Ronnie

He/She┆︎writer of various articles and fanfictions

[lisssyyu]

── .✦ Who?

🠖 Mr. Fox ;; 18+ ;; He/She

🠖 ENG/PL/RU/UKR

── .✦ Social

AO3 → 01 ⮚ Ficbook → 02 ⮚ JanitorAi → 03 ⮚ Masterlist → 04

science fiction writer and collector of legends | occupies himself with gardens and obscure thoughts.

requests: Open.

Usually my texts are intense and cruel. I almost never write vulgarity, so I tend to write psychology, drama, yearning, etc. I also like to write scientific articles or thought-provoking texts, but I doubt they will be here. Enjoy!

[dominusick]

"Only by discarding our useless, primitive eyes can we perceive a new world."

[thelunaticself]

Dottore idea! For the fluff after those heavy fics, dottolings?! They're so cute. Maybe him accidentally turned into one? Would be absolutely hilarious.

Per your request, Dottore sets aside a bit of time to create a specie suitable enough to be your pet, but also distinctive enough to carry his image. You once told him there were only two things in the world that received your utmost adoration: him (of course) and the charming crows he released in your garden. And so, birth forth the-

"Dottolings!"

"What? That's ridiculous."

Not paying attention to the pouting face behind, you gather the little fluffy balls of feathers into your palms and they squeal excitedly. Your feet swing gingerly as you sit on his lap by the desk in the lab. One jumps onto his shoulder.

"It's a fitting name. I can't help but think of you whenever I see these cuties."

He scoffs.

"Is that really your view about me? Hm, whatever. I did give you the right to name them."

You turn your head to face him.

"I love them a lot! This is the best gift ever!"

His hands squeeze your waist and Dottore leans closer down to you.

"Now then. I trust that makes me overqualified for a little kiss?"

A smirk appears on his face when you tense up at the request, pulling the dottolings closer to your chest. Your feet resume their swinging as you stammer.

"But um, think about the children! They're like a few minutes old. I want to be a responsible parent."

A gloved hand comes up to cover their eyes.

"Please? I'll even make some more, perhaps, different colors this time."

You glance at the one dottoling on his shoulder. It smiles at you dumbly.

"Fine. Take care of the one on your shoulder too and we shall proceed."

Dottore clears his throat. His gruff voice echoes through the lab.

"Omega!"

Blue light flashes and Omega has teleported to stand behind the chair you two are currently sitting on. Without looking at the segment, he hands over the dottlings to the segment's palms.

"Take them to the garden and tend to them."

When Dottore flicks the last one over-the one on his shoulder, you can see Omega's mouth slightly twitches, muttering under his breathe.

"Incompetent old man."

"What was that?"

Omega clips out of the room without answering. With the distractions gone, Dottore is now free to turn you over, lay you down on the desk to stand between your knees, hands supporting your legs so they don't get sore later. As he is about to lean in, back already hunched, your hands fly up to cover his mouth.

"You asked for a small kiss! This is not small. Not at all!"

"We barely have time for each other these days. I can't help but miss you a lot."

"And I'm tired and not in the mood, okay?"

Dottore swiftly kisses your cheek.

"Apologies, let me help you get back to your room."

He hoists you up by the waist to help you sit properly on his lap again. Hands still haven't left your waist, he tilts his head, thinking.

"Pantalone has a tea collection imported from Qiaoying village. He gifted me some last dinner and I still haven't got to try them with you. Oh, and, I'll call Omega to fetch the 'dottolings' if you-"

Your lips crashing onto his interrupts the rambling. Dottore stops dead for a bit until finally regaining himself, starts returning the kiss. It is only when your back lays on the table that your tongue gets a break. His thumb swipes the saliva off your chin while you catch your breath.

"Did you not say you were tired? Don't push yourself too hard."

"I was only fooling around. Now get to work, incompetent old man."

The familiar smirk appears and his mouth latches onto yours again, your hands grip his back, making creases on the smooth blue fabric of his shirt. At some point, the elbows on both side of your head get restless. One accidentally knocks over a vial but he quickly catches it with his mouth still busy on your neck. Some drops of liquid manage to land on his hand and Dottore freezes, making you look over too.

"Is everything alright-"

Puff.

Without hands supporting your legs and torso, you fall butt first onto the floor. Instead of Dottore on top of you, a dottoling is on your lap. An angry one. You burst out laughing. The dottoling lets out some grumpy noises. Swiping the tears off the corner of your eyes, you offer a palm to him.

"I'm sure you have a reverse method, right?"

He stomps his tiny legs on your palm.

A bunch of dottolings gather in front of your kneeling figure on the green grass. Their feathers ruffle when a gush of wind passes by, red eyes shimmer under the sunlight. They jump excitely when your fingers come into contact, except the one on your shoulder. The negativity radiants strongly through his downward eye. You pick him up by the blue feather on top of his head and drop him down to join the other dottolings. You clasp your hands in front of your chest.

"Alright, Zandik. I'll randomly pick one from the group. If you manage to get me to recognize and pick you, the reverse vial is yours. If not, you're gonna stuck like this for the whole day."

Out of the disorganized squealing, a growl makes it through the noise. It is ignored as you clap your hands to get the group's attention.

"Both is a win because you get to spend time with me either way. Now, shuffle!"

Little legs run around, some bum into each other and some get pushed while your eyes are closed during the whole ordeal. They all halt when you open your eyes again. Skimming through the black and blue furs, your eyes obviously catch a jumping dottoling; nonetheless, your hand reaches out to pick up the one next to it by the top blue feather and lift it up to your face. The dottoling smiles and squeals at you dumbly. You fake a pout.

"Oops, seems like you lose, Zandik. It's a pity-"

The once jumping dottoling makes a monumental jump to land a kick at your cheek, making you yelp. You trap it in your palm mid-air.

"Why do you have to be such a mood killer?"

It only answers with another growl. Letting out a sigh, you drop the other one back down to the group and stand up.

"Let's get you back to the lab."

You cross your legs on the chair at the desk, holding a vial above the dottoling. A drop of liquid lands on his head.

Puff.

A full grown man now sits on the desk before you with an evident scowl. He swiftly gets back on his feet and scoops you up into his arms.

"You are in so much trouble."

You pinch his cheek.

"You are so cute."

"Whatever."

Seconds later, you are on the desk's surface again, gripping his hunched back. Dottore kisses your cheek on the spot he previously kicked then slides his lips down to your neck, letting out a content sigh.

"I miss you so much these days."

Before anything proceeds, your hand holds the back of his head, signaling it to stay in place.

"We need to feed the dottolings."

"For fuck's sake-"

"Don't swear at me."

Dottore clears his throat and his voice echoes through the lab again.

"Omega!"

a/n: thank you so much for this request anon i rlly need this fluff😭 poor Omega lol

[lisssyyu]

I really love Dottore 🙁🙁

[brandyrobbinsblog]

[lisssyyu]

Uhm hi, i just wanted to ask if minors are allowed to follow and read your work? I only saw the military fic and thought it was cool and interesting, and also saw that your pinned didnt say anything about minors following, so i just wanted to ask if it was okay

Hi! Yes, I think you can subscribe, there's no problem with that. I don't write NSFW, so I think my fanfiction is suitable for minors to read. I don't really understand why many people forbid minors from subscribing to and/or reading fanfiction, because even if you look at the profile of the person who subscribed to you and it says 18+, there's no guarantee that they're actually 18+. So, to answer your question: of course, you can subscribe if you like my work.

[sapphiresaphics]

Honestly, at this point I just want the anti-Caitlyn fanatics to just be fucking honest with how hypocritical they are.

“She abused vi by hitting her in the stomach!” <- proceeds to ship Ekko and Jinx despite the fact that Jinx LITERALLY kills several of his teammates and people closest to him (as indicated by his mural).

“Caitlyn gassed all of Zaun!” <- proceeds to ship Jayce and Viktor, despite the fact that Viktor LITERALLY tried to subjugate the entire world.

“The lesbian sex scene comes out of nowhere and is gross because it’s in Jinx’s cell” <- Has no problem with Jayce and Mel fucking while Viktor bleeds out and gives his blood to the Hexcore.

Seriously, fuck all of you Caitlyn-haters. You’ll go on to ship Ekko and Jinx, pardon the crimes of Viktor and Jayce, even thirst after Ambessa, Sevika, and Silco… but somehow Vi and Caitlyn getting together are the “toxic” ones? Fuck off.

I’m so sick of having to pretend there isn’t just massive homophobia and moral purity bullshit in this fandom.

[lisssyyu]

Point below zero

PAIRINGS: interceptor pilot!Caitlyn & attack pilot!Vi x transferred!newbie!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote the first part for a very long time but… it was a spontaneous idea that I really wanted to write. I'm not sure if I managed to convey all this loneliness, but I really hope so.If you have any criticism about the text, please don't hesitate to say it! I want to know how people perceive my text and make it better ;)

WARNINGS: Modern-military au ;; survivor syndrome ;; bi reader ;; angst ;; long descriptions ;; reader is not taken seriously at first ;; intrigue and omissions in the text

wc: 13k

parts: 1 ;; 2 ;; ?

The road to the new base didn’t seem long. It felt more strange than long. Stretched out, tasteless, as if time had moldy between the panes.

You sat in the back seat, buckled in, with your bag at your feet and an emptiness between your ribs. The car creaked at every turn, the shock absorbers swallowed bumps, and outside the window stretched a landscape, uniformly gray and foreign: burnt fields, sparse trees, wire looming along the edges.

Ahead, the sergeant sat silent, not turning around. He probably knew that extra words were like a bandage on a stab wound. Your file was likely resting on his lap right now. And that line “sole survivor,” marked in bold already burned your eyes.

