people every week.” You tried to force more bravado into your voice than you felt, especially as the stranger slowly unfolded to his feet, moving in a strange, unnatural way like some demon.

He stepped out of the shadows and as the light spilled across his face you cried out weakly, putting one hand to your face in shock.

“Nobody’s gonna come looking for you, baby.” He spoke, his voice stranger and darker than you’d ever heard it. “You’re safe here.”

“Dick-“ You broke off, noting the prominent red veins on the whites of his eyes and tracking up his neck to his cheek, splaying across his face like a bloodied cobweb. “What are you-“

“I’ve got to keep you safe.” He hissed, getting closer even as you tried to back away, fear poignant in your body language. “No one will be able to find you here.”

Tears fell down your cheeks as he backed you against the wall, turning your head as he dipped his to get into your space, his hot breath, once welcome and comforting, now feeling like a threat.

“I’m doing this for you.” He insisted, gripping your cheek to turn your face harshly, his hold on your jaw bruising. “Can’t you see that? Everything I do, it’s always for you!” He was shouting now, triggering a low cry of shock and fear, your knees buckling as you slid down the wall, sinking to the floor and clutching your legs fearfully.

“Don’t!” He screamed, gripping his hair with one hand and stepping back, reeling. “You don’t get it-“ He sighed heavily, shaking his head back and forth and lifting a hand erratically before he turned out of nowhere to scream at the wall.

“Shut the fuck up!” He screeched, pointing at the empty space. “All of you! I need to fucking think!” He gripped his head in both hands.”

You watched his outburst through your tears, your whole body trembling in fear, scared of what he was capable of… You’d never seen him like this. You thought you’d known him but… maybe he was this all along. Maybe it was all a front. You didn’t want to think like that, but the man in front of you was not the one you’d come to love.

There was something seriously wrong with him.

“Dick, just-“ You swallowed hard, trying to put on a gentle tone. “Let’s take a walk, let’s go up to the street, we can go talk about this.” You tried to think of a way to convince him. “It’s cold down here, Dick, I’ll get sick.”

“No!” He roared, whipping back to you and throwing a knife in your direction. You screamed in terror, arms coming up to protect your head. Bit the knife landed next to you, not hurting you, but discouraging you from moving. “It’s not fucking safe up there? Don’t you get it? Nowhere is safe! You’re not safe unless you’re here!” He ranted, arms flailing in large gestures as he spoke. “With me! I’m the only one you can trust!” He insisted, desperation lacing his dangerous tone. “Me! I’m the one who keeps you safe!”

“Nightwing.” Another voice joined the cacophony. Both your heads turning in the direction of the deep timbre of the newcomer. Like an oil spill out of the shadow a dark cowl appeared, a long, shadowy cape following. The flash of a black symbol on dark gray armor.

The Batman…

“Stop this.” He said flatly, casually strolling between you two, slowly, trying not to trigger any sudden movements. “You’re not yourself.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Dick- Nightwing; shouted. “I told you to go away already!” He surged forward, some kind of long baton appearing in his hand, crackling with electricity as he lifted his arm in a deadly swing. The Batman dodged him, ducking behind the lithe man and locking his arms below his armpits, effectively putting him in a full nelson with one, thick arm.

“I’m not a hallucination, Dick.” The Batman spoke lowly. “You have to stop this. This is the virus, not you.” He jerked Dick’s head towards your cowering form, still sobbing quietly, terrified to move. “Look at her. You’re scaring her.” The Batman took the moment of hesitation from Dick as he stared at you to shove a thick syringe into his exposed neck.

Dick howled in rage, twisting and fighting in the Batman’s hold before falling limp, head dropping forward. The Batman restrained him at his hands and ankles on the ground before approaching you. “He’s unconscious. Unharmed.” He soothed, crouching to lift you to your feet. “I’m sorry this happened to you.” He apologized, unhooking his cape from his armor and draping it over your shoulders against the cold. “He isn’t himself. He was infected with a virus that caused him to act like this.” When your gaze wandered past him to Dick’s slumped form. He tipped your head away from the sight, far gentler than Dick had been. You’d no doubt be sporting a bruise by the morning. “That wasn’t him.” He spoke softly.

“Will he be…” You swallowed hard. “Will he be… him again?” You asked, wiping hasty tears across your cheeks even as more joined them.

“Yes.” The Batman said solemnly, turning to look at Dick. “For him… This will all have been a cruel dream.” He turned towards you again, “For you… It will be harder to go back. I can keep him away for a few days. Give you some space.” You nodded fervently, whimpering softly as your tears began anew.

“Red Robin, an associate of mine, is coming to make sure you get home safe.”

“I need to get to a hotel…” You spoke absently. “I can’t… I can’t go back home tonight.”

The Batman nodded. “He’ll leave you at a Hyatt. The room will be paid for for a week. Your clothes and any belongings you need will be dropped at the address.” He turned away, strolling back to you Dick. “Tell my associate what you need. We will make sure you have it.”

You stood there, wrapped in the most notorious vigilante in Gotham’s cape, watching him haul your unconscious boyfriend over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You didn’t remember telling Red Robin what you needed, or him finding a way to get you set up in a hotel for the week.

You only remembered collapsing on the hotel mattress, still wrapped in the borrowed cape.

And crying yourself to sleep.

[crisalidaseason]

How to build a dragon saddle (Riorson, Durran et al)

Summary: In which we learn how Violet's saddle was made.

Tags: Set in fourth wing, sgaeyl being an icon, Tairn being a menace, xaden is stressed, Bodhi is here and tired, attempt at humor, xaden pov

****

This is a manual written by Xaden Riorson and Bodhi Durran, with the additional contributions of the war dragon Tairn and Basgiath’s blacksmith Hôrtencia Nahal. This pocket size codex aims to guide the ones who may be interested in building dragon saddles, from the very basic step of sketching the design until the actual production and assembly of the contraption. It is important to take into account that the advice given in this book is open to adjustments as the craft is widespread and alterations might be necessary.

____

It is highly advisable to enlist the help of competent people when making a dragon saddle. Be certain to choose crafters that have a solid grasp of calculations and design, who are able to find the perfect balance between lightweight and strong material. Once the crew is established, begin the journey.

Page 12 - HOW TO BUILD A DRAGON SADDLE (Riorson, Durran et al)

The knock on the door was merely a formality since Bodhi could simply barge through his room anytime - and Xaden was beginning to regret that decision. Though he tried not to bother his very exhausted cousin that often, the current task at hand could only be done with his help.

“So, why the summon?” Bodhi said, dropping on the desk chair.

Xaden neatly placed his boots inside the wardrobe and put his dirty uniform inside the laundry basket “I need your help making a saddle”

“Sure” he said, shrugging.

And that was exactly why he loved Bodhi. Garrick or Liam would have made an infinite amount of questions and most likely terrorized him once they finally put things together. Xaden did not have time for that. His cousin, on the other hand, was way less adamant on making his life harder.

“I made some sketches” Xaden said, pointing to his table “but you’re the talented one in the family, any thoughts?”

Bodhi stretched, yawning in the process, his exhaustion clearly showing through. He took the notepad and reviewed the ideas with a focused stare, most likely noticing every single mistake Xaden made while coming up with designs.

