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lazy-ahh · 2 months ago

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ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #viltrum invincible #viltrum mark grayson #male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x reader #invincible variant x male reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x male reader #viltrum invincible x male reader #viltrum mark grayson x male reader #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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orellazalonia · 18 hours ago

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Comedic Relief

Summary: After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Wanted something angsty. I also debated having them run away temporarily and having Bucky find them first, but I liked how this turned out in the end. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

Honestly, you never meant to. You were crawling through the ceiling vent to test your portable gravity-altering boots as one does and accidentally dropped into the hallway by the training center. You didn’t land gracefully. You bounced. Twice.

No one noticed.

You were about to make a dramatic entrance to demand “scientific respect and perhaps a sandwich” when your name floated through the crack of the door.

“She’s just… not serious,” One of the rookies was saying. “I know she’s smart, obviously, but it’s like, can you trust her in a real op? Last week she got distracted mid-mission because she thought the enemy base’s reactor looked ‘like a sexy espresso machine.’”

You could hear someone chuckle before another added, “Yeah, and she asked Fury if ‘thermonuclear’ was a made-up word.”

You blinked. That was a joke. You knew what thermonuclear meant. You’d accidentally built a thermonuclear coffee machine last year that tried to launch itself into low orbit. They made you name it and put it in a SHIELD containment box.

“Honestly, she’s more of the comic relief, you know?” Another said. “Like, she’s the team mascot. Not really part of the brain or someone you should trust.”

You weren’t sure what part of you tensed first. Maybe it was your jaw, your spine, or your heart. It wasn’t a new feeling. Not really. It was just louder this time. More final. Heavier.

Mascot.

The word stuck to you like wet concrete.

You backed away before you could hear any more of the conversation, suddenly hyperaware of every squeak of your boots and every stupid joke you’d ever made this week. The “avocado bomb” prank on Steve. The trivia challenge you crushed but then celebrated by pronouncing “Columbus” as “Co-LUMB-us.” The marble run you built through the ventilation system that made the whole compound sound like a wind chime when it rained.

God. Was that all they saw?

You didn’t go to dinner. You didn’t reply in the group chat, even when Sam tagged you and asked why Bucky was sulking in the corner muttering “Where is she?” like a pissed-off gargoyle.

You didn’t even remember walking back to the lab. Your feet had carried you here on autopilot to your safe place, your mess, your cathedral of chaos and half-finished thoughts.

You locked the door behind you, not that anyone ever came in uninvited. Not unless Bucky had something to smuggle in for you (usually food or a weapon you weren’t technically cleared to modify). Not unless Tony wanted to gawk at your entropy.

The lab lights flickered on automatically. You winced at the brightness.

You moved like a ghost, almost afraid to touch anything. Your hands hovered above your desk, your workbench, the tower of half-functional prototypes stacked like a junkyard Jenga tower. You didn’t sit. You just stared at the avalanche of yourself. Your weird, brilliant, overwhelming mind spilled out across surfaces. Wires like spaghetti. Notes written in both formulae and doodles. Gel pens next to soldering irons. A circuit board shaped like a cat.

It all looked… childish. Stupid.

What were you even doing?

You finally collapsed into your chair, spinning once, twice, then fast enough that the corners of the room blurred. You kicked off the counter and made a loop around the floor, feet dragging. The motion didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the static in your chest.

Mascot.

You blinked hard, squeezing your temples. “No. No no no. Shut up. We’re not doing this today.”

You spun to your desk. Grabbed a marker. Scrawled something on the board.

atomic weight of hydrogen: 1.00784 u. bananas are a lie. you don’t need potassium that bad. you matter. you matter. you matter.

You stared at it for a long time. Then erased “you matter” so hard the whiteboard squeaked. Your hand kept going long after the words were gone. Until it hurt.

You stood. Paced a little more. Opened a drawer. Slammed it shut. You tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, pacing faster now, muttering in a half joking, half begging, yet all unraveling way. “Who the hell builds a weather balloon to see if birds migrate better with Taylor Swift playing on a speaker? Who sets a toast-loving AI loose in the kitchen and calls it a ‘learning moment’ when it sets off four smoke alarms?”

You knocked into your shelf, and something clattered. You didn’t catch it. You didn’t care.

You backed into your chair and sank again, hands braced on your knees like gravity got heavier just for you. Your eyes burned.

“They’re right,” You said quietly. “I’m a joke. A distraction. They keep me around because it’s easier than telling me to leave.”

Somewhere behind you, the electronic calendar chimed softly:

Reminder: Tell Bucky you love him. (He already knows, but say it anyway.)

Your throat closed up.

You covered your face with both hands and curled forward, trembling. The quiet buzz of your machines felt deafening. You had built this place, crafted it like a cocoon, a temple, a home. Now it felt like a parody of genius.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door. Or the creak as it opened.