You stared out the window, but everything blurred together: the glass reflection, the sliding landscape, and memories. Fragments of what can never be returned.

Sapphire-3 a new order and a new point. Not a choice, but a necessity. You didn’t think you’d get into the cabin again. Didn’t think you’d be part of a team again. Everything inside rebelled, but your mind repeated: if you want to live move. If you want to remember do what you didn’t finish together.

Loss still pulsed in your chest, like a splinter under the skin. But you held on, because at the last base you weren’t taught to be soft. You were taught to be alive.

When the car turned onto a dirt road, you saw for the first time the place where you would live for the next few years. The base looked like a gray spot on the hills, like a burnt wound on the earth. No extra fires, no flags, no greetings. Only cold wind, concrete, and the dull ringing of grates.

Moving to a new point meant a lot. Reinforcing personnel, some command-line necessity. Though you knew the truth they pulled you from the previous base, where his name still echoed in briefings as memory and reproach. Maybe that’s why command decided to transfer you. To keep you from drowning in the past, or rather because you were a living reminder to others of what had happened.

Exiting the car, you barely felt the weight of your bag; your body operated on autopilot, saving resources. Underfoot was rough concrete, worn shiny in places by machine tires, cracked in others like old skin. The air smelled of rain moisture and heated metal. This place smelled of weapons and heavy decisions.

Sapphire-3 base had neither shine nor grandeur. It did not rise proudly above the land like the headquarters buildings of the capital sectors. It rather grew into the landscape, as if they wanted to hide it far from strangers’ eyes. The entire complex was located far beyond the city limits, in rocky terrain where sparse bushes seemed dry even after rain, and the wind howled between the rocks like a warning.

Outside, the base resembled the skeleton of a mechanical beast. Long buildings connected by passages, sunken concrete blocks like bunkers, and massive gates whose leaves opened slowly with a rumble. Around the perimeter rows of antennas, spotlights, guard towers. Barbed wire, doubled in two layers. Everything looked built not for comfort, but for survival.

The main building had no windows. A gray, flat facade covered with rain streaks. Its dimensions faded into the fog, especially in the mornings, when the sky hung low and everything around seemed to freeze under its weight. To the left of the main hangar were smaller hangars semicircular, soot-stained, with tails of fighters and armored vehicles sticking out. The communications center was deeper, underground, fortified, with backup airlocks. No windows led there.

They led you to the residential complex, pointing out a modest room with one bed, a desk, and a couple of shelves. This was unusual considering that on your home base everyone slept in huge barracks with bunk beds. There was always snoring, rustling of blankets, footsteps on metal, and muffled conversations through sleep. Here there was only silence and the distant hum of machinery behind the walls.

The room looked as if no one had lived there yet. The mattress was thin but neatly made, on the table lay a standard tablet with basic instructions, your personal tag in an envelope, and an empty cup.

You put your bag in the corner and scanned the walls. Bare, with rare traces of old paint. No window, only a lamp under the ceiling burning with a steady cold light, like surgical. There was no room for comfort here, no smell of home soap, no photos, no things hinting at personal history. There was too much space for one and too little for two. Moving here was not salvation, but a delay. You knew that. Too much was lost to call this a new start. It was just the next waypoint, the next concrete shell you had to fit yourself into.

Today you were granted permission to rest. Not to “rest” in the literal sense. No one here expected you to sprawl on the bed with a book and a cup of something hot. It was more a technical verb meaning that you weren’t needed by anyone yet, but you shouldn’t relax. Your initial task was to settle in and figure out where what was. So that’s what you did.

You found the medical station first. Instinctively, since it was white, sterile, with a window closed from the inside and metal beds screwed to the floor.

Next, the gym. Empty, only a lit screen with frozen time on the timer reminded you that someone had been here recently. A jacket was left on the bench. Someone else’s scent, someone else’s sweat, and the feeling you were in a strange nest.

You wandered the base, trying to memorize the layout. Technical block, analysis rooms, meeting halls with thick doors and frosted glass. Everything was utilitarian and impenetrable, like the people you glimpsed in the corridors. This day changed nothing. It gave no peace. It just reminded you that you were here now, and that the past was a burden you had to carry on.

The call came the next day after lunch. You barely crossed your room’s threshold when interference sounded over your private channel, then a voice: Sector C-2. Command briefing. Urgent.

You glanced around your room. At the neatly made bed, at the not fully unpacked bag, and at the cold wall where you wished there was a window. All of it suddenly seemed toy-like, temporary.

One step and you were back in the corridor.

Boots tapped rhythmically on the smooth floor, echoing in the empty, cold corridors of the base. The door to sector C-2 opened with a mechanical creak. Inside was cold twilight and a soft hum of working computers. Screens with maps flashed red threat markers on the walls. Two figures stood in the center of the room like an out-of-place carved piece.

One had short hair, the color glowing fluorescent pink as if someone splashed paint on a shadow. The hair was unevenly cut and slightly shiny in the half-light. Her posture was free, slightly relaxed, with hands casually crossed behind her back, as if she was used to being herself here, with a slight smirk on her lips, as if a joke just told still rang in the air.

Next to her stood another, with thick blue hair tied in a ponytail, falling neatly down. Her figure was slightly tense, shoulders straight but without excess strictness. More restraint in movement, in voice, and in how she tried to hide anxiety. Her gaze kept catching the first woman, as if checking how she’d react to each word, and her lips twitched in a nearly invisible smile not too open, but not completely hidden.

You recognized them before they spoke. Vi and Caitlyn, outstanding close-combat pilots, aces in their category. Behind them were too many victories and breaches of regulations.

These were names that, in your past life, echoed in your training recordings more often than your own.

They were not surprised by your appearance. As if you had long been on their personal lists, just your turn came a bit later. Vi spoke first, not quite turning her face to you.

"Finally. We thought the elevator ate you," she said lazily, without pressure, but also as if testing your limits.

Caitlyn glanced briefly at Vi but said nothing. Just nodded slightly, either condemning the jab or silently agreeing. You felt the air in the room thicken a little, like before a storm.

You stepped closer, clenching your fists at your sides.

"The door was open," you said simply. Your words were even, with a hint of uncertainty.

Vi smirked, the corner of her lips twitching more sharply.

"This is a base, lieutenant. Open doors rarely mean welcome here."

Caitlyn stepped back from the holographic projector and turned to you. There was no distrust in her gaze, but no warmth either. Pure function and assessment.

"We were told you came from the Frontier. Eastern front?"

You nodded.

"Red Ust. Last six months. Before that, a metropolitan military base."

She lowered her chin slightly. That was enough.

"Losses?" Caitlyn asked quietly.

You met her gaze, not looking away.

"All."

The room seemed to hold its breath for a second with them. Even the holograms on the screens froze in the half-darkness. Then Vi exhaled quietly, almost silently.

"Then it’s clear why they dumped you on us. Command likes to patch holes with torn pieces."

Caitlyn silently nodded. She looked back at the screen as if checking something, then just adjusted her uniform sleeve.

"You’ll go through basic adaptation. Tomorrow will be technical briefing, then simulator," she said reservedly, not lifting her gaze.

You nodded. You expected nothing else. There was even relief in not being pitied. No one here cared who you were before this moment.

"You’ll live permanently in sector D," Vi added, stepping toward the exit. It’s quieter there. Though if you snore, we’ll move you to the repair drones. They don’t complain.

Your lips twisted, neither a smile nor a grimace. Vi noticed this from the corner of her eye and smiled even wider.

"Look at that, a sense of humor too."

Caitlyn came closer, gesturing some command to the terminal. The room darkened as if the brief, inhospitable meeting closed with it.

[lisssyyu]

Eternity to taste

PAIRINGS: Caitlyn Kiramman x wife!f!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know I wrote too long but the main thing is that I wrote, right? It was hard because I don't know anything about IVF or pregnancy itself, so...- I had to spend time doing some research.. I also hasten to inform you that it is possible, JUST POSSIBLE, that there will be a new series with Caitvi x reader Aviation!Au.

WARNING(S): possession ;; control ;; implied manipulation ;; power imbalance ;; age difference (!Caitlin 28, !reader 22) ;; pregnancy description ;;brief mention of childbirth ;; good/bad ending

wc: 10.1k

parts: 1 ;; 2 ;; 3

They said the procedure would be painless. That your body would accept everything on its own, as if it was meant to be this way. As if becoming a mother on command was natural. The clinic was sterile to the point of nausea. White walls, white masks, hands in gloves. Caitlyn sat beside you, never letting go of your hand. And at that moment, you hated her tenderness because it wasn’t support. At least, not the kind you needed.

The whole time before the main procedure, you lay still, as if you had already lost the right to move. Your eyelids were heavy, your gaze wandering across the ceiling where the light shone too brightly into your eyes. The doctor was saying something about perfect implantation, stability, success rates. Everything sounded muffled, as if underwater. But you clearly felt Caitlyn squeeze your hand a little tighter, almost impatiently. She wasn’t looking at you only at the monitor where numbers floated.

That’s when you realized it wasn’t you who was waiting for the child. It was her.

When it was over, you were allowed to sit up. The cold in your lower abdomen burned, as if you had been cleaned out from the inside. But Caitlyn was right there, wrapping her arms around your shoulders so gently, as if you were something fragile. You tried to lean into her—not for comfort, but to feel safe somewhere. But all you could feel was her scent: soap, skin, and gunpowder.

