wrotebymii

[wrotebymii]

I’m coming back with the milk, I PROMISE.

[wrotebymii]

I might add Squid Games to my fandoms I write for. I’ll finish up my drafts before working on new fandom fics but Hyun-ju MY BELOVED RAHHH.

[wrotebymii]

Okay. I’m not feeling great about ‘House Fiend’

I lowkey have a better idea for it that’s a bit more put together than what i originally published. I wished I worked on it before posting it but this new idea honestly feels like I can give you more. Fluff angst the whole nine yards.

So I’ll be unpublishing House Fiend part one soon and re-working on it.

I’m also still working on ‘Maybe it’s me…’!

[wrotebymii]

I need more Chance fics, PLEASE.

Anyways here’s a drawing of him.

[wrotebymii]

HOUSE FIEND | Date Everything gn!Reader

Summary: You are the friend of the Homeowner, they need you to house sit for a month. During the time weird things happen that you hope to ignore.

Warning: Fluff, banter. I named the homeowner ‘Homie’ cause I can’t keep calling them homeowner, Homie befriended everyone, no love plot.

PART TWO | MASTERLIST | READ ME

What you thought of Homie didn’t really matter, you were friends with them and Sam. Though, you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t think they were slightly crazy—since the group chat consisted of them ranting about their…household objects…and their relationship status with each of ‘em.

You’d also be a liar if you said you weren’t at least a little bit curious about ‘Dateviators’ especially now because they asked you to house-sit for them. You stared at the message blankly, not reading the entire paragraph of why they needed to be away from the house for a long period of time—something about making sure they aren’t on their trail about having the glasses…whatever that meant.

You type back “yap alert” then adding “sure”

Then going back to mundane work life, when your manager snapped at you for slacking. Hmm, maybe a month house sitting and working at home would be better.

You wouldn’t say you’re a hermit like Homie, but sitting somewhere that isn’t a cramped cubicle would be a nice new environment. And keep you from the itching that thought in the back of your head to resign.

After a few weeks of preparation and informing your bosses that you’ll be working from home for the time being, you grab your packed backpack and walk up to their home. You’re about to knock on the door with your knuckles but you notice the…rather small door knocker and gently use that instead.

Dorian was apprehensive at first seeing you, readying himself for an obnoxious pound at the door that would escalate to more knocking when Homie didn’t come fast enough, but no. You stopped yourself and used the actual door knocker and waited patiently.

He liked you already, platonically, of course.

Homie opened the door and not so gracefully dragged you inside. They looked paranoid looking you up and down with aviators as if you’re a spy—shaking their head they started explaining. Something about how their parents are finally talking with them again, and blah blah blah.

“I can’t take Sky- Er…the glasses with me cause they’d probably take her back, and these are like my prized possession…” Rightfully ignoring the feminine pronouns for the glasses, cause what? You tease them a bit.

“Good to know your bank will repossess…glasses instead of like? Your car or something to inconvenience you more” From behind you, the curtains hung up on a bronze rod ruffle. Homie glares at it.

“Okay, it seems to me that you need to spend some time out of this house…and…interact with humans” The stairs creak along with the walls—something from the living room shutters.

You don’t notice Homie muttering under their breath “they didn’t mean it like that…”

“Your house makes a lot of noise, huh?” You ask, they guide you around each room, they grab their luggage rushing out the door—waving at things…then turning to me as they’re stepping outside. The door groans as if displeased, causing Homie to sigh.

You ignore it, better for your sanity to place logical reason to it. They grab your hands firmly, then take off the glasses and place them in your palm—like it’s a sacred symbol.

“Take care of the house, I hope you get alo—ugh just be nice, don’t break things…or insult things.” They say with a wave of their hand trying to articulate their wishes best for you.

“Also, feel free to use the glasses…I think they—well maybe not all of them but new faces are nice, I think” They pause pondering the thought comedically. Their statements and backtracking is throwing you through a loop.

“Okay, I don’t have time to explain the glasses, but if you try them I’m sure Skylar is willing to help you—‘kay byyye!!” They skip away nearly tripping on the walkway payment to their car. You laugh which was more like a huff.

You placed a hand on the back of the door to close it but it quickly shuts on its own, and a click locks. You stand there processing the weirdness of that but to convince yourself you mutter.

“Must’ve been the wind…” Look down at the top lock that you knew you didn’t touch.

“…intelligent wind…” You felt a breeze caress your check—not wanting to stay and stare in one place that would likely make you lose it and probably talk to—you don’t know maybe the personification of dread, just spitballing. You take your bag and place it next to the sofa and the glasses on the coffee table. Deciding that you’ll be sleeping there after you plopped down and melted into the cushioning.

You rather not sleep in Homie’s bed after giving great detail about how the Dateviators worked and how most of their home appliances are frisky. They never said that they’ve slept with any of them but you couldn’t get the teasing comments you’d make with Sam about it.

Thus, sleeping on the sofa no matter how many kinks you get in your neck or sore spots you get. Now that you think of it. How many of your friend’s household necessities are sentient? Also, how does that work?

You look at the glasses on the table that felt like they were inching closer to you. If—hypothetically—you were to put them on in your home would it be the same set of people or different? What are the laws of their physics? Is the object their body—or does the glasses make them transform into a mirror person? Or maybe it just takes their consciousness and personifies it instead of the inanimate object—

You groan and log your head back against the couch, bringing a hand up to rub between your eyes.

First day you and you were already thinking of the impossible, becoming your friend.

You need to do something to keep your mind off it.

Maybe writing out some emails will help.

You pretend to not care about how you felt you were being watch but in a weirdly comforting—almost robotic way. Like a person looking out for someone they don’t really know but need to be friendly with.

Weird things have started happening that you refuse to understand or accept in anything other form than a vague logical explanation.

You were working inside the office, they allowed you to use their computer you ignored when they said “they’re friendly”

It ran faster than the company issued one in your cubicle, you were nearly done with a very long chain email to your co-workers when out of the corner of your eye something moved. You didn’t even glance at first thinking it was from the light coming from the windows behind you.

It happened again. You squint at the monitor forcing yourself to stay focused, then again, then—drop.

Something fell, hit the side of the desk making a wobbled thud and onto the rug. You snapped your head to the side, realizing that the red die was missing.

You get up and peer over, seeing it laying on the ground. Rolled onto a 20. You roll your eyes and snicker. Picking it up and placing it back where it was—sitting back in the chair to start typing where you left off only to notice that…it's completely finished.

You scroll through the email—your email and are completely bewildered by the perfect spelling and even creative suggestions for the upcoming events at the office. You slack your head into your palm, mouth agape as you read through it.

Homie did say…the computer was…friendly.

You take a few minutes to think about if you should scrap it or let it be and send it. Sighing with a reluctant hmm.

Mac takes it as a thank you.

You needed a break and a high dose of caffeine…or maybe something from that mini bar you’ve been eyeing—why did Homie even have a mini bar?

Through the walkway and into the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee maker. There were some cute decorative cups by it that you placed on the center of it. Tapping a few buttons and crossing your fingers that you didn’t break it. The air fills with the rich scent of coffee.

As you wait you glance at the cute cat clock on the wall thinking about what you’ll have for dinner soon. As the coffee continues you look around their cabinets and fridge noticing how it’s only junk/fast food minus the few rarities.

The coffee dings. Stopping your search for nutritional value foods. When you took the cup you stopped. The coffee was decorated with a chocolate wafer, a dollop of vanilla cream that spread out into a beautiful design similar to a leaf, and some speckles of caramel.

This was not your typical desperate espresso that the break room had…no…this was art—something you could shed a tear at.

It made you feel guilty taking a sip and ruining the artwork. It was packed with sugar but on everything that you owned—it was the best goddamn drink you’ve ever had. It literally made you moan a “oh shit—“

You slumped your shoulders letting the warm drink fill you, trying to ignore the positive energy that was radiating from the machine. Kopi was happy you enjoyed it. You were too preoccupied with the coffee you nearly trip on your way back to the office.