“Could use some refinement, but overall it’s great” Bodhi replied “I’ll make some adjustments and bring it to you”

“Do you think you can do this until tomorrow, I’m in a bit of a hurry”

“I can try” his cousin shrugged “though we’ll need Tairn’s measurement to make a final sketch”

Xaden chuckled “I never said who the saddle was for”

Bodhi lifted his eyes from the sketch, unimpressed “There is only one cadet within our wing that can’t keep her fucking seat”

“I could be making it for me” Xaden shrugged.

“You possess far too much pride for that” Sgaeyl interrupted.

“I highly doubt it” Bodhi laughed rather loudly, unknowingly agreeing with her “though I am curious as to why are you even bothering to do this”

Xaden knew Bodhi was not necessarily open to Violet, though he was never threatening towards her. His question was a genuine attempt at understanding what had changed over the last few months, understanding why Violet was suddenly all that Xaden could focus on.

“War games are in less than two weeks. I would like to stay alive and that will not happen if Sorrengail breaks her neck on a free fall”

Bodhi remained silent, clearly not buying the half truth. Both cousins stared at each other for a few minutes too long and Xaden felt his own mind spin at what was left unsaid. In all honesty, he was making that saddle because he was terrified. After the shit that went down at Montserrat, the middle Sorrengail’s words rattled in his mind.

“Find a way for her to keep her seat. We both know she’s dead if she doesn’t”

Despite his anger towards the woman, she was right. Xaden always worried about the fact Violet could not keep her seat and the near danger experience was enough to feed his nightmares with the imagery of her falling to her death. Once could say it was simply his self-preservation speaking - it was the reason he voiced to everyone - but the cold hard truth was that he felt his stomach twist at the thought of her in danger.

“I guess it would be inconvenient” Bodhi replied, standing up and walking towards the door “I’ll have something more substantial by tomorrow at breakfast”

Said and done, his cousin sat beside him on the breakfast table with too many sketches, to the point Xaden was going cross-eyed at the calculations and details. Bodhi was a pool of excitement while explaining each adjustment’s positive and negative aspects, a complete contrast to his usual apathy.

“I think this one might be better” Xaden decided, pointing at a specific drawing “I like the triangle chest plate, it seems more efficient to keep the straps in place. Though we should simplify the saddle”

Bodhi took his pencil and quickly scribbled the suggestions.

“What are you doing?” Garrick said, sitting down on the breakfast table with the usual monstrous amount of food on his plate.

“A saddle” Bodhi simply replied, waving a hand at Garrick as if he was bothering them “yeah, I was thinking about it too, it needs to be practical”

“A saddle?” Garrick questioned, but none of the cousins paid him much mind.

“All we need is the measurements and that is completely on you” Bodhi announced, already standing “find me when you have the numbers and I’ll finish this by the end of the day”

Xaden watched his cousin practically sprint outside of the mess hall - he had a very strong worry of being late.

“Care to explain why you’re making a saddle?” Garrick inquired, fork pointed at him.

“Reasons” he replied, peeling a tangerine “anything to report?”

Garrick narrowed his eyes at him and Xaden was sure he would not escape the interrogatory his best friend would put him through eventually.

“Nothing I can’t handle, but-”

Garrick’s voice disappeared from his hearing range as soon as the prickly sensation settled on the back of his head. Xaden turned just enough to widen his peripheral vision, noticing as Liam and Violet entered the room alongside their squad. She was smiling at something his brother was telling her - a contrasting sight compared to her miserable self after Montserrat. Her mesmerizing hair was braided over her shoulder instead of the coronet style, which made Xaden’s throat dry at the sight of the brown to silver fade.

Fuck. He wanted to unravel that braid and run his fingers through the strands so badly.

Unfortunately, she hated his guts at the moment, maybe always did but only circled around it due to their obvious tension. Regardless, that kiss - just like the first - was a huge mistake and it reminded him of how little he deserved her. The sight of Dain fucking Aetos comforting her a searing reminder that he would never hold her like that.

“Stop staring” Garrick pulled him out of the trance by kicking his shin “honestly, Xaden, this is bordering mental affliction”

“Cradh’s rider has a valid observation, you distract yourself with the general’s daughter. Quoting what you humans say: get a grip” Sgaeyl’s tone is indifferent.

“I am not staring” he simply replied.

Garrick snorted “just obsessively following little Sorrengail’s every step with your indirect vision”

Xaden did not dignify the accusation with an answer, turning his attention back to his fruit.

“Wait a minute” Garrick put his fork down, his shit eating grin already present “are you making a saddle for her?”

***

“Riorson” the middle aged woman pushed her goggles up, eyeing him suspiciously “it’s your second visit in such a short time”

He ducked just enough to avoid hitting his head on the door, entering the room fully. The heat was the first thing he registered before the sulfurous scent of the coal.

“Consider it your luck, Hortência” he replied.

The blacksmith rose to her full and considerable height, circling her working table and feeding the fire “More daggers?”

“No, not this time” he explained “I need to make a dragon saddle”

She sent him a surprised glance at first, but a grin soon painted her angular features “finally tired of smashing your balls riding that dragon of yours?”

He could hear Sgaeyl’s amusement through the bond and quickly reinforced his shields - he had heard enough of her commentary for a lifetime “No. Think you can do it?”

She took her gloves off and crossed her arms, narrowing her brown eyes at him “The disrespect of you to ask me if I can”

Xaden raised his hands in surrender, he knew better than to insult someone who walked around with incandescent poking sticks.

“Can you make it in about four days?”

“Do I look like a fucking whirlwind to you?” her voice raised to the usual scolding tone.

Xaden contained his frustrated sigh and unceremoniously dropped a bag very full of coins on her table “this is just the first half, I’ll pay the same amount when it’s done”

She eyed the bag with the usual interest whenever Xaden had a request “I can prioritize it, I suppose. How do you want it?”

“I’ll have my cousin drop you the final sketch. I have to measure the dragon first” he replied.

“When were you born?” she asked.

Xaden was very much confused with said question “I fail to see why this is important information”

Hortência laughed, putting her gloves back on “Just in case I have to make your death plate”

The only person who can measure a dragon safely is their rider.

Page 19 - HOW TO BUILD A DRAGON SADDLE (Riorson, Durran et al)

“Could you tell your mate-”

“Am I a pigeon? Tell him yourself” Sgaeyl’s voice was harsh.

Xaden gritted his teeth, but did as she said anyway because he knew better than to argue with his very temperamental dragon. Grounding on his hill, he seeked the onyx lines that curved just around the silver strands of Violet’s bond. He had to hold the urge to reach for her mind - the intimate sensation of lacing his conscience with hers unmatched - and connected with the dark colored line that connected him to Tairn.

“I’m making Violence a saddle”

For a moment he wondered if the black dragon had shielded him out. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“It seems you can be of use, Wingleader” the deep male voice rumbled through Xaden’s head.

Huh. Odd. He genuinely thought Tairn would put up a fight over using a saddle. He had this entire discourse ready to try and convince the dragon.

“I see no disadvantage in accommodating my rider”

That was strangely…kind. But Xaden made sure to hold that thought before Tairn decided to incinerate him for the audacity. Maybe that old grumpy thing was more lenient than he had originally thought.

“I’ll need to measure you” Xaden spilled before regret swallowed the words.

A growl erupted from that specific bond. Yeah. A saddle? No issue. Having Xaden around his vicinity without the Silver One? Absolutely not. At least for that he had prepared: use Tairn’s weakness - and his.