The pregnancy didn’t feel like a miracle. It felt more like an illness. The nausea drained you until midday, and by evening, your legs ached so much you couldn’t get out of bed. Caitlyn brought you tea with honey, kissed your forehead, sat beside you. And yet, even in her tenderness, there was something suffocating. As if she expected gratitude. You couldn’t tell her how scared you were. You couldn’t say that you woke up at night clutching your belly in panic. That in your dreams, you saw something twitching inside you unnaturally, unhumanly. As if it wasn’t a child, but a crystal mechanism assembled by someone else’s hands.

“You’ll make it,” she said, leaning closer, and there was so much love in her voice that you wanted to disappear into it. “I believe in you, my love.”

Sometimes you sat in front of the mirror and watched your body change. Your belly grew, your skin became thinner, your breasts filled with heaviness. Everything happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, but with each passing week you felt something alive building inside you, with a beating heart. It seemed like everything was going as it should, but the feeling that you were becoming a vessel never left you for a moment.

Caitlyn, on the other hand, got up earlier than you. Sometimes an hour, sometimes two. She sat by the window with a cup of strong coffee, a folded sheet of paper with a plan in the pocket of her robe. A schedule of check-ups, a list of vitamins, notes from doctors, recommendations she had memorized. Everything had to be under control especially you.

When you started complaining about nausea or sleeplessness, Caitlyn didn’t get angry, though there was a flicker of irritation deep in her eyes. But it wasn’t because she didn’t care it was because you were suffering the wrong way. She stroked your hair, soothed you with gentle words, held her hand on your belly as if she could keep the calm inside by sheer force of will.

She believed she was doing it all out of love. That it was all care. That the child would be the anchor to bind you forever. That the pain, the anxiety, the sleepless nights were temporary. You just didn’t understand it fully yet.

Sometimes she wanted to say something soft to you, but the words inside burst forward with sharp edges: “You agreed to this yourself.”

She hated her helplessness. There was no room for chaos in her life, and now it lived in you: restless and elusive, pulling you further away from who you used to be with each passing day. Caitlyn saw it, always saw it. With every glance in the mirror, you became a stranger. And that scared her more than any enemy on the city streets.

She wanted you to believe her, like before. Wanted you to look at her and feel not pressure, but support. But more and more often, fear appeared in your eyes. And Caitlyn convinced herself it wasn’t because of her, but just because of hormones, fatigue, and your weak body that still wasn’t used to being needed.

At night, she lay beside you, eyes closed but awake. Listening to you flinch from nightmares, quietly crying into your pillow, pretending not to notice. Because if she admitted your fear, it meant admitting her guilt. And she couldn’t be guilty after all, she was doing everything right. For the family you couldn’t hold together without her.

The first days after giving birth passed in a feverish haze. You didn’t remember what time it was, what day it was, or how much you had slept. Sometimes it felt like you weren’t really giving birth at all, but lying somewhere in between worlds: between pain and helplessness, between your body and what was left of it. The baby came out crying, wrinkled and clenching her fists, as if she would have to protect something in this life. You looked at her and felt nothing. Neither tenderness nor horror. The girl was just there as a fact.

But Caitlyn was crying. She squeezed your hand, kissed your forehead, and repeated, “You did it, you’re amazing.” She held the baby, pressed her to her chest, smiled in a way you had never seen before. She moved with confidence, as if she had rehearsed it all beforehand. She turned the baby skillfully, changed the diaper with a single motion, whispered in her ear when she cried, as if she knew secret words you didn’t have. And it broke your heart. Because you were a mother but didn’t feel like one.

After that, there was white. White linen, white walls, white noise like static on a TV with no signal. Days passed one after another, and you couldn’t remember where they began. Feedings, restless sleep, sharp pain in your breasts, someone else’s skin against yours, someone else’s cries all merged together. The baby cried at night, and sometimes you cried with her.

You were too tired to be angry. Too exhausted to speak aloud. You didn’t have the strength not to love Caitlyn, but you didn’t have the strength to love either. Just existing nearby felt heavy, like a wet blanket you couldn’t throw off. Sometimes you watched her rocking the baby and thought you envied her. That smoothness of movement, that knowing that everything would be alright.

Caitlyn did almost everything herself. She went to the kitchen and brought you water not asking if you needed it, just placing it nearby. Sometimes she straightened your blanket. Sometimes she held the baby at her breast so long that the baby fell asleep right there, sprawled out, warm, with a damp temple. But one night, when the baby couldn’t fall asleep and wailed as if something inside her was biting, Caitlyn called you not for a diaper or a blanket.

“Come to me. I can’t handle this.”

Her voice was panicked. Too soft, as if it came not from her chest but from her throat. For the first time, she wasn’t yelling or commanding. She just sat holding the baby, her shoulders trembling. You came over, sat down beside her, and took the baby into your arms. She was warm, light, and sweet with the smell of milk. And at that moment, you felt something inside you change. As if part of the hatred that had weighed on you was gone.

From that day, Caitlyn slowed down a little. She no longer whispered with certainty but asked. Worried she might do something wrong.

“Do you think she’s too hot?” “How did you hold her when she fell asleep faster?” “I think she’s hungry. Can you try feeding her?”

These were simple things. Almost unnoticed. But they became cracks in Caitlyn’s former concrete her armor that had only charts, instructions, and checklists before. You noticed how she started sitting beside you more often, not over you. How her touches became lighter, how she more often left you silence instead of words. Sometimes you just lay there, the three of you, and nothing needed fixing, rushing, or saving. The baby fell asleep as if she knew no one was in a hurry.

One morning, you woke up earlier than her. A rare thing, really. It was still dark outside, but you got up without waking anyone and went to the kitchen. You just wanted to drink some water and go back to sleep but froze by the window. Outside, beyond the glass, dawn was slowly breaking. The sky shimmered with gentle shades: first a barely noticeable lavender, like a light haze, then pale pink, like the first kisses of light. The horizon was faintly lit with golden glow, as if the sun was timidly lifting the curtain on a new day. The silence was thick, as if the air held its breath, and only rare bird songs pierced the calm. The cold morning air still held drops of dew that sparkled in the dim light like tiny crystal stars. In that quiet moment of dawn, as the world around just began to wake, you allowed yourself to wonder for the first time. Maybe life isn’t such a burden, maybe it’s not as broken and hopeless as it seemed in the darkest nights.

You placed your palm on your belly. It was almost flat but still yours. In that small, barely noticeable curve, there was something amazing and incomprehensible. As if the body that had seemed foreign for so long was finally starting to come home.

Suddenly, behind you, there was a cautious rustle. It was Caitlyn. Disheveled, with half-closed eyes. At first, she said nothing, just came closer, hugged you from behind, and buried her nose in your neck. And for the first time in all this time, you didn’t pull away.

“Sorry I didn’t notice,” she whispered. “That I wanted to be strong too much.”

You didn’t answer right away. There were too many words you wanted to say, but even more that you were afraid to say aloud. Instead, you just squeezed your hands tighter around your belly, feeling Caitlyn’s warmth spreading over your skin, as if dissolving the heaviness on your heart.

“I’m scared too,” you finally exhaled, “but maybe that’s normal.”

[sapphicstrawcore]

oblivious sevika x obvious reader

some of my drafts all together in one post abt sevika being so fed up and tired with reader’s shit she sometimes don’t get the obvious signs reader is sending her:

Reader: you know I’m free tonight

Sevika: basic human right

Reader: …

Sevika: what ?

[Sevika walks in wearing a new top she’s not even thinking about]

Reader: I’m ovulating.

Sevika: Good to know your cycle is working.

Reader: Fuck me.

Sevika: What.

[Sevika shirtless after a long bath, toweling off, scarred and tired]

Reader: Holy Moly.

Sevika: What now.

Reader: If you keep walking around like that I’m gonna start barking.

Sevika: What the fuck is wrong with you.

Sevika: this fucking rain, I’m soaking wet, don’t look at me.

Reader: wetter than me ? I don’t think so.

Sevika: you’re clearly dry.

Reader: wanna check ?

Sevika: don’t need, you stupid fuck, I can see it.

Sevika cleaning blood off her prosthetic, clearly irritated]

Reader: That could’ve been me on your fist, you know.

Sevika: It still can be if you don’t stop talking.

Reader: my wettest dream.

Sevika: the fuck did you just say ?

[Reader watching Sevika clean her knife]

Reader: Is it sharp enough to cut through clothes?

Sevika: the knife ? I’ll let you guess.

Reader: ‘m not talking about the knife.

Sevika: then speak correctly, I can’t fucking understand everything you s— wait.

It’s two am what tf am I doing

taglist: @lonerslug @archangeldyke-all @riotstemple29 @ahintofchaos @blessupblessup @sevikasswifee

[lisssyyu]

Where we won't be

PAIRINGS: Stalker!Vi x Stalker!Reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: THIS IS HORRIBLE, I KNOW. but listen - I wrote this so quickly so as not to forget that I didn't even bother to proofread it. This is a short sketch that was written on my stupid whim.😞

WARNINGS: angst ;; mutual stalking ;; mutual obsession ;; vague descriptions

wc: 4.6k

It all started with rain. Too late and too cold, even for Zaun. You were just standing under the peeling awning of an abandoned bar, where a rusty sign was still hanging on by a single creaky bolt, hiding your hands in your pockets and thinking that this city would probably swallow you up as silently as it had swallowed up hundreds of others before you. The streetlights shone crookedly, as if not for you, but for themselves, like blind fish in deep water. Water collected under your soles, soaking your socks and carrying the last remnants of warmth into the damp earth.

You were looking for anything that would keep your heart from lying like a stone in your chest. Anything alive, sharp and pointed, capable of cutting you in return. And then you found Vi.