You look down. Your foot was on the arm of a clothes hanger. Stepping back you look up, eyes wide in confusion. There were multiple hangers hooked onto a vent, cold air flushing out.

You do something you’re not entirely why you considered it: You pick up the hang you accidentally stepped on, dusting it off annnddd…hooking it with the rest of them.

You stare at the hangers feeling stupid.

You question how the hangers got there but that’ll give you a headache. The only thing your dumb human brain comes up with is that there could be a ghost.

And honestly you’d take the ghost over sentient objects.

So, you’ll suck it up and deal with dancing around the fact your friend is in kahoots with their memorabilia and or ghost.

You had finished making dinner with the minimal ingredients that were in the kitchen and ate in peaceful silence before cleaning up.

You are hand washing them because the dishwasher gave you the creeps after you stared at it for a long period of time. You’re at the sink rinsing the plate, on with healed cracks and seams on it like it’s been meticulously fixed with delicate hands.

You wonder if Homie did this.

You smile at the thought. Daisuke smiles at you, appreciating your gentle touch to his dishes.

As you dry the plate and silverware finishing up cleaning. You turn, and there on the center of the table were the glasses…didn’t you put them on the coffee table?

Your brain couldn’t comprehend it—so much so you again choose to ignore it. Slowly walking away while maintaining eye contact with the glasses.

This is going to be a long month.

[wrotebymii]

WROTEBYMII’s MASTERLIST | Braindump hell.

As said in READ ME I am no responsible for the media you consume, but understand that my blog is 18+ I have posts that aren’t suitable for younger ages.

Please, self preservation is more important than any lame blog.

This will update with works of fandoms I’m in along with updates of what im currently working on and future ideas!

KEY= fluff ◡̈ | angst 𖦹 | smut ღ | head-canons ⌗ | TBW ✎ | series 𝄞

ᯓ DATE EVERYTHING

╰➤ MAYBE ITS ME… | Date Everything x gn!reader 𖦹 𝄞

Part One | Two | Three | Four

You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

╰➤ OBJECT WHISPERER | Date Everything x gn!reader ◡̈ ⌗

Before you got your dateaviator you unknowingly had made relationships with the appliances and knickknacks around you home.

╰➤EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x gn!reader ⌗ ◡̈

How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

╰➤ DISH IT OUUUT | Curt ‘n Rod x gn!reader ◡̈

Curt and Rod tease you, so you dish out—not just shade—but playful revenge.

╰➤ WARNING SHOCK | Volt x Eddie x gn!Reader ღ ✎

Eddie and Volt find out you have a voice kink.

╰➤ HOUSE FIEND | Date Everything x gn!reader ◡̈ 𝄞

Part One

You are the friend of the Homeowner, they need you to house sit for a month. During the time weird things happen that you hope to ignore.

ᯓ ARCANE

╰➤ TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Silco x Fem!reader (HIATUS) ◡̈ 𝄞𖦹

SERIES MASTERLIST

Young, dumb, and mostly feral is how some would describe the new underground rebellion group within the shadows of the undercity. You were indifferent to the revolt— in favor of worrying about your own survival, but you morals have seen to shift when you rescue someone in fending off an Enforcer. Morals in support of the birth of Zaun.

ᯓ K-POP DEMON HUNTERS

╰➤

[wrotebymii]

DISH IT OUUT | Curt n’ Rod x gn!reader

Summary: Curt and Rod tease you, so you dish out—not just shade—but playful revenge.

Warning: Fluff, banter. I wrote this for the ones who need help with getting them to like you. They’re the best I love them. Not edited.

MASTERLIST | READ ME

Curt and Rod weren’t the first objects you went to, however, they’re already your favorite.

They have a similar vibe like you and Sam. Throwing shade but within boundaries—It’s an art form really. One that the three of you can appreciate.

They gave you rules that were easy to follow, but you overthink sometimes. You worry that something you say will be taken poorly or won’t land like how you thought it would. You wouldn’t say you're shy, socially awkward? Sure—but you can’t help but want to be validated by the two very confident friends. The stickers of ‘oooo shade’ or ‘got ‘em!’ fill you with pride.

They’ve been teaching you well considering you’ve been covered with said stickers—it’s a bit of a hassle repositioning them on your body and face that the two dark skinned men chuckle at you.

“Yo, you’re racking up more stickers than a kindergartener’s worksheet!” Rod cackled, twirling his tassel in a leisurely manner as Curt nodded along adding on to his friend's comment.

“Yeah, maybe next we’ll give you some ‘job well done’ and ‘you did amazing’ or even those Lisa Frank ones—“ Curt has his hand up, his drip—the flowy blue sleeves ruffle as he does so. The palm of his hand is by his lips as if trying to whisper this diss to Rod, but he talks that above a whisper so you hear it. They both give you a smirk.

You playfully roll your eyes, used to their teasing remarks.

“Least my collection isn’t as big as both your egos…” You don’t think before you say it, you tense and slowly look up at them. They’re looking at you shocked, they look at each other as two very suspicious grins spread on their faces.

“Oooo-they got us, That’s a hit!—“ Curt woes dramatically, a hand landing on his forehead like he’s fainting.

“—yeah! YE-OUCH!” Both Curt and Rod keep their poses still, obviously trying to keep straight faces. Rod clutches his chest with one hand, slyly digs into his pocket with the other. They relish the confused looks you give between them. 

“It hit riiiight…” Rod starts, inching closer to you, as he pressed another sticker on the center of your chest, being pressed against other stickers that were already there. “...there”

You slowly look down to your chest, even though the lettering is upside down you can make out the words, but you still gently take the thing off with your thumb and turn it.

‘Ego blast!!’ With their faces on it.

“Daamn—don’t you think they look good with our faces on ‘em?” Rod nudged his brother-friend in his side, making Curt nod.

“Oh! yeah, they do—it makes their fit better in my opinion.” They continue throwing out shade and back hand compliments. Your face heats up as they take turns teasing you. You glance down at the sticker still on your thumb and look back up.

Hmm, they’re…throwing shade…doesn’t this count for—?

The ‘o’ on your face morphs into a rambunctious expression, eyes squint and a toothless grin spreading across.

You think their shade deserves…a sticker.

Curt and Rod hold onto each other, amping up when a soft press on Curt’s bicep. They pause, mouths agape when you give Curt a ‘ooo…shade’ sticker with their faces on it.

They watch you hum in thought, as you look at the cute design, and just like that they see a light bulb above your head.

“That was worth…what? Fifty more?” As they’re about to protest you quickly jump at Curt, ignoring the gold rings digging into your arms as you hug him. Transfering the stamps onto him.

“Aye! Aye—oh god it’s on the silk!” You can tell by his voice that he’s not actually mad. You pull away, Curt’s arms are spread out looking at every inch of himself and the decals. Rod backs away while cackling at Curt’s misfortune.

“Look at you! Ha! They got you~” Rod points. His friend gives him an unamused look.

“Nah, dude! This ain’t funny—it’s in places I can’t even reach how-“ He’s cut off by Rod's laugh.

“FahahaHA!”

Curt looks at you, no malice but heated and tactical revenge, he joins your side. He puts a hand on his hip, looking smug—as he does with Rod his hand up like he’s gonna gossip with you.

“Hey, ain't he get the same score as me?” He hums in pretend thought.

“Huh?” Rod stops his laughter, immediately. Peering up at the both of you then holding up his hands like he’s trying to tame a fire.

“You know what? He did get the same score!” You chirp.

“No…nuh-uh-nuh UH! Ya can’t gang up on me like this!” He backs up, but it’s too late. Both of you lunge at him, tackling him to the ground.

“Oh-dang man! Got me tripping onto Florence!” He grumbles, mentally apologizing to the woman. He notices that the stamps have been divided between the three of you now.

