A collection of everything I've written for Vander/Arcane. The drabbles from my ask box and the parenting week challenge are posted here on Tumblr, but everything else is on AO3 <3
MINORS DNI
AO3 Fics
This Life That We’ve Created (Pure Domestic Fluff)
All Neat and Tidy (Pregnancy fic, sprinkle of hurt/comfort)
Ten Times, Not Enough (fluff/angst, somewhat spicy)
Memories Revived (Angst, spoliers)
For When The Nightmares Creep In (Domestic fluff, multi-chapter, hurt/comfort)
It’s Just Business (Smut)
Pokerfaces and First Impressions (meet-cute, pre-uprising)
It's Just Me and You (hurt/comfort, smut)
Alone Yet Again (Angst)
City of Iron and Glass Masterlist (Vander x OC/Reader series, prequel to Arcane. COMPLETE)
The Sunken City (City of Iron and Glass sequel series)
Drabbles from my Ask Box
Crying Over Spilt Milk (Mylo and Powder fluffy)
Marry Me? (VanderxReader marriage proposal)
Ghosts Part 2 (VanderxReader angst, mourning)
Shadows of Bloodshed (VanderxReader angst, violence)
Under the Table (Drunken shenanigans)
Kiss It Better? (Young!Vander x Medic!Reader)
Trinkets, Bobbles, and Meet-Cutes (Benzo x Reader)
Family Ties (Mylo & Parent!Reader)
Headcanons
Young!Vander, Benzo, and Silco Headcanons
Vander NSFW alphabet
Benzo NSFW alphabet
Arcane Parenting Week Drabbles (under the cut)
Oh, Children: Favourite (Vander and the Kids)
She’s a Hell of a Shot: Gift (Jayce and Caitlyn)
From One Engineer to Another: Advice (Viktor and Powder)
It was three weeks after her thirteenth birthday when Meena Kaur found a half-dead boy on her fire escape. A whimpering mess of tattered fabric and bloody cuts just laying with his back against the cold metal as rain poured onto him.
At first, she mistook him for a raccoon, or other regular Gotham wildlife. Or maybe a bag of trash someone in a higher apartment had dumped from the window. Until it whimpered.
Opening and crawling through her kitchen window onto the fire escape, Meena immediately knew that this was no weather for anyone, nevermind a battered boy. Cold winds bit at her exposed skin, rain drenching her hair in seconds. But she barely noticed, her eyes locked on the boy.
He was so small, Meena considered, laid out like prey on the metal. It wasn’t until she was leaning over him that she realized, he wasn’t whimpering, he was saying something.
Meena leaned in closer, straining to hear. The words were soft, spoken through damaged vocal chords and chattering teeth. The words pulled at her memory. They sounded like back home in New Delhi, or something close to it, but all different and in a dialect she couldn’t understand.
He was so small.
Smaller than expected. Much smaller than how he looked in the news, always photographed next to Batman. After all, everyone in Gotham knew about Robin.
But here, he didn’t look much like a superhero, save for of course his mostly-destroyed costume. He just looked like a young boy, probably a few years younger than Meena herself.
Meena reached out carefully and touched his arm, giving it the slightest shake.
The reaction was instant.
He cried out, sharp and raw, his whole body jerking.
She pulled back like she’d been burned. “Sorry,” she said quickly, her voice catching. “Sorry.”
The boy folded in on himself, a thin, broken sob slipping past his lips.
Meena swallowed and forced herself to look.
The rain had washed some of the blood away, but not enough. It soaked into what remained of his costume, dark and heavy. She followed it, eyes tracing the source.
Two small wounds. One on his shoulder, and one on his stomach, left but closer to the center than she’d like.
Bullet wounds.
“I can’t move you until I know your spine is okay.” She tried to explain to the young boy, even though she wasn’t sure he could hear her at this point.
He didn’t respond.
As she made a move to stand, she quickly addressed the boy again. “Don’t move!”
The next little while was a blur. First, running back into the apartment to grab the first aid kit. Her hands were shaking, but cold eyes stern as she dug through the box of medical equipment. Her mind was frantic, distracted, but calculating as she ran through what she knew.
Spine first. You always have to check the spine.
She ran back out, checking over him piece by piece. His breathing was shallow. Not good.
“I’m here!” She exclaimed. “I'm here, I’m here!” Again, no response. Even in the not-Hindi he was speaking. “Okay,” she whispered, “I can’t diagnose a back injury…so, we assume one is present.”
Next, the bleeding. She had to address the bleeding.
Taking the packs of gauze from the kit, and a pair of latex gloves, and she began work on the stomach wound. Taking the gauze, she laid it out across the wound and applied pressure. Immediately, the boy cried out again, but Meena persevered.
Press. Hold. Don’t think.
The gauze soaked through almost immediately when she packed the wounds, but she kept going.
When the stomach bleeding finally succumbed to the pressure, she moved to the shoulder. Rinse and repeat, just like she’d learned. But was it going to be enough? She was becoming increasingly aware of just how much blood was flooding onto her gloved hands.
“Daj…” the boy whimpered under his breath, causing Meena’s head to snap down, “…ajťil ma.”
“Robin?” Meena exclaimed. “Robin, can you hear me?”
He muttered some more words in the unknown language, before his voice tapered away.
“Oh no,” Meena said to herself, she shook her head stubbornly, applying even more pressure to the wound. “You aren’t allowed to die, okay? You’re just…not allowed.”
Finally, after what felt like years, the blood slowly began to stop. As Meena slowly pulled her hands away, she looked over her work, the gauze-filled bullet wounds. The gauze was staying. Not dry, not even close, but the blood wasn’t pooling anymore.
Meena breathed out, but the air came out shaky.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay. That’s… that’s something.”
Her hands hovered for a moment, doused in blood and trembling now, as she looked down at him.
At Robin.
His head had slumped further to the side, chin nearly to his chest. The tension had gone out of him in a way that didn’t look like relief.
It looked wrong.
“Hey,” she said quickly, leaning in. “No, no, no, stay with me.”
She reached for him again, slower this time, fingers brushing lightly against the side of his neck the way she’d seen in first aid diagrams.
There.
A pulse.
Too fast.
Too faint.
Her stomach dropped.
“Okay, that’s not good,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “That’s really not good.”
His skin was cold, really cold and clammy from the rain and probably his own sweat. Had he been like this the whole time, or was she just now noticing that he was going into shock?
“Okay,” she breathed, “I know this, this one’s easy.”
She scrambled back through the window, nearly slipping on the wet tile as she landed inside. The apartment felt too bright, like it didn’t understand what was happening just a few feet away.
“Blanket.” She remembered, her feet already taking her over to the couch, “I need something warm.”
Tearing through the living room, she began opening the doors of every cabinet and closet in the apartment. “Tarp…tarp…I need a tarp…” Finally, she spotted it: her father’s old rucksack. She dropped to her knees next to it, dragging open the zipper with shaking hands.
Her fingers caught onto the stiff fabric, before Meena ripped it from its confinement.
“Okay!” She grunted, getting back up to her feet, “okay!”
Back over to the window.
He hadn’t moved.
“Okay,” she repeated, slipping next to him. First things first, opening the blanket and laying it over him. Being careful all the while to mind his bandages. “I’m sorry, I’m back!”
Once the blanket had been draped over the boy, Meena snapped open the tarp over him, gently tucking it into his sides to block against the wind. Her hands lingered for just a moment, feeling for his chest rising.
It was, if barely.
Meena swallowed, her flickering over to his face. Protruding cheekbones covered by a face still full with baby fat, a strong jaw, a couple beauty marks. The domino mask was likely the most intact part of his uniform, covering his eyes.
…his eyes.
How could she be so stupid?
Another trip inside, dashing for a kitchen cabinet, she quickly grabbed a flashlight and made her way back outside. With careful hands, she grabbed a hold of the domino mask and peeled it away, tossing it next to her.
The plastic dinged against the metal.
As if she’d done this a million times, Meena held the boy’s skin just around his eye and pried the lid open, shining the lit flashlight into his eye.
The pupil quickly constricted, and Meena sighed in relief.
“Jai Krishna…” she breathed out a hard breath, before quickly resuming on the other eye. It too got smaller when met with the light.
Then there was a shift.
Sudden and quick, Meena only saw something move in her peripheral vision, and her head snapped up to see what it may be.
But the space above her was empty, just another fire escape level and trails of pipes running up the side of the building.
Then a creak from the metal.
Sharp and intentional. Like Meena was meant to hear it. Her breath caught in her chest.
“Who’s there?” Meena choked out, eyes scanning every little thing and surface around her.
Then it dropped.
No warning. No sound she could properly process. Just sudden weight and motion as something landed on the fire escape a few feet away.
The metal jolted under the impact.
Meena stumbled back on instinct, one hand shooting out to steady herself against the railing.
A figure stood there.
Large. Cloaked in black. Water sliding off hard angles that didn’t look like armor so much as something carved out of shadow.
Her mind lagged behind her eyes.
Not police.
Not anyone she recognized.
Not human, not in the way her brain wanted to classify it quickly enough.
“Don’t move,” a voice said.
Hello Beautiful Readers!
Did I say I was going to update Sunken City? Well, I tried…honestly, I did.
Unfortunately, the hyperfixation has chosen Young Justice as its next victim. I’m honestly so sorry.
But, if you’ve made it this far, thank you for being here and I hope you liked my pilot for this series ❤️
Quick question… when’s the next chapter for sunken city???🥲
Hhhhhh yeah it has been over a year since the last update, huh?
I’ll be real with all three of you that are still here, the writers block has been STRONG and every time I open the document for Chapter 3 I just get filled with dread.
But I should finish what I start.
How’s about this, I’ll try my best to have chapter 3 out in the next couple weeks. You all must be starving, I’ve been a terrible fanfic supplier LOL
Maybe if people updated more we wouldn't turn to ai
You’re a pathetic, impatient loser. Fanfic writers owe you nothing, and their writing is their own, not yours to do with as you choose, you entitled brat.
I have this image in my head of a Priest!Kurt Wagner x Reader/OC fic that pulls inspiration from Fleabag. Partially bcuz, as a Catholic, I can’t find any Priest!Fics that (I feel) handle the religious content as well as I would like.
But I so badly want to write this story and am so scared to fumble portraying the raw emotions that that fic has the potential to have 😭
hi this is my official request for people to start drawing vander with a bigger tummy. actually— just bigger period. please…. he does not have a flat stomach. i promise. we all have eyes. and he’s so hot ? why would you take that away from him
Smokey kiss with Vander... "you'll learn to love it..." *inhales heavyly* SMOKEY KISS WITH VANDER TO TEACH US TO LOVE IT
acquired taste
vander x gn reader | 524 words
The Last Drop settles into its nightly slumber – chairs upturned on tables, floors swept clean of the day’s debris, the constant hum of conversation replaced by comfortable silence. You finish polishing the last of the glassware while Vander counts the evening’s earnings, his large hands moving deftly despite their size.
Task complete, he reaches into his worn leather jacket, extracting an intricately carved pipe and small pouch of tobacco. The ritual is familiar by now – his broad shoulders relaxing as he settles onto a barstool, strong fingers expertly packing the bowl with practiced motions. You find yourself watching the way the dim light catches on the silver at his temples, contrasting with the darker strands framing his bearded face.
“Don’t know how you can stand that stuff,” you comment, leaning against the counter with feigned casualness.
Vander meets your gaze, those expressive blue eyes crinkling slightly at the corners as he strikes a match against his thumbnail with an effortlessness that makes your breath catch. The small flame illuminates the sharp planes of his face, casting shadows that accentuate his strong jaw and the fullness of his lips.
“Acquired taste,” he replies, voice carrying that rumbling depth that never fails to send warmth cascading through your system. He brings the flame to the bowl, inhaling slowly, the tobacco glowing amber as smoke curls upward in lazy spirals.
