descendants jay x reader
The sky above the Isle is cloudy and grey. The kind of grey that presses down on buildings, making them look worse than they are. The kind that turns everything into a bruise, yellowed, aching, just shy of rotten. The light that filters through is dim, soft, and makes everything feel like a half-formed dream. One of the bad ones. The kind you wake up from still clenching your fists.
The voices around you are loud, cheers, jeers, angry shouting, but you canāt be bothered to try and understand. Just noise. All of it. They arenāt cheering for you. They never are.
The boy who tried to take your things is sprawled on the broken pavement. Face swollen, eye already closing, blood leaking from his lip as he spits out a broken tooth. He looks up at you, still angry. Still dumb enough to think he could win.
Stupid.
Your knuckles are bleeding. Your breath is still coming too fast. As you sit up and look down at the boy, you smile. Itās too wide. Too sharp. The blood smeared across your mouth only makes it worse.
āYou want my territory? Earn it,ā you growl, voice ragged.
He doesnāt move.
Smart. Too late, but smart.
You give him one last kick to the ribs, not hard, just enough to make a point, then turn and disappear into the nearest alley. You donāt stay for the reactions. Theyāre already fading, like everything else. Cheers always do. They arenāt real. Not for you. Only for the fight.
Your boots crunch over broken glass and something wet you donāt bother to look at. The alley stinks like garbage and something chemical. Familiar. Comforting, in a way.
People scatter when they see you. It always hurts, that silence and fear after a fight. Itās like everyoneās asking themselves if theyāre next.
Your hand throbs with every heartbeat, warm and slick in your pocket. The metallic taste of blood coats your tongue, and you canāt tell if itās yours or his. Probably both.
You hate how your vision blurs at the edges. How the buzz in your ears isnāt adrenaline, but exhaustion.
For now, you walk with purpose, even if you donāt know where youāre going. Standing still makes you feel like you might sink into the concrete and vanish.
And if you disappeared? Would anyone care?
Your father wouldnāt, even if he were alive. He was a man with no attachments, had you with some woman he found on a lonely night after he was first thrown onto the Isle. He only ever paid attention to you for training.
So you pushed harder, seeking his attention in training, even when your legs were black and blue, even when exhaustion burrowed deep into your bones and left you in too much pain to sleep.
You thought training was the only time heād ever talk to youā¦ until your first fight.
You lost, your fatherās ways didnāt beat dirty fighting. Two held you by the arms while the third slammed a fist into your stomach.
That was the first time your father spoke to you about anything that wasnāt a correction. Maybe you imagined it, but you swore you saw a flicker of concern in his eyes, quickly buried under anger. But that little bit of concern felt good in a way you didnāt even know you could feel.
You remember the first time he said your name without yelling it. You were eleven, your lip split and blood running down your shirt. He looked at you, not with pride, not even disappointment, just recognition. And that was enough to hook you like a fish.
You started chasing that look like an addict after a fix.
He only noticed you when you came home bleeding, a black eye here, a busted lip there. Suddenly, he was talking to you. Asking questions. Telling you to be careful, to not embarrass him, even if it was through clenched teeth. That had to mean something, right? That had to count.
He never asked what started the fights. Never asked if you won because you wanted to or because you had to. All he saw was blood. All you saw was that he finally saw you.
So you chased it, getting into more fights, winning them just to see that flicker of pride in Shan Yuās face. And after his death, you looked for that emotion somewhere else.
Maybe if you got hurt badly enough, someone would finally notice. Finally look. Finally worry. Worry felt like love. At least to you. It always had.
You wonder what kind of scream would finally get someone to come running. If you drowned yourself in front of Umaās crew, would they cheer or mourn? Would anyone even lie and say you were strong?
Even if it didnāt feel good, it still felt like something.
You reach the old building near the market and start climbing, your body moving on autopilot. This place has been yours for a while now, one of the only places you can go when you want to be alone, or when you want someone to follow. And right now, you donāt even know which it is.
A shadow moves behind you, fast and familiar.
You donāt think. Your heart thumps in your ears as you spin, blade already drawn, and press it to the intruderās throat.
You donāt ease up. Not right away.
The edge of the blade rests against skin, not deep enough to cut, but enough to threaten. Enough to say donāt push me. Enough to say I donāt trust easy. Even you.
Then you hear it.
That voice. His voice.
āCareful, sweetheart.ā
Smooth. Unbothered. Like he isnāt just one heartbeat away from bleeding. Like this isnāt the tenth time heās caught you mid-swing.
You exhale, slow and shaky, the tension draining from your shoulders like a deflating balloon. You lower the knife, but your grip stays tight.
You donāt apologize. You never do.
You look him in the eyes, even with blood still dripping from your nose and bruises along your throat, and straighten, looking him up and down.
āYou shouldnāt sneak up on me.ā
Jay raises an eyebrow, amused in that cocky, infuriating way only he can be. āYou were the one storming off like a rabid wolf. I followed to make sure you didnāt bite someoneās head off.ā
You snort, blood still fresh on your tongue. āToo late.ā
His eyes flick down to your hands, split, raw, starting to shake now that the adrenalineās fading. He doesnāt comment, just steps closer. Closing the space like he always does. And like always, you let him.
āYou keep doing this,ā he says, voice low, āand one day someoneās gonna gut you in your sleep.ā
You shrug. āLet them try.ā
But he doesnāt laugh. Not this time.
His fingers reach for your hand, slow, careful. Giving you the chance to pull away.
You donāt.
He scans your face, looking for your reaction. His thumb brushes a cut on your knuckle, gentle. You flinch.
āStill hurts,ā he says quietly. Obvious.
You look at him. Really look. And something behind your eyes flickers, a crack in the mask. Not weakness. Not regret. Justā¦ weight. The kind that sits in your chest and steals your air.
Something twists in your stomach, a sick kind of satisfaction at seeing him worry. Like proof that you matter. That you still exist.
āEverything hurts, Jay,ā you whisper. āI donāt remember the last time something didnāt.ā
It comes out smaller than you meant. Like it slipped past your defenses before you could pull it back.
The wind threatens to swallow the words, but he hears them. He always does.
His hand tightens around yours.
āI know.ā
And for a second, just one, you lean into him. You let the world fall away. Let the knife hang loose at your side. Let your broken, bloodied hand be held like itās something worth holding.
Youāll blame it on the adrenaline later. Youāll joke about being dramatic or tired or losing too much blood. But heāll know better.
Youāre running thin.
So when you hug him, really hug him, arms squeezing tight even though it hurts, even though the bruises scream in protest, itās not a slip.
You think about pushing him away, saying something cruel to cover up the tightness in your throat. But your arms donāt move. Neither does he. For once, the silence isnāt sharp, itās warm. It wraps around you like a bandage. Like a maybe.
āYou scare me when you do this,ā he says, voice low. āBecause I never know if itās the last time Iāll see you still breathing.ā
You want to tell him you scare yourself, too. That sometimes, when the world goes quiet, the only voice left is the one that wants you gone. You hate needing him. Hate the way his presence makes you feel something other than rage or nothing at all.
But you donāt step back. Not yet.
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i learned how to write x reader fics, hahaha, english is weird
meriout!
