▶Writober Day 4 “This is where the magic happens” [Viktor]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: SFW, fluff, implied romanticism, during the timeskip
↠Character/s: gn reader, Viktor
↠wc: 550 words
▶“This is where the magic happens”
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" You stare at the guy in front of you, busy fiddling with a heavy brass padlock. He doesn’t respond immediately, intent on nibbling on the inside of the cheek concentrated: he slides his fingers on the metal surface rhythmically to understand the arrangement of the small weights inside the lock, in a gesture so natural that you’re almost ashamed when you feel the blood rising to your face.
"Absolutely..." a firm wrist movement. "...not."
Click.
The padlock opens with a small snap and the guy turns to look at you, the satisfied smile of those who haven't feared for a moment to fail in his intent. Viktor quickly stows the trinkets in a metal box -probably an old candy container- and opens the door of the workshop, turning a little friendly bow. You hesitate a few moments before stepping in, the dark room is illuminated only at some points by dim blue lights, such as clumsily fireflies hidden behind furniture and machinery of dubious nature.
The heavy door closes behind you and, in an almost mechanical gesture, the boy heads towards one of the light sources, lifting a rough, blue, small sphere that beats between the tapered fingers as if it was alive.
"This is where the magic happens."
He sticks the gem in a small hole covered with circuits and the whole room lights up with a strong, blue light. Immediately you feel the skin hit by a static feeling, the hair of the arms go straight and your hair, suddenly light, follows your movements with slowness. Viktor chuckles with a hand in his pocket, noddin at you when finally his hand meets the object he was looking for.
“Heads or tails?” He shows you a silver coin, then he flips it in the air, enjoying your expression the moment you realize it won’t come back in his hand.
"Is... isn’t there gravity?"
"It is not correct, gravity is still present. But it acts with such a meager force that it doesn’t affect bodies." He can’t help but smile, proud of that little workshop that for a year has turned into his second home. One by one he takes his fingers off the handle of the cane, giving himself a small push to rise in the air, with the nonchalance of those who have already done it a thousand times and another thousand will do it again.
"Aren’t you coming?"
"How?"
"Jump. Just jump."
And you do it. Your stomach tightens, your clothes lag behind your movements, your body suddenly seems to be swallowed by the void, and even if you try to move you can’t really do anything, soon finding yourself spinning without any dignity or control. The boy approaches and offers you a hand, holding onto a tube with the other one.
"This is embarrassing"
"It just takes some practice, c’mon. Hold onto me." And suddenly you feel like a child, desperately holding with both hands on Viktor’s arms, terrified that if he leaves you, you’ll get hurt.
But he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he puts his hands on your hips, and closes his eyes, enjoying the almost total absence of weight. You’re light. You’re alone.
Isolated from everything and everyone, in that small laboratory where magic is consumed.
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", fem reader
↠TW: SFW, kinda fluff, romantic, a bit angst
↠Character/s: fem reader, Ekko, Scar
↠wc: 1.1k
▶“We wanted to be the sky”
Your eyes struggle to stay open, sleep makes eyelids heavy, and staying awake is suddenly the most difficult task in the world. It was undoubtedly a heavy week: there were toxic spills in the Sump, a couple of raids by the enforces in the Entresol, and even three firelights seriously injured which you had to rescue. I mean, you giggle between you and you, you’ve definitely earned a little rest.
You feel Ekko’s strong arms pick you up and make you do a little hop so he can grab you better, more firmly, and it’s absurd how all the noises are muffled except for his heartbeat: the boy’s heart is wriggling in his chest like a dragonfly in a cage, it seems ready to break his ribs to get out, you can almost feel it hit against your cheek, furious.
You know how much he loves to carry you in his arms like that, he does it often, and every single time he adds that remark that never fails to make you laugh: "I train for the day I marry you".
You hide your face against his chest, squeezing what little you can to gather a minimum of heat while the temperatures of the underground city suddenly drop. You can’t even imagine how cold he’s since he even took off his coat to wrap you with it. God, you always believed that being born in that sewer of the underground city was a curse before knowing him.
But to this day, if you had to choose between seeing the sun every day or having to crawl in the Sump for the rest of your life, you would always choose the dirty air of your native land if it meant being with him, with the firelights, with your people.
"We’re almost there, hold still." his voice is broken, perhaps from the wind that slams in his face, so strong that his eyes are filled with tears.
"Are you going to marry me?" you speak softly, your voice is feeble but you know he hears it because he squeezes you even more to himself in response, nodding with his eyes tightened. You giggle, but you have to stop immediately when you feel a shooting pain in the belly.
But you’re kinda used to it, it’s quite inevitable for the place you live: you’re all full of bruises and scars, it always hurts everywhere for how many times you fall from overboard, buildings, or roll on the ground during fights and training. You just have to follow the procedure, breathe slowly to get the pain over, and he keeps running as much as possible.
"I’ll marry you now, I swear."
And you find yourself wringing your lips slightly in a smile, closing your eyes, and squeezing even closer to him.
"We get to the lair and I’ll marry you, and I'm gonna carry you in my arms..." his voice stops, and you don’t quite understand the verse that follows, maybe he slammed? A muffled sigh, before he keeps talking "...like a princess, and I’ll show everyone how beautiful my wife is." his wife. You may already be getting used to it.
"Say it again..."
"My wife"
"Once again..."
"My wife. My wife. My wife" his wife.
"I like how it sounds. From today I’ll officially be your wife. And you… you’ll be my husband."
Your neck hurts, as so does your head, and the cold is always sharper, but opening your eyes you begin to recognize the ‘sky’ above your head, now close to that place you call home. You can’t believe it, who knows if he was serious. You wonder if once you get there he really is going to marry you, I mean, it was an odd way to propose, but his voice didn’t sound like a joking person's.
But when you finally get there, instead of smiling, he screams at the top of his lungs.
Scream so loud and desperate you get goosebumps.
He asks for help, yelling so much that he loses his voice. He falls to his knees, but you don’t get hurt, no, even blinded by despair his first thought goes to you, he covers you with his body as if he wanted to protect you from everything. And he cries.
He’s so happy to finally marry you that he cries as his life depends on it.
You don’t really understand what people are saying, and in all honesty, you find it hard to distinguish their faces because of sleep; someone pushes Ekko away and you try to get up but the limbs don’t respond, probably numb from the cold. Damn, and to think that this morning you were even sweating!
"It’s all right, hold on" Scar whispers caressing your face, someone rips your shirt off, and you feel warm water soaking your chest in an unexpectedly relaxing sensation. Thinking becomes more and more difficult, everything turns, everything is confused, but you trust them. It must be a strange custom of firelights, you think. Some kind of preparation for the bride.
"you know..." your voice is hoarse, the taste that reminds you of iron is getting stronger and stronger in your throat, and it’s disgusting. "Ekko and I are getting married."
Scar grits his teeth, probably he wanted to hear it from his best friend, but you need to say it out loud to feel it more real.