“Definitely not one I’ll be acquiring,” you counter, watching as he exhales, the rich scent of spiced tobacco filling the space between you – earthy, slightly sweet, unmistakably him.
A hint of that rare smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “I think you could learn to love it,” he murmurs.
“Yeah?” you challenge, pulse quickening at the dark amusement in his gaze.
“Yeah,” he confirms, the single syllable somehow both promise and warning.
Before you can respond, his large hand rises to cup your jaw, fingers splayed along your cheek with surprising gentleness. The calloused pad of his thumb traces your lower lip, parting it slightly as he leans forward on the stool. His eyes hold yours, seeking permission without words.
You yield willingly, breath hitching as he takes another slow draw from the pipe before setting it aside. His face hovers inches from yours, close enough that you feel the heat radiating from his skin. When his lips part, he exhales deliberately, the smoke drifting into your slightly opened mouth – warm, fragrant, intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
The taste floods your senses – cloves and honeyed oak, undercut with something distinctly masculine that’s all him. Before you can process the sensation fully, his mouth claims yours, beard surprisingly soft against your skin as his lips press firmly against your own. The lingering smoke passes between you, intensifying the taste, his tongue seeking entrance with unhurried confidence.
When he finally pulls back, satisfaction evident in his expression, you find yourself chasing the contact, leaning into the broad palm still cradling your face.
“Still think you won’t acquire the taste?” he asks, voice rougher than before, pupils dilated with obvious desire despite his controlled exterior.
Masterlist for my sequel series for City of Iron and Glass!!
This story follows the plot of Arcane, as Vander and Min (OC) try and work through their most complicated job yet: parenting the next generation of revolutionaries.
When I tell y'all that this chapter was already almost at 10k and THEN I WROTE A SMUT SCENE! Like this chapter is probably the longest I've written, it's a little insane.
But don't make me regret it! MINORS DNI PLEASE I'M SERIOUS
Again, this is a sequel series to City of Iron and Glass!
Masterlist
The moon hung low over Piltover’s shimmering harbor, its pale light fractured by ripples in the dark, inky water. The salty air mingled with the faint creak of moored ships, the rhythmic splash of distant waves, and the occasional muffled clink of metal from the nearby docks. Looming in the shadows, the warehouse stood like a sleeping titan—silent, yet alive with the hum of machinery within. Its walls of corrugated steel, weathered and streaked with rust, were dappled with golden light leaking through gaps in its panels. The glow pulsed faintly, flickering like the heartbeat of the city’s tireless industry.
At the edge of this industrial monolith, four young figures crouched in the shadows near the entrance. The air was thick with tension, every creak of wood or echo of a footstep setting their nerves alight. Silco, the leanest of the ragtag group, worked with practiced precision, his long, nimble fingers twisting a thin lockpick inside the heavy padlock that secured the warehouse doors. The faint clicks of tumblers turning echoed in the still night, each one a small victory, though far too slow for anyone’s comfort.
“Hurry!” Benzo hissed, his hand tightening and loosening around the crowbar strapped to his back. His restless energy was palpable, his foot tapping lightly against the ground as if he could speed up the process through sheer impatience.
Silco rolled his eyes, though his focus never wavered. “How about you shut up and let me work?” he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp but low enough to avoid drawing attention.
Vander, crouched just behind them, shot Benzo a warning look. His broad frame was tense, his arms resting on his knees as he kept his eyes locked on the shadows around them. “Keep it down, both of you,” he rumbled, his voice a quiet growl that brooked no argument. “We’re too exposed out here.”
You, easily the smallest of the group, sat closest to the ground, your back pressed against a crate as your eyes flitted nervously between Silco’s meticulous work and the distant glow of a patrolling Enforcer’s lantern. Your bandana was pulled low over your face, but the faint sheen of sweat on your brow betrayed her unease. “We’re not exactly blending in,” you whispered, glancing at the dim light spilling from the nearest lamppost.
“Almost there,” Silco muttered, the tension in his voice betraying his usual calm. Another faint click echoed as he worked, and the lock inched closer to surrendering.
From somewhere further down the docks came the muffled bark of a guard dog, followed by the distant murmur of voices. The group froze for a heartbeat, their breath collectively catching as the sound carried across the water. Silco’s hands paused mid-turn, his jaw tightening.
“Hurry faster,” Benzo urged again, his tone sharper now, his hand gripping the crowbar so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Silco didn’t respond this time, his focus narrowing to the final tumbler. His fingers moved with deft precision, his eyes narrowing as he coaxed the mechanism into compliance. With a soft, triumphant click, the lock popped open, and he pulled it free with a small smirk. “Told you I’d get it,” he said, a trace of pride in his voice.
Vander was already on his feet, gesturing for the others to move. “Save the victory lap for later,” he muttered. “Let’s get inside before someone spots us.”
As the heavy metal door creaked open, the faint hum of machinery swelled, its vibrations mingling with the soft whisper of the harbor wind slipping through cracks in the warehouse walls. The four of you slipped inside like shadows, leaving the moonlit harbor and its watchful eyes behind. A heavy heave of Vander’s broad hands pushed the doors shut, sealing the group within. The clang of metal meeting metal echoed briefly before falling into a tense silence.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of oil and steel, mingling with the faint tang of salt carried from the docks. Your eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light. Moonlight filtered through dirty, streaked windows high above, casting pale beams across the vast interior. The light fell in fragmented patterns, painting jagged lines on the walls and floor. The midnight darkness cloaked much of the space, obscuring the finer details, but what you could see was enough to make your pulse quicken.
Rows upon rows of wooden crates filled the space, stacked high and bound tightly with metal straps. Each bore the faint stenciled logo of a Piltovan arms manufacturer. One crate lay open nearby, its contents spilling out—a chaotic jumble of pistol parts, rifle barrels, and gleaming magazines. The metallic glint caught your eye, and you realized the sheer volume of weaponry around you could turn the tide of a hundred skirmishes.
Benzo was the first to move, his grin splitting wide as he bent over to inspect one of the open crates. “We could arm a whole militia with these!” he cackled, his voice echoing too loudly in the cavernous space. He reached into the crate and pulled out a box of armor-piercing bullets, the heavy rounds glinting in the faint light. He turned one over in his hand, holding it up as if admiring a rare gem. “These babies’ll punch right through an Enforcer helmet.”
Vander shot him a warning look but didn’t speak, his focus on scanning the warehouse for any signs of danger. His jaw was set, his frame tense as he stayed near the entrance, ready to spring into action if the need arose.
Silco is crouched a few feet away, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator searching for weak spots. His voice is quiet, but the edge is unmistakable. “Take what you can,” he says, “but pack light. We’ve still got to make it back across the bridge without getting caught.”
You nod silently, your fingers already working on the nearest crate. The cold bite of the crowbar in your hands feels grounding, a small comfort as you pry open the wooden lid with practiced ease. Inside, rows of pistol parts glint faintly in the moonlight, neatly stacked and pristine. You swallow hard. There’s enough firepower here to change everything for the Undercity—or destroy it.
Your hands move quickly, grabbing what you can fit into your satchel. Beside you, Benzo is stuffing bullets into his bag with reckless enthusiasm, muttering something under his breath that you don’t quite catch. You glance at him, wanting to tell him to slow down, but Silco beats you to it.
“This isn’t a game,” Silco snaps, his voice sharp and commanding. “One screw-up, and we’re all dead. Focus.”
Benzo huffs, but he lowers his voice. The tension in the room tightens like a noose, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every sound—the soft scrape of metal, the distant hum of machinery, and the muffled crunch of gravel outside the warehouse.
That sound makes your blood run cold. Gravel shifting. Footsteps? You freeze, your fingers hovering over the next crate as your heart thunders in your chest. You look up at Vander, who’s already gripping the wrench strapped to his back. His expression is unreadable, but his body language screams alert.
Your stomach churns as you glance at Silco. His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see a flicker of something that looks like worry. Then his face hardens. “Move faster,” he whispers, the urgency in his tone making your hands tremble as you shove more ammunition into your bag.
Every sound seems louder now—the rustle of fabric, the creak of wood, the faint clang of metal. You force yourself to keep going, your breath coming in shallow bursts. The weight of the bullets in your bag feels heavier with every passing second, but you can’t stop.
You steal another glance toward the door, your mind racing. The crunch of gravel still echoes faintly in your ears, growing closer—or maybe that’s just your imagination. Either way, the oppressive weight of the dark warehouse feels like it’s closing in, and you can’t shake the feeling that you’re running out of time.
***
The soft chime of the doorbell announces your arrival as you and Vander step into Benzo’s shop, the warm, cluttered air enveloping you instantly. Vander turns over his shoulder, giving Claggor a quick but firm look. “No one comes in,” he instructs, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
Claggor hesitates, his boyish face creased with unease, but he nods curtly and takes a stance outside, glancing up and down the lane like a sentry.
Inside, the shop feels smaller than you remember, stuffed to the brim with shelves packed with all manner of shinies, baubles, and trinkets. Trinkets you know intimately—some of which had passed through your own hands, carefully engineered, polished, and sold to help keep the Undercity scraping by. The faint smell of old wood and machine oil lingers in the air, the hum of a small motor somewhere in the background adding to the charm.
At the counter, a much fuller Benzo is hunched over, studying some sort of gemstone. The years have thickened his frame, but his presence is still the same—equal parts gruff and reliable.
Tucked away in the far corner, working with quiet concentration, is a boy no older than twelve. His dark skin is dusted with oil smudges, and his silver-white hair glints in the dim light as he fiddles with the intricate inner workings of a battered grandfather clock.
Benzo doesn’t even look up as the two of you step inside. “We’re closed!” he barks, his gravelly voice filling the small space.
Vander doesn’t miss a beat. “Then open up!” he retorts, his tone as casual as if he were asking for a pint at the Last Drop.
“For good!” Benzo snaps back, finally lifting his head to glare at the two of you. “You can take your worthless junk elsewhere!”
Vander sighs loudly, one hand running over his thick beard in mock exasperation. “Just as well,” he mutters. “The owner’s the shittiest businessman I know.”
You can’t help the roll of your eyes as a heavy pause settles between them. The weight of the silence stretches for a moment before both men erupt into booming laughter, their voices filling the shop and breaking the tension like a hammer through glass.
The boy in the corner glances up briefly, his bright eyes flicking toward the commotion before returning to the clock’s delicate gears with a faint smirk of his own.
Stepping over to the counter, you offer Benzo a familiar smile, one he can’t help but return despite his gruff demeanor. “Hello, old man,” you greet, your tone light but warm, the playful jab carrying years of friendship behind it.
Benzo snorts, leaning back from his hunched position and crossing his thick arms over his chest. “You’re no spring chicken yourself these days, fishie,” he shoots back, a twinkle of amusement in his sharp eyes. The nickname pulls an exasperated chuckle from you, one you’ve grown used to over the years.
Before you can retort, Benzo’s attention snaps to the corner of the room, where the boy with silver-white hair is still elbow-deep in the inner workings of the grandfather clock. “Ekko!” Benzo barks, his voice carrying that unmistakable tone of authority. “What’s going on with that thing? You plan on fixing it or marrying it?”
The boy glances back over his shoulder, a small wrench clutched in his oil-smudged hand. His expression is focused but calm, the kind of cool confidence that only comes from doing this sort of work a hundred times over. “Give me a few seconds,” Ekko replies evenly, turning back to the intricate gears in front of him. “The cannon pinion’s still busted.”
You resist the urge to walk over and help, your fingers twitching at your sides as you watch Ekko work with precise, careful movements. It’s a familiar instinct, but you remind yourself that the boy doesn’t need your intervention. He’s got it under control—he always does.