But you felt it when Bucky entered, his presence like a storm and a lighthouse all at once. Steady. Warm. Wordless.

He stood there for a moment. Watching. Taking in the wreckage. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your face until he knelt in front of you and reached up, thumb brushing just below your eye. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held you.

You weren’t even sure when your body had folded into his. One moment, you were curled in on yourself, vibrating with self-loathing, and the next, your face was buried in the crook of his neck and his arms were wrapped around you like armor. Like he could physically keep the world out if he just held on tight enough.

You gripped the front of his henley like it was the only solid thing left. It smelled like coffee and the soap he never admitted to stealing from Steve.

“I thought you were joking when you said you could feel my breakdowns in your soul,” You whispered, voice raw.

“I can,” He murmured against your hair. “Like a bat signal but sadder.”

You let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

His metal hand rubbed slow, careful circles on your back; warm from the adaptive heat plates he let you install. The other hand cradled your head like you were fragile, which only made the cracks inside you widen. He never looked at you like you were fragile. Not until now.

“They think I’m a joke,” You mumbled into his chest. “They think I’m just the team jester with a few fun facts and a death wish.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“They’re not wrong.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, not with pity, but with fire.

“You built a quantum drive in a toaster oven,” He said firmly. “You hacked an alien translator using a flashlight and a Etch A Sketch. You—” He huffed, voice breaking. “You are the only reason half this team is alive.”

You stared at him, voice stuck in your throat.

“But I make everything a joke.”

“Because that’s how you survive,” He said softly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be underestimated because people are more comfortable laughing at you than respecting you?”

You looked down. “I just… if I stop being funny, I’m afraid they’ll stop wanting me around.”

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“If they can’t handle all of you, not just the jokes and chaos and weird trivia, then they don’t deserve you. But I can.” His voice was low, steady. “I love you. All of you. The ridiculous, the brilliant, the heartbreaking mess of you. You could set the tower on fire trying to build a better microwave and I’d still think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked fast, and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” He corrected. “And the second time, you swore it was intentional to teach Tony humility.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he smiled. That sweet, rare smile he only ever gave you like you were something secret and sacred.

“C’mere,” He said, pulling you in again, tighter this time.

You curled into his lap and let yourself stay there, finally still, finally quiet. His hands never stopped moving, thumb tracing your spine, fingers gently combing through your hair, grounding you with every touch.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like a mascot or a distraction.

You felt like someone loved and seen.

#Earth’s Mightiest Headache #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #angst fic #angst #hurt/comfort

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firingstars · 18 days ago

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neighborly advice | ch. 5

bucky barnes x female reader

summary: you said you would never let a man come between you and your best friend. the situation has finally presented itself and is testing your resolve.

warnings: mdni, eventual smut, timeline is somewhere around the middle/end of fatws, language, alcohol, angst, betrayal, self pity, bucky’s short circuiting again

word count: 3.4k

a/n: this is my previous jealousy for leah showing when i first watched fatws </3

previous chapter | next chapter

“Mr. Nakajima, you can explain the rules all you want to me, but I’m still not going to get it,” you told him with a smile.

“Nonsense,” the old man said, and swatted at the air around him like he was trying to rid you of the idea you brought forth. “You are a bright child. Mahjong would be like checkers to you!”

You wanted to admit that you already knew the rules of the game to him. You knew how to win, and you knew that his movements were less than ideal, and you could easily win the board if you really wanted to end this game now. You didn’t want to rain on his parade though. Not when he was talking so happily, explaining with so much passion that it couldn’t help but make you smile.

Mr. Nakajima reminded you of your grandfather. He had passed away during the first year of the Blip. It was after his death, you found out, that your father went mentally insane and started planning a wedding for his daughter that was legally dead in the eyes of the government. Not literally insane, of course. He was insane in your eyes, but he was just doing what he could finally do now that your grandfather wasn't around.

Your mom said his passing was from heartbreak. You were his favorite grandchild, and he loved to spoil you rotten. He was the reason why you got to do so much of what you wanted to do pre-Blip, and why you were able to get so far ahead with your research before disappearing out of existence.

It was your grandfather who taught you mahjong. He taught you go, too. You would do anything to see him again. Perhaps this is why you found yourself taking care of other elderly men that you ran into. Mr. Lin. Mr. Nakajima. Bucky.

Did Bucky even count in that list?

You were sure he did, if you really considered it. Technically, he was old enough to be your grandfather. You needed to stop yourself before things got too weird and too technical in your head. You were going to make yourself feel weird even though there was nothing to really feel weird about. This man spent more than ninety percent of his life out of control, and only just started living. Technically, he was the same age as you. Maybe just slightly older. Maybe.

