ta1is

[ta1is]

She obviously doesn’t belong here.

But, contrary to what she—or anyone else—might think, it has very little to do with her appearance . . . And a lot to do with her throwing things at him the very second he catches her in the act.

The first thing that crosses Jayce’s mind isn’t that he should call for someone, that he should turn her in and have her carted away for trespassing (and stealing, by the looks of things). In fact, the accusations that come tumbling out of her mouth as she presses her weight to the nearest wall leave him practically dumbfounded for a long moment . . . due in part to her not recognizing him (in the least pretentious way possible, he likes to think), but mostly—

She’s hurt. She’s suffering. As far as he’s concerned, nothing else currently matters.

Despite the severity of the situation, one of her comments spurs a short huff of laughter, something that aids in alleviating the tight atmosphere. “Honestly . . . ? The party will survive without me for a bit,” he says, tickled by how completely on the nose she is with that assumption, at least. Then, carefully keeping an eye on her—all to guarantee he wouldn’t come off as a threat with any sudden movements—he moves one pace forward, reaches for a nearby chair that he slowly pulls out. “How about this? You promise not to tell anyone I’m bailing, and I promise not to tattle.”

Jayce’s fingers dance over the backrest, and he turns the seat toward her. “Here.” A dip of his head, motioning. “You should at least sit down. Easier for us to talk, right?”

" what're ya like . .. . a cop or somethin ? " she finally asks , it didn't take a genius to realize she didn't belong here. Topside provided quality medicine she had connections to , it was just getting there that was the hard part. But it seems like he didn't budge when she threw something at him , how annoying. Cherri tries her best to rise to her feet without purchase of the wall , in the end she decides it's just easier ( as much as she mentally hits herself for showing a moment of weakness. )

Yes , it hurts, it hurts a lot , but she'd rather be dead than show any sign of discomfort without a fight. Her knees spark black and blue blemishes that remind those on the surface that she didn't belong here.

" don't ya people have a party or somethin ' to go to? ain't ya people always throwin parties fer somethin ? "

She waves him off , coughing up a substance that her lungs were holding in way too long , an unwelcome interruption in her speech where she tried to be unwaivered by her illness.

" if yer gonna book me , go ahead and do it ! " her focus is on the ground.

@ta1is

[ta1is]

i'm here (threat)

jayce is probably just one of my politest muses willing to wait his turn and therefore isn't running around feral and causing problems in my headspace (UNLIKE EVERYONE ELSE—)

but if you thought you were safe you were wrong we lurk here we see you ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° )

[ta1is]

[ta1is]

❛ i’m not afraid of you. ❜

@exravager || meme (also plops a quick 🍒 in here bc of ur rules ;D)

“And that tone . . . is because you think I want you to be—?” His steps oscillate, a former focus on his surroundings matching the movement as it wavers, dips back over his shoulder to meet the fierce look she's sporting. Jayce's own expression feels severe—something he catches in the ache of his stitched brow, in the slight curl to his lips. Not at her. Not for her, and so it's with that realization that he relaxes those muscles; a hand runs down his face, and a weighted breath rattles out of him.

In a lull of silence—tense as it may be—Jayce takes her in, traces the lines on her face, the caution steeling every limb into something rigid. He blinks slowly, eyelids fluttering, and every coiled nerve in him loosens—no, suddenly, he's softening. “What I said before . . . I wasn't lying. I'm not going to hurt you; I'm just trying to understand—” Isn't he always?

He hesitates in spite of himself, chances a step closer to her. “I need your help.” It comes out easy, an admission of which he's not ashamed. “You seem to know more than you're letting on, and I— I'm just trying to get out of here.” And oh, how many ways that could be taken and still be true.

[ta1is]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x08 - “Killing is a Cycle” ↳ "This isn't a fight for ideals or territory. It's a fight for humanity itself."

[ta1is]

❛ you look like you've got something to say. ❜

@gcldfanged || meme

He thinks, maybe, this is Jae's nice way of pointing out that he's staring. And it brings a smile to Jayce's face (he couldn't be ashamed if he tried), bridge of his nose somewhat crinkling with a dash of humor while he shrugs and glances the other way. For a moment, he's lost in thought at how so many others wouldn't dare put “nice” and “Jae” in the same sentence, how no one even exercised the idea that someone like him had even half a shred of kindness woven into his veins.

Jayce knows otherwise. He just knows that thread happens to be a tangled knot somewhere in there . . . and he's long planned on unraveling it with gentle precision.

“Oh, do you want to hear my opinion today . . . ?” he ventures, bringing himself back to what could be a conversation as he leans in, meets those searching eyes. A playfulness pulls at the arch of one brow. “Because I can tell you right now you're not going to like it. Or”—Jayce's expression twists, and he elaborates—“you're going to pretend you don't like it just to get me to shut up again.”