She was a woman of action: bold, stubborn, angry at the world so much that her fists became words. You caught her when you were returning to your holey, creaky kennel, and she was hammering someone's bitter wheeze into the brick wall, pinning someone else's jaw with her elbow, tearing off threats as calmly as if she were cutting them out of someone else's throat with a knife. You stared at her fists, at the wet strands of hair on her forehead, at how she spat blood without flinching. And in that moment, she became your love at first sight, or something even worse that doesn't need a name. From that night on, you stopped living your own life.

You lived hers.

You learned to memorize her footsteps on the wet asphalt. You climbed onto rooftops, listening to her laughter and curses, sneaked after her through the alleys, caught glimpses of her silhouette in the murky windows of cheap bars. You collected her in pieces: her voice, torn in dark corners, the smell of cheap tobacco mixed with rusty metal; the color of purple spots under her cheekbones, which she never hid.

Your "maybe this is wrong?" stuck inside and rotted between your ribs, intertwining with your breath. You no longer tried to get rid of it. Let it rot there, inside you. Let it sprout in your lungs, wrap around your heart, tear it apart from the inside, just so you can't breathe out, can't forget her taste.

Vi didn't notice you right away. At first, you were just another shadow in her alleys. She was used to them, used to the glances from the doorways, to the empty windows staring at her back. But one day, that glance lingered too long and too insistently, like a knife that someone couldn't bring themselves to plunge into her. At first, she dismissed it as paranoia. On the streets of Zaun, every other person tries to pretend to be invisible while sharpening their teeth in the dark.

But you didn't disappear. She saw you again and again: somewhere behind the trash cans, on the roof of an old shop, or even by the fence of an abandoned warehouse. She noticed how your wet hair glistened in the light of the rare streetlamps, how you breathed down her neck, but never came closer. You didn't understand that she could see you, believing that you were hiding better than rats under rusty pipes, that you were dissolving into the damp air as if you weren't there.

But Vi had lived here too long not to sense those who walked behind her. And at first, she thought she would chase you away. To grab you by the collar and pin you against the wall, just like those who really deserved her fists. But something in your gaze caught her attention. Something sick, greedy, and familiar at the same time.

You wanted her so badly that this desire poured out of you like steam in the cold air. And Vi let you be. Step by step, glance by glance. She let you pick her up piece by piece, like sharp shards of glass that cut your palms, but you still put them in your pockets.You thought you were the hunter, but you just forgot that the beast might want you in return.

The city loved you both equally with its damp cold, rusty pipes, and streets that always lead to dead ends. You followed her so many nights that you stopped counting, and she followed you almost longer, but she was just better at hiding. Two shadows stealing each other's warmth and leaving wet footprints on the cracked asphalt. That night was the same: the streetlights breathed yellow, the rain curled like smoke off the rooftops. You stood in the shadows by the old substation, thinking you would see her first again. She had to pass by, you knew that for sure, because she wasn't at the bar today, which meant that her path would definitely take her down this street.

You had seen this scene dozens of times before: her footsteps, her black jacket, her gaze passing you by, even though in reality it always slid over you like a blade over skin. You stood in your shadow for so long that your legs went numb and your fingers froze in your pockets, but inside you were tense with impatience: any moment now, she would appear.

But the footsteps behind you came sooner. Not her silhouette in the distance, not her familiar figure in the orange glow of the street lamp, but the rustle and heaviness of breathing right behind you. You didn't have time to turn around before a warm hand rested on your neck, not squeezing, but holding you so that it clicked in your head: it was already too late.

She didn't say, "Gotcha." She didn't whisper stupid questions like "Why?" She just stood behind your shoulder, studying you as you studied her. Her warm breath touched your ear. Did you hear her heart beating, or was it yours pounding so loudly in your chest?

You wanted to say something, but the words crumbled under your tongue, wet and useless.You found each other. Two shadows, two greedy dogs, gnawed to the core by this hunger. You whispered to yourself so many times, "One more night, and that's it," and now that night has come. But her hand wouldn't let go. She held you the same way you held her with your gaze, gently and too tightly.

[souliloqui]

mechanic!vi x f!reader

a/n: missed vi and needed to write about her 😞

vi's been working at the same mechanic for years now, and her co-workers know next to nothing about her. she's always been quiet, preferring to keep to herself because her life is her business. sure, she'll have a couple of drinks once the work day's done, but she'll never stay out later than necessary.

why?

"i gotta get home to my wife," she'll say, her eyes softening at the very thought of you. and it stuns her colleagues each time because vi's eyes don't soften. her default expression keeps people at a distance; it makes her inaccessible just the way she likes it.

but whenever she mentions you, that expression disappears to showcase a hint of genuine adoration. a love that has people going still and silent in its presence because it feels sacred—feels reverent.

for that reason alone, speculations of who vi's wife is circles the shop. some wonder if you're similar to vi or vastly different. some already have ideas of what you'd look like, all based on what they think vi would find attractive. it's all silly guessing games; a betting pool is born from these guesses, all of it done sneakily, so vi never knows.

some try to sneak glances at her phone when she's using it. on the hope that you're her background photo. but vi's always too quick, too precise with her business that even a little peek is frankly impossible.

this goes on for weeks until they decide to give it a rest, especially when vi's glare nearly killed a man when she caught him trying to sneak a look at her phone.

the guessing games die down, and the betting pool remains untouched without a winner.

work returns to normal.

until one day.

you come into the shop on a sunny afternoon, dressed in a loose pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. you're holding a lunchbox in your hands, your eyes glancing around the workshop floor. like you're looking for someone in particular.

gorgeous is the first thing that comes to mind when they see you. your smile warm and friendly as you're approached to see who you're looking for. you barely get a chance to describe said person when your eyes light up like shining stars.

"vi!" you exclaim happily, immediately running over to her with outstretched arms. everyone watches with gaping jaws at the sight of vi with her arms already open, absolutely delighted at your presence. she catches you easily, lifting you into her embrace as she captures your lips in a deep kiss.

you respond enthusiastically, wrapping your arms around her neck and legs around her waist. you hum into the kiss, lips still curved in a smile before you're pulling away, giggling when vi eagerly chases after your mouth.

"stop it," you scold playfully, tapping her nose which she cutely scrunches up. "you forgot your lunch." you show her the lunchbox you hold carefully in one hand. "this is the second time this week. i feel like you're doing this on purpose."

vi gasps in feigned offense, already carrying you to the empty break room. "if you're implying i purposefully leave my lunch at home so my hot wife delivers it for me at work, then you're sorely mistaken."

"sorely mistaken, my ass," you reply, grinning as you’re carted away.

"oh yeah," vi says before turning to her shocked colleagues, her expression stoic. "i'm going on my break. be back in an hour. if you need me, don't."

then she's back to smiling at you, soft eyes and softer voice as she responds to your endearing rambling. the door to the break room opens and shuts, a startling noise in the heavy silence as everyone processes what just happened.

it's then unanimously agreed that no one wins the betting pool.

[that1passionatedyke]

Can’t wait to be some butch or stud’s awkward loser femme.

[lisssyyu]

Masterlist

Arcane

Vi

one shots:

The Place Where Waiting Ends

Where we won't be

series:

Dried Blood - The Renaissance Project ;; pt 1 - pt 2

Don't be afraid, I don't pray ;; pt 1 - pt 2

long fics:

Blood on Marble

Caitlyn Kiramman

series:

Eternity to taste ;; pt 1 - pt 2 - pt 3

CaitVi

series:

Point below zero ;; pt 1 - ?

Signalis

one shots:

Shaken memory

Under a layer of snow

[lisssyyu]

Don't be afraid, I don't pray

PAIRINGS: Monster Hunter!Vi x Half-demon!Reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It was hard for me to write this because there are a lot of feelings, but no words. In fact, I was trying to portray something like a feeling of compassion, to make many people understand that there are moments in the world when you need to put prejudices aside and look deeper. But in fact, I'm not sure that I succeeded. My thoughts were getting mixed up one after another and I rewrote the text for 3 days, to be honest. Please leave a review with your opinion, it will help me in the future for writing works (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡ I'm also planning bonus parts with a lot of fluff and maybe even perversions, who knows. ¯⁠\⁠⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠⁠/⁠¯

WARNING(S): AU ;; Hurt/Comfort ;; description of corpse/death ;; anxiety ;; long descriptions ;; grey morality

wc: 8.2k

They say demons did not come from the depths, but from blood. Not from the sky, not from underground fissures, not from other worlds, but from within man himself, from that which cannot be repented.

Their appearance remained a myth for a long time. Legends sang of those who were supposedly born with eyes that reflected crimson sunsets, with voices awakened by the cries of nameless gods. Their descriptions varied: some had skin as black as coal, some as pale as dust, and some whose bodies seemed to consist entirely of mist and claws. But in every legend, one image appeared without fail, one that was not so changeable.

A creature with a human body and wings as heavy as all the sins of the world. They were not decoration, for they trailed behind her, leaving a pungent taste of rust in the air. According to the stories, the fallen feathers burned in the sun and dried in the palms like ashes.

The Bloody Bird. The one who drinks from the heart and leads the Ruby Gaze.

She was everywhere where the slaughter began. She came as a sign. But not a single authentic testimony has survived, not a single voice that saw her up close. Only rhythmic lines repeated in different corners of the world and scratched engravings in which her appearance could only be guessed at by her wings stretched toward the sky and the crimson stripes around her. People kept in their memory a face that none of them seemed to have seen, but everyone knew. And yet none of them wanted to believe that the myth was closer than it seemed.

The half-people, descendants of lost unions, lived far away in the mountains, where the trails were overgrown with moss and snow lay nine months of the year. Their houses clung to the rocks like nests, hidden from the wind and human gaze. Smoke rose in thin wisps from the chimneys, mingling with the fog. No one knew for sure where their lineage came from: some said they were descended from witches who had slept with ancient gods, others that they were descended from people in whom the devil had planted signs. There was too much that was strange about them to call them human, and too much that was human to call them monsters.