“There! A true act of narcissism—“ You say, they both roll their eyes, trying to peel the stickers off themselves. Hissing as the adhesive clings to their clothes. At the end of it you can only hope that you embarrassed the two in front of Wyndolyn and those blinds across the street.

As the bear hug ends you sneakily place a new sticker on each other's cheeks. This time it has your face on it with the words ‘Master Class Shade’.

[wrotebymii]

AUTHORS NOTE | Feat. My brain

It’ll be a few before I continue ‘Maybe it’s me…’ story because I have other ideas/drafts I want to complete first! Here’s some of what will be published next when finished.

WARNING SHOCK | Eddie x Volt x gn!reader (Smut)

SHROUD IN DARK | Skips x gn!reader (Headcanons)

DISH IT OUUUT | Curt n’ Rod x gn!reader (Fluff)

Fair warning that these could get scrapped for a different idea but in the mean time these are what I’ll be working on!

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME? … | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: After leaving your house because you can’t handle being hated in your very own home, Sam talks with you while your house becomes quiet…

Warning: minimal angst, honestly it’s a little fluffy with you and Sam. The objects are miserable now. There will be a part three and four!!

PART ONE | MASTERLIST | READ ME

Sam has been the most understanding friend what felt like your only friend she tries her hardest to bring you out of your slump and rationalize while simultaneously making fun of you as to why your relationships within your home have a burning hate for you.

She’s pointing fun yet logical, allowing you to rant about what you did and where you possibly went wrong with each. She sat across from you, leaned forward with her elbows on her knees in full concentration. You were sat back practically melting into the furniture that didn’t despise you, moving a hand around to exaggerate your speech with the other stuffing your face with food like you haven’t eaten in weeks. Lowkey, you haven’t.

“When I talked to Hoove, being nice and supportive while telling him not to work too hard—I thought I was being sweet ya’know—“ You stuff your face and swallow.

“—but apparently NOT?? He got angry with me, when I tried backtracking and apologize which crazy by the way he said he HATED ME?!” You shout, you can feel your face heat in anger at the thought before tears well up.

“Or how I tried to speak with Daisuke—“

“Who’s that one?”

“Oh my tableware, he’s like tall about yay-high with black hair a portion of it in a bun with like dishware themed robes…I heard from others in rhe kitchen that he’s into taking things seriously” You explain with a wave of the hand.

“I actually…heh I thought that we’d get along, he likes taking care of the dishes and even tries to fix them if they crack due to me but that’s not the point I too like fixing things, I want to fix things…but I guess unlike him or fake it till you make it like Tony…I just make it worse…”

“I…I just wanted to be friends or the I don’t know? Date? The whole reason of the damn glasses.” You mutter, you push the snacks away and use a napkin to clean yourself.

Dating them, any of them wasn’t the main goal. Sure it’s interesting but realizing the things around your home have their own lives in the house was so cool!

Being a hermit, a homebody it felt like a this was a way to help you as well, to get better with being social and maybe let you learn that the outside wasn’t so scary and not everything was out to get you.

But, you messed it up—perhaps you tried too hard, pushed too much, didn’t push enough, didn’t flirt when needed to, too flirty for some, or didn’t have enough specs for the correct dialogue and it came out lame. Now, you’re both miserable in the house and out of it.

Sam was trying, really was. As you spoke she’d occasionally glance around her apartment as if the ranting was making her paranoid about her house. Sighing she runs her hand down her face. She should’ve said something about the weird black stuff in that bathroom, maybe it was the fumes getting to you, but she shook her head.

“What else happened?…”

“The breaking point?”

“Yeah, what made you take off the glasses?”She asks, you groan, slumping back and wiping away a few stray tears as you remembered.

“I was going to the Breaker Box Club, ‘cause Eddie and Volt were still nice-ish from our previous conversations—I hadn’t talked to them in a bit by then cause I was trying to salvage whatever was going on between Harper the hamper and Dirk dirty clothes. I wanted to catch up and help Eddie with some of his work like last time.” You shift in your seat uncomfortably.

“When I entered it was packed, I was happy for them that their business was getting bigger but I knew it was gonna be a lot to take on so I went to find one of them to offer help…”

“…you try and help a lot…”

“I do, it’s…the only thing I can give to them—“ you stop yourself, continuing the story of the night prior.

“But, I knew I wasn’t welcomed. Everyone avoided me, whispering around like I was back in school. Again, Volt saw me. I remember waving at him as he walked over way too quickly. We talked as he pushed me along the way I came from, when I noticed I was confused and…worried I lost another person again…” You take in a deep breath.

“I did…the gossip around the club didn’t go unnoticed by the owners he wanted to get rid of me so it didn’t disturb the customers. I tried talking to him saying that I wasn’t a bad…person…” You don’t sound convinced yourself by that statement.

“He wasn’t having it, his…skin almost turned this light blue? His hand gripped my arm to drag my away from the prying eyes, it hurt…not to make him anymore mad I let him, throw me out…” Voice trailing off, Sam looks stunned, like this was the most juiciest soap opera ever.

“You got kicked out of your own break box—“

“YES, I GOT KICK OUT” you yelled but not at Sam, yelling at the absurd thought of being thrown out of your own break box.

“Crazy…” She elongates the ‘zy’ in the word, unsure how to handle the rest of this.

“Do you think there’s a way to start over with them? All of them I mean?”

The sun was setting, making the silence seem light and comforting. You’re tired, and don’t know where to tread next, so many ideas run in your mind that you—wait…

There might be a very dubious way to get your life back to normal. The thought felt terrible, too personal and guilty, but you don’t seem to have any other option. At least not right now. So, you’ll pin the idea with Keith in the back of your mind. And let it fester or wilt as you and Sam brainstorm together.

Back at the house.

The ones that cheered for your leave are quiet, basking in the dullness of the house. Sure they can talk to one another but…that’s uneventful. The house is missing apart of itself the part of you. The human part. The fragile, unpredictable, unproductive, and lonely ways of you has gone missed.

But everyone refuses to say it out loud. They’re all still bitter and angry with how you treated them—wait…why exactly are they all mad? Some can’t remember but feel justified, although, looking back they just remember you trying. No.

No. You hurt them. They think…

…

…

Okay—well they aren’t sure…not anymore.

The lights are off because there’s no need to see, the sinks and baths don’t run because there’s no one to draw it for, the wall creaks and settles sadly, coffee pot remains unused along with the beauty products, television, books, sofa, stove—all of it. All of them are…completely bored?

Maybe, making your life inconvenienced and almost down right harassed in your day to day life after you stopped interacting with them wasn’t the right way to express their anger. A day turned to four then a week then two weeks.

Dorian can feel the worry in every room about when you’ll return, he huffs. Bedroom Dorian stands still, looking up at the ceiling then down to the floor, watching Florence quickly scramble around her time book with all the new complaints and meetings for Celia.

He reluctantly…steps forward. Away from his position to stand right in front of the poor woman. He rather be doing his job, the thing he thinks so highly of. However, he too is miserable more miserable than laundry room closet Dorian because what is his purpose now that the one who he open and closes for…is gone?

But he’s convinced himself that speaking with Celia will help.

Or so he hopes.

Taglist:

@hhhhthththrd

@diablosinners

@4rt3m1y

@stargazer0x0

@apearlyheart

@airyravenmaid

@writing-munchies

@suck-me-sideways-blog

@trixie541

@redjeanjacket

@xxxshadowl0rd420xxx

@animeweeb99

[wrotebymii]

EVERYTHING HAS A PLACE | Date Everything x Autistic!gn!reader

Summary: How life is with the objects and their autistic homeowner.

Warnings: Fluffy, minimal angst, reader doesn’t know their household necessities are sentient at first, I’m autistic but low-functioning so a lot of what I wrote is how I go about my day/how I act. Not edited. Reader is also slightly demi-romantic coded.