You think back to when Ekko had first come into your lives, a scrappy war orphan whose parents’ names were lost to the chaos. You hadn’t known them, but you didn’t need to; their absence was written in the boy’s cautious eyes and the way he clung to survival like it was the only thing he had left. You and Vander had talked long into the night about what to do. You’d already been stretched thin, barely keeping your own heads above water, but the idea of turning him away was unthinkable.
Even then, Ekko had stood out. A genius young lad, his sharp mind and boundless curiosity shone brighter than the glittering spires of Piltover’s skyline. His talent was undeniable—academy-worthy, some might have said. Not that you put much faith in that pompous institution of classist elites. Still, his eye for engineering and science had been like nothing you’d ever seen before. Except maybe in Viktor, that sickly boy from Zaun who had somehow clawed his way up to become Councilman Heimerdinger’s assistant.
But before you could make a decision, Benzo had beaten you to the punch. “Let me have the youngin’,” he’d said, practically begging as he crouched down to Ekko’s level. The boy had been barely three at the time, small and wide-eyed, clinging to a makeshift toy he’d cobbled together from scraps. “I’ll make something great outta him, just you wait.”
You’d been skeptical, of course. Benzo wasn’t exactly known for his parenting skills, and the thought of leaving a child in his care had made your stomach twist. But Vander had seen something you hadn’t, nodding quietly and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “He’ll do right by him,” Vander had said, and for all your doubts, you’d trusted his judgment.
And somehow, Benzo had kept his word. Over the years, he’d molded Ekko into something extraordinary—not just a boy who could survive but one who could thrive, even in the harsh realities of the Undercity. He’d taught him not just the mechanics of machines but the mechanics of life itself: how to navigate its moving parts, how to fix what was broken, and how to know when something was beyond repair.
Still, as you watch Ekko now, focused and calm as he works on the clock, you can’t help but feel a flicker of pride—and maybe a little ache of what-ifs. He could’ve been under your roof, learning from you, growing with you and Vander. But he’s happy here, in his own way. And maybe that’s all that matters.
“Finish it later!” Benzo barked, “The grown-ups need a word.”
Ekko voiced his complaints, grumbling under his breath about wanting to keep working, but Benzo waved him off with a flick of his hand. “Time to pack it in, kid. Go on, out you go,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. Reluctantly, Ekko gathered his milk crate of tools, muttering something about the clock being “practically done anyway.”
As he shuffled out the door, Claggor greeted him cheerfully, his wide grin immediately brightening the boy’s scowl. You watched through the window as the two exchanged a few words before disappearing around the corner, leaving the shop quiet except for the faint hum of machinery and the creak of settling shelves.
Benzo turned his attention back to Vander the moment the door clicked shut, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “You’re early,” he grumbled, leaning on the counter and giving Vander a pointed look. “My guys are still out rounding up this month’s collections. Won’t have the numbers until next—” His words were abruptly cut off as Vander hoisted the burlap sack from his shoulder and dumped its contents onto the counter with a dull thud. The bag fell away, spilling a jumble of items across the wooden surface. A pair of garden clippers. Mylo’s battered earhorn. A few well-worn switchblades. A tangled mess of mundane gadgets that looked more like the detritus of a street vendor’s stall than anything of value. Benzo let out a breath. “Why are you two muckin' about with this?”
You leaned a hip against the counter, crossing your arms as you watched Vander with an amused smirk. He didn’t respond right away, instead taking his time to spread the items out, turning one of the switchblades over in his hand as if examining it for the first time.
Benzo lets out a snort of laughter, the sound rough and hollow. “Yeah, me and half the Undercity,” he mutters, shaking his head as if the weight of the news is too much to shake off.
Vander sighs for real this time, the kind of sigh that seems to pull the air from his lungs and leave him momentarily deflated. He slumps, his shoulders heavy as the burden of the situation presses down. You watch him for a moment, your fingers instinctively reaching for a cigarette from the pack in your pocket. You flick it between your lips, lighting it with a practiced motion, the ember catching the flame before you draw in a steady breath.
“How could they be so stupid?” you mutter through a cloud of smoke, the frustration bleeding through your words.
“They were just trying to do what they thought was right,” you remind him, your voice softer now, thoughtful. “Lady knows we did the same when we were their age.”
Vander’s eyes narrow, the dark circles under them deepening. “It’s Vi…” he mutters, his voice tinged with exasperation. “She throws herself at trouble wherever she can find some. I can’t watch her do it anymore.”
You glance over at Benzo, who’s leaning back against the counter with his arms folded, watching the two of you with a kind of detached curiosity. His eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place—an odd mix of understanding and cynicism.
“Eh, they’re growing up, Vander,” Benzo hums, as if this whole mess were just another part of the dance. “Looking to write their own stories, carve their own place. You can’t protect them forever.”
Vander doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers twitching like he wants to reach out, grab something solid to anchor him against the weight of those words. You can feel the heaviness of the room, the sense that the conversation has turned into something bigger, something unavoidable.
"Someone was following them."
Your head immediately perks up at the words, your senses sharpening. "What?" you ask, your voice tight with sudden alertness.
Benzo lets out a low chortle, clearly enjoying the way you’ve reacted. "Whole lot of someones, from what I heard," he adds with a wicked grin, clearly reveling in the tension of the moment.
Vander shakes his head, his expression hardening. "Not Enforcers," he mutters, as if the very thought of Piltover’s law enforcement being involved would somehow be a lesser blow.
"Someone on our side?" you ask, the curiosity edging out your annoyance. "Who?"
Benzo’s gaze shifts, the playfulness draining from his face as he leans forward, the gravity of his next words settling over the room. "There’s worse things than Enforcers out there."
Vander’s gaze darkens at that, his fingers subconsciously running along the leather cast that envelops his arm. The faint scrape of his thumb against the material is almost inaudible, but it speaks volumes—memories, the kind you never quite forget. His eyes flicker briefly to his cast, the weight of past encounters pressing down on him.
"We all know that," Vander says quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding, of history too painful to erase. The room grows heavier, as if the very air itself has thickened with the unspoken truths. You glance at Vander, knowing exactly what he’s thinking.
Benzo seems to sense the shift in the mood, his playful tone turning into something more serious. "Whoever's been tailing them, they aren’t just looking to knock some heads around for fun. There’s intent behind it. And that kind of target’s dangerous."
Your gaze hardens as your mind races, trying to piece together the puzzle. "So, what are we supposed to do about it?" you ask, your voice sharper than you intended, frustration creeping in. "Just tell them to lay low? You know they won’t like that."
Benzo huffs, shaking his head. "Don’t have much of a choice, I reckon," he mutters, his tone gruff but resigned. He extends his hand toward you, and without a word, you offer him a drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light of the shop.
He takes it without hesitation, inhaling deeply before passing the cigarette back to you, his gaze flicking down to the counter. The moment hangs in the air, heavy with unspoken understanding.
Without breaking the silence, Benzo’s hand ducks under the counter, rummaging around for a moment before emerging with a large glass container. The amber liquid inside catches the light in a way that almost makes it look warm, like liquid gold.
"For now, though…" Benzo's voice softens slightly, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he places the bottle on the counter, "some liquid comfort to ease the struggle?"
Vander sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pipe. The familiar ritual of filling it seems almost automatic. "You read my mind, old friend," he mutters, the weight of the situation settling in his bones.
You watch them both for a moment, the world outside the shop suddenly feeling distant, almost irrelevant. Benzo pops the cork with a satisfying thunk, and the rich smell of the liquor fills the air—warm, inviting, like an old friend. It’s a brief moment of comfort amidst the chaos, one that feels a little too fleeting.
As Benzo pours the liquid into two small glasses, you take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield against the unease gnawing at the edges of your mind. You don’t have a clear plan yet, no concrete steps to follow, but something tells you this won’t be the last time you’ll need a drink to get through the night.
Vander chuckles lowly, his fingers gently tapping the bowl of his pipe. "To the mess we’re about to clean up," he says, the humor in his voice barely masking the tension that lingers in the room.
You clink your glass against theirs, the sharp sound echoing through the small shop before silence settles back in, thick with anticipation.
The moment was shattered by the sharp chime of the door opening, the cool night air sweeping into the shop like an unwelcome guest. The heavy thunk of boots against the worn floorboards followed, each step deliberate and echoing. You barely had time to react before the sharp chill running down your spine forced your shoulders to hunch. Your gaze hardened instinctively, your fingers tightening around the glass in your hand.
Two uniformed Enforcers strode in, their presence slicing through the casual warmth of the room like a blade. Their faces were unreadable, save for the subtle tension in their postures and the way their eyes scanned the shop. Almost immediately, the younger of the two removed his air purifier, the smooth hiss of the device disconnecting was a reminder of everything you despised about Topsiders.
It wasn’t just the purifier—it was what it symbolized. It was their disdain for the Undercity, their belief that nothing here could ever be clean enough, pure enough, good enough. Vander had worked tirelessly to improve the air quality since he’d taken charge, striking uneasy deals with the Council to make life just a bit more bearable for those who called this place home. The upper levels had seen progress, but the mines remained a stubborn stain, a task unfinished. A promise unfulfilled.
But of course, nothing would ever be enough for the weak lungs of Piltover’s elite.
“Evening, friends!” Benzo greeted with a practiced smoothness, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that bordered on defiance. “Something I can help you with?”
The older of the two Enforcers stepped forward, her movements deliberate and measured. Grayson. Time had not been kind to her, though she wore it with a quiet dignity. The streaks of silver in her hair and the fine lines around her eyes spoke to a decade of hardened resolve—of battles fought, lost, and somehow survived. Her gaze swept the shop lazily, but there was nothing casual about the way she took in every detail.
The younger one, though—he was different. You didn’t recognize him, and you didn’t like the sharpness in his eyes. He didn’t look at the shop; he looked at all of you, as if he were cataloging a list of things to hold against you. “Some trencher trash attacked one of the buildings in the Academy district, but you already knew that.”
Your teeth clenched at the term, your distaste barely hidden.
“We’re looking for the culprits,” Grayson said, her tone even but tired. She glanced around again, her eyes lingering on the counter, the shelves, and finally on Vander. She, like the rest of you, had aged in the past decade. Grey and white hairs sticking out at her temples, and the shadow of crows' feet framing her cold, but softened, eyes.
“Well, wasn’t us,” you muttered, your words carrying a deliberate edge as you lifted your glass and took a slow sip. The liquor burned slightly as it went down, but the warmth it left behind did little to chase away the growing tension in the room.
Grayson’s eyes shifted to you, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Didn’t think it was,” she said softly, her voice quieter than her companion’s but far more effective
“Got a description?” Vander asked smoothly, his voice steady and calm, giving nothing away. His neutral expression remained unreadable, but there was an unmistakable weight to his words—a quiet warning. The smoke from his pipe curled lazily into the air as he leaned forward ever so slightly, just enough to make his presence impossible to ignore.
The younger Enforcer, Marcus, bristled immediately, stepping in close to Vander, his posture stiff and aggressive. “Yeah,” he growled, his tone laced with venom. He leaned in threateningly, the move deliberate, an attempt to intimidate. “It’s exactly who you’re picturing in that thick head of yours.”
Your muscles tensed instinctively, your hand itching to grab the dagger concealed at your hip. The urge to intervene surged through you, but Vander’s calm demeanor held you back—for now.
Instead of reacting, Vander smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that only seemed to irritate Marcus further. He turned his head slightly to look at you and Benzo, his eyes gleaming with an unspoken humor. “You think my head is thick?” he asked lightly, the subtle challenge in his tone almost mocking.
Benzo shrugged with a casual ease that felt at odds with the tension in the room. “Eh, just past the average,” he replied, his tone deliberately blasé.