"We are getting married, and he promised me..." your chest hurts "that he will carry me all over the lair, to show everyone how beautiful his wife is." Just laugh, your head spins.
"When we were younger we wanted to be the sky. I know, it doesn’t seem to make sense, but the sky was huge, it was beautiful, it was boundless. And we wanted to be like that. We ran to Piltover to look at the clouds. But as I got older, I realized that if the sky equals freedom, my sky is here. I don’t have to climb the rooftops to reach it." You smile weakly at Scar, sleep is becoming really unbearable but you’re embarrassed to admit that despite how excited you are your eyes are struggling to stay open. You are tired, your eyes are tired, your voice is tired.
You just want to sleep.
"I can’t believe it" you see them moving their mouths, they seem to talk but you can’t hear any sound, just annoying static noise. You don’t even know if you’re just thinking or talking out loud at this point. "We’re getting married. We’re finally getting married".
▶Writober Day 1 “This is the sign you’ve been looking for” [Silco]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", fem reader
↠TW: SFW, implied violence, implied romantic relationship
↠Character/s: fem reader, Silco, Sevika, Finn, chem barons
↠wc: 1.1k
▶“This is the sign you’ve been looking for”
The devil smiles, ruthless, letting the lips marked by time and hate barely uncover the chipped teeth.
You remain motionless, impassive, while the chem barons swallow loudly to that unexpected and out-of-place reaction from the man: Sevika quickly looks at you moving her gaze only, taking advantage of their distraction to check on you, and you don’t know exactly if she fears that you can do something inappropriate or if she’s simply uncomfortable since she usually acts alone, but you try to don’t give it too much importance. You know you have to be docile.
"So I wonder, why do you insist on wasting my time?" Silco places his palms on the table surface, leaning slightly forward, letting his voice warm as a caress and sharp as a blade reach everyone in a clear way, in a veiled threat.
His two-tone eyes scrutinize one by one the faces of the twelve present sitting at the table, with the security and superiority worthy of a king without a crown, aware that in that haughty room of power-hungry cowards no one will dare answer.
Yet, despite the tension has saturated the air, you cannot help but feel on the skin the icy and judgemental gaze of some who sits at the table; someone who despite the drastic situation finds time to wonder about who you are: they probably think they’re gonna get out of that room alive, which is why they’re mentally preparing to take you as an hostage or as a blackmail source.
And it’s a probability that you took into account when you agreed to be an accomplice in that meeting, certain that if you really are a weakness for Zaun’s Kingpin then presenting yourself to them meant being the face of the conviction.
No one speaks, only the man sitting at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room seems to exempt himself from the air of fear that the mere presence of Silco brings to the room: he plays carelessly with a lighter, turning it between his fingers, following it with his eyes, covering and uncovering the flame with its golden lid.
If hubris had a face, its irises would be green and its skin covered with ink.
"You know, the girl behind you is really pretty, Silco." His voice breaks the silence like a bolt from the blue, making your heart jump in your chest. Insolent. Self-centered. Devoid of common sense. You’re pretty sure that the one who just opened his mouth is Finn.
"Yet, she seems rather delicate to be a henchman. Is she your collaborator? Your secretary? Or maybe..." He goes on, his voice takes on a mocking note, slightly sharper as if he had to hold a laugh.
Sevika stiffens while the man involved seems not to be disturbed by his arrogance, nor by the transparent provocation. Rather, he straightens his back and raises an arm, inviting you to approach with a gesture of his hand.
"Oh, I see. Are you interested in her?"
"I can’t believe how a sick old man like you has so many pretty faces around"
You get closer to Silco, the sense of nausea grows more and more.
You wouldn’t know exactly if it’s the anxiety, the awareness of how slimy every single rat in that room is, or the absolutely disgusting way the raven-haired man looks at you, but you decide not to investigate more.
Silco puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it imperceptibly as if to reassure you that that pitiful show is about to come to an end.
And you will never admit it aloud but it’s not describable in words how attractive is the way he doesn’t waver even to so stupid but objective provocations: it’s not the wrinkles around the eyes nor the scarring that disfigures the face to make him feel at fault; he certainly knows there are younger and more attractive people out there than an old man who’s irretrievably disfigured, but that’s not his problem.
Probably Finn himself knows that it’s useless to try to attack the physical appearance of a man who grew up in the Sump, but you’re almost sure that he intends to use something so irrelevant to make him not only feel insecure but even humiliated.
And God alone is a witness to how pathetic he is as he shrugs lightly as if his foolish words had to trigger who knows what reaction.
Silco lets go of your shoulder and lightly runs two fingers along your spine and Finn makes his gaze dart towards a woman sitting on his right.
This is the sign you’ve been looking for.
You were warned by Sevika that at the table sat the one who wanted to betray the Kingpin, but there was no certainty if Iscariot was alone or in league with someone. For that reason, as a total outsider, you were asked to attend that meeting that was requested with a little too much urgency.
Your rule, as a hunter, wasn’t only to find out who would betray him, but also with them who, in search of power, would turn their back on the man.
You approach the man with the golden jaw and drop a bag on the table that, when it hits the wood, lets out gold coins.
He looks up perplexed, first at you, then at Silco.
"What does it mean"
"That’s 30 gold coins." You try not to let out any emotion as you speak, and it’s almost ridiculous how your heart does somersaults in your chest when you notice it out of the corner of your eye in Silco’s small grin.
Finn snaps to his feet and slams his hands on the table, stupid and embarrassing exactly as he were described to you: the moment he’s unable to understand something he screams and wiggles like an toddler.
He screams words that you ignore, intent on accomplishing your only task. With one hand you reach for his face to turn it towards you, and before he can grab your wrist to break contact you leave him a quick kiss; then, you place a nail in front of the woman, looking into her eyes without hiding the sadistic vein that accompanies your action.
You have exactly fourteen seconds to get back behind Silco, fourteen seconds before the ruckus breaks out and that room, that until a few moments before was shrouded in silence, turns into hell on earth.
Some understand your signal and get up, others blink their eyes in confusion, others still turn looking for an escape or shelter, while Silco offers you a hand, closing your fingers between his and the palm, leaving a light kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that finally breaks the mask of coldness and tears you a smile.
"You did so good" is just a whisper, but you can’t help but giggle as you squeeze yourself between your shoulders as you leave the door behind.
▶Writober Day 3 “I can't explain and I won't even try” [Jayce]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader (no pronouns used)
↠TW: SFW, fluff, romantic, domestic, babygirl Jayce
↠Character/s: gn reader, Jayce Talis
↠wc: about 1 k
▶“I can't explain and I won't even try”
Working for the Kirammans has its pros and cons, no doubt.
Sure, you come home late, maybe drenched to the bone, but it pays well -and Tobias is such a sweetheart, he feels guilty when you finish your shift too late, so he always makes sure to give you some delicacies and often he offers to give you a ride home.