Mr. Nakajima said your name with another click of his tongue, shaking his head with disappointment. You smiled. You could tell that it wasn’t real disappointment with the way he was looking at you. “Rookie mistake. You need to pay attention to the tiles! Come on now. One more time.”

You hummed, reaching for another tile that would clearly earn another scolding from him. Which was fine. You wanted him to chat your ear off. It was better than him shouting at some young kid on the street.

The tile was pushed out of your reach before you could touch it. You watched as an arm reached from behind you grabbed a different tile-- the winning tile. His gloved hand moved to create a space in between your pieces to fit the tile there, then let all the pieces drop, showing off your win.

“Come on now, doll. Mahjong isn’t that hard,” he said, his voice so close to your ear that your body shivered before you could realize it was happening. He was close, and if you just leaned back slightly, you would press your back against his chest– that strong, muscular chest– and be wrapped in the scent of Bucky.

“See! I taught Bucky mahjong, which is why I know that you can do this well. I am a fantastic teacher, and you are a smart student.” Mr. Nakajima clapped happily, a grin spread wide across his face. He wasn’t even upset over the fact that he lost the game, just so elated over your potential win. Though, it really wasn’t your win to begin with.

“It really isn’t that hard,” Bucky repeated from beside you, still crouched to talk into your ear. You fought the blush that was creeping up your face, and turned to face him. Your breath hitched, catching in your throat as you realized just how close he was to you. Just a few centimeters away, and he was looking right at you.

“Must just be natural to you, then,” you finally said, and watched a small smirk play on his lips before he finally stood up straight. He pushed his gloved hands into his pockets, looking towards Nakajima now.

“Are you ready? It’s Wednesday. Time for lunch.”

“Is it that time already?” the old man gasped, pushing his sleeve up his arm to check his watch. He looked at you. “Would you like to join us for lunch today? You don’t have anything planned, right?”

“Oh, no. I can’t crash your guys’ lunch date.”

“Not at all. The more the merrier,” Bucky said with a smile.

You found yourself at Izzy’s again, and Leah was there. You guys sat at the bar once more, this time, with Bucky sitting in the middle. The appetizers were brought out for you guys by Leah, giving each of you your regular orders that she knew by heart. Nakajima opened up a newspaper, raising an eyebrow at the words before him.

“No one lived past ninety-five this week,” Nakajima said with a deep sigh. Bucky looked over his shoulder to the paper, then let out a hum before picking up a gyoza with his chopsticks and bringing it to his mouth.

“So young. What a shame,” he said dryly. You couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh beside him, one that he seemed to catch on to. Bucky glanced over at you, a smile on his face as he gave you a knowing look.

Something fluttered in your chest. Was it that fact that you knew his secret? Or that you were trusted with it, and that he continued to stick around you despite the fact you knew his secret? Either way, it made you want to kick your feet in the air and giggle like a little girl.

“Speaking of being young, when will you go out on a date, Bucky?” Nakajima asked, folding the newspaper and putting it to the side of him. “Why not ask Leah out?”

You paused, your eyes catching Leah’s. There seemed to be a playful glint in her eyes. Your eyebrows furrowed at her, trying to read her expression, trying to figure out what she was planning to do.

“No, no,” Bucky shook his head. “There’s a dance to those kind of things and I haven’t danced in… years, it feels like.”

“Why not?” Leah cut in, leaning across the bar towards Bucky. Your eyes widened as you stared daggers into her. She ignored you. Her eyes were locked on Bucky, and he couldn't take his eyes off of her. A pit began to form in your stomach. “I’m off tonight at ten. Swing by and we can get a drink together.”

Bucky stuttered, unable to find the right words as she walked away to attend to the other patrons at the bar. Mr. Nakajima laughed happily beside Bucky, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a grin. You couldn’t hear the words he was saying. You were tunnel-visioned again. Who were you supposed to be angry at? Nakajima? Bucky? Probably Leah, for even agreeing. Yeah. This wasn’t your best friend. You were going to kill whoever this clone was.

Bucky breathed your name beside you, snapping you out of your momentary hate train to look at him. He looked panicked. You clenched your jaw as you stared at him. Yeah. You were going to be angry at him, too.

You reached into your wallet, grabbing a couple of bills to drop onto the counter.

“I’m heading out, Mr. Nakajima. Gotta run some errands,” you told the old man, giving him a tight smile before standing up. He gave you a small wave, ignorant to the storm he had just created.

You ignored Bucky as he whispered your name again. You didn’t meet Leah’s eyes as you turned away from the bar. You walked away without any other word or recognition to any of them, jealousy settling deep and mixing in to kill the butterflies that Bucky had personally placed in your stomach. All that was left was an empty forest of barren trees and a frozen wasteland.

If you could really think about it, there was no reason for you to feel like this.