Vander’s gaze shifted to you, and in that single look, he gave you a silent command: Stand down. His expression was calm, but the unyielding steel in his eyes left no room for argument.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders as you offered him a small, wry smile. “But just as handsome,” you quipped, your voice light, though your body remained coiled like a spring, ready to act if needed.
Marcus, however, was far from amused. His frustration bubbled over as he snapped, “Listen, you shady son of a—”
“Marcus.” Grayson’s voice cut through the tension like a blade, sharp and commanding. The authority in her tone left no room for debate, and Marcus immediately stiffened, his jaw tightening as he turned to look at her.
Grayson didn’t even flinch, her calm, piercing gaze fixed on him. “How about you take a walk?” she suggested, the words polite but unmistakably firm.
Marcus hesitated, clearly reluctant to back down, but after a beat, he scoffed and turned toward the door. His boots stomped against the floorboards as he exited, muttering under his breath.
As the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson let out a quiet sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s new,” she said, almost apologetically. “Doesn’t know when to pipe down.”
Vander lets out a long, weary sigh, the cool and collected facade he’d held so carefully starting to crumble. His shoulders slump, and he hunches over his drink, his large hands wrapped around the glass as if it’s the only thing grounding him. “Some things are the same topside and bottom,” he mutters, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion.
Grayson steps closer, her boots scuffing softly against the floorboards. She stops beside you, offering a curt nod that you return in kind. There’s a quiet understanding between the two of you, a shared weariness from years of dealing with the same unending cycle. Without a word, you extend your glass to her in an unspoken offer.
She hesitates for only a moment before accepting, her fingers brushing against yours briefly as she takes the glass. She raises it to her lips, taking a measured sip. The amber liquid burns its way down her throat, and she winces slightly, but her expression remains grim.
“You know this crossed a line upstairs,” Grayson says, her tone cutting through the quiet like a knife. She sets the glass back on the counter with a soft clink, her sharp eyes fixed on Vander. “Right?”
Vander doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the drink in his hands. “Was anyone hurt?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, almost as if he doesn’t want to know the answer.
Grayson’s lips press into a thin line. She exhales through her nose, glancing away briefly as if to compose herself. “A building was blown to bits,” she says finally, her words deliberate, heavy with implication. She swallows hard, her throat still stinging from the drink. “What do you think?”
The weight of her words hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Vander’s jaw tightens, and his fingers flex around the glass, but he says nothing for a long moment. His silence speaks volumes, though—an acknowledgment of the consequences that are already spiraling beyond anyone’s control.
You watch them both, feeling the tension pull tighter with every second. The lines between right and wrong, between survival and destruction, have never been more blurred.
“Those who did this will be dealt with,” Vander says, his voice low and resolute, but there’s a faint tremor beneath the surface, like a man trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. You don’t like how much it sounds like a plea.
Grayson straightens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That workshop belonged to the Kirammans,” she says, her words measured and deliberate. The name strikes a chord, and you immediately recognize it—the influential family tied to one of the council members. The same councilor who had supported the air quality initiative that Vander had fought so hard for.
Grayson continues, her voice hardening. “Do you know what kind of equipment they had in there? Cutting-edge prototypes, tools worth more than half the Undercity combined. This place”—she gestures vaguely around the shop—“looks like a candy store compared to what they lost. The Council isn’t just angry; they need to make an example of someone. People need to feel safe.”
You scoff, crossing your arms as a bitter laugh escapes your lips. “You mean Piltover needs to feel safe,” you say sharply, your words dripping with contempt.
Grayson’s head snaps toward you, her eyes narrowing in warning, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shifts her focus back to Vander, the weight of her attention bearing down on him like a hammer. “We had a deal, Vander,” she reminds him, her voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “You keep your people off my streets, and I stay out of your business.” She leans in, her tone softening just slightly, almost as if she’s pleading. “Give me a name. We’ll handle it quietly. No one will know you were involved.”
Vander exhales heavily, his broad shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of the situation. The stress rolls off him in waves, palpable even to you. He shakes his head slowly, his jaw tightening as he finally meets Grayson’s gaze. “I can’t do that.”
Grayson’s hand slams down onto the counter with a sharp crack, making you flinch. “You don’t seem to grasp how serious this is,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. Her composure cracks, revealing the urgency and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “If I don’t put someone behind bars tonight, the next time I come down here, I’ll have an army of Enforcers with me.” She leans forward, her face mere inches from Vander’s. “And we both know how that’ll go.”
The shop falls into a heavy silence, the weight of her threat settling over the room like a shroud.
“I’m sorry, Grayson,” Vander says finally, his voice quiet but unyielding. “We don’t give up our own people.”
For a moment, Grayson stares at him, her jaw clenched so tight you can almost hear her teeth grinding. Then she straightens, her expression hardening into the steely mask of an Enforcer doing her job. “You’re making a mistake, Vander,” she says, her tone cold and formal now.
You straighten, pulling your glass closer back to you. “I think it’s time you go, Captain.” Her cold eyes move from you, linger on Vander, then back to you. Then, without another word, she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop, the door slamming shut behind her with a sharp chime.
The silence that follows is deafening, and for a long moment, no one speaks. You glance at Vander, but his face is unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door as if he can still see her retreating form.
“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Benzo mutters, breaking the silence. His voice is low, almost a growl, but there’s no hiding the worry in his tone.
Vander doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at the door, the weight of his choices pressing down on him like never before.
***
As you stepped back over the threshold, the sounds and smell of home filled your senses. Inside, the bar was dimly lit, the faint smell of spilled ale and old wood mingling with the ever-present metallic tang of the Underground’s air. It was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening, save for the faint creaks of the rafters and the occasional drip of condensation from the exposed pipes above.
Claggor trailed behind, his young face a mask of determination that couldn’t quite hide the fatigue in his eyes. His boots scuffed against the worn floorboards as he stifled a yawn, glancing toward you for a moment before looking away.
You gave him a small, tired smile and placed a hand on his shoulder to pull him into a side-hug. “Go on, sweetheart,” you said softly. “You’ve done enough for one night. Get some rest.”
He hesitated, his gaze flicking to Vander, who nodded in agreement. “You heard her,” Vander said, his voice gruff but not unkind. “We’ll take it from here.”
Claggor gave a slight nod, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Goodnight,” he mumbled before heading toward the back door. The sound of his footsteps faded as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley, leaving you and Vander alone in the quiet bar.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders as you glanced around the space. The chairs were scattered haphazardly, the tables sticky with the remnants of spilled drinks. Behind the counter, a few empty glasses glinted in the low light, waiting to be washed. You immediately walked over to the bar, grabbing your rags and spray bottles as you prepared to clean the expanse of tables. Silently, for a moment, Vander watched you.
“I know you hate working with her,” he says. His voice is quiet, hushed, wary of any overhearing little voices.
You pause mid-spray, the rag in your hand frozen against the tabletop. For a moment, you don’t turn to face him, letting the silence hang between you like the damp air of the Lanes. Slowly, you straighten, glancing over your shoulder at Vander. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but the slight furrow of his brow gives him away.
“It’s not about liking or hating her,” you say, turning back to the table and scrubbing at a stubborn stain. Your voice is matching his, hushed, calm, measured. “It’s about what she represents. What they all represent.”
He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean agreement, frustration, or both. “We’ve been over this, Love. We don’t have a choice.”
You can’t help but scoff. “You think I don’t know that?” More scrubbing. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, when she comes in here, making orders. Like we’re her lackies. Like she doesn’t respect us,” you look back at him over your shoulder, “wasn’t too long ago she was throwing you in Stillwater.”
“She’s trying to help,” he says, stepping closer. His voice is softer now. “Just like us.”
You glance up at him, rag poised over the table. “Is she? Or is she just trying to keep the peace so Piltover doesn’t have to dirty its hands with another war?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves behind the bar, his large hands steady as he begins stacking glasses. “It’s not that simple,” he says finally, his voice quieter.
“It never is,” you reply, resuming your work. The rhythmic motion of cleaning gives you something to focus on, something to anchor you in the midst of your swirling thoughts. “But it doesn’t mean I have to trust her.”
Vander stops what he’s doing, leaning heavily against the counter. “You don’t have to trust her,” he says, meeting your gaze. “But you do have to work with her. For the kids. For all of us.”
You sigh, your movements slowing as his words sink in. “I know,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“No,” he agrees, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It doesn’t.”
The room falls into silence again, save for the faint creak of the rafters and the soft scrape of your rag against the wood. Vander watches you for a moment longer before returning to his task, the weight of unspoken thoughts settling between you like a familiar, unwelcome guest.
The two of you continue to work in silence, but your mind is anything but. Every thought feels like a sharp edge, cutting deeper the longer you let it fester. You hate it—hate how the idea lingers in your mind like an unwelcome guest you can’t quite kick out. You know you have to say it, to release the weight pressing against your chest, even if it makes everything worse.
As you finish wiping down the individual tables, your feet instinctively carry you over to the old jukebox in the corner. You press a few buttons, the familiar crackle and hum signaling it’s come to life. A low, mellow tune begins to play, not loud enough to disrupt the peace but just enough to mask any prying ears that might be listening.
With a steadying breath, you turn and step toward the bar, your gaze finding Vander. He’s behind the counter, absentmindedly drying glasses, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that tells you he’s thinking about more than just the task at hand.
“Vander,” you say softly, your voice cutting through the music. He glances up, his eyes meeting yours, and you can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.
“I’m just gonna say it once,” you begin, your voice firmer now, your eyes locking onto his with an intensity that demands his full attention. “And then never again.”
You reach out, your fingers brushing the leather cast on his arm. The worn material feels rough under your touch, a stark reminder of what’s at stake. “There is someone we could hand over to Grayson.”
The moment the words leave your lips, you see it—the flash of betrayal, hurt, and anger in his eyes. It’s as though you’ve physically struck him, and for a moment, he just stares at you, as if willing you to take it back.
“Minnie,” he says, his voice low and warning, laced with disappointment.
You pull your hand back, holding both up in surrender. “I know,” you say quickly, trying to cut through the tension before it boils over. “I know. We don’t give up our own people.” You shrug, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “But you and I both know the kids being stalked today wasn’t some one-off incident.”
His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders squaring as if to brace himself against your words. You can see the fury in his expression, the way his hands grip the edge of the counter so tightly his knuckles whiten. But beneath the anger, you see it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes, the hesitation he’s trying so hard to bury.
“I hate even thinking about it,” you admit, your voice quieter now, tinged with guilt. “But if it’s him or them…”
“Stop.” His voice cuts through the air like a knife, sharp and final. “We don’t give up our own people,” he repeats, his tone leaving no room for argument. “That’s the only way this works. If we start turning on people, even him…” He shakes his head, his gaze burning into yours. “We lose everything. Trust. Loyalty. Unity. It all falls apart.”
You nod, swallowing hard as the weight of his words settles over you. “I know,” you whisper, the guilt in your chest twisting like a knife. “I know, Vander.”
For a moment, the silence returns, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the jukebox. Then, without a word, you make your way around the bar, stepping into his space. You take his hands in yours, the roughness of his skin grounding you.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’m scared, Vander. For them.”
His hands tighten around yours, the calloused grip grounding you in a way only he can. For the first time tonight, some of the tension in his shoulders softens, and his gaze, though still heavy with the weight of his responsibilities, holds something warmer. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice low but steady. “But I need you to back me up here. If I don’t have you…” His voice trails off, as if saying it aloud would make it too real, too raw.
You nod, feeling the knot in your chest tighten. “I understand,” you whisper, lifting a hand to his cheek. His skin is rough, the stubble coarse beneath your palm, but the way he leans into your touch feels so vulnerable, so human. “I wouldn’t be able to do this without you, either. I’m sorry for even thinking it, for even saying it.”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, his voice soft but resolute. “I understand. I don’t blame you for thinking it. Things are… complicated right now.” He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And thank you for not saying it with anyone else in the room.”
