#Metal Casting Components | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

drippingghoneyy · 2 months ago

Text

Making Some Progress -Viktor x Reader x Jayce

Summary: As Viktor's assistant, Viktor, Jayce and you have been working in a lab for many nights, pushing the boundaries of science and magic. The air thickens and the tension grows.

Genre/ Pairing: m/m/f, Jayvik x reader, dom!Viktor x sub! fem!Reader x switch!Jayce,

WARNINGS: mdni! nsfw, smut, pwp, poly sex, tension, teasing, dom!Viktor, sub! fem!Reader, switch! Jayce, lab sex, couch sex, threesome, handjob, voyeurism, praise kink, cuckolding, edging, dom/sub dynamics, piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), missionary, vag fingering, big dick Viktor, pet names, begging, friends-to-lovers, voice kink, obedience kink, stretching, nipple play, sharing, degradation, "Sir", overstimulation.. (lmk if I missed any!)

Word Count: 6.3k

Notes: This is my first writing…ever… So please give me any feedback! where could I do better? I thought there wasn't enough Jayvik smut, so I made my own…

If you find any spelling errors, no you didn't. If you don't like nsfw content, please don't read it!

You, as Viktor's devoted assistant, had been with them since the early days. The three of you had spent countless hours in this very lab, pushing the boundaries of science and magic.

The three of you have been set to work for many nights, the air crackling with anticipation. You could feel the tension building as you worked alongside Jayce, your fingers dancing over the delicate components, weaving the new configuration into the existing framework. All the while, Viktor hovered nearby, offering guidance and encouragement.

The hours ticked by, the lab lights flickering as the night grew old. The air grew thick with the scent of burnt metal and the faint ozone smell that accompanied powerful magical surges. You were acutely aware of Jayce's proximity, his arm occasionally brushing against yours as you both leaned in to examine the minutiae of your work. Each touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn't help but steal glances at him, his eyes focused and intense.

You look over, studying Viktor as he works, his sharp features cast in shadow and light by the flickering screens. His hair, usually a wild mess of unruly curls, was now slightly slicked back with sweat. His eyes were a piercing amber, intense with concentration as he monitored the system's response. The lines on his face, a testament to countless nights of tireless research, had deepened, making him look both older and somehow more handsome.

The quiet stretched, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall. You couldn't help but feel a pang of concern. You knew how much pressure he put on himself to ensure their work was perfect.

“Viktor, are you quite alright?" You couldn't help but ask as you noticed his furrowed brow and the intense concentration that had taken over his features. The blueprints scattered on the table between you whispered of secrets and innovations that could revolutionize the world of Hextech. The warm glow of the pendant lights danced off the metal surfaces, casting a serene ambiance over the cluttered lab.

Viktor's head snapped up, his eyes focusing on you after a brief moment. "Ah, yes, Y/N," he replied, his voice a touch deeper than usual, gruff with exhaustion, as he tapped the tip of his metal cane against the floor. "Just ensuring that the calibration of this device is flawless."

The cane was an extension of him, a testament to his ingenuity, a tool that defied the limitations of his damaged leg. "Jayce, would you be so kind as to fetch me the calibration matrix?"

Jayce nodded with a smirk, his eyes glancing from the blueprints to you, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "I've seen that look before," he said, his voice low. "Viktor's mind is racing."

You couldn't help the flush that crept up your neck. You'd caught the way Jayce had emphasized 'racing', his eyes holding yours for a beat too long. Was he referring to the thrill of discovery or something more?

The air grew thicker with each passing second, the unspoken tension between you and Viktor palpable. His gaze remained fixed on you, the intensity behind his eyes. Only for a second, and he glanced away.

No.

That was nothing more than acknowledgment.

He acknowledged me.

"Y/N," he began, his voice a gentle command that sent shivers down your spine, "I've noticed that you've been particularly attentive to my work lately. Is there something on your mind?"

He had been stressed, you knew. The deadlines for the Hextech project were approaching, and the weight of the world's expectations seemed to rest heavily on his shoulders. The lab was his sanctuary, but even here, the whispers of failure lurked in the shadows.

You took a deep breath. "I…I just want to help, sir," you replied. "You and Jayce are doing something incredible here, and I want to be a part of it."

Viktor smiles, glancing at the work displayed in front of you. "You are an invaluable asset, Y/N," he says, his voice soft and smooth as this praise falls. But there is more to our work than meets the eye." He pauses, his gaze falling back to you. He smiles once again before turning.

Jayce returned with the matrix, tossing it casually to Viktor. "Here you go, old man," he teased, the nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. The tension in the room lightened slightly, but the underlying current remained. Viktor caught the matrix with ease, his grip tightening around it.

"Thank you, Jayce," he said, his tone clipped. He turned to you, his gaze lingering on your flushed cheeks. "Y/N, would you be so kind as to assist me with these final adjustments?"

His request was not a question, but a gentle command. You nodded, stepping closer to him.

Viktor acknowledges your attentiveness and stresses the depth of their work. Despite Jayce's playful interruption, the atmosphere remains charged. You express your desire to help and assist Viktor with his task, moving closer to him at his request.

Together, you studied the complex matrix, your eyes darting over the numbers and symbols that danced before you. His scent, a blend of oil and metal, filled your nostrils as you leaned in closer, trying to make sense of the intricate calculations. Viktor's finger hovered over the paper, tracing a line of data that didn't quite add up. "Here," he said, his voice low and gruff with concentration. "This equation is incorrect."

Jayce sauntered over, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. "How did you catch that?" he asked, leaning over your shoulder.

Viktor's expression was one of mild annoyance at the interruption, but he replied evenly, "It's elementary, Jayce. The discrepancy in the power coefficients is glaringly obvious."

Jayce leaned back, raising an eyebrow. "I guess I'll leave the 'elementary' stuff to the professor," he quipped his tone teasing but his eyes gleaming with genuine respect for Viktor's intellect.

Viktor's gaze didn't waver from the matrix. "Your contributions are appreciated, Jayce, but my methods are my own," he replied, his voice firm. "Now, if you would be so kind as to rerun the simulation without the error, we might actually make some progress."

Jayce's smirk grew wider. "Alright, Viktor. Let's hope you're right," he said, sauntering back to his workstation. The room grew quiet again, filled only with the sound of the machines whirring and the occasional clank of metal on metal.

“But…what does it mean for us?" you said, abruptly, “If the equation runs correctly?”

Viktor's eyes snapped to yours, the intensity of his gaze making it hard to breathe. "It means," he began, his voice measured and deliberate, "that we've reached a new level of understanding." His hand hovered over the beginnings of the Hexcore as if he could feel the power surging within it, and then he looked at Jayce, a question in his eyes.

Jayce nodded, his smile widening slightly. "It means," he said, his voice low from across the room, "that the three of us have created something incredible together."

Viktor leaned closer to you and pointed at the matrix. "As I said, the mistake is here," he murmured, his finger landing precisely on the errant symbol. His proximity was intoxicating, and his confidence in his own abilities even more so. You nodded, trying to focus on the task at hand, but your mind kept wandering.

"Tell me, what is wrong with this calculation? " His accent was heavy, and his speech was softer due to his proximity. Your heart raced as you swallowed hard. "It seems like there's a misplaced coefficient," you managed to reply, your voice a mere whisper. "It's affecting the output power of the device."

He nodded, his gaze flickering over to Jayce before returning to you. "Very good, Y/N," he said, his voice a warm caress. His hand slid gently down your side, his fingertips barely grazing your skin. It was a simple gesture, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Jayce," he called out, his voice now a command. "I must admit, Y/N has proven to be quite the asset. Her insights and diligence have not gone unnoticed."

Jayce paused in his work, looking over with a grin that was both proud and mischievous. "Yeah," he said, his eyes sparkling, "she's a natural. Who knew she had such a knack for this stuff?".

Viktor's smile grew, a hint of pride in his voice. "Indeed," he said, his eyes lingering on you. "I believe she deserves some… recognition for her efforts."

Your heart thundered in your chest as the implication of his words sank in. This wasn't just professional praise; it almost seemed like something more. You watched as Jayce's grin grew into a knowing smile, his eyes flicking between you and Viktor, and back down again. Collecting his work.

Viktor's hand reached out again, his metal-tipped fingers brushing against your bare arm, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. "You have a keen eye for detail, Y/N," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "It's been invaluable in our work."

His eyes searched yours, and you felt the intensity of his gaze. The praise was a warm balm to your soul, a gentle reminder that you belonged here, in this lab, with these two brilliant minds.

"Thank you, Sir," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady as you felt the blush spread across your cheeks. His smile grew wider, there seemed to be a hint of something in his gaze.

It's soft, dark.

Jayce, ever the observant one, took a step closer. "You know, Viktor," he said, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes anything but, "I think Y/N is entitled to a bit more praise than that, " He winked at you, and you felt the heat in your cheeks rise even higher.

Your mouth opened and closed as you tried to formulate a coherent response, but all that came out was a nervous giggle. "I…I just want to do a good job," you stuttered, trying to shrug off the sudden attention. "It's nothing special."

Viktor's gaze sharpened his grip on the calibration matrix tightening. "Is that all you wish for, Y/N?" he asked his accent now giving his voice a deep, velvety purr. "To simply…do your job?"

You looked up at him, the amber of his eyes piercing through the haze of your hectic mind. "N-no," you managed to reply, your voice trembling. "But I don't want to distract you from your work."

He stepped closer, the warmth of his body radiating against yours. "You are not a distraction," he said, his voice firm. "You are an essential component of our work. Without you, we would not be where we are." His hand reached out, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

Frozen.

He gives you a moment to pull away.

Thoughts going a million miles a minute.

Softly leaning into his touch, you felt a shiver run down your spine. His eyes searched yours, looking for confirmation, for consent. You nodded, your eyes never leaving his. Viktor's expression softened, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch gentle and reassuring.

"If this is something you wish to explore," he began, his voice low, His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of hesitation. You swallowed, your heart racing.

Jayce stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Only if you're comfortable, Y/N," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "And if you're up for it, we're more than willing to give you what you need."

You took a deep breath, your body trembling with anticipation. The air between the three of you was charged with an unspoken understanding. "I…I want to," you murmured, the words barely escaping your lips..

Viktor's smile grew, his eyes lighting up. He stepped closer, his cane clicking sharply against the floor. "Excellent," he said, leaning down, capturing your mouth in a kiss, both gentle and possessive.

His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer to him. The metal of his cane dug into your side, but you didn't care. You were lost in the sensation of his lips on yours, the taste of him, the feel of his body against yours.

Jayce watched for a moment before moving in, his hands reaching up to cup your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw. "Viktor's right," he murmured against your ear. "You're not just a distraction, you're a muse." He kissed you, his lips a stark contrast to Viktor's, insistent and demanding. You moaned, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

As your kisses grew more passionate, you felt a thrill at the thought of being watched by the two of them, of being the center of their attention. Viktor stepped back, his eyes dark with desire as he took in the sight of you with Jayce. He nodded, a silent command, and Jayce's hands began to wander, slipping beneath your shirt to caress your breasts.

"Jayce," you whispered, breaking the kiss. "I…I want to watch you too."

Jayce chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "As you wish," he murmured, his hands moving to the fastenings of his clothes.

He stripped away his shirt, revealing the defined muscles of his chest. His eyes never left yours as he unbuckled his belt and let his pants fall to the floor. You watched, transfixed, as he took his cock in hand, stroking it slowly.

Viktor's gaze was intense as he watched Jayce, his desire clear. He reached out, his metal-tipped fingers tracing a line down Jayce's chest before wrapping around his erection. Jayce gasped, his eyes fluttering shut as Viktor began to stroke him in time with the rhythm of his movements.

"Now, my dear Y/N," Viktor said, his voice deep, he kissed Jayce, dominating the kiss with authority. "Let us see what awaits you, love."

He nods to Jayce, allowing him to pleasure himself freely before turning to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Strip, please" he ordered, his voice a low, velvety command that sent a shiver down your spine.

You complied, your trembling fingers undoing the buttons of your shirt, your eyes never leaving his. You felt Jayce's gaze on you, his eyes dark with desire as you revealed your body to them.

You stepped out of your shoes, your heart racing as you slid your pants down your legs, leaving you in only your underwear. Viktor's gaze was unyielding, his cane tapping impatiently against the floor as you stood before them, vulnerable and exposed.

"Everything, love" he murmured, his eyes raking over your form.

You took a deep breath, feeling the fabric of your bra and panties hugging your body. The set was black, the bra cups pushing your large breasts up. The panties were sheer, leaving little to the imagination, the lace tracing the contours of your ass cheeks. With trembling hands, you reached behind your back to unclasp your bra.

The act of undressing in front of them was a new experience, filled with a thrilling mix of excitement and vulnerability. You could feel their eyes on you, hungrily taking in every inch of your exposed skin, and it took all your resolve to keep your gaze from dropping to the floor. Instead, you focused on their faces: Jayce wore an expression of eager anticipation, while Viktor's demeanor was one of intense concentration.

Your breasts spilled free, the cool air of the lab causing your nipples to pebble under their heated gazes. The feeling of exposure was exhilarating, a thrill that sent your pulse racing and a blush creeping up your neck.

You couldn't find the words to express the emotions that bubbled within you, a potent mix of shyness and desire. You felt their eyes on you, Jayce's with a glint of mischief and Viktor's with a more intense, possessive hunger.

"Very good," Viktor murmured, stopping before you continued to your underwear, his eyes taking in every inch of your exposed flesh. He stepped closer, his cane tapping with each step. "Jayce, I believe it is time for us to show our appreciation."

Jayce grinned, his hand still moving leisurely up and down his length. "With pleasure," he said, stepping closer to you. His eyes never left your breasts as he leaned in, his tongue flicking out to tease one of your nipples. You gasped, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

Viktor reached out, his hand sliding down your spine to cup your ass. His grip was firm, almost possessive. "You are exquisite, love," he said, his voice a soft growl. "So very beautiful." His thumb slid beneath the waistband of your panties, teasing the sensitive skin. You squirmed, the anticipation of his touch making you wet.

As he felt the dampness, his eyes lit up with a predatory glint. "Ah," he said, his voice filled with satisfaction. "You are quite eager for us." He turned to Jayce, his smile wide and triumphant. "It seems our little assistant is more than prepared for what we have planned."

Jayce chuckled, his eyes never leaving your exposed body. "Always eager to please, aren't you?" He leaned in, his mouth closing over your other nipple as he pinched the first, rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. The dual sensation was almost too much, your knees threatening to buckle.

Viktor's hand slipped into your panties, his fingers sliding through your folds to find your clit. He began to rub it with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumb pressing down firmly as he watched the pleasure build in your eyes. "You're so wet," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "So beautiful."

You moaned, your body responding to their touch, their dominance. Jayce's mouth left your breast, kissing a trail down to your navel, his tongue swirling around it before dipping lower, teasing the fabric of your panties.

With surprising gentleness, Jayce hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your panties, his eyes holding yours. His touch was feather-light, but the promise of what was to come was anything but. He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, before allowing you to step out of the wet pool of fabric.

Viktor's hand tightened around your waist, his voice a soft command in your ear. "Let's move this elsewhere, sweets," he said, his words a gentle rumble that sent shivers down your spine. He led you to the couch in the corner of the lab, the same couch where you had spent countless hours discussing theories and crunching numbers. But now, it felt different. It was a stage set for a different kind of exploration.

As you sat down, the plush fabric of the couch enveloped you. Viktor positioned himself in front of you, his eyes never leaving yours. "It is not proper to keep a lady standing," he murmured a hint of amusement in his voice. The couch was a stark contrast to the cold metal and gleaming technology that surrounded them, offering a semblance of intimacy in the harsh, brightly lit room.

Viktor knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours. He placed his cane aside, his hands sliding up your legs.

"Are you certain, Y/N?" he asked, his voice thick with need. You could see the desire in his eyes, the way his pupils had dilated. You nodded, your cheeks aflame.

"I am,"

You whispered, the heat of your words hanging in the air as you stared into Viktor's eyes. The intensity of his gaze made your knees wobble, but you held firm, the need to feel his touch again overwhelming any shred of doubt.

Viktor's smile grew, a predatory light sparkling in his eyes. "Good," he said, his voice a velvet caress. He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. "You will not regret this decision, my sweet."

He slid his fingers through your folds, his touch gentle but insistent. You gasped as he found your clit, his thumb circling it with a precision that spoke of his mastery. His fingers slid lower, slipping inside you with ease. He began to move them in a slow, deliberate rhythm, the sound of your wetness mingling with the low, guttural noises that escaped your throat.

He watched you with a focused intensity, his eyes hooded and dark with desire. Every stroke was calculated, every touch designed to push you closer to the edge. Each thrust of his fingers was punctuated with a twirl of his thumb against your clit, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

Jayce's mouth found your neck, his teeth nipping gently as he sucked and licked. You arched your back, the dual sensations pushing you closer to the edge.

"Please..," you moaned, your voice a plea.

Viktor's smile grew darker, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He knew you were close, but he wasn't quite ready to let you fall. "Beg for it," he said, his voice a low command that sent another shiver down your spine.

You nodded, your breaths coming in short gasps. "P-please, Sir," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I need… I need more."

Viktor's eyes lit up with fierce joy at your words, the power dynamic between you two now crystal clear. "More?" he questioned, his fingers moving faster, his thumb pressing harder against your swollen bud. "You wish to be pleasured more?"

"Yes," you whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand. "I need… I need you to… please don't stop."

He chuckled a dark sound that sent a thrill through you. "As you wish," he murmured, "But you must be more specific, my dear. Tell me exactly what you want."

You looked up at him, your eyes glazed with lust. "Your mouth," you panted. "I want your mouth… there."

Viktor's smile grew wider, his teeth flashing white in the dim light of the lab. He leaned in, so close to where I needed him. I could almost cry… "You wish for me to taste you?"

You nodded frantically, your eyes closing. "Yes," you breathed. "Please, sir. Taste me."

With a groan, he obeyed, his mouth replacing his thumb. He licked and sucked at your clit, his tongue delving into your wetness with a hunger that left no doubt as to his enjoyment. The sensation was exquisite, and you couldn't hold back the cries that spilled from your lips. Each stroke of his tongue sent a fresh wave of pleasure crashing over you, your body tightening around his fingers.

Jayce, ever the attentive lover, took advantage of your distraction, his mouth moving from your neck to capture one of your nipples, once again. He bit down gently, the slight pain mixing with the pleasure from Viktor's ministrations. Your moans grew louder, filling the room with the sweet symphony of your desire.

This was unlike anything you had ever felt before. The combination of their expert hands, their knowing touches and kisses, was overwhelming. You had always craved this kind of connection, this kind of intimacy, but had never allowed yourself to indulge. Now, with the two most brilliant men you knew worshiping your body, you felt like you were floating on a cloud of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Jayce's cock was hot and heavy in your hand, the veins pulsing with the beat of his heart. You leaned in, your breath hot against his skin. He watched you with hooded eyes, his chest rising and falling with his ragged breaths. You licked the tip, tasting the salty precum, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily.

Viktor watched with a hunger that matched your own, his own hand still working your clit with a precision that was both thrilling and terrifying. "Take him in, love," he whispered, his voice a soft command. "Show him how much you crave his attention."

You took Jayce's cock in your mouth, feeling him grow even harder. You sucked gently, your tongue swirling around the head, tasting the saltiness of his precum. His eyes widened and his grip on your hair tightened, a silent plea for more.

You obeyed, taking him deeper, feeling his cock hit the back of your throat. He groaned the sound melding with the wet sounds of your mouth working him.

Viktor watched, his eyes gleaming with approval. "Very good, love," he murmured, his own hand still working your clit with a maddening rhythm. "So eager to serve."

Jayce's whimpers grew louder, his hips thrusting slightly as he lost control. "Fuck, Y/N," he gasped, his voice strained with pleasure. "That's so good."

Viktor's eyes never left yours, his gaze intense, watching every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features. "Are you close, love?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate in your very soul.

You nodded, the tension in your body coiling tighter with every second. "Yes, please..," you gasped, your own pleasure building.

"Mm," Viktor murmured, his eyes darkening with desire. "Come for us, sweet girl." His words were a command, a promise, and a challenge all rolled into one.

Their combined efforts pushed you over the edge, and you shattered into a million pieces, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. You cried out, your orgasm a symphony of pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

As the last tremors of your climax subsided, Viktor leaned back, his eyes filled with pride. "So beautiful," he murmured, his thumb still gently stroking your clit. "Such a Good Girl for us, love."

You panted, your cheeks flushed with the aftermath of your release.

Viktor sat back on his heels, watching you with a look of pure satisfaction. "You are exquisite, my dear," he murmured, his thumb still ghosting over your sensitive flesh. "Your responsiveness is… enchanting."

Jayce had moved to the edge of the couch, his hand moving faster now, his eyes glued to the sight of your body. "Vik," he gasped out, his voice tight with need. "I'm not gonna last much longer."

Viktor chuckled, a low, rich sound that seemed to resonate through the room. He leaned back, watching as Jayce's hand moved faster and faster, his eyes glazed with lust. "Always so eager, Jayce," he murmured, his own fingers sliding down to trace the crevice of your ass, teasing you gently. "But do not come yet."

Jayce groaned, his eyes flickering between you and Viktor. He knew he was close, but the desire to please was stronger. He slowed his pace, his hand tightening around his shaft as he fought for control. You watched him, your own desire mirroring his, the need to give him the same pleasure he had given you.

Viktor stood, his movements graceful despite the cane. He leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek. "Would you like to finish him, love?" he whispered, his voice a seductive invitation.

You nodded, eager to show your submission to both men. Jayce's eyes lit up with excitement, his grip on his cock faltering. Viktor's hand slipped away from your pussy, giving you room to move. You leaned over, taking Jayce in your mouth once again. You felt him quiver at the first touch of your tongue, his eyes rolling back in his head.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained. "Y/N, you're so…so good."

You took him deep, swirling your tongue around the head, feeling his cock pulse with every beat of his heart. Viktor's hand slid to the base of Jayce's shaft, his long fingers wrapping around him as he began to stroke in time with your movements. The room was filled with the sounds of wet sucking and skin on skin, the scent of arousal thick in the air.

Viktor's other hand reached out, tangling in your hair, guiding your movements. You could feel his dominance growing, his need to control the situation becoming more pronounced. You moaned around Jayce's cock, the sound vibrating through his shaft, making him groan even louder.

"Please, Sir," he breathed, his voice strained. "Can I… can I come?"

Viktor's eyes flicked to Jayce, his expression unreadable. With a regal nod, he said, "You may."

Jayce's breaths grew ragged, his hips bucking slightly as he approached the brink. "I'm…I'm gonna…"

Viktor's grip on your hair tightened. "Swallow," he ordered, his voice a dark, command.

Jayce's eyes rolled back in his head, his body tensing as he reached climax. You took his hot seed into your mouth, swallowing it eagerly. He groaned, his grip on your hair loosening as he slumped back against the couch, his chest heaving.

Viktor's gaze never left yours, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched the scene unfold. He leaned back, his gaze raking over your naked form with a possessive hunger.

"Your dedication to our work, and to us," he began, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through the very air, "has been nothing short of extraordinary." His hand reached out, stroking the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. "But now, it is my turn."

You nodded, your voice a mere whisper of agreement, the anticipation building within you like a coiled spring.

Viktor leaned back, his gaze never leaving yours. "Stay," he said, the command in his voice unmistakable. Jayce nodded, his eyes still glued to the two of you, his own need palpable.

Viktor turned his attention back to you softly smiling, his hand sliding down your body, tracing the curves of your waist and the dip of your hips before settling on your ass. His eyes roamed over you with the intensity of a scientist studying a rare specimen. "Your beauty is truly mesmerizing," he murmured, his voice a warm caress in the cool lab air.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered in your ear, "Are you absolutely certain this is what you wish for?" His question was a final checkpoint, a gentle reminder of the control you held in this moment of shared vulnerability. You nodded, your voice a breathless whisper of agreement.

"I want this, sir," you murmured, the words leaving your lips with a sense of urgency that seemed to echo in the quiet lab. Your heart was racing, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. The anticipation was almost unbearable.

Viktor's eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he nodded, a look of determination crossing his features. "Very well, love," he said, his voice a gentle rumble.

Jayce watched with rapt attention, his own desire palpable. He leaned back, his hand still idly playing with himself, his eyes never leaving the two of you.

Viktor's hand slid down, his fingertips brushing against the slickness of your folds. He circled your entrance, teasing, before sliding two fingers inside you. You gasped, your body responding immediately to his touch.

You felt your walls tightening around him, your body begging for more. "Please," you gasped, your voice a needy plea. "I need… I need you to fuck me."

Viktor's eyes darkened at your words, his desire for you now impossible to hide. He withdrew his fingers, and for a moment, you felt a pang of loss. But it was quickly replaced by excitement as he stood, his own need now clear. He unbuckled his trousers, his cock springing free, long and hard. His cock that truly captured your attention. It was thick and long, a testament to his size despite his lean frame. The sight of him made your stomach clench with want.

"As you wish, my love," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "But I must ensure you are adequately prepared for me." He stepped closer, his hand stroking himself slowly, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Your body is so tight," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "But fear not, I will prepare you." He reached for a jar of lubricant, his movements deliberate and precise. He smeared it on his fingers before sliding them back inside you, stretching and preparing you for what was to come. The sensation was both thrilling and a little intimidating, but you knew you could trust him.

With a wicked smile, he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "I am quite… substantial," he said, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "But I will take my time. I want to feel every inch of you, to hear every moan and gasp as I claim you."

Jayce's eyes grew darker, his own need mirroring the desire in your eyes. He watched as Viktor slid three fingers into you, his thumb pressing against your clit. The sound of your moan filled the room, mingling with the steady throb of the arcane machinery. Viktor's fingers moved in and out of you, his thumb working in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had you writhing on the couch.

"Look at me," he ordered his voice a gentle command that sent a fresh wave of heat through your body. You obeyed, meeting his gaze as he continued to prepare you for his possession. His eyes never left yours as he withdrew his fingers, the lubricant glistening on them. He reached down, guiding his cock to your entrance, the head of his shaft nudging at your slick folds. You held your breath, the anticipation unbearable.

With a single, powerful thrust, he claimed you, his cock filling you to the hilt. You gasped, your eyes widening at the sudden, delicious fullness. The pain was a sweet agony that made your toes curl.

Your moans filled the lab, mingling with the steady thrum of the machinery. Viktor's eyes never left yours, watching as your pupils dilated with pleasure. "So tight, my love," he murmured, his voice a deep growl of satisfaction.

He began to move, his hips rolling in a slow, steady rhythm that had you clutching at the couch cushions. Each stroke sent a new wave of pleasure through your body, your muscles clenching around him, urging him deeper. The room spun around you, the only anchor the feel of his cock stretching you, filling you completely.

Jayce watched with a raptor's intensity, his hand moving faster as he stroked himself. "Vik," he breathed, his eyes locked on the two of you. "Let me see more."

Viktor's smile grew, his strokes becoming more deliberate. He reached down, his thumb brushing over your clit, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You arched up, your nails digging into the couch, your moans growing louder.

"Sir, please," you begged, the words slipping from your lips like a mantra.

Viktor chuckled, the sound dark and thrilling. "Your desire is intoxicating," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. He leaned down, his cock still buried deep within you and kissed you. It was a gentle, claiming kiss, one that seemed to reach down into the very core of your being.

The room around you faded away until there were only the two of you, locked in this dance of power and passion. You felt every inch of Viktor, his dominance enveloping you as surely as his cock filled you. His strokes grew faster, more demanding, and you could feel your orgasm building again, a sensation that seemed to coil tight in your belly.

Jayce's hand tightened in your hair, his other hand stroking his own cock as he watched. "So fucking hot," he murmured, the words barely audible over your moans. "Look at her, Vik. Look at how much she wants it."

Viktor's strokes grew more powerful, his hips slamming into you with an urgency that was both thrilling and overwhelming. You felt yourself slipping, losing yourself in the sensation, but Jayce was there, his hand on your cheek, turning your face to his. He kissed you, his tongue delving into your mouth, tasting you as you moaned around the sound of your own pleasure.

"I've got you," he whispered, his voice a soothing balm in the storm of sensation. "Just let go."

And you did. You let go, your body shattering around Viktor's cock, the sound of your climax echoing through the room. Viktor's eyes widened, his own release following swiftly behind, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he emptied himself.

