🆃🅷🅴 🅰🅽🅸🅼🅰🅻🆂.
(peer mentor!ex-prisoner!vi x masc!prisoner!reader)
PART ONE
synopsis: the consequences of your chaotic past have finally landed you in Piltover's finest Correctional Facility. Too bad you can't even atone for your sins in peace without seeing some very familiar, very unwelcome faces.
cw for part one: prison 😔, only sorta-kinda proofread, lots and lots of cussing, afab reader, masc!reader, reader is kind of a pessimist. and a little mean. she went through a lot. running from the cops, the slightest sliver of sexual tension, MDNI!!!!, discussions of crime, dr*gs, alc*hol, all that fun stuff, backstory exposition, let me know if i missed anything!
a/n: this is gonna be multi-chapter (around 5 parts) because it feels better to me this way! the second chapter will be out before next week! pls enjoy <3
likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated :)
Time.
Sweet, sticky, oozing, glorious time.
It’s funny. When you were still a kid—
Well, kid is kind of an overstatement, but you were definitely reckless enough to feel like one. Wind in your face, light in your eyes. All that good stuff. Everyone around you said you were just a touch too restless. A little overboard with your idea of fun.
It was almost as if there weren’t enough seconds in a lifetime to get to everything you wanted to do.
And you wanted to do everything. Sex, drugs, booze, petty crime, not-so-petty crime—The list went on and on and on and on, and then it got longer.
And then, quite suddenly, actually, you didn’t feel like such a kid anymore.
Soon, you were well into your twenties.
a newly-lit angry flame in your chest,
a whole lot more restless energy,
and a shiny court order issued for you to pay for the consequences of your childish actions.
Now, shoved into the corner of four thick stone walls with 58 and a half more months to go, all you have is time.
And nothing has ever felt like less of a comfort.
It’s an uncharacteristically humid day when you see her again. The other prisoners are groaning about the busted ACs and barred windows, claiming that they’re being roasted alive every minute they’re forced to spend in these conditions, and if you weren’t so concerned with folding each individual page of a shitty magazine you’d found into jumbo fortune tellers, then you would be right there with them. But, you know, important task at hand and all.
You’re on your 15th glossy sheet when a heavy fist raps against your cell door, startling the plush paper out of your hands, and your contraband scissors clattering to the floor.
“Fuck…one second!” you hissed out, trying to tape the tiny shears to the bottom of your crackling toilet’s seat. It’s usually the best hiding spot one can find in this overglorified bird cage. The guards who usually commence the daily room checks, Officers Harold and Steb, tend to overlook the rather obvious placement, choosing to believe in the all-forgiving power of ‘feminine rehabilitation’. As long as you bat those pretty eyes and send a half-assed smile over their way, they’ll depart from your space with little trouble, whistling cheerily and trusting in the innate goodness of women who are simply ‘down on their luck’.
If they found out about half the shit the other inmates were smuggling in, whether it be hidden under porcelain seats or shoved up some secret orifice, they’d have a serious bitchfit.
The door swings open after a great deal of hustling and bustling on your end. Flashlights and clickers bombard your senses like noisy fireflies, and for some reason, Harold is grinning at you like he’s won the lottery five times over.
“There is a very special assembly being held today for you C-block girls. Report to the East chapel in 30 minutes! You don’t wanna miss it!”
He’s always excited about things like this. Fundraisers, kickball, bonding activities. Whatever gets the girls together, possibly even enjoying themselves for an hour or two, lights his wrinkled little face up like a Christmas tree. It’s hard, you admit, not to find his hopefulness endearing. Sometimes, at least.
You bare your teeth sweetly, corners of the mouth pointing upwards as politely as can be managed.
“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sir, but I was planning on a cozy day in, you know? Window watching…ceiling observing. Can’t put those off.”
He pouts, actually pouts, at your negative response. For a moment, you think Steb is going to have to talk him down from crying.
“Oh nonsense! Nonsense!” he exclaims, waving his pudgy hands in the air to ease himself. “We’ve set up fans and opened alllll of the windows. It’ll be a great big treat Besides, inmate, it would be rude when our special guest has come alllll this way just to speak to you lot!”
He turns on his heel away from you, motions for Steb to follow in step into the hallway.
“30 minutes! Nothing more, inmates!”
The door slams shut, leaving you to stew in frustration without the prying eyes of happy-go-lucky correctional officers.
You wonder, for a brief moment, if there’s enough time to grab the scissors from your hiding place and offer it up to Harold for a one-way ticket to solitary confinement, but you decide against it. Who knows what this special assembly will bring out of the other women?
A full 47 minutes pass by before you find yourself in the East chapel, Officer Harold clicking his teeth in disappointment at your tardiness. But when that sweet breeze of electric fans and breathable air hit you in the face, you wish you had arrived sooner. Especially when your eyes fall on the last available seat: one smack-down in the middle of the front row. Of course.
You shove your hands into the pockets of your dark blue jumpsuit, settling into the surprisingly comfortable flip-out chair that’s a hair’s breadth away from the altar. Every single person seems to be talking over each other, new voices add themselves sporadically into the mix, gossiping excitedly about the same old things that always happen in this place.