“Of course!” you reply instantly, your tone carrying a faint edge of indignation, though your lips quirk into a small, reassuring smile. “It’s you and me, Vander. Always.”
For a moment, the two of you just stand there, holding on to each other in the quiet safety of the empty bar. The jukebox hums softly in the background, its low melody a distant reminder of the chaos outside. But here, in this bubble of stillness, it feels like it’s just the two of you against the world, like it’s always been.
Vander’s hands shift slightly, his rough fingers brushing against the backs of yours in a way that feels almost reverent. His eyes meet yours, the familiar storm of conflict and determination softening into something deeper. The flicker of light from the bar catches in his gaze, and for a heartbeat, it feels like time has slowed, the weight of everything giving way to this single, fleeting moment.
Without thinking, you step closer, your breath mingling with his as the distance between you narrows. His calloused hand rises to cradle your face, his thumb tracing a line across your cheek. It’s such a gentle gesture for someone who carries the weight of the Undercity on his shoulders, and it sends a shiver down your spine.
“Minnie…” he murmurs, your name barely more than a whisper on his lips, filled with so much emotion it almost undoes you.
You don’t give him a chance to say more. Standing on your toes, you close the remaining space, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is fierce, filled with everything unspoken—fear, frustration, love, and the unshakable bond that has carried you both through every storm.
His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer, as if letting go might shatter the fragile peace of this moment. You lose yourself in the warmth of him, in the way his lips move against yours, rough yet tender, commanding yet vulnerable. The rest of the world falls away—no Enforcers, no chembarons, no threats hanging over your heads. Just the two of you, anchored to each other.
When you finally break apart, breathless, his forehead rests against yours. His hands linger on your waist, keeping you close. For a long moment, neither of you speaks, the silence filled with the quiet hum of the jukebox and the sound of your uneven breaths.
“I love you,” he says finally, his voice rough but steady, the words a promise, a declaration, a plea all at once.
“I love you too,” you whisper, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. It wasn’t just a repeat of the words you’d both said a million times, but rather, a promise. To him, to the life you’d created together, to the idea of your shared future together.
It started soft, tentative, like he was handling glass—terrified that one wrong move might shatter you. His lips brushed against yours with the kind of care you wouldn’t expect from a man who carried the weight of an entire city on his shoulders. The coarse itch of his beard against your skin grounded you, a quiet reminder of the ruggedness that hid the tenderness beneath. His hands settled on the small of your back, steady and secure, while his forehead pressed against yours, anchoring the moment.
The kiss was gentle but spoke volumes—every unspoken word, every hidden fear, and every promise he couldn’t quite put into words. It was restraint and love wrapped into one fragile moment.
But you wanted more. Needed more.
Your hand slid up into his hair, fingers threading through the coarse strands as you tugged gently. Just as you expected, Vander groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you like a spark igniting something deeper. His grip on your back tightened ever so slightly, betraying the restraint he was desperately trying to maintain.
Then, with a small, mischievous smile against his lips, you nipped at his bottom lip. The action was playful but bold, a silent plea for him to let go, to give in.
That was all it took.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his forehead still pressed to yours, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes burned with a mixture of surprise, amusement, and something far more primal. For a second, the room seemed to hold its breath, and then his lips found yours again—this time with more urgency, more need.
The gentleness gave way to a deeper passion, his kisses more fervent, his hands gripping your waist as if anchoring himself to you. Your own hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, pouring every ounce of your own feelings into the moment. The jukebox hummed in the background, but it was drowned out by the sound of your quickened breaths and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears.
When he finally broke away, his breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against yours once more, eyes closed as though savoring the moment. His hands stayed firm on your waist, reluctant to let go.
“M’love,” he whispered, his voice husky, laced with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. “You drive me mad, you know that?”
You smirked, your thumb brushing over the lines of his jaw. “Good. Someone’s got to keep you in check.”
He chuckled softly, pressing another kiss—this one slower, softer, like a thank-you—against your lips before pulling you into a tight embrace. In the quiet safety of the bar, the world outside could wait a little longer.
Between kisses, his lips brush against yours as he breathes out a barely audible, “Bedroom?” His voice is low and ragged, the word almost lost in the heat of the moment.
You can’t help the soft laugh that escapes you, the sound cutting through the intensity like a bright spark. “Kids are going to bed,” you remind him, your hands sliding from his hair to his broad shoulders, steadying yourself as the passion simmers between you. Your fingers dig gently into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the strength beneath. “Office,” you suggest, your tone playful yet laced with urgency.
The corner of his lips quirks upward in a smirk, and he doesn’t hesitate. In one swift, practiced motion, his hands lower to your waist, gripping you with a confidence born of years together. Effortlessly, he lifts you as though you weigh nothing at all, his strength so familiar yet no less thrilling.
Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, holding onto him as he shifts his grip to better support you. The intimacy of the motion, the way your bodies fit so perfectly together, sends a new rush of heat through you. You can feel the tension in his arms, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, as if the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.
Blindly, his steps take him around the bar, his focus entirely on you even as he navigates the dim room with ease. Your laughter echoes softly, a sweet contrast to the muffled hum of the jukebox in the background.
When he reaches the base of the stairs, he pauses for a split second, adjusting his grip as if savoring the closeness before beginning the ascent. Each step is deliberate but unhurried, the anticipation between you growing thicker with every passing second. You brush a kiss against the edge of his jaw, and he groans softly in response, the sound rumbling through his chest and sending a delicious shiver down your spine.
“Someone’s enjoying this,” you murmur teasingly against his ear, unable to resist.
His response is a low chuckle, the vibrations resonating between you. “With you? Always,” he counters, his voice a mix of affection and heat. The words hang in the air, adding yet another layer to the smoldering intensity of the moment as the two of you disappear into the shadows of the upstairs office.
This moment, here, on the staircase. Those moments where you have someone safe, someone to come back to when the world outside was so harsh and unforgiving. It made your heart flip and your breath hitch in a way that felt as though it could shatter you, yet you leaned into it willingly. So few good things had been left here, in this city that tried to take everything from you, and you were impossibly grateful—achingly, desperately grateful—that Vander was still one of them.
“Something you want?” Vander’s voice pulled you from the spiral, his words gentle but teasing as his beard grazed your skin. One of his hands left the sanctuary of your hair, sliding down to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your jawline.
You met his gaze, your chest tightening at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he looked at you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. “I always want you,” you admitted, the words leaving you unfiltered, vulnerable, as raw as the feeling surging within you. It seemed to be all the incentive he needed. Without another word, Vander carried you up the stairs, each step slow and deliberate, as though savoring the anticipation. His office wasn’t anything grand—just a small, wooden room with a simple, scratched-up desk, its surface covered in scribbles and doodles from your youngest, a reminder of the life you’d built here amidst the chaos.
But the moment the door clicked shut behind you, none of that mattered. The world outside faded entirely as you felt your back press into the wooden paneling. Vander’s broad chest pressed against yours, his warmth enveloping you, grounding you. Your legs stayed locked firmly around his waist, keeping him close, while your arms tightened around his shoulders, pulling him in as though letting go might make him disappear.
His lips found yours again, this time hungrier, more desperate. There was no hesitation in the way his hands slid up your sides, memorizing every curve, as though reassuring himself you were still here. And you needed him just as much—primal, all-consuming. Every inch of him.
Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, earning you a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned into you, his strength overwhelming but never overbearing, as if even now, he was holding back just enough to keep you from breaking. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not now.
“Vander,” you breathed against his lips, your voice laced with urgency.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your heart race. “I’m here,” he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours for a brief, grounding moment.
That moment was all too brief, though, as his lips returned to your neck, trailing kisses along the sensitive skin that made your breath hitch and your knees feel weak—even though you weren’t standing. His hands gripped your hips firmly, anchoring you to him as his movements became more insistent, more certain.
You tilted your head back, letting the tension of the day melt away under his touch, letting yourself get lost in him. Because in this moment, nothing else mattered. Not the threats, not the fears, not the looming uncertainty of tomorrow. He took hungry advantage to the access to your neck, nipping at the tender skin there, which in turn sent electric shock through and down your spine.
“Beautiful…” he whispered into your skin, “absolutely breath-taking.”
“Could say the same about you.” Your grin was large, breath quickening with every movement of his lips against the flesh of your neck. He pulled away only slightly, a mix of emotions on his face.
“Even after all this time, Love?” He asked, his voice gravelly and heavy with feeling. His voice tinged with playful self-deprecation, though his smirk gave away the spark of mischief in his tone. “With the ‘dad-bod’, as you say, and the gray hair?”
“Always.” You affirm with a smile, leaning in so your lips were just a whisper away from his. “Especially with the dad-bod and the gray hair.”
Your words made him chuckle, the sound deep and warm, but it quickly turned into a low growl as your fingers trailed down from his face, over his broad chest, and settled at his belt. You tugged at it deliberately, your lips curving into a smirk of your own. “Now, get those damn pants off and come here,” you commanded, your voice husky with need.
His grin widened, eyes darkening as he stepped back just enough to comply, his hands placing you down onto your own feet to undo his belt with practiced ease. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he rumbled, his tone equal parts amusement and desire.
“Don’t act like you don’t love it,” you shot back, pulling our shirt over your head and leaning back against the door, watching him with a mixture of affection and anticipation.
He let the belt drop to the floor with a heavy clink, his hands now working the button and zipper as he shrugged out of his suspenders. “Oh, I love it,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes raked over you. “Almost as much as I love the thought of filling you.” His words sent a rush of warm blood through to your cheeks, even after all these years together. The air between you crackled with heat, the playful banter giving way to something far more intense as the space between you disappeared again. His pants hit the floor, and before you could quip back, his hands were on you—gripping your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours with a fervor that left you breathless. “And Gods, do I need to fill you.”
With a somewhat shaky hand on his chest, you gently pushed him towards his desk, his body easily and smoothly following your guiding as he found himself leaning against the wooden piece of furniture.
“First,” you began, slowly falling to your knees in front of him, “let someone else take care of you for a change.”
You run your tongue slowly along his length, ensuring he’s well-lubricated and ready before diving into the real effort. Once satisfied, you let your lips glide from the base to the tip in one smooth motion, preparing him—not just physically, but teasingly, setting the tone. His sharp exhale of approval sends a wave of heat through you, a rush of endorphins mingling with your anticipation. That sound, that subtle reaction, only fuels your desire to push further, to see what other noises you can coax from him.
“Fuck,” he sighs as you start to really work, moving the hand at the base in tandem with your mouth as you begin to slowly bob your head up and down, your tongue pressing along the underside of his shaft. His breathing is already deeper, more measured, and he shifts lower, trying to tilt his hips further into your mouth. You could, honestly, listen to the sounds of his moan all day.
Spitting into your hand, you used the combination of saliva and precum to begin pumping his cock while you eagerly took in the full view of the man above you. Chest rising and falling in staggered breaths, Vander’s head was fallen back as he grips the edge of his desk with one hand and the other moves to your hair, carefully gathering it and holding the strands out of your face.
“Bleedin’—fucking hell—” he choked out, his voice rough and raw as you lowered your head, taking him as deep as you could manage. His length felt heavy on your tongue, the warmth of him filling your mouth completely as you worked yourself closer to the base.
When the tip of him brushed against the back of your throat, the sound he let out shifted from a groan to something primal, a deep, guttural noise that sent a shiver down your spine. His reaction only fueled your determination, and you relished the way he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure.
You managed a couple of steady bobs, finding a rhythm, but that softness didn’t last long. His grip tightened, firm and commanding, as if his control had snapped entirely. He thrust into your mouth with a force that sent your head back slightly, his hips moving instinctively, hungrily, as though he couldn’t hold back any longer.