Sure, you called dibs on the man, but that really didn’t mean anything. You made out with him once, dreamt dirty dreams about him the past few nights, daydreamed about him when you should’ve been figuring out your next move with your research, and only had two and a half conversations with him.

Girl code had to mean something, right? It probably meant nothing to Bucky seeing as he was over a century old, and most likely had no idea what the term meant. Did that kind of thing exist in the 40s? Even if it did, he was a man, at the end of the day. Guy code applied to him, not girl code.

Leah should be the one you should be directing your anger at. She locked eyes with you and you saw her. Then, she leaned over the counter, elbows pressed under her chest to push her boobs up and spill over the top of her shirt right in front of him. She didn’t give him a chance to deny her offer before walking away, but he also didn’t chase her down and tell her that he did not want the date at all. He sat there like an idiot.

Maybe he really was an idiot, when it came down to it. He was a man. A stupid fucking man.

You got yourself to your apartment fast. You wanted to bury yourself in your bedsheets, blast some sad music, and stare at the ceiling. The betrayal was setting heavily in your chest. As you were about to push open your apartment door, you were forced to pause. A metal hand was on the door at eye level with you. You turned quickly, finding Bucky standing there. He looked stressed.

“I didn’t want to grab you out of nowhere in case, you know, you’re a little traumatized from being grabbed by that asshole,” he said softly, but quickly. Almost rambling. He was trying to avoid what he really wanted to say.

“Right. Thanks. Do you need something from me?” you asked him, and he swallowed.

“I… I just… That wasn’t– I didn’t say any of that, you know, right?”

“Right,” you said again, frowning. “And why didn't you tell her no, if you didn't want it then?”

“It just happened too fast–”

“Uh huh,” you cut him off, turning towards your door and opening it. “I’m gonna go inside now, okay? You have a date to get ready for, so you should probably go do that.”

Bucky said your name again as you stepped through the threshold, but you didn’t turn back. No, you were angry. Pissed off. Annoyed. You shut the door behind you, and locked it without acknowledging him.

You ignored the knocks at your door for the following hour and a half after you got home. You don’t know if they lasted any longer, since you decided to hole yourself up in your room and close the door. For good measure, you pulled your blanket over your head and decided that it would be a good time to take a nap. Decompress. Allow your subconscious to shuffle through your memories and figure out the best course of action next. Before all of that, you put your phone on do not disturb.

When you woke, it was quarter to eleven. The anger you felt was changed now. It was directed towards yourself.

There was really no reason for you to be acting like such a spoiled brat at the end of the day. Who were you to Bucky? His neighbor. That was it. You didn’t even have his phone number. You weren’t anyone special to him, and you sure as hell couldn’t hope for yourself to be after acting like that with him.

Leah, on the other hand, had been there for you through thick and thin. Losing her felt like losing a limb. Being mad at her over something stupid like this wasn’t right. She thought he was cute from the beginning, even before she knew he was your roommate. You didn’t even tell her that you were beginning to fester a crush for him. You didn’t tell her anything past a casual make out session that happened late at night, which she assumed happened out of comfort after all that happened to you previously in the night.

You were the one not explaining anything, and no one was at fault but yourself. Holding other people accountable for actions that you didn’t take wasn’t their fault. She was always more outgoing, after all. Always got more dates, always stuck her neck out there for the opportunity if she thought there was something there, if there was something worth it.

If it went well between the two of them, you decided that you would root for them. She was your friend, and he was your neighbor. That’s all he was. Your neighbor.

You let out a soft groan, feeling your stomach rumble in agitation. You barely ate anything other than a couple pieces of dumplings before your appetite had been shot to pieces earlier, and breakfast wasn’t something that you usually partook in.

There was a family-run Chinese restaurant on the corner of the street. They were open until midnight. If you went now, you would be able to order some fried rice and roasted duck. You shoved yourself into a pair of sweatpants and grabbed a hoodie out of your closet, then took yourself out.

The old lady at the counter gave you a smile as you entered, already inputting your order.

“You haven’t come to see me,” she said, light scolding in her voice. “I thought you might have moved away!”

“Sorry, Ms. Chan,” you smiled as you took your wallet out. She immediately batted at your hands, pushing it away.

“Stop, stop. It’s the last batch of the night. It’s no good. Not worth money,” she fussed, and you knew it was a lie. She didn’t even let you pay when you came in the middle of the day.

“You’re too good to me,” you told her, shaking your head as you accepted an early defeat.

“Where have you been?” she asked, turning her back to you to start packing your food. You forked out a few bills and dropped them into the tip jar. You knew it was more than what the meal cost, but that was fine. She took good care of you on these late nights. “You look a little sad tonight. Boy problems?”

“Why does everyone assume that it’s boy problems?” you asked with a sigh.

“You’re not denying it this time,” she said with a grin. “I always ask you if there are boy problems. Tell me. I want to hear the gossip of the young girl on the block.”