Lost the plot a few paragraphs in I’m sorry I’m sleep deprived.

MASTERLIST | READ ME

Timothy, Penelope, and You are like three peas in a pod. Using each keeps you relatively relaxed for the upcoming day or eventual break in your neatly put together schedule—which gets increasingly difficult to think about when said break comes.

Sorry, Sam, but your hang session is place obscurely in our data monthly pin board since it’s pushing too close to workout and the everything shower. —Signed Penelope

They all try to accommodate your needs; Kopi making the coffee the exact same every time, Freddy keeping the fridge nice and cool so your comfort foods don’t spoil just yet, Teddy being found under your bed when you’re having a difficult time regulating, even Lux and Barry collaborating reluctantly together to find the perfect hand lotion that doesn’t give you sensory headaches.

Everyone thinks you’re charming, not in an infantilizing way. Every single person adores you but with respect and understanding.

Most of them love that you have a routine you stick by, it’s easy to remember and gives them chill periods in between. Its a nice break because they too can get tired, so when there’s a detour in the schedule that wasn’t place advanced. They worry.

Koa and Mateo would immediately be there with you, letting you curl in the comfort of your bedding and focus on yourself. While Telly puts on a rerun of your favorite show.

But this time it’s different. An immediate change in your entire routine when you got the Dateviators. Forcing yourself to ignore the urge to clean the broken glass of your door window because a drone had so rudely forced the box in. You picked them up, they were cute a little tacky but cute nevertheless. Internally, you were still freaked out that an unknown person knew your address and sent you a pair of sungla— holy shit.

You put them on and you’re not sure how it happened but there was a very beautiful smiling pinked haired stranger standing a few feet away from you. She was practically buzzing in excitement as she explained what was happening. Causing you to…

Quickly take the glasses off and pace.

You couldn’t believe it, almost didn’t want to believe it. Within the comforts of your own home every object, appliance, knicknacks, and the literal embodiment of concepts are all sentient. It made you feel all types of ways wrong that you quickly took laps around the house before collapsing on the floor of your living room.

…this could be a good thing? You mean…it could help with your social skill and facial recognition. Hell, maybe you’ll get a friend out of this?

Slowly you put them back on, your world being brightly lit up by rose tinted specs. It hurts your eyes. Though, Skylar shows up again, looking down at you with a strained smile and wave. Easying you up without touching you to your feet and continuing what she was saying. Before another bomb shell hit you.

Dateviators…dateables

The whole point of these glasses was to date multiple of your household items which freaked you out more. However, you were truly thankful that you met Dorian first. His announcement that friendship was also an option made it less daunting on you.

Thus began the 102 way to get everything to be friends with you!

Sure, the first few days was stressful and near exhausting but long talks with Timothy and Pen helped greatly. They helped with creating an entirely new schedule color coded as well that allowed time for your humanly needs and getting to know everyone.

Jerry and You got along great, earning his friendship fast when you told him to up-cycle.

Lux was easy to hate, but with your inability to know when you’re being insulted you became their unlikely friend they hurt your eyes.

Teddy was amazing, you were little embarrassed that he knows deeply about your breakdowns but the silly advice and stories made it go away.

Barry is probably your best friend, you help him with his memory by saying he can use things he’s interested in to aid him in keeping track of things.

Chance is your second bestie, nearly tackling him in feral hyper fixation so you could yap his ear off about the game you both like. He’s the most likely to fall for you. Besides Wallace.

However, the best place is Break Box Club, but only when it’s after hours. You can only sit through terrible act before you want to put cotton in your ears. The club is soothing at closing, lights dimmer Volt and Eddie do that just for you and you get to drink a lot of mocktails Eddie teases you.

You do your share, of course. Not wanting to free load off the two. You have knowledge on the breaker box because you were frantically cleaning one day and found the manual which you spent the next hour reading through and forgot the cleaning which you regretted later.

Currently, you’re seated at the bar working on a project you and Jerry are doing while chatting to Eddie about a new dateable, questioning the person initial reaction to you. Volt was to your right.

“They were flirting…” He said, cleaning a glass with a shake of his head. The corner of his lips turning up. You give him a once over and hum in thought.

“Nah” You say flatly, not believing it.

“The hell you mean nah?” He raised an amused brow. You shrug and sit up straight, gathering your words.

“They seemed…rude? And pushy” You concluded.

“That doesn’t mean they weren’t…” Eddie pauses and places the glass down, rubbing between his eyes like he has a headache.

“Sometimes…insults can be meant in different ways, live wire.” Volt says, chuckling. They aren’t teasing you for your like of awareness but amused by the conversation overall.

“But, that’s not how it’s like in Betty’s books” You say, maintaining strict eye contact with Eddies hands as the wipe down the counter. Enjoying the rhythmic nature of it.

“How was it shown in these books?” Volt asks with more interest.

“Flashy, and oddly poetic. Like you’d sing a ballad if you saw your lover in front of you” You say remembering the way Betty gasp and sigh wishfully when she read it out loud. You thought it was pretty, and by definition romantic, but not something you think you’d like.

“Ah of course, lovey-dovey shit…” Eddie mumbles, he leans on the bar his hands on the counter supporting his weight. Volt hums.

“Betty is the overtly romantic type.” Volt looks at you, multitasking on the project and the conversation.

“-what about you?”

“Huh?”

“What is your romance like, your love language?”

“You don’t have to answer, tap your fingers twice if you want me to stop him” Eddie teases, his voice drowning out with Volts as they banter back and forth.

What is your romance like? Love language? You aren’t sure, but you know you like foundation a connection to someone. Similarities but not too many.

“I think I like just being near someone…we don’t have uh-don’t have to speak or do anything but just be there in each other presence, I enjoy that. Looking up and seeing that they’re there and I get to be there with them…” The room is silence, it’s not awkward but settle.

Then it’s broken.

“I enjoy the firey and beautiful passi-“

“You ruined it” Eddie huffs.

“Oh-ho I did not, I’m merely adding onto-“ Volt defends himself, electricity tingling over his arms—the zapping noise of it pleases you.

You giggle as they continue, adding the last bit to the Jerry project. Watching as Eddie and Volt blabber on as Eddie begins to walk away from the conversation to go on and do workaholic things.

You might not fully understand where you are in romantic relationships but you’ll take anything if it meant being in the presence of any object within this house. If they’re flirty, hateful, passive, aloof.

You don’t mind, being around them is enough for you.

[wrotebymii]

MAYBE ITS ME?… | Date Everything x gn!reader

Summary: You aren’t sure why but almost every dateable hates you and you’re starting to wonder if you’re the problem.

Warning: I’m a little sad due to my seasonal depression so you get this! Angst, social anxiety, socially awkward, very self deprecating Doug is working over time. Not edited.

PART TWO | MASTERLIST | READ ME

It’s driving you and all the objects in your home up the wall. You aren’t sure why but almost everyone hates you.

Everyone from Lux, and Rebel to Rainey, Betty, Dunk, Hoove, Kopi, Keyes, hell even Celia can’t look you in the eye due to the overwhelming complaints she’s been getting!

The nail in the coffin was getting thrown out of the Breaker Box club, you still can feel the shock in your arm when Volt grabbed you out the door. You were shaking and starring wide eyed at the breaker closet that Doug surely would’ve appeared if Reggie didn’t.

You couldn’t hear him, lost in your own thoughts when you cut off his passive aggressive pity party for you by…taking the dateviators off.

It still had charge left but you felt so tired. You don’t know what you were doing wrong, maybe you came off too strong or said something that was hurtful despite you just trying to fit in. Similar to what Tony said in his workshops.

Changed to fit what you thought they’d want in love or even friendship. Though, it doesn’t matter now cause almost all of your household objects hate your guts.