And your home, in turn, has its undeniable charm: it isn’t too excessive but it’s warm enough to allow you to breathe a sigh of relief when you enter. When outside it is particularly dark and cold, the main rooms are scattered with candles: a couple on the fireplace, at least five in the bathroom, three more in the kitchen… and the first to come back from their shift usually turn on both the heating and a stove, ready to boil milk for a cappuccino or a hot chocolate.
You get out of the car quickly and greet the man with your hand, he smiles in response and waits for you to enter the gate before starting the car and leaving. You know it’s an automatic gesture, probably dictated by fatherly instinct, but every single time it makes you feel an unexplained warm feeling in your chest, like safety.
But now you have no time for sentimentality, no, you’re finally at home. You can finally relax.
The last drops of rain, you think, then you’ll finally be warm.
The last drops of rain, you think as you press your finger on the doorbell.
The last drops of rain, you think when the latch snaps.
But when the door opens, you understand that that desire is as far as you can imagine: Jayce looks at you, seriously, the gray shirt he usually wears when he is at home is scorched, the soot dirty on his face and arms, in one hand he holds what appears to be the corpse of a cloth. You stare at him, and he looks back, in prolonged eye contact.
"I can’t explain and I don’t even try."
You nod. Excellent argument, no doubt.
You squeeze your eyes hard, filling your lungs with air until they almost burst into your chest. You put a hand on your temple, trying to assess how serious the situation in the house can be: it’s like a game between you and you, if you think about the worst possible scenarios you almost automatically will think 'I thought worse' when you actually see the disaster.
"So, what happened this time?" you sigh, closing the door behind you, and before the boy can talk, you clean a speck of soot from under his eye and take advantage of the situation to leave him a quick kiss, accompanied by a 'good evening anyway'.
"I was studying and..." the boy just gestures and shrugs.
"You got distracted?" he snorts in response, addressing his classic pout.
The living room isn’t that bad at the end of the day, just a little bit of soot on the curtains, some residue of burnt sheets on the ground, and fragments of what you imagine were glass vials on the tables and chairs.
You get the broom in the closet, and in the meantime give the boy instructions to open the windows and remove the curtains. In a few moments the air in the house becomes breathable again, but at the same time so cold to give you goosebumps: it doesn’t happen too often, but it is also not so rare that the carpets get dirty, the tablecloth burns, the walls blacken a little or the paintings fall off. You just got used to it, without getting angry or annoyed too much.
The carpets are taken to the laundry, the tablecloth is mended, the stains on the walls are cleaned, the paintings hung again and the windows reopened to make the room liveable again. You take a quick look out of the corner of your eye at Jayce, who’s obviously in a very bad mood, and you can’t help it but giggle.
"Oh, c'mon big boy. Nothing happened. Now let’s fix the living room and then take a nice warm bath" You approach him and put your hands on his chest, slowly sliding under the shirt. He whispers something incomprehensible about how he’s not angry at all, how he’s just annoyed by how a stupid distraction caused the accident this time and not an experiment, how he’s mortified because it’s cold and he knows it’s late and you’re tired, and so, so much more bullshits.
"I’m not angry, Jayce"
"I know, but I also know that-"
"Jayce"
"I know… but…"
"Let’s do this now: while I close the windows and change the tablecloth you go and prepare the hot water and towels. We deserved that. Okay?"
He nods but his expression doesn’t change, obviously consumed by guilt.
"Oh Jayce! Just one more thing!" he turns to look at you, putting his hand against the door frame.
"I love you."
He gasps loudly, opening his eyes wide, bites his lower lip embarrassed while his cheeks are get a bit hotter, and squeezes between his shoulders like a child who, on Christmas morning, doesn’t know how to react to the gift he was waiting for from a lifetime, even though you repeat those words every single day.
"I love you too"
And you giggle as you watch his mood suddenly improve, as he can’t help but smile as he goes back and forth between rooms.
▶Writober Day 6 “If we ever stop talking send me a song” [Vander]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: SFW, angst, takes place during the time skip, I had to change a bit the prompt, the song is "our love" from Arcane
↠Character/s: gn reader, Vander, implied Mylo, Claggor, Jinx and Vi
↠wc: 605 words
▶“If we ever stop talking send sing me a song”
“Ooh, like Sunday I'll pray our love will always stay pure… Ooh, while the world turns around, he holds me down for sure”
The voice mixes with the wind, the distant squeak of the gears of the elevator that connects Piltover to that place that has now taken the name of Zaun, the roar of the water of the port, the ticking of the rigid soles of the merchants who move back and forth while talking to each other, the noise of puddles that are hit by the feet of some bandit intent on diverting enforcers.
The underground city is breathing.
It seems almost intolerable in your eyes the audacity with which the city is getting back on its feet, as if time had continued to flow undaunted while, for you, the entire universe remained frozen at that night. Your voice cracks slightly, permeated with melancholy.
He promised you that he would always be there, that he would be your shield, that you would grow old together in that filthy world, making each other’s days less miserable. He promised you that you would work together at the inn, where you would dance every night as soon as the heavy door closed. He promised you that you would raise the children he picked up from the street together, like a real family. The same children he had brought with him as if he had not limited himself to death but had erased every single trace of his passage.
And the worst part is that you have no one to blame, not a single scapegoat to whom you can direct all your hatred, your malaise, your frustration. One part of your brain is angry with him, with the great Vander, the underground hound, who was so intent on saving everyone that he failed to save himself, while another part of you screams that you should have been with him that night, That you knew something was wrong, that maybe you couldn’t prevent it, but you could die there, in peace, next to your family.
The throat knot prevents you from finishing the song.
God, you’re so ungrateful.
You should just be happy that you’re still alive, that you’re okay, that they’re in a place that doesn’t smell like a sewer. But you’re selfish.
You miss them, you miss them in such a heartbreaking way that your heart seems to rip in two every single morning when you wake up in a bed suddenly too big, too empty.
You try to suffocate a cry, squeeze yourself between your own arms, squint with so much strength to see the residual image of that place even with your eyes closed, tighten your jaw feeling every single muscle in your neck in tension.
You can’t cry in front of him. He hates to see you cry.
It takes you a bit before trying to recompose, then you clear your voice with your eyelashes still damp, a deep breath, and start singing again with a stony tone your song, the one that you used to keep away from the jukebox because nobody, except you two, could play it.
"Do you remember, Vander? You said that to me. 'If we ever stop talking, I will sing you a song'. And every day..." the words die in your throat. You see your own reflection in the water at the foot of the statue: your eyes are reddened and dug, your lips are pale and chapped. Who knows if he’d be able to love you even now, even seeing you like this. "...every day for 251 days, I’ve come to sing you a song."
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: Slightly NSFW, "dancer"!reader, slightly degradation kink, spit kink, Last drop? Brothel? Who knows
↠Character/s: gn reader, Marcus
↠wc: 578 words
▶“Sinners”
The glass sprints in a single fluid movement through the entire counter, dressing with the colored lights of the room before finishing its short run in the gloved hand of the policeman, who, without any hesitation or delay, brings it to his lips.