As the aftershocks of your orgasms began to subside, the three of you lay tangled together on the couch, breathing heavily. Jayce's arms were wrapped around you both, holding you close as you both came down from the intense high of your shared pleasure. The room was still, save for the steady hum of the arcane machinery and the occasional clank of a loose gear.

Viktor was the first to break the silence, his voice a low rumble. "Your performance was… most satisfactory," he said, his hand stroking your back in a gentle, almost soothing manner. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of regret or discomfort.

You couldn't help but smile at his formal choice of words, feeling a warm glow spread through you. "Thank you, Sir," you murmured, the endearment feeling natural on your tongue. You turned your head to look at Jayce, who was smiling down at you with an affectionate glint in his eyes.

Jayce leaned in to kiss you softly, his hand stroking your cheek. "You two are amazing together," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "I can't wait to see what we can all do together."

Viktor pulled out of you gently, his eyes never leaving yours. He helped you sit up, wrapping you in a warm embrace. "Indeed," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Our bond has grown stronger tonight."

The three of you dressed slowly, the mood in the lab now one of contentment and satisfaction. You couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging, a feeling that you had found your place among these two brilliant minds.

As you put your clothes back on, you noticed the way they both watched you, their eyes filled with something more than just lust. It was a look of possession, of claiming, but also of care and affection.

#arcane #jayvik #viktor arcane #jayce talis #jayvik x reader #viktor league of legends #arcane jayce #jayce x viktor #jayce league of legends #viktor x reader smut #viktor x reader x jayce #viktor smut #jayvik smut #jayce smut #arcane viktor smut #arcane smut #DrippinggHoneyy

512 notes · View notes

keferon · 5 months ago

Note

TexAid - Vortex has taken First Aid as his pilot. First Aid claims Vortex as his mech.

--------------------------

There's a rumbling in the distance as First Aid crawls out the darkened hatch of Vortex's escape chute. The hangar is a wreck of collapsed walls, twisted metal pipes, and broken wiring shooting up sparks.

First Aid pushes himself to his feet, stands back, and uses the flashes of light to take stock of the situation.

This is…not good.

He counts a dozen cuts and bruises across his own aching limbs before abandoning the effort. He is satisfied at least that he is intact, alive, and functional. All his injuries will heal, given treatment and time.

Time he may not have. Because Vortex on the other hand is not so lucky – lights off, systems silent, frame crumpled on the ground. A slow trickle of oil leaks from the mecha, swirling into one of the many pools of alien ooze scattered around Vortex's frame along with chunks of the aliens' flesh.

The battle had been fierce, Vortex's fighting the fiercest Aid had ever seen against the many enemies. But for the first time, it hadn't been enough. The mecha suddenly going dark – collapsing under the strain of overtaxed systems even as the last of the monster's fell. Leaving First Aid truly alone in that cockpit of horrors for the first time.

Another rumble sounds in the distance, shaking First Aid from his reflection.

He refocuses on the present, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling towards Vortex's head. He raps his knuckles against the glass of the visor, shouts at the mecha to wake up.

Nothing.

Vortex has gone dark.

This is not good. He is dead. They are dead, if Vortex cannot wake. Because those distant rumbles are definitely not friendly.

No human has survived fighting the aliens without a mech. And first Aid is a medic first. Vortex is the fighter – the killer – of their strange partnership. First Aid doesn't know what the aliens do to the mecha and pilots that go missing from the battlefield and are never recovered. And he doesn't intend to find out.

But he does know what the science team will do with Vortex – a billion dollar prototype gone wrong – out of control and now offline. They will take the mecha apart, dissect him, strip him down to his basest components to find out where it all went wrong. And when they're done, what's left will be scrap – pieces repurposed into other mecha repairs.

They might build a new prototype top-of-the-line killing machine 2.0. But is won't be Vortex.

First Aid hates that. Because he should hate Vortex, after all the other has put him through. But he doesn't. Because before all that, Vortex had saved him. Vortex chose him – kept First Aid alive and safe, even as he's shown countless times just how easily he could destroy Aid.

And Vortex is…was…could be alive – a mecha with a consciousness all his own in a way First Aid had not believed until he experienced it first-hand.

Out of ignorance, out of fear, out of hate, or simply because of the harsh realities of war – the others will kill Vortex (if he isn't already dead; please don't be dead) and never realize what they have done, because they never recognized that he was alive to begin with. Never saw him as anything more than a glitch, an aberration in their perfect war design.

First Aid has a duty to save lives. He cannot – will not – let that happen. Vortex is his. In death as much as in life.

The rumbling grows closer, close enough First Aid can imagine he hears the slithering of tentacles along walls underneath it.

He will not let any other – alien or human – take Vortex from him, not while he still lives.

The cables on the ground throw up another flurry of sparks – casting eerie shadows across Vortex's frame. First Aid's eyes fixate on the light, tracing the path of the wiring from where it snakes across the floor back up to the housing on the wall. A broken main charging cable for a mech.

Maybe…just maybe…

It's a terrible idea. So many things could go wrong – electrocution, a gruesome death, ending up a mindless shell on life support for the rest of his days (not so different from how Vortex already is now). Pharma or Ratchet or any other medic would tell him as much. They would tell him that there's almost no chance of powering on a mecha once it's gone fully dark, that it isn't worth risking himself too (and particularly not for this mecha).

For anyone else that might be true, but by now First Aid is used to a little risk. Risk of electrocution and death? Just another average day on the job. No different than what Vortex puts him through every time he straps into the pilot seat. The only thing that's different now is that Aid is choosing to take the risk.

Because there is a chance. And First Aid is going to take it.

The rubber insulation of the cable is already in his hand when he looks down, his body having carried him to it as his mid was busy shutting out the doubts every other medic would have said.

Something bangs against the collapsed wall blocking entry to the hangar, sending a shower of dust outward.

First Aid hefts the cable over his shoulder, careful to keep the sparking end far in front of him, and begins the trek across the warehouse. His shoulder burns from the extra weight on an already stressed joint and his legs protest as he forces them to twist and jump to avoid the pools of fluid that would cause instant electrocution if they came into contact with his body and the cable.

The aches don't matter. He is a medic. He can carry his own weight and still have the strength to lift up others. He can do this. He will do this.

First Aid is gasping for breath by the time he reaches Vortex again. His sides ache, lungs burning with each breath. He mentally adds checking for the possibility of bruised ribs to his catalogue of injuries, then shoves the pain aside to focus fully on Vortex's frame.

First Aid eyes the power node at the back of the mecha's neck and before he can think twice, shoves the broken power cable into it. Sparks fly around the junction and Vortex's frame jolts, lights flickering briefly, then stills. First Aid pulls the cable away, then hits Vortex again. And again. And again. Lights flicker. Sparks fly. Dust showers around First Aid. Electricity jolts through Vortex's frame.

"Come on," First Aid mutters as Vortex's lights stay on a full second after he pulls the cable away before stuttering out again.

He takes a deep breath and throws the cable directly into the center of Vortex's chest, where the mecha's primary batter is housed. Sparks fly across Vortex's frame, lights flicker, flash bright white, then stabilize to a dim red glow.

First Aid's momentary relief shatters as Vortex moves and he feels a gust of air from a cold metal blade passing just over his head. There's a dull thunk, and then fluid is pouring down on First Aid, coating him in a thick sludge of blood from the alien that First Aid reckons was looming just behind him, judging by the bright green eyeball that falls from above to land in a spatter at his feet.

First Aid looks up at Vortex looming over him, gloving red light pouring out from the maw of the cockpit and laughs, shaking hysterically as a hand reaches down to scoop him up from the ground.

They are alive. He is Vortex's. Vortex is his. They are alive.

D-dont. Don't make me even more feral about them than I already am. Don't. I was GOING TO SLEEP BUT NOW MY BRAIN WON'T STOP WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME HOW AM I GONNA PRETEND TO BE NORMAL NOW WH

Previous Next

#with the new height chart this moment becomes even more dramatic omg #tf mecha universe

557 notes · View notes

mocharyc · 25 days ago

Text

Invincible variants x reader Final ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

The choice is yours ♡

✩ ‧ ₊ ˚ Shattered Reflections‧ ₊ ˚

☆ WC: 8k+ [Final Part] ☆ TW: fluff ☆ Author's Note: I figured I couldn't drag this series out forever, and everything must come to an end; but, I like happy endings(♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈)

––––––––––––––

The interrogation room housing Angstrom Levy resembled a surgical theater designed by someone with a fondness for medieval torture.

Clinical steel surfaces reflected the harsh, pulsing light that cast everything in a sickly pallor, transforming even the smallest droplets of blood into obsidian pools against the metallic backdrop. The air tasted of copper and ozone—a potent cocktail of bodily fluids and dimensional energy that clung to the back of Y/N's throat like a physical presence.

Y/N stood in the doorway, hair still damp from her shower, wearing a spare flight suit she'd found in the quarters. The material felt foreign against her skin—too tight in some places, too loose in others, as if her body had somehow been fundamentally altered by recent events. Perhaps it had been. The fabric caught on the tender marks Sinister had left behind, each small pain a reminder of choices made and boundaries crossed.

Nine pairs of eyes turned toward her as she entered—Nine identical faces bearing the unmistakable features of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and tragedy into something distinctly other. Eight variations of the same man, each carrying the ghost of a woman who wore her face but wasn't her. The weight of their collective gaze pressed against her like a physical force, threatening to crush her renewed resolve before it had fully formed.

Angstrom Levy hung suspended in the center of the room, dimensional energy crackling around the restraints that had been fashioned from components of his own machinery. His body was a ruined testament to the variants' interrogation methods—limbs hanging at unnatural angles, one arm nearly detached at the shoulder, the other missing entirely. His legs were little more than mangled flesh held together by hastily applied medical equipment. Tubes and wires penetrated his torso at multiple points, machinery pumping fluids into what remained of his body, the only thing keeping him alive. His face was swollen beyond recognition, blood dripping steadily from his bloodshot eyes, the tissue bruised and swollen from whatever methods the variants had employed to extract information.

Despite his obvious suffering, his eyes gleamed with malevolent intelligence as they fixed on Y/N—knowing, calculating, as if he alone understood some cosmic joke at their expense. "The guest of honor arrives," he rasped, voice scraping like sandpaper across raw nerves. Blood dripped from his bloodshot eyes, tracing the contour of his chin before dropping to join the constellation of similar stains on the floor beneath him. "How was your... dimensional detour?"

Mohawk Mark lunged forward, the fluorescent lights catching on the blue accents of his suit as his muscled form coiled with violent intent. "Shut your fucking mouth before I tear out what's left of your tongue," he snarled.

"Unnecessary," Omni Mark interjected, his eyes, only partially hidden behind dark lenses, never left Y/N's face. "He's already told us what we need to know."

Y/N stepped fully into the room, refusing to shrink beneath the weight of their attention. The spare flight suit whispered against her skin as she moved, the sound almost deafening in the sudden silence. "And what exactly is that?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Viltrumite Mark moved toward her, his white suit was somehow untouched by the brutality evident throughout the room. When he stood before her, she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze—a reminder of her physical vulnerability despite the Viltrumite strength flowing through her veins.

"You're not what you think you are," he said, his voice softer than expected. Something in his expression shifted—the imperious mask slipping for the briefest moment to reveal an emotion too complex to name. He raised a hand to her face, the immaculate white of his glove a stark contrast against her skin as he brushed a stray droplet of water from her temple.

The touch was feather-light, yet Y/N felt it reverberate through her entire being. Her breath caught in her throat, heart skipping traitorously at the tenderness so at odds with the violence permeating the air around them.

"What are you talking about?" she managed, fighting to maintain her composure beneath the warmth of his palm.

A wet chuckle from Angstrom drew their attention back to the center of the room. "Tell her," he urged, eyes gleaming with malicious delight despite his battered condition. "Tell her what makes her so special. Why every version of Mark Grayson across the multiverse seems destined to orbit her like moths around a flame."

Phantom Mark stepped forward, the same expressionless mask hiding whatever emotions might be playing across his features."You're not just a human injected with Viltrumite DNA," he said, his voice distorted yet somehow gentle through the mask's filter. "You're a constant."

"A what?" Y/N's brow furrowed in confusion.

Emperor Mark's lip curled with disdain as he gestured toward Angstrom. "According to our friend here, certain elements repeat across the multiverse—fixed points around which reality organizes itself."

"You are one such element."

"In every universe," Lensless Mark contributed, his voice pitchingin an octave higher, with the dried blood flaking from his knuckles, "there exists a version of you. And in every universe—" His voice faltered, a shadow passing across his youthful features.

"In every universe, you die," Prisoner Mark finished bluntly, the scarred tissue of his face pulling tight as he spoke. "Horribly. Tragically. Usually because of him." He jerked his burned chin toward Mohawk Mark, who flinched as if physically struck.

"Not just because of me," Mohawk growled, the aggression in his voice barely masking something more vulnerable beneath. His mohawk seemed to droop slightly, as if the weight of accumulated guilt had physical mass. "Because of all of us. Because of what we are..."

"What are you?" Y/N challenged, her voice stronger now, fed by the confusion and frustration bubbling beneath her surface.

"Destroyers," Sinister Mark's voice slithered from the shadows. He leaned against a far wall, his yellow and black suit now mostly intact thanks to hasty repairs. Though his face showed evidence of the beating he'd received—a purpling bruise along his jaw, split lip still glistening with fresh blood—his customary smirk remained firmly in place.

"It's what we do best, dove. We break things. Sometimes planets. Sometimes people." His eyes glinted behind his cracked lenses. "Sometimes hearts."

Y/N refused to look away from his knowing gaze, refused to acknowledge the heat that crept up her neck at the memory. "I don't believe in destiny," she stated firmly. "Or cosmic constants. I make my own choices."

"Do you?" No-Mask Mark asked quietly, his unprotected face revealing every nuance of his skepticism. "When we found you, you were under GDA mind control. When we released you, you fell into our orbit. When separated from us, you immediately formed a connection with—" He stopped himself, unable to voice the obvious conclusion.

"With me," Sinister finished for him, satisfaction evident in his tone. "Face it, dove. You're drawn to us. All versions of us. It's written into the fabric of reality itself."

"That's enough," Omni Mark commanded, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Mohawk's explosive rage or Emperor's imperious demands. He moved to stand between Y/N and Sinister, his tall frame effectively blocking her view of the yellow-suited variant. "What matters isn't why Y/N exists in every universe. What matters is what happens next."

Y/N looked up at him, struck by the intensity burning behind his composed exterior. Of all the variants, Omni Mark remained the most enigmatic—his emotions controlled yet somehow more authentic for their restraint. When he looked at her, she felt seen in a way that transcended the physical—as if those eyes behind dark lenses could perceive every layer of her being and found value in each one.

"Angstrom has given us the means to travel between dimensions," he continued, his gaze never leaving her face. "Each of us must choose our path forward."

Viltrumite Mark's hand, still resting against her cheek, dropped to her shoulder. The touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those fingers possessed—strength enough to crush diamonds, to tear steel like paper, to break bones with the slightest pressure. Yet against her skin, they were nothing but warmth and comfort.

"Some of us have already chosen," he said softly, his thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric covering her collarbone. The simple gesture sent shivers cascading down her spine, her body responding to his touch with embarrassing immediacy.

From his suspended position, Angstrom laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that sprayed fine droplets of blood into the air around him. "So noble," he mocked. "So self-sacrificing. Tell me, Viltrumite, will you share that choice with her? Or will you let her believe the lie a little longer?"

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the tenderness that had softened his features moments before. "Silence," he commanded.

Y/N stepped back from his touch, sudden suspicion clouding her features. "What is he talking about? What choice?"

The variants exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them that excluded her despite being its subject. The air in the room grew heavier, charged with unspoken truths and fragile alliances on the verge of shattering.

"Tell her," Sinister urged from his position against the wall, his voice thick with something that might have been concern if it came from anyone else. "Or I will."

Omni Mark sighed, a sound so human and vulnerable that it momentarily stripped away his aura of controlled power. "The portals Angstrom creates aren't stable," he explained, turning to face Y/N fully. "Moving between dimensions fractures reality—tears at the fabric holding the multiverse together." (guys, this is real shit here 😎).

"With each jump," Phantom Mark continued, his masked face tilted slightly as if sharing a regrettable truth, "the damage compounds. Eventually, the barriers between worlds will collapse entirely."

"Universal annihilation," Emperor Mark concluded. "Not just our worlds. All worlds. Everything."

Y/N's mind struggled to process the magnitude of what they were describing. "But you've been jumping between dimensions this entire time," she said, her voice faint with realization. "The Invincible War—all those portals—"

"Have already caused incalculable damage," Viltrumite Mark confirmed, his imperial bearing now tinged with genuine regret. "We didn't know. Not until we forced Angstrom to explain why the portals were becoming increasingly unstable."

"There's only one solution," Omni Mark said quietly. His hand reached for hers, enveloping her smaller fingers in a gentle grip that offered support without demanding reciprocation. "We must return to our original dimensions and seal the pathways behind us. Permanently."

The implications crashed over Y/N like a physical wave. "You're leaving," she whispered, the words tasting like ash on her tongue. Despite everything—despite the chaos and violence they had brought into her life, despite Sinister's betrayal and the conflicting emotions they all evoked—the thought of losing them carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.

"Not all of us," Mohawk Mark interjected, stepping forward with hesitation. The blue accents of his suit seemed dimmer somehow, as if reflecting his subdued mood. "Someone has to stay in this dimension. To..." He faltered, searching for words that wouldn't sound like abandonment.

"To close the door behind us," Prisoner Mark finished for him, scarred hands flexing at his sides as if already preparing for combat. "Someone has to ensure Angstrom never opens another portal. Ever."

Understanding dawned like a cold sunrise. "You're going to kill him," Y/N stated flatly.

"Not immediately," Emperor Mark clarified, examining his immaculate gloves with studied nonchalance. "First, he'll send each of us home. Then..." He shrugged, the regal gesture somehow making the implied violence more disturbing.

"And one of you will stay behind," Y/N concluded, eyes scanning their faces—identical yet uniquely marked by their individual journeys through pain and power. "In this dimension. With me."

The silence that followed carried the weight of worlds. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had fought across dimensions for her, had shattered realities to find her, had nearly killed each other over her. And now, all but one would vanish back into the multiverse, leaving her with a single version of the man who had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not.

"The question is," Sinister pushed away from the wall, moving with predatory grace despite his injuries, "which one stays and which ones go?" His smile was all teeth and challenge as his gaze swept the assembled variants before landing on Y/N. "Care to choose, dove? Or shall we fight it out the old-fashioned way?"

Before anyone could respond, the entire structure shuddered around them. Lights flickered erratically, casting the room in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow. A distant boom resonated through the metal flooring, vibrating up through Y/N's feet and into her bones.

Lensless Mark darted to a console, fingers flying over blood-spattered keys. "Perimeter breach," he announced, childlike enthusiasm returning as he read the scrolling data, “Angstroms base has been discovered.”

"The GDA found us," No-Mask Mark concluded grimly. "They're coming for you, Y/N. For all of us."

"How appropriate," Angstrom wheezed from his suspended position, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight despite his battered condition. "Your time runs out just as reality itself begins to fracture. Poetic, wouldn't you say?"

Omni Mark's grip on Y/N's hand tightened fractionally—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground her in the moment. When she looked up at him, she found his normally composed features animated with an urgency that sent her heart racing for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.

"We need to move," he stated, voice calm despite the chaos erupting around them. "This facility won't withstand a concentrated GDA assault."

"Let them come," Mohawk snarled, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white, veins bulging along his forearms as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. "I'll tear them apart molecule by fucking molecule."

"And risk Y/N in the process?" Viltrumite Mark challenged, stepping protectively closer to her, "Think beyond your rage for once."

Another explosion rocked the structure, this one closer than the last. Dust filtered down from overhead conduits, dancing in the irregular light like microscopic snowflakes. Somewhere in the distance, alarms began to wail—a mechanical banshee heralding approaching doom.

Y/N pulled her hand from Omni Mark's grasp, a new determination hardening inside her. "I need answers," she insisted, turning toward Angstrom with purpose in her stride. "Before this place comes down around us. Before any of you leave."

Angstrom regarded her with amused disdain, his mangled body twitching slightly as he struggled to maintain consciousness through the pain. "What would you like to know, my dear? How many versions of you I've seen die? How many versions of him—" he jerked his chin toward the assembled variants, "—I've watched break apart in grief?"

Y/N stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his mockery. "Why me? Why do I exist in every universe? What makes me a constant?"

Angstrom's lips stretched into a smile that held no warmth. "Haven't you guessed? It's not you that's the constant—it's what you represent." His eyes gleamed with malicious intelligence. "Loss. Grief. The catalyst that transforms heroes into monsters."

Behind her, Y/N heard one of the variants inhale sharply—a sound like pain given voice. She didn't turn to see which one. Her focus remained locked on Angstrom's bruised face, searching for truth among his calculated cruelties.

"In every universe," Angstrom continued, clearly relishing his role as narrator of their tragic tale, "Mark Grayson loves you. And in every universe, he loses you. Sometimes to violence. Sometimes to disease. Sometimes—" his gaze flicked briefly to the variants, "—because of their own failure to protect what they claims to cherish."

The room fell silent save for the distant alarms and the creaking of the structure around them. Y/N's mind raced, trying to process the implications of what Angstrom was suggesting. If she truly was destined to die in every universe—if her loss was the fixed point around which these men's descent into darkness orbited—then what hope did any of them have for a different outcome?

"You're lying," she whispered, but uncertainty colored her voice.

Angstrom's laugh was wet and hollow. "Am I? Ask them. Ask them what happened to their Y/N. Ask them if they could have saved her, if only they'd been faster, stronger, smarter." His eyes glittered with malevolent delight. "Ask them if they still hear her screams when they close their eyes at night."

A hand settled on Y/N's shoulder—warm, solid, grounding her before she could spiral further into the abyss Angstrom was crafting with his words. She didn't need to look to know it was Omni Mark; something in the gentle strength of his touch was unmistakably his.

"Enough," he said, not to her but to Angstrom. The single word carried such authority that even Angstrom's mocking smile faltered momentarily. "You've had your fun. Now you'll send us home, one by one, as promised."

"And if I refuse?" Angstrom challenged, though his bravado seemed thinner now, worn away by pain and the inexorable approach of GDA forces.

"Then you die now instead of later," Sinister stated simply, stepping forward with deadly grace. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb and reflect the flickering lights simultaneously, creating an almost hypnotic effect as he moved. "And we take our chances with the collapsing multiverse."

Another explosion rocked the facility, close enough now that Y/N could feel the heat of it against her skin. The lights failed completely for several seconds before emergency systems kicked in, bathing everything in a blood-red glow that transformed the interrogation room into something from a nightmare—all harsh shadows and crimson highlights that made even familiar faces seem suddenly alien.

"It seems our time grows short," Emperor Mark observed with aristocratic calm that belied the urgency of their situation. He turned to Y/N, his bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "We must make our decisions now. There is no more time for deliberation."

Y/N looked around at the assembled variants—these different versions of the same man, each shaped by tragedy and power into something unique yet fundamentally connected. In the red emergency lighting, they appeared more similar than ever despite their different suits and facial features—united by a singular focus that both terrified and thrilled her.

"How do we decide?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos erupting around them. "Who stays and who goes?"

"I stay," Mohawk insisted immediately, stepping forward. The blue accents of his suit appeared almost black in the crimson light, his mohawk casting a jagged shadow across his determined features. "In my world, I couldn't save her. I won't fail again."

He moved closer to Y/N, his usual aggression melting into something more vulnerable as he reached for her. His fingers, adorned with the faint traces of dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove, hesitated in the air between them—as if uncertain of his right to touch her after his earlier failures. When Y/N didn't pull away, he gently cupped her face, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone with surprising tenderness.

"I watched her die," he confessed, voice so low that only Y/N could hear the words. "I was foolish, careless not paying attention when she pushed me out of the way of the bullet, taking my placce—" His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. "I won't leave you. Not again. Not ever."

Before Y/N could respond, Viltrumite Mark stepped forward, his white suit now stained crimson by the emergency lights, transforming his regal appearance into something more sinister. "Your impulsiveness is what got your Y/N killed," he stated coldly. "I have the discipline and strength to protect her properly."

He moved with grace to stand at Y/N's other side, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back—a gesture that nonetheless sent warmth cascading through her nervous system. The heat of his palm penetrated the flight suit material as if it weren't there, his touch both protective and possessive in a way that made her breath catch.

"In my world," he said, leaning down to speak near her ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple, "I could have saved her if I hadn't been away securing the empire's borders. I've built a world where she would want for nothing, where her safety would be guaranteed by my command." His lips brushed against her skin as he spoke, not quite a kiss but something equally intimate. "Let me give you that world, Y/N. Let me give you everything I couldn't give her."

"You have a fucking empire to run," Prisoner Mark sneered, the scarred tissue of his face appearing even more grotesque in the red glow. "You'll take her back to your world and make her another ornament in your collection."

"I've already tasted what she offers," Sinister interjected, tongue darting out to moisten his split lip in a gesture that sent unwelcome heat spiraling through Y/N's core despite her best intentions. "The choice is obvious."

The argument might have descended into violence then—tension crackling between the variants like physical electricity—if not for a soft sound that cut through their posturing with startling effectiveness. It took Y/N a moment to realize the sound had come from her own throat—a small, broken laugh that contained equal parts hysteria and clarity.

"You're still doing it," she said, shaking her head in wonder. "Even now, with reality literally crumbling around us, you're fighting over me like I'm a prize to be won. Like I don't have any say in my own fate."

The variants fell silent, varying degrees of shame and defiance playing across their identical-yet-different features. In the red glow of emergency lighting, they seemed almost like apparitions—blood-stained specters of a man she had never truly known but somehow felt connected to on a cellular level.

"You're right," Omni Mark acknowledged, his composure slipping to reveal something raw and vulnerable beneath. In the crimson light, the gray portions of his suit appeared almost black, the red accents blending seamlessly with the emergency illumination as if he were dissolving into the bloodied atmosphere. "The choice should be yours. It has always been yours."

He stepped forward, but unlike the others, he maintained a respectful distance, offering his presence without demanding her attention. It was this—this quiet recognition of her autonomy—that drew Y/N's gaze to him more powerfully than any possessive touch or passionate declaration could have.

He removed his dark lenses, revealing eyes so filled with grief and tenderness that Y/N felt her own vision blur in response. "I learned then that love isn't possession or protection. It's presence. It's choosing to stay even when there's nothing you can do but witness." His gaze never wavered from hers, unwavering in its gentle intensity. "Whatever you decide, Y/N, I will honor it. Because that's what I couldn't do for her—give her the freedom to choose her own path, even at the end."

Y/N looked at him—really looked at him—and something shifted inside her chest. Of all the variants, Omni Mark alone had never tried to claim her, had never spoken of ownership or destiny. He had been there when she needed healing, offering soft kisses and gentle touches during those fragile moments after the war began, never taking more than she offered, never demanding what she couldn't give. He had offered support without demanding reciprocation, protection without requiring submission. He had seen her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.

Before she could voice this realization, the entire structure shuddered violently. The sound of groaning metal filled the air as support beams began to give way under repeated assault. Through the walls, they could hear the distinctive whine of GDA energy weapons powering up—the sound heralding imminent destruction.

"No more time," Phantom Mark stated, his masked face turning toward Angstrom. "Begin the transfers. Now."

Angstrom's body convulsed slightly as he channeled what remained of his power, dimensional energy crackling around him as he focused his power. "As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "Who's first to abandon her?"

The question hung in the air, loaded with implications that made Y/N's heart constrict painfully in her chest. Despite everything—despite the chaos and danger these men had brought into her life—the thought of watching them disappear one by one into the multiverse carved a hollow space beneath her ribs.

"I'll go," Emperor Mark stated, stepping forward with dignity. He turned to Y/N, regal bearing momentarily softening as he regarded her. "In another life, perhaps..." He didn't finish the thought, merely inclined his head in a gesture that somehow conveyed more genuine respect than any of his previous interactions.

Angstrom's eyes gleamed with concentration as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to form—not the violent tear they had witnessed before, but something more controlled, its edges defined and stable. Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world both familiar and alien—Earth, but an Earth where Viltrumite banners flew from every building and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.

Emperor Mark moved toward it without hesitation, his stride confident despite the decision's finality. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back one last time. "He was right, you know," he said, gaze fixed on Y/N. "About us hearing your screams at night. About failing you in every universe." A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features. "Do better this time. Both of you."