[ta1is]

possessive x obsessive

[ta1is]

❛ just sit there and look pretty and let me handle this. ❜ [Jae-hyo going aggressive/territorial Doberman while Jayce radiates sunshine and light and money signs and the Undercity gathers to pick his bones clean like underwater scavengers at a whale fall.]

@gcldfanged || meme

“Jae, you really don't have to—”

But what a funny sentiment, and the sheer audacity of saying he didn't need someone to step in when he couldn't possibly stand out as more of a target in this environment . . . was impressive. A guy dubbed the Man of Progress was nothing short of accustomed to a sea of eyes crushing him at all times: that had gradually become easier. And yet, usually only half of that sea was an undertow of judgment toward his every move—

Here . . . ? Hell, Jayce was not only sure it was all of them, but that judgment too was steeped in burning hatred he'd only stoke with one wrong move. (Or word.)

So, he bit back an argument, swallowed down that desperate need to speak for himself, make a statement—and a promise—he would stand by (because why would any of them have reason to believe what he said?). Dutifully, Jayce took one step back, his head dipping in something akin to a bow of respect to his companion. “Alright,” he conceded, the corner of his mouth faintly twitching in a smile. “I'll follow your lead.”

[ta1is]

i stand with my canceled wife

[ta1is]

jayce when he manages to break through the 138468542860284062 barriers someone has up, passes Go, and collects $200:

[ta1is]

Hovers over.

@relentlessgrief || THE Love LanguageTM

gay fear.

[ta1is]

puffs on a party blower like it's a cigar i'ma be real with you fam

it's clear that i am a ja/yvi.k supporter on this blog, but i do want to be even clearer when i emphasize that their relationship is so much more than romance

like ???

the label on it ??? does not fckn matter to me at this point (or to jayce, lbr). could not care less if they're viewed romantically or platonically, but either way i personally write jayce as adoring the ever-loving shit out of viktor, and that's all that matters here

my jayce loved and appreciated viktor long before any sort of romantic feelings even crossed his mind; he just loved him. him as a person. hardly mattered what label they ended up putting on their relationship or where they went with it; viktor is what matters. loving him and respecting him and supporting him is what matters. anything else? basically just an added bonus

but yea just know that no matter what verse, jayce loves and adores this man. full stop. ty ♡

[ta1is]

uhm so... screw it better?

[ta1is]

LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO MY PEONIES!

THEY'RE MARIGOLDS!

[ta1is]

Jayce noticed the slightest shift. And by “slightest,” he definitely meant slightest: Viktor still glared at him like he couldn’t possibly be a more offensive existence stealing his air; he still wriggled despite the warning, making it imperative that Jayce readjust his grip and hold him tighter; and he still complained with an edge to his tone that was probably sharper than any existing weapon. But. But. As the explanation for this atrocious behavior sunk in, the coldness to Viktor’s reactions seemed . . . less biting. Less angry, maybe, and more appalled.

—which was incredibly funny, Jayce thought to himself. Another reason why that smile on his face hadn’t fully vanished and just now twitched wider again: Come on, Viktor. You know me. Why is this surprising? And when an exasperated analysis of the situation came roaring at him next, that smile was accompanied by the roll of his eyes.

“Absolutely, it’s ridiculous,” he agreed, and since he’d yet to be dissuaded by all the hostility, he thought it wise to press this further with a cheeky elaboration. “The fact that it takes this for you to properly take care of yourself . . . ? Yeah, you’re right. I agree; it’s ridiculous. Anything else—?”

Jayce was really tempting fate here (or, more alarmingly, his partner’s patience), but despite the cursory worry of this grudge becoming a longstanding issue, he didn’t falter. He went on ahead, located a staircase, and began a descent with care . . . all the while silently hoping Viktor would figure this was the exact wrong place to put up more of a fuss.

Last thing either of them needed was an accident. Jayce would never forgive himself (especially after how adamantly he was going about this whole thing). So, he angled his torso as he navigated the steps, keeping a watchful eye on where he put his feet. And in that brief and quiet concentration, his puffed-up posture slackened, cockiness thinning out just enough for a light sigh to breach his lips. He chanced another look at the flushed complexion of his partner.

Yep. Definitely anger. . . . for the most part.

“Look”—his attention shifted back to ensure Viktor’s safety—“you and I both know you’d work all the way through the night if someone didn’t drag you away. And, crazy pitch, but you’re still human and still need to look after yourself, okay? If it makes you feel any better, you can get me back—and I know you will. I won’t have a right to complain. Deal?”

Living in Piltover for most of his adult life had taught Viktor how to curb his anger.