The music is so loud that the bass resonates in the diaphragm and makes the liquids vibrate rhythmically in the bottles carefully arranged behind the counter, as in a collective and hypnotic dance able to overcome the fourth dimension. Everything in that place seems to transcend the human as if someone had managed to scratch a slice of hell inside a closed building.
The moans and sighs accompany the notes, coming from every corner of the room, where shameless lustful don’t deprive themselves of a macabre dance, hungry for the body and soul of each other. On the stage and the counter several figures move ambiguous and sensual, without any gender and race, as if they lived only for that moment, and you with them.
You make your hands run on your skin uncovered, the lips hatched ready to give lascivious smiles to those sinners who despairing crowd at your feet, praying for one moment of your attention.
Keep your eyes glued to that of the man, intent on enjoying the only time when you, a dirty little animal of the underground city, can look down from above not only some piltover but even a public official. You kneel before him without stopping to dance, fluid as a snake, only to observe him better in those eyes so dark that they seem to swallow every single glimmer of light.
He sweats.
Swallows.
And you wonder if he feels dirty, if he feels like he’s in a cage, if he realizes that he’s just your prey.
And he, like a good obedient child, doesn't say a word. You grab his jaw between your thumb and pointer, slightly moving his face as you would with a precious gem, arching your back instinctively when he, instead of resisting, remains soft in your hands.
Docile, that man who the next morning would be ready to shoot a bullet directly between your eyes to keep his business clean, is now totally submissive to the touch of a mere prostitute.
You want to kill him.
At least threaten him, make him feel small, but you know you can’t.
You limit yourself to make a slight pressure on the just dug cheeks of the man to force him to open his mouth, then, with one hand, you lift his glass stealing a sip of his stupid and predictable gin.
Rich people have no taste nor imagination.
And when he raises his eyebrows confused, you recline your head, his lips a few millimeters from yours while you spit out the clear liquid in his mouth, rippling in a smile of pure pleasure when the man’s eyelids close slightly and his back stiffens.
Pathetic.
The red of the lights doesn’t stop you from clearly seeing the coins and bills that from time to time he slips at your feet, like a drug addict willing to do anything for a dose. And you, magnanimously, every time kneel down before him, letting him once touch a leg to worship your body, once feel your mouth so close to his skin that you can whisper against it every single sin you committed.
And he, second after second, falls more and more in the arms of a demon.
Okay, small change! In order to not create excessive spam, I decided to manage the writober in a more orderly way. On ao3 I will post the stories day by day, then report them in a single post the whole week on Tumblr!
Day 1: Silco x f!reader
Day 2: Ekko x f!reader,
Day 3: Jayce x gn!reader,
Day 4: Viktor x gn!reader,
Day 5: Marcus x gn!reader,
Day 6: Vander x gn!reader
Day 7: Sevika x gn!reader
▶Writober Day 1 “This is the sign you’ve been looking for” [Silco]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", fem reader
↠TW: SFW, implied violence, implied romantic relationship
↠Character/s: fem reader, Silco, Sevika, Finn, chem barons
↠wc: 1.1k
The devil smiles, ruthless, letting the lips marked by time and hate barely uncover the chipped teeth.
You remain motionless, impassive, while the chem barons swallow loudly to that unexpected and out-of-place reaction from the man: Sevika quickly looks at you moving her gaze only, taking advantage of their distraction to check on you, and you don’t know exactly if she fears that you can do something inappropriate or if she’s simply uncomfortable since she usually acts alone, but you try to don’t give it too much importance. You know you have to be docile.
"So I wonder, why do you insist on wasting my time?" Silco places his palms on the table surface, leaning slightly forward, letting his voice warm as a caress and sharp as a blade reach everyone in a clear way, in a veiled threat.
His two-tone eyes scrutinize one by one the faces of the twelve present sitting at the table, with the security and superiority worthy of a king without a crown, aware that in that haughty room of power-hungry cowards no one will dare answer.
Yet, despite the tension has saturated the air, you cannot help but feel on the skin the icy and judgemental gaze of some who sits at the table; someone who despite the drastic situation finds time to wonder about who you are: they probably think they’re gonna get out of that room alive, which is why they’re mentally preparing to take you as an hostage or as a blackmail source.
And it’s a probability that you took into account when you agreed to be an accomplice in that meeting, certain that if you really are a weakness for Zaun’s Kingpin then presenting yourself to them meant being the face of the conviction.
No one speaks, only the man sitting at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room seems to exempt himself from the air of fear that the mere presence of Silco brings to the room: he plays carelessly with a lighter, turning it between his fingers, following it with his eyes, covering and uncovering the flame with its golden lid.
If hubris had a face, its irises would be green and its skin covered with ink.
"You know, the girl behind you is really pretty, Silco." His voice breaks the silence like a bolt from the blue, making your heart jump in your chest. Insolent. Self-centered. Devoid of common sense. You’re pretty sure that the one who just opened his mouth is Finn.
"Yet, she seems rather delicate to be a henchman. Is she your collaborator? Your secretary? Or maybe..." He goes on, his voice takes on a mocking note, slightly sharper as if he had to hold a laugh.
Sevika stiffens while the man involved seems not to be disturbed by his arrogance, nor by the transparent provocation. Rather, he straightens his back and raises an arm, inviting you to approach with a gesture of his hand.
"Oh, I see. Are you interested in her?"
"I can’t believe how a sick old man like you has so many pretty faces around"
You get closer to Silco, the sense of nausea grows more and more.
You wouldn’t know exactly if it’s the anxiety, the awareness of how slimy every single rat in that room is, or the absolutely disgusting way the raven-haired man looks at you, but you decide not to investigate more.
Silco puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it imperceptibly as if to reassure you that that pitiful show is about to come to an end.
And you will never admit it aloud but it’s not describable in words how attractive is the way he doesn’t waver even to so stupid but objective provocations: it’s not the wrinkles around the eyes nor the scarring that disfigures the face to make him feel at fault; he certainly knows there are younger and more attractive people out there than an old man who’s irretrievably disfigured, but that’s not his problem.
Probably Finn himself knows that it’s useless to try to attack the physical appearance of a man who grew up in the Sump, but you’re almost sure that he intends to use something so irrelevant to make him not only feel insecure but even humiliated.
And God alone is a witness to how pathetic he is as he shrugs lightly as if his foolish words had to trigger who knows what reaction.
Silco lets go of your shoulder and lightly runs two fingers along your spine and Finn makes his gaze dart towards a woman sitting on his right.
This is the sign you’ve been looking for.
You were warned by Sevika that at the table sat the one who wanted to betray the Kingpin, but there was no certainty if Iscariot was alone or in league with someone. For that reason, as a total outsider, you were asked to attend that meeting that was requested with a little too much urgency.