They wove amulets from branches, dried roots on ropes by the windows, and counted the days not by the calendar, but by the changing scents in the air. Children were taught to remain silent in front of strangers and to look down, even if they saw death.

But one night, this thin line crumbled like a house of cards in the wind.

You didn't want to kill. But that night, in the darkness of the forest, you met the one whom the half-humans called Lepers — an outcast whose appearance was a reflection of his crimes and defiance. Lepers were those who were ruled by instinct, who broke the ancient rules and were expelled from their communities. Although for the sake of public order, the Marked were killed without further ado, this time something went wrong. He had eyes that changed color in the sun and a spine covered with scales. He would have been a fine fellow if not for the madness in his eyes. You tried to negotiate, to come to a mutual decision, because you didn't want any trouble either, but it all happened too fast: sharp teeth sank into your wing, tearing not only flesh but also common sense. Tearing apart peace and common sense. Your heart was beating like crazy, blood was pulsing through your veins, and your instincts spoke louder than your mind.

In the morning, people found him. A couple of woodcutters stumbled upon the body, which had been torn apart and was bleeding among the roots of an old spruce tree at the edge of the forest. The bones were broken, the joints twisted in the opposite direction, but there was only silence around, scarlet feathers, and a bloody trail disappearing into the depths of the forest. On the same day, the Council summoned the hunters, those who had once been soldiers and were now called upon to fight the creatures from the ancient writings. Among them was Vi.

Vi did not respond immediately, because she remembers what it is like to be a soldier. She stood at the border three times, twice returning without a medal, but with a stitched shoulder and lost relatives. Her father died in the first war, her mother in the second, and her sister burned to death in the third. After her discharge, she disappeared and settled in a small town among the hills, opening a shop where she sold books, dusty figurines, cracked teapots, and words that no one needed. She loved it when silence slowly filled the rooms, like water filling an old jug. She loved dawns without the sound of bugles and tea with honey, bitter to the taste but warm like a forgotten memory. But there are cracks in peaceful life. Rumors of a torn body, of feathers left on the ground, of how the forest suddenly began to seem closer and darker than before. At first, it all seemed to her to be just another village fairy tale. Until one evening, a letter landed on the table in her shop. Yellow parchment, wax seal with the Council's coat of arms, and a line written by the hand of the man who once commanded her platoon: "We need you."

Others were already there. Those who fought for gold, those who hoped to atone for old sins, and even those who could not do otherwise, because war had long since become their breath. And Vi went because she remembered the woman who once stood in the doorway of her shop. She said nothing, only held a bloodstained pendant in her trembling fingers, and on her child's chest was a rough, hastily stitched scar. Vi asked no questions. She just closed the shutters, took a knife from the shelf, and for the first time in many years felt the fire returning to her veins. Now she was the one whose name was mentioned in reports, and whose face was seen by those who were unlucky enough to survive.

The morning was cold and clear, as if woven from frost and fine mist. The light had not yet fully touched the ground, only barely penetrating through the intertwined fir branches, leaving shimmering patterns on the ground. The forest was silent, holding its breath, and it seemed that even the birds had forgotten how to sing. Only somewhere in the distance, bark crackled softly, as if someone were carefully following behind.

Vi moved slowly, almost silently, deftly stepping over roots and crooked boulders. Before her, like a thread leading through a silent mystery, stretched a trail of blood. It was as if someone had fled in panic, carrying their pain deeper and deeper into the thicket.

The blood had seeped into the moss and foliage, darkened by the night's cold, but it was still alive. Vi looked at it with particular attention, with the same intensity with which she had once tracked enemies on the borders, back when she still believed that every step had meaning and every decision could reveal the truth.

The trees closed over her head, dimming the light. It smelled of old resin, damp stone, and snow that still lay in the shade. The space seemed to narrow, turning the forest into a corridor leading not so much to a destination as to a revelation. A heavy feeling grew in her chest, a viscous and inexplicable premonition. She couldn't name it, but she felt that around the next bend there would be something she wasn't ready for.

An oak tree appeared through the branches ahead. Lonely, old, and almost out of place here. At its foot, in the semi-dry grass, lay a figure.

You seemed to blend in with the ground. The morning light slid across your wing, revealing torn flesh, twisted feathers, and a strange metallic sheen in the curves. Blood had already caked in the folds of your clothing, on your fingers, on the grass around you, turning into rusty evidence of what had happened to you. Vi saw the face. Human. Too young to be a monster and too tired to be an enemy. The skin was pale, like frostbitten petals. There was dried blood in the corner of the mouth. One wing was spread out on the ground, the other bent under itself like a broken bird. Vi noticed how you slowly, almost shyly, looked away like a person who had nothing to say in their defence.

She crouched down beside you and reached out her hand, as if wanting to carefully examine your wounds. You were not as you were portrayed in the legends, not a beast or a monster, but something else entirely. There was no malice in your eyes, no flashes of aggression, only weakness and fear. This contradicted everything Vi had learned and believed. On the one hand, duty demanded a ruthless end, to stop your suffering by plunging a knife into your heart. But on the other hand, she was not one to kill based on rumours and fear alone. Not every frightening shadow brings pain, not every distorted legend gives birth to evil.

When she gently touched your wing, you whimpered in pain, and tears filled your eyes. Vi's heart ached with pity, but she did not stop.

"Shh, quiet… it will hurt, but it will be over soon."

You remained silent, your gaze fixed on the ground, while Vi carefully bandaged your torn wing, her eyes involuntarily lingering on the scarlet feathers that shimmered in the morning light like little tongues of flame.

Vi felt an inner conflict flare up within her with renewed force. Memories of her mother, who taught her to be kind even when the world around her seemed cruel and merciless, like a quiet voice in her soul, forced her to restrain herself. She remembered her mother saying,

«Strength is not about breaking others, but about giving hope even to those who seem lost.»

Her heart beat loudly, as if arguing with the cold of the morning forest, each breath bringing the weight of pain and doubt. This vague burden pressed on her chest, reminding her how fragile faith in the light that could break through the darkness was.

In the silence of that moment, it was not the fate of one creature that was being decided, but her own faith in humanity, in the belief that light was still capable of breaking through the darkness. Vi gently pressed her palm against your wing, trying to ease the throbbing pain, her gaze fixed on your face. Cold fear gripped your chest like an icy hand, and your whole body tensed, preparing to defend itself, even though you barely had the strength to breathe. But despite everything, you allowed Vi to heal your wounds, not quite understanding why, but trusting her only this once because of your desperate situation.

"I killed him," you finally say, when the sharp pain subsides, giving way to a throbbing but tolerable discomfort.

There is a moment of silence before Vi asks:

"Why?"

"He wasn't an enemy, but he became one. Madness drove him into a corner, and I couldn't let him destroy others and himself first.

Vi looked at you, and gradually the pieces of the mosaic that had previously seemed scattered and meaningless began to fall into place in her mind. Each fragment: your wound, your voice, your fatigue, and your words took shape, and the picture became clearer. Before her was not a mindless creature from terrifying tales, but a living, complex personality filled with pain and struggle. Legends are born not from truth, but from fear and misunderstanding, turning those who differed from the masses into monsters and enemies.

On the day your paths crossed, it seemed that fate itself was weaving invisible threads to bring you together. Despite the burden of prejudice and the shadows of the past, each of you sought in the other not an enemy, but a reflection of your own pain and hope. Vi saved your life, and in return you offered her the unwavering loyalty you were capable of.

[lisssyyu]

Blood on Marble

PAIRINGS: cursed knight!Vi x Goddess of Death!reader

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the longest thing I've written here so far. I was actually inspired by the game "Dark Queen Mortolma". This touched me so much that I decided to write it. The reader here acts as the Goddess of Death. I honestly tried to convey all the feelings that I experienced while writing, not only at the beginning, but also mainly in the dialogues. Some of which, by the way, were taken from this very game to convey the atmosphere and mood. Naturally, they are slightly altered, but nevertheless the essence is the same. By the way, the reader is taller than Vi, she is almost two and a half meters. Maybe someday there will be a bonus chapter, but… that's still up in the air. and I also want to say that my writing style is strange, because I write the first draft of each work in my native language.

WARNING(S): mention of blood;; description of corpses;; description of death;; from hate to love (??);; au fantasy ;; yearning

wc: 24.3k

Centuries ago, when the world was still young and fragile, there was one brave soul. She was fire, bright, bold, and unstoppable. But her flame burned not only her enemies. Violet, as she was called in legends, dared to challenge the goddess, the queen of matter and the ruler of the boundary between life and death, whose name no one dared to utter aloud. Her power was infinite; stars faded in her fingers, forests withered under her gaze, and her breath could stop time. She had no need for temples. The very fabric of the universe was her scroll, and eternity was her throne.

The queen had ruled since the moment the first molecules began to gather into structure, when chaos first gave way to order. Not just for centuries, for eons. She was older than the stars, older than the very concept of time. Her presence was felt in the gravity of the planets, in the flickering of atoms, in the weight of mortal destinies. She was not born, she manifested herself as a law, as a fact, like gravity or death. Indispensable. Life under her hand was stable, but sacrificial. For some to live, others had to die.

And Vi simply wanted to give people freedom, to reject the chains of ancient rules. She denied the Queen's power, as if she had the right to do so. First, she burned the books that praised the Throne. Then the statues, the altar halls, the walls of the temples. She lived her whole life in poverty, not understanding why she was being punished. She longed for the fall of the throne.