The sheer intensity of it left you breathless, but you braced yourself, meeting his pace with as much control as you could muster. This wasn’t just passion—it was raw, consuming need.
It wasn’t long until you felt a distinct pressure at the base of your skull, his hands-carefully with an edge of urgency-removing you from his shaft and lifting you to your feet. Dutifully, you obey, letting him guide you with a firm grasp on the strands of hair in his hand as he moves you back around, gently moving you atop the desk. Hurried hands rid you of your pants and underwear as you take your perch, and for a moment, the coolness of the wood felt unpleasant. But he’s quick to warm you with the heat emanating from his body as he stepped between your legs.
“Gods, I love that mouth of yours.” He all but croons. His voice like butter to your ears and you have to physically try and focus your mind to not just fall to your knees for him all over again. His presence between your legs, however, keeps you present as he lines himself up to the warm, dripping slit between your legs. “But you know damn well which of your holes I prefer.”
You didn’t mean to let out the desperate whine that ripped from your throat. But as he slid into you, filling you so entirely, that whine turned into a breathless gasp. He took his time filling you, letting both of you fall whole-heartedly into the pleasure. His hands were moving, sliding up from your hips and along your sides to grasp your tits, busying himself to not get lost in the warmth of your cunt and how it seemed to take him perfectly. But you were too busy to focus on his hands, suddenly flooded with the sense of feeling intensely full. “Fuck…”
He shushed you gently, like a tender kiss to your hair as his hands continued to play with the mounds on your chest. “Hush my love, wouldn’t want the little ones to overhear.” His strong hands roam your body, caressing your curves possessively. He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth as he presses his warm body against yours.
As he begins to move, you move your face into his chest, letting the soft muscle muffle your downright sinful sounds. Vander, however, continues to whisper into your ear, hands moving down to your hips. "Gods you feel so good…” he murmurs, “need that cunt so bad, all of you. Every damned inch.”
You’re clinging to him now, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as he thrusts in and out of you. Vander’s eyes watched you intently, concentrating on studying the way your body reacted to his thrusts, how you bounced and quivered with his movements, all while he became drunk on the very feeling of you.
Knowing you were both nearing your limits, his movements became even harder and faster, almost animalistic, as he fucked every thought out of your mind, your brain completely blank, pleasure becoming the only thing that occupied your thoughts. His body leaned into yours, forcing you to lay down across the surface of the now creaking desk, your face pressed into his shoulder as his hands traced over to your knees. Well-versed in this, you let your flexibility take over as he maneuvered you into a breeding press, his hips now thrusting into with reckless pleasure.
“Need to fill you, breed you.” He groaned into your skin, voice deep enough that the tone was enough to make your walls clench around him, in turn making him let out a wolf-like growl. “Yeah? You like that? Want me to breed you, love?”
The two of you had discussed this so many times, both within the warmth of the bedroom and outside it. The thought of having your own child—your own little one to nurture, to love, and to watch grow—had always been a dream, but a complicated one. You had both agreed that another mouth to feed wasn’t something you could afford, not when the weight of raising the children you already had was such a burden. They were your joy, your reason for everything, yet the reality of your lives felt too fragile to invite another little one into it. There was also the truth of your years, the undeniable fact that time had a way of changing things.
Didn’t stop the breeding kink from being hot as fuck, though.
“Gods, yes, please!” You cry out, trying desperately to not carry your volume too high. “Vander, please, I need it.” Your horny brain has fully taken over at this point. “I wanna feel it.”
“Cum for me, Love.” He grunts, droplets of sweat rolling down his body. “I’m right there with you, just…fuck, please, I need to feel you cum around my cock.”
Your climax crashes into you at his words, and this obliterates him. Crumpling into a mess of guttural groans, Vander plunges into you one final time and Gods, it’s like you’re seeing the stars again.
As you both lay there, tangled in a chaotic blend of sweat and breathless sighs, your mind, hazy and clouded by desire, can only vaguely register the sensation of him trailing soft, tender kisses along the curve of your collarbones. Each gentle touch, each lingering kiss, sends a shiver through your body, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment as you struggle to catch your breath. Your arms instinctively move up, draping around his shoulders as you nestle deeper into the comfort of his warmth. The stillness of the moment is almost enough to make you forget the mess you’ll have to deal with soon, but it’s there, lingering at the back of your mind.
‘I… needed that,’ he admits softly, his voice low and filled with a quiet satisfaction. You can’t help the burst of laughter that escapes you, the sound light and playful.
‘No shit,’ you tease, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
He lifts his head then, his eyes meeting yours with a kind of tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Without warning, he presses his lips to yours in a kiss that’s deep and heated, pulling a soft moan from your throat. The kiss leaves you breathless, the sensation of his mouth on yours stirring something within you that lingers even as the moment fades.
As he pulls away, Vander’s gaze has softened, his eyes tender and filled with a depth that never fails to make your heart skip a beat. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as gentle as ever.
“I love you,” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he speaks too loudly. You can feel the sincerity in his words, a truth that has been woven into the very fabric of your lives together.
You smile, the warmth in your chest spreading, and you press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I love you, too, Vander. More than you’ll ever know.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you closer, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Nothing else matters, not the worries of tomorrow, not the world outside. There is only this—the soft exchange of love, shared in the stillness of your hearts.
He rests his forehead against yours, his breath slow and steady, matching the rhythm of your own. “I don’t think I could ever get enough of hearing you say that,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
You chuckle softly, a sound that feels like it’s part of the warmth between you both. “Then I’ll say it every day, if I have to.”
And in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you and his heart laid bare, you know you’ve found your home.
This is a sequel story to City of Iron and Glass! This chapter, or the story that will follow sadly won’t make any sense without the context of that story.
As you’ll see, this story will largely follow the events of the show. However, that doesn’t mean everything is staying the same >:)
Masterlist
A tavern. The Last Drop, as the bold lettering on the sign proclaimed. Not just a bar but a sprawling space that seemed to grow the longer you looked. The main hall was vast, with polished wooden counters and sturdy tables scattered about. High above, iron chandeliers hung like industrial constellations. Off to the side, a maze of hidden tunnels promised endless adventure for the children. Behind the tavern lay a house-sized apartment, complete with office space, a workshop for you, and separate rooms for each child. It was more than you’d dared to hope for—in every way but one.
“A bar?” you murmured, unable to hide the apprehension in your voice.
He didn’t falter, his grin softening into something more earnest. “It’s not just a bar, Min. Look closer,” he said, gesturing around the space. “This is more than just a place to drink. It’s a home. It’s a place for the community. For us.”
“I just… I don’t want them to grow up thinking this is all there is,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want them to have a chance at something better.”
“And they will,” Vander said, stepping closer and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Because we’ll show them how to build it. Here, where it matters. Where we can make a difference."
Your eyes swept across the room again, taking in the details you’d missed in your initial shock. The sturdy booths in the corner, perfect for quiet conversations. The wide-open space where the kids could run without fear. The private apartment in the back, designed with care and consideration.
His conviction was palpable, and it was hard not to be swept up in it. You sighed, nodding slowly. “Okay,” you said, though the hesitation lingered. “But it’s going to take a lot of work.”
Vander’s grin returned, this time accompanied by a wink. “Good thing we’re not afraid of a little hard work, eh?”
It wasn’t much, but you’d made it your home. Now, the bar—the infamous Last Drop—was the bustling epicenter of the Fissures. Both home and workplace for you and your now-husband. But more than that, it was the closest thing the Undercity had to a town hall and council tower, all rolled into one increasingly grungy building. One of the first things you’d installed was the pool tables, a place for people to hang out and chat. But the booths were for business, like the Undercity’s personal offices.
As he’d promised, The Last Drop wasn’t just a place to grab a drink; it was a lifeline. Deals were struck here, alliances forged, and disputes settled over pints of ale and the steady clack of billiard balls. It had become a refuge for the weary and a stage for the powerful, a space where the lines between home, workplace, and community blurred until they were one and the same. Vander’s vision of a place where the Undercity could gather, plan, and grow had come to life in these walls.
Tonight was a pretty usual night by crowd standards, busy enough to keep you on your toes. Not that you’d ever complain—lord knows you needed the money. Slamming down a crate of booze from the pantry, you wiped the sweat from your brow, flinging your long-grown hair out of your face. Gone were the days of your choppy short haircuts… those were saved for your children these days.
The bar thrummed with life. Regulars occupied their usual stools, their laughter mingling with the occasional outburst of an argument at the card tables. In the back, the booths were full of shadowy figures engaged in low murmurs—business of some kind, though you knew better than to pry. The jukebox—a salvaged relic Vander had restored—crooned a soothing melody that seemed to ground the chaos in a strange harmony. You glanced toward Vander, who was busy pouring drinks and trading hearty laughs with a group of miners fresh off their shift. He looked so at ease, so in his element, and it filled you with a quiet pride. This place, this grungy, vibrant heartbeat of the Undercity, was a testament to everything you’d built together.
Your eyes glanced up at the regular in front of you, and a familiar smile spread across your face. “Sevika!” you exclaimed, quickly getting to work preparing drink orders, your hands moving with the precision of years of practice. “Always a face I like to see. What can I get for you?”
Her muscles heaved as she laid down a pair of rusted mining gauntlets on the bar. The loud ‘thunk’ was enough to catch the attention of a couple of patrons nearby, and you paused for a moment, your eyes scanning the metal in front of you. The gauntlets were in terrible shape, cracked and worn in several places, barely holding together.
“The gauntlets work gave me are shit!” she exclaimed, reaching into her pocket to pull out a cigar. “Look at ‘em! You think I can do any work with these?”
You huffed, frustrated, and placed a glass of ale in front of the man who’d ordered it without so much as a glance. Continuing your well-practiced dance around the bar, you swiped up the heavy gauntlets with one hand, spinning them as you inspected their surface.
Sevika had grown into quite a broad-shouldered woman with sharp, calculating eyes, exuding an air of gruff confidence. Her dark bangs often fell into her face, only to be flicked back with practiced ease. She wore her scars like trophies, a testament to years of fighting and surviving in the Undercity.
“They’re getting sloppy in their neglect,” you agreed, nodding. “I’m gonna have to scrap most of this to get anything even remotely functional. What did you do with the old ones I made for you?”
Sevika rolled her eyes as she lit her cigar, flicking her dark bangs out of her face with practiced ease. “Some bullshit,” she muttered.
You hummed, the sound almost a laugh, then sent the gauntlets flying up to the second floor with a casual toss. “Seems to be a popular excuse for you these days, Sev. I’m gonna run out of cast iron before you give me a proper reason for all the metal I spend on you!”
Before you could complain too much more, she reached into her back pocket and slapped down a bag that jingled with coin. The sound caught your attention, and you gave her a small, approving nod before pocketing it.
“What can I get you to drink, Sev?” you asked, leaning back slightly as you caught your breath.
“The usual,” she replied, taking a long drag from her cigar. Without missing a beat, you reached for the moonshine. As you did, you felt a familiar large, warm hand on the small of your back that immediately drew your attention. As you poured the drink, Vander leaned and whispered into your ear, “Family meeting. Tonight. For now, gonna keep an eye on Huck.”
His tone told you everything you needed to know. Something was up. Ever the telepath, Sevika cocked an eyebrow at your exchange as Vander walked around you to the other side of the bar.
“That about the chaos happening topside?” Sevika asked, blowing a plume of smoke in your face. As you placed your last glass order on the tray, ready to take it out to the tables, you took a moment to lean against the counter across from one of your oldest friends. Even though the days of the fighting pits had long passed following Vander’s retirement, you always appreciated Sevika’s loyalty to the fight, even when she wasn’t beating the living daylights out of you two.
“Something to share with the class?” you asked, extending your hand. She handed you the cigar.