Your rule, as a hunter, wasn’t only to find out who would betray him, but also with them who, in search of power, would turn their back on the man.
You approach the man with the golden jaw and drop a bag on the table that, when it hits the wood, lets out gold coins.
He looks up perplexed, first at you, then at Silco.
"What does it mean"
"That’s 30 gold coins." You try not to let out any emotion as you speak, and it’s almost ridiculous how your heart does somersaults in your chest when you notice it out of the corner of your eye in Silco’s small grin.
Finn snaps to his feet and slams his hands on the table, stupid and embarrassing exactly as he were described to you: the moment he’s unable to understand something he screams and wiggles like an toddler.
He screams words that you ignore, intent on accomplishing your only task. With one hand you reach for his face to turn it towards you, and before he can grab your wrist to break contact you leave him a quick kiss; then, you place a nail in front of the woman, looking into her eyes without hiding the sadistic vein that accompanies your action.
You have exactly fourteen seconds to get back behind Silco, fourteen seconds before the ruckus breaks out and that room, that until a few moments before was shrouded in silence, turns into hell on earth.
Some understand your signal and get up, others blink their eyes in confusion, others still turn looking for an escape or shelter, while Silco offers you a hand, closing your fingers between his and the palm, leaving a light kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that finally breaks the mask of coldness and tears you a smile.
"You did so good" is just a whisper, but you can’t help but giggle as you squeeze yourself between your shoulders as you leave the door behind.
The devil smiles, ruthless, letting the lips marked by time and hate barely uncover the chipped teeth.
You remain motionless, impassive, while the chem barons swallow loudly to that unexpected and out-of-place reaction from the man: Sevika quickly looks at you moving her gaze only, taking advantage of their distraction to check on you, and you don’t know exactly if she fears that you can do something inappropriate or if she’s simply uncomfortable since she usually acts alone, but you try to don’t give it too much importance. You know you have to be docile.
"So I wonder, why do you insist on wasting my time?" Silco places his palms on the table surface, leaning slightly forward, letting his voice warm as a caress and sharp as a blade reach everyone in a clear way, in a veiled threat.
His two-tone eyes scrutinize one by one the faces of the twelve present sitting at the table, with the security and superiority worthy of a king without a crown, aware that in that haughty room of power-hungry cowards no one will dare answer.
Yet, despite the tension has saturated the air, you cannot help but feel on the skin the icy and judgemental gaze of some who sits at the table; someone who despite the drastic situation finds time to wonder about who you are: they probably think they’re gonna get out of that room alive, which is why they’re mentally preparing to take you as an hostage or as a blackmail source.
And it’s a probability that you took into account when you agreed to be an accomplice in that meeting, certain that if you really are a weakness for Zaun’s Kingpin then presenting yourself to them meant being the face of the conviction.
No one speaks, only the man sitting at the head of the table on the opposite side of the room seems to exempt himself from the air of fear that the mere presence of Silco brings to the room: he plays carelessly with a lighter, turning it between his fingers, following it with his eyes, covering and uncovering the flame with its golden lid.
If hubris had a face, its irises would be green and its skin covered with ink.
"You know, the girl behind you is really pretty, Silco." His voice breaks the silence like a bolt from the blue, making your heart jump in your chest. Insolent. Self-centered. Devoid of common sense. You’re pretty sure that the one who just opened his mouth is Finn.
"Yet, she seems rather delicate to be a henchman. Is she your collaborator? Your secretary? Or maybe..." He goes on, his voice takes on a mocking note, slightly sharper as if he had to hold a laugh.
Sevika stiffens while the man involved seems not to be disturbed by his arrogance, nor by the transparent provocation. Rather, he straightens his back and raises an arm, inviting you to approach with a gesture of his hand.
"Oh, I see. Are you interested in her?"
"I can’t believe how a sick old man like you has so many pretty faces around"
You get closer to Silco, the sense of nausea grows more and more.
You wouldn’t know exactly if it’s the anxiety, the awareness of how slimy every single rat in that room is, or the absolutely disgusting way the raven-haired man looks at you, but you decide not to investigate more.
Silco puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it imperceptibly as if to reassure you that that pitiful show is about to come to an end.
And you will never admit it aloud but it’s not describable in words how attractive is the way he doesn’t waver even to so stupid but objective provocations: it’s not the wrinkles around the eyes nor the scarring that disfigures the face to make him feel at fault; he certainly knows there are younger and more attractive people out there than an old man who’s irretrievably disfigured, but that’s not his problem.
Probably Finn himself knows that it’s useless to try to attack the physical appearance of a man who grew up in the Sump, but you’re almost sure that he intends to use something so irrelevant to make him not only feel insecure but even humiliated.
And God alone is a witness to how pathetic he is as he shrugs lightly as if his foolish words had to trigger who knows what reaction.
Silco lets go of your shoulder and lightly runs two fingers along your spine and Finn makes his gaze dart towards a woman sitting on his right.
This is the sign you’ve been looking for.
You were warned by Sevika that at the table sat the one who wanted to betray the Kingpin, but there was no certainty if Iscariot was alone or in league with someone. For that reason, as a total outsider, you were asked to attend that meeting that was requested with a little too much urgency.
Your rule, as a hunter, wasn’t only to find out who would betray him, but also with them who, in search of power, would turn their back on the man.
You approach the man with the golden jaw and drop a bag on the table that, when it hits the wood, lets out gold coins.
He looks up perplexed, first at you, then at Silco.
"What does it mean"
"That’s 30 gold coins." You try not to let out any emotion as you speak, and it’s almost ridiculous how your heart does somersaults in your chest when you notice it out of the corner of your eye in Silco’s small grin.
Finn snaps to his feet and slams his hands on the table, stupid and embarrassing exactly as he were described to you: the moment he’s unable to understand something he screams and wiggles like an toddler.
He screams words that you ignore, intent on accomplishing your only task. With one hand you reach for his face to turn it towards you, and before he can grab your wrist to break contact you leave him a quick kiss; then, you place a nail in front of the woman, looking into her eyes without hiding the sadistic vein that accompanies your action.
You have exactly fourteen seconds to get back behind Silco, fourteen seconds before the ruckus breaks out and that room, that until a few moments before was shrouded in silence, turns into hell on earth.
Some understand your signal and get up, others blink their eyes in confusion, others still turn looking for an escape or shelter, while Silco offers you a hand, closing your fingers between his and the palm, leaving a light kiss on the knuckles in a gesture that finally breaks the mask of coldness and tears you a smile.
"You did so good" is just a whisper, but you can’t help but giggle as you squeeze yourself between your shoulders as you leave the door behind.
▶Writober Day 2 “We wanted to be the sky” [Ekko]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", fem reader
↠TW: SFW, kinda fluff, romantic, a bit angst
↠Character/s: fem reader,Ekko, Scar
↠wc: 1.1k
Your eyes struggle to stay open, sleep makes eyelids heavy, and staying awake is suddenly the most difficult task in the world. It was undoubtedly a heavy week: there were toxic spills in the Sump, a couple of raids by the enforces in the Entresol, and even three firelights seriously injured which you had to rescue. I mean, you giggle between you and you, you’ve definitely earned a little rest.