But the Queen did not forgive blasphemy. And when Vi approached her palace alone, with a burning heart and a blade forged from her own rage, the heavens split above her. Thunder beat the clouds like a whip. The air thickened, saturating itself with something that was both familiar and foreign at the same time. It was the breath of the Queen herself, who trembled, sensing that someone dared to raise a hand against the one who had given birth to breath itself. The halls stood in the heart of the world, surrounded by a silent dance of dead stars. There were no gates, only a black arch gaping into the void, where no light reached.

Vi stepped inside, looking back. Everything around her was sculpted from memory. Here, the walls remembered the creation of the world, the stairs led to eras that no longer existed. There, in the hall, the queen awaited her. A tall figure, like a reflection in black water. Her face was hidden by a veil woven from the night, but even behind the veil, her eyes could be felt. She was the fabric of existence, the thing that held names, blood, birth, and disappearance together. And anything that dared to go against her met not with anger, but with Eternity.

The queen did not kill Vi, she tore apart her time, stretched the end of her path into infinity, and cast a curse more severe than any punishment. It was not spoken in words, but it spread through her bones like ice, cracked under her skin, and settled in her heart.

''Did you want freedom, child of fire? You will get an eternal path to it.''

From that day on, Vi became a shadow of anger, a step outside of time, a blade without a sheath. Her curse was not pain, but meaning. The only goal that kept her in this cold, detached existence: to destroy everything that gave birth to the throne. To destroy the last trace of divine blood. And while the goddess's lineage slowly died out, somewhere far away, in the darkness of the borders of the worlds, an heiress was born. The one who would become her last enemy. And, perhaps, her last salvation.

The order needed to be continued, in a vessel capable of bearing the burden of power if the Queen herself disappeared. That is how you were born. Not born, but assembled from the core of a dead star, the ashes of fallen empires, the tears of the last titan, and the silence of death itself. You knew no lullabies. From a young age, you learned to wield a hammer heavier than your own body, to speak clearly, to command without pleading, to be a support rather than a shield. Soldiers bowed their heads as you approached, for you possessed a power like that of the ancient beings before whom they fell to their knees in recognition of their own fragility.

Your face was rarely seen. A bandage hid your eyes the same eyes as the Queen's: black as primordial emptiness, reflecting not stars, but their destruction. No one knew if you were really blind. But when you turned your head, it seemed that you saw everything.

You wore heavy armor as a reminder. Your hammer, carved from the fused bones of the fallen and bound with iron gathered from battlefields where the air was heavier than blood, never missed its mark. It was an extension of your will. Precise, ruthless. There was not a drop of mercy in it, only necessity. You did not just have to protect the throne. You were one with it. A symbol of immutability. The last line, blacker than which there is only emptiness. You swore that no one would destroy the order established by your mother. Not a mortal. Not the damned. Not fire, not chaos. Not even the one who returned, time and time again, to blood and silence.

You loved the throne not because you wanted to rule, but because you no longer knew how to be anything else.

So when Vi came to you for the first time, dirty, stubborn, with a curse on her shoulders and burning determination in her eyes, you felt for the first time that perhaps in this battle you would not only have to defend the throne, but also understand why someone so desperately wanted to destroy it.

The throne room was serene. Its darkness was familiar, breathing slowly like the chest of a sleeping mountain. However, the fleeting moment of something resembling rest was brutally interrupted. A servant stumbled into the hall like a discarded fragment of war. His skin was gray-green, with slits and seams instead of veins. His skin was cracked and oozed ink-black blood. His claws dug into the floor, tearing it apart, as if the stone itself could help stop death.

One eye was slashed, the other filled with horror.

He crawled, leaving behind a sticky trail stretching from the very edges of the hall, as if his entire inner essence was dripping onto the cold marble. You didn't move. When he reached the foot of the throne, his chest was barely moving. His mouth was wide open, like a crack in the ground. Words burned with fear poured out of it. They were barely audible, but fragments of truth could be discerned in their distorted music.

A mortal broke into the estate. They are no more.

Blood dripped from his lips down his chin and onto the stone. He twitched in a final convulsive breath and froze. His body went limp, as if it had finally found peace.

The peace of the throne room was absolute. And the corpse at its foot did not disturb it, but rather complemented it. As if death had always been part of the ornamentation here. You straightened up for a split second and turned your head toward the panoramic window.

The blood smelled too vivid.

You could detect a hint of iron. Hot and insistent, it pierced the aromas of incense, ancient times, and bones ground to dust at the threshold. The blood brought back memories of someone who should have disappeared long ago under the weight of fate. At that very moment, the atmosphere in the throne room shifted as Vai entered. Although "entered" is not the right word; she burst in like a crack in the glass.

"Your reign of terror is over," her voice cut through the silence between you, ringing out with obvious fury. She raised her blade, pointing it at you.

"My power is absolute," you replied, without raising your voice. "You cannot destroy what is carved into the bones of the universe."

"And yet I am here to do just that."

You did not move.

"No. You are here to be crushed by my heel."

That day, she did not achieve her goal. Her burning determination was shattered against the granite of eternal power. Her body, contorted in a final spasm, clutching the hilt of her sword even in death, lay on the marble floor like a fragment of will covered in oaths. Beneath it, a dark scarlet pool of blood slowly spread. It soaked into the stone, as if the ancient hall were greedily drinking the remnants of her audacity.

You did not move. No anger, no triumph. Just a snap of your fingers, and the blood, flesh, and traces of defeat disappeared as if she had never been there.

But she returned the very next day with the same blade as before and the same determination burning in her eyes like a cursed sun over dead land.

Her footsteps rang out on the marble like a challenge. The dust had not yet settled from her previous defeat.

"Your reign of terror will end today."

You raised your head without rising from your throne. A slight shadow of a smile flitted across your lips.

"Another contender for the night? Flattering."

"It's still me," said Vi, clutching her blade. "Did you really think I wouldn't try again?"

"Those who burn to ashes don't usually do that," came the lazy reply, almost with weary tenderness. "However, a second chance is just a repetition of death from a different angle."

"We'll see."

"Yes," you bowed your head. "We will read the truth from your broken bones."

After her second defeat, Vi returned again the next day, as if death itself had not been her decree. Like a loyal, stubborn dog, crawling again and again to the feet of the one who had pushed her away. This time she did not scream.

"Okay, you're not a weakling."

"Are you seriously going to come back? You've had enough chances."

"I can be better."

"Better at gutting? You're already perfect at that."

"Regardless of whether I'm perfect or not, I'd like to be a little more than your target mannequin."

On that day, you didn't kill her right away.

You met again, only this time Vi came unarmed, as if just to talk. In fact, she felt almost at home here. She stood at the foot of the hall with a lazy smile and a fur cloak, from which she had not yet shaken off the snow.

"What do you think of the bow I brought last time?" she asked, lightly, almost cheerfully. "I took it from the chest in the guardhouse."

Her voice broke the sacred silence like a raindrop in a dead well. You turned your head.

"In the guardhouse? What are you talking about?"

Vi raised her eyebrows for a moment, as if surprised.

"The one in the southern fortress. Don't you know what's in your own castle?"

"If it's below my throne, then it's below me. My subordinates take care of the little things."

She leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling, where an old cloth with a faded coat of arms hung.

"So you never leave the fortress?"

"Why would I?"

Silence hung between them like a curtain before the fall of the acts.

Vi smiled a tired, almost sad smile.

"You know… that was a sad question."

The day began, like all the others, without dawn and without birds. The damp silence of the throne room was once again broken by footsteps. Vi walked across the marble, leaving only a light trail of dust behind her. No wounds, no blood today, only unwavering determination and a sly grin that even death could not wipe from her face.

You sat on the throne, as usual, as if you had grown into it. You were used to her visiting you almost every damn day, but you still clenched your fingers on the armrests in irritation.

She came closer, looking up, her head slightly bowed, as if preparing herself for another inevitable defeat.

"Let's go. Another round, another chance at a new tactic."

You sighed. Slowly, with the same weary contempt.

"It's starting to annoy me. Your… fidgeting."

Vi raised an eyebrow, as if you had paid her a compliment.

"Oh? A crack in the throne of masculinity?"

You snapped your fingers, causing the familiar ringing of steel. The floor shook in response.

"Dream on. Remember, you stained my floor with blood."

"I won't judge you for your disappointment if you don't judge me for my profuse bleeding."

You rose from the throne.

"I'm not upset. I'm just tired of repeating the same fight over and over again."

She shook her head, brushing her hair away from her face.

"So you didn't miss me?"

"The bonfire of your corpse brings warmth to these halls."

The lights in the throne room flickered, as if sensing the approach of something beyond the permissible. The stone beneath his feet still bore traces of old blood, but it no longer oozed with fear; it had grown accustomed to it. He accepted Vi just as he had once accepted the hammer.

You could sense her even before she stepped into the hall. Her presence defied logic; it was a violation of the eternal structure of this estate.

She stopped at the foot of the steps, silent. And only after a moment, without raising her sword or issuing a challenge, she said:

"I had the idea of leaving. I thought I had figured you out. That the new sword would kill you.

You didn't move. Not a single shadow on your face changed.

"Then why are you coming back?"

"What do you think?"

You exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in.

"I think it's because you like it here. Your soul longs for something that only I can give you."

"Maybe," she agreed. "It was fun. Our dance. You really are as ruthless as they say."

"And you're as assertive as they say."

"A perfect pair, an immovable object and an irresistible force."

You tilted your head slightly to one side, as if listening to her voice.

"I'm afraid that in such an encounter, force is doomed to self-destruction."

"And I thought the object would break."