“Did’ya hear Nolan’s getting out on good behavior next week? what a fuckin’ kissass? I’d break her face if it didn't mean God knows how long in the hole…”
“You’ll never guess who I saw sucking face with a guard while waiting in the commissary line. Some of these girls’ll do anything for a freebie, I swear…"
It almost reminds you of a high school cafeteria. Nothing but low jabs and cruel chatter.
“Apparently, they flew her in from Zaun…she’s this ex-convict who got out of a murder charge ‘cause the judge says she’s got ‘good character’ or something. Can you believe it! I’ve got fan-tas-tic character and I’m still stuck in this hell for another 40 years…”
That certainly peaks your attention…
…because there aren’t many people, especially, many people from the Undercity of all places, who go before the hallowed Piltover court with a charge like that and just get to walk free.
And considering the fact that you were born and raised in Zaun, growing up with kids who had also spent their free time chasing the next new thrill until ultimately getting caught, it may not be a stretch to say that you could, possibly, recognize this speaker.
It isn’t until you catch a flash of electric pink hair, a silver sparkle atop thick raised eyebrows that your heart drops to your ass.
Violet fuckin’ Lanes.
In all her flesh and glory.
Janna, even the way she struts to the podium pisses you off.
Her boots hit the ground like some magic megaphone, somehow commanding the attention of each and every eye in the room. The inmates stare, like wild animals trailing a new addition to an already tight knit pack. It’s different, though. There’s none of the whistling or lewd comments that usually accompany the arrival of a new prisoner, but the captivated silence that falls over the crowd when she smirks their way makes you wish she was in uniform like everyone else was.
Some regard her with disdain, invisible daggers shooting from their eyes right between her charmingly crooked smile. Others are practically leaning into the spinning fans that litter the scenery, trying to catch themselves from swooning so openly in front of her.
You can’t say either reaction is unexpected. You two do have a particularly troubled connection, after all.
Violet had introduced herself to you as ‘Vi’ after some enforcers shut down a crazy house party you were both attending. Bottles were being thrown all over the place, people had been dragged out by their arms and legs. You took this as a sign to get the fuck outta dodge.
When the pink-haired girl had caught up to you, pretty easily, you might add, she was already talking your ear off. Inviting you to a different party just a few blocks away, asking if the dying cigarette hanging from your lips was up for grabs, listing off every situation in which she’s had to book it to keep from getting locked up (this was the 6th time in the last three weeks), all without faltering in speed or running out of breath. It was impressive, for sure.
She led you straight to that party she was gabbing about. Some stuffy abandoned warehouse spinning with heavy smoke and even heavier music. Vi hauled you into the center of the heady disarray and pulled you in as close as she could.
“Dancing’s always more fun when your eardrums are about to pop right out of your skull.” she’d told you.
And you smiled at her. Honest full-face-grin beamed at her, because, Gods, where has she been all your life, and why is she only coming into it now?
So, of course, you danced with her all night. It ended up being the most fun you’d had in a really long time. You could tell she wanted to keep your attention all for herself, what with the way she wouldn’t let you out of her sight for longer than ten seconds (even when she challenged you to keg stand contest, and lost her focus because she couldn’t keep her eyes on her own barrel for the life of her), but you didn’t mind so much. She kept laughing and spinning you in circles and dragging you around like she was leashed to your wrist, but you didn’t find it the least bit annoying.
When the warehouse began to empty and the music dimmed to a shivering whisper, Vi brought you to the roof just in time for sunrise. The way the warm spots of heat kissed your features rebirthed a sort of softness in your heart, and you showed it by wrapping an arm around Vi’s shoulders in a contented squeeze.
“You’re…something else, you know that?” you’d crooned to her, still addled and woozy from the flask in your hand and the—well, copious amounts of everything still settling in your system.
Vi trailed her gaze up to the curve of your neck, taking in the position of your head, memorizing the drops of alcohol as they ran down the corners of your mouth. You were downing cheap, warm beer like parched wolf, and for some reason, her head swirled with envy at the sight of it.
In a flash of a moment, she ripped it from your lips, and toppled you over so hard you started spitting up the bitter liquid.
“Hey! The fuck was that f–”
She straddled you, trapping your thighs between her own in a tight embrace. pressed a harsh kiss to your temple to apologize, the madwoman.
When you looked back up at her, she tilted her head at your form like a curious pantheress, like she wanted to know how you felt squirming between her teeth.
“What are you doing this weekend?” she inquired, like her hips weren’t crushing yours into the impenetrable concrete.
You blinked several times at her.
“I–I dunno! …What are you doing this weekend?”
That got her grin back. She rewarded you by shifting her weight off of yours, and stretching out next to your heaving frame with a thoughtful hum.
“Come up Topside with me. I can show you all the best spots, we can get into some real trouble up there…”
A stunned laugh loosened itself from your throat. No one’s ever caught you off guard this much in such a short amount of time, so you punched her in the arm to regain some iota of surprise back.
“What happens if we get caught, smartass? We’re not exactly piltie princesses over here.”
She rubbed her sore bicep slowly, shrugging as if she’s made of rock-hard diamond. From what you’ve seen of her, it doesn’t seem like an outlandish assumption.
“Oh, please…”, she muttered, ultramarine eyes boring into your foggy glare.
“You really think they’re gonna be able to catch us?”
It’s been almost seven years since she said that to you, on that hushed, rumbling morning,
and you regret ever listening to a single word she ever uttered in your direction.
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