She turned back around and put your food on the counter, bagging it and tying it off before pushing it towards you. You let out a soft sigh, contemplating it. Ms. Chan knew none of the parties involved. Plus, you still had that strange soft spot for elderly. Her daughter didn’t talk to her much these days, not after she moved out of state to start a family down in the south.

So, you told her. You let her know about your dilemma, your internal struggle, your conflicts. You had no idea what to do about the situation.

“What would you do, if you were me?”

“No clue.”

“Aren’t you supposed to have wisdom beyond your years?” you asked with a frown.

“I’m old, not God,” she huffed. You let out a sigh, shaking your head. “But you feel better by talking about it, yes? You look a bit lighter now.”

She was right. She offered you a smile, one that would let you know that everything would be alright. You wished her a goodnight, and went off back towards your home. You pulled your phone out of your pocket to check the messages.

Missed call from Leah (3) [3:42pm]

Leah [3:50pm]: you’re not actually mad, are you?

Leah [4:02pm]: hellloooo

Leah [4:12pm]: if u dont want me to go on the date, js lmk

Leah [4:30pm]: my break is over. If u dont say anything them im js gonna go thru w it

Leah [9:49pm]: ur not gonna let a guy come between us right?

You cleared the notifications. You didn’t want to see it. Talking to Ms. Chan may have momentarily lifted the weight on your shoulders, but there was a new bitterness in your mouth. She didn’t see a problem with all of this? She really didn’t? Maybe you weren't losing a limb after all.

You would have to answer her by tomorrow night though. Otherwise, she would show up at your apartment door and start banging it down and demanding to see you. You ran your hand through your hair, letting out a deep sigh as you finally got to your floor.

“Oh. You weren’t home? I was standing out here knocking for the past ten minutes.” You looked up. Bucky was standing there, a bouquet of flowers in his hands. Standing in front of your door. “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“Nope,” you replied, deciding to not let him get to you. You moved to the door, Bucky taking a few steps back to give you some space as you unlocked your apartment. “Good night, Bucky.”

“Wait!” he exclaimed, stopping your door with his hand. A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you stared at his hand on your door. It felt like the roles had reversed. Except he held flowers, and not muffins. Your eyebrows furrowed as you looked at him, frowning. He swallowed, and looked down at the assortment of flowers in his hands. “Girls still like flowers, right? They did, back in the day.”

“Most girls do. Why, your date reject them or something?” you asked with a raised eyebrow. You didn't bother to hide the bitterness in your voice.

“What?” he asked, eyes widening slightly. “No! No, um, I got these for you. As an apology.”

You stared at him, biting the inside of your cheek. You couldn’t smile. Not right now. You wanted to be mad, be petty, be something for a little bit longer. You didn’t want him to know that this was enough to win you back to his side– though you never truly left.

“Okay,” you finally said.

“Okay?” he echoed, looking hopeful. He held the flowers out to you a bit more. “Please, take them.”

“I don’t have space for flowers right now,” you lied, watching as his face crumpled. You wanted to take it back. Of course you had space for flowers. You had space for whatever he wanted to give you and more.

“Then throw them away,” he said, moving so fast that you couldn’t register it for a moment. In a few seconds, the bouquet was securely placed in your bag of Chinese food, and he backed away out of your reach, as if he was afraid that you would try to give it back to him. “I don’t know how to take care of flowers, and you’re smart, so it would be better with you.”

“Bucky–”

“If flowers aren’t good, then coffee?” he cut you off quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Or– or lunch? Dinner, maybe, actually, since you sleep late and wake up late.”

He was nervous. It was clear he was nervous. He didn’t have the smooth voice he had earlier in the day, nor did he have the confident smirk on his face when he closed in on your space to let you know that he was right there, just ghosting by you. Now, he was giving you space. An opportunity to run away, to reject him and never return.

You were afraid that if you rejected him again, he may do just that.

“Captain America doesn’t need your help tomorrow?” you asked softly, finally allowing a smile to reach your face. You could see his shoulders visibly relax as he let go of a breath.

“Sam can go fuck himself and figure it out on his own,” Bucky said, smiling back at you. He looked like a breath of fresh air. All the stress you had earlier in the day melted away when you saw his face.

“Well, I’m down for anything tomorrow night. As long as you don’t take me to play mahjong with the other grandpas.”

“Are you calling me– ouch, doll. You know how well I can move,” he said, fake hurt lacing through his voice. You could only smile wider at him, letting out a soft laugh as your heartbeat accelerated.

Doll. He really liked to call you that. It made you feel strange and warm inside, soft and mushy. There was a certain tone he used when he said it, like he was saying it with such gentle care to ensure that you and everyone who heard him say it would be able to know that there was something special about you. If you really let your mind wander, you could start to believe that it meant that he held you in some special way.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Let me know when you’re ready,” you told him, then gestured to your apartment, “You’ll know where to find me.”