“Big explosion, some kind of fancy lab apparently. It’s got the Academy and the council with their panties in a twist.” You couldn’t help but let out a scoff as you began to breathe in the scorching bitterness of the cigar.
“Academy, huh? One of those fancy-pants students does something stupid and the Enforcers look to blame us somehow, huh?” you asked, the words flowing out of your mouth with a gust of dark smoke.
“That’s just it,” Sevika leaned in closer, “word in the mines is this wasn’t Academy work. And four shabby-looking children were seen running from the scene and across the bridge, giving the Enforcers a run for their money.” There was a familiar troubling glint in her eyes. “Remind you of some young people we know?”
Your blood ran cold, and your hand paused halfway to your lips. Before you could even take the huff, a string of curses in your mother tongue tumbled out from under your breath.
“Thought you’d say that,” she said, skillfully taking the cigar from your fingers. “May want to keep an eye on those kids of yours, Min. They take after you and Vander a little too much, if you ask me.”
“Oh, trust me,” you huffed, grabbing your tray and stepping out from behind the bar. “I’m well aware.”
As you made your rounds, placing drinks to their respective customers, your eyes trailed to the nearby booth where Huck, a small man with big, round, glasses and a newcomer to your ranks, sat alongside two gruff-looking Traders. The conversation seemed to not be going well from Huck’s perspective, the little man sweating bullets and shoving a bag of coin back in the direction of the Traders.
Then one of them pulled out a dagger.
Now, weapons weren’t not allowed in your bar, but fighting…that was another story. You were about to jump into action, moving to shelf the tray of drinks, when Vander appeared at the table, almost like clockwork.
Vander, through your eyes, was a man transformed by the weight of years and the burdens he bore. In your memories of the old days, he was leaner, scrappier—his sharp jawline unmarred by the beard he now wore like a badge of wisdom. His arms, though strong even then, lacked the sheer bulk they carried now, built by years of hard labor and holding the Undercity together. Back then, his eyes burned with reckless defiance, a fire that matched the unruly mop of his hair. Now, that fire had softened into a steady, smoldering warmth, tempered by loss and responsibility.
The Vander of today bore scars he didn’t in those memories, not all of them visible. His frame had grown broader, his hands calloused from years of building, fighting, and protecting. The man who once thrived in chaos had become the embodiment of stability—his wide shoulders seemingly built to carry the weight of the entire Undercity. Yet, in quiet moments, you could still glimpse the younger man you’d fallen for, hiding behind the weathered mask of the protector he’d become.
Your eyes drifted to his forearm, where a worn leather brace held his arm snugly, concealing the scars beneath. The sight sent a pang through your chest—a wound that time had barely managed to dull. Memories of the incident flickered at the edges of your mind, unwelcome but persistent. You swallowed them down and refocused on the present.
The tension in the air crackled, his irritation radiating in waves. The heat of the conversation hadn’t faded from his stance, and the warning glint in his eye showed no signs of dulling. Sensing the moment stretching thin, you adjusted your grip on the tray, shifting its weight to one hand.
“A piece of advice,” your husband said, his tone light but edged with steel. “Don’t threaten the guy that pours the drinks.”
As if rehearsed, your free hand shot out in a fluid motion, fingers catching the hilt of the female trader’s dagger mid-air. The blade never reached its intended target. In the same breath, you sent it spinning from your grasp, its pointed edge embedding with a resounding thud in the wooden wall between her and Huck.
The room stilled, every eye darting toward the dagger quivering in the woodgrain. A beat passed, the Trader’s stunned faces whipping toward you in unison, then taking in the bar as a whole. Everyone was staring back at them, hands on their respective weapons. You responded with a slow, deliberate smile—warm and disarming, as if you hadn’t just neutralized a threat with practiced ease. With that, you turned on your heel, carrying the tray back toward the bar, leaving behind a silence thick and the faint tang of adrenaline in the air.
As you moved back toward the bar, the weight of their stares pressed against your back. It wasn’t unfamiliar—moments like these had become second nature over the years. Vander’s establishment, while a sanctuary for most, sometimes drew the wrong sort of attention. And that’s where you came in.
Vander had long since hung up his gloves, now hanging above the bar like a taxidermied deer head. Trading fists and fury for tankards and quiet resolve. The leader of a movement now settled into the role of a caretaker, he carried the weight of the Underground’s struggles in his steady hands. But peace came at a cost, and while Vander’s reputation kept most trouble at bay, there were always those too young, too reckless, or too arrogant to respect the man behind the bar.
That’s where the partnership worked.
You were the shadow to his steady presence, the sharp edge to his soft diplomacy. Where Vander sought compromise, you delivered consequences—swift and undeniable. He didn’t have to ask; you understood the line he walked, the weight of his need to keep the peace. And he trusted you to ensure that peace held firm, even if it meant taking up the violence he’d sworn to leave behind.
It wasn’t a role you’d ever expected to fill, but somewhere along the way, probably thanks to your history, it had become second nature. Equal partners, but in different ways. He handled the words, the diplomacy, the broader picture, while you handled the moments when words failed.
As you slid the tray back onto the counter, Vander’s gaze met yours from across the room. His brow furrowed in faint concern, a silent question in the tilt of his head. You answered with a subtle nod, a wordless assurance that everything was under control.
He exhaled, a soft sigh of relief, and you knew he trusted you completely. And why wouldn’t he? In this unspoken dance between the two of you, the roles were clear, the balance perfectly struck. He was the anchor, and you were the storm—two halves of the same whole, working to keep their fragile world intact.
Your moment of assurance was pulled away when the doors to the bar opened again. Rather than more patrons, however, in came four little heads, barely visible in the crowd. Vander and Vi locked eyes for a moment, barely a glance, before she lowered her head and hurried her shuffling through the crowd towards the apartment in the back that you all called home.
Well if that wasn’t an admission of guilt…
Your eyes locked with Sevika, who was watching this unhold with a studying gaze.
“Next drink on the house tomorrow if you help us close up for the night?” You asked, a pleading note to your voice.
“Make it three drinks.” She huffed, a cloud of smoke blowing out her nostrils like a dragon.
“Two.”
“Deal.”
***
It took the three of you all of ten minutes to get people paid and packed up. The moment patrons caught sight of the kids lingering near the edges of the room, most had gotten the message, hurriedly downing the rest of their drinks and calling it a night. You offered apologies as you went, though they were met with waves of dismissal. Many of them were parents themselves, quick to understand the situation and gracious in their departure. For that, you were endlessly thankful.
Once the last of the stragglers filtered out into the night, you leaned against the bar with a sigh, sparing a glance at the kids. A familiar warmth tugged at your chest, the kind that only they could inspire. Still, there was a recurring prayer that left your lips often, a silent entreaty to Mikael and your mother—how in the hell had they managed the four of you?
Four kids, each with a wild streak a mile wide. It must have been chaos, pure and unrelenting. And yet here you were, walking the same path they had, the echoes of your own childhood now played out in your day-to-day.
Not that you regretted a single moment of it.
The truth was, you loved your kids more than anything else in this world. From the moment they entered your lives, that love had been as fierce and unwavering as the tides. It was the kind of love that didn’t question, that didn’t hesitate. You would fight for them, bleed for them, die for them—and, if necessary, kill for them—without a second thought.
Parenting, you’d come to realize, was its own kind of adventure. An uncharted journey full of highs and lows, triumphs and mistakes, moments of wonder and sheer exhaustion. Watching them grow into their own people—each developing their own quirks, interests, strengths, and flaws—was unlike anything else you’d ever known.
It was amazing, really, though the word barely scratched the surface. No, it was more than that. It was profound, life-altering. An experience that changed you in ways you hadn’t thought possible, leaving you simultaneously humbled and awestruck at the enormity of it all.
And yet, as you watched one of the younger ones stifle a yawn, leaning sleepily against their sibling, you couldn’t help but smile. Parenthood might be chaos, but it was your chaos, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
That doesn’t mean you didn’t want to kill them sometimes.
As you and Vander crashed through the door to the little apartment that worked as the combination pantry and family gathering room, the room seemed to shake as four pairs of eyes flew up towards you.
"Everyone alright?" Vander’s voice broke through the chaos as you rushed down the stairs, your eyes scanning each of the kids for signs of injury. The familiar, jarring marks of a brawl—bruises, scrapes, and cuts—were written across their faces and limbs. You exhaled, relief coursing through you as you spotted Powder first. She stood trembling in the corner, wide-eyed and small, her messy blue hair sticking out at odd angles. Gone was the infant you had once seen crawl across the floor of her parents' cramped studio apartment. Now she was all elbows and knees, her limbs long and awkward, always in motion. Though her scrappiness was undeniable, you saw the girl who was still very much a child beneath the bravado, and you were thankful she seemed unharmed.
Your gaze shifted quickly, instinctively, to Claggor. The eldest of the group, your unexpected son. After the Bridge incident, when you and Vander had taken Powder and Vi in, Claggor had shown up a few days later, checking in on his cousins. His aunt had been the one caring for him, but a stray piece of shrapnel had torn through her during the conflict. She wasn’t even officially on the front lines. And that had been that—Claggor had joined your makeshift family without question, and though his quiet demeanor often made him seem older than his years, he had fit in seamlessly.
Now, kneeling next to him, you gently pushed his goggles up—once a fixture in your workshop, now more often used as spectacles—to reveal a nasty black eye. "Oh, my darlings," you muttered, your voice thick with concern as you hurried to the icebox to grab an ice pack.
The room around you seemed to sigh with familiarity, the mismatched couches and ragged armchairs arranged haphazardly around a low, battered table—each mark a testimony to the years you’d spent in this space. The dim lighting gave everything a soft, inviting glow, and the flickering shadows whispered of nights just like this one. Every crack in the walls, every corner worn smooth by time, told a story: of laughter, of hardship, of growth. It was small, humble, and perhaps not what you’d ever imagined for yourself, but it was home—your home, and theirs.
"Never better..." Mylo grumbled, sinking deeper into the worn chair beneath him, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was raspy, barely audible over the hum of the room. His deflection was classic Mylo—gruff on the outside, but you knew the layers beneath.
Much like Claggor, Mylo had been an unexpected addition to your family—but his story was... different. More personal.
After the Bridge, when everything had fallen apart, you’d found yourself volunteering at the makeshift hospital Dr. Yan had set up to tend to the wounded. You had been there, sorting through the chaos, offering what help you could, when you met Mylo’s father. A man who reminded you so much of Mikael—gentle, kind, and resilient in the face of the violence surrounding him. The two of you had spent hours talking, bonding over the quiet moments, the kind of shared history that could only be forged in the fires of war. But then, as often happens in places like that, things had gone awry.
An infection, unnoticed and unchecked in the frenzy of the overcrowded infirmary, had spread through him, and despite your best efforts, there was nothing to be done. He was gone too soon, leaving behind a five-year-old boy who had no one.
That had been the hardest part—watching the life drain from a good man, and knowing the ripple effect it would have. It was like losing your own parents all over again, so soon after burying what was left of their remains in the river. But the pain of that loss only deepened when Mylo was left orphaned and alone, with nowhere to turn.
At that point, you and Vander were already stretched thin. The tavern was barely holding together, and the kids were growing, needing more. The Mines were on the verge of losing Vander, too, as the chem-barons started cutting ties. Yet, despite it all, you both knew one thing for sure: you couldn’t turn away a child in need. You couldn’t leave him out there, abandoned and vulnerable, just because life was already hard enough.
So you took him in.
And despite the weight it added to your already full plates, despite the tightness in your chest whenever you saw Mylo’s hollow, haunted eyes, you never once regretted it. He was family. And there was no turning back once you'd made that choice. As you knelt down next to him, spotting some particularly bad bruising on his forearm, he wanked his arm away from you. Ever the drama queen.