“I have no desire to be near you either, but we have to do this for her” Xaden argued “the sooner we do it, the faster it’s over”

Silence reigned over the bond for a few minutes and Xaden wondered if Tairn was privately speaking with Sgaeyl or had actually blocked him.

“He speaks with Andarna” she replied “he refrains from making decisions about the general’s daughter without speaking to her”

Xaden was never aware of how that bonded-to-two-dragon thing worked, but it did not surprise him that they included the small dragon in decisions. He secretly hoped Andarna could put some sense into her guardian’s head.

“I reluctantly accept to be measured”

It's not easy said, let alone done. First, there was no measuring tape large enough to circle around Tairn. They had to make do with unreasonable amounts of rope tied together - ropes Xaden had no idea how Bodhi acquired it. The easy step was measuring the expanse of the chest but when it came to measuring the distance for the straps, he could feel his left eye twitching.

“Would you stop moving for a fucking second?” he practically growled when Tairn shifted his front leg again.

Of course that fucking grumpy dragon would not make things easy for Xaden, it would not be Tairn otherwise. He had no fucking idea what Sgaeyl saw on him, honestly.

“I could ask the same about the general’s daughter” her voice echoed in amusement.

He tried not to scoff at her words. It was obvious what he saw on Violet. Her infuriatingly hot intelligence, her fucking perfect face, her fucking hair! That hair! Even her reckless streak was mesmerizing. Xaden was fucked when it came to Violet Sorrengail. Everything about the woman invited him in.

“See? You have your reasons and I have mine, now focus!”

Xaden reluctantly returned his attention to the giant black dragon making his life a living nightmare and managed to finally finish the measurement. He shouted the numbers for Bodhi - who was standing at a safe distance - to write down.

“Fucking finally” he said with more anger than prudent in front of a war dragon “I’ll have to test the fit on you once the saddle is done, so could you please not repeat today’s stunt?”

Saying please to Tairn was definitely bitter on his tongue. Not that he was against the word, but the only person he would ever say please to was five foot nothing and currently disliked him very much.

“Under one condition” the dragon replied “I do have requirements”

Xaden’s groan of frustration could be heard from miles away.

It is important to use high quality materials - specially the leather for the saddle belts and seat. It is also interesting to consider that the straps will have to be made of a blend of metals to ensure durability, it must be strong but lightweight.

Page 30 - HOW TO BUILD A DRAGON SADDLE (Riorson, Durran et al)

After the cousins handed the measurements, the blacksmith’s eyes shimmered at the sight of the final sketch and Xaden knew he had won her over. Nothing spoke louder than money and glory when it came to that particular blacksmith. Barely three days later, she sent a message for him to visit the forge as soon as possible and he did not hesitate.

“Neat work” he commented, gliding a finger on the metal’s surface.

Hortência had outdone herself again. The chest plate was sturdy but light enough that Xaden and Bodhi would be able to carry it without much trouble. The leather straps were as thick as they come - which cost more money than expected. In the middle, a discreet mechanism could be felt only by touch - one of Tairn’s many requirements that Xaden had to spend an entire night designing with Bodhi.

“You tell me if any alterations are needed, don’t you fucking dare look for another blacksmith”

Xaden fought a smile as he saw the distinct signature on the corner of the chestplate “would never dream of doing so”

Testing the saddle, though, proved to be unfruitful. Because of fucking course that monstrosity of a dragon disliked it. The weight of the chestplate was beginning to burn his arm muscles as Tairn refused to wear it.

“And to think I praised your usefulness” Train grumbled.

“What the fuck is wrong this time?” he sounded every bit exasperated as he felt.

Fucking Violet. If Xaden didn’t pathetically like her so much he would not be fucking dealing with her asshole of a dragon. Damn the day that beautiful woman crossed the parapet and turned his world upside down.

“The material of the straps will collapse under fire exposure, Wingleader. Change it”

With that ultimatum, Tairn dismissed him - flying to the vale with Andarna right behind him. Xaden sighed loudly, trying his best to support the chestplate on the ground before it toppled over. Sgaeyl was still there, though she made absolutely no move to aid him.

“Didn’t go well?” Bodhi said from a distance, almost invisible due to the waning moon night.

“The straps need to be metal” he shouted back “what do you think about a strong stolen liquor and another night of designing?”

Bodhi pulled a face that meant ‘absolutely not’

“Alright”

***

“I need your help” Xaden mumbled.

Garrick lifted a dark thick brow and a wicked smile spread through his face “look who decided to include me on their little art project”

If they were not in class, Xaden would absolutely have punched him right in the nose “The saddle is fucking heavy and I think Bodhi is avoiding me”

“He definitely is” Garrick kept scribbling nonsense in his notepad “something about you using his drop of free time”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Xaden commanded a shadow to steal his friend’s pen.

“Relax, shadow man. I will. I am at your service”

Two days later, a few hours into the early morning, both of them were on their way to the flight field. Train and Sgaeyl were already there, blue morning hue barely reflecting on their scales. Garrick grunted behind him as the weight of the newest version of the saddle was considerable. They stopped in the middle of the field, setting the chest plate on the ground and undoing the binds that kept the metal chains coiled.

“I can handle it” he said to Garrick “prepare for the meeting”

“You sure?”

“Tairn tolerates me, but I don’t think he’ll accept you around”

Garrick shrugged, retreating quickly to the citadel. Xaden unraveled the last chain and stood up, breathing deeply. He needed all the patience in the world to deal with Tairn and unfortunately he did not have any.

“Is it to your liking?” Xaden said in the fakest civil tone he could muster.

Train’s growl rumbled through the field “It seems acceptable this time”

“I’ll have to put it on you to test the fit”

“I thought I told you all of my requirements, including the one saying I have to be able to wear it on my own”

“All of your requirements were met, but I need to check where improvements may be needed, so would you please cooperate once?”

The dragon growled again, lowering his head to be eye level with Xaden “So be it, Wingleader”

Xaden should have known that Tairn’s compliance always came with a price. The dragon made sure to be out of reach just enough for him to struggle looping one of the straps around his foreleg - he had to jump! - The rumbling in Tairn’s chest seemed almost like a mocking laughter and Xaden was dreadfully remembering the fact he would share the rest of his miserable life bonded to that aggravating creature.

“I need to place the saddle, can I climb up there?”

“It will be your last deed before I eat your burnt carcass”

Vivid.

Of course Xaden would have to humiliate himself further by throwing the saddle around like a fucking lunatic, but at least he had good aim and was able to land it correctly the second time. Once the other strapped was looped around Tairn’s left foreleg, Xaden joined one pair of them at the belly and braced himself for the ultimate strength of connecting them to the triangular chest plate. It took all of his training and core strength to do it, but he managed.

Finally, fucking finally!…and then a second later he was staring at the dawning sky and the wind was knocked out of his lungs.

“Hold your breath” Sgaeyl’s voice commanded and he did not question it.

Seconds later, a small column of fire singed the air where Xaden had just been standing. He turned quickly, protecting his face from the heat until it passed.

“What the fuck, Tairn?” he shouted once the fire ceased.

“You pinched my chest scales!” he said, outraged.

Xaden stood up faster than ever, quickly retreating backwards and glaring at the black dragon “I could have died!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I aimed above your head” Train raised his neck and chuffed, a puff of steam reaching Xaden’s face.

“Your mate is insane” he growled down Sgaeyl’s bond “and how kind of you to defend your rider!”