You curled in your spot, head tucked in your knees with your eyes peering over to stare at the glasses you held by the frame with your pointer and thumb tipping it up and down.

Maybe the hacker guy that gave you these would take them back, or maybe you can return them to David without getting accused and arrested by the government?

You just know one thing…

You don’t want to put them back on.

You tried to got back to your mundane life before realizing that everything around you is alive. But it started to make you paranoid and self conscious. Like you couldn’t live in your comfort space anymore.

You swore to Sam that the water was hot one second then cold then hot again, the coffee didn’t taste as good, you tripping on air, zapping yourself when you plugged a charger in, the food going spoiled even though you got it a day ago, the piano playing loud keys randomly, your white clothes getting stained right out of the wash, and now your comfort blanket wasn’t feeling so comforting.

You’ve had it.

One night you were laidback on the now springy uncomfortable bed, venting to Sam about how you need to get out of the house—she offered you her place for the time being. Understanding about your weird struggling relationships.

However. Out of all the people you’ve made hate you, one still remained the same throughout it all and never inconvenienced you.

Dorian. His friendship status didn’t waver at any moment of your—very fast—conversations. He found you rather interesting…respectable. When you met the firt time with Skylar he knew you’d try to get along with everyone, knew how you’d change yourself even to get everyone to like you. You were kind, thoughtful, and a little pathetic but in a charming way.

Currently, he thinks he needs to initiate the conversation this time.

You were shuffling through Dirk clothes when you heard Sam’s car honk outside. Quickly you stuff your luggage with things you knew weren’t sentient and rushed downstairs and opened the door.

Or well…tried too. Each time you turn the top lock then the bottom it shuts again. With a frustrate groan you knock your head on the front of the door, a hand still on the knob.

“Open, Dorian…” You whisper, you mind reeling in the fact that you might’ve made even Dorian upset with you. You try to open it. You curse loudly when he it doesn’t budge

You turn on your heel, leaving the luggage there as you head to your office, opening the junk drawer Jerry and searching for those fucking glasses. It was in the far back with a little dust on them. You put them on, walking pass Skylar trying to warily greet you and straight to Dorian at the front door.

He’s in his typical pose. Arms folded and chest pushed up with a ‘taking no shits’ expression. It reminds you of a conversation you had with him where you said he’d make a great bodyguard or bouncer if he were human. He had cracked a tiny smile and said that just being a door for this house was enough.

“Dorian-“

“Don’ say nothing. Let me speak.” He says, you tsk and roll you eyes but don’t say anything else.

“I don’ think you running away from your home is a good idea fro-“ You wave a hand stopping him.

“They all hate me”

“Not all-“

“Then they likely will” You voice is stern, but there’s a sadness laced in the words. He doesn’t respond to that letting you rant.

“I’m over feeling like trash in my own damn house. I need to leave, so open!” You yell, you don’t care if you’re being watched by Sam from outside or anyone from the living room.

“It’s dangerous out ther-“

“It’s better than here.” There’s a long pause.

“You’know…” Dorian starts as you’re about to take off the glasses, you glance at him. “If it means an’thing—I think we’re still friends.”

The confession makes you want to sob but you grit your teeth, look ahead at Sam’s vehicle.

“Respectfully, Dorian…I wish I never got these glasses…”

Your words stung but he doesn’t show it. You know being angry with him will likely end the same as it did with everyone else, but he remains still for a moment longer then steps aside. Letting you leave.

You toss the dateviator somewhere and walk away. Dorian closes, staring blankly at the glasses that landed in the middle of the walkway. He ignores the whispering in every room—some confusion, some even cheering

He huffs bitterly, arms still crossed and up against his chest. Dorian is ever in balance and composed, he takes his job serious and to not let any detractions get to him. However, this situation is getting out of hand even for him. He’ll have to get an appointment with Mayor Celia layer, but for now he regains his position and awaits your arrival.

How ever long that would be.

[wrotebymii]

OBJECT WHISPERER | Date Everything x gn!Reader

Summary: Before you got your dateaviator you unknowingly had made relationships with the appliances and knickknacks around you home.

Warning: Fluff, Spoilers for certain characters? This wasn’t edited, came straight from my head to my notes app.

MASTERLIST | READ ME

Before you got your dateviator and realized that you could date literally anything within your house. You unknowingly had built relationships with your appliances and knickknacks around your home. Solely because you’re a lonely person and tend to talk to yourself and random things around you.

Some of the things you used to do is apologize. Mainly to Dorian or Wallace every time you accidentally shoulder-check them because your depth perception is tarnished by being with Mac and Phonenicia all day for ‘work’ related things (you’re reading fanfics).

Whispering an ‘ow’ rubbing your shoulder and absentmindedly apologizing then going about your day. Wallace would sigh ‘wall…’ dreamily while Dorian would grunt but respect you a bit more as he watches you do the same thing and stub your toe on Abel, letting out curses and another wheeze of ‘sorry…’ before stumbling away.

Sometimes you and an object get into a scuffle and both of you become moody. Like you pleading with Connie to work, not so seriously threatening Dante when you burn yourself, yelling at yourself and Mac because a document didn’t save, or muttering curses as you try and find a pair of socks in Harper/Dirk.

But every relationship has their moments, but you try and everyone else does too. You do a lot like how you help fix them, albeit haphazardly, but the thought is there! You’d replace Lux’s light bulbs with one that has them shine brighter than ever. Fixed Phoenicia when you fell and cracked her screen which was expensive. Replace fuses for Eddie and Volt. You even helped the Hanks when they did they’re extreme sports (sponsored by Red Bowls) and Hank two got hurt!

You noticed that one of the hangers was cracked and went to Jerry and got a dog themed washi tape, you wrapped it around the crack nicely like he was good as new—the Hanks thought the tape looked rad and they all signed the cast with various ‘Hank was here’.

But the moment where (mostly) everyone collectively liked you was when you defended them. Your mother came over. It was a decent visit—but then your mom started walking around criticizing every object that brought you joy, you didn’t back down from justifying their existence and why you kept them around. It made them all feel loved.

Everyone has some sense of appreciation, respect, or even longing for you. Most of them, of course, thought you were slightly insane or just extremely lonely and in need of some sort of connection due to you talking to them when you're bored but honestly? They wouldn’t have it any other way.

[wrotebymii]

TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Chapter One-Persistence; When a coward turns hero.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

A/N; I don’t do taglists, sorry. I also want to thank my friend for supporting my writing, proofreading, and character creation of Wynn. Love you, bro.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | MASTERLIST

Undercity is considered an industrial stain nestled beneath the grand city of Piltover.

With air that hangs heavy, and its people feral. Towering smokestacks belch black smoke into the already smog sky, casting long shadows over the cramped alleyways and buildings. The streets are strewn with discarded scrap metal, chemical waste, and other debris of the relentless production that drives the Undercity's economy. 

The warm green glow of the gas lamps casts an eerie, shimmering light over the buzzing market stalls and their wares. Cautious eyes dart about, gripping the crate tightly, as your knuckles white with tension. You trudge through the damp, uneven cobblestone path. Your heavy boots thud, but the market muffles the sound. Wynn strides ahead of you, his boysenberry hair reflecting the green making his hair almost black.

Both of you carry large, sloshing crates of alcohol that clink and bounce with each jostle from the crowded lane. Your tattered cloak draped your form, the hood pulled low to fight against the season's coldness and obscure your face from the lingering enforcers.

You instinctively glance at the enforcers standing near a stall, their voices raised in angry conversation with the stall’s owner, who appears equally irritated. They are likely issuing citations for illegal imports or contraband. Detailed by the other armored man holding up a list and pointing at the merchandise. However, when the vendor suddenly shoves one of them, you quickly avert your gaze, choosing to ignore the escalating commotion and focus on navigating the crowded marketplace.

Fighting wasn’t something you could do against the enforcers unless you’d want a hefty prison sentence or killed. So, you allow them to conduct their inspections and searches, gritting your teeth if their hands linger on your body for far too long.