Bucky swallowed, nodding. His eyes met yours and you felt like you could fly in this moment. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

next chapter

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eastwestmanufacturing · 19 days ago

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sunshineyrosie · 1 month ago

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and in the silence, there’s us

summary: she would never have expected bringing her boyfriend a coffee after a long shift to be the moment that changed everything.

pairing: Viktor x reader (no use of Y/N; no physical description but she works as a nurse and grew up in the undercity like him)

w/c: 2.7k

notes: 3rd person POV, allusions to smut at the end, but nothing too explicit. this is my first time posting fanfiction in nearly 10 years, and my first Arcane fic, so please be kind <3 feedback would be very appreciated. also, i’m posting this using the tumblr app, so please forgive any formatting issues.

read on ao3: here 2nd person POV version here

She slips into the lab, balancing two to-go cups in one hand, while pushing the door open with the other. The scent of the coffee curls into the air before she speaks, announcing her presence.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” she says, setting the cup beside him on the workbench. He glances up at her, his face lighting up just enough to make the exhaustion in her limbs worth it.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before returning to the delicate circuit board in front of him. She watches him for a moment—so absorbed in his work, fingers deftly adjusting the tiny components with careful precision.

“Funny you should say that,” she says, dropping unceremoniously onto the stool beside him, stretching out her sore legs. “Because I actually did save a life today. Well… kind of.”

“Kind of?” He hums, taking a sip of his coffee as he adjusts a resistor.

“Well, mostly because I resisted the urge to strangle a new resident with my bare hands.”

His smirk is instant. “High bar for heroism these days, no?”

“Trust me, if you were there you would understand.” She deadpans, taking a swig of her coffee before continuing. “This patient comes in, right? He’s pacing around, clutching his chest like he’s auditioning for a medical drama. Then the brand new just-out-of-med-school cardio resident struts in like he owns the place, and immediately declares that the patient is having a heart attack. Orders every cardiac test known to man, meanwhile I’m standing there going ‘Hey, maybe it’s just indigestion,’ but apparently my Tiny Nurse Brain wasn’t worthy of such insight.”

Viktor lifts an eyebrow in anticipation. “And?”

She huffs, stretching to get a crick out of her spine. “When I kept insisting, he finally sighed, looked at me like I was a nuisance and told me to give him an antacid ‘if that would make me happy.’ Like he was indulging a toddler!”

“Did it work?” Viktor asks, his smirk widening.

“Oh, beautifully. Two minutes later and the guy lets out a burp so aggressive it could be classified as a seismic event, then suddenly felt amazing. Meanwhile, Dr. Smug, MD was suddenly very fascinated with the ceiling tiles.”

Viktor chuckles, shaking his head. “Did he at least apologize?”

“Of course not,” she replies with a snort. “He’s a doctor. Pretty sure admitting a nurse was right would void their medical license.”

“Well, I hope you were gracious in your victory.”

“Oh absolutely. I smiled, nodded and let him marinate in his shame. A picture of a true professional.” She responds with a cheeky grin.

That earns a full laugh from him, a sound she never tires of. “You could write a book. Things I’ve Had to Say to Medical Professionals That Should Be Obvious.”

“Maybe I should, it would sell millions.” He shakes his head, amused.

She leans into her seat as he returns to the work in front of him, and they relax into their normal routine—the easy back and forth, the familiarity. She talks as she always does, effortlessly filling the silence with whatever happens to be on her mind—recounting the chaotic moments from her day. Her patients. Some absurd interaction with a coworker. And as always, he listens.

He doesn’t interrupt much, mostly responding in low hums, nods, and half-smiles as he works. Occasionally letting a quiet chuckle or a cheeky quip escape his lips. But mostly, he just lets her talk. It’s always been like this between them, chattering from her, contented silence from him.

She knows he’s focused—his mind occupied by whatever invention he’s creating, adjusting, fixing—but he never makes her feel like a distraction, or acts like she’s intruding on something important.

Even if she’s rambling about absolutely nothing, he lets her. Because he likes hearing her talk. She knows that he is listening even as his hands move with precision. His quiet attentiveness is one of the things she loves most about him—not that he simply listens to her, but the fact that he wants to.

The hum of Hextech machinery fills the lab, a steady backdrop to their conversation as she watches him tinker with some new prototype. At this, she realizes the absence of his partner. “Where is Jayce today, anyway?”

“Out with Councilor Medara.” He responds, curtly. “Something to do with finalizing their venue choice for the wedding.”

“Did he tell you about the venue?” she says, tipping her head back to finish the rest of her coffee. “It’s ridiculous—ginormous chandeliers everywhere, some garden straight out of a fairytale, a twelve piece orchestra. I swear, it’s more of a spectacle than a wedding ceremony.”