“You brought this upon yourself when you took this quest” she said, unbothered “and I did defend you”

“By knocking me on the ground like a sack of grains!”

This saddle better fucking work because at this point Xaden could genuinely die of rage and it would be very embarrassing considering all the shit he survived so far.

“I was going to ask you for a test flight but I will refrain from losing my fucking life here”

“Wise decision” Tairn growled.

The seat must be as simple and practical as possible. Padded for comfort and with a raised edge for an easy grip. It should also be waxed regularly to ensure water resistance. Decorative designs are completely optional.

Page 43 - HOW TO BUILD A DRAGON SADDLE (Riorson, Durran et al)

Xaden hesitated for the third time and frustration was beginning to build in the pit of his stomach. Dropping the carving tool, he stood up and returned to his pacing. He was dreading asking him for help but there was no other choice. There was nobody more skilled in carving than Liam Mairi. Unfortunately, his brother was also a little shit that would tease Xaden the entire fucking time because of what he was requesting to be carved. The very intricate protective runes he sketched would be the biggest proof of his not-so-self-preservation reasoning.

“As if Deigh’s rider was not already aware of your affections towards the woman, cease this torturous hesitancy and be done with it” Sgaeyl grumbled.

He swallowed his pride and decided that it would be best to follow his dragon’s advice. He took the saddle seat and the carving tools he had purchased during the weekend and walked towards the first-years floor. His signet informed him who was asleep or not. Quietly, he knocked on Liam’s door and waited impatiently.

“Xaden?” his brother was still in uniform.

He motioned silently towards the room, to which Liam nodded and pulled him through the wards.

“So you really were making a saddle” his brother commented.

“Garrick can’t really shut his fucking mouth, huh?” Xaden complained

“Nah, it was Bodhi who told me” Liam shrugged, clasping his hands together “what’s my job then?”

Xaden felt really bad asking one more thing for Liam, he really did, but he was fucking desperate. War games would start in two days and he still had to wax the saddle.

“I need you to carve some runes for me” he spilled.

Liam took the saddle from his hands and walked to his table, pulling out a small, but full pack of tools - of course Liam already had the tools.

“What do you want me to carve?”

Xaden sighed quietly and handed his brother the small paper.

“Alright, this won’t take long” he concluded “might as well sit down and wait”

He had spent many nights in his foster home watching Liam carve. Specially on nights of insomnia - like the current one. His brother worked with agility, the sounds of the tools barely audible as it cut into the leather. Silence prevailed and Xaden was honestly surprised that no teasing comment made an appearance.

“That’s nice of you, by the way” Liam’s voice was quiet.

Xaden fought a scoff. He doubted any of his actions could be considered nice. He was doing it out of guilt and fear.

“I am sure she will protest using it” he bitterly replied “might as well hide it’s my doing and put all the glory on you”

“I highly disagree” Liam continued “she needs to know you did it. That you care”

At that point he was not sure if any of his actions could ever redeem him in her eyes. He was just an asshole that was tied to her by dragon bonds. A fucking asshole that kisses her for his own selfish reasons and still hopes she reciprocates any of his fucking feelings.

“I don’t think she wants me to care” Xaden admitted.

Liam smiled sadly and shook his head, returning his focus on the saddle.

“You’re so blind sometimes, Xaden”

[crustaceousfaggot]

So... Idk maybe this was obvious to everyone and there's no point in me bringing it up. But can we talk about Ballister's armor?

The plate that the knights wear is standardized. It's their uniform. All the knights we see in the film are wearing the same armor and use the same swords. They're standard issue. With a couple exceptions.

Ambrosius gets much flashier armor, with the obvious gold and white colour scheme and the lion (?) design on his chest plate. He also has large lions on the sides of his pauldrons with embedded sapphire eyes, which - wow, talk about ostentatious. This is presumably because of his connections to Gloreth - his blood is special enough that he gets an entirely different and considerably flashier set of armor. Is it a family heirloom? Was it commissioned specifically for him? We'll never know. But the Institute designated this little boy Special enough to be exempt from the dress code in order to demonstrate his status as the Specialist Boy.

Todd gets a slightly altered version of the uniform, with black bottoms instead of grey, and larger pauldrons. If we assume Ambrosius gets fancy armour because of his family connections, then that seems to imply Todd also has some ancestry notable enough to set him aside slightly from the rest of the knights. Not anywhere near as famed as Gloreth of course, but maybe a notable general or war hero or something along those lines. That would explain some of the ego. Whatever.

Both of them seem to still be using the standardized swords though.

And then there's Ballister. With his black armor.

In the book I just sort of assumed he chose that armor in order to compliment the whole aesthetic he's got going on. But in the movie that is explicitly not true. They gave him that armor, to signify in the most literal and inconspicuous way possible that he is the black sheep. He does not belong and he never will, no matter how hard he tries, because the Institute will make sure everyone who sees him immediately recognizes him as other. Street trash who has been graciously permitted into their ranks, but will never be allowed to wear the untainted, pure colours of their order, the divine white and gold. It was decided for him, before he even became a knight, that no matter what he did he would never escape that shadow. That he was let in, not born in. Allowed to exist. Always on their terms.

He doesn't even get to use their swords. He gets a black sword to match his armor, one which (by the looks of it) is significantly lower-tech than the standard issue swords, at least until it was tampered with.

The Queen could have stopped this, but she didn't, which indicates to me more than ever that, to her, Ballister was first and foremost a token. A gesture meant to inspire loyalty and goodwill from her subjects, to prove that she was willing to change. Slowly. And only so long as people remembered who really had the power. Am I saying she was evil or whatever? No. We haven't seen enough of her as a ruler to make those kinds of judgements. But to me she represents a very milquetoast, left-of-center, "Equal-rights-for-everyone-so-long-as-it-doesn't-negatively-affect-me-or-my-standing-in-any-way" kind of leader.

There was no way he could have ever been one of them. Never. And they made sure knew it.

[fromabasementonthehilll]

Braids

☾𖤓 ~ Summary: fluff basically

Pairing: Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Warnings: ...

Original request

Soccer was a big deal for your friends. You were meant to join, back when everyone else did, but you opted for cheerleading instead - dancing in front of the bleachers with bright pom poms. Today, the Yellowjackets soccer team were playing against state rivals, and your team was there, as per usual. Everyone was there, the players warming up in the changing rooms. You watched the coach set up the field from afar in your awfully tight cheerleading uniform, waiting for the the game to start.

"She cheers for you louder than she ever did for her boyfriend." Van laughed deeply, stretching her legs and waiting for Lottie to laugh with her. "Yeah, well, the boys team kinda sucks." Tai intervened, Van just let out a weak 'yeah'. "Ex, boyfriend." Lottie insinuated, giving Van a pouty look.

As the Yellowjackets ran out, your eyes landed on Lottie, your best friend of 5 years now turned into some secret relationship. She gave you a grin plastered in excitement, and you returned with a warm smile. Next, the opposing team ran out, but the cheer was louder for the Yellowjackets, as per usual.

-

This morning you spontaneously showed up to Lottie's house, at about 6:30. Of course, she was still asleep, and you weren't surprised to see a bed-haired, droopy eyed Lottie answer the door. "What the hell, y/n." Her voice was raspy, her shirt inside out. "I'm helping you get ready for your game!" You lit up, ignoring her obviously altered state of consciousness. She had to agree, letting you in as you took it upon yourself to make coffee whilst she got dressed. She came back and fell onto the kitchen island chair, still partially unconscious. "Excited?" You smiled, handing her a mug, "I shouldn't be awake right now, you know." Lottie sighed.