With that, he stepped through, the portal closing behind him with a sound like reality sighing in relief.

"Next," Angstrom prompted, dimensional energy already gathering for another portal.

Prisoner Mark approached Y/N before his departure, the scarred tissue of his face pulling taut as he struggled with words that didn't come easily to him. "I was in prison when she died," he said gruffly, hands curling into fists at his sides as if physically restraining himself from reaching for her. "Gang violence, and torture. I could have stopped it if I'd been there." His eyes, the only part of him untouched by whatever fire had claimed the rest, burned with intensity. "Don't let them cage you, Y/N. Not with walls. Not with expectations. Not even with love."

He left with a bitter laugh, his scarred form dissolving into the swirling vortex of his home dimension.

Each departure felt like a physical weight lifted from Y/N's chest, yet simultaneously created a new hollowness inside her. These men—these variations of Mark Grayson—had become the center of her existence whether she wished it or not. Watching them vanish was like witnessing pieces of herself dissolve into the multiverse.

The structure continued to crumble around them, GDA forces drawing ever closer. Heat from external explosions began to seep through the walls, turning the air thick and difficult to breathe. The red emergency lighting flickered erratically, casting their remaining figures in strobing patterns of illumination and shadow.

Phantom Mark walked to the edge of his designated portal, his body silhouetted against the emerald swirl. He stopped, looking back at Y/N, his form visibly trembling. Then, with what seemed like immense effort, he shook his head and stepped away from the portal, moving to stand against the wall. He clutched at his masked face with both hands, his shoulders shaking with silent emotion. "I need a moment to breathe before I go," he mumbled, his voice altered by the mask but unmistakably filled with tears.

Now only six variants remained besides Angstrom—No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark stood together to one side, talking quietly among themselves as if debating whether to leave at all—Mohawk Mark with his barely contained fury, Viltrumite Mark with his imperial bearing, Omni Mark with his quiet strength, and Sinister leaning against a far wall with studied nonchalance despite the destruction raining down around them. The yellow and black of his suit seemed to absorb the red emergency lighting, transforming the bright colors into something murkier and more dangerous.

He hadn't stepped forward for departure, hadn't volunteered to return to his dimension. His eyes remained fixed on Y/N, gaze heavy with implications that sent unwelcome heat coursing through her veins despite everything that had transpired between them.

"Time grows short," Viltrumite Mark observed as another explosion rocked the facility. Part of the ceiling collapsed in the corridor outside, sending clouds of dust billowing into the room. The sound of GDA tactical teams grew closer, the rhythmic thud of armored boots against metal flooring like a countdown to their imminent discovery. "We must decide."

Y/N looked between the remaining variants, chest tight with the weight of what was being asked of her. How could she choose? How could she select one version of this man to remain with her while condemning the others to return to worlds where they had already lost her once?

Mohawk Mark stalked toward her, "All my life," he growled, voice tight with barely contained feeling, "I've destroyed. I've hurt people. I've broken things." He stopped before her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, could see the minute tremor in his hands as he fought to control himself. "But with you, I want to build. I want to create something that doesn't end in blood and fire."

His hand reached for hers, hesitating just above her skin as if waiting for permission. When she didn't pull away, his fingers intertwined with hers, the contact sending electric currents of awareness up her arm. "Choose me," he whispered, the plea so at odds with his usual aggression that it took Y/N's breath away. "Let me show you I can be more than the monster I became after I lost her."

Before she could respond, Viltrumite Mark was at her other side, his presence demanding attention without a word being spoken. He didn't touch her, yet his proximity was a physical force—a gravitational pull that made her aware of every inch of space between them.

"I can give you worlds," he said quietly, the promise in his voice both thrilling and terrifying. "I can place galaxies at your feet. I can ensure that no harm ever comes to you again." His eyes, so like the others yet distinct in their certainty, held hers with hypnotic intensity. The depths of those eyes contained the vastness of conquered space—stars and systems that had bowed before him, now offered as tributes to her. "In my universe, I rule. What is yours by choice here would be yours by right there."

"Choice," Omni Mark echoed from where he stood, still maintaining that respectful distance. The single word carried a weight that seemed to settle in the room, creating a counterbalance to Viltrumite Mark's overwhelming presence. "That's what matters, isn't it? Not gifts or protection or promises." He stepped forward, movements deliberate yet unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world despite the chaos erupting around them. His footsteps were measured, each one a conscious decision rather than an impulsive action. "You've never truly had a choice, Y/N. Not since the GDA experimented on you. Not since we found you. Not since—" his gaze flicked briefly toward Sinister, "—certain events transpired."

He stopped before her, not crowding her like the others but simply offering his presence. The space between them felt sacred somehow, a deliberate gap that spoke of respect rather than distance. "I would give you that choice. Every day. In everything." The sincerity in his voice was a tangible thing, wrapping around Y/N like a shield against the uncertainty crashing through her. It resonated in her chest like a forgotten melody—familiar though she'd never heard it before, comforting though she'd never known such comfort.

Y/N closed her eyes briefly, centering herself amid the chaos. The world narrowed to the rhythm of her own heartbeat, to the warmth of multiple gazes upon her skin, to the weight of a decision that would reshape not just one universe but many. When she opened them again, her gaze fell on Omni Mark—on the quiet strength of his bearing, on the patience with which he awaited her decision.

"I choose—" she began, but her words were drowned out by a deafening explosion directly overhead.

The ceiling gave way in a catastrophic cascade of metal and composite materials, chunks of debris raining down with deadly force. The air filled with a dissonant symphony of groaning metal and shattering concrete, dust particles catching the red emergency light to create a hellish, swirling mist.

Through the chaos, Y/N felt herself being swept aside, strong arms encircling her waist and pulling her clear of danger with superhuman speed. The world blurred momentarily, her senses overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and dust and something uniquely masculine—a combination of clean sweat and subtle cologne that she'd come to associate with safety despite everything.

When her vision cleared, she found herself pressed against Viltrumite Mark's chest, the pristine white of his suit now finally marred by dust and debris. The imperfection transformed the uniform from something untouchable to something real—humanizing him in ways that all his power never could. Flecks of concrete clung to the royal insignia, the imperfection somehow making him appear more human, more approachable than his usual perfection allowed.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, concern evident in the slight furrow of his brow as he scanned her for injuries. The question carried none of his usual command—just raw, unfiltered worry that stripped away centuries of royal conditioning. His arms around her were steel bands of protection, yet his touch remained gentle despite the strength she knew those limbs possessed. One hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair with a tenderness that contradicted his royal bearing.

The gentle pressure of his fingertips against her scalp sent subtle waves of comfort through her body, each small circle erasing another fragment of the chaos surrounding them. The gentle circles his thumb traced against her scalp sent electric currents down her spine, awareness blooming across her skin like wildfire. His eyes—so familiar yet distinct in their intensity—searched hers with unexpected vulnerability, as if her well-being mattered more than the chaos erupting around them, more than the multiverse itself.

"You could have been—" he started, then stopped, his tongue failing him at the mere thought of her injury. Instead, his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly in her hair, drawing her closer until their foreheads nearly touched.

Before Y/N could respond, a familiar voice called from overhead—amplified by GDA comm systems yet unmistakable in its conviction.

"This is Cecil Stedman of the Global Defense Agency. The facility is surrounded. Release Y/N immediately and surrender yourselves, or we will employ lethal force against all occupants."

Through the gaping hole in the ceiling, Y/N could see GDA operatives in tactical gear rappelling down on carbon-fiber lines, their movements precise and practiced. Like mechanical spiders descending on gossamer threads, they moved with synchronized precision that spoke of countless drills and absolute dedication to their mission. Their energy weapons hummed with charged particles, the air around their barrels wavering with heat distortion as they took aim at the variants below. Armored vehicles had surrounded the perimeter, their cannons already glowing with primed energy, bathing the crumbling structure in an eerie blue light that cut through the red emergency illumination, creating purple shadows in the corners where rubble had collected.

In the center of it all stood Cecil Stedman himself—diminutive yet commanding, his posture radiating authority despite his slight stature. His frame might have been small, but his presence filled the space with the weight of government authority and personal determination. The grim set of his mouth revealed everything about his determination. His hands clasped behind his back, he surveyed the scene below with clinical detachment, like a chess master contemplating his final, devastating move.

"Well," Sinister drawled, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. The crimson smear across his yellow glove. "This complicates matters."

Mohawk Mark's response was immediate and predictable—blue energy crackling around his clenched fists as his more volatile nature reasserted itself. The energy danced across his knuckles, illuminating the dried blood that no amount of washing seemed able to remove completely. His mohawk seemed to stand straighter with his anger, as if electrified by his rage.

"Let them come," he snarled, muscles coiling beneath his suit like springs wound too tight. Each tensed muscle created ripples beneath the fabric of his suit, the material straining to contain the raw, physical manifestation of his rage as his jaw clenched so tight that Y/N could almost hear his teeth grinding together. "I'll kill each one of them."

"No," Y/N said firmly, extracting herself from Viltrumite Mark's protective embrace, instantly feeling the chill of separation rush across her skin where his warmth had been moments before. She stood straight, shoulders back, finding strength she didn't know she possessed.

"No more destruction. No more death."

She looked between the remaining variants, each face identical yet utterly unique in the emotions they displayed. Her chest tightened with the weight of what needed to be done. "You have to go. All of you. Now, before more people die because of us."

Viltrumite Mark's expression hardened, disdain replacing the concern that had softened his features moments before. A muscle twitched beneath his left eye—the only betrayal of emotion on his otherwise composed features.

"I will not abandon you to them," he stated, the words carrying the weight of royal decree. His voice dropped to a whisper only she could hear. "Not when I've only just found you."

"You must," Y/N insisted, reaching up to touch his face with gentle fingertips. The simple contact seemed to surprise him, his eyes widening fractionally at her boldness. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble along his jaw creating a pleasant friction against her fingertips.

"In another life," she whispered, allowing her fingers to trace the strong line of his jaw, memorizing the texture of him, "perhaps we could have built your empire together." The confession cost her something, a possibility she was willingly sacrificing for what needed to be done. "Your world needs its emperor. And I..." She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue past the lump forming in her throat. "I need to find out who I am without all of you defining me."

Something flickered across Viltrumite Mark's features—an emotion too complex to name, too brief to analyze. For the briefest moment, the mask of control slipped completely, revealing the raw core of a man who had lost everything once before and now stood to lose it again.

For a moment, Y/N thought he might refuse, might choose violence over acceptance.

Then, with dignity that belied the turmoil evident in his eyes, he caught her hand in his, turning it to press a soft kiss against her palm. The touch of his lips was feather-light yet searing, branding her skin with a promise as his lips lingered, warm breath caressing her skin in a silent promise.

"As you wish," he said softly, the formal words somehow conveying depths of feeling his bearing wouldn't allow him to express directly.

Time seemed to slow as he gently placed her hand against his chest, allowing her to feel the strong, steady rhythm of his heart. "Know this," he murmured, his voice a caress against her senses. "In every universe, across all dimensions, some version of me will always find his way back to you."

With visible reluctance, he stepped back, turning toward Angstrom who hung suspended in the center of the room. "Open my portal. Send me home."

Angstrom focused his power as dimensional energy coalesced around his suspended form. A portal began to take shape—edges defined and stable, swirling depths revealing glimpses of a world where Viltrumite banners flew from gleaming spires and the Imperial sigil adorned every surface.

Viltrumite Mark moved toward it with measured steps, imperial bearing intact despite the destruction raining down around them. At the portal's threshold, he paused, turning back to Y/N one final time. What passed between them in that moment needed no words—a connection beyond language, beyond the boundaries of separate dimensions.

Without warning, another explosion rocked the facility. The entire structure shuddered like a wounded beast, metal supports screaming in protest as concrete disintegrated around them. A massive support beam directly above the portal groaned ominously before giving way completely, crashing down through the swirling dimensional gateway. It fell in agonizing slow motion, its massive weight cleaving through the delicate energies of the portal like a blade through silk. The portal collapsed with a sound like glass shattering, emerald energy dissipating in crackling arcs across the rubble.

Viltrumite Mark stepped back just in time, narrowly avoiding being crushed. His reflexes saved him, body moving with fluid grace that somehow maintained dignity even in retreat. His usually composed features darkened with anger as he turned to Angstrom, covering the distance between them in a blur of movement.

"What happened?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous as his hand closed around Angstrom's throat.

"Not... my doing," Angstrom wheezed, eyes wide with genuine surprise. His body convulsed slightly as he struggled against Viltrumite Mark's grip, dimensional energy crackling erratically across his skin in response to his distress. "Structural... failure. The building... can't withstand... continued assault."

Y/N turned to Mohawk Mark with a sigh, her initial determination wavering in the face of their increasingly desperate situation. His explosive rage had dimmed to something quieter but no less intense. The blue accents of his suit seemed to pulse with his heartbeat, the glow reflecting in the unshed tears that made his eyes shine with dangerous brilliance.

"No," he growled, the single word containing multitudes of refusal. "Not again. I won't leave you again."

He closed the distance between them in three quick strides, his movements carrying the barely restrained energy of a predator. When he reached her, however, his touch was unexpectedly gentle as he cradled her face between calloused hands.

"These hands," he whispered, his rough fingertips ghosting along her cheekbones with reverent delicacy, "have broken so many things. Have hurt so many people." His voice cracked, "But with you, they remember how to be gentle."

"Listen to me," he said, voice rough with emotion. "In my world, I watched her die because she pushed me out of the way and took a bullet to the heart for me." His voice cracked, adam's apple bobbing violently as he swallowed back the memory. The muscles in his throat worked visibly against the tide of grief that threatened to drown his words.

"Every night since then, I've heard her voice calling my name. Every fucking night." His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones with reverent tenderness that contradicted the harshness of his words. "I won't go back to that emptiness. I can't."

Above them, Cecil's voice rang out again. "This is your final warning. Surrender now or we open fire."

GDA operatives had fully descended into the chamber now, their weapons trained on the variants with deadly precision. The air crackled with tension and primed energy weapons, the situation balanced on a knife's edge of imminent violence.

"We can't stay here," Omni Mark observed quietly, his composed voice cutting through the chaos with remarkable clarity. He moved to stand beside Y/N, not touching her but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "But perhaps..."

His gaze met hers, something thoughtful and hopeful glimmering behind his dark lenses. For a moment, the lenses seemed less like barriers and more like windows, allowing her a glimpse of the mind working behind them—analytical yet passionate, calculating yet kind. "Perhaps we don't all have to return to our original dimensions."

Sinister pushed away from the wall where he'd been observing, his yellow and black suit almost glowing in the emergency lighting. The distinctive colors seemed to absorb and reflect the chaos around them, transforming the emergency lighting into something almost festive on his frame. "What are you suggesting?" he asked, interest evident in the tilt of his head, the predatory alertness in his stance.

"A new universe," Y/N breathed, the idea forming in her mind even as Omni Mark nodded confirmation. The possibilities expanded in her consciousness like a blossoming flower, each petal a different potential future. "Somewhere none of you have been before. Somewhere we could..." She hesitated, hardly daring to voice the thought.

"Start again," Omni Mark finished for her, his usually controlled voice carrying an undercurrent of something that might have been hope. "Together."

Omni Mark moved closer to Y/N, his hand finding hers with unerring precision despite the chaos around them. His fingers intertwined with hers, the simple contact grounding yet electrifying. "No legacies to uphold," he murmured, his thumb tracing small circles against her palm.

"No mistakes to atone for. No ghosts haunting our steps." His voice dropped lower, meant only for her despite the others' enhanced hearing. "Just us, discovering who we might become when we're free to choose."

The idea hung in the air between them, tantalizing in its simplicity yet revolutionary in its implications. A universe where they weren't defined by past failures, by tragedies that had shaped them into monsters. A universe where they could choose who they wanted to be.

"Angstrom," Mohawk Mark growled, turning toward their prisoner with renewed purpose. "Can you do it? Can you send us somewhere new?"

Angstrom's lips curved into a smile that held no warmth. "Anywhere in the multiverse," he confirmed, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "But the damage to reality remains. Each portal weakens the barriers between dimensions."

"Then we make this the last jump," Omni Mark decided, his quiet authority somehow more compelling than Cecil's amplified commands or Emperor's royal decrees had been. "One final portal to a dimension where we can begin again. After that, we ensure no more portals are opened." His gaze fixed on Angstrom with deadly intent. "Ever."

Another explosion rocked the facility, closer than the previous one. The shockwave rippled through the floor beneath their feet, concrete cracking in spider-web patterns that spread with alarming speed. Concrete dust rained down from what remained of the ceiling, coating their hair and shoulders in a fine gray powder that resembled premature aging.

"Decide quickly," Sinister urged, eyes fixed on the GDA operatives who were beginning to encircle them. "Our window of opportunity is closing."

Y/N looked between the three remaining variants—Mohawk with his barely contained emotions, Omni with his quiet strength, and Sinister with his dangerous allure. Each represented a different path, a different kind of future—passionate chaos, thoughtful stability, or dangerous excitement. In the shadows across the room, she noticed No-Mask Mark, Lensless Mark, and Phantom Mark quietly conferring, their expressions grave as they discussed their options.

"Who else stays?" she asked, voice stronger now, fed by the certainty growing within her,n"Who goes?"

Phantom Mark approached Y/N, his masked face turning to the corner where he had withdrawn. His movements were fluid and graceful despite the rigid material of his mask, body language conveying emotions his covered face couldn't express. He stood silently for a moment, form trembling slightly as he reached up to touch the edge of his mask. His gloved fingers traced the seam where mask met suit, hovering over the clasp that could reveal what lay beneath. Taking a deep breath that was audible even through the mask's filter, he looked back at the portal forming behind him, then shook his head decisively.

"I've hidden behind this mask for so long," he said, voice distorted yet somehow more vulnerable through the filter. "In my world, hiding was the only way to survive after losing her." His hands fell to his sides, clenching briefly before relaxing. "But maybe in a new world, I can learn to show my face again. To feel the sun without this barrier between me and life."

He moved to stand beside Y/N, his presence solid and reassuring without making demands. Though his face remained hidden, something in his posture conveyed a quiet hope that spoke louder than words ever could. Something about his quiet resolve reminded her of Omni Mark, though his masked features made him more enigmatic, more difficult to read.

No-Mask Mark stepped forward, his unprotected face openly displaying the conflict within. Without the barrier of a mask, every emotion played across his features with startling clarity—grief, determination, and fragile hope battling for dominance. His eyes, identical to the others yet somehow uniquely pained, searched Y/N's face with a mixture of grief and determination.

"I'll stay too," he said, surprising even himself with the decision. The words emerged tentatively at first, then gained strength as he committed to them fully. "I've lost too much already. William..." He trailed off, swallowing hard. His eyes glazed with unshed tears at the name, the loss clearly still raw despite whatever time had passed. "Maybe this time, things can be different. Maybe this time, I can protect what matters."

Lensless Mark bounced on his toes, childlike energy barely contained despite the gravity of the situation. His movements were perpetual, fingers drumming against his thighs, weight shifting from foot to foot—a physical manifestation of his inability to remain still even in crisis. "I'm staying too!" he declared, grinning despite the dried blood flaking from his knuckles. His smile transformed his entire face, erasing the shadow of the killer he had become. "Always wanted a big family anyway."

Above them, Cecil's patience had clearly run out. "Fire warning shots," his voice commanded, followed immediately by the high-pitched whine of energy weapons discharging.

Beams of concentrated energy sliced through the air around them, deliberately missing but close enough to feel the heat against exposed skin. The air crackled and sizzled where the energy passed, leaving behind the acrid scent of ionized particles and the lingering taste of ozone. The message was clear: the next volley wouldn't be a warning.

"Now or never," Mohawk growled, positioning himself protectively between Y/N and the GDA forces.

Y/N turned to Angstrom, determination hardening her resolve. Something shifted in her stance, in her expression. "Do it. Open a portal to somewhere new. Somewhere safe."

Angstrom focused his power, dimensional energy gathering around him like a storm. The air around him began to distort, reality itself bending and warping as emerald light crackled across his suspended form in increasingly complex patterns.

"As you wish," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he concentrated. "One last journey."

A portal began to form—larger than the previous ones, its edges shimmering with untapped potential. Unlike the violent tears they had witnessed before, this portal coalesced with almost musical precision, emerald energy flowing like liquid light to create a perfect circular gateway.

Through its swirling depths, Y/N caught glimpses of a world bathed in golden sunlight. Rolling hills covered in lush vegetation stretched toward a horizon where twin moons hung in the sky, their pale surfaces visible even in daylight. A massive structure stood in the middle distance—part castle, part modern fortress, its architecture unlike anything on Earth yet somehow reminiscent of home.

"Perfect," Sinister murmured, appreciation evident in his tone. "Uninhabited but hospitable. No indigenous sentient species to complicate matters."

"How can you tell all that from just a glimpse?" Y/N asked, momentarily distracted by his apparent knowledge.

Sinister's smirk was all teeth and dangerous charm. "I've destroyed thousands of worlds, dove. You learn to assess a planet quickly." He winked, the gesture somehow making the casual mention of genocide even more disturbing. "Useful skill for picking vacation spots too."

Another barrage of energy blasts cut through the air, this one closer than the last. The heat from the blasts washed over them in uncomfortable waves, leaving skin tingling and hairs standing on end. The GDA was done with warnings.

"Go!" Omni Mark urged, his hand finding the small of Y/N's back—not pushing, just guiding, always respecting her autonomy even in crisis. The warmth of his palm radiated through the material of her flight suit, gentle yet urgent. "I'll ensure Angstrom follows and seal the doorway behind us."

Mohawk didn't wait for further discussion. With a feral grin that promised violence to anyone who tried to stop them, he swept Y/N into his arms and leaped toward the portal. His movements were fluid and powerful, muscles bunching beneath her as he carried her weight with effortless strength. Just before they passed through, he paused, looking down at her with unexpected vulnerability.

"Together?" he asked, the single word carrying the weight of promise and question and hope all at once.

Y/N's hand came up to rest against his cheek, thumb tracing the strong line of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the slight stubble creating a pleasant friction against the pad of her thumb. "Together," she confirmed, something warm unfurling in her chest at the brilliant smile that transformed his usually fierce expression.

The smile that broke across his features was transformative—years of rage and anguish momentarily washed away, revealing glimpses of who he might have been before tragedy shaped him into a weapon. In that unguarded moment, Y/N saw not the killer he had become but the hero he might yet be.

Then they were through, the world dissolving around them in a kaleidoscope of color and sensation. Reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, conventional physics surrendering to the impossible mathematics of multidimensional travel.

Y/N felt Mohawk's arms tighten protectively around her as reality itself seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously, the experience both terrifying and exhilarating.

When solid ground reformed beneath them, they stood on a grassy knoll overlooking a valley bathed in golden light. The ground beneath their feet felt somehow more vibrant than Earth's soil—as if the very molecules contained more energy, more potential. The air tasted sweeter than Earth's, with subtle notes of unfamiliar blossoms and mineral-rich soil. Each breath filled her lungs with intoxicating freshness, oxygen seemingly more potent, more invigorating than what she was accustomed to. The twin moons hung in the sky like watchful guardians, their surfaces etched with patterns different from Luna's familiar face.

One by one, the others followed—Phantom Mark stepping through with characteristic grace, No-Mask arriving with quiet determination in his unprotected features, Lensless bouncing through with childlike enthusiasm, Sinister sauntering through as if dimensional travel was nothing more extraordinary than crossing a street. Last came Omni Mark, dragging a semi-conscious Angstrom with him.

"It's done," Omni Mark stated, releasing Angstrom who collapsed to the grass with a pained groan. He dusted his hands off, "The portal is sealed. No one can follow."

Y/N stood in the circle of these men—these variations of Mark Grayson who had turned their grief into rage and their rage into destruction. Men who had crossed dimensions to find her, who had chosen to stay with her despite the cost. Men who now looked at her not as a replacement for someone lost but as herself—flawed, confused, but ultimately her own person.

"What now?" she asked, the question encompassing far more than their immediate future.

Omni Mark stepped forward, removing his dark lenses to reveal eyes filled with quiet determination. Without the barrier of tinted glass, his blue eye gaze was startlingly direct—intelligent, perceptive, and unexpectedly gentle. "Now we build something new," he said simply, offering his hand to her—not demanding, just inviting.

"Not an empire," he continued, his gaze briefly flicking toward Viltrumite Mark with understanding rather than judgment.

"Not a fortress," another glance toward Mohawk.

"Just... a life. Together."

When she took it, his fingers closed gently around hers, the touch grounding and elevating her simultaneously. His skin was warm against hers, with his free hand, he gestured toward the fortress in the distance. "There's our new home. A place where we can be whoever we choose to be."

"A fresh start," Phantom added, his masked face tilted toward the twin moons as if contemplating their significance. The alien light reflected off his mask, creating patterns that seemed to dance across the surface like living things.

"A family," Lensless contributed, already bouncing on his toes with excitement at exploring their new world. His energy was infectious, bringing a lightness to the moment that balanced the gravity of their decision.

"A kingdom," came Sinister's smooth addition, his yellow and black suit glowing almost gold in the alien sunlight.

"No," Mohawk corrected, his usual aggression softened by something more tender as he gazed at Y/N. The permanent furrow between his brows eased slightly, aggressive posture relaxing into something that better matched the gentleness in his voice. "A home. Just a home."

Y/N looked between them—these men from across the multiverse, each bearing the face of Mark Grayson yet transformed by circumstance and choice into something distinctly other. Men who had been monsters but might choose to be more. Men who had lost her once and found her again.

"A choice," she whispered, understanding blooming inside her chest like a flower seeking sunshine.

"For all of us." Her gaze traveled between them, seeing not just what they had been but what they might become. "Not versions of the same person, but individuals with the freedom to grow in different directions."

As the alien sun began its descent toward an unfamiliar horizon, casting their shadows long across virgin soil, Y/N felt something unfurl within her chest—not quite peace, not quite certainty, but perhaps the beginning of both. Whatever came next, whatever they built in this new world, it would be their choice—not fate, not destiny, not cosmic constants.

Just choice.

And for now, that was enough.

–––––––––

Wow, I can't believe it's over... !!UNLESS!! ☆ If y'all want separate individual chapters dedicated to the Marks in their new universe with Y/n :) Fluff Ansgt Smut you name it (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

Following Fluff/Smut series!! 𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜

269 notes · View notes

yanmuffins · 6 months ago

Text

asks 2.

context.

here are some more asks i'm replying to in a bulk about phineas and ferb reader!!

my favorite part in dc. vs vampires is when reader comes together with damian and damian to build a silly machine that un-vampifies people in like half a day so they can defeat the vampire king. it is canon.