Viktor chuckles. “Jayce does love going all out.”

“Mel, too. They want it to be unforgettable.”

“Seems like they will get their wish.”

She sighs, absentmindedly rubbing at a stain on her scrub pants that won’t come out. “I don’t think our wedding would ever look like that. It’d be simple. Just something small and meaningful.”

She suddenly realizes what she’s said—that she’s referred to it as their wedding, as though it’s a certainty. She doesn’t expect him to react, hoping he wasn’t listening that closely or would take it for what it was—another passing comment, an idle thought. One that she’d never even considered seriously because, well, she assumed it wasn’t on his radar.

Then, suddenly, Viktors hands still. The tool in his grip falls onto the metal surface with a soft clatter. He turns to her, studying her carefully, like she’s just said something that rewired his entire world. “Is that what you want?”

She blinks. Oh.

She hadn’t expected that response. Hadn’t expected his full attention, the weight of his golden-eyed gaze. She hadn’t expected the way his voice turned heavy and serious. “I—”

Before she can get an answer out, he abruptly stands up, grabs his cane and strides—well, as closely as one who walks with a cane can stride—into a lone storage room on the opposite side of the lab. Wait. What just happened?

Panic sets in fast. Her stomach clenches. She hadn’t meant to drop some grand revelation, and certainly had not expected anything more than a hum of acknowledgment. He didn’t react negatively, but now he was gone, and silent. A foreign, uncomfortable kind of silence her brain struggles to interpret. I ruined everything, didn’t I? Scared him off?

Marriage was something she never bothered dwelling on. His work consumed him most of the time. Marriage almost seemed like a silly afterthought in his world—a world of progress and Hextech research and scientific deadlines. And yet… he’d gone quiet and then left the room.

She grips the edge of the counter, already bracing herself for a polite change of subject when he returns. Backtrack, quick. Fix it.

Maybe she could laugh it off, shake her head, say something about it being a hypothetical. Obviously I wasn’t serious about it being our wedding.

Or she could change the subject entirely—a ridiculous shift into something, anything else. This was certainly an area she excelled at. Hey, did I tell you about my patient who thought she could cure her appendicitis with lavender oil?

She scrambles to think of something, anything to pull herself out of this mess.

She’s just about to get up and find him, to force the words out of her mouth before the silence swallows her whole, when he returns—his expression unreadable, something clutched tightly in his palm.

Without hesitation, he makes his way back to her, stopping close enough that she can see the flicker of determination in his eyes. Anything she planned on saying was suddenly lost in her throat.

Then, gently, he takes her hand, turning it over before slipping something onto her finger—a thin, delicate loop of twisted wires. “I’ll get you a better one,” he says, watching her reaction intently. “But I couldn’t wait another moment to see a ring on your finger.”

Her breath catches, alternating between glancing up at him and back at the wire now wrapped snugly against her skin. The makeshift ring is a delicate twist of copper wire, with thin strands of blue and silver cables weaved through it. It fits perfectly, and it’s threaded in a way that gives it a quiet elegance so beautiful that it shouldn’t be possible for something crafted in mere minutes. Yet, somehow, it is.

It shouldn’t surprise her, really. Not when it’s his creation. Not when those meticulous hands of his could never make something carelessly, even if he tried.

“You—“ her voice is barely above a whisper. “You’re serious?”

“I am.” His voice is steady, sure, like he’s just made the easiest decision of his life. “I’d like to formally apologize for not getting down on one knee—bad leg and all. I figured proposing without completely wiping out on the floor was the better choice.”

A relieved laugh bursts out of her, the tension melting instantly. Then, voice full of warmth, she nods. “Okay.”

His relief is instant, undeniable. Before another word can be said, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her in—so tightly, so fiercely, like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go. She hears his cane clatter to the floor.

She presses into him, fingers clutching the fabric of his well-worn vest, her scrubs still wrinkled and stained from a day that now feels insignificant compared to this. Viktor, the co-creator of Hextech, the man who never rushes, never jumps without thinking, somehow did just that today. This man—her fiancé—was going to be her husband.

Neither of them ever thought they would have this—this moment, this certainty, this absolute rightness that never seemed possible growing up in the Undercity. No one had ever expected much from Zaunite kids like them, but they both refused to let their circumstances dictate the limits of their success.

She fought her way into the world of medicine, earning respect in a field that wasn’t always kind to her. And Viktor—he had built something incredible, something groundbreaking, with a brilliant mind that never failed him, even when his body tried to.

They found each other in spite of a world that didn’t seem built for them. But now, here they were. Standing in a city, in a lab, that once felt like a distant dream, holding each other like the world finally made sense, and neither of them would let go.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

Later, much later, they lie tangled together in bed, still sweaty and out of breath.