You spun around to face her back, in awe of the sheer size of her house, how lonely Lottie seemed in it, and the absence of her parents. The kitchen was open, it connected to the first floor area, where the staircase was built directly parallel to the kitchen. Everything was awfully plain. A single chair rested beneath the staircase, against the left wall - behind which was a hall leading to one of few bathrooms, and the dining room. No decor, not even a picture frame; one plant near the front entrance to make it seem somewhat homely. Lottie's room was on the second floor, you always admired the artsy look it had in contrast to the rest of the rooms, and you could tell she mostly adhered to her parents expectations - keeping it to a minimum, but you recognised her efforts.

"Want me to do your hair again?" You focused your attention back onto Lottie. She hummed and nodded. The couple of hair bands that were on your wrist - now held with your teeth. You parted her hair into two sections after brushing it out. A flush of pink reached Lottie's ear as she stayed quiet.

Maybe you being there got rid of the isolation, because each time you'd come over her eyes softened, her touch was gentle, and her smile was genuine. But this time, and it happened often, she was still on edge. It could've been because of the game today, but she was usually confident about those kind of things, so you assumed it was the usual. "What classes do you have today?" She asked plainly. "Chem, math, and;" you paused, "I don't know." You gave up, finishing on one braid. "Practice, you've got practice." She said and laughed. You had completely lost track of what you were meant to be doing today, too focused on Lottie's schedule rather than yours. "I forgot." You whispered with fabricated shock, Lottie giggled in a hum, as you loosened the finished braid and moved onto the other one. She always let you do her hair - whenever you'd ask. Sometimes she would be the one to ask, but only ever to 'fix it up' or 'check if it looks alright', otherwise she just enjoyed when you would take it upon yourself.

And you; you loved everything about doing her hair. The slight curl it had against your palms, how she softened against you, and the same dark, woody tones in your field of view.

After a few times of dropping the bands held by your teeth, scolding Lottie for moving too much and laughing carelessly, causing you to let go of a carefully untied braid, you had finally finished. "Done." You wrapped your arms around her neck from behind her, giving a small kiss to the top of her head. She thanked you, and the two of you left.

-

"...get it right, girls." Your team captain finished, right before the victory cheer. The Yellowjackets won, of course. You chanted, this time louder than the one before the game, jumping up and down as your revised choreography went. You noticed that most of the girls doing cheerleading were extremely serious about it, but you weren't there for the all star cheer, it was just a pastime, an extracurricular. Liking dance was enough for them to offer you a place, and besides, it would look good on your résumé.

A slight shame trailed the rival team, and you felt slightly bad, but for the most part you were happy for your girlfriend, and you knew how much going to nationals meant to her.

Lottie scored the most goals, her face ridden i pride as they went back to the changing rooms, each one of them leaping around the place manically.

You stood behind the locker room door, and instantly pushed yourself off of the wall as you saw Lottie walk out, a grin still plastered onto her face; she turned to you in surprise. "Hey!" She beamed, almost jumping up, "you were so good out there, Lot." Your eyebrows curved up, "couldn't have done it without you." A chuckle echoed across the hallway, it felt odd somehow to be in school at this hour - and in all honesty, you were exhausted, and so was Lottie. "Sleepover at mine?" She perked up as the two of you began to walk back, you had already changed out of your cheer uniform, carrying a duffel bag that held it, wanting to just get rid of that extra weight. "Obviously."

She didn't live that far away, about a 15 minute drive in her sedan, and playing music from her expensive car speakers was something you'd always looked forward to.

Once you got there you dropped your bag at the door step unknowingly, wanting to just fall onto the couch. And as much as Lottie's house felt like home to you, you decided to stay around just for a while more. "You want anything? Tea? Hot chocolate?" You began making your way to the kitchen, "you're the guest here, let me take over." Lottie insisted, staring right into your tired eyes. "You won a big game tonight, c'mon, just let me make you something." You pleaded, half sarcastically, already cautiously taking a cup from the cabinets whilst giving your best puppy eyes.

She gave in and agreed, and suddenly you were making her a drink - just like this morning. Lottie ran upstairs to get dressed, and you carried two cups after her, settling them on the coffee table in the upstairs living room. The TV was off, and in all honesty you preferred it that way, no noise apart from the subtle music Lottie had turned on in her bedroom, just down the hall from the living room. She came in wearing a loose t-shirt and pyjama pants, you; still in your after school clothes. She fell onto the couch, her eyes almost fully shut. A single warm light illuminated the room, and it was small compared, but it remained the only half-nice light in the whole house. The rest were just too fluorescent.

"Come here." You whispered, looking her up and down as she shuffled and lazily laid her head on your chest. You could tell she was tired, really tired, so asking if she was felt like too stupid of a question. Instead, you tangled your fingers in between her hair, playing with the front pieces before taking the bands out. A smile curved against your chest, making you grin back.

Today was one of the first days where you and Lottie went to bed early, usually worrying if you'd manage to make it to first period, but she was too exhausted today and you were going along with whatever she did. And as much as you wanted to change out of your clothes to finally get some sleep, getting up felt like an even worse idea than sleeping in them.

You continued unbraiding her hair, gently undoing the curls with a faint expression. "Promise I'll be more fun tomorrow." She whispered against you, eyes closed. You let out a slight chuckle in response, setting the bands onto the coffee table and falling asleep on the couch.

[starfirexuchiha]

The events in P3 took place near Maruki’s palace

In P5 Royal, there is unused DLC outfit dialogue. When you make Joker wear a Gekkoukan outfit, Ryuji would say this:

Gekkoukan High School’s uniform? Oh, that’s that one school near Odaiba.

Odaiba. Sounds familiar? That’s where Maruki’s Palace was located during the 3rd semester.

Also in the P3 map, you see a stadium. Given the Persona timeline, the stadium that becomes Maruki’s Palace wasn’t built yet because it was still in construction during P5 Royal (a game took place YEARS after the events of P3).

But this is just an interesting thing I felt like pointing out.

The information Ryuji gave us, also means that P3 took place in Tokyo. Thanks Ryuji! ☺️

More thoughts

Maruki’s Palace portrays the themes of Sorrow and Sadness (shown by the Will Seeds), plus the palace theme (Gentle Madman) sounds melancholic. It’s not too dissimilar to some of P3′s themes of depression, grief, and apathy.

P5R’s “bad ending” during the 3rd Semester is also pretty similar to P3′s “bad ending”. The teams’ memories being altered, living in blissful ignorance, not knowing what’s really happening.

In The Answer, Mitsuru mentioned about SEES not being able to reform society. It seems to me that society in Tokyo will become very apathetic (the deadly sin of Sloth) and eventually create Yaldaboath and Mementos in several years. This will become the Phantom Thieves’ problem later on in P5.

[nahoney22]

Congrats on 3k! Sorry for the late request, I don't know if you're still accepting them or not but could possibly do a nsfw Female reader for Wolffe with the prompts "You know you're really hot when you're angry" and "if we weren't in public right now, I'd bend you over the table and fuck you."

Also your writing is so good from what I've seen!!

3000 Prompt List Celebration

Wolffe X F!Reader

word count: 1.9k

NSFW

prompts:

“You know you’re really hot when you’re angry.”