@amethystjellyfish

perry really is reader's number #1 stan. they're his family, reader's had him since he was a small platypus baby!

he does his best to keep reader safe, which is why he doesn't like the batfam much. he keeps it professional on the rare occasions they go on missions together, but that's it. he hates how dismissive of reader they are in the beginning, and he hates them later on when they star showering them with attention because they found out about their inventions.

not tired, anon! i love seeing people enjoy my concepts and interact with them!! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

and i'm sure this has happened. more than once, actually. the power of coincidence is strong with reader. the life-saving laser beam comes from a situation involving reader's latest machine they built and tested with the help of jon.

unfortunately, one of his lasers richochets on the machine during testing, not only causing it to save batfamily's life, caught in a dangerous situation in a completely different location, but also destroys the machine so there's nothing to link it to reader.

ah, well. they'll just have to keep looking.

reader, seeing them run past her: oh! there's perry :)

i love how we have established tim is terrified of this platypus. nevermind the other pets in the manor, it's the platypus with its googly eyes that drives him insane. they don't get it, he got up to drink water at 3 a.m. and the thing was just there, looking at him. menacingly.

jason would though. meanwhile, perry is wishing he could just go back to metropolis. he didn't have to deal with reader's siblings in metropolis. he doesn't get enough hazard pay for this.

hm... good question!

i like to think that, much like with phineas and ferb, luck is on reader's side most of the time, so i don't see reader getting injured by their own inventions.

but, let's suppose they do: it's a nice sunday afternoon, the batfam has decided to gather around the living room and hang out, watch a movie, lots of popcorn and soda. they don't have to think about criminals or fighting, tim and damian are bickering, jason is around, peace reigns the manor.

until they hear an explosion. they run to the garage only to find reader on the floor, unconscious, bleeding, and an assortment of destroyed metal components to a machine they can't decipher. damian doesn't even feel good about reader finally being busted.

later, when reader is back home, awake and out of risk but with a bandage around their head and their leg in a cast, they're in for the biggest (and probably first) scolding of their entire lives. reader tries to play it off. it wasn't that big of a deal, they're fine, aren't they? and they're genuinely optimistic about it. but the entire family is talking over each other at first, until bruce signals for everyone to shut up and leave the room. he has a very serious talk with reader, and makes it very clear they're not to come near a toolbox ever again.

but he understands. it's partly his fault for not being attentive. he won't make that mistake again.

ofc reader is really upset. dick comes next, then stephanie, then cass, then duke, then barbara and they all try to convince reader in a much more amiable tone that hey, it's fine. who needs to do all that whacky stuff to have fun? just hang out with us. they can get another hobby, and this time they can make it a family thing! how's that sound? not fun? don't be like that... they're sure reader will come around.

tim is pretty much the only one who congratulates them for being awesome pulling all those stunts, one per day, it's impressive. but now it's time to step back a bit. who knows? try being careful and bruce will let you work with a welding tool again. one day. maybe.

damian and jason's reactions are more similar to bruce's. in other circumstances, damian is on reader's side and helps them sneak around to continue their shenanigans, but in the case of reader getting hurt he just wants them to not do that. any of that. ever again. and jason has to hold himself back not to snap and ask them what the hell were they thinking?! they could have died! he ends up just telling them to quit it. they're just a kid who shouldn't be messing around with that sort of stuff.

anon, i wouldn't go as far as say he'd use venom against them, but he's bit batfam before. as stated, he does not dig their vibe at all!

anon, that's a great idea! though i think p&f! reader is much too motivated by the creative process and experience that their inventions bring more than just willing them to come to life.

they have the power to create whatever they want, but what's the fun of it? what about hte process? the building? the friends they make along the way? the memories? i think reader would find the ring awesome at first, but the novelty would wear of in less than a week.

anon...

because i dig the idea of reader being friends with dipper and mabel. reader talks about their crazy inventions, and loves hearing about all the cryptids they came across during vacation.

reader invites the twins to the manor, they share their most recent summer memories. reader talks about that one time they built and drove a massive monster truck with their brother damian, but jason only comes into the room in time to hear about dipper and mable talk about the weirdmaggedon. he has several question marks around his head. aren't those kids a a little too old to be making shit up? or maybe... no, there's no way. or is there? no... he would have heard about this... but weirder things have happened. but what if...

@randomlyappearingartist

you are so right. to be honest, i don't even think the batfam would even know of his existence, since he's pretty much a very minor villain acting in metropolis. after perry joins the league, or in the rare occasion of dr. doof teaming up with another minor gotham villian like condiment man, is when they get to know he exists.

and since perry seems to have him under control, they don't even acknowledge the guy.

i love love love this sm!

they assume it's just flash mobs. it's got to be. flash mobs with really weird themes, like an entire musical number dedicated to the squirrels in damian's pants. that was strange. bruce patrolling in the middle of the night and this new crime lord just burst into a song with a band and hired back dancers, because it's apparently a new trend a minor villain in metropolis started.

and what about that one time dick took damian (and reader) to the library and some guy just started singing about how he doesn't have rhythm? and damian just started playing a trumpet? and reader started singing? i mean, it was a bop and he started dancing, but it was weird anyway.

but now i'm thinking of damian and reader singing the "summer" song together (he sings the "it's noticeably warmer" and that's it) though! wholesome.

@lazyandannoyng

not annoying at all! you're good ⸜(˙꒳˙ )

i have this little idea in my head that reader doesn't take the wayne name when find out bruce is their dad and move to gotham, and bruce is pretty secretive about this new kid of his for purely privacy and safety reasons. so when reader does their networking, it's often not obvious they're a wayne. not sure if this will make it into the fic, but it really resonates with this concept!

it's also funny to think that a lot of people don't even know reader and the waynes are related. even if they do know reader is related to the batfam, nobody really talks about them by name (just "your sibling"), and all of those little details like never asking about where the gloves came from (because why would he) or the misunderstandings where one party means one thing and the other assumes it's another (dick has many siblings! too many!) just end up helping reader not get caught. and i just think that's neat.

#asks.#anonymous.#long post.#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #neglected reader #platonic yandere batfam #p&f! batsibling.

362 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 2 months ago

Note

I’m not sure if you’ve done this before, but could you write arcane headcannons for s/o with a vastaya reader that purrs for the first time around them? I just think it’d be really cute, whatever else you want to add:) I really look forward to your stuff, I love your writing!

ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴋɪᴛᴛʏ, ᴡᴀʀᴍ ᴋɪᴛᴛʏ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ|| 5573 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ɴᴏᴡ ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀᴅᴏʀᴇ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴠᴀꜱᴛᴀʏᴀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜰᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴋɪɴᴅʟʏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡʀɪᴛɪɴɢ!! <3 <3

JAYCE

The golden glow of Piltover’s street lamps flickered through the windows of Jayce’s workshop, casting soft light over the various blueprints and scattered tools. The faint hum of hextech energy vibrated in the air, a steady backdrop to the quiet night. Normally, the sound soothed you, like the steady pitter-patter of rain or the flickering of a lantern’s flame. But tonight, your focus wasn’t on the rhythmic thrum of energy or the cool night air drifting through the cracked window.

It was on him.

Jayce sat across from you, hunched over the latest prototype he had been working on for hours. His eyebrows furrowed in deep concentration, lips slightly parted as he bit down on his bottom lip in frustration. The candlelight and hextech glow illuminated his face, casting warm shadows along his sharp features. He looked tired, but determined, his hands—those strong, calloused hands—moving with precise care as he adjusted the device.

You sat perched on the edge of his desk, tail flicking idly as you watched him. Every now and then, the sound of metal clicking against metal caught your ear, and you twitched slightly in response. But more than anything, you were captivated by the way Jayce worked—the way his fingers brushed over the components, the way he exhaled through his nose in a quiet sigh when things didn’t quite go his way.

He sighed again, this time deeper, before finally setting the tool down with a dull thud. He rubbed his temple, muscles tense with exhaustion. "This thing’s being stubborn," he muttered, running a hand through his thick brown hair before turning to you with a tired but warm smile. "Sorry, I’ve been working on this all night. I probably should’ve taken a break."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. His shoulders were tense, his eyes slightly hazy with fatigue. He always pushed himself too hard.

A soft sound escaped you before you could even register it. A low, deep, rumbling purr.

Jayce froze.

Your eyes widened in realization, and you clamped your mouth shut immediately. Your tail fluffed up slightly in mild horror, and you could feel your ears burning with embarrassment.

You had never purred around him before.

Not once—not even when he absentmindedly scratched behind your ears in a way that made your whole body melt. Not even when he pulled you into his lap on colder nights, his warmth seeping into your skin as he held you close. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him—you did, more than anyone. But purring was intimate. It was instinctual. Something that Vastaya did only when they felt completely safe.

And you had just done it.

In front of Jayce.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, his body rigid with surprise.

"Did you just… purr?" Jayce asked, his voice dangerously close to teasing.

Your ears flattened against your head. "No."

His lips twitched upward. "You totally did."

"I did not," you huffed, turning your head away, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Jayce chuckled, leaning forward, his arm resting on the desk beside you. "I dunno…" he mused, grinning. "It definitely sounded like a purr."

"You're hearing things."

Jayce smirked, and before you could react, his fingers reached out, brushing gently under your chin—just barely. It wasn’t enough to tickle, but it was enough to make your chest rumble again.

You shut your mouth instantly, mortified.

His grin widened. "Oh, that was definitely a purr."

"Jayce," you groaned, covering your face with your hands. "Drop it."

But instead of teasing further, he reached out, carefully prying your hands away from your face. His expression softened, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles over the back of your hand.

"Hey," he said, voice quiet and sincere now. "I think it’s cute." You hesitated, peeking up at him. "Actually, no," he amended, gaze warm. "It's more than cute. It means you feel comfortable with me, right?"

You swallowed, your tail flicking behind you. Finally, you nodded slightly. "...Yes."

A warmth spread through his chest at your quiet admission. He had never expected to be granted such a rare and intimate part of you, but knowing that you trusted him this much made his heart ache in the best way.

"Then I feel honored," he murmured, voice gentle.

You expected a teasing remark, maybe another smug grin—but instead, his eyes held something deeper, something raw and genuine. His fingers tightened around yours, his thumb tracing lazy patterns along your skin as if committing the moment to memory.

Your tail curled slightly, your ears twitching as you let out a breath. And before you could stop yourself…

You purred again.

This time, Jayce exhaled a soft laugh—not mocking, not teasing, just fond. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into him with ease, his warmth swallowing you whole. His chin rested against the top of your head, his voice vibrating against your skin as he whispered,

"You have no idea how much I love that."

A quiet sigh left your lips as you melted into him, your purrs resonating through the still air, steady and warm. If this was how he reacted, maybe purring around Jayce wasn’t so bad after all.

Maybe it was just another way of saying I love you.

VIKTOR

The steady click of Viktor’s cane echoed through the dimly lit hallway, a familiar rhythm that signaled his return. You had always found comfort in that sound—an indication that the brilliant inventor was coming home.

The scent of rain lingered on his coat as he pushed open the door to your shared apartment. The space was small but warm, a quiet sanctuary away from the chaos of Piltover’s progress. A fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering golden light across the walls. Books and blueprints were scattered across the table, but the chaos had a certain order—Viktor’s order.

And there, curled up on the couch, waiting for him, was you.

Your ears flicked at the sound of the door creaking open, and your tail swayed lazily over the cushions. “You’re late,” you murmured, stretching like a cat basking in sunlight.

Viktor let out a breathy chuckle, shutting the door behind him. He removed his coat and draped it over the chair before easing himself into it with a practiced motion. He stretched his aching leg, rubbing absently at his thigh before glancing toward you. “You waited for me,” he mused, a hint of something warm beneath his tired voice.

"Always." You shifted to sit up properly, the flick of your tail betraying your contentment at having him home.

He gave you a small, exhausted smile, his golden eyes soft as he studied you. “And how was your day, my feline muse?”

You smirked, watching him with sharp yet affectionate eyes. “Quieter than yours, I bet.” Your keen senses picked up the strain in his posture, the way his fingers trembled slightly from overuse. He had worked himself to exhaustion again, hadn’t he?

With a quiet sigh, you slipped from the couch, padding over to him on silent feet. Viktor’s breath hitched slightly when you knelt beside his chair, your hands gently pushing his own away so you could take over, rubbing slow, careful circles over his aching thigh. You knew he wouldn’t complain, but he never stopped you, either.

A deep exhale escaped him, his body slowly relaxing under your touch. “You always know what to do,” he mused, voice laced with admiration.

You smirked, ears twitching. “I am a Vastaya, love. I read people better than books.”

He hummed in amusement, but his eyes fluttered shut for a moment, letting himself simply exist in the comfort of your presence. The tension in his muscles gradually eased, his body unconsciously leaning into your warmth.

And then—unexpectedly, unintentionally—you purred.

A deep, soothing rumble vibrated from your chest, slipping past your throat as naturally as breathing. It was instinctual, your body reacting to his presence, to the comfort of having him close. The moment you realized, your eyes widened, and you clamped a hand over your mouth in embarrassment.

Viktor, however, froze. His golden eyes snapped open, surprise flickering across his face. Then—slowly, hesitantly—a smile spread across his lips.

“Was that… you?” he asked, voice tinged with wonder.

You groaned, ears flattening against your head. “I—no, I mean—yes, but—Ugh, I didn’t mean to—”

“You purred,” he interrupted, his voice carrying something tender, fascinated. He reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek, tilting your face toward his. “For me?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. “I—well, yeah,” you mumbled. “It just… happened.”

Viktor’s expression softened, and for a moment, he simply studied you—his brilliant mind, so often lost in theories and equations, entirely focused on you. Then, to your shock, he let out a quiet chuckle, his thumb stroking gently over your skin.

“I think it is the most wonderful sound I have ever heard,” he murmured.

Your ears twitched, caught between embarrassment and affection. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, you love me,” he teased, his tone gentle, adoring. He leaned in, his lips ghosting over your forehead, and the warmth of the simple touch sent another purr vibrating through your chest.

This time, you didn’t stop it.

Viktor’s chuckle was soft, a breath of warmth against your skin. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close, letting you rest your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, grounding and real.

“I could get used to this,” he mused, voice quiet but laced with genuine affection.

You smirked, nuzzling into him, allowing your tail to curl loosely around his leg. “Then I guess you’ll just have to keep making me purr, won’t you?”

Viktor’s golden eyes gleamed, mischief and adoration swirling within them. “A challenge I will gladly accept.”

And in that quiet moment, amidst the warmth of your shared home, the hum of rain against the window, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, you purred again—this time, for him alone.

JAYVIK

The warmth of the bed wrapped around you like a gentle cocoon, the familiar scent of oil, metal, and something faintly smokey mingling with your own scent as you rested between them. The room was dim, illuminated only by the soft glow of Piltover’s lamps filtering through the curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the floor.

The city outside hummed quietly, distant and unobtrusive. Inside, the world had shrunk down to the slow rise and fall of breaths, the steady thrum of heartbeats, and the comfortable tangle of limbs beneath layers of soft sheets.

Viktor’s arms were loosely curled around your waist, his warmth steady against your back. His cane rested against the nightstand beside him, within easy reach, though he didn’t need it now—he wasn’t planning to move anytime soon. On your other side, Jayce lay just as close, one of his arms draped lazily over your hip, his large hand splayed possessively against your stomach, grounding you.

You felt safe here, enveloped in their presence, drifting in and out of sleep.

A soft, involuntary clicking noise escaped your throat as you nestled deeper into the blankets, the vibration humming through your chest. It was a sound of pure contentment, a telltale sign of comfort that neither of them had ever grown tired of.

Viktor’s lips quirked in amusement, eyes half-lidded as he listened. “She does that often,” he mused, voice hushed but warm.

Jayce let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly but careful not to disturb you. “Yeah. Means she’s happy, right?”

“Mm,” Viktor hummed in agreement, his accent making the sound richer, softer. “It is quite adorable.”

A moment of shared silence settled between them before Viktor’s hand lifted, fingers ghosting along the base of your ears. His touch was light, almost hesitant, before he gave in and began to stroke through your fur, moving slowly over the delicate curve of your ears and into your hair.

A shiver ran through you, but your body didn’t protest. If anything, the gentle touch lulled you deeper into that hazy warmth, the purring in your chest growing stronger. The sound vibrated softly against Viktor’s ribs, making him smile to himself.

Jayce’s grin widened as he watched the way your tail twitched beneath the blankets. “She’s gonna wake up soon,” he murmured, voice still laced with sleep. His free hand moved to brush his knuckles along your cheek, his touch warm and affectionate.

Viktor only smiled, continuing his slow, soothing strokes. The purring grew louder, rising and falling in rhythm with your breaths, a sound neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, a soft flick of your ears. Your nose scrunched slightly before your eyes fluttered open, sluggish and unfocused. You made a sleepy, barely-audible noise before tilting your head into Viktor’s palm, instinctively seeking more of his touch.

“Good morning, miláček,” Viktor murmured, voice smooth with amusement as he rubbed a slow circle along your jaw. (Darling)

“Morning?” you mumbled drowsily, still caught in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

Jayce chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as his hand smoothed over your hip. “More like late night,” he corrected softly. “But you looked so comfy, we didn’t wanna wake you.”

You blinked slowly, the purring still rumbling from your chest, the sleep-heavy fog in your mind making everything feel soft and weightless. Viktor’s fingers trailed lower, slipping from your ears to your jaw, his touch gentle but firm.

“Mmm,” you hummed in response, stretching slightly before going boneless again, utterly relaxed.

Jayce’s hand squeezed at your waist before he leaned in, his nose brushing against your other ear as he exhaled a quiet laugh. “You’re purring louder than I’ve ever heard,” he teased, his voice low, affectionate.

Your eyes widened slightly, ears flicking backward as heat crept up your face. You hadn’t even realized you were purring that loudly—let alone that they could hear it so clearly. Your tail twitched beneath the blankets, curling slightly in an instinctive attempt to hide your flustered reaction.

“I—” You swallowed, face warming as you tried to tamp down the steady rumble in your chest. “It’s not that loud…” you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Viktor chuckled, his other arm shifting slightly so he could rest his cane more comfortably against the headboard. “I suppose that means she enjoys it, no?” His tone was teasing but warm, and the way his fingers continued to stroke through your hair made it impossible to will away the purring completely.

Jayce grinned against your temple, clearly entertained by your sudden shyness. “Aww, she’s embarrassed,” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your head. “That’s adorable.”

You groaned softly, ears flattening slightly as you buried your face against Viktor’s chest to hide your expression. But even as your embarrassment simmered, the steady, comforting weight of them around you kept you from pulling away.

Your tail flicked before curling lazily around Jayce’s leg beneath the blankets in silent surrender. Fine. They could tease. You weren’t going anywhere.

Neither of them stopped their gentle touches—Viktor’s fingers still combing through your hair, Jayce’s warmth pressing close.

You exhaled a slow, content sigh.

Here, wrapped in their arms, feeling the weight of their presence around you, you felt completely at ease.

You had no intention of moving anytime soon.

This was home.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

VANDER

The dim, golden light of the upstairs living area in The Last Drop cast long shadows against the worn wooden floors. It was peaceful up here, away from the raucous bustle of the bar below. This was their safe place, where the family gathered, away from the dangers of Zaun’s streets.

The scent of warm stew lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle aroma of aged whiskey from the shelves below. Vander had insisted on cooking tonight, waving off your protests with a smirk and a gruff, “Ya keep spoilin’ ‘em, love. Let me do it for once.” He’d grumbled about the old pot nearly burning the broth, muttering under his breath as he stirred, but the result was good—rich, warm, comforting. The kids had eaten heartily, the scrape of spoons against bowls interspersed with chatter and laughter.

Now, the evening had settled into something softer. Closer.

You sat on the couch, Powder nestled against your chest, her small fingers fiddling absentmindedly with the tufted fur at the end of your tail. She had always loved playing with it, absentmindedly twirling it around her fingers whenever she was close. Vi was sprawled on the floor beside the couch, arms crossed behind her head, staring at the ceiling as she listened to the others. Mylo and Claggor were huddled over a small game of dice, their occasional bickering punctuated by Claggor’s chuckles.

And Vander—ever the protector—leaned against the doorway with a satisfied hum, watching over all of you like a lion with his pride. His arms were crossed, but his stance was relaxed, that knowing look in his eyes as he observed, as if silently counting heads, making sure everyone was where they belonged.

Powder sighed against you, her cheek pressing into the fur along your collarbone. "You're so warm," she mumbled sleepily, her words slow and soft, as though she were already drifting. A tiny yawn followed.

You smiled, running your clawed fingers gently through her blue hair, careful of your nails. "That’s what fur is good for, little one."

Then it happened—without thinking, without stopping it—you purred.

A deep, reverberating sound started in your chest, thrumming through your body like a steady drumbeat, a sound of contentment and safety. It vibrated into Powder, who let out a sudden, high-pitched squeal of laughter.

"That tickles!" she giggled, her small frame shaking against you as she squirmed.

The entire room fell silent.

You froze.

Your ears twitched slightly, flicking toward Vi, who had bolted upright. Mylo's dice clattered to the floor, forgotten, as Claggor stared in fascination. And Vander—oh, that man—was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite place. Something warm. Something fond.

"You purred!" Powder announced, her voice bright with delight. She turned in your lap, peering up at you with wide, excited eyes. She poked your ribs gently, as if testing for more. "Do it again!"

A heat crept up your face, your ears flattening slightly in embarrassment. You hadn't meant to—it was just instinct, a natural reaction to holding someone close, to feeling safe.

Vander chuckled, stepping forward, his heavy footsteps slow and steady. He crouched beside the couch, resting a firm hand on your shoulder. "Didn’t know ya could do that," he murmured, voice low and amused. His thumb stroked absently along your fur, rough callouses against softness. "It’s nice."

"It's weird," Mylo added, tilting his head.

Vi smirked. "I think it’s cool."

Powder, still giddy, tugged at your sleeve. "Can I try?"

You let out a breath, glancing up at Vander. His gaze met yours, steady and reassuring, a silent encouragement. You sighed in defeat but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips as you curled your tail around Powder and started to purr again.

She howled with laughter this time, pressing her ear closer to your chest as if she could feel the sound even more. "It’s so funny!" she gasped between giggles. "It’s all rumbly!"

Vi and Claggor joined in, poking at your sides just to see if they could hear it again, while Mylo scoffed, trying to act unimpressed—but the way his ears perked up betrayed his curiosity.

Powder gasped suddenly, lifting her head. "Vander, you should try!"

You nearly choked.

Vander raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk curling his lips. "That so?" He shifted, leaning into you, pressing his ear against the side of your neck as if truly considering it. "Guess I gotta see what all the fuss is about."

Your tail flicked, slightly flustered, but you didn't stop purring—not when Powder was still laughing, not when Vi was grinning like this was the best entertainment she’d had all week, not when Claggor and Mylo had abandoned their game to watch.

Not when Vander—his warmth, his weight, his presence—was so close.

He hummed lowly, the sound deep in his chest. "Ain’t half bad," he admitted, voice gruff but gentle. His fingers traced absent patterns along your back, almost as if he were trying to match the rhythm of your purring. "Might put me to sleep if I sit here long enough."

Powder gasped dramatically. "No sleeping! You’re too big!"

Vander laughed, deep and warm, his chest vibrating against your shoulder. His arm slid around your waist, pulling you into his side effortlessly. “Looks like the kids are takin’ a likin’ to it,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head. His beard brushed against your fur, rough but comforting, grounding. His voice dropped lower, just for you. "Never seen you do it before."

You hesitated, then leaned into him, letting his presence surround you. "Guess I never felt comfortable enough," you admitted. "Not until now."

Vander’s grip tightened ever so slightly, something unspoken in the way he held you. He exhaled through his nose, pressing another kiss—this one slower, more deliberate—against your temple. "Glad to hear it, love."

Then, to your horror, Powder poked Vander’s ribs.

He jerked slightly, eyes widening.

"Vander, do you purr?" she asked, tilting her head.

Vi cackled. "Yeah, come on old man, let’s hear it."

Vander scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned away, but Powder clung to him. "You’re big like a lion! You gotta have a big purr!"

"That ain’t how it works," he grumbled, but the way he pulled you closer to him contradicted the reluctance in his tone.

Powder wasn’t deterred. "I bet if you got comfy enough, you’d start purring too!"

"You really think so?" Claggor mused, rubbing his chin. "Maybe if we all piled on him—"

Vander immediately stood up, lifting you with him. "Not a chance," he said, though there was laughter in his voice.

The kids erupted into playful groans, Mylo muttering something about a wasted opportunity.

Vander simply shook his head, settling you against him as he walked toward the bedroom. "Think we’ve had enough excitement for one night," he murmured against your ear, his voice rough and fond. "C’mon, love. Let’s get some rest."

And as the kids finally quieted down, as Vander carried you to bed, as the warmth of the evening settled into something permanent, you knew—

You were home.

SILCO

The dim glow of the desk lamp bathed Silco’s office in a golden haze, casting elongated shadows against the worn wooden walls. The usual scent of ink and whiskey clung to the air, mingling with the faint trace of smoke from his ever-present cigar, though it had long since burned to embers in the ashtray. The quiet rustle of papers and the rhythmic scratching of his quill were the only sounds, save for the distant hum of the city outside—the heartbeat of Zaun pulsing beneath iron and stone.

Papers lay strewn across the desk, their edges curling slightly from the weight of ink and time. Silco worked with his usual efficiency, his quill gliding in deliberate strokes as he sorted through the endless demands of his empire. His focus was unwavering, his mind attuned to the ceaseless machinations that kept Zaun breathing beneath Piltover’s heel.

Beside him, she sat curled in the plush chair she had claimed as her own—the one positioned close enough to him that, even in silence, they shared a space neither intruded upon. Her feline grace was effortless, her body draped over the cushions like a creature of pure languid indulgence, yet she remained poised, every motion deliberate. The flick of an ear, the subtle twitch of her tail—all small, instinctive gestures that betrayed an awareness she did not need to voice.

Her tail, sleek and warm, had lazily coiled around his wrist, the tip resting just at the back of his hand. A silent claim. A tether.

Silco did not acknowledge it at first. He merely let it be, allowing her presence to weave itself into his own without resistance. It was only after several minutes that his thumb moved, slow and unhurried, tracing the velvety length of her tail in an absentminded rhythm. The gesture was unconscious yet reverent, an indulgence he hadn’t thought twice about taking.

The quill continued to glide over parchment, yet his other hand never stilled.

His touch was deceptively gentle. For a man known for cruelty, for precision and control, there was a tenderness in the way his fingers brushed over her fur, a slow, absent stroke meant for neither comfort nor distraction—simply a quiet acknowledgment of her presence.

Then, a sound broke the silence.

A soft, rolling purr vibrated through her chest, low and unbidden.

The first he had ever heard from her.

Silco’s quill stilled mid-word.

His lone eye flicked to her, searching, watching. The faintest hint of amusement curled at the edge of his lips, though it was tempered by something else—curiosity, perhaps, or something softer, something unspoken.

His thumb resumed its slow, deliberate motion along the curve of her tail, tracing the fine strands of fur with just enough pressure to feel the pulse beneath. This time, it wasn’t an unconscious movement. This time, he was savoring.

"You’ve never done that before," he murmured, voice low, roughened with the rasp of smoke and intrigue.

She blinked at him, her pupils dilating slightly in the dim light, ears flicking forward as if she, too, had surprised herself. But she did not pull away. If anything, her tail tightened around his wrist, just slightly, a silent invitation.

"And you’ve never stroked my tail like that before," she countered, voice velvety, teasing.

The smirk deepened at the corner of his lips, brief but present, as he gave a quiet, knowing chuckle. A rare sound.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the papers before him, quill moving once more, though his touch on her remained. The slow, hypnotic glide of his thumb continued, the subtle pressure shifting as he toyed with the strands of her fur, as if testing just how far he could push before she melted into him entirely.

And then, she purred again.

Softer this time. A hum of contentment meant only for him.

A sound that settled something deep within his chest.

Silco said nothing of it. But his grip around her tail, the way his fingers curled just slightly—possessive, claiming—spoke volumes.

She sighed, slow and deep, stretching her arms above her head before settling again, curling closer. He felt the whisper of her warmth at his side, the slight pressure of her arm resting against the edge of his desk.

“Comfortable?” he asked dryly, though there was no bite to it.

Her tail twitched in his grasp, teasing. “Mmhmm.”

His eye flicked to her briefly, amusement lingering in the sharp edges of his gaze. He should have been irritated by the distraction, by the way she made herself at home in his space. And yet, she was the only presence in his life that never demanded—never took, never schemed, never asked him to be anything other than what he was.

She simply was.

A rare, dangerous kind of intimacy.

The kind he should have resisted.

Instead, he allowed himself another indulgence—one more stroke along the length of her tail, one more moment where the weight of the world could wait just a little longer.

Her tail curled more securely around his wrist, her fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of his desk. He could feel her gaze on him, half-lidded and lazy, though there was something behind it—an awareness, an understanding that stretched beyond words.

She had seen him in his worst moments, his darkest hours. The weight of his choices, the unrelenting pressure of leadership. Yet she never recoiled. Never flinched.

Perhaps that was what unsettled him most.

The knowledge that she saw him.

And still, she stayed.

The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but weighted in something neither of them dared name.

She purred again, softer this time, before shifting forward just enough to press her forehead against the edge of his shoulder—just a brief touch, a wordless acknowledgment before settling back into her seat.

Silco exhaled slowly, pressing his thumb just a fraction harder against the base of her tail before releasing her.

“Don’t get used to it,” he murmured, though the roughness in his voice betrayed him.

Her tail flicked, teasing, as she smirked. “Too late.”

And as the ink dried on his papers, as Zaun continued to burn and shift beyond the walls of his office, he let himself believe—just for a moment—that in this space, in this fleeting quiet, he was not alone.

JINX

Jinx had a habit of fidgeting. Whether it was twirling a wrench, spinning a bullet between her fingers, or bouncing her leg like she had too much energy for one body to contain, she never really stopped moving. But right now? She was still. For once.

The dim glow of neon lights from the workshop bathed the room in streaks of pink and blue, the soft hum of machinery serving as background noise. The chaos of Zaun was far away, and for the first time in a long time, Jinx was... calm.