You stood facing each other in the middle of the empty hall. Only the dust swirling in the pillars of light reminded you that time still existed. After the final battle, there was no anger or tension left, only silence, stretched out like a breath before sleep.

Vi's sword was stuck in the ground, both hands resting on the hilt. You leaned your hand on your hammer, not in the pose of a victor, but in the pose of a weary guardian whose vigil had become a burden. There was too much blood between you to be mere enemies.

Vi looked up. Her voice was quieter than usual.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nodded almost imperceptibly:

"You've earned it. Ask."

"Will you give me an honest answer?"

"Perhaps."

She waited, weighing her words as if it were not a question but a key to the lock in the very essence:

"What are you afraid of?"

You didn't answer right away. You just bowed your head, as if considering whether she was worthy of an answer.

"Losing who I am," you finally said. "A deposed queen is no longer a queen. But I have always been a queen."

"Is there nothing left for you to hold on to?"

"What else could I hold on to but this hammer?"

"I'm sorry. If it matters," said Vi.

The silence thickened, but you cleared your throat and broke it:

"Now you owe me a question."

She nodded.

"What am I to you?"

Vi smiled, as if she had been waiting for this question all along.

"You are my immovable object," she replied, "doomed never to move, always here for me to return to. Whatever role you saw for yourself, you fulfilled it, just as I fulfilled mine. That is why I consider us equals."

The flames in the bowls burned dimly, as if tired of the endless night. The throne room was silent, too deep to be natural. It had always been quiet here, but now it had taken on a sense of impending finality.

You sat without touching the back of the throne. Your posture was rigid, your gaze behind the black cloth bandage lowered to the floor, as if there, in the stone mosaic, you could read the answer to a question that no one dared to ask anymore. With each passing night, your silhouette seemed more a part of the stone than of flesh. And yet, inside, something was cracking, giving way.

Vi emerged from behind the columns. Wounded, tired, but still standing straight. She no longer raised her sword unnecessarily. This time, there was no anger in her gait, only a shadow of regret. She stopped at the foot of the steps, and for the first time in many days, you did not rise to meet her.

"There's no point in pretending," you said, your voice closer to a breath than a sound. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Vi sighed. There was no malice in her gaze.

"We all do it sooner or later. There's no shame in it."

You turned your head toward her.

"You must be satisfied."

"I'm curious," she said. "Now you face the inevitable. What will you do?"

You didn't answer right away. Your hand slid along the armrest of the throne as if that touch could tap into the power you had carried for centuries. Then you rose.

"I will do everything in my power to prevent it," you said. "You will not see me surrender without a fight."

Vi nodded slowly. Her face softened.

"You really never change."

[unholyhelbig]

pls pls pls finish doctor Caitlyn Kiramman

[A/n: Went a little overboard, and uh... no one is going to read, but we persevere!]

Ship:Attending!Kiramman x Resident!Reader

Wordcount: 3.4k

Warnings:Medical talk, medical exam, mentions of surgery, mentions of morphine, poison oak... lots of that, shots, hurt/comfort, mostly just fluff! (I also took this from greys anatomy's earlier seasons. Don't expect good grammar!

Main Masterlist | Ao3 | Request Prompts

Hospital coffee had a burnt, sour taste to it that was shockingly consistent considering the fact that it came from a vending machine. There was a consistent mixture of creamer and coffee, and it went down smoothly considering it was probably stewing in a cartridge for an undetermined amount of time.

You never let it cool down, just gulped around the heat and hoped that by the time you got a break to scarf down a protein bar, you’d gain some of your tastebuds back. It wasn’t likely you’d get a break. You’d duck down behind the nurses station and try not to choke on your own desperation.

The coffee was plucked from your hand before you got a chance to swallow down the other half. Scarred lips were folding along the edge, and you couldn’t even object, because really, you didn’t need another cup of coffee and Vi was the only attending on the floor that could knock you on your ass.

“You owe me fifty cents.”

“For what?” She scoffed, not minding the small droplets of coffee that hit the white collar of her coat. She had a metal chart tucked under her arm, flush against her chest. “Technically I saved you from a stomachache. You always get stomachaches when you drink your coffee too fast and then you’re rushing out of the OR instead of suctioning like you’re so very good at.”

“That was one time, and I was just an intern. I’ve invested in shoes with rubber soles and know my limits with coffee.”

“You became a resident” Vi sighed, making an exaggerated glance at her waterproof watch. “Less than twenty-four hours. Have you overhauled your digestive track, then?”

You huffed, but didn’t push further. Instead, you sidled up to the nurses station, flicking open the chart that Vi set in front of you, sliding it tentatively as if it were adequate exchange for the shitty vending machine coffee.

Your eyes scanned the demographics. “an LVAD? That’s not my specialty.”

She snatched it back “And I didn’t give you the chart, asshole. You assumed it was a procedure that was on the board for you. Congrats on picking your specialty by the way. Jayce said you went with peds. You’re wasting your talent.”

“You’re an adrenaline junky. All cardiologists are.” You frowned, shaking your head “Scratch that. Ortho is worse than you, but you’re up there.”

You tipped your head back, trying to get some of the tension from your neck and shoulders. It wasn’t working. The floor was bustling around you and the only thing you wanted to do this early in the morning was curl up in one of the on-call rooms, despite the scratchy blankets and thin sheets.

After three years interning for an attending that wore high heels despite the 48-hour shifts, your spine still straightened at the sound of them thumping against linoleum. Vi stifled a grin, pouring herself into her chart, taking another tentative sip of your coffee. She spared you from her raspy teasing, but only because of the proximity. Even she couldn’t get away with certain things.

You swallowed the bitter taste on your tongue “Doctor Kiramman,”

“Doctor Y/l/n.”

Her tone was never short of icy, but there was a nervous edge to her now. One that caught you off guard. Caitlyn Kiramman was a lot of things, but skittish was not one of them. You turned to face her in time to see her nervously tucking a strand of midnight blue hair behind her ear. There was a light flop-sweat on her brow. Somehow, she looked as if she was glowing, even while worrying the plastic of her badge between her fingers.

Vi lifted a brow at the woman, was met with a glare that caused her to turn back around with a quickness unmatched. She was fully invested in the words on the page in front of her again, bangs dropping over her stormy eyes.

“I need a consult.”

“What?”

“A consult, Doctor y/l/n. I need one.”

“From me?”

“Well, certainly not from Vi. She’s cardio, she’s reckless.”

You snorted out a laugh. That was the closest she’d ever gotten to making a joke and the corner of her lips quirked up like the beginning of a smile. But there was a short flash of discomfort a moment later, something she cleared her throat around, shifted her stance awkwardly.

“Consult, y/n. Please.”

You felt the previous blush coloring your cheeks drain away in a matter of moments. Her eyes were desperate, searching, and a brilliant type of blue that made it impossible for you to object. “Yeah, yeah okay. Exam room seven. I’ll be in in a minute.”

Caitlyn huffed out a determined breath that was accompanied by a curt nod. She turned on heel and strutted away with a certain lopsided gait that made you tilt your head. That was odd. Doctor Kiramman was brilliant, but as stubborn as they came. Why would she come to you, of all people, for an exam that anyone in the hospital could do?

“You just going to stare after her like a lovesick puppy, or are you going to do the damn consultation?”

Vi didn’t look up from her chart, she drained the last of the coffee and ran her hand down the paper seem. She knew you were going to follow. You’d been Caitlyn’s intern for the past three years. It was hard to deny a woman with her type of grace and beauty. Your factory default was to drop everything and heed her command. You’d kneel for her, if she asked.

But, Caitlyn hadn’t asked you to kneel, she’d asked you for a consultation. You waited a few more seconds to prove your free will to Vi before following. Sweat started to prickle at your brow, from excretion or nerves, you weren’t entirely sure. But you shed your white coat as if you were entering your home after a long day, draped it over the counter as you let yourself in.

She had taught you to knock before entering the room, which you did, but she still looked startled as if she hadn’t expected you to show up at all. Her ankles were crossed, chin dipped down, hands perfectly in her lap. For the first time ever, Caitlyn Kiramman looked small.

“So,” You turned your back on the strange sight, busied yourself with washing your hands. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I’m…” The word was as timid as she was. You expected her to continue, but she didn’t. Her cheeks were a rosy type of red that brought out the color of her eyes even more. She worried her hands in her lap. “I’m itchy.”

You blinked, again, cocking your head to the side. She didn’t look to be ferociously scratching at any visible patches of skin. But then again, you were used to working with children these days, and they had very little impulse control. If anyone outranked them in that department, it would be Caitlyn.

“Okay. Where? For how long?”

You purposely stacked the questions to give her some reprieve.

“Since this morning.”

An eyebrow lifted, hands placed firmly on your hips. This felt like an interrogation, the dim lights of the room masking some of her embarrassment, but with the energy shooting through the room, it wasn’t hard to tell she was drowning in it.

“Pelvic... pelvic bone. My vaginal area.”

“Ah, I figured.”

Caitlyn’s glare snapped to you with the quickness of a curled whip, though it didn’t have much of an effect on you anymore. “Then why did you make me say it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the word, vagina, Doctor Kiramman. You have to get used to saying it somehow. Now, lie back.”

She looked as if she was on the verge of pouting, but did as you said regardless, the wax paper crinkling under her strained movements. You folded out to the stirrups, all while Caitlyn watched you with her nervous gaze. You were used to critical. To disapproving.

You dug through the cabinets, pulling out a blue sheet and draping it over her midsection as if you were lazily tucking her into bed. She wore a dress, one that cut off right above the knees but had been bunched to her waist when she scooted down the edge of the table. You guided her legs into the stirrups, settling yourself on the stool at the end of the table.