“If we weren’t in public right now, I’d bend you over the table and fuck you right now.” (Altered just a tad)

warnings: NSFW, 18+ only. Explicit sexual content. P in v sex, Dirty talk, sexual tension creampie, established but private relationship, slightly rough sex, kissing, nipple sucking/licking, swearing, dom!Wolffe, semi-public sex, reader is a bit of a tease. Aftercare and some soft moments.

authors note: sorry for the wait. 💜 as always, dividers are by @samspenandsword

“Don’t trip.”

Your advice would have been much appreciated if you purposely didn’t it say after the Commander tripped over some tangled uprooted vines. But, as it was Commander Wolffe, you just simply couldn’t help but tease him.

His comrades snigger at their Commander's misfortune, only to receive a piercing, disapproving stare from the resolute clone. His gaze then shifted to you, a bomb disposal expert for the 104th, and he matched your notorious smirk with an equally stern glare.“Watch it, missy.” He hissed as you approached, oozing confidence that used to ignite a fiery reaction within him.

Used to.

The 104th were aware of the tension between you both, always bickering and incessantly teasing one another when assigned on missions together. Even Sinker and Boost had a bet on to see who would kill each other first. What his brothers didn’t know, however, is that the hardened Commander had fallen for you and you just so happened to have fallen for him too.

Those times he had said to his comrades that he had given you a reprimanding in private? Yeah, that is simply you getting pushed up agaisnt a wall and fucked hard, hands tangled in each others hair. Or, you would sneak into each other's quarters at night and he would crawl under your sheets, tasting what he caused.

“Or what?” you taunted, pausing with a confident stance and an arched eyebrow.

His jaw clenches and he looks to his men who marched on forward, leaving you two at the back of the pack. “If we weren’t in public right now, I’d bend you over by that tree and fuck you right now.” He leans in close to your ear, looking like he’s giving you a stern warning when in reality it seemed like an inviting threat.

“Oh Commander,” you say with a hushed tone, taking a step closer to him, “you know I’m not the one to shy away.” You grin with a seductive smile that makes his chest heave as he sucks in a deep breath, intoxicated by your words and the mere scent of you as you draw near.

“You’re insufferable.” He utters though you know it was kind of endearing all the same.

“Funny, you said that to me the first time you met me… now look at us, playing pretend in front of your men.” You make sure nobody is looking when you stand on the tips of your toes and very teasingly place a kiss to the corner of his lips. “Try not to tell me off too much, you know how flustered it gets me.”

He watches you strut away, your hips swaying in a manner that had captivated him from the moment he laid eyes on you. He could feel himself straining against his uniform, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck, and this time, he couldn't blame the heat alone. He needed to find a way to be alone with you, sooner rather than later.

Another jab, another eye twitch from the Commander. You were purposefully being a brat to get his attention and much to the amusement of his brothers who revel in seeing him squirm. The mission had been a success, and as they all boarded the ships to return to Coruscant, you were unabashedly engaged in a loud conversation with Boost and Sinker about Wolffe, making his ears burn.

He wasn't privy to the exact nature of your conversation, but you had glanced over your shoulder, almost snickering, before redirecting your attention to his brothers. Oh, you were definitely up to something.

With a determined stride, his chest puffed out, Wolffe approached, his presence causing both Boost and Sinker's expressions to falter as he stood behind you, arms folded. "What are you three talking about?"

"Uh, nothing, sir," Boost stammered, clearing his throat in a futile attempt to suppress a laugh, while Sinker grew increasingly red, struggling to contain his amusement.

"Uh-huh," Wolffe huffed at the two of them before placing a firm hand on your shoulder and turning you to face him. "Care to enlighten me, ma'am?"

Your eyes locked with his, an unspoken tension hanging between you. "Are you implying that we're talking about you?" you asked playfully, tilting your head to the side. "That's rather egotistical of you."

Sinker couldn't hold back his laughter any longer, receiving a swat on the arm from Boost, but Wolffe’s gaze remained fixed on you. "Do you want me to remind you how to address your superiors?”

Biting your inner cheek, you knew exactly what he was alluding to, and truth be told, you were more than eager. "I believe you might have to, yes."

Taking a step closer, his proximity engulfing you, Wolffe’s voice grew husky. "Go to the cargo hold. I want to speak with you alone."

You turned to Boost and Sinker, rolling your eyes as if to downplay the simmering tension. "Very well, Commander. I'll join you in a moment."

A low grunt escaped Wolffe, followed by the sound of his retreating footsteps. After bidding farewell to the boys, who remained blissfully unaware of what would truly transpire in the cargo hold, you strolled casually toward your destination, the ship's humming masking the rapid thumping of your heart. As the door to the hold hissed open, revealing Wolffe leaning against a stack of crates, the ship's red lights cast an alluring glow upon his figure. "Lock the door behind you, ma'am," he instructed, and, as customary for him, you turned and obediently complied.

But as you turned back to face him, he was already before you, his lips claiming yours with fervor. "You drive me insane, you know that, baby?"

Melting against him, your arms encircled the back of his neck as his lips and tongue expertly explored your own. It felt like an eternity since you had been this close, and you certainly had no intention of letting this opportunity go to waste.

"How can you blame me?" you whispered, a sly smirk gracing your face as you gently nibbled on his lower lip, eliciting a gratifying growl-like sound from deep within him. "You know you're really hot when you're angry."

He chuckled darkly, his hands sliding sensually under your thighs, effortlessly lifting you off the ground. The intense kiss continued as he carried you toward the crates where he had previously been leaning, gently setting you down. "Not angry, just terribly, painfully sexually frustrated," he admitted with a husky tone.

"Well then," you countered, a mischievous smirk playing on your lips as your hands rested against his chest, "I’m glad that the others believe you're reprimanding me. They won't disturb us."

A wicked smirk mirrored your own on his face as his hands eagerly fumbled with the buttons and clasps of your uniform. With a swift motion, your work shirt was stripped away and discarded unceremoniously on the floor. "You're absolutely right, sweetheart," he sighed, leaning down to pepper kisses along your collarbone and down your chest, leaving a trail of heated desire in his wake.

You tilt your head back, moaning softly when he lets his tongue lick over one of your stiffening nipples, his other hand caressing your other breast before teasingly pinching the hardened nub. “That feels so good,” you whine quietly, still a little cautious in case anybody hears you both but at the same time you don't care. And neither did he.

He only hums in response to you, tongue flicking rapidly against your stiffened peak but grins when he feels you tugging on his codpiece and freeing his cock.

He moans heartily as you slowly start to pump along his length, his mouth moving to latch onto your other nipple whilst his hands alternate. “Good girl,” he chuckles, pulling your nipple with his lips and letting go with a pop. Your legs shake in eagerness, your cunt throbbing at the need for his cock.

Wolffe whined as your hand stroked downward, encircling the base of his cock in the best of ways that you knew he loved before rising to the top to trail across the sensitive crown. It didn’t take long for him to be rock solid under your touch and it didn’t take long for him to be hooking his fingers into your pants, pulling down your work clothes and panties in a single swoop.

“We need to be quick,” he grunts as he manhandles you and flips you so your bent over the crates, legs spread and eagerly awaiting his cock, “Maker, been wanting to do this all day,”

You feel a heat rush to your cheeks as you hear him spit, in what only could be into his hand. His glove is tossed onto the crate beside you and you let out a loud gasp as you feel something warm and wet caress at your folds; his fingers lubing you up for his cock. “Such a pretty girl, can’t wait to make a mess of you.” He grunts and you whine delicately as you feel his tip line up with your entrance before slowly pushing inside of you.