All because of you.

You were curled up on her lap, tail lazily draped over the edge of the couch, ears twitching every now and then as her fingers idly scratched behind them. It had started out as a joke—Jinx had flopped onto the worn-out couch and patted her lap dramatically, fully expecting you to swat her away. Instead, you'd huffed, rolled your eyes, and plopped down, stretching out like a contented housecat.

At first, Jinx had cackled about it, teasing you with things like, "Awww, the kitty finally trusts me, huh?" But now, as she absentmindedly ran her fingers through your hair, the laughter had quieted into something softer, something almost... gentle.

It was rare to see Jinx this settled, her usual boundless energy dimmed to something quieter, something rare. The air smelled faintly of gunpowder and metal, mixed with the lingering scent of oil and whatever half-finished explosives Jinx had been working on before you arrived. It wasn’t the cleanest place, but it was warm. Cozy, even.

Then, it happened.

A low, deep rumbling sound vibrated from your chest, subtle at first but growing into a steady, rhythmic purr.

Jinx froze.

Her fingers stopped in your hair, and she blinked down at you, a slow, almost childlike grin creeping onto her lips.

"Wait. Was that you?"

You immediately tensed, ears flattening against your head.

"Shut up," you mumbled, voice muffled against her leg. You debated bolting right then and there, but Jinx’s grip was firm as she suddenly grabbed your cheeks, squishing them together with a dramatic gasp.

"Oh my God, you purr!?"

She sounded delighted. Not mocking, not teasing—just genuinely thrilled by the discovery. You groaned, trying to swat her hands away, but she was already giggling, shaking you lightly.

"This is the best day ever!" she declared, practically vibrating with excitement. "Why didn’t you tell me you could do that? I would’ve been petting you ages ago!"

You sighed, dragging a hand over your face. "Because this is exactly why."

Jinx didn’t seem to hear you, too busy wiggling in place as if she had just unlocked the world's greatest achievement. "D’you do this all the time? Like, when you're happy? Or when you're sleepy? Oh, oh! Can I make you do it again?"

"You ruined the moment," you grumbled, ears twitching in irritation.

"Aww, c’mon, don’t be a grump! Purr for me again, kitty-cat, I need to hear it!" She punctuated her words by aggressively ruffling your hair, laughing as you let out a half-hearted whine of protest.

"You’re worse than actual cats," you muttered, tail flicking against her stomach in annoyance.

Jinx gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. "How dare! I am an excellent cat owner. If I had a cat. Which I don't. But if I did? It would love me. You love me."

You groaned. "Stop talking."

"But then how are you gonna purr again?" she sang, fingers wiggling as she hovered them over your ears like she was about to tickle you. "I gotta find the exact right spot—"

"Jinx, I swear—"

But her fingers returned, scratching gently at the base of your ears, trailing down to stroke your hair, and despite yourself, you felt it again—the warmth, the relaxation, the way your body betrayed you and melted into the touch.

It was quiet for a long moment, save for the steady hum of Zaun outside.

Then, reluctantly, barely even audible—

Purr.

Jinx gasped, eyes sparkling like she had just witnessed an explosion go off in the best way possible. "I knew it!"

You groaned again, dragging your hands over your face, but there was no escaping the inevitable.

You were never going to hear the end of this.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #vastaya!reader

316 notes · View notes

hy6erion · 2 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭, 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢, 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐬𝐢𝐳𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦, 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐛 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 (??), 𝐨𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐥𝐚𝐛 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 (𝐢'𝐦 𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫), 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐨𝐧. 𝐀𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!!

The laboratory smelled of scorched metal and ozone, the air thick with the hum of something unnatural. Hextech pulsed faintly in the dimness, the glow of unstable energy illuminating the sprawl of unfinished blueprints, half-formed constructs, and tools scattered across the workspace. The place was Viktor’s mind made manifest—chaotic, brilliant, dangerous.

And you had walked straight into it.

You should have turned back the moment the reinforced door slid shut behind you, sealing you inside with him. But curiosity had always been your weakness. That, and something deeper—something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Viktor hadn’t looked up immediately. He was hunched over his latest project, fingers deftly adjusting a glowing green component embedded in what looked like a modified prosthetic. The energy arced sharply as he worked, momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of his face, the mess of dark hair that curled over the edge of his golden ocular implants.

It wasn’t until you took another step forward that he finally acknowledged your presence.

“Curious, are we?”

His voice slid through the dimness like a blade, smooth and sharp. He still hadn’t turned, but you knew he had been aware of you the moment you entered. The way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his fingers stilled for half a second before continuing their work—it was enough.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way his presence made the air feel heavier. “I was looking for you.”

That earned a reaction. His head tilted, just slightly. A pause. Then, finally, he turned.

His gaze was impossible to hold. The glow of his mechanical eye cast eerie reflections across his face, half in shadow, half illuminated by something unnatural. His real eye was unreadable, dark and gleaming beneath the mess of his hair.

“And now you have found me.”

There was something wrong with the way he said it. Like you had fallen into a carefully laid trap and only now realized the bars had locked behind you.

You tried not to react as he stepped closer.

Viktor never moved without purpose. Every shift of his weight, every subtle tilt of his head—it was all calculated, measured. And now, with the way his gaze dragged over you, slow and dissecting, you felt like a specimen under a magnifying glass.

His voice was almost amused when he spoke again. “You are trembling.”

You hadn’t noticed until now. The realization made your stomach tighten, shame curling in the back of your throat. You weren’t afraid of him. At least, you didn’t think you were. And yet—

His gloved fingers reached out, brushing the side of your throat. A light touch. Testing.

You gasped.

He smiled.

“Fascinating.”

The word sent a shiver down your spine. Because Viktor did not waste time on things that were not useful to him. If he was fascinated, it was because he was studying you.

You took a step back. A mistake. His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air, the way something unseen coiled tighter between you.

“You flinch,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Yet you do not leave. Why?”

The words shouldn’t have had weight. But coming from him—razor-sharp, peeling you apart layer by layer—they made something in you falter.

“I—” He was in front of you before you could finish “Shhh.”

The command was soft. Almost gentle. His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing your eyes to meet his. The glow of his lenses pulsed slightly, shifting as he cataloged your reaction, as he watched your breath hitch.

“I have been patient,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “So very patient.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes. The kind of hunger that wasn’t born overnight.

“Tell me” he breathed, his voice a slow, curling heat against your skin, “how long do you intend to test my restraint?”

Your stomach dropped.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile. His grip on your chin wasn’t tight, but it was unrelenting. Unyielding.

And you—gods help you—you didn’t move away.

That was all the permission he needed.

The next breath you took was stolen from your lungs as he moved—fast. One moment, you were standing. The next, your back hit the cool metal of the nearest worktable, sending scattered blueprints fluttering to the ground.

His hand was at your throat now—not squeezing, not yet. Just resting. Feeling the frantic pulse beneath his fingers.

“I wonder,” he mused, his voice maddeningly calm as he leaned in, his lips barely grazing the shell of your ear, “do you truly not understand the danger you are in?”

You sucked in a breath, but it was shallow. Not enough. He was too close. The scent of metal and oil and something darker surrounded you, wrapped around your senses like a vice.

“Or…” He tilted his head, dragging his nose along the curve of your jaw, inhaling slowly. “Is it that you do?”

You whimpered. The sound was humiliatingly soft, but it didn’t escape him.

He smiled against your skin. “Ah. That is it, isn’t it?”

His hand moved, gliding lower, over the curve of your waist, the dip of your hip. Testing. Mapping. The way his fingers dragged over your clothes felt obscene, a slow unraveling of something inevitable.

“You wish to play human games,” he murmured, dragging his lips down, just over the curve of your throat, “but you forget—I am no longer a man who plays by such rules.”

Heat pooled between your thighs, unwelcome and delicious. You tried to squeeze them together, but his leg slotted between yours before you could, pinning you against the table. The pressure sent a sharp jolt of sensation through you, your breath hitching as he pressed just slightly—just enough to feel what he was doing to you.

He chuckled. Low. Dark.

“So soft,” he murmured, his grip tightening on your waist. “So eager.”

He rocked against you, slow and purposeful. The sensation sent a shock of pleasure through your core, a gasp ripping from your throat before you could stop it.

“Look at you.” His voice was almost reverent, his lips ghosting against the corner of your mouth. “So willing to be ruined.”

Your head was spinning. You knew you should stop this. You knew. And yet— You turned your head. Just slightly. Just enough.

And Viktor took exactly what you offered.

His lips crashed against yours.

Not a kiss—a claim.

You moaned, and that was all it took for him to deepen it, devouring every sound you made. His metal hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in as he rocked against you again, harder this time, pressing himself between your legs with slow, maddening precision.

“You are mine now,” he rasped against your lips. “And I do not intend to let you go.”

His words barely had time to settle before Viktor moved.

You barely registered the sharp scrape of metal against the edge of the table before you were hauled up, your thighs spreading around his waist as he slotted himself between them. The rough press of his uniform scraped against your inner thighs, and the realization hit—you were caged now, caught in the unforgiving grip of a man who had long since abandoned human restraint.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Viktor rasped, his voice a dark whisper against your lips. His hips rolled—slow, deliberate. The thick press of his cock, still confined by layers of fabric, ground against your cunt with enough pressure to have your head falling back against the table.

“Yes,” he breathed, watching you. Cataloging.

His metal fingers dug into your thigh, spreading you obscenely wide, while his gloved hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face up until your breath hitched.

“I have waited,” he murmured, dragging his nose along your cheek. “I have suffered in silence—”

The next grind of his hips against your aching cunt made you writhe, the friction bordering on unbearable. Your breath broke into a gasp, hands flying to clutch at his shoulders, his neck—anything to ground yourself.

His hand snapped to your wrist, pinning it back against the metal surface with unforgiving force.

“But I suffer no longer.”

Your stomach tightened at the raw hunger in his voice. His lenses flickered, scanning your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell in shallow, desperate breaths.

He wanted to consume you. And he would.

“This—” His metal fingers tore at the fabric of your clothes, ripping away the layers with impatient efficiency. The air hit your exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling between your legs ”—is mine.”

Your head fell back with a cry as his hand found you, his fingers dragging over your slick folds with slow, taunting precision.

“So eager,” he murmured, pressing a gloved finger inside without warning.

Your body arched, your legs attempting to close around his waist, but he would not allow it. His metal grip tightened, forcing you to remain open—to be seen.

“Do you think I have not noticed?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it—a controlled fury. “The way you watch me? The way your breath catches whenever I draw near?”

He withdrew his finger, only to drag it achingly slow against your throbbing clit, coating you in the evidence of your own betrayal.

“You pretend you fear me.”

His cock pressed against your entrance now, still shielded by fabric, but so dangerously close.

“But this?” He rocked against you, the thick pressure of his length gliding over your cunt, making you shudder beneath him.

“This tells me the truth.”

You wanted him.

And Viktor had never been a man to deny himself what he was owed.

“This?” Viktor’s voice was velvet-wrapped steel, his accent thickened by hunger. His cock dragged against your drenched slit, separated only by the thin barrier of his uniform. The friction sent a delicious, maddening shock through your core. Your fingers clenched against the table’s edge, your body betraying you with a whimpering shudder.

Viktor chuckled—low, dark, victorious.

“You shiver beneath me, yet pretend resistance.”

His metal hand traced the inside of your thigh, a cold contrast to the burning heat pooling between them.

“Perhaps you need further convincing?”

The next grind of his hips sent wetness spilling onto the coarse fabric of his pants. He growled, feeling it—evidence of your surrender smearing against his clothed length.

“I feel you” he breathed, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “Soaking me like a little whore, yet still you tremble?”

Your breath caught as his gloved fingers found your clit again, this time with no patience, no teasing—just ruthless, practiced intent. He pressed firm circles against the swollen bud, his gaze locked onto yours, drinking in every twitch, every sharp inhale, every helpless little jerk of your hips.

“Such a delicate thing,” Viktor mused. “So easily unraveled.”

You tried to close your legs against the intensity, but his metal grip shot out, forcing you apart again.

“No,” he snapped, voice sharp. “You will take everything I give.”

Your thighs trembled in his hold.

“Yes,” he purred, drinking in your helplessness. “That’s it. Good girl.”

The praise was nearly mocking, but your body reacted anyway, a fresh wave of slick dripping down your folds.

“Ahh—look at this mess.” Viktor’s gloved hand slipped lower, his fingers spreading you open. Inspecting. “Do you see? Your body betrays you. It begs me to ruin you.”

Your walls clenched around nothing, desperate and aching.

“Hnn—Viktor—”

A sharp slap against your clit made you yelp, the sting sharp and deliciously cruel.

“Try again.” His voice was soft, but the command beneath it was undeniable.

“Please,” you gasped, back arching, hips rolling against his fingers.

Viktor hummed in approval, his metal hand moving to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze onto him.

“Good girl.”

Then—he moved.

Your world tilted as he flipped you onto your stomach in one motion, your chest pressing against the cold metal of his worktable. His hand pushed down on your back, arching you, forcing you to present yourself.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling his belt slowly, the leather hissing through the loops. The sound made your breath stutter—anticipation spiking through your veins.

“Do you know how long I have waited for this?”

A sharp tug and his pants dropped just enough to free his cock, the thick length pressing against your soaked entrance.

Your nails scraped against the table, your body tensing in anticipation.

“Do you know,” Viktor continued, his tip teasing, rubbing against your swollen folds, “how many nights I have imagined you like this? Bent over, begging for me?”

The desperation clawed at your throat.

“Viktor—please—”

His metal hand snapped up, gripping your throat, arching you back against his chest.

“Shhh.” He kissed the corner of your jaw, his cockhead pressing just against your fluttering entrance.

“Do not rush me.”

And then—he pushed in.

Your breath broke into a strangled cry as Viktor pushed inside, his cock splitting you open with an unrelenting, slow precision. The stretch was intense, bordering on unbearable—your walls clenched instinctively, trying to accommodate him, but he was thick, every inch of him sinking into you with a maddening patience.

“Aww” he cooed, his metal hand tightening around your throat. His lips dragged against the shell of your ear, his breath hot, teasing. “You can take it. I know you can.”

Your fingers scrabbled against the table, seeking purchase, something to ground yourself against the overwhelming intrusion. He was so deep, pressing against something achingly tender, and he wasn’t even fully inside yet.

“You are squeezing me so tight..” Viktor groaned, his free hand spreading your ass, watching the way your pretty cunt struggled to take him. His hips rolled, shallow thrusts, forcing you to stretch little by little.

“V-Viktor—” You whimpered, your body trembling, torn between pleasure and torment.

“Hnn, yes—say my name,” he murmured, his tongue flicking against your sweat-damp skin. His hand slid down, pressing against your lower belly, feeling the way his cock bulged inside you.

“So small,” he mused, a dark chuckle vibrating through his chest. “So tight around me.”

His hips drew back, and for a brief, blissful second, you thought he might ease up—

But then, he slammed forward.

The force sent a sharp shockwave through your body, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Ahhh—!”

“There it is,” Viktor growled, his fingers gripping your waist, holding you in place as he pulled back and drove in again.

Again.

A gain.

“You take me so well,” he purred, his voice thick with praise and possession. “Like you were made for this—made for me.”

His pace quickened, brutal and merciless, his cock dragging against your g-spot with every deep thrust. Your toes curled, your back arching, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing through the dimly lit workshop.

“So desperate,” Viktor mused, his metal hand gripping your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his teeth to scrape against your exposed throat.

“Your body begs me to ruin it.”

You cried out, your fingers curling, your walls clenching down around him too hard—

“Ah” Viktor hissed, his grip tightening as he slammed into you harder, rougher. “You think I will let you come so easily?”

His fingers abandoned your throat, slipping down to your aching clit, circling, taunting.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “Tell me who owns you.”

Your mind spun, every nerve in your body on fire. The pressure built, coiling so tight, so intense, you thought you might break apart—

“Say it.”

“Y-you—Viktor—!”

His pace faltered, just for a moment—like the words had satisfied something dark inside him.

Then—he fucked into you harder.

“Good girl,” he gritted out, his breath coming in ragged groans. His movements grew sloppy, more desperate, his fingers still tormenting your clit.

“Now—come for me.”

The command sent you spiraling.

Your body locked up, your vision going white as the orgasm crashed into you, waves of blinding, raw pleasure tearing through every inch of you. Your walls spasmed, milking his cock, your cries broken, breathless.

“Yes—yes, that’s it,” Viktor groaned, his own rhythm stuttering, faltering—

And then—he buried himself deep, his hips jerking as he spilled inside you.

A low, guttural moan tore from his throat, his body shuddering against yours as he filled you with hot, thick ropes of cum.

His grip eased, his breathing heavy against your skin. For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the workshop the erratic pounding of your hearts.

Then—Viktor let out a low chuckle, his hands trailing over your trembling body.

“I knew you would break for me,” he murmured.

His cock twitched, still half-hard inside you.

“But I am not done yet.”

#✰⍣ 𝐡𝐲𝟔𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐧 #prototype viktor x reader #prototype viktor #prototype Viktor x reader smut #league of legends x reader #league of legends #arcane viktor x reader smut #arcane viktor x reader #arcane viktor #league of legends prototype viktor

323 notes · View notes

sspookayy · 2 months ago

Text

"𝚄𝚗𝚠𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚗" || Cecil Stedman x Reader

Description:

Where extraordinary beings wield incredible powers, the GDA embarks on a groundbreaking project to synthesize DNA in pursuit of creating the ultimate weapon. But when things don't go as planned the project everyone was worked so hard for is put on hold, suspended in time.

"I don't understand.. If you loved me then why did you do this?!"

"Love makes us make tough decisions sometimes."

I LOVE THIS MAN.

I haven't really seen anyone write much fanfic about Cecil, and well hes my favorite character so i have to do the Cecil simps justice. Updates may be slow because i have an actual irl job and bills to pay but I'm gonna try my best and et chapters out in a timely manner.

*crossposted on Tumblr, Wattpad, and Ao3*

________________________

Introduction-

The wall clock ticked relentlessly on, each second whispering in counterpoint to the clang of metal and grunts. You paused briefly in your exercise, beads of sweat trickling down your forehead as you gazed about at the stark, unyielding walls of the government compound that was home. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, their cold light casting an unforgiving glare on the rows of weights and machines that were now familiar companions in your endless pursuit of power.

Today, like every day preceding it, you were in the training room, pushing against the limits of your flesh. The weight of expectation had borne down on you since the day that they concluded you were an "experiment"—a component of a program to mold human potential into something greater, yet an offspring of circumstance gone awry.

You were different—not another test subject, but a pioneer of hybrid experimentation. Your creators had attempted to create a weapon, but you had become something more: a being imbued with unbelievable strength, agility, flight and reflexes, approaching the scale that was the Immortal in ability. You were a creation of their ambition, and while the world around you buzzed with the murmurs of heroism and glory, you had been kept under the veil of uncertainty.

You took a deep breath and seized the heavy dumbbells to begin another set of reps, muscles contorting and flexing as you pushed yourself to your limits. Your prison—your estranged home within these walls that held your secrets and torturers alike. You were coming to the end of your set when the door creaked open, the intrusion jolting you out of your focus.

"Impressive as always."

The voice was deep and resonant, heavy like the weights you were using, and it sent a thrill of recognition down your spine. You dropped the dumbbells and turned and faced Director Radcliffe—a tall, older man with sharp features, dark brown eyes, and an intelligence that radiated even in this austere environment. He was the Director of the Global Defense Agency, one of whose main functions was running the experiments.

"Sir," you breathed, attempting to conceal your surprise at his abrupt arrival. "What brings you here?"

He strode towards you with a swagger that belied the seriousness of the facility and delivered a smirk that played at the corners of his mouth. "Just stopping by to visit our most promising subject. I've been hearing whispers about your advancements, and I can tell that they're not merely rumors."

Radcliffe nodded towards the equipment, his gaze remaining on you—a combination of curiosity and admiration. You were naked, exposed; a combination of admiration and caution simmering between you as he gazed at you.

"Getting stronger every day," you replied, keeping your tone deliberately casual. "But I'm still waiting for the day I'm not a set of experiments." deliberately keeping your tone light."They seem to not be too keen on unleashing me on the world yet." You sat down on the bench that sat alongside the huge mirror that stretched along the whole wall and took the towel that was lying across it to wipe your face in an attempt to get rid of the thin layer of sweat that was covering your face.

Director Radcliffe leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, a curious smile spreading across his face. "You see, with the right mindset, even experiments can become pioneers. They just need the right environment to thrive." There was seriousness in his voice that suggested he knew more than he said, as if the very fabric of your life was woven with both potential and restriction.

You glanced up at him in the mirror, the overhead fluorescent lights casting a glare that was so harsh your reflection was almost ghostly. "I suppose so. But what if all they care about is how mindlessly I can follow orders?" You let the towel drop into your lap, the damp cloth a reminder of just how hard you were driving yourself—not just physically, but mentally.

He straightened, his demeanor shifting by degrees, as if he intercepted the undertone of your annoyance. "We understand what you're capable of. Your progress is... " He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Impressive. But I am not at liberty to ignore the risks of releasing you prematurely. You are not just a collection of skills—you're a person with a life ahead of you."

"Why do I feel like I'm in a cage, then?" you shot back, startling yourself with the venom in your tone. You could feel the tension building in the air, strained and charged.

Radcliffe's eyes softened as he took in a step closer. "Change is hard. I do know that. Yet every experiment started with a spark—your spark. We're preparing you for something more than you can presently see. You're not a tool. You can be a leader.".

You let his words hang, considering the weight they carried. Progress. Leadership. What would that even look like for someone like you? "I hope you're not just saying that to soften the blow," you said tentatively, the vulnerability in your voice surprising you both.

"Trust me, I'm not," he replied, his tone level and sincere. "But I need you to commit to the process. Training isn't about physical strength alone—it's about building the foundations of what you're capable of becoming."

You took the towel again, this time using it to wipe the sweat from your forearms. Maybe he was right. There could be more to this quest than you realized. "And if I fail?" you asked, your heart racing at the thought.

Radcliffe smiled, a hint of warmth breaching his normally stoic demeanor. "Then we learn. That's the beauty of experimentation—you can always adjust and try again."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. The path ahead of you was still uncertain, yet maybe, just maybe, the light at the end of your metaphorical tunnel was closer than you thought.

—

The day had drained you, each test and trial bearing down on your shoulders like a pile of bricks, a reminder of the burden you bore as you struggled to discover what you could do. Thankfully, the only thing left was to take your end-of-day vitals. Perched atop the unforgiving surface of the chilly, sterile examination table, you were able to sense a chill send a shiver up your exposed thighs, the fabric of your shorts far too brief to shield you from the cold metal below. Wires from a nest of machines coiled around you like sinister vines, and electrode pads affixed to your skin, squirming leads to monitors that displayed your EKG and a maelstrom of bewildering readings—esoteric glyphs that appeared to be a code you were desperately attempting to interpret.

The soft, soothing beeping of the machines almost lulled you into a restful sleep, but the cold, hard lights overhead were pitiless in their glare. Surrounded by an army of physicians and researchers prodding and poking at your body, you knew the largest threat was not in their intrusive methods but what followed: the return to your chambers, the place you disliked most, except for the frigid, unyielding halls of this tyrannical institute. As your gaze shifted to the left, you noticed a couple of operators and managers observing the professionals at work, their glances flicking with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

Far away, beyond the big window, ordinary people went about their everyday lives, becoming part of the rhythm of normalcy. Longing arose within you to be among them; to experience the comfort of a humdrum existence—a good job, a quiet day, a loving family. Such longings lay in the realm of dreams, an illusion which you knew would forever be out of your grasp. Amidst this sea of onlookers, your attention was suddenly drawn to Director Radcliffe, conversing with a passerby.

Squinting your eyes in an attempt to slice through the distance, your super-vision eventually caught up with the young man who had caught your attention. His smooth-slicked hair and authoritative height were equaled only by his sharply chiseled features, which spoke to authority. The gravity of the meeting was sensed, the tension so powerful it sliced through the sterile air. Then, suddenly, the young man shifted slightly, his intense eyes fastening onto yours like a shot of electricity. His eyes, an electric blue, pierced into your very being with an intensity that produced a shiver racing along your spine.

It was as if he could look right through the glass wall of your room, cutting through the layers of your being, stripping away the facade to reveal the vulnerable core within. For a moment, all else in the world outside of you melted away, and you were left with the weight of his scrutiny—a refined blend of curiosity mixed with something darker and more profound. You ached to look away, to recede into the sanitary folds of your hospital robe, but some inexplicable pull kept you riveted. Pity or judgment? Or something worse?

The beeping of equipment faded into the background, drowned out by the mesmerizing hold of his unseeing stare, stirring within you emotions long suppressed in the shadows. It was as though, in the bottom of that stare, he saw your unspoken wishes, your dreams of flight from this antiseptic jail. While the heaviness of his glance nearly strangled you, he tilted his brow infinitesimally, ever so small yet incredibly powerful an action, so it conveyed something unstated in between the two of you that was at once exciting and scary, which passed between the freezing emptiness of the lab and united the two of you into something akin to communion.

And since the moment was trapped halfway between suspended and reality, time itself stumbled, confusing the manner in which it must divide your closed-in reality from his certain truth. The sterile white walls of the room melted away, and for an instant, you were no longer merely a specimen of study, but a contributing participant in an unspoken debate—a bond of trust that poured from mutual helplessness and individual comprehension.

With each gasp of air, you felt the desire well up within you; the urge to flee the shackles of your existence. The world beyond your horizons, with all its mundane indulgences and small victories, beckoned you like a distant siren, promising freedom and a place of belonging. But as the electric blue of his eyes remained unmoved, a glimmer of hope was kindled in your chest. Perhaps, in that fleeting moment of comprehension, you could find the courage to dream once more—not just of a life beyond these bars, but of a world where your own desires were not on the fringes of fantasy.

With that in mind, you understood the weight of his eyes, allowing it to be a silent vow: to battle for freedom, resist the emptiness that wished to engulf you completely, and reclaim the vibrant life you had always imagined, no matter what.

Word Count:1869

121 notes · View notes

sunriseindustries · 11 months ago

Text

Sunrise Brass Industries are Manufacturer, Exporter, Supplier of customized Components in Brass, Stainless Steel, Copper, Bronze, Gun Metal and special alloys at Jamnagar. https://www.sunriseind.co.in/index.html

1 note · View note

ashbub · 5 months ago

Text

believe ✦છ

arcane: sevika x gn!reader

contents: cursing [2.5k unedited] @parkersgarage this is heavily inspired by the oneshot they wrote! check out their works <3

IN WHICH: sevika makes you believe

❝ im living on overdrive, all the time ❞

Sevika just had a way of pissing you off.

Perhaps it was her bluntness, her casually dry sarcasm seeping onto the ends of her coiled lips every time she spoke. The way her soft gray eyes would flicker when she managed to briefly get your attention away from your hunched-up tinkering over your cluttered desk.

Maybe it was the way her choppy dark locks softly tickled the ends of her bronzed skin that you were ever so tempted to run across with the back of your thumb during the long nights she was away, lingering with the comforting yet faint scent of cheap booze and swirls of cigar smoke.

Or, more recently, it was the way she was bleeding all over your damn carpet.

"Sevika, what the actual fuck?-"

You seethed out with a hiss, your bottom lip slightly curled as she roughly dropped the prosthetic metal arm on the edge of your busted-up desk with a faint clatter. Your crinkled-up eyes gingerly running over the messy collection of tangled-up wires and bent-up bolts that scattered across the wooden surface.

You lightly pushed up the end of your thinly wired glasses up the bridge of your furrowed nose, dryly inspecting the damage with a soft click of your tongue before turning towards her harrowing presence. Her scarred bottom lip trickled with faint remnants of smeared dried blood, scattered bruises trickling across the edge of her face- her Roman nose looked slightly crooked, most likely getting it bashed in, fresh cuts adorning her rough skin as she smoothly leaned into your work desk with a jagged sigh coating her words.

It was a bit different from her usual bar brawl look though- not the same slightly caught up with light night gambling and the sweet taste of a new win lingering on the edge of her mouth.

She looked tired.

"Just needs a quick fix, dollface." Sevika’s voice was rough, the smooth words sliding off her tongue like a gravelly whisper, the edge of her usual self-assurance still present despite the blood splattered on her calloused skin and the damage to her arm that was dragged on the surface of your desk. "Figured you could patch this up."