“Alright,” you slid on a pair of gloves. “You ready?”

“I’m afraid I’ll never be ready for my most competent intern to stare at anything below my waist.”

“You think I’m your most competent intern?”

“Shut up and do it already.”

You chuckled, giving her knee a squeeze before moving the sheet back just enough to get a good look. You were entirely clinical with your assessment. It wasn’t hard to realize exactly what was giving Doctor Kiramman such discomfort.

“Well?” Caitlyn squeaked out.

“Doctor Kiramman, I’m afraid you have what looks to be poison oak.” You tilted your head to the side “Really, really bad poison oak, where nobody wants to have poison oak.”

She let out a pitched groan that was nothing short of miffed, letting her head fall to the side and arm drape over her eyes. “Oh Janna,” her head flopped back against the table. “I am a relatively good person. I save lives. I tip 30% at restaurants and buy lemonade from children even though it’s horrible. What did I do to deserve this?”

“They never put enough sugar in, why would I pay for a terrible drink from a tiny human?”

“y/n.”

“Right, right. The uh, the blisters are growing fast. I’d suggest calamine lotion, but I think we’re beyond that point. You’re going to need a shot of steroids.”

Caitlyn sat up with a quickness unmatched, strands of navy hair framing her face, having fallen from the messy bun atop her head. She scratched at her hairline, nailing you with a look that was supposed to scare you into a different plan. “Steroids?”

“If you’re good, I’ll give you an icepack and a lollipop.”

Caitlyn opened her mouth, closed it like a fish. She couldn’t hide the blush that crept down her neck and colored her chest in a brilliant pink. Again, she groaned, flopping back against the table and covering her face with both hands. “Just do it.”

You busied yourself preparing the right dosage in the syringe, placing the vial back on the counter. “Caitlyn, I have to ask… how did this happen?”

That question elicited a noise from her, one that was close to a death rattle, if you’ve ever heard one. And you had. You knew she had too, both of you standing just past the threshold of a doorway to a patient room. Holding your breaths, allowing the life to wheeze out of someone in a final call.

Right now, Doctor Kiramman was just being dramatic, and based on where you’d just placed a needle, she had every right to be.

“I have a dog, her name is Chiro. She’s an absolute terror, a menace, if she doesn’t get at least three miles in a day. And I suppose that’s my fault. It became an expectation. We run the same path every single day and today-”

She peeked out between her fingers, that brilliant color compared to her pale disposition. The words rushed out in a hurried grunt. “I had to pee in the middle of nowhere and I squatted, okay? I squatted and this is Janna’s punishment for not being honest with myself sooner. For stirring for literal years! I’m not a procrastinator, Y/n. I’m not. You’ve scrubbed in on dozens of my surgeries. I’m perfect.”

“Ah, and humble. Ice?”

Caitlyn was panting, sitting back up so she could stare you in the eyes. “Yeah, yes. Please.”

She flinched when you placed the pack where she needed it, a hiss through her clenched teeth accompanied by the crinkle of paper. Eventually, she unclenched, swallowed hard to beat out the dryness in her throat that was spreading.

“Can I ask another question?”

“You are going to no matter what.”

Stands of dark hair were clouding her vision. She’d somehow pulled off the disheveled look. It was captivating. For as long as you’d known Doctor Caitlyn Kiramman, she’d been incredibly put together. Beautifully strict in her regime.

But something about the way she was looking at you now stole your breath away entirely. Your gloved hand was in an uncomfortable place, taking the brunt of the cold. But your mind couldn’t help drifting to what Caitlyn Kiramman would look like in the morning.

Warm with sleep, cheeks flushed, fingers brushing through Chiro’s fur. You imagined the sun sliding through the window slats, striping across her features that would be softened. Finally softened without the stress of 48-hour shifts or spontaneous poison oak contagions.

“What were you stirring on for years that made you… why would Janna be punishing you?”

Her shoulders tensed before relaxing in something of defeat within the course of a moment. You adjusted the ice for your fingers sake. There was a redness to her cheeks that seemed to deepen. It had crept all the way past the line of her dress now, but you didn’t’ let your eyes linger for your own sanity.

“It’s not important. Oh fuck.” She breathed out, dropping her head with a labored pant. It was your turn to blush and glance away with the awkward clearing of your throat. “Shit. Alright, okay. I have feelings for someone.”

Your eyes shot up to her own. You had been the only intern to ever stand up to her, to question her choices, because you recognized her as a human and not as some omniscient being that controlled the room with the flick of her wrist.

Of course, she did do exactly that. But it was nice to be seen. To be heard. To be stared at the way you were staring at her right now.

“And you think that squatting in the woods and getting poison oak is because you haven’t admitted that you have feelings for someone?”

“Ridiculous, I know”

You cut her off with the chuckle. “Then tell them.”

Caitlyn blinked incredulously at you. “I beg your pardon?”

You removed the icepack with another chuckle, this one coming from your chest. She’d settled down, pulled the sheet back over her legs as she pulled them from the stirrups. Caitlyn curled into herself, squeezing her knees to her chest as she watched you. And she did watch you.

“Well, you’re all about testing theories, aren’t you Doctor Kiramman? So it would stand that your situation wouldn’t’ get any worse if you just… told them that you had feelings. What’s the worse that can happen?”

“They would lose all respect for me.” She breathed out shakily. “But, I suppose that’s not much of an issue now.”

The silence in the room was thick, but not uncomfortable. You kept your hands on your knees, your back straight, looking for any indicators that you were wrong about this. But there weren’t any. There was just a strange softness to Caitlyn that was only strange because you had rarely seen it. You wanted to swallow it all. To drown in it.

“I could never lose respect for you, Caitlyn.”

Before she could control it, or perhaps she wasn’t expecting to control it at all, she was beaming, and it was beautiful, face buried in the crook of her folded arms. She was watching you again. “This is why you were always my favorite. You’re clever.”

“Were? Does that mean you don’t consider me your favorite anymore?” You mock pouted.

“You just injected a shot of steroids into my groin, of course you’re still my favorite.”

The warmth that radiated from Caitlyn Kiramman was unmatched. Just as she commanded a room with here mere presence, her beauty radiated just the same. It beamed from her chest, made her glow in the low light of the exam room. She turned her head, her cheek resting on the brunt of her arms, fingers twitching as if they wanted to reach out for something. For you.

“You’re not that scared intern anymore. You haven’t been for awhile now.” She crinkled her nose in thought. “I think I knew the day you preformed a tracheotomy with a charge nurse because none of your attendings answered their pager in time. You knew exactly what you had to do and you did it. You acted first, and asked for permission later. And that’s when I knew.”

You’d leaned back on the stool, shoulders dropping in some form of relief. But you couldn’t find words. Not when her piercing stare was digging into you like that. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It sent tingles down your spine and to your toes. You wanted to chase after the feeling.

It would be a lie to say you hadn’t thought about it. About her.

Caitlyn was all sharp angles and harsh words, but never in malice. There was something quiet there. No one bothered to look past the prickly parts of her, but it was like you had never noticed them in the first place. You treated your relationship with her like the tracheotomy, headfirst and fearless.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know. Now that you’ve chosen a specialty and it’s pediatrics, I fear, I know¸ that we won’t see each other nearly as much. And that scares me more than I was willing to admit. At least until Janna gave me poison oak.”

“Cait,” you rasped out a chuckle. “Do you remember when I had to get my appendix out?”

She frowned, lips pursing into a straight line, a hint of what could be jealousy flashing through her eyes “Yes, you wouldn’t let me on the floor, and certainly not in your room, even though I was the most qualified to perform the procedure. And you had Vi of all people recklessly cut you open.”

You placed your fingers delicately around her wrist, could feel the pounding of her pulse against the pads of your fingers. “I was so strung out on morphine that I couldn’t control the thoughts that were spewing from my mouth. Did you know that? Shit, according to Vi, I was rambling for hours about you. Just you.

“And the thing is, Cait, I’m well aware that morphine lowers the inhibitions. We speak our truth when we’re dosed up like that and that’s… all I wanted to do was see you. But, admitting that I’m in love with you when I wouldn’t remember it in the morning was one of my worst fears. Vi knew that, the charge nurse knew that, hell the whole fucking floor knew that. But I couldn’t let you. I couldn’t damage that small relief we had in our interactions.”

It was her turn to be silent. The brittleness of it was damning, her heartrate had picked up immensely. A steady, yet fast, rhythm. She was muffling another smile in her arms. Almost in a shyness. It was stunning.

“What are you waiting for, then?”

The words were spoken so gently they would have been missed in any other situation. Caitlyn looked as you as if she wanted to give you a chance to back out, but didn’t really want you to take her up on it.

You kissed her softly, pushing away the stool and breathing in the floral scent of her shampoo. Her lips were soft, albeit worried between her teeth throughout the exam. She tasted of vanilla Chapstick and faintly of blood.

Fingers deftly traced the curvature of your jaw, Caitlyn’s other hand cupping the back of your neck and pulling you in close. Closer than you had ever been. She begged for access and you didn’t hesitate to provide it. She was assured in this too, licking into your mouth and mercifully muffling the moan that threatened to dislodge from your chest.

Eventually, you needed air, a full gulp of it. The two of you parted, your forehead pushed against her own. You couldn’t help the suppressed giggle that bubbled out of you. She laughed too, open and free.

“You’re beautiful,” You panted.

Caitlyn pecked your lips again, chaste. You attempted to chase after her. “I’m itchy.”

[lisssyyu]

THIS IS SO GOOD, JANNA

[child-of-plut0]

very😭 late entry for day 7 of handsome caitlyn week

today i offer you Signalis AU cait!! yearning leabians who lose an eye at some point🤝🤝