In his younger days it had been a potent fire that he hadn't tried to hide. He hadn't cared who saw his disgust at the sight of Piltover's finest dripping in clothes and jewelry so ornate that each piece cost more than all the money he'd saved to claw himself out of the underground. He hadn't cared who overheard his offensive mutterings when a part of him wanted them to be heard.

But with time came maturity, and subsequently refinement. His anger was no longer a fiery force, but a sharpened, ice-cold bullet that he could wield.

Viktor felt a surge of that now. It was at odds with the red-hot burn of shame darkening his cheeks: an ugly, festering concoction in the pit of his stomach that heightened at his partner's "proposal."

"Absolutely not." Though he did not raise his voice, those two words held all the lethal force of an Enforcer's gun. It wasn't a short walk from their lab to the front entrance of the Academy building. Late hour or not, the Academy grounds were never completely deserted—and that sickening ice-burn compounded exponentially at the thought of how many people could see in that time.

Viktor swallowed hard, squirming despite Jayce's warnings. At least if Jayce dropped him then he would be the one faced with these loathsome feelings. "Put me down immediately," he commanded as if that alone would force the other's hand. But then Jayce had the audacity to be cocky, and just as Viktor inhaled to teach a lesson of his own with some choice words—

That's more important to me than anything else.

Just like that, the indignation tightening the back of his throat faltered. Viktor looked up at the man now serving as his personal transport, guarded yet quizzical, complete with a stitch in his brow.

"That is why you—?" It was so absurd that he couldn't even finish the sentence. Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to accept the simple sincerity of his partner's words through skyrocketing exasperation. All this just to ensure he ate a meal? Seriously? Suddenly he felt a headache coming on.

"Really, Jayce, this is ridiculous." The look he shot his partner was still annoyed, but less venomous than before. He only scoffed at the first sorry expression Jayce had made since this ordeal began. "You have just signed yourself up to test that theory with every step. I suggest you consider carefully how far you're willing to take this."

[ta1is]

Sorry but the way Jayce flattens Salo really made me think of...

[ta1is]

Jayce knew she was right. More importantly, he respected that she was, and following through with that concession on talking less, he gave the universal Fair enough gesture: a little bob in his shoulders and half-tilt of his head. The problem, really, was that people in general were wont to judge, and people in general were typically threatened—or at the very least disconcerted—by anything and everyone different from them. Try as he might, he knew he wasn’t innocent, even if the long stares and assumptions were built on little more than curiosity in the former, upbringing in the latter: those misunderstandings again.

And because she pointed out how those seemingly small things made such a difference, he couldn’t help wondering if he had ever offended her personally—in the way his eyes may have lingered too long on the scars snaking up her legs. They weren’t disgusting. They weren’t ugly. They weren’t remotely offensive in any way at all—not to him; and they shouldn’t have been to anyone—but even if he’d looked a moment too long . . . that curiosity likely would’ve been warped in her eyes to that very judgment she spoke of.

He was learning. He was eager to keep learning. And already, before that thought even crossed his mind, he must have been.

Because right now, all he found himself staring at was that little smile warming her features . . . followed so promptly by a near-laugh that he swore would light up an entire room.

Jayce hesitated a moment longer, appreciative, before letting out a light chuckle of his own. “Well . . . how many are you going to ask me to lift?”

Salome notices the enthusiasm; that minute shift in Jayce’s body language and the level of engagement he’s putting into the conversation. She can’t hide the half-smile that simple action manages to pull to the surface, lackluster as it is with all lip and no teeth.

Passion of this sort just isn’t something that exists in surplus down here in the Undercity. It’s burned out of the young; those that survive either rise above in about the most literal sense imaginable or succumb to addiction and the slums.

Or did. It seems that the times are a-changing.

“It’s not always a conscious feeling. That’s why it’s so insidious, Jayce,” Salome counters with that warm contralto that is distinctly hers. Edges roughened — but only barely — by one of her lone physical vices. “It’s things said in anger, or a stereotype y’believed was harmless. A look of judgment held too long. It lives in the unexamined choices we make, often out of fear.”

She straightens in her chair with a sigh, casting amber eyes towards the hammered tin ceiling. Even if they were outside, the dappling light of the sun would still remain out of reach.

“T’Council operates on sympathy, not empathy. They have no desire to understand t’Zaunite experience personally, only pitying us from a safe distance or throwing scraps whenever it’s useful for a public relations bulletin. But institutions of power have never been big fans of social capital.”

With that, Salome watches him count. Almost laughs until Jayce suggests her as a mentor. She supposes it’s the most logical conclusion, and yet —

“Depends, really. Can y’lift a fifty pound bag of dirt?”