You did dream of something better, a fictional land where all is peace and harmony, but that's wishful thinking. Life gave the Undercity people the short end of the stick, so now all you want is to keep your life, provide some aid to wanders, and of course keep the tavern: The Last Drop. Afloat.

Some vendors attempt to grab your attention, but you politely shake your head. Keep your eyes trained on Wynn who glides through the people with ease. You stumble and slip between people straining to keep up with your friend. Cursing under your breath at the fact that you could’ve gotten your supply runner to fetch the cargo, but no. Coins have been getting slimmer and slimmer at the drop. One of the many reasons why your resentment, once directed at the enforcers, began to shift towards the rebels who fought against them. While their cause was just, their tactics often made life even harder for the ordinary citizens of the Undercity. Strikes, protests, and their thievery disrupted supply lines which left families and businesses like yours struggling to make ends meet. Of course, this is only rooted in fear. 

Fear of losing more.

The mines that delve deep into Runeterra. Extracting precious minerals to fuel the insatiable demand. Workers in harsh conditions, their health and safety were often sacrificed for the sake of profit. Stark contrasts the cutting-edge innovation of Piltover ‘coexisting’ with the rampant corruption and exploitation they cause the city below them.

Down in the fissures, where deep cracks in the earth have split open, a treacherous underground network of tunnels and caverns caused by the relentless mining and drilling operations. Was bustling with the activity of workers, faces smeared with grime.

You and your father worked in those mines, and many families did. Your life narrowed down to one moment. A vivid horrible memory. You knew you should’ve put up a fight, and struggled against the enforcers alongside the others. When the tears finally spilled over, streaming down your face in hot, bitter rivulets. You couldn’t help but cower. You remember his body and the way the world seemed to tilt and spin around you.

When you pushed yourself up, letting go of a rusty pickaxe. A strong arm shoved you roughly back to the ground. It sent shockwaves through your malnourished body. Your coal-covered glove scraped against the unforgiving, rocky ground as you trembled uncontrollably, shaking like a frightened animal.

A cacophony of screams and desperate cries pierced everyone's ears like shards of glass. Through ‘The Gray’ smog you saw people–workers–were fighting against the enforcers with a fury born of desperation, their voices raw as they tried to reach your father, who was knelt on the ground, clutching the back of his head. Blood, vivid red against the rocks, drips steadily from his fingers, staining the earth beneath him. A macabre work of art. The sight of it sears itself into your mind, something you still see to this day.

Your wide eyes locked onto your father, drinking in every detail of his face, committing it to memory, as the screams and shouts faded into a distant, muffled hum.

He met your gaze, his expression was steady and calm despite the chaos that raged around you. He's trying so hard not to look frightened, putting on a brave face for your sake. He gulped, and in that tiny gesture, you saw the truth of his fear reflected in his eyes. But there's something else there too, a silent message of love and reassurance that told you that everything will be okay, that he'll protect you no matter what happens to him. 

But the man behind him, the one through the smog, the one who raises his gun high above his shoulder–tells a different story. The gun glints harshly reflecting off the gold on the enforcer. Quick to get to your knees, a firm kick sends you forward along with a harsh boot on your back keeps you in place. You cried out at the pressure, as you squirmed to get closer to your father. 

It's a swift blow, brutally efficient in its execution. The butt of the gun connected with the back of his head with a nauseating crack, and he crumpled to the ground. He fell face-first onto the unforgiving rocks. His body would twitch, but the last sliver of life drained away in an instant. You barely heard the final, choked-off words that he never got to finish. His last confession of "I love you" was stolen away by the cruel hand of fate.

Your breathing gets heavy when you remember, each intact a painful reminder of the life that still flows through your veins, even as everything else feels cold and numb. You shakily grip the case. It takes a special kind of strength, and true courage to stand up despite others bringing you down, to crush your hopes and dreams beneath the weight of their fears and insecurities.

You're not sure what you believe in anymore. That day the foundations of your world were shaken when the very ground beneath your feet shifted and crumbled, leaving you feeling lost and adrift in a sea of uncertainty before you were taken by the hand and brought up to a raft. You’ll always be grateful to Wynn. Though, all you know is that life is rather unfair, especially in the Undercity, and all you want to do is survive. Is that selfish? 

Perhaps you are one of those pushovers.

You were too lost in thought when you got pushed to the side, sending you to your left, and letting go of the crate to catch your fall, gritting your teeth you look up but notice it’s those same enforcers now carrying off that vendor's supplies. The one that shoulder checks you, gives you a look, and even with its helmet on you can tell that they’re testing your reaction. You look down at your crate. It’s open and bottles–thankfully not broken–have rolled out.

Maybe you've always been that way, content to let others make the decisions, to follow the path of least resistance rather than forging your way forward. But with the aftermath of your father's lifeless body that laid before you and the weight of powerlessness bearing down on your shoulders, you can't help but wonder if there isn't more to you than that.

Maybe, deep down, buried beneath the layers of fear and self-doubt, there is a spark of courage waiting to be ignited, a flicker of determination that just needs the right circumstances to flare into life.

You carefully lift each bottle to the crate, ensuring they are securely packed. Reaching for a bottle of scotch, your hand accidentally brushes against its neighbor, sending the bottle rolling away. It clicks and clanks across the cobblestone path before disappearing into the shadows of a nearby alley.

You pause, considering whether to retrieve the wayward bottle, but the risk of Wynn ringing your neck for wasting good money has you sighing. A broke bitch during inflation is someone you don’t want to mess with. You continue to pack the remaining bottles and get back to your feet, crate in arms.

No one notices you entering the alley, with your head hanging low. 

The ground is littered with discarded metal scraps, used needles, and unidentifiable substances. Peering from beneath your hood, you scan the area for any sign of the missing bottle, but your search becomes useless. Instead, you hear labored breathing and pained grunts from further down the narrow way. 

Your breath catches in your throat as you take in the scene before you. The glint of gold and blue uniforms mingles with the tattered red of the man's clothing. The sight is all too familiar. The enforcers’ figures huff up and down, laughing at each other in cruel satisfaction as they rain down blows on the man. Their boots connected with sickening thuds against his bloodied body. You can’t tear your eyes away from them. 

The right circumstance is all someone needs.

“Look at you, pathetic like the rest of those revolutionaries. You’re nothing but a filthy rat scurrying in the gutters and trash of refined people.” One of them coo, tilting their head at the body, you step closer.

You should move on, and let them take this man’s life if need be, so you can slip by unnoticed. It would be far more understandable than helping someone out of the kindness of your heart, but you have never felt such a surge of emotion before. The impending doom that bloomed in your gut yelling in your ear with a booming voice telling you that if you didn’t help this man you’d truly be the vermin that topside thinks you are. You can’t explain it to yourself, all your bitter-laced words and morals clashed when you heard them throwing those humiliating remarks. 

The right circumstance is all she needed.

The enforcers continue to beat him. You don’t think very much, the few thoughts that pass your mind are typically about personal survival, so thinking about beating these men into a pulp like they are with your fellow scum has you dropping the crate and racing towards them. Your heart is in your ears, bile backing up in your throat, as your coat flies off you. The knife you grip sinks into the nearest Piltie. Into their exposed armor between the helmet and chest plate. An honest, lucky blow to the neck.

He yelps, stopping his assault to cradle the wound that spurts blood between his gloved fingers. He staggers away as the other enforcer finally grasps the situation. With your dagger in the side of the other guy's neck, you quickly skimmed around the alley looking for a possible weapon, you spotted the bottle but you weren’t quick enough. The intact enforcer rushed at you and slammed you against the brick wall of a building. Your head hits it roughly dazing you. Your windpipe closes up when the enforcer pushes your throat with his forearm. His metal suit cuffs dig into your skin. You're frantic now. 