Fuck. It had been a while.

You whimper and moan even trying to buck up against him to take more. He feels perfect. He is perfect.

He holds himself in you after a long, slow stroke, letting you adjust to the sensation of his large cock. “Wolffe, fuck me. Please. Hard.” You find yourself begging, which wouldn’t be the first time. You liked it rough with him and in the naughtiest scenarios to which being in a ship filled with his men who could come in any second was just the right amount you needed.

But he does. Hard. Fucking away at you with everything he has, no lead up, just hard, slamming strokes that leave bruises on your hips from where the edges of the crate start to dig into her your. He still adorned his gear so you were not shocked to feel slight pinching on the back of your legs but that was overlooked by him filling you completely, stretching you up.

You feel his cock swell less than a second before he growls in your ear, “you like this huh? You like me bending you over and fucking you?” You can only moan and nod feverishly, especially as you feel his finger reach down and strokes at your clit, just once. That’s all it took. You cum, gripping onto the crate as it drags against the metal floor as he pumps you with his seed.

Wolffe rocks his hips slowly until the last drop comes out and then lays his full weight against your back. It's nice, comforting, while he softens and slips out.

He stands back, watching his white lace drip out of your pussy and down your leg and he loves it. “Beautiful.” He mutters, stuffing his cock back into his blacks and reattaching his codpiece, wiping the sweat from his brow.

You stand up straight, legs a little shaken and he makes no hesitation to hold you close and support you, gathering up your clothes and helping you dress. “You don’t have to help me Commander,” you smile with a blush, always a little shy after you had been intimate with the brooding Commander.

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that, baby.” He whispers, placing a kiss to your cheek as he buttons up your shirt and making sure you look presentable. Hebrings you to his chest, arms wrapped around you where he can just hold you for a little while. Away from the others and away from the War. “I… I love you. I hope you do know that.”

His words made your heart flutter and you looked up to him with slightly misty eyes at his soft confession. “I love you too, handsome.”

Masterlist

Prompt List Works

tags: @andyoufollowyourheart @littlefeatherr r @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @cwarssimp @jesseeka @ashotofspotchka a @oohyesplease @theroguesully @mustluvecho @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova @arctrooper69 9 @padawancat97 7 @rain-on-kamino @either-madness-or-brilliance @staycalmandhugaclone e @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog g @chrissywakingup @kixs-husband @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo o @therealnekomari i @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @seriowan @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd d @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @raevulsix @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 1 @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad

[streamdotpng]

Tongues & teeth reunion, where Wednesday sees the result of old werewolf teachings

-

"what happened, Enid?" just hearing Wednesday's voice has the once looming werewolf to slump closer, shoulders dropping and doing all but melt into the floor at the concern she can hear in that tone.

Enid smiles, all tight lips and bright happy eyes. God does she miss seeing Wednesday. All they've been doing is texting and Enid has been wanting for so long that she feared that she'd forget her voice.

"I got better!" is Enid's cheery reply. "the olden time werewolves are so weird, Nes but I learned during the winter and now here I am!" I'm better now, so much better- is left unsaid.

Wednesday stares and Enid can see the way her jaw tenses. She's contemplating, Enid gasps in her head and she's so tempted to grasp at that chin and ma-

"you're different," Wednesday cuts in, her arms crossing as she stares up. "What did they do to you?"

Enid is lost, her head tilting to the side as she wonders where Wednesday is getting at. She stares down at her jacket, a dark blue almost black color.

She's starting to worry a little. She didn't look that different right? She's wearing the uniform! And a jacket sure but it was just there for aesthetic purposes! It's just january after all, what if Wednesday is cold? Better to be safe than sorry yknow.

"I learned," Enid starts, her smile dropping to one a little bit more worried. "Is it the jacket? I thought you don't like color?"

Wednesday narrows her eyes and Enid gulps, straightening up immedietely as she stares back. A blink back is her answer and the shorter roommate looks away.

It should make Enid feel proud, to push off such posturing but it makes a part of her shudder in disgust at such easy forfeiting.

(where was the fire? The fight-)

Has she been coming wrong? Maybe it's her actions, werewolves have a whole different way of moving after all and Wednesday...

She's special, but she wouldn't understand.

"Mortals are different, Enid," Romulus says, his hand tight around her nape. "they don't know any better, so we have to teach them at times."

"I abhor color," Wednesday agrees. "but it suits you." a sigh. "do not alter yourself for me."

Too late, a part of her cackles. I'll become anything you need, Dear. Your sword, your shield, the hound to hunt and take whoever you wish-

Enid turns red, eyes widening and she steps up. It doesn't take long for her to shrug off the jacket and wrap it around Wednesday instead.

There's a flutter in her stomach and a rush of heartbeat against her ears. Is it hers? Wednesday's? She doesn't know.

A laugh comes from Enid's lips. The jacket hangs off Wednesday, way too big to properly fit the girl and it makes something akin to delight spark inside her chest.

Enid's hands lay near the hood, fiddling with the fabric as she speaks.

"it's for you anyways, " the werewolf's head is ducked and she knows of the symbolisms. Her neck chills at the lack of protection, open for any threat.

It's a sign.

Wednesday doesn't say a thing but Enid can hear the beatbeatbeat of her mortal's heart.

It makes Enid smiles, all teeth and delighted.

[saiyanwitcher]

You clearly put a lot of thought into PoD, what is your favorite Easter egg? Or is there something you have planted that we as readers have not noticed yet?

Oh there are so many, I don't even know where to start, and I apologize for this long answer in advance!!🫣

I seeded/planted a lot of the endgame ideas for this story very early on that I think weren't noticed or are more there for like a reread when you know what is going to happen. Some of them haven't fully been revealed yet so I won't share, but others I can point out!

Chapter 6 had this line: "Only Max and Jos knew the truth about the demise of planet Toro, and he would take that secret with him to the grave." This has since been revealed in chapter 29 when Max tells Charles what really happened, but I don't think I got any comments at the time about that throw away line in 6. Chapter 14 also referenced Jos trying to get Max to beg again like he did for Toro with the line: "You think your pleas mean anything to me now after all these years trying to make you beg again?" And also later in 14 with: Without so much as looking back, Charles yelled out, “They're all dead because of you!” and the double doors slammed shut behind him.

Chapter 8 referenced the revelation that Carlos and Charles were half bothers with the line: "Be careful, brother," he warned, voice tinged with disdain like the word tasted bad in his mouth." And then another reference in 18: “Then why him, your Highness ? What does he have that I don’t? He's third-class, just like me. He—he's even worse than that . . . a fucking purge infant! A bastard. A symbol of shame on my house and family.”

Chapter 18 has this line: “It's a bracelet,” Charles began softly, his voice filled with a mix of hope and worry, “This one in particular . . . is supposed to keep the wearer safe. It’s something my father gave me before he passed away. He said it had been in the family for generations, always protecting those who wore it from harm.” This line is significant because as soon as Charles took it off and gave it to max, he was then hurt by George very shortly after, and Max was more unharmed than usual on his assignment. Also, since Charles has not been wearing it and Max has, Charles has gotten himself into all kinds of trouble . . .