Their bodies were pressed closed together like the space between them didn’t have a right to be there. He’s been stripped of the braces he wears throughout the day, his back and leg finally free of the rigid support. Just skin against skin, warmth without barriers.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the night outside in Piltover, and an occasional creak from the old apartment settling around them. His fingers trace slow patterns along the bare skin of her back, absentminded; a habit more than a conscious thought. She has her left hand placed on his chest, unable to stop staring at the ring. Hardly believing it was real.

She exhales, shifting against him, pressing a chaste kiss onto his bare chest, right over his heart. “What if we just elope?”

His fingers still for half a second before continuing their path. “Skip the whole thing?”

She hums, placing two, three more kisses against his warm skin. “Think about it—no stress, no planning, just the two of us.”

Viktor considers it. He can picture it easily—just the two of them, slipping away, exchanging vows in some quiet place where no one else exists. Incorporating Zaunite traditions into the ceremony. It’s tempting, ridiculously tempting.

But then—

“I don’t know,” he murmurs. “I think it would be nice to have our people there. The few we have, that is.”

She exhales, tilting her head back to look at him, pleased to see his amber eyes looking right back at her. “Yeah. It would.”

Neither of them have families in the traditional sense—no parents, no extended relatives waiting for an invitation. But they do have people, as few as they might be. “I guess if we do that, it will barely even be a wedding. No ridiculous venue, no big fluffy dress, definitely no twelve-piece orchestra.”

“No chandeliers?” He asks with a smirk.

“Absolutely not.” She responds with a playful glare.

He chuckles, tightening his arm around her bare body. He places a contented kiss at the top of her head. “Besides, if I were to elope without making Jayce my best man, I think he might cry.”

She snorts. “Cry?”

“Oh yes, full on devastation. Probably will shed real tears just to guilt me about it for the rest of my life.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Alright, fine, we can’t have that. I will not have our marriage haunted by a lifelong grudge.”

A comfortable silence settles between them again. Then, he curls his fingers underneath her chin, a silent request to look at him again. “It doesn’t need to be big. Just ours.”

“Yeah,” she breathes, softly pressing her lips against his. “Ours.”

After a beat, his chest shakes with a quiet chuckle, as if he just realized something. “What?”

He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “I was just thinking about Jayce, and how he is going to lose his mind when he finds out.”

She laughs in response. “He will probably think we’re messing with him at first.”

Viktor sighs dramatically. “And when he finally realizes it’s real—“

“Oh, he’s gonna cry.”

“Do you think we’ll get the quivering lip?” Viktor asks, smirk widening.

“Absolutely.” She nods. “But the moment he wipes his eyes, it’s all over.”

He groans, rubbing his hand down his face. “And then, after the waterworks, he will pivot immediately into planning mode.”

“Oh without a doubt. Give it thirty seconds and he’ll be listing venues, caterers… probably finding some way to put fireworks into the budget. Viktor, I swear, if he starts planning anything with a theme, we’re shutting the whole thing down immediately.”

“This is what I get for letting him meddle in my love life in the first place.” He grumbles, poking her in the side, making her jolt with a startled laugh.

“Hey!” She swats at him, grinning.

“I should’ve known better,” He teases with another quick poke to her ribs, making her regret ever letting him find out she was ticklish. “Letting a scientist play matchmaker? Dangerous.”

“Oh please,” She grins, swiftly pulling him toward her by the back of his neck so he lands on top of her. “You didn’t ‘let’ him do anything. He probably treated us like an experiment—ran the calculations, probably put together an entire hypothesis about why we’d end up together.”

Viktor scoffs, a breath of laughter beneath it, leaning down to begin trailing kisses along her neck and collarbones. “Fortunately for me, his data turned out to be shockingly accurate.”

“I bet there’s a whole spreadsheet somewhere proving our compatibility. Probably laminated.” She giggles, her hand sneakily making its way down his torso.

His groan is immediate. “There absolutely is. And if he tries to present it at the wedding, I am banning him from speech making.”

“Oh come on,” she laughs as he pins her wrists against the mattress and begins leaving teeth marks on her skin. “You’re a scientist yourself, mister. A little scientific validation never hurt anyone.”

Viktor doesn’t argue with this. They both know without Jayce introducing them, they might never be here now. He pulls away to look at her, his gaze lingering down at her for a long moment. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “I love you, you know.”

“I know,” she responds, looking back at him with nothing but devotion. “I love you, too.”

They would tell Jayce soon—tomorrow, perhaps. But for now, he wanted to ensure that no man except for him would be on her mind (or mouth) for the next few hours.

Viktor leans down and presses a wet kiss against her ear, spreading her legs apart gently and slowly pressing himself against her until they’re one. And just like that, the world again shrinks to nothing except for the two of them.

—

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