You glanced at the mess of wires and metal plating surface- The arm looked like it had been through hell and tossed over the Piltover bridge for shits & giggles—scratches and dents marred it's sleek finish, and a few of the smaller components dangled precariously from frayed connections.

"A quick fix?" you repeated with a soft laugh lingering on your curled lips. You softly adjusted your thinly coiled glasses with a quick shove up the bridge of your nose, your eyes slightly crinkled up. "If that's all you needed, you could have done that your damn self-"

Your dingy apartment barely had enough space to fit the mess you called a workspace. The flickering fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting an erratic, sickly yellow glow across the room. Blueprints sprawled chaotically across the floor, pinned haphazardly to the walls, or forgotten in piles atop the desk. Tools, screws, and scraps of metal littered every surface, and the acrid tang of solder and oil clung to the stale air. The window was perpetually cracked open, letting in the faint hum of Zaun’s underbelly.

You turned over to look at her from your desk, a slight tug at your bottom lip.

Instead, you lightly snatched up the battered prosthetic arm, its weight heavier than it looked. Holding it up under the soft hue of the light above you, you gingerly turned it over in your hands, inspecting the sheer extent of the damage.

Her chapped lips pulled into something just shy of a smile, though it wasn’t quite smug— "Didn’t think my favorite little mechanic would mind getting their hands dirty," she murmured out, her voice low, with a subtle warmth that danced on the edge of teasing. It wasn’t the words, though, that got under your skin. It was the way her storm-gray eyes seemed to latch onto you as her fingertips carefully tapped the surface of your wooden desk with a slight hum.

It was the kind of teasing you heard faint whispers between the streets of The Undercity- murmurs calling you Sevika's “Pretty Little Tinkerer”

"Sevika," you bit out finally, your voice tight as your smooth fingertips ran across the surface of the arm with a soft sigh, "this isn’t a ‘quick fix.’ Half the circuits are fried, the frame is bent beyond repair, and these joints? They’re done for." You half haphazardly tossed the arm back onto the desk with a resounding thud, its impact shaking a glass jar of screws precariously close to the edge.

Her expression didn’t waver. The faint bruises on her jaw caught the flickering light, but her eyes stayed locked on yours, calm and unhurried as though she were absorbing every inch of your irritation. There was no cockiness, just a quiet watchfulness that made your pulse flicker unevenly.

"Relax," she said finally, her voice steady but soft in a way that only stoked the fire under your skin. "I know you’ll fix it. You always do."

You clenched your jaw with a slight click of your tongue, forcing your focus back on the scattered mess of your desk, your oiled-up fingers gingerly flexing in frustration before reaching for the tools scattered across the surface.

"You’re impossible," you muttered with a light hiss, letting the tension in your voice bleed into the room as you sorted through the mess. The soldering iron hissed faintly as it heated up, mirroring the simmering heat in your chest.

Behind you, Sevika stayed silent, her gaze still heavy on your back. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was there—a quiet weight you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much you tried to channel your irritation into fucking untangling the mess she’d handed you.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you tore your gaze from her, turning sharply toward the battered prosthetic arm on your desk. The clatter of tools filled the space as you hastily grabbed what you needed. Your voice was lower now, rough while smoothly turning one of the busted-up bolts quietly.

"What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into, Sevika? Every time you come back home to me, you come back, you come back hurt."

You adjusted your leather pants as you crouched to retrieve a roll of bandages from the corner. The thick material creaked softly with the movement, the belt cinched snugly at your waist holding an assortment of small tools and stray bolts you had yet to organize.

“It's nothing.”

“Nothing isn't gonna scrub out the blood dripping on my carpet.”

Sevika had a way of filling the cramped space with her presence, and not just because of her size. Her towering figure seemed to soak up the weak light, making her seem even more imposing against the backdrop of your cluttered home. She leaned heavily against the edge of your desk, her metal arm a battered mess, the prosthetic sparking faintly as it collided with a pile of wrenches. Her usual attitude seemed dimmed, but her faint small smile was still there that she reserved for you was still there, tugging at her curled lips even as fresh bruises marred her skin.

"I have been dealt worse." Sevika’s gaze shifted away, the tension in her jaw easing as she turned toward your cluttered desk. Her gray eyes moved over the chaotic sprawl of blueprints pinned haphazardly to the wall, their edges curling from neglect. Some were smeared with faint fingerprints of grease, the lines of your meticulous designs almost hidden beneath layers of ink corrections and frustrated scribbles.

Her attention dropped lower, taking in the rows of jars crammed along the edge of the desk—each filled with bolts, screws, and mismatched metal scraps. The faint clinking of loose pieces echoed as her metal arm brushed against one, sending a lid rolling off onto the floor. She didn’t flinch, her focus already wandering to the tools scattered across the workbench: screwdrivers, wrenches, and soldering irons, all marked with the stains of your labor.

"The whole situation has been growing dire, our attempts to control everything that has been brewing have been leading to chaos."

Your wired glasses slipped down your nose as you stood, and you shoved them back into place with a grease-stained hand, leaving a faint smudge.

"It doesn't have to be." You finally spoke.

"What?"

“I could be up there, with you, Sevika—helping you.” You set your wrench down with a decisive clink, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the room. Rising slightly from your chair, you pressed your palms flat against the surface of your desk, leaning forward as your tools and bolts rattled from the sudden motion. Your gaze softened, warm but resolute, as it locked onto hers.

“I know I’m not much of a fighter like you,” you continued with a slight rustle into your locks of hair for a moment, your voice steady despite the faint quaver of emotion before looking back at her with a soft laugh, “But if I could put together a few bolts—really show those topsiders—”

The words hung in the air as you held her gaze. The faint glow of the desk light highlighted the sheen of oil on the palm of your smooth hands and the subtle tension in your posture.

Sevika’s eyes flicked down briefly to your hands, pressed firmly against the scarred wood of the desk, then back up to your face. Her expression shifted, just slightly—the smallest crease at her dark brow, a flicker of something unspoken behind her stormy gray eyes. She took a breath, her broad shoulders rising and falling, but she said nothing yet, her silence heavy in the space between you.

"And what? So you could get hurt? Get involved in the crossfire of all this shit?" Sevika’s voice cut through with a sharp laugh, though the subtle tremor in her tone betrayed something deeper. Her hand shifted to rest on the desk beside yours, her thick fingers brushing past scattered bolts and oil-stained papers as if grounding herself against the weight of her words. Her gaze bore into you, stormy gray with a soft flicker.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound raw and uneven as it slipped past your lips. "And what do you want then?" You pushed back from the desk, standing now, your movements sharp while waving your curled-up fingers through the air with a slight sigh. "For me to sit pretty down here and tinker away while others die? While there’s a big fat fucking chance you could die-?"

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you turned away sharply to look at her, your soft hands gripping the edge of the desk until your knuckles stiffened. Tools roughly clattered from the sudden movement, and a lone wrench tumbled to the floor with a dull thud, but you didn’t flinch

She could die.

Before you could stop yourself, your hand rose, trembling slightly.

Your fingertips brushed the edge of a fresh bruise on her cheek, her soothing skin warm beneath your lingering touch. The rough scrape felt raw underneath your soft graze, gingerly tracing the faded scars that still trickled across her face. Slowly, the back of your thumb quietly traced over the darkened patch of skin with a soft breath. Her face, always so sharp and proud, softened under your hand for a moment. The scar running down her cheek caught the faint yellow glow of the overhead light, stark against her bronzed complexion.

Her breath hitched, the tiniest intake of air, as her chin tilted slightly toward the warmth of your palm. For a fleeting second, her usual stoic mask faltered, replaced by a slight softness. Her long lashes, thick and dark, fluttered as she hesitated, her gray eyes flickering towards yours.

"I couldn't-" You whispered quietly, "I-I don’t know what I would do without you."

Sevika's jaw tightened, her plump lips parting as if to respond, but no words came. Instead, she smoothly leaned into your quiet hand, the weight of her head pressing gently against your palm. Her fresh scars and cuts faintly press into the soothing touch of your warm fingertips.

Then, without a word, she turned her face slightly, and her pursed lips brushed softly against your palm for a brief moment. The kiss was warm and deliberate. Her chapped lips smoothly grazed your touch. Her crinkled-up eyes fluttering shut as her lips lingered across your soft skin, and you could feel her light breath ghosting over your fingertips, steady and grounding into your warmth.

"I won't, [y/n]. Y'know that."

"Do I?" you softly asked, your strained voice barely above a whisper, "What if you never come back to me one day, Sevy?"

Your darkened eyes traced her face quietly, lingering on every bruise and faded scar that was carved into her bronze skin. The fresh purpling on her cheekbone, the faded remnants of old battles across her jaw— The space between you warmly lingered with a faint breath.

Sevika’s dark brows furrowed, her expression hardening- Slowly, she reached out, her large, calloused hand enveloping yours. Her grip was firm, almost desperate, as her thick fingers curled tightly around yours, holding on as if you might slip away.

"Hell could try to drag me down into its fucking depths," she whispered into your fingertips as the warmth kissed your flushed skin, her soothing voice low but steady, "but nothing in Zaun—nothing—would keep me from coming back to you."

Her smooth thumb brushed against the back of your quivering hand, the roughness of her touch grounding you even as her words made your chest tighten. She quietly leaned closer to the edge of your fingers, her head dipping slightly, enough to have her choppy locks tickle your face. You could feel the heat of her skin, the tension in her clenched jaw, her gray eyes slightly flickering.

"You have to believe that," she finally murmured, her grip on your hand firm.

"I—" The word faltered on your lips, and you looked down at your joined hands, her grip warm, grounding you in a way that both comforted and overwhelmed.

“Sevika-”

"Do you believe that [y/n]?" Sevika’s voice softened just enough to make the question linger in the space between you.

You took a shaky breath, forcing a small smile to your lips before pressing the edge of your mouth to the edge of her fingertips quietly.

"I’ll try," you murmured quietly, your voice steadier this time.

Sevika let out a low chuckle at the remark, her warm thumb brushing over the back of your hand one last time in a smooth circle before releasing you. "Now, let’s get me cleaned up, huh? I’m pretty sure I look like shit."

"You definitely do," you quipped with a warm hum, already reaching for a clean rag that was tucked away in the wooden drawers of your desk. She raised an eyebrow at your quick response, but the ghost of a smile tugged at her chapped lips.

a/n: i just needed to write a bit for arcane holy moly- let me know if you guys wanna see more arcane stuff? i was thinking of writing for more characters so let me know in my inbox if you have a suggestion, im on a kick right now lol :')

232 notes · View notes

yandere-toons · 9 months ago

Text

Yandere Golden Guard | Hunter (Platonic Scenario - “That Old Fire”)

Warnings: Violence, Mention of Blood, Toxic Mindsets.

Word Count: 5,046.

A.N. – The illustration comes at the hands of Mike Austin, a storyboard artist for the series.

Footsteps amplified by the stone in the walls echoed as booms throughout the palace hallway. Hurriedly, you followed along behind until the door to one of the castle’s many antechambers was haphazardly thrown open. Within moments, the two of you had entered, and the door was again shut.

A poignant silence deafened the room, and while you acknowledged the urge to break it, something within cautioned you against it. Your companion, twitching and trembling, had taken to pacing the cramped area. Every five steps, he’d stop, muttering to himself, his ashy blond hair bouncing as he jerked his body from side to side, as if arguing with invisible foes.

Although you remained closer to the doorway than was probably necessary, a familiar sense of tiredness, coupled with annoyance, worked its way up within you. Time again, your companion had these episodes, and each time, they seemed to grow more visceral, more impassioned. It was as though something deep within had been attempting to claw itself free, and with every episode, every slight, whatever it was writhed that much closer to the surface.

It was the fifth time this month, and the month wasn’t even halfway through. A whisper, and your companion’s hand lunged from his side. Barely a second later, an audible zap sent a metallic cylindrical object flying from its perch atop a stack of nearby crates and soaring across the room.

The object was a yardarm, a horizontal component to attend one of the many flags of royal heraldry that were scattered across the room. The polished yardarm did little damage to the crates into which it smashed, but the clicking as the spearhead caromed from surface to surface drowned out any opportunity for interruption.

"Belos doesn't trust me! He thinks I'm nothing but a kid…” A huff escaped, scarcely audible as the spearhead made its final bounces. “He thinks I’m not good enough to do such an important job, and you know what? What if he’s right? What if I’m not, and this was my only chance? If I could have gathered some stupid recruits and brought them, then he’d have to take me seriously! Well, good luck with that now...” He scoffed, sweat forming on his brow.

You stood there, motionless, eyes cast over his sunken and shaking form. You knew he’d be upset at the failure to complete the mission but hadn't forseen it hitting him this hard. His hands twisted, and his eyes seemed to dart around the room, almost as if expecting Emperor Belos to come lurking behind any of the assorted tapestries.

“Failure,” the word haunted him, a mantra whispered in memory of his every mistake. “Why did I think volunteering for another mission would be a good idea? Nice one, Hunter! You’re a true professional. Making the family proud, huh?” He'd flung his hands up into the air in a dramatic gesture.

The rhetorical questioning was something you’d grown accustomed to, for better or worse. Once he started down that line of questioning, though, there was nowhere positive things could go.

You spoke softly, neither with condescension nor timorousness. “Hey. You are not a failure. Belos let you take on the mission, right?” You paused for a moment, allowing his breathing to slow before you continued. “He didn’t want that little demon he has following him, not any of those punk-head mages, either. And he didn’t say you were off the job, despite everything. You know what that means?”

He had stopped with his own line of questioning, and while his head remained tilted down at the stone floor, you could tell his nervous movements had lessened. You approached, not quite to the point of standing above him, but close enough to allow no mishearing of your words.

All he needed was a little nudge, and he’d be pulled away from those nasty thoughts eating away at him.

“It means the mission is still on.” Your fists clutched the ends of your gloves, drawn up to your chest, and rocked to and fro. “Maybe you just need a little help? I’m already off duty for the day, so I'll help you. We’ll go headhunting together, bag some recruits, and show all those dopey mages how wrong they were! What do you say, friend?”

In one swift motion, his eyes lifted from the ground and widened. The shadow of happiness crept onto his face and, beside it, a hint of worry about how short it might last.

He looked at you like a boy who was seeing the dawn. In his rose-coloured gaze was relief at having seen it after questioning for so long whether he would.

Hunter pushed himself to his feet as a knight would upon receiving a quest from his liege, and he offered his hand. “Let's go.”

You offered a slight smile, adorned your mask, and set off behind Hunter. The mission wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it.

***

It took more time than it should have to find Hexside, but once the two of you laid eyes on it, there was no mistaking it. The school was a distinguished landmark, separated from the Titan’s ribs surrounding it, with its dense foliage and rolling hills that seemed to swallow the place.

Still, you and Hunter could see various students and staff meandering across the grounds, and while you investigated the landscape, Hunter scanned the student body.

“They don’t know it yet, but they’ll love being in the Emperor’s Coven! We’ll sell them on sleeping in until 6 A.M., ditching their lame friends for better ones, and learning the best kind of magic there is… Rules and authority!”

You weren’t sure whether Hunter was talking to you, himself, or someone else, but same as before, you didn’t feel the need to try and take the wind from his sails. You’d be there to support, as you’d done before, win or lose.

“I’ll go in first since I’m supposed to lead the mission, okay? But you stay close by in the event we have to fight some of the other coven reps for the recruits. Those guys will do anything to see me fail, so be ready, okay?”

He wasn't dour like before, and his body had shifted to one of nervous twitches in the face of some uncertain future rather than ruminating on the difficulties of the past. His head held higher, and his eyes seemed to fill with that curious gleam again. You wondered briefly if he'd even noticed your staring, but before the question could be answered, you nodded.

Releasing a quick breath, the two of you set off for the grounds of the school. You’d need to change your clothes and stash your uniforms for the mission, and with a reminder of that to Hunter, a fast spell had ensured the two of you looked the part of regular, blissfully unaware, students rather than disciplined soldiers of the emperor.

With Hunter in tow, you wandered the grounds, occasionally socialising with students and other creatures you could only assume were faculty. No one seemed inclined to check your respective identities, and neither of you cared to overshare. If agents of the Coven Heads were present or any practitioners of wild magic, it wouldn't do to draw too much attention to yourselves.

After what felt like hours, the two of you emerged from one of the many pathways around the school into what appeared to be a courtyard. Bleachers formed a barrier on one side, and across from them, a stretch of wood formed another.

Despite being so close to the school, the dense vegetation managed to obscure vision from the courtyard in at least two directions, but parts of the main campus, jutting out above the bleachers, still seemed to cast a watchful eye upon the area.

Any activity here was purposely made to be seen by an audience.

Hunter redirected your attention with a quiet grunt back to the far side of the courtyard, where six of what you could only assume were students lined up in two teams of three. They adorned themselves with knee pads, exercise shorts, and various sports shoes.

One of the students, a three-eyed girl with violet-coloured hair, seemed to be the most animated of the group, boasting of her prowess in the game known as “grudgby” and hurling unflattering accusations at the students gathered opposite her.

Within seconds, the students were casting magic, shouting at one another, and flying across the courtyard, and at every opportunity, the velvet-haired girl continued to roar out insults.

Hunter scoffed at the brash display, keen to move on, but your snickering compelled him to turn and face you.

“And you weren’t like that to the conscripts and weekend warriors they had to bring down after we made it to the bottom of the mountain? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?” You offered a cheeky smile, and Hunter, mind aflush with memories, wrenched his head away. His cheeks had developed a tinge of red, and he’d instinctively reached for a mask that was no longer there.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” he stuttered, neck craned. “I—We… were gracious in victory. That’s what the emperor expected, and that’s what we did.”

“That’s what we did after you had the training supervisor tally up the scores four different times to repeat that our team had won… Handily.”

Hunter fell silent, the red on his face glowing brighter as his shoulders locked up again.

“If we kicked out everybody with a bad attitude, neither of us would have been selected for anything beyond cleaning duty.”

Hunter offered no response, mouth straight and flummoxed by your argument.

“Let’s give them a shot. If they’re all talk, we’ll move on, but if not, then maybe we’ve found some of our recruits. Plus, if you end up being right, I’ll let you say, ‘I told you so.’ Sound good?” You offered a soft smile, careful not to interrupt Hunter as he reclaimed his bearings. He didn’t like being bombarded with questions when he was flustered and didn’t care for swift, sudden moves either.

Hunter’s head slowly rose, and he bore a slight yet noticeable smile on his face. “All right. Let’s do it!” His shoulders relaxed with his next breath, but you could still see a touch of red on his face as you marched past him towards the courtyard.

Grudgby, as it turned out, was a mixture of a capture-the-flag game and a close quarters combat course. The rules were of limited interest to you, save for the opportunity embraced by seemingly every member of both teams to clobber one another with magic or their fists when an opponent came too close.

It wasn’t easy, certainly, and there was a clear possibility of injury, but the game was exciting. Hunter elected to watch from the first row of bleachers, but you found yourself knee-deep in a match, tasked with defence. When an opportunity came to guard against opponents, you fared well.

The soldiers of the Emperor’s Coven did not yield to their enemies.

***

Another goal defended, and you’d lost track of time. Another point against your team prevented, and in the stupor that came with that train of through, you’d neglected to notice the velvet-haired girl, Boscha, charging you from another direction.

Her teammate had been decidedly less coordinated and inclined to deception, charging at you head-on, but Boscha was a different animal. As her teammate was flung back, Boscha advanced on your left flank, just outside your periphery. She surged toward the goal, unleashing a blast of magic powerful enough to send you plummeting into the grass.

Your vision went black for a moment, and your ears rang with a tumultuous melody. Something high-pitched sounded to command the field, and within moments, you could hear a frenzy of concerned questions. Your face had become buried in the grass from the fall, and you were unable to immediately answer.

Unbeknownst to you, Hunter had risen from the bleachers, determined to approach but had yet to sort through the crowd. His breath quickened to a subtle pant, and he hastened to view the scene for himself.

A member of your team, a neon green-haired girl named Amity, had crouched at your side. She gently wove her hands across your limbs, chest, and head, checking for open wounds and any lingering magical damage.

Amity leaned towards you and, upon turning your head, a gasp escaped her that she tried to stifle.

Hunter's trained ear caught the start of it. “What?” he asked, his voice rising as he turned to Amity. “What is it?”

Folding her hands on her lap, Amity sat up and kept her eyes down. “Nothing. They just had some dirt on their face.”

The slight pause after the word “just” caused Hunter to tighten his grip on the staff. He gritted his teeth, narrowed his eyes and struggled with his innate distrust of the situation. Relocating, his eyes locked onto your form as he maneuvered closer to you, but barely a second later, he pressed his lips into a straight line and stormed in her direction.

Amity widened her eyes and raised her arms when a gloved hand clutched her left shoulder, and a grunt flew out her mouth as she was shoved aside.

Hunter stood in her place and searched for the reason behind her surprise, nearly dropping his staff when he saw it.

The voices of friends, memories, nightmares swelled like the tolls of broken bells.

Despite this, Hunter could not rid himself of the thought that your wound mirrored his. Back when it was fresh and still stung like the point of a fire bee, it was dripping red. The magic blast had singed a streak of burnt skin across your jaw and cheek, just as the mystical vine had sliced a stripe up his flesh.

His scar began to itch, and Hunter reached out to scratch it when he realised he had been picking at it for the last minute.

The drop in his stomach brought a wave of cold sweat over his head. It was as if a rainstorm had developed and poured only on him, chilling his bones and drawing shuddering breaths from his lips.

Strips of yellow and red magic crackled at the end of his staff. He squeezed it until his hand shook and his knuckles turned white.

As soon as he spun towards Boscha, every Hexside student on his side of the court rushed to block his path. Multiple shouts of “Woah!” and “Easy!” spilt from the group as they formed a half-circle about him, many with their hands up high to deflect any far-reaching spells.

In the confusion, other students loafing nearby had arrived, some to help, and others to simply gawk. At least a dozen students had made their way onto the courtyard by that point, including another young witch identified as Luz.

Boscha, for her part, stood comfortable across the field, bragging to her entourage about scoring points and retelling the story of how she’d knocked the enemy team’s ‘newbie’ straight into the dirt.

You were lucid by this point and, though still somewhat slurred in speech, stable. That fact eluded Hunter, however, who struggled against Luz barely half a court away. You noticed that, amidst the students seeking to deny him his quarry, he’d shouldered and darted past as many as possible to bring himself closer to Boscha.

He was perhaps fifteen metres from her before Luz succeeded in halting his lunge forward. Hunter fought against Luz, placing a strenuous emphasis on every third word. “She does not get to do that and just walk away!”

Luz dug in her heels, pressing her weight into the staff. Though Hunter was almost certainly physically stronger than this witch, you could tell there was something about her that commanded his attention; it seemed as though they knew each other.

“No one is saying what she did is okay!”

A shout of fury burst out of Hunter as he shoved Luz back a step. “Then why are you defending her?”

“I'm not!” Luz relaxed her clenched teeth and softened her furrowed brows into a look of sympathy, her voice lowering alongside it. “I'm trying to stop you from doing something you'll regret.”

Hunter glowered at Boscha from across the court, his head down and his eyes looking up. “I won't regret it.”

He spared Luz a final glance before ripping his staff free of her and marching once more to you, his fury temporarily repressed whilst he had something else to swallow his attention.

“Hunter?” As he lifted you from the ground in silence, you pressed a hand to your cheek and winced at the burn. “Why is my face on fire?” you mumbled, to which Hunter offered a sullen glance.

He laid your arm across his back and shoulders. “Come on. I'm taking you home.” His eyes seemed far away with that remark, but his voice rang sincere.

With a nervous but hopeful smile, Gus, a friend of Luz’s, dashed forward. “Hey, it's just a little burn! Have someone from the Healing Coven take a look at it, and we can start round two.”

After ensuring you could stand on your own, Hunter whirled towards him and pointed a finger at the distant shape of Boscha. “I say we don't want to play with anyone who thinks this is okay!” His finger swung round to your wound.

Taking a breath, Willow, another friend of Luz, closed her eyes before reopening them with a frown. “You can leave if you want, Hunter, but it's their choice.” She extended a hand to you.

His face reddened at this.

Hunter clenched his fists at his side and looked between you and the group. “You agree with me, right?” There was a layer of desperation in his words that gave you pause.

It felt much more personal than it should have. Hunter had known more of these students than he had let on, and though the burn on your face continued to sting, your attention remained directed elsewhere. It hurt to know that Hunter hadn't been forthcoming about the environment into which you'd both entered, but you couldn't quite blame him for it.

Everything about this situation upset him, but if you spirited away with him, he'd spend the rest of the mission upset. As usual, he'd blame himself, and that wasn't the point of any of this.

Firmly, but not aggressively, you shook the hand of Willow, offering a slight nod in affirmation. “I don't see why I can't stick around for the end.”

Hunter uttered a slight grunt but voiced no further complaints, eyeing the contact until it broke.

You resolved that while you wouldn’t enter the second event, and would instead watch, you’d give Hunter a chance to collect himself and cool off. Pressuring him into conversation before he was ready wouldn’t help, and for the purposes of the mission, the both of you were simply students with but limited history together.

Hunter made his way to the bleachers, shoulders tensed and brooding. You’d elected to sit on the bench proximate to the court, presumably where the teams would sit in between time on the field.

Gus and Willow, after being thanked for their assistance, departed to pursue their own activities, but even if they hadn’t, you paid them little mind.

The sounds of the grudgby match echoed far beyond the court on which they took place: spells cast, players sent flying, and occasional obscenities hurled. The injuries sustained, non-life-threatening but certainly inhibiting, all reminded you of training. The organised chaos, the stenches of fear and exertion, and the desperation for success were all familiar bedfellows.

You had a slight smile on your face as you watched the madness unfold.

Casting only a peripheral glance to your side, you confirmed that Hunter lingered in his perch upon the top row. Given that he hadn’t already returned to sit beside you, he must still have been sore over your disagreement. It was something you’d have to talk out once the mission was over.

***

After a vicious and profanity-laden game, the braggart, Boscha, and her team claimed victory. Amity and her team fought well, scoring several goals in rapid succession early in the game, but Boscha’s malevolent energy could not be matched.

She kicked, spat, cursed, and cast at every opportunity, and though it left more than one member of the other team requiring bandages by the time of the game’s conclusion, her approach had paid off.

Simmering with pride, Boscha had soon taken to rehashing everything she and the rest of her team did to secure victory with her fellow grudgby players. Amity’s team was more personable, choosing to tend to one another’s wounds, clean up the courtyard, and move as a group towards a path back to the school grounds.

After turning in your direction, Boscha spied you sitting alone. A devious smile crawled onto her face, and she started to approach you. Unfortunately for you, the injury to your face had resumed itching, and while you sought to address that issue, Boscha made her approach.

The rest of her team made no attempt to regain her attention and instead began one-by-one to slip away from the courtyard as well. You spied Luz, the human witch, moving at high speed, but your attention broke from her in a fresh round of scratching.

Boscha had nearly closed the distance, but amid a scratching fit, you’d shut your eyes. Further unbeknownst to you, Hunter was on the move. Still, the game was over, and the only thing left to do was to link back up with Hunter, decide how to proceed.

Turning about, you noticed he was no longer atop his nest in the bleachers, and for a moment, your blood froze. Was it possible that in your awe at the game, you’d failed to spot a threat? Had something occurred on the bleachers, so close to you, without your knowledge? Had Hunter been discovered and abducted? Had this whole game been a well-planned ruse by the enemies of the emperor to seize his nephew?

Taking a deep breath and letting it flow out slowly, you evaluated the situation. Luz emphatically conversed with an annoyed and uncomfortable Boscha, and you could still see a few wandering students sashaying across the surrounding area. Either whatever happened was subtle, or perhaps, Hunter was simply out of your sight.

There came no noticeable change in temperature or breeze, and the sunlight illuminating the court shone unobstructed. No sizzling of recently cast magic reached your ears, no moaning of abominations, and no belching of steam from exhaust vents of heavy machinery. Still, it was highly doubtful Hunter would have taken off without you.

Another moment of scanning, and you spotted him, lower than usual, and with staff clenched. You almost made to join him in what you first thought was imminent combat before your eyes followed his gaze.

He fixated on Luz and Boscha, the duo barely ten metres from you. Once again, noted a passing thought, you had failed to notice Boscha’s approach.

Boscha opened her mouth and raised a hand to the side of it, only to pause when Luz darted in front of her. She wrinkled her eyes and curled her lip in disgust as Luz grasped her hand with both of her own and began shaking it up and down.