You feel Ekko’s strong arms pick you up and make you do a little hop so he can grab you better, more firmly, and it’s absurd how all the noises are muffled except for his heartbeat: the boy’s heart is wriggling in his chest like a dragonfly in a cage, it seems ready to break his ribs to get out, you can almost feel it hit against your cheek, furious.
You know how much he loves to carry you in his arms like that, he does it often, and every single time he adds that remark that never fails to make you laugh: "I train for the day I marry you".
You hide your face against his chest, squeezing what little you can to gather a minimum of heat while the temperatures of the underground city suddenly drop. You can’t even imagine how cold he’s since he even took off his coat to wrap you with it. God, you always believed that being born in that sewer of the underground city was a curse before knowing him.
But to this day, if you had to choose between seeing the sun every day or having to crawl in the Sump for the rest of your life, you would always choose the dirty air of your native land if it meant being with him, with the firelights, with your people.
"We’re almost there, hold still." his voice is broken, perhaps from the wind that slams in his face, so strong that his eyes are filled with tears.
"Are you going to marry me?" you speak softly, your voice is feeble but you know he hears it because he squeezes you even more to himself in response, nodding with his eyes tightened. You giggle, but you have to stop immediately when you feel a shooting pain in the belly.
But you’re kinda used to it, it’s quite inevitable for the place you live: you’re all full of bruises and scars, it always hurts everywhere for how many times you fall from overboard, buildings, or roll on the ground during fights and training. You just have to follow the procedure, breathe slowly to get the pain over, and he keeps running as much as possible.
"I’ll marry you now, I swear."
And you find yourself wringing your lips slightly in a smile, closing your eyes, and squeezing even closer to him.
"We get to the lair and I’ll marry you, and I'm gonna carry you in my arms..." his voice stops, and you don’t quite understand the verse that follows, maybe he slammed? A muffled sigh, before he keeps talking "...like a princess, and I’ll show everyone how beautiful my wife is." his wife. You may already be getting used to it.
"Say it again..."
"My wife"
"Once again..."
"My wife. My wife. My wife" his wife.
"I like how it sounds. From today I’ll officially be your wife. And you… you’ll be my husband."
Your neck hurts, as so does your head, and the cold is always sharper, but opening your eyes you begin to recognize the ‘sky’ above your head, now close to that place you call home. You can’t believe it, who knows if he was serious. You wonder if once you get there he really is going to marry you, I mean, it was an odd way to propose, but his voice didn’t sound like a joking person's.
But when you finally get there, instead of smiling, he screams at the top of his lungs.
Scream so loud and desperate you get goosebumps.
He asks for help, yelling so much that he loses his voice. He falls to his knees, but you don’t get hurt, no, even blinded by despair his first thought goes to you, he covers you with his body as if he wanted to protect you from everything. And he cries.
He’s so happy to finally marry you that he cries as his life depends on it.
You don’t really understand what people are saying, and in all honesty, you find it hard to distinguish their faces because of sleep; someone pushes Ekko away and you try to get up but the limbs don’t respond, probably numb from the cold. Damn, and to think that this morning you were even sweating!
"It’s all right, hold on" Scar whispers caressing your face, someone rips your shirt off, and you feel warm water soaking your chest in an unexpectedly relaxing sensation. Thinking becomes more and more difficult, everything turns, everything is confused, but you trust them. It must be a strange custom of firelights, you think. Some kind of preparation for the bride.
"you know..." your voice is hoarse, the taste that reminds you of iron is getting stronger and stronger in your throat, and it’s disgusting. "Ekko and I are getting married."
Scar grits his teeth, probably he wanted to hear it from his best friend, but you need to say it out loud to feel it more real.
"We are getting married, and he promised me..." your chest hurts "that he will carry me all over the lair, to show everyone how beautiful his wife is." Just laugh, your head spins.
"When we were younger we wanted to be the sky. I know, it doesn’t seem to make sense, but the sky was huge, it was beautiful, it was boundless. And we wanted to be like that. We ran to Piltover to look at the clouds. But as I got older, I realized that if the sky equals freedom, my sky is here. I don’t have to climb the rooftops to reach it." You smile weakly at Scar, sleep is becoming really unbearable but you’re embarrassed to admit that despite how excited you are your eyes are struggling to stay open. You are tired, your eyes are tired, your voice is tired.
You just want to sleep.
"I can’t believe it" you see them moving their mouths, they seem to talk but you can’t hear any sound, just annoying static noise. You don’t even know if you’re just thinking or talking out loud at this point. "We’re getting married. We’re finally getting married".
Your eyes close.
And everything fades black.
▶Writober Day 3 “I can't explain and I won't even try” [Jayce]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader(no pronouns used)
↠TW: SFW, fluff, romantic,domestic, babygirl Jayce
↠Character/s: gn reader, Jayce Talis
↠wc: about 1 k
Working for the Kirammans has its pros and cons, no doubt.
Sure, you come home late, maybe drenched to the bone, but it pays well -and Tobias is such a sweetheart, he feels guilty when you finish your shift too late, so he always makes sure to give you some delicacies and often he offers to give you a ride home.
And your home, in turn, has its undeniable charm: it isn’t too excessive but it’s warm enough to allow you to breathe a sigh of relief when you enter. When outside it is particularly dark and cold, the main rooms are scattered with candles: a couple on the fireplace, at least five in the bathroom, three more in the kitchen… and the first to come back from their shift usually turn on both the heating and a stove, ready to boil milk for a cappuccino or a hot chocolate.
You get out of the car quickly and greet the man with your hand, he smiles in response and waits for you to enter the gate before starting the car and leaving. You know it’s an automatic gesture, probably dictated by fatherly instinct, but every single time it makes you feel an unexplained warm feeling in your chest, like safety.
But now you have no time for sentimentality, no, you’re finally at home. You can finally relax.
The last drops of rain, you think, then you’ll finally be warm.
The last drops of rain, you think as you press your finger on the doorbell.
The last drops of rain, you think when the latch snaps.
But when the door opens, you understand that that desire is as far as you can imagine: Jayce looks at you, seriously, the gray shirt he usually wears when he is at home is scorched, the soot dirty on his face and arms, in one hand he holds what appears to be the corpse of a cloth. You stare at him, and he looks back, in prolonged eye contact.
"I can’t explain and I don’t even try."
You nod. Excellent argument, no doubt.
You squeeze your eyes hard, filling your lungs with air until they almost burst into your chest. You put a hand on your temple, trying to assess how serious the situation in the house can be: it’s like a game between you and you, if you think about the worst possible scenarios you almost automatically will think 'I thought worse' when you actually see the disaster.