Shit–you didn’t think this through. Death was now a concrete possibility, and dying next to the man you tried so hard to save felt like the greatest irony. The pain shooting through your neck grew unbearable, causing tears to well up and cascade down your cheeks, despite the insults being thrown your way.

On this final night alive, you admit to yourself that you might have cared about the revolution after all. Your body was lifted off the ground, dangling up near this blue and gold-clad man. Both of your hands grip his gloves, trying to cause any damage by digging your nails into him. More tears roll. You weren’t crying because your own life was flashing before your eyes, but because you couldn’t save a symbol. A figure of hope.

The enforcer that you stabbed lays slumped against a gross dumpster, his hand weakly clawing at the stab wound in his neck. Crimson blood seeped through his armor, staining it a dark, glistening red. He twitched and spasmed as blood continued to spurt from the exposed injury. Despite everything a pang of guilt flickered in your chest. You had never taken a life before. Your gaze drifted to his neck, and realization dawned on you–your dagger was missing. As you slipped in and out of consciousness, the grip on your neck loosened.

The enforcer collapsed on top of you, pinning you beneath his weight as he sank to the ground his body took you with it. You coughed and gasped, and with a wave of nausea rising in your throat and bobbing pain around it you pushed the body off you. Looking up, you met the gaze of the man you had ‘saved’. He was huffing heavily, his eyes wide and wild mixed with shock on his pale face. 

Drenched in blood, sweat, and sporting bruises all over. His long hair clings to his face, some falling out of the low ponytail. His dark red tunic under a dirty gray cut-off vest. His body quivering on the brink of exhaustion. His gaze was glossy, only fueled by the last dose of adrenaline. With a final stumble, he crumpled to the ground. The knife in hand slipped away as he fell. You stare. Watching him lay defenseless, a newfound courage stirred within you, and for once in your life you know your stance. Now not cowering and licking the boots of those higher than you. You own up to the consequences, yet you still tremble. Your chest rose and fell with the rhythm of your heightened adrenaline as the footsteps of additional enforcers echoed.

You crawl to him, lowering yourself to his chest, and pray you still hear a heartbeat, and you do, it’s faint. Now kneeling, you carefully hoist his right arm over your shoulder, providing support for him to lean on. He was heavy, but his weight wasn’t overwhelming, allowing you to walk slowly with him. It was clear that he needed medical attention, and so did you. You can feel the cold blood dripping down the back of your head and the tight, painful bruise forming around your neck. You aren’t some hero, a normal citizen in a position of life and death—you’ll never become a foundation of hope in your city like in your childhood. 

And she never does. 

Your experience as a kid had given you an edge, as you used to steal from stalls and run away as they tried to chase you. Now, at the age of twenty, you thank your young self for your knowledge of the best shortcuts. It comes in handy when you hide with the unconscious man by your side, evading the enforcers who finally notice their dead brothers. From around the corner, you watch a group of them trek down the main street. You make your dash to the other side, going unnoticed.

“I got you, we’re almost there” Your voice croaks, not sure if you are trying to reassure the blacked-out man or yourself, probably the latter. There's a sign, not from Janna, but from The Last Drop. Dipping into the alley next to the tavern you head around back. Your arm that is wrapped around his slim torso is drying with his blood. More blood pools on your shoulder from his broken nose. You have to prop him up on the wall to open the cellar doors, and you both descend. 

Storage racks and unopened boxes flitter the basement. However, in the corner is a cot and stool. It’s the small medical area that you would use to aid people, usually, it was for small wounds like someone with a busted lip because they got into a fight in the bar.

So, with an injured rebel who hangs on your shoulder, you are well below practice. You manage to push the battered man off you and onto the cot. He slumps halfway off the bed, so you gently roll him back, carefully lifting his legs one by one to fully position him on the cot. Your hands tremble slightly as you work, the adrenaline running thin. 

You run a hand over your hair, feeling the back of your skull. As you bring your hand back to your eyes, you’re met with deep red staining your fingers. Your wound hits you, and you finally grasp the pounding headache you have. You slowly sit on the stool beside the cot.

“Shit” You mutter, your voice barely above a whisper, despite your possible concussion your priority is the very wanted rebel to your left. Take a deep breath to steady yourself and assess him.

His chest heaves in sparse, and uneven breaths through his busted nose. He’s still grasping onto the little energy his body has left to give. You rub up the bridge of your nose. The gravity of harboring a wanted revolutionary is not lost on you. Though at this moment, all that matters is saving his life, and not falling over while doing it. 

You lean onto your elbows while sitting, glancing at the empty bucket and washcloth, getting ready to work.

[wrotebymii]

Til’ We Meet Again | SERIES MASTERLIST

Series Summary; Silco tells a new story to a curious Jinx.

Pairing; Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Summary; Young, dumb, and mostly feral is how some would describe the new underground rebellion group within the shadows of the undercity. You were indifferent to the revolt— in favor of worrying about your own survival, but you morals have seen to shift when you rescue someone in fending off an Enforcer. Morals in support of the birth of Zaun.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

PROLOGUE - Reminiscing

CHAPTER I - Persistence

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

Special thanks to; my two friends for supporting me and helping with proofreading + character creation of Wynn. Love you guys.

[wrotebymii]

TIL’ WE MEET AGAIN | Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

Series Summary; Silco tells a new story to a curious Jinx.

Warnings; Angst, pre-canon, hurt/comfort, Zaunites, Piltians, revolution, violence, blood, gore, drinking, smoking, gambling, swearing, sex, brothels, drugs, slow burn, the reader is a coward at first, original character (Wynn), strangers to lovers, bittersweet, Old Silco being weirdly sentimental, Jinx being noisy, and major character death.

PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER | MASTERLIST

Silco's office door closes when Sevika takes her leave, his dual eyes stare indifferently into the wooden entrance.

Briefly resting his face on his hand so he can rub at his cheek bone. He flickers his irritation to the paper in front of him, reading through the documents neatly arranged on his desk. Flipping through it–His lengthy fingers daintaly holding up each page before letting them fall back in place.

Through habit he moves his chair to the left of the desk, opening up the middle drawer, taking out a small compact box, shutting the thing closed and placing the wooden box on the side of the desk, aiming to not dirty the papers. He opens the humidor, four expensive cigars lay neatly inside. Taking one of the sticks and the straight cutters, he fixes the cigar between his fingers and brings the sheers to the front and slides the stick in between the blades, and shuts the guillotine. 

SNAP!

He rolls back and turns the chair to face the large window, so that the green light that pours into the room which not only illuminates the furniture, but the kingpin as well–highlighting his features. His good eye blends with the light, the seafoam green melting away a stark contrast from the damaged one. The green clashes against the bright angry orange, the toxic waters of the Undercity fully displayed on the left of his face, the hard horrors of his youth.

Finally, he slips his hand into his vest. His delicate fingers glided over the finely knitted fabric of his striped burgundy shirt before delving into the soft contours of the breast pocket. With a practiced motion, his digits deftly retrieve a small, rectangular item. Something cold to the touch against his fingertips, the metal texture bumpy and slightly damaged. 

It's a lighter. Gray and metallic with a fancy lace eloping it–vines and roses, perfectly crafted to be comfortable to hold while simultaneously being bold and beautiful even with scratches and dents along the body. Silco caressed the carvings with the pad of his thumb. Specifically a scratchy name on the front of it. Until he was holding it properly, he extended it enough to flick the small thing open and ignite it.

The flame dances dimly, alone. Slico rolls the cigar in his fingers and hovers it over the fire, lighting the end of it. Flicking the lighter closed, he takes a long drag of the cigar. Savoring the smoke he inhales, holding the earthy smoke in his mouth. Not letting it fester for too long he puffs it out. 

Above him is an audible creaking followed by a loud thunk behind him, just then he felt his eye send a sharp pain throughout his face. He takes another drag, hoping that it eases his nerves. It does not. Huffing it out he turns the chair to face the girl sitting impatiently on his desk. Strews of papers now scattered about. Screw organization.