“Wow, that was a great game! You really had us beat!” The words spewed out of Luz's mouth in a flurry of haste and nerves, and she leaned forward with closed eyes in an attempt to command Boscha's attention.

“Your team was awesome! Like, I don’t even know how you guys moved that fast and how you kept scoring so many goals. You were crushing the other team! We’ve met before, by the way. I’m Luz, and have I told you that I’m a huge fan of yours…?”

Luz’s words flooded out in a hodgepodge of watered-down criticism of Amity’s team, praise for Boscha’s apparently unbelievable skill in grudgby, and overeager begging to be taught the secrets to the game’s success. Hunter didn’t move an inch throughout the exchange, his narrowed eyes locked onto Boscha and burning through the human obstacle in the way.

After two full, uninterrupted minutes of Luz heaping further praise on Boscha and desperately seeking tutoring, the aggrieved victor recoiled and yanked her hand free. Visibly cringing, Boscha turned her body to the side, raising her formerly gripped hand in an almost defensive arc to shield her face from Luz’s sight.

“Let go of me, freak! Get lost!” Boscha spat in unabashed repulsion at Luz’s fawning. Luz, either unaware or dismissive of the effort at escape, took the opportunity to move closer to Boscha, even opening her arms for something she called a ‘victory hug.’ She boosted her verbal barrage, adding in personal compliments about the grudgby player’s hair, shoes, and even her smell.

Horrified, Boscha lurched about and, after shrieking a string of words you could only assume she did not learn in class, raced away, presumably to find any remnants of her team.

Luz abandoned any attempt at pursuit and instead rounded herself to face Hunter. Her shoulders drew in tight, and her eyes remained focused on his, but her stance demonstrated less malice than it did determination.

“Why did you do that?” Hunter asked, failing to contain the wrath singing in his ears. Once again, his shoulders tensed up, and his posture ran rigid. Eyes slitted, he glared in unrepentant disgust at the retreating figure of Boscha and the interrupting one of Luz.

“Because, like you, I saw what she was about to do. That wouldn’t have been good for anyone, least of all, you.” Her words betrayed an edge, akin to Hunter’s, but the intent was different: where Hunter’s reeked of hostility, Luz’s turned quiet with worry. The steadiness with which she spoke belied her erratic actions towards Boscha merely moments prior.

“Come on, Hunter. It's just a friendly game."

"Is it? Does this always happen at your 'friendly games'? People getting bludgeoned because the enemy team decided not to play fair!" Sweat resurfaced on Hunter’s face, with beads of it dripping across his forehead. His teeth remained grated, but as Boscha had left his field of view, he seemed to mellow out, albeit slightly.

"Well, no. That was a little extreme, but—"

"But nothing! The game's over, so we're leaving. We're done!”

Luz made an effort to step forward, offering a hand in support of the shaking Hunter. He bristled at the potential contact, turning away in a flurry of loathing and shame.

“That wasn’t okay for her to do that.” Hunter stared at a plot of dirt, emotion draining from his voice. Despite his choked attempt at masking his feelings, an occasional tremor tickled up his arm.

The other students, either ignorant or indifferent, continued on with their day.

With the match over, you made for the bench, intent on passing through Hunter’s field of view before quietly slipping off back to the main school grounds. A direct interruption of Hunter whilst he was in the midst of conversation would do little to assuage him, but he needed a reason to pull himself from the interaction.

An impulse to scratch at your recent wound emerged, however, and with it, came a ringing in your ears that made you all but deaf to the surrounding world.

Luz playfully hit Hunter’s shoulder, which yielded a twitch. “See? I knew you'd come around!” She offered a kind smile, careful not to reveal hostility or make any additional sudden moves.

Hunter blinked, a tired push against the dark bags already set in, turned to the stands and looked away from Luz, eyes seeming to glaze. “If she hurts them again, you won't stop me.”

Luz eyed him with her arm drawn to her chest. She pursed her lips and closed her fist, a seed of worry in her gut.

Seeing you paw at your injury but swerve in his direction, Hunter lifted his eyes from the ground and began striding to meet you. Energy returned to his movements, but before he could reach you, Luz again called out to him.

"Hunter! Why don't you stay five?" She inquired, seeming determined to make peace. Hunter stopped on a heel and, casting one further look in your direction, turned back, less forcefully than simply aggrieved.

"Unlike you, human, we have places to be." The condescension in his voice was overpowering, reminiscent of someone with infinitely many other, and all decidedly superior, opportunities for social interaction than the one in which he found himself.

Dismissively, Hunter spun about, certain to find you standing behind him, or at least, proximate to him, but instead, he gaped at the sight of you having just passed by him to meander on the pathways winding about the bleachers.

In an instant, the anger evaporated from his face. "Where are you going?" The tone change in his voice betrayed no small amount of uncertainty and even suggested a hint of fear.

"I thought I told you to wait for me," he sputtered out, ignoring any further communication from Luz, or indeed, any of the other students or creatures that remained on or near the courtyard.

"You'd have lain into everyone on the court if I didn't give you a reason to leave." You turned your head slightly back towards Hunter as you continued walking, presenting a slight smirk.

To him, there lurked no anger in that face, no sting of disappointment, no plot to humiliate, no condemnation shaved sharp on the tip of your words. You spoke to him then, just as you had so many times before, like another person, rather than some useful tool or obstacle in the way of brighter prospects.

Though your eyes only met his momentarily, and via periphery, that old fire bloomed on his face once more. "I just—" he turned his head away, again reaching for a mask he did not possess "—want things to be fair."

You offered a snicker, quiet, but due to Hunter’s proximity, audible.

All you heard in between your steps to the forest was a single, solitary squeak.

#Yandere #Yandere x You #Yandere x Reader #Yandere x Y/N #Yandere Imagines #Yandere Scenario #Yandere Oneshot #Yandere The Owl House #Yandere Owl House #Yandere Hunter #Yandere Golden Guard #The Owl House x Reader #TOH x Reader #Hunter x Reader #The Golden Guard x Reader #Golden Guard x Reader #Platonic Yandere #X Reader

204 notes · View notes

metalstitchinglocking · 1 year ago

Text

For more details regarding crack repair of aluminium and cast iron by metal lock & metal stitching, please email us at [email protected], or [email protected], or call us at +91 9582647131 or +91 9810012383.

#Bronze and Cast Iron Component By Metal Lock #Metal Lock & Metal Stitching #crack repair of aluminium #Crack Repair By Metal Stitching #Metal Stitching of Cylinder Liner #Crack In Main Engine Liner

0 notes

deirdreei · 5 months ago

Text

December

Pairings: Aged up! Katsuki Bakugo x Fem! Reader

This is part 1, Part 2

Description: Katsuki needs a new mechanic, his current one seems to be riding up his nerves. Then he gets recommended you.

Note: This isn't proofread and mostly improvised.

---

December 1st

The city was blanketed in soft, silent snow, the kind that fell thick and steady, turning every surface into a winter wonderland. The streets were lined with holiday decorations—bright lights twinkling on every corner, and faint holiday music drifting through the air from nearby stores. The crisp, cold air stung his face as Izuku Midoriya walked briskly down the street, his breath visible in the frosty morning air. He had always loved this time of year, the world feeling a little more magical as winter took over.

As he reached the nondescript building tucked away in a quieter part of town, he paused for a moment to adjust the scarf around his neck. It was the first of December, a month that had become a tradition for him—coming to see Y/n, his long-time friend, to check in and make sure everything was going smoothly with her work.

Opening the door with a gentle creak, Izuku stepped inside, and the familiar warmth of the room hit him. The small workshop was filled with the scent of machine oil and metal, the hum of a workbench in constant motion. The dim lighting gave the room a cozy glow, though it was obvious that Y/n had been working late into the night. Snow clung to the windows, and the soft winter light filtered in, casting a chill around the room.

On the floor, with her back to the door, Y/n was sprawled out in her usual work attire—a dark, grease-stained jumpsuit that hugged her frame, a mix of tools scattered around her. Her hair was messily pulled up into a bun, strands falling loose around her face as she worked with intense focus. She didn’t notice Izuku’s arrival. She was too busy, crouched over a complicated piece of hero gear, her hands moving deftly as she adjusted a malfunctioning component, her brow furrowed in concentration.

The floor around her was littered with parts—screws, wires, small metallic components—and yet Y/n appeared completely at ease, like this was the most natural environment for her. Her face was smeared with grease, a little messy, but it only seemed to highlight her unwavering dedication to her work. Izuku couldn’t help but smile softly, a quiet admiration filling his chest. He had known Y/n for years, and even now, seeing her like this, so immersed in her craft, still left him in awe.

She was always like this. Completely consumed by her genius mind, her ability to solve problems before they even fully manifested. Her eyes sparkled with innovation, and her ability to fix even the most complicated issues with hero gear was nothing short of extraordinary. It had been years since he first met her, and he could still remember how impressed he had been by her ability to notice every little detail, every weakness in design. She had a mind for this that was incomparable.

Izuku stood quietly by the door, watching her work, before clearing his throat softly to get her attention. "Y/n?" he called gently, not wanting to startle her.

Her head shot up, eyes widening in surprise. She wiped her hands on a nearby rag, then reached up to pull a stray hair from her face. “Izuku?” she asked, blinking as if she hadn’t fully processed his presence just yet. “You’re early. It’s not even the 5th yet.”

Izuku grinned sheepishly, stepping closer. "I know, I couldn’t wait. Besides, you never stop working, so I figured I'd just pop by."

Y/n smirked, rolling her eyes, but her lips twitched into a small smile. “Always in a hurry. Come on, get in here before the cold air freezes you into a popsicle.”

Izuku chuckled and took a few steps further into the room, letting the door shut behind him. As he moved toward the counter, he couldn’t help but glance back at her—always so immersed in her passion, always so... Y/n.

“Busy as usual, huh?” he asked, his voice warm with familiarity.

“Same as always,” she replied, already turning back to her work, though her tone was light. “Can’t afford to waste time when there’s always something that needs fixing.”

The snow outside continued to fall gently, the sounds of the holidays filtering in through the workshop windows. And while the world outside was preparing for the season of joy, in her little corner of it, Y/n was already deep into the heart of her December routine—working tirelessly to make sure every piece of hero gear, every design, was as perfect as it could be.

And Izuku, as he always had, would be there by her side.

Y/n’s voice pulled him back into the moment as she looked up at him with a faintly curious expression. She wiped her hands on a rag again before pushing herself up from the floor, her movements fluid despite the grease and dirt she’d accumulated. "How’s Aizawa?" she asked, her tone casual but with a glimmer of genuine concern.

Izuku blinked, caught off guard by the question. He had been so focused on seeing Y/n again that he hadn’t thought to ask about her projects or her thoughts on his mentor. The last time he’d seen Aizawa, he had been dealing with the usual burdens of his job, but nothing particularly out of the ordinary. Still, he appreciated the way she always remembered the smaller details. Y/n had met Aizawa only a handful of times, but their brief interactions had left an impression. And the time she’d spent working on his prosthetic leg was something Izuku would never forget.

“Oh, he’s doing well,” Izuku replied, pushing the original question from his mind as he thought back to the last time he saw his teacher. “He’s been tough as always, but the new leg is working great. He’s been able to move much more fluidly in combat—he says it’s helped him more than he expected. And you really made it fit his needs perfectly.”

Y/n smiled faintly at his praise. “I’m glad it’s working out for him,” she said, her gaze softening. “Aizawa’s the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for help unless he really needs it, and when he did, it was important to get the design right. The prosthetic had to support his weight and still allow him the mobility he needs—especially with the way he fights. It’s a fine balance.”

Izuku nodded, recalling the first time he’d introduced Y/n to Aizawa. The two had been skeptical at first, Aizawa with his usual guarded demeanor and Y/n with her pragmatic, no-nonsense attitude. But Y/n had quickly understood the complexity of Aizawa’s needs. She’d spent hours analyzing his movements, taking meticulous measurements, and fine-tuning the leg to ensure it wasn’t just functional but tailored to his fighting style. It had been one of her more challenging projects, but seeing the result in action—watching Aizawa move with more ease—had been incredibly rewarding.

“You were the only one who could do it,” Izuku added with a smile, grateful for the way Y/n always approached challenges. “Aizawa doesn’t trust just anyone with something like that. But with you, he didn’t hesitate.”

Y/n shrugged, as if it were nothing special, but the slight blush creeping onto her cheeks betrayed her. “I just did what I could. You know how I am when it comes to gear—it’s about precision, making sure it works in the most demanding situations. I’m glad he liked it.”

Izuku felt a quiet sense of pride in her work, not just as a friend but as someone who had witnessed her skill firsthand for so many years. He leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, smiling at her. "He actually said it’s helped him get a few extra moves in when things get heated during missions. You’ve really made a difference, Y/n."

She chuckled softly, the sound genuine but tempered with modesty. "Well, I’m just happy he’s able to use it the way he needs to. Aizawa doesn’t ask for much, so if something I made helps him, that’s enough for me.”

There was a pause, and Izuku took a breath, noticing that Y/n’s eyes were still focused on the tools scattered around the room, though her thoughts seemed far away. He knew she didn’t always share her emotions openly, but moments like these—where her quiet satisfaction in her work showed through—were when Izuku felt the deepest appreciation for her.

He opened his mouth to speak again, but paused, unsure if he should push his initial question. The subject of her projects always brought Y/n out of her shell, and for a moment, he just wanted to let her have this space. He could always ask about her plans later. For now, it was enough to see her in her element, the snowy world outside a silent witness to their long-standing friendship.

Izuku’s smile faltered slightly as he leaned back against the workbench, his eyes drifting toward the snowy window. His mind wandered back to a conversation he’d had a few weeks ago, one that still felt a little uneasy to him. He had been talking to Bakugo about hero gear, as he often did. The topic had come up because Bakugo was complaining—again—about his mechanic, Hatsune, becoming more and more difficult to work with.

“She’s becoming way too crazy for me,” Bakugo had growled, arms crossed over his chest. “Can’t get anything right. I need someone who knows what they’re doing and doesn’t slow me down.”

Izuku had mentioned Y/n then—how she specialized in high-tech gear for top-tier heroes, how she had worked on everything from mobility suits to combat weapons. He’d never seen someone so passionate and skilled in her field. Her genius with design was unmatched, and he knew Bakugo needed someone like her.

"I can ask Y/n," Izuku had said, feeling a little apprehensive even then. "She works with some of the top heroes, and she's great with custom gear. I think she'd be perfect for you."

Bakugo’s eyes had narrowed, his face skeptical at first. But then he’d grunted, “Fine, do it. Get her to take a look at my gear. I need someone I can trust, not some idiot who can’t get it right.”

Izuku had left the conversation feeling a strange mix of guilt and responsibility, unsure how to approach Y/n with the idea. He’d been coming to her for years with requests—whether it was advice, help with his own gear, or the occasional favor—and each time, she’d told him that she didn’t mind. But this time, this felt different. Bakugo was... well, Bakugo. His strong personality, his need for control, and his lack of patience for anything that didn’t fit his vision made Izuku nervous.

He had always admired how Y/n managed her work with grace and precision, but introducing her to Bakugo seemed like a different kind of challenge. Would she even want to deal with him? Would Bakugo be able to respect her process, or would his brash attitude drive her away?

Izuku cleared his throat, drawing Y/n’s attention back to him. “Actually,” he began, his voice a little more hesitant than he intended, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, noticing the shift in his demeanor. “What’s up?”

Izuku hesitated for a moment longer before pushing the thought forward. “So, I mentioned you to Bakugo a while ago… about your work with high-tech gear, and... well, he needs a new mechanic.”

Y/n’s eyes narrowed just slightly, catching the tension in his voice. “Bakugo Katsuki?” she asked, already piecing things together.

“Yeah...” Izuku rubbed the back of his neck, his nerves making him feel awkward despite his usual confidence. “He’s been having trouble with his current mechanic. Hatsune’s just... not cutting it for him anymore. So, he asked me to find someone better, and I thought of you.”

Y/n let out a long, thoughtful sigh, leaning back against the workbench with her arms crossed. “So, you want me to work with him?” Her tone wasn’t cold, but there was a certain wariness to it.

Izuku nodded slowly. “I know you don’t usually take on a lot of requests from other heroes, but Bakugo… he’s not like other people. He’s... intense. But he respects people who can get the job done. And you could really help him, Y/n."

Y/n paused, her eyes distant for a moment as she thought it over. She’d worked with plenty of demanding heroes in the past—each with their own quirks and preferences—but Bakugo was a different breed entirely. His overwhelming pride and stubbornness were legendary, and his ability to alienate those around him was almost as impressive as his power.

"I’m not sure..." she said quietly, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I know you trust him, Izuku, but Bakugo’s not exactly known for being... easy to work with."

Izuku chuckled nervously, scratching his head. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. He’s a bit of a handful, but he doesn’t mean anything by it. Once he knows someone can deliver, he’ll actually start listening. It’s just... the first impression can be a lot.”

Y/n glanced at him, a mixture of hesitation and curiosity in her eyes. “And you really think I’m the right fit for him?”

“I think you’re the only one who could keep up with him,” Izuku said, trying to sound convincing. “He needs someone who can handle his... unique personality and still give him the gear he needs. You’re the best at what you do, and I know he’s looking for someone who can be as precise as you are.”

There was a silence as Y/n thought it over, her gaze flickering between Izuku and the scattered tools in front of her. Finally, she sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But if I do this, it’s going to be on my terms. No exceptions. I don’t want to hear complaints about my methods.”

Izuku smiled, relieved. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. Thanks, Y/n. I know Bakugo’s not the easiest guy to deal with, but... he really needs this.”

Y/n gave a small shrug, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “If it’ll help him, I’ll make it work. But if he starts pushing my buttons too much, I’m not afraid to put him in his place.”

Izuku chuckled, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over him. “I know you can handle it. I’ll tell him you’ll take him on, and then... I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

As he spoke, the snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the world in soft white silence. Izuku couldn’t help but feel a little lighter knowing that Y/n had agreed, even if it was with some reservations. Bakugo’s need for a new mechanic would finally be addressed, and, maybe, just maybe, this December would bring a new kind of challenge—not just for Bakugo, but for the complicated dynamic that was starting to form between Y/n and the explosive hero.

Izuku noticed the slight skepticism in Y/n’s expression as she thought about Bakugo. She’d never met him before, only hearing about him through Izuku’s long, often exaggerated stories about his explosive friend. Of course, she had seen Bakugo on TV plenty of times—his rise through the hero ranks, his explosive battles, his notorious temper—it had always seemed like a whirlwind to her. From her perspective, Bakugo’s entire existence sometimes seemed like a bit of a silly spectacle.

But then again, she knew how much Bakugo meant to Izuku. His loyalty to Bakugo was unwavering, and Y/n had always admired that. Despite how different they were, Izuku’s stories about Bakugo painted a picture of someone who was fiercely determined, though often misunderstood. Y/n didn’t mind hearing Izuku go on and on about him. It was a bit of a routine between them. She would continue working on whatever project she had at the time, her hands moving with practiced precision, while Izuku sat nearby, spilling out his thoughts on anything and everything.

Most of the time, their conversations flowed like this: Izuku would tell stories about his days at U.A., how Aizawa was doing with his prosthetic leg, how Eri was adjusting to life with the other students. But it was Bakugo who often dominated their talks.

Izuku would talk about their childhood—about how they had grown up together, how their rivalry had been something that shaped both of them. He would talk about how Bakugo had always been stubborn, but deep down, he had a heart that cared more than he let on. Y/n would only half-listen at times, her focus mostly on the tasks in front of her—whether it was tuning up some gear or designing a new piece for a client. The rhythm of the work was comforting. It allowed her mind to wander, to let Izuku’s words fill the space between each stroke of her tool.

But now, the conversation had shifted. Izuku, clearly sensing that Y/n was not quite sure about the whole Bakugo situation, had backed off for the moment. He didn’t want to push too hard, especially after seeing the thoughtful look in her eyes. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel pressured or uncomfortable with the idea of working with someone she had never met in person.

"Anyway," Izuku said, his voice a bit lighter now, "what’s new with your projects? Anything I can help with?"

Y/n blinked, the shift in focus pulling her back into the present. She looked at Izuku, her brow furrowing slightly, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You always want to help with something," she teased lightly, but there was no real malice behind it. She paused for a moment, thinking of the different projects on her plate. "I’ve been designing some new mobility gear for some of the higher-tier heroes. They’re looking for something lighter but still able to take a hit. It’s been a bit tricky, but I think I’ve got something coming along."

Izuku nodded enthusiastically, his interest piqued. "Sounds interesting! What kind of specs are you going for? Are they focusing on speed or protection, or both?"

Y/n leaned back, stretching slightly before sitting down on the stool nearby. "Both, actually. But the challenge is making it flexible enough for agility while still being tough enough to handle combat situations. I think I’ve figured out how to balance both with the right kind of material, but it’s still a work in progress."

Izuku’s eyes sparkled with admiration. "That’s exactly why you’re the best at what you do, Y/n. You think of every detail. Most people would just focus on one or the other, but you always find a way to make it work."

Y/n’s cheeks flushed a little at the compliment, though she quickly deflected it with a shrug. "It’s just about understanding the needs of the person using the gear. Everyone fights differently, and every hero has different requirements. It’s all about finding that balance."

Izuku chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I’ve learned that the hard way with my own gear."

Y/n laughed softly. "I remember that. You always came to me with a million things wrong with your suits. You really do like to push things to the limit."

"Well, that’s what being a hero is about, right? Pushing your limits?" Izuku replied with his usual enthusiasm, though there was a hint of self-awareness in his tone.

Y/n smiled, shaking her head. "True, true. I just have to make sure you don’t push my limits too much. You’re lucky I like working on your gear."

"I know, I know," Izuku said with a grin. "I’m very lucky."

As their conversation continued, the earlier tension surrounding Bakugo seemed to dissipate, at least for the moment. Izuku let the topic drift for now, content to focus on the things that truly mattered in this moment—their shared love for hero gear, their long-standing friendship, and the mutual respect they had for each other's abilities.

The sounds of the holiday music outside continued to float in through the windows, mingling with the soft hum of the workbench, as the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, the kind that only came from years of understanding each other. The snow outside continued to fall, blanketing the world in soft, peaceful quiet, as the day drifted on.

Izuku leaned back slightly, watching as Y/n continued working, her hands moving with purpose, but her eyes still sharp as she worked through each task. After a moment of thought, he asked, “You ever think about moving to a bigger workshop? I mean, with the amount of high-ranking heroes you’ve worked for, you’ve got enough money to pretty much be considered rich. And you always get paid well for your work. I bet you could have a bigger, fancier place somewhere else. Maybe somewhere with better facilities.”

Y/n paused for a moment, her tools held still as she glanced up at him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. She didn’t immediately answer, instead looking out the window as the soft hum of the shop and the occasional sounds of children playing outside filled the space between them.

“I’ve thought about it,” she said finally, her voice calm. “But no, I don’t want to move.”

Izuku blinked in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “Really? I would’ve thought the idea of working in a bigger place would appeal to you. I mean, you’re practically a legend with how much work you get. You could have everything—state-of-the-art tools, a giant workshop with a team of people to assist you.”

She shook her head lightly, her expression thoughtful. “I like it here. This place, the people around me—it’s... peaceful. I get to watch the kids outside my window, running around in the snow with their toys. I see the plant beds outside, covered in snow, and the way the neighbors always drop by with little treats or just to say hello. They’re always kind to me, and that matters. It keeps me grounded. This place is... part of why I work well.”

Izuku’s gaze softened as he listened, understanding what she meant. Y/n had always been someone who didn’t need the glitz and glamour of fame or fortune. Her work spoke for itself, but she found satisfaction in the smaller things. She didn’t crave luxury or recognition—she simply wanted to create, to help, and to be a part of her community in a way that made her feel at home.

“Sometimes I think I could place myself anywhere, and it wouldn’t be the same,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper now, as if sharing a quiet truth. “I need this environment, these people, these sounds. They help me stay focused. If I went to a fancier place, I’d lose that.”

Izuku couldn’t help but smile at her grounded perspective. He had always admired how self-aware Y/n was, how she never let external expectations sway her from her own path. She wasn’t driven by fame or money. She was driven by her own passion for her work, her connection to the world around her.

He thought back to when he was 19, when he first met Y/n. Back then, he had been struggling with his own sense of self, unsure about his future as a hero, unsure of his place in the world. Meeting Y/n had been a turning point for him. She had shown him that it was okay to be rooted, to take time and build something meaningful. He was grateful—grateful that he had met her when he did.

“I’m glad you don’t feel the need to change,” Izuku said softly, the sincerity in his words clear. “You’re happy here, and that’s what matters most. And besides, I don’t think you’d be you if you went somewhere else.”

Y/n’s eyes softened at his words, a small smile appearing on her lips as she met his gaze. “I guess that’s true. I like who I am here, surrounded by the things that make me happy. But enough about me. What about you? You’ve been traveling all over the place lately, huh? Any exciting stories from your hero work?”

Izuku chuckled, grateful for the change in topic. "Well, actually... there’s been a lot happening in the last couple of weeks. I’ve been working on a new suit, and—"

As he continued, Y/n listened with that same patient attention she always gave him, her focus divided between the work in front of her and the conversation they shared. The snowfall outside continued, gently covering the world in white, while inside, the warmth of their friendship filled the room.

Izuku smiled quietly to himself as he spoke, thinking back on everything that had brought them to this moment. He couldn’t have asked for a better friend, and he knew, deep down, that meeting Y/n had been one of the best things that had ever happened to him. And though their paths had been different, and their worlds often felt far apart, moments like this—when they could simply sit together, talking about life—reminded him of how much they both needed this. The peace, the balance, the understanding. It was the foundation of their friendship, and he would never take it for granted.

As the conversation between Izuku and Y/n continued, the atmosphere in the workshop remained warm and easy. They were deep into discussing the latest projects Y/n had been working on, the gentle hum of the machines in the background blending with the soft holiday music floating in from outside. The snow had continued falling in thick flurries, and the quiet of the outside world mirrored the calm between the two of them.

But just as the conversation reached a lull, Izuku’s phone buzzed on the workbench with an urgent ring, cutting through the peaceful atmosphere. He glanced down at the screen, his expression immediately shifting into one of concern. It was a call from the agency.

"Sorry, I need to take this," he said, standing up quickly, his usual calm demeanor slipping into one of focus as he answered the call. "Midoriya speaking."

Y/n watched him, her gaze flicking to his tense posture as he moved a little further away, listening intently to whatever was being said on the other end of the line. She could hear the snippets of conversation as Izuku responded, his voice low but urgent, his brow furrowing as he processed the information.

"Right, I’ll be there ASAP," he said, ending the call with a quick click of his tongue. He turned back to her, his expression more serious now.

"I’m really sorry, Y/n," he apologized, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and quickly slipping it on. "Something’s come up, I have to go. A situation with one of the heroes—there’s a report of a villain attack. They need me to go on standby, so I’ll have to cut this visit short."

Y/n nodded, understanding without needing any further explanation. "Go ahead. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine here."

Izuku hesitated for a moment, clearly not wanting to leave her alone in the workshop, but he knew there was no time to waste. "Thanks for understanding. I’ll make it up to you next time."

Y/n gave him a small, reassuring smile. "No problem, Izuku. I’m used to working alone anyway." She gestured to the room around her, already resettling herself by the workbench as if the absence of his company wouldn’t disrupt her rhythm.

Izuku smiled back, albeit with a tinge of guilt. "Take care, Y/n. I’ll be in touch later. Let me know if you need anything."

With one last glance in her direction, Izuku hurried out of the workshop, leaving Y/n alone amidst the clutter of tools, sketches, and unfinished projects. The door closed behind him with a soft click, and for a moment, the quiet of the workshop seemed to grow a little heavier. The sound of the snow outside was muffled by the thick windows, and the holiday music faintly filtered through the glass from the street below.

Y/n’s eyes briefly lingered on the door for a second longer, before she shook her head, returning her focus to the task at hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d been left to her work in silence, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, as much as she valued her solitude, a part of her felt the absence of Izuku’s calming presence. She could feel the small void left behind, but it was a feeling she quickly dismissed as she got back to work.

With practiced hands, she began to sort through her designs, pulling out blueprints for the current project. The hum of the machines, the occasional scrape of metal against metal, and the soft, rhythmic clicks of her tools returned to fill the space, grounding her once again in the quiet of her work.

The day outside continued to darken, the snow falling heavier now, but inside the workshop, it felt timeless.