"So, what happened this time?" you sigh, closing the door behind you, and before the boy can talk, you clean a speck of soot from under his eye and take advantage of the situation to leave him a quick kiss, accompanied by a 'good evening anyway'.
"I was studying and..." the boy just gestures and shrugs.
"You got distracted?" he snorts in response, addressing his classic pout.
The living room isn’t that bad at the end of the day, just a little bit of soot on the curtains, some residue of burnt sheets on the ground, and fragments of what you imagine were glass vials on the tables and chairs.
You get the broom in the closet, and in the meantime give the boy instructions to open the windows and remove the curtains. In a few moments the air in the house becomes breathable again, but at the same time so cold to give you goosebumps: it doesn’t happen too often, but it is also not so rare that the carpets get dirty, the tablecloth burns, the walls blacken a little or the paintings fall off. You just got used to it, without getting angry or annoyed too much.
The carpets are taken to the laundry, the tablecloth is mended, the stains on the walls are cleaned, the paintings hung again and the windows reopened to make the room liveable again. You take a quick look out of the corner of your eye at Jayce, who’s obviously in a very bad mood, and you can’t help it but giggle.
"Oh, c'mon big boy. Nothing happened. Now let’s fix the living room and then take a nice warm bath" You approach him and put your hands on his chest, slowly sliding under the shirt. He whispers something incomprehensible about how he’s not angry at all, how he’s just annoyed by how a stupid distraction caused the accident this time and not an experiment, how he’s mortified because it’s cold and he knows it’s late and you’re tired, and so, so much more bullshits.
"I’m not angry, Jayce"
"I know, but I also know that-"
"Jayce"
"I know… but…"
"Let’s do this now: while I close the windows and change the tablecloth you go and prepare the hot water and towels. We deserved that. Okay?"
He nods but his expression doesn’t change, obviously consumed by guilt.
"Oh Jayce! Just one more thing!" he turns to look at you, putting his hand against the door frame.
"I love you."
He gasps loudly, opening his eyes wide, bites his lower lip embarrassed while his cheeks are get a bit hotter, and squeezes between his shoulders like a child who, on Christmas morning, doesn’t know how to react to the gift he was waiting for from a lifetime, even though you repeat those words every single day.
"I love you too"
And you giggle as you watch his mood suddenly improve, as he can’t help but smile as he goes back and forth between rooms.
▶Writober Day 4 “This is where the magic happens” [Viktor]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: SFW, fluff, implied romanticism, during the timeskip
↠Character/s: gn reader, Viktor
↠wc: 550 words
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" You stare at the guy in front of you, busy fiddling with a heavy brass padlock. He doesn’t respond immediately, intent on nibbling on the inside of the cheek concentrated: he slides his fingers on the metal surface rhythmically to understand the arrangement of the small weights inside the lock, in a gesture so natural that you’re almost ashamed when you feel the blood rising to your face.
"Absolutely..." a firm wrist movement. "...not."
Click.
The padlock opens with a small snap and the guy turns to look at you, the satisfied smile of those who haven't feared for a moment to fail in his intent. Viktor quickly stows the trinkets in a metal box -probably an old candy container- and opens the door of the workshop, turning a little friendly bow. You hesitate a few moments before stepping in, the dark room is illuminated only at some points by dim blue lights, such as clumsily fireflies hidden behind furniture and machinery of dubious nature.
The heavy door closes behind you and, in an almost mechanical gesture, the boy heads towards one of the light sources, lifting a rough, blue, small sphere that beats between the tapered fingers as if it was alive.
"This is where the magic happens."
He sticks the gem in a small hole covered with circuits and the whole room lights up with a strong, blue light. Immediately you feel the skin hit by a static feeling, the hair of the arms go straight and your hair, suddenly light, follows your movements with slowness. Viktor chuckles with a hand in his pocket, noddin at you when finally his hand meets the object he was looking for.
“Heads or tails?” He shows you a silver coin, then he flips it in the air, enjoying your expression the moment you realize it won’t come back in his hand.
"Is... isn’t there gravity?"
"It is not correct, gravity is still present. But it acts with such a meager force that it doesn’t affect bodies." He can’t help but smile, proud of that little workshop that for a year has turned into his second home. One by one he takes his fingers off the handle of the cane, giving himself a small push to rise in the air, with the nonchalance of those who have already done it a thousand times and another thousand will do it again.
"Aren’t you coming?"
"How?"
"Jump. Just jump."
And you do it. Your stomach tightens, your clothes lag behind your movements, your body suddenly seems to be swallowed by the void, and even if you try to move you can’t really do anything, soon finding yourself spinning without any dignity or control. The boy approaches and offers you a hand, holding onto a tube with the other one.
"This is embarrassing"
"It just takes some practice, c’mon. Hold onto me." And suddenly you feel like a child, desperately holding with both hands on Viktor’s arms, terrified that if he leaves you, you’ll get hurt.
But he doesn’t leave you. Instead, he puts his hands on your hips, and closes his eyes, enjoying the almost total absence of weight. You’re light. You’re alone.
Isolated from everything and everyone, in that small laboratory where magic is consumed.
▶Writober Day 5 “Sinners” [Marcus]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: Slightly NSFW, "dancer"!reader, slightly degradation kink, spit kink, Last drop? Brothel? Who knows
↠Character/s: gn reader, Marcus
↠wc: 578 words
The glass sprints in a single fluid movement through the entire counter, dressing with the colored lights of the room before finishing its short run in the gloved hand of the policeman, who, without any hesitation or delay, brings it to his lips.
The music is so loud that the bass resonates in the diaphragm and makes the liquids vibrate rhythmically in the bottles carefully arranged behind the counter, as in a collective and hypnotic dance able to overcome the fourth dimension. Everything in that place seems to transcend the human as if someone had managed to scratch a slice of hell inside a closed building.
The moans and sighs accompany the notes, coming from every corner of the room, where shameless lustful don’t deprive themselves of a macabre dance, hungry for the body and soul of each other. On the stage and the counter several figures move ambiguous and sensual, without any gender and race, as if they lived only for that moment, and you with them.
You make your hands run on your skin uncovered, the lips hatched ready to give lascivious smiles to those sinners who despairing crowd at your feet, praying for one moment of your attention.
Keep your eyes glued to that of the man, intent on enjoying the only time when you, a dirty little animal of the underground city, can look down from above not only some piltover but even a public official. You kneel before him without stopping to dance, fluid as a snake, only to observe him better in those eyes so dark that they seem to swallow every single glimmer of light.
He sweats.
Swallows.
And you wonder if he feels dirty, if he feels like he’s in a cage, if he realizes that he’s just your prey.
And he, like a good obedient child, doesn't say a word. You grab his jaw between your thumb and pointer, slightly moving his face as you would with a precious gem, arching your back instinctively when he, instead of resisting, remains soft in your hands.
Docile, that man who the next morning would be ready to shoot a bullet directly between your eyes to keep his business clean, is now totally submissive to the touch of a mere prostitute.