Here are also just some general ideas behind some key moments that are worth of mentioning and my personal favorites:

The whole edit graphic for Chapter 8 still makes me giggle and it's where the chessboard parallels started for this fic. The photo of Carlos in a white shirt and Charles in a black shirt representing white and black sides on the board. White always makes the first move in chess and this alluded to Carlos being the older son/first lover of Max. Then the photo in the center of that graphic with the white king smashing the black king alluded to Carlos being a long standing opponent to anyone getting near Max. Carlos' later deeds with the camera and the anon report confirmed that.

Another fun one is George being revealed to have also been a stolen prince, just like Max, but claims that he gave up that title and old life in favor of fully committing to his new role and identity within the PTO. BUT . . . George still wears his mantel from Elysia as part of his PTO uniform 🤭 Chapter 9 has this line: Charles watched him tuck his tablet under his arm and retreat down the hall with a long light blue cape flapping behind him. Even Max doesn't wear his mantel from Toro, so maybe George hasn't completely given up like he thinks he has?

And alright, because I can't help myself, here are some lines that allude to later parts of the story coming up that maybe people glanced over:

Chapter 6: “This boost is also Jos’ greatest fear.” Alonso continued, drawing Charles confused gaze again. “Tales of a legendary Torossian warrior that would appear every one thousand years were known throughout the universe. Most of the knowledge around the conditions required to break through into the altered state were lost with Toro, but even Jos knew this warrior would've been able to challenge him.”

Chapter 6: "I'm not a good man, Charles."

Chapter 7: “On Earth, we have wish orbs that are scattered across the globe. When you locate all seven and bring them to a sacred temple, you can have a wish granted by a spiritual being that accepts the orbs as payment."

Chapter 12: The emperor’s most prized possessions from his conquests and victories were displayed prominently throughout the room. Heads of rebel forces and more than a few Torossian tails were mounted on the walls, trophies of his unimaginable cruelty. 

Chapter 12: Those familiar cerulean jewels that always made him smile and feel tingly inside, melted into molten pools of fire and rage. Max's eyes reflected back at him in the dim room like caged Hell, ready to be unleashed causing untold devastation. His wet hair, darker than its normal blonde, had even started to glow like spun strands of golden silk at the tips. 

Chapter 19: “A compatible match? What does that mean?” “It means that your energy frequency is on the same plane as the prince's. Another part of being an Eldri is that you can give part of your energy to your mate when they are in duress. I, myself, am unfamiliar with the process, but I’ve heard of it being done.”

Chapter 26: Walking closer, he had the feeling that he was being watched. Perhaps it was just his tired mind playing tricks on him, but he couldn't help but feel like eyes were following him.

Eyes that weren't the prince's.

[the-hollow-quill]

Prologue

It took thirty seconds for the alarm to start shrieking after the doors were opened. A single shrill, piercing note repeated throughout the white mirror-walled complex as the sterile hallways filled with people. Children and teenagers stumbled out of their rooms in the dark hospital gown garments, frantic-eyed.

A kid dressed differently from the others in the near militaristic uniform of the Institute’s staff, sprinted down the reflective linoleum with purpose. Their thick-heeled combat boots pounded loudly against the floor in alteration with the alarm as they swung themselves around a corner with a half abandoned follow me gesture.

It hadn’t taken the older gowned teenagers long to catch on to what was happening as they ushered the younger kids out in front of them, urging them to follow the uniformed kid still bolting through the labyrinthine institute. They were getting out. The kid was breaking them out.

Guards in heavy white uniforms stormed into the hallway, their masks matching the mirrored walls reflected the crowd of faces. Doctors rushed in after them, their hands outstretched toward the soldiers pleadingly as one shouted, “Stop! We still need them!”

The uniformed kid looked over their shoulder with wide eyes as they watched the soldiers ignore the doctors’ orders and aimed down the crowd of escapees, firing upon the hall without hesitation. Indistinguishable shouting, shattering glass, echoing gunshots. Teenagers and children crumpled to the floor in dark bloodied heaps.

Desperation and urgency clawed at the uniformed kid’s throat as they clenched their jaw. They were supposed to get the others out—as many of them as they could. What good would it be if they all died before they ever got to the door?

Get them out. Get them out. Get. Them. OUT.

They threw themselves around a corner, the momentum of the movement slamming them into the opposite wall with a pained gasp as they slid across the slick floor. Adrenaline sent them careening to their feet again, looking at the unharmed teenagers in the new hallway, they hoped they’d all catch on as they launched into another sprint. Power itched under their skin, sung in their head until it drowned out the sounds of people dying in the hallway they’d just left.

Blood-spattered gowned teenagers and children staggered into the hallway behind the kid desperate and panicked. The uniformed kid sighed at the sight, their stomach turning at the sound of more gunshots, and they pushed their altered body to its limit. They dug their boots farther into the ground, pushing themselves faster, farther, please. Electricity crackled above them, the fluorescent lights popping with the overcharge before the corridor was thrown into darkness. Surprised shouts echoed behind them as the uniformed kid kept their pace.

Whipping themselves around the last nearly identical corner the kid’s breathing stuttered at the sight of their goal. A blinking electrical panel next to a large industrial loading-dock door beckoned them closer. Come on, faster. You’re almost there. You need to get some of them out.

Click, click, click.

The rhythmic tapping of high heels on the complex’s hard flooring broke through the white noise in the uniformed kids’ head. Shit. Fear froze their limbs, their foot catching on the back of their calf sending them crashing to the floor in a pained mass. They slid until they collided with the far wall with a resounding bang, their spine screaming with the impact.

“I feel,” the Doctor’s honeyed voice called as she slowly sauntered over to the kid, “like you know better, Alter.”

The kid—Alter—whimpered, pulling themselves to their knees, their eyes never raising higher than the woman’s knees. Her heels continued to clack with her leisurely pace down the adjoining hall toward them, her hands in her long, pristine lab coat.

Alter pushed themselves to their shaking feet, the panel not a foot behind them. “Please.” The word was broken, whispering horribly out of their throat with disuse as they twisted, their bruised spine cracking with the effort and they slammed their hand on the lock-panel. “Come on, you bastard, work.”

Electric sparks lit up underneath Alter’s palm, cracking along their fingers as the panel beeped and the door swung open with a screech. The alarm tone echoed through the speakers outside the complex walls and Alter turned, watching as the escapees came rushing toward them. 

They rushed through the doors and Alter watched the tear-stained, blank faces in a blur. Faceless guards continued to fire on them, rifle shots slicing through bodies that crumpled to the ground lifeless in front of Alter. Inhuman. Cruel.

A young olive-skinned girl, no older than twelve holding the hand of an older girl, locked eyes with Alter for a moment as she ran by. Bright blue eyes and matching faint electric veins. A successful experiment. Alter watched as she was pushed out by the older girl leaving Alter there.

They sighed as the last lucky few people escaped through the institute doors and their knees finally gave out. With a metallic thud they hit the ground, a sharp pain shooting up their unaltered left leg.

“Well, now we’re behind schedule,” the Doctor said, coming to a stop next to Alter’s shivering side. Her eyes were fixed on the backs of the dwindling children. 

“I can’t say I’m necessarily surprised, but I must ask: was this really worth it?” she asked, looking down at Alter.

Alter stared down the corridor littered with dead kids and blood pooling along white laboratory floors before slowly lifting their eyes to look up at the Doctor. Cold brown eyes and plastered sickly-sweet smile made their stomach twist nauseatingly, and Alter couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth it.