Vander marched down the stairs, his movements deliberate and controlled, his shoulders squared with the kind of resolve that only years of leadership could shape. As he descended, his gaze flicked over each of his children, his eyes narrowing with growing concern. “I don’t suppose you can explain why it is that I’m hearing about an explosion and a foot chase topside? Four children fleeing the scene…” His voice was low, the weight of his disappointment settling in the room. He paused behind Violet, his eldest, almost a grown woman now. She was a tomboy through and through—ripped jeans, scraped knees, and a defiant streak that matched her fiery spirit. The fearless leader of your little band of misfits.
Violet stood out amongst the kids—not just because of her leadership, but because she was the spitting image of her mother. Every day, she was a reminder of the promises you’d made to them long ago, promises that still lived within the depth of your heart.
“What were you thinking?” Vander finally huffed, the words heavy with both concern and frustration, after a long, pregnant pause.
“That we can handle a real job!” Violet exclaimed, her voice thick with frustration as she pulled her knees up to her chest, slumping further into the corner. The fire in her tone made it clear she wasn’t backing down, but the tension in her posture suggested an underlying fear she couldn’t quite shake.
“A real job?” Vander’s eyebrows furrowed, a mix of disbelief and worry flooding his expression.
“We got our own tip, planned a route, nobody even saw!” Violet was quick to explain, her voice rising slightly with the kind of conviction that made you proud but also terrified.
“Well, clearly someone saw.” You tutted, your tone soft yet pointed.
Vander’s sigh was deep, the sound heavy with annoyance and concern. “You blew up a building.” His voice was matter-of-fact, as if the severity of her actions should have been obvious.
“That wasn’t—” Violet started, but Vander cut her off, his tone sharp.
“Did you even stop to think about what could have happened to you? Eh?” He motioned to the rest of the kids, his gaze shifting over to Mylo, Claggor, and Powder. “To them?”
Violet straightened her shoulders, the defiance returning as she opened her mouth to retort, eager to defend herself. But then, as if struck by the weight of her father’s words, she hesitated. The fire in her eyes dimmed slightly, her resolve faltering. Slowly, she curled back into herself, pulling her knees tighter to her chest, her fist coming up to her lips as her gaze drifted to the side, avoiding Vander’s piercing eyes. The bravado evaporated, leaving her looking like the young girl she was—vulnerable, conflicted, and unsure of how to reconcile her actions with the love and protection her family offered. Vander massages the bridge of his nose.
“You’re too young to be working jobs on your own,” you explain, your tone gentle yet firm as you crouch beside Mylo, gently urging him to let you examine his injuries. After several moments of coaxing, he finally allows you to take a look. “You’re not ready for that kind of danger and responsibility.”
Vander watches the interaction closely, his brow furrowed in thought. “Where did you even get this tip?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with concern.
No one answers immediately, the room hanging in tense silence. Then, finally, Powder’s small voice breaks the quiet.
“We just… heard it at Benzo’s shop.”
Benzo, you curse, biting back a roll of your eyes.
“From?” Vander presses, his tone sharper this time.
Powder swallows hard, her gaze flickering between the two of you and Violet nervously before she speaks. “Little Man…”
Oh good, you think, another child putting themselves in harm’s way. Not that you’d expect anything less from the relentless spitfire that was Little Ekko.
Vander sighs deeply, his disappointment evident, but before he can launch into a lecture, Violet steps forward. She stands tall, her jaw set, and her gaze unwavering as she meets Vander’s gaze head-on. “I took us there,” she says firmly, her voice clear and resolute. “If you wanna be mad, be mad at me! But you're the one who always says we have to earn our place in this world!”
The air between them crackles with tension. Their gazes do not break from one another. Vander’s lips press into a thin line, his frustration evident as he contemplates Violet’s words. Despite his disapproval, he knows she isn’t entirely wrong. The weight of her defiance lingers in the air, but the spark in her eyes—so much like his own—gives him pause. He’s proud of her, even if he’s angry.
“Everyone out.” Vander’s voice is firm, a command more than a suggestion. The younger children, sensing the shift in tone, quickly begin to filter out of the room, their footsteps light but reluctant as they avoid the tension in the air. Powder lingers for a moment, glancing up at her sister, before following the others, leaving you and Vander alone.
You step closer to your husband, the quiet weight of the moment pressing down on both of you. With a soft but purposeful movement, you press your hand gently into his arm. Your gaze meets his, steady and understanding, the silent plea clear between you both. Go easy on her.
Vander’s shoulders tense for a moment, his jaw clenched in the familiar struggle between his protective instincts and the harsh realities of the world. He looks down at you, the storm of emotions in his eyes slowly quieting as he reads the depth of your unspoken words. With a deep, resigned sigh, he lets the tension leave his body, his head dipping slightly.
“I know,” he mutters, his voice softer now.
You give Vander’s arm one last reassuring squeeze, grounding him for just a moment before you turn and follow the kids out of the room. The hallway feels quieter than usual, but the tension still clings to the air. Claggor slumps down onto the stairs, his tired body heavy as he holds the ice pack to his blackened eye. Mylo flings himself lazily against the wall, his posture exasperated, and Powder stays close to your shadow, her small form seeking comfort in your presence.
You pause for a moment, taking a steadying breath before speaking. "You’re sure you’re all okay?" you ask, one hand lowering to gently ruffle Powder’s messy hair, the action instinctive and soothing.
“We’re fine,” Mylo huffs, but there’s a noticeable edge to his voice. “Why is Vi getting reamed out? We were all there!”
You let out a quiet sigh, your breath held in the weight of it all as you take a deep breath, trying to keep the peace. You give Powder’s hair another ruffle, offering her some comfort. “Violet’s the oldest, which means she looks after you guys the most. You know that.”
“But it was all our faults,” Claggor agrees, his voice soft but resolute. “She doesn’t deserve to get yelled at just because we follow her.”
You offer a half-smile, looking at them with quiet affection before turning to challenge them. “Who says she’s getting yelled at?”
“Vander seemed really mad…” Powder mutters, her hands stuffed into her pockets as she keeps her eyes on the floor, a little too nervous to meet your gaze.
You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the conversation light despite the weight of it. “Hell,” Mylo interrupts, stepping forward with fire in his eyes, “if anyone should be getting yelled at, it’s her!” He jabs a finger in the direction of the littlest child, and Powder flinches at the sharpness of his words.
“Mylo!” Claggor barks, his voice raising in defense of his younger sister. “Quit it already.”
You feel the tension tightening, the rising conflict, and for a brief moment, everything slows. You look down at Powder, your gaze turning inquisitive as you weigh the situation, your mind quickly working through the pieces of the puzzle. “Woah, woah, what happened?”
The hallway falls into a charged silence after your stern interruption, Mylo glaring down at Powder, his jaw set in frustration. His voice breaks the quiet first.
“She goes off on her own, then a big explosion happens? That’s one hell of a coincidence,” he accuses, his tone sharp. “She’s always messing up jobs, and she never has to face any of the consequences! Then when shit hits the fan, she runs away and loses our haul!”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Powder snaps back, her small hands clenched into fists at her sides. “And I told you, I tried to fight back!”
The tension detonates. Mylo raises his voice, Powder yells louder in defense, and Claggor steps in, his own protests escalating until the hallway echoes with their overlapping arguments. The noise grows into chaos, and you’ve had enough.
“Hey!” Your voice cuts through the din like a blade, sharp and commanding. The arguing ceases immediately, and all three children snap their eyes toward you. You stand tall, your arms crossed, your expression steely—a look Vander had once said was the spitting image of your mother’s infamous glare.
“All of you, stop it. This is not how you communicate with people,” you scold, your voice calm but firm. Your gaze settles on Powder first, softening just a touch. “Pow-Pow, I’ll be talking with you separately. Go ahead for now; I’ll find you later.”
Powder hesitates, her blue eyes flicking to her brothers and then back to you. She looks small, fragile in her apprehension, but with a quiet nod, she slips away toward the back door without another word.
Your attention shifts to Mylo, and your stern expression hardens again. You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “You, on the other hand…what the hell, Mylo? She’s a kid. Take it easy on her.”
Mylo scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Everyone always says to take it easy on her just ’cause she’s the baby! She’s not going to learn that way, you know.”
“And she’s not going to learn with you getting on her case every time she messes up,” you counter, your voice unwavering. You motion toward the door Powder just walked through. “I get that you’re angry. We’ve all had jobs go sideways. But dividing your team in a bad moment? That’s going to sow resentment that’ll bite you later. Trust me on that.”
Mylo stands there, his jaw working as he absorbs your words in reluctant silence. Sensing a shift, you uncross your arms and step closer, placing a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t brush it away, though his expression remains stormy.
“You want to know why Vander is talking to Vi separately?” you ask, your tone softening. “It’s because he knows what it’s like to have everyone looking up to him, just like Vi has you guys looking up to her. He’s making sure she knows what she’s doing so none of you get hurt. It’s a big responsibility, Mylo. And it’s not easy. That’s why you’ve got to trust her—and us—to handle things like discipline. You have a problem, bring it up with us. But don’t start lecturing unless you’re ready to take on everything that comes with being a leader. Got it?”
His defiance cracks just a little, his eyes falling to the floor. “Fine…” he mumbles after a long moment.
You give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before pulling him into a tight hug. At first, he stiffens, his dramatic nature still bristling, but then he slowly relaxes and wraps his arms around you.
Extending one arm, you wave Claggor over, and he joins the hug wordlessly, sinking into the warmth of your embrace. You press a gentle kiss to each of their heads, your heart swelling with affection despite the chaos of the day.
“I’m so proud of you guys for trying to step up, okay?” you murmur, your voice soft but sincere. “Just…maybe talk to us next time before you go remaking our teenage mistakes.”
As the chaos begins to settle, replaced with an uneasy peace, the door behind you creaks open again. Vander steps out, his presence filling the space like a tidal wave, a lumpy burlap sack slung over one broad shoulder. His sharp eyes sweep over the three of you, lingering briefly on each of the children before coming to rest on you.
“Everything alright out here?” he asks, his gravelly voice tinged with an edge of exhaustion.
You let go of the boys with a final squeeze and straighten up, offering him a small, knowing smile. “Peachy,” you reply, brushing off the tension that still clung to the air.
“Good,” Vander says gruffly, though his eyes soften slightly before he turns his attention to Claggor. Without warning, he tosses the sack toward him. “Get ready, Claggor. We’re going out.”
Claggor catches it with a surprised grunt, nearly dropping it before managing to steady the weight in his arms. “Now?” he groans, his voice carrying that distinct teenage whine of someone not quite ready to accept their fate.
Vander doesn’t respond right away, instead stepping toward Mylo and deftly plucking the earhorn from his belt.
“Hey!” Mylo exclaims, his tone indignant as he fumbles to grab it back. “That’s mine!”
Vander doesn’t miss a beat, tossing the horn into the burlap sack with a clatter. His gaze pins Mylo in place, a mix of authority and challenge gleaming in his eyes. “You want to be treated like adults, right?” he asks, his voice measured but firm. “Then you should know better than to come back from a job empty-handed.”
Mylo opens his mouth to argue but seems to think better of it, crossing his arms with a dramatic huff instead. Beside him, Claggor adjusts his grip on the sack, looking somewhere between resigned and curious.
You raise an eyebrow at Vander, folding your arms as you lean back slightly against the banister. “Benzo’s?” you ask knowingly.
“Yup,” Vander replies with a curt nod, straightening the lapels of his worn jacket as if gearing up for battle. His expression hardens, and there’s a glint of something dangerous in his eyes—protectiveness laced with frustration. He turns back to the boys, his voice dropping to that low, warning tone they all know too well. “I’m gonna have a little word with your informant.”