"You have impeccable timing," Jinx smiles and tilts her head side to side while lazily whipping the end of one of her braids of hair in a swirling motion. Jinx then scoots forward. The papers crumpled under her butt make the scooting easier, some falling off the edge. She places her feet in between Silcos spread legs, planting them firmly in place and with most of her leg strength she easily moves the chair with the bemused kingpin closer to the desk. The chair creaked as she did so. Jinx blows a raspberry and guiltily giggles. 

"Pfft- yeah just the best of timing, heh" She snatches the device out of the top drawer. Moving her legs she turns the chair to the right to pull him even closer, the armrest bumps roughly into the desk. Jinx plops her legs on top of his kicking her feet under the other armrest. The kingpin throughout this doesn't seem bothered, used to his daughter's theatrics. 

"You mustn't spy on me when I'm in a meeting" Silco narrows his eye at her, no actual malice in his expression. He positions the cigar away, so she doesn't smell it when he gently places it in the ashtray, not snubbing it out.

"Wasn't spying — just watching Ms. Righty" Jinx chuckles at her own morbid nickname, and drapes her forearm on Silcos head, as she leans on the chair. The device occasionally tapped against his temple. The blue-haired girl whines about being bored and how Sevika won't let her on jobs. Calling his right-hand an ogre that isn't cool or fun–but is, however, currently green as Jinx had shot her with paintballs. The reason why Sevika was fuming in his office not too long ago. Silco listens, nodding his head along to her rambles in a tired fatherly way. In his right hand he fidgets with the lighter. The glint reflecting off the window light brings the small thing to Jinx's attention. Abruptly stopping in the middle of her rant, watercolor eyes flickering at the silver most importantly at the poorly written name on the front of it.

"Watch'ya got there?" She hitches her leg up on the arm of the chair and rests her tilting head on her knee, unblinking eyes stare at the item in his hand. Silco unclenches the lighter and grips it with his fingers slowly handing it to the curious baby blue. She quickly picks the thing out of his grasp after dropping the device on the table with a low clank. She brings the lighter closer to her face, so she can fix on the smudged words, muttering under her breath "is that a 'a' or an 'b' or maybe a-?" she would've gone through the entire alphabet if Silco had not said her name to pull her out of her thoughts.

"What does this say, can you tell me?" Frantic, she moves the light far away from her face, dramatically turning her head to the patient kingpin, his hands hanging loosely between his thighs humming in a low tune, debating on entertaining her offbeat curiosity.

"Aww' c'mon I'm dying of boredom here!" Jinx flails around her spot before falling onto her back with her arms spread out on the desk, her head is to the left looking at the metal rectangle with a pout. Twirling it with her pink and blue nails. Silco sighs, looking at his suddenly sad daughter–he knows she's just playing him, he caves anyways. Not without teaching about bartering, when a certain stinging sensation occurs. The nerves of his left eye spread out to his scarred side, eating away at him.

"Administer my medicine, then I'll think about it" Jinx pouts, but hands him the lighter anyway. Grabbing the device that was left on the table. "Finnee-" Grumbling, she moves forward so she's close to his face and places the contraption over his eye. She waits, eyes flickering from the button on top to his bad eye. When her gaze finally looks at the good eye, she presses the button. Instantly, he shoots forward, straining in his seat as Jinx still holds onto his jaw. He tightens his grip on the light. The dose of shimmer elopes his eye–the red widening before shrinking back to an orange. The purple substance fighting away at the toxins left behind, a single shimmer tear runs down his scarred cheek. 

"Done! Now, tell me!" Jinx haphazardly drops the medical device on the desk, again. Pulling up her legs on the arm, so she can rest her head on knees, and dig her colorful nails into her muted maroon pants. She puts most of her body weight on the side of the chair, making it dip only slightly. Waiting for her father to catch his breath and follow up on his end of the bargain. Slicking his salt and pepper hair back, he leans into the chair. Adjusting his sitting and wiping away the tear before answering her.

"It reads Lady." 

"Why does it say that and why do you have something that says that and why is it so badly written?-" He sighs, still rubbing at the now disappeared shimmer. Jinx's questioning doesn't throw him off, his eyes narrow in amusement. "Will it ease your curious need about my youth if I told you it was from an old friend?" Jinx gives him a weird look.

"I thought you said we shouldn't hold onto the past and blah blah blah" Jinx begins to flap her hand in a talking motion. He grabs her wrist, making her look him in the eye. His face was serious.

"We shouldn't hold onto the past and let it consume us." He says sternly, letting her go when she begrudgingly nods. Jinx notices a fondness lit in his eye, as he then gestures to the lighter in his hand. The flame, as quickly as it appeared, dims away.

"That is more or less something nostalgic, a keepsake out of appreciation" Jinx looks at him then the lighter, then back at him. "For who?" Jinx asks. Silco smirks.

"An old friend"

"UGHHH" She dramatically flops down again, crossing her arms. Jinx begins to spin Silco, moving her legs accordingly, in an attempt at a punishment for making vague remarks. Silco lets her for only a moment, stopping her when he's fully faced in front of her by taking the leg off the armrest and letting it drop to the floor next to the other. Silco hums in thought.

"It was...from a past love of mine" From her sitting position, Jinx snaps her head up. Her attention gained back. She's not perturbed by this new information, her curiosity only grows. "Hehehe, you fancied someone?" She giggles, hunching over. Her hands either side of her thighs gripping the edge of the desk and kicking her hanging feet.

"Mhm, I did..." As memories of the past flood his mind, he forcefully wrestles himself from saying ‘I do’ . The past should linger in the past, and in the palm of his hand like a burdensome weight. Despite this, his thumb still circles around the lighter. In response, Jinx visibly slouched, her frown growing more pronounced.

"What happened?" Jinx knows now that this friend is no longer here, someone who was once close to her father–she began thinking. Her gaze flicks restless between Silco’s eyes, her hands fidgeting as they cling together. Her thumb incessantly rubs against her palm, creating a raw spot on her skin. Sensing the tension, Silco quietly places his hand on her knee, tenderly tracing comforting lines with his fingertips to ease her away from the rhythmic rubbing and her own reminiscing. 

He knows Jinx would ask non-stop about this subject, as if she were still the 12 year old that he took in years ago. Even if he did indulge Jinx in her possible endless quest of nagging him til’ he complies. He would have no idea where to begin, he’s sure that his late-companion would tell it differently, albeit dramatically. Jinx has learned through his lectures of betrayal, perhaps one on loyalty might have the same effect. 

"What happened to most Zaunites during the revolutionary years-" Silco lifts his head smoothly, his gaze hardening with growing anger. Behind the pride he feels for his expanding nation, he holds a knife to the throat of the ‘Nation of Progress’ Silco’s thoughts travel back to his last moment with her, realizing the irony that lies within the nickname of Piltover. With a cool deliberateness, Sico carefully considers his next words as he looks at his daughter. Who is seated with uncharacteristic patience. 

The cigar in the tray burns, forgotten. "-Perishing with no name under the cold gold-plated boot of Piltover"

[wrotebymii]

“I miss my wife tails.”

[wrotebymii]

READ ME || WROTEBYMII -> MASTERLIST

This is my blog where I’ll be posting fan fictions and other media related things towards stuff I like. I want to acknowledge that this blog is 18+ and isn’t suitable for younger ages. Self-preservation is more important than a lame blog. REQUEST: CLOSED

Hi! I’m Mii and this is my blog, I write what I enjoy on here and sometimes follow requests at are within my boundaries. I’m on the aroace-spec but I oddly enjoy writing romance/fanficion/smuts. I haven’t written in a very long time so bare with the spelling mistakes or any errors that might be in posts. Trying to find my voice again.

I also like drawing and might show some of that on here!