You want to kill him.
At least threaten him, make him feel small, but you know you can’t.
You limit yourself to make a slight pressure on the just dug cheeks of the man to force him to open his mouth, then, with one hand, you lift his glass stealing a sip of his stupid and predictable gin.
Rich people have no taste nor imagination.
And when he raises his eyebrows confused, you recline your head, his lips a few millimeters from yours while you spit out the clear liquid in his mouth, rippling in a smile of pure pleasure when the man’s eyelids close slightly and his back stiffens.
Pathetic.
The red of the lights doesn’t stop you from clearly seeing the coins and bills that from time to time he slips at your feet, like a drug addict willing to do anything for a dose. And you, magnanimously, every time kneel down before him, letting him once touch a leg to worship your body, once feel your mouth so close to his skin that you can whisper against it every single sin you committed.
And he, second after second, falls more and more in the arms of a demon.
▶Writober Day 6 “If we ever stop talking send me a song” [Vander]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: SFW, angst, takes place during the time skip, I had to change a bit the prompt, the song is "our love" from Arcane
↠Character/s: gn reader, Vander, implied Mylo, Claggor, Jinx and Vi
↠wc: 605 words
“Ooh, like Sunday I'll pray our love will always stay pure… Ooh, while the world turns around, he holds me down for sure”
The voice mixes with the wind, the distant squeak of the gears of the elevator that connects Piltover to that place that has now taken the name of Zaun, the roar of the water of the port, the ticking of the rigid soles of the merchants who move back and forth while talking to each other, the noise of puddles that are hit by the feet of some bandit intent on diverting enforcers.
The underground city is breathing.
It seems almost intolerable in your eyes the audacity with which the city is getting back on its feet, as if time had continued to flow undaunted while, for you, the entire universe remained frozen at that night. Your voice cracks slightly, permeated with melancholy.
He promised you that he would always be there, that he would be your shield, that you would grow old together in that filthy world, making each other’s days less miserable. He promised you that you would work together at the inn, where you would dance every night as soon as the heavy door closed. He promised you that you would raise the children he picked up from the street together, like a real family. The same children he had brought with him as if he had not limited himself to death but had erased every single trace of his passage.
And the worst part is that you have no one to blame, not a single scapegoat to whom you can direct all your hatred, your malaise, your frustration. One part of your brain is angry with him, with the great Vander, the underground hound, who was so intent on saving everyone that he failed to save himself, while another part of you screams that you should have been with him that night, That you knew something was wrong, that maybe you couldn’t prevent it, but you could die there, in peace, next to your family.
The throat knot prevents you from finishing the song.
God, you’re so ungrateful.
You should just be happy that you’re still alive, that you’re okay, that they’re in a place that doesn’t smell like a sewer. But you’re selfish.
You miss them, you miss them in such a heartbreaking way that your heart seems to rip in two every single morning when you wake up in a bed suddenly too big, too empty.
You try to suffocate a cry, squeeze yourself between your own arms, squint with so much strength to see the residual image of that place even with your eyes closed, tighten your jaw feeling every single muscle in your neck in tension.
You can’t cry in front of him. He hates to see you cry.
It takes you a bit before trying to recompose, then you clear your voice with your eyelashes still damp, a deep breath, and start singing again with a stony tone your song, the one that you used to keep away from the jukebox because nobody, except you two, could play it.
"Do you remember, Vander? You said that to me. 'If we ever stop talking, I will sing you a song'. And every day..." the words die in your throat. You see your own reflection in the water at the foot of the statue: your eyes are reddened and dug, your lips are pale and chapped. Who knows if he’d be able to love you even now, even seeing you like this. "...every day for 251 days, I’ve come to sing you a song."
▶Writober Day 7 “Drunk enough to say I love you?” [Sevika]
↠English is not my first language
↠No use of "y/n", gn reader
↠TW: NSFW, implied prostitute!reader,
↠Character/s: gn reader, Sevika
↠wc: 658 words
The synthetic light filters through the fabric of the lamps, caressing with certain malice the furniture that decorates the room and, with it, your skin. It is a kind of ritual, the Mass on Saturday evening: every week the woman -a henchman of the most powerful man of Zaun- finishes her shift and religiously comes to the place of worship. She bows her head as soon as she comes in, out of respect, and kisses your knuckles modestly. It’s almost a prayer, she addresses you with the admiration with which you turn to a prominent figure, and thanks you when you accept her invitation.
Every week that amber-skinned woman turns to you, and even if she knows you’ll never deny her anything, -that you’re willing to serve her your body and soul on a silver platter if she asks,- she thanks you for your availability as if she didn’t expect it. You don’t understand if it’s some kind of game, a premise, an introduction that she doesn’t want to change, or if she really believes that one day you will say no to her, but it doesn’t matter. Not now.
Now there are no questions, the mass has begun.
You let your fingers run gently over the woman’s collarbones, in a rhythmic movement that occasionally varies in a slightly longer or shorter path, in a curious, intimate contact. She looks at you from time to time as you sit meekly on her thigh, leaning her chin to the back of your neck to rest a little and allowing a smile to surface on her lips only when she is sure you can’t notice it.
You are alone, two bodies abandoned to lust in a brothel room, accomplices the countless bottles of alcohol now abandoned empty on the floor, a gramophone that wearily continues to moan its notes, the night particularly suitable to be spent basking in melancholy and a few butts off in an ashtray, so full to sob grayish clouds whenever something moves in its vicinity.
You remain in silence almost religiously, the breaths still labored, and the smell of sex fills the air giving it a forbidden aroma, sometimes delicious.
Sevika reaches out to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s left on the bedside table and takes a deep sip before letting a much-suffered "shit" slip away.
"the head hurts" she adds. "I’m fucking drunk"
"How drunk?" you ask, looking at her with an amused look, gently caressing her face as you enjoy her reddened eyes.
"Too drunk" she replies with a face that makes you laugh. You lean forward to kiss her, and she, damned predator, immediately brings a hand to the base of your back, clutching at yourself, eager.
"drunk enough to say I love you?"
She stares at you for a few seconds which seems like an eternity, forbidden, and only after several moments the corners of her lips lift slightly. She kisses you this time, descending to your neck in a ravenous wake, letting the dark lips indulge on your skin, torturing it with the tip of her tongue and teeth. You cling to her, sinking your fingers into her scarred back, overcome by the sudden rush of adrenaline.
"Sevika" you call her name, eyes closed as the woman lays you on the bed, continuing that impetuous run along your body.
"Sevika" her name comes out like a lament as her black hair disappears between your legs. She keeps you by the thighs while calmly letting her tongue, moist and warm, impact your cold skin. She eats you with the grace of a nobleman at a banquet, taking all the time necessary to enjoy your taste thoroughly, to enjoy every inch of you.
And you don’t know exactly how much time she spends with her cheeks clenched between your knees, but when she finally lifts her head, her wet lips shine, making her as beautiful as ever.