Y/n’s workshop was a perfect reflection of her: functional, organized, and filled with small details that gave it a unique, personal touch. The main area of the workshop had high ceilings and large windows that allowed plenty of natural light to flood the space during the day, illuminating the various workstations and scattered tools. Despite the organized chaos of the room—papers strewn about, designs pinned to the wall, and parts of unfinished hero gear—it all somehow felt purposeful, each piece contributing to the greater whole of her work.

The walls were lined with shelves that held materials of every kind—metal sheets, wires, and tech parts, all sorted and labeled meticulously. The large central workbench dominated the space, covered with blueprints, half-finished projects, and tools that were always within arm’s reach. Next to the workbench was a smaller table where she would assemble smaller components, usually scattered with tiny screws, wires, and the occasional tool she would use in intricate designs.

On the far wall, a section of the space was dedicated to machines and testing equipment—some for stress testing the gear she designed, others for fine-tuning prototypes. There was a section for 3D printers, a soldering station, and an area where she would run diagnostics on newly built gadgets. A few monitors were set up here as well, displaying various projects and progress on her latest designs.

Beyond the main room, there were three rooms that led off into the back.

The bathroom was tucked away on the far left. It was simple but well-kept, with just enough space for essentials and a tiny window that let in natural light, though it was mostly used as a quick retreat when Y/n needed a break from her work.

Next to it was the storage room for tools that didn’t fit in the main area. Large, sturdy cabinets were filled with drills, screwdrivers, hammers, and other equipment that she didn’t use as frequently. There were shelves above that held spare parts for gadgets and the odd prototype or two that she wasn’t yet ready to put in the main area.

The long-term project room was located at the back of the workshop, where Y/n would store the larger, more complex projects she wasn’t actively working on. Some of the space was taken up by prototype suits in various stages of completion—half-finished designs that required careful planning and long hours to perfect. The room was meticulously organized, as Y/n hated clutter, but it had a more clinical feel to it, compared to the organized chaos of the main area.

At the back of the room, a narrow staircase led upward, the steps creaking faintly beneath her feet. The upper floor was an area that offered more privacy and quiet, a stark contrast to the lively hum of the workshop below. The bedroom was at the top of the stairs, small but cozy, with a large bed by the window and shelves filled with books, sketchpads, and old journals. There was a sense of calm here that made it the perfect place for her to recharge after long hours of work. The walls were adorned with various technical blueprints and framed photos of heroes she admired, and on the nightstand next to the bed was a small plant that added a touch of life to the room.

Beside the bedroom, however, there was a second room that she had yet to figure out what to do with. It was a small, undecorated space—nothing more than bare walls, empty shelves, and the occasional discarded item. It had been empty for a while, and Y/n hadn’t found a purpose for it yet. Perhaps it would one day hold more work materials, or maybe it would become a small personal space for herself outside of her work. For now, though, it remained unused, just another blank canvas in the sea of activity that was her life.

The entire workshop felt like a sanctuary to her—each room designed with purpose, each space contributing to the calm efficiency of her work. It wasn’t just a place for tools and projects; it was her home, her heart, and a tangible reflection of her dedication to her craft. As the day outside grew darker and the snow continued to fall, Y/n returned to the main room, feeling at peace among the clutter, her hands instinctively reaching for the next task.

As the hours passed, the workshop became a warm sanctuary amidst the growing chill outside. The light inside was soft and comforting, the candles she had lit casting a gentle glow that danced against the cluttered walls. She had been so focused on her work that she didn’t even notice the change in the light, the sky slowly darkening outside as the night settled in. The workshop was still full of life—her tools, half-finished designs, and the various pieces of gear she had scattered across the workbench—but her attention was entirely absorbed by the task in front of her: creating a new piece of hero gear for Red Riot, Eijiro Kirishima.

She had been at it for hours, tweaking the design and fine-tuning every detail of the new suit, adjusting the fit, the layers, the protective tech, and the durability for his quirk. She had always admired Kirishima's unwavering sense of bravery and his dedication to his hero work. His gear had to be as strong and dependable as he was. She’d spent countless hours designing and perfecting the reinforced armor plates, the texture, and the mobility—making sure that the suit would enhance his natural durability while not impeding his explosive, close-quarters fighting style.

By the time she finished the last stitch, her hair had come undone from its messy bun and hung loosely around her face, which was smudged with grease from hours of constant work. Her clothes were wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and her hands were covered in a mix of oil, ink, and the remnants of materials she had been handling. Though she was a mess in appearance, it suited her in a way. It was a reflection of the intensity and dedication she poured into every project, every piece of gear she created. She didn’t mind it. In fact, it was comforting. It meant she had been focused—fully immersed in the work she loved. She couldn't care less that her hair was a little wild and her face was smeared with the evidence of her labor.

The candles on her workbench flickered softly, the scent of vanilla and cinnamon filling the air. The small lights she’d strung across the ceiling cast a cozy glow that added to the ambiance, giving the room a festive, almost magical feel. Outside, the world had fully transitioned into evening. The streetlights gleamed brightly, each one wrapped with red and green fairy lights, lighting up the street like little stars. Her shop’s window was aglow, and the soft light spilled out onto the sidewalk, making the whole street feel like it was dressed for the season. Her little bell, which jingled every time someone entered her workshop, was adorned with a small red bow, adding a final touch of holiday cheer.

Through the window, she could see the street bustling with people, each bundled in thick scarves and coats as they roamed the festive streets. The crowd had grown in size over the past few hours, many of them exchanging treats, shopping at local vendors, or simply strolling with loved ones. A group of children had gathered near the center of the block, their laughter filling the air as they watched the massive Christmas tree being decorated with ornaments and twinkling lights. The whole scene had a sense of magic and togetherness that warmed her heart as she watched, her gaze softening as she let herself get lost in the festive atmosphere.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had paused long enough to enjoy something so simple—the sight of people gathered around, smiling and enjoying each other’s company. It reminded her of how important these moments of peace and joy were, even in a world so filled with chaos. Her eyes lingered on the scene, taking in the bright lights of the tree, the colorful displays in the windows of neighboring shops, and the way the snow shimmered in the distance as it continued to fall softly against the street.

Her thoughts drifted as she finished wrapping up Kirishima’s new gear, the final piece carefully placed in the box. She pulled out her phone, her fingers sliding over the screen to type out a message to him. The thought of his big, enthusiastic grin when he picked up the suit made her smile a little to herself.

“Hey Kirishima, your gear’s ready for pickup whenever you are. Just let me know when you’re free! —Y/n”

She typed out the message, but before hitting send, she paused. She had always felt a bit awkward when it came to communicating with her clients outside of work, though Kirishima was different. He was always kind and appreciative, and she had enjoyed working with him over the years. Still, she lingered over the message for a moment longer than necessary, contemplating whether to add a little something extra. Something more personal. Maybe a quick note about the weather, or the Christmas tree in the square?

She sighed softly, No. Just send it. She quickly hit “send,” feeling a rush of relief once it was done.

The quiet of the evening settled back into the workshop, and the faint sounds of the street outside returned to her ears. She turned back to the room, taking a final glance around at the organized chaos she had created. The clutter, the half-finished designs, the smell of wax and grease—it was all part of the environment that made her feel at home.

As she moved to put away the tools scattered across the bench, she caught one last glimpse of the scene outside—children running beneath the lights, families exchanging gifts, and the huge tree casting its glow over the neighborhood. For a moment, everything felt in place, and she allowed herself to relax into the peace of the moment, knowing she had done good work, and the holidays were here to remind her of life beyond the grind.

December was always a whirlwind for Y/n. It was the one month of the year when everything seemed to shift into high gear. The streets outside her shop would become busier, the sound of footsteps and excited chatter filling the air as the holiday season descended upon the city. But for Y/n, December was not just about the holidays—it was the month when the majority of heroes in Japan scrambled to fit themselves into her already-packed schedule.

The end of the year was always the busiest time for most pro heroes. They had to complete their last missions before taking time off for the holidays, and many of them needed adjustments, repairs, or entirely new gear for the new year. It was a crucial time when their equipment had to be fine-tuned or revamped, and no one was more in demand than Y/n. Her reputation had spread far and wide, and no one was better at designing high-tech, battle-ready gear than her.

Every year, it seemed, more heroes came to her, and every year, she had to scramble to keep up with the influx of requests. The inbox on her phone would fill up with urgent messages, often from heroes in desperate need of gear before a mission. Pro heroes like Red Riot, Ingenium, Froppy, and even Gran Torino had been known to slide into her DMs, trying to carve out a time to meet. Each request was important to her, and she made it her mission to fulfill them all—no matter how hectic her days became.

It wasn’t just the high-ranking pros either. Sometimes young up-and-comers would reach out too, seeking advice or help with building their own custom gear. But the pros were always the priority. She’d never turn down a request, and while the workload could sometimes feel suffocating, she always found herself excited to tackle the challenge. Every new design pushed her to think harder, be more creative, and solve problems in ways no one else could. It was exhausting but exhilarating, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

It had been this way for years, ever since she started her career as a gear designer. In fact, December was the only time of year she ever visited Mustafu, and every time she did, the city seemed to draw her in a little more. While the snow-covered streets, the festive decorations, and the bustling crowds were all part of the charm, it was the heroes themselves that kept her tethered to this place. She’d built a life here—a life that was always filled with problem-solving, challenges, and the satisfaction of creating something that helped keep the people of Japan safe.

As she worked long hours during the month of December, the little details of the holiday season often became the background to her chaotic schedule. The occasional carol or the soft jingle of the bell on her door when a customer entered would remind her that, while she was surrounded by the rush of work, there was also something more joyful, more serene, happening just outside. It was a delicate balance between the frantic pace of creating new gear and the sense of calm that came with watching the world outside transform into something beautiful for the holidays.

She didn’t mind the busyness, though. In fact, she thrived in it. It felt good to be needed, to know that her work was essential to the safety and success of those fighting for the greater good. December, with all its chaos, was also the time when she felt most alive. But it also reminded her of how quickly time passed—the days became a blur of designs, measurements, and last-minute requests, and before she knew it, the year would end.

But for now, Y/n focused on the task at hand. As the snow continued to fall outside and the Christmas lights twinkled on the streets, she settled back into her routine, fully immersed in her work. She knew there were many more requests coming her way, and many more late nights ahead of her—but that was just part of her life during December, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

~~~

Bakugo sat in his dimly lit apartment, staring out the window at the snow falling outside. The muffled sounds of the city echoed faintly from below, but he wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, revolving around one thing—Y/n L/n.

His phone sat in his hand, and he clenched it tightly, barely containing his impatience. He had been thinking about this for weeks, wondering if it was even worth bothering her. He hadn’t seen her in person yet, but after hearing Midoriya talk about her for so long, there was no denying the intrigue. She was the best at what she did, and that’s exactly what he needed—the best. His old mechanic, Hatsune, had been getting more erratic with each passing year. And Bakugo didn’t have time for a screw-up; he needed his new gear for the upcoming missions and the adjustments to his current tech. No more messing around.

The phone in his hand buzzed, snapping him out of his thoughts. He looked at the screen—Midoriya—and pressed the green button without hesitation.

“What is it, Deku?” Bakugo growled, his voice as sharp as ever. He didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Hey, Bakugo,” Izuku replied on the other end of the line, his voice warm as always, even though he knew Bakugo’s impatience was palpable. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Y/n. I’ve set everything up for you—she’s agreed to meet with you. You just have to contact her to set a time.”

Bakugo grunted in response, rubbing his forehead in annoyance. “I don’t need you to babysit me, Midoriya. I can set the damn thing up myself.”

Izuku chuckled lightly, the sound more of a sigh than anything. “I know you can. I just thought it might be easier to get things started since you’ve been hesitant to reach out directly.”

“‘Hesitant’?” Bakugo snorted, his voice rising with the familiar frustration he felt whenever anyone pointed out his reluctance. “I’m not hesitant. I just—” he cut himself off, shaking his head in annoyance. It wasn’t like him to admit to being unsure about something, especially when it came to reaching out for help. He always took care of things on his own. He didn’t need anyone’s help, not even from someone as damn good as Y/n.

Midoriya could practically hear the internal struggle in Bakugo’s voice. He didn’t press it, though. He knew his friend wasn’t the type to admit when he was in over his head. Instead, he tried to steer the conversation back. “She’s amazing, Bakugo. Trust me, you’re in good hands. She works on gear for top pros all the time. You’ve heard me talk about her before, right?”

Bakugo grumbled under his breath, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’ve heard you go on and on about her. Genius this, genius that. She’s the best at fixing everything, blah blah blah.” He mimicked Izuku’s voice as he spoke, his tone dripping with sarcastic humor. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Yeah, but... you are going to meet her, right? I mean, you can’t exactly keep putting it off forever. You’ve been saying you need new gear for a while now, and she’s the one who can help. If you want a solid suit, you should meet with her soon.”

Bakugo paused, considering this. He knew it wasn’t just the suit that was holding him back. It was more than that. This wasn’t like his usual, straightforward upgrades. This was someone new. Someone who, despite being a genius in her field, wasn’t someone he had a history with, wasn’t someone who he could just bark orders at and get things done. Y/n was a different kind of person—one who demanded respect, not just because of her skills, but because of the way she carried herself.

“I know. I know,” Bakugo muttered finally, rubbing his neck with his free hand, his frustration turning inward. “I just... I don’t like asking for help, okay?"

Izuku’s voice softened. “I get it, Bakugo. But Y/n isn’t like Hatsune. She’s the kind of person who makes things happen. You won’t regret it. She works with some of the highest-ranked heroes, and she’s one of the best at what she does. You’ll be in good hands.”

Bakugo let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll call her... but you better not tell anyone I needed your help setting it up.”

“Of course,” Izuku agreed with a laugh. “I promise. It’s between us.”

“Good. Now, get outta here, nerd.” Bakugo hung up before Izuku could say another word, tossing the phone down onto the couch beside him. His brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling around the upcoming meeting.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from Y/n. All he knew was that she had the skills to make him unstoppable, and for someone like Bakugo, that was everything. But meeting her... well, that was something else. Would she be as cold as her reputation suggested, or would she just get down to business, no-nonsense like him? He didn’t know. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to let himself back out of it. Not when he needed her.

“I’m not asking for a favor,” he muttered to himself, his usual scowl twisting his features. “I’m just making a damn appointment.”

Bakugo scowled as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest. He wasn’t a patient person. He didn’t have time for slow-moving relationships or delicate negotiations. And that’s exactly what this felt like. The last thing he wanted was to screw it up like he did with Hatsume. She had been good—okay good—at making his gear, but she was erratic, unpredictable, and the constant chaos she brought with her was something Bakugo just couldn’t deal with anymore. The final straw had been when she had tried to alter his gauntlets to make them "more experimental," without consulting him. It was a disaster. He had spent weeks fixing the mess she'd made, and it had thrown off his entire schedule.

No, Y/n was different. From what Izuku told him, she was highly sought after by pro heroes and specialized in creating high-tech, custom gear—precisely the kind of gear he needed. And from what Izuku had said, she was serious about her work, no-nonsense. She didn’t tolerate wasting time, and that was exactly the kind of person Bakugo respected. He didn’t want a frilly, touchy-feely process with her. He didn’t want to make small talk or find some "special bond" like Izuku seemed to have with her. He didn’t need a friend—he needed a professional. He wanted the best, and that was Y/n.

But that’s what made it so hard. He didn’t know how to do this. He couldn’t approach her like he did with the others—bark out his request and get on with it. She wasn’t someone who’d respond well to his usual “tough guy” routine. She wasn’t Hatsume. From what he knew, she was calm, calculated, and all business. If he wanted to get her to take him seriously and make him the gear he needed, he would have to not screw it up. He’d have to be careful... and that thought made his stomach twist.

The thing that made it harder was that Y/n was also Izuku’s friend, and Bakugo couldn’t help but feel a little... weird about that. Midoriya was the one person who seemed to get along with everyone. The guy had this natural ability to make connections, to nurture relationships, something Bakugo never had the patience for. He didn’t know how to "bond" with people. To him, the whole process was a waste of time. But with Y/n? That was different. He couldn’t afford to just barge in, demanding what he needed and then walking away. That kind of attitude might’ve worked with other people, but it wouldn’t work with her. He had to tread carefully.

And that pissed him off.

“So what?” Bakugo muttered under his breath, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “I’m supposed to... be nice? Talk to her about her stupid gear until we’re best buddies? I don’t have time for that crap.”

But deep down, he knew that if he didn’t play this right, he wouldn’t get anywhere. If he came at her like he did with Hatsume, all brash and rude, there was a chance she’d just turn him away. And then he’d be stuck, trying to fix things on his own—just like before.

Taking a deep breath, Bakugo reached for his phone, staring at the screen for a long moment before dialing Y/n’s number. His fingers hovered over the screen, his thoughts racing. He hated this. He hated that he had to make another appointment, another meeting, another careful exchange of words just to make sure he didn’t sound like a total jackass.

He could feel his pulse quicken as the phone rang. “Get it together, you idiot,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

The phone continued to ring. He wasn’t sure what he was even going to say when she picked up. Something simple, probably. Something like, Hey, I need you to fix my gear. But even that felt too much like the usual Bakugo approach—too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t sure how to make the request sound more... respectful. More professional. If he was going to do this right, he couldn’t go in all guns blazing.

“C’mon, pick up...” Bakugo’s frustration mounted as the ringing continued. His mind kept circling back to the same question: What the hell am I supposed to say to her?

Finally, the phone clicked.

"Hello, this is Y/n."

Her voice was calm, collected. The kind of voice Bakugo hadn’t expected to hear. No snarky attitude, no annoyance—it was just business.

"Yeah," Bakugo started, trying to keep his voice steady, but his natural abrasiveness still slipped through. "I’m Bakugo Katsuki. Midoriya told you I’d be calling. I need my gear fixed... and I want it done right."

He could hear the pause on the other end of the line. Y/n didn’t immediately respond, which only made Bakugo’s nerves flare up. Was she annoyed? Was she going to turn him down?

"Alright," she said finally, her tone even, measured. "What’s the issue?"

It was simple, no-nonsense. And that was exactly what Bakugo needed. He took a breath and launched into the details of his gear—what needed tweaking, what had malfunctioned, and what he needed for the upcoming season. His words came more easily now that the initial awkwardness had passed. As he spoke, he realized he was relieved. Y/n wasn’t the type to deal with his temper. She was someone who got straight to the point, which meant he didn’t have to pretend to be anything else. He could just be himself—short, blunt, and direct.

And that, strangely enough, was exactly what he needed.

The phone call hung in the air between them, a slight tension threading through the silence as Bakugo gathered his thoughts. Y/n’s voice on the other end of the line was calm and professional, and it gave Bakugo an odd sense of reassurance. For once, he didn’t have to worry about unnecessary pleasantries. This wasn’t some small-time mechanic; this was Y/n L/n, one of the best in the business, and he didn’t have time for any mess-ups.

“Alright,” Y/n said, her voice smooth but firm. “What seems to be the problem?”

Bakugo exhaled sharply, not hesitating. "I need my gear adjusted. The gauntlets are fine, but they're starting to wear down. The propulsion system’s malfunctioning, too. Can't get the proper boost anymore."

Her response was instant. "That sounds like a problem with the wiring. Could be the energy core too. Anything else?"

Bakugo ground his teeth, trying to keep his irritation in check. She wasn’t sounding like she was judging him—just asking the right questions. It was professional, straightforward, and it caught him off guard. He expected more... resistance or maybe even a little sarcasm. But instead, it felt like a business transaction, and for once, he appreciated it.

"The gauntlet's shield mode is also starting to glitch. It's not holding up under pressure. I’ve had some issues with that before, but now it’s worse," he added, his tone more clipped now as he went down the list. "And I need something a bit more... advanced for my upcoming missions. I’m thinking something to enhance the explosion output."

"Got it," she replied, her voice never wavering, no hint of surprise at his demands. "I'll need to take a look at the damage in person. Could you bring everything by the shop tomorrow around noon?"

Bakugo paused at the mention of "shop." He had heard a lot about her workshop from Izuku, but now that he was here—actually talking to her—he didn’t know what to expect. Would it be some quiet little place, cluttered with tools and parts? Or would it be more... organized than he imagined?

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to stay focused. “Yeah, I can do that. I’ll bring the gauntlets. I want everything checked—don’t leave anything out.”

“Understood,” she said without hesitation. “I’ll have time to go over it then. Anything else you want me to know about your gear before I start?"

Bakugo thought for a second. She wasn’t rushing him. She wasn’t acting like he was wasting her time, and that alone made him feel slightly less on edge.

"Uh, I guess..." he trailed off for a moment, frowning. "It’s gotta be stronger. Faster. I don’t need a ton of useless gimmicks or flashy upgrades. Just solid performance. Something to handle my attacks without failing halfway through."

Y/n’s voice came through again, steady and sure. "I understand. I’ll make sure everything is tailored to your fighting style. No frills, just raw power."

For the first time during their conversation, Bakugo allowed himself to feel a bit of relief. That was exactly what he wanted. He wasn’t here for anything fancy—just the best of the best, no fluff. The thought of someone understanding that so quickly was almost comforting, which irritated him slightly. He wasn’t used to this calm, methodical approach. But it was working.

"Alright," Bakugo grunted, getting back to business. "I’ll see you tomorrow at noon, then. Don’t waste my time."

"Won’t be a problem," she replied smoothly. "See you then, Bakugo."

And with that, the line went quiet as Bakugo hung up. His fingers were still tight around the phone, but this time, it wasn’t out of frustration—it was because he had, against all his instincts, actually felt like he could trust her. And maybe that was the hardest part of all.

For someone like Bakugo, trust wasn’t easily earned. But from the way she handled their conversation—calm, to the point, no unnecessary chatter—Y/n was the kind of person who got things done. That was what he needed.

He just hoped that tomorrow would go smoothly.

Bakugo stood in his apartment, staring down at his phone for a few long moments after hanging up. He had thought briefly about texting Midoriya, asking if he could offer any advice on how to not screw up his first in-person meeting with Y/n. But he quickly dismissed the idea. He wouldn’t give Deku the satisfaction of being right about their whole “bonding” nonsense. He didn’t need anyone telling him how to handle this. He’d figure it out on his own—like he always did.

With a frustrated grunt, Bakugo shoved his phone into his jacket pocket and stormed out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him. The cold air hit him immediately as he stepped out onto the snowy street. It was still early evening, and the last traces of daylight were fading from the sky, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights and the distant sparkle of holiday decorations.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and set off in the direction of her workshop. He didn’t want to walk in or do anything crazy, just wanted to scope the place out. Get a feel for it before he actually showed up tomorrow.

The streets were busy with people, most of them huddled together as they went about their evening shopping or gathering in groups, preparing for the upcoming holidays. The air smelled of fresh snow, candy, and food from the nearby vendors. People were exchanging holiday treats, laughing as they shared stories with one another. It was almost peaceful, and Bakugo hated how easy it was to feel... out of place.

But he didn’t care about that. He had a job to do. A mission to accomplish. And Y/n’s workshop was part of that. He needed to know what kind of person he was dealing with.

As he turned down the street, he spotted it. A small shop, tucked between two larger buildings, with a humble wooden sign hanging above the door that read Y/n L/n Hero Gear Design. The exterior was simple but inviting. Green leaves of mistletoe were carefully draped across the windows, and a few strands of fairy lights wrapped around the lamppost outside. A small red bow adorned the bell that hung above the door—probably the same bell he’d hear when he walked in tomorrow.

Bakugo lingered on the corner, his eyes scanning the scene. The shop was warm and cozy looking, its window fogged with the heat of the inside and glowing softly from the lights within. He could see the faint outline of a workbench through the window—tools scattered across it, some parts in mid-construction, half-finished prototypes lying around. The soft glow of candles illuminated the interior, giving it a comfortable, lived-in feel.

His eyes narrowed as he examined the details. The window was too fogged up to make out much more, but the simplicity of the shop was striking. It wasn’t some flashy place with expensive decorations or excessive tech gadgets. It looked like a place that was used for one thing: work. This was where people came to get serious gear designed, not to be coddled or pampered.

That, in itself, made Bakugo feel a bit more at ease. He didn’t need some fancy shop with a bunch of unnecessary perks. This was more like it—straightforward, no frills. He could respect that.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clenched tightly in his pockets. He had no intention of walking in tonight. No need for that. He wasn’t here to make an impression or start small talk. He just needed to get a better look at the place.

He stood there for a while, watching through the window, noting the way the candles flickered in the dimming light and the faint hum of holiday music that seemed to float out into the street. The place felt... warm. Cozy. It felt like a space where someone worked tirelessly, and that was the vibe he needed.

After a few more minutes, Bakugo pulled his gaze away and turned around, heading back down the street. He didn’t need to see anything else. He had his answer. The next step was tomorrow—show up, drop off the gear, get it fixed. No need to complicate it.

But as he walked, his mind started to churn again. What was she like, really? Was she as no-nonsense as she sounded? Would she put up with his direct approach or shut him down the moment he said something too blunt? He didn’t have the answers yet, but by tomorrow, he’d find out.

For now, though, he was content with knowing exactly where he needed to be. The rest could wait.

~~~

The sound of the bell above her door echoed faintly through the quiet workshop, cutting through the ambient hum of the small candles that flickered on her workbench. Y/n's heart skipped for a moment as she quickly grabbed the towel tighter around her body, eyes darting towards the entrance. She had been so focused on finishing up her work on Red Riot’s gear that she had completely forgotten to lock the door.

With a quick glance to her window, she saw the faint snowfall continuing, blanketing the streets outside. The soft crunch of boots against the snow echoed through the building as the door creaked open, and Y/n tensed, ready to bolt upstairs to her bedroom. She didn’t need any unannounced visitors walking in while she was half-dressed.

But then she heard a familiar voice, followed by a giggle.

“Y/n! You’re in a towel again!” Eri’s voice rang through the space as the younger girl stepped inside, brushing snow off her shoulders as she entered. She was laughing softly, her breath misting in the cold air.

Y/n exhaled in relief and let out a frustrated sigh, letting her shoulders sag. “Eri! What did I tell you about knocking first?” she said, rolling her eyes as she walked toward the stairs.

Eri giggled and skipped over to the workbench, her boots leaving small, wet marks on the polished wood floor. “I knocked! But the door was open already!” she said with a smile that was both playful and mischievous. Her snow-dusted scarf hung loosely around her neck, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and her wide, curious eyes were filled with that familiar energy that made Y/n smile despite herself.

“Give me a second to change, okay?” Y/n grumbled, wrapping the towel tighter around her as she quickly ascended the stairs. She didn’t wait for a response as she disappeared into her room, quickly tossing on some old clothes that were comfortable enough to wear around the workshop but not too formal.

A few minutes later, Y/n emerged from upstairs, now in a white/tan tanktop and loose grey sweatpants that sat low on her waist. Her hair was still wet, tied back loosely in a messy ponytail, strands falling around her face as she made her way back down the stairs. Eri was still at the workbench, leaning over the table as she poked curiously at some of the small, scattered pieces of Red Riot’s gear.

"Is this Red Riot’s?" Eri asked, picking up a half-finished piece of the gauntlet and turning it over in her hands, examining it with interest. Y/n nodded as she approached, rubbing the back of her neck as she crossed the floor.

“Yeah, it is. He wanted a few adjustments, so I’ve been working on it all day. Almost done now,” Y/n replied, wiping her hands on the sides of her swestpants before coming over to help her put the piece down gently. "Careful with that, Eri. It’s delicate."

Eri grinned sheepishly and placed the part back on the workbench with a soft thud. "Sorry, I was just curious! It looks really cool though! I wanna be as good at making things as you someday," she said, her eyes full of admiration.

Y/n chuckled softly, leaning back against the counter as she watched Eri. “You’ll get there. I’m sure you’ll be better than me one day. But you’ve got to be patient. Don’t rush it,” Y/n advised. There was an edge to her voice, not harsh but firm. She had seen so many aspiring mechanics rush into things without thinking carefully first. Eri was smart, though—she had the talent, just needed some guidance.

Eri huffed and crossed her arms, pouting. “I’m 15 now! I’ve been begging Aizawa forever to let me come here by myself! He’s so protective, it’s dumb.” She dropped her gaze and kicked a small tool off the table with her foot. “But I’m older now, so he finally let me!”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the workbench. “Aizawa finally gave in, huh? About time.” She smirked at the thought of Aizawa’s typical overprotective nature. He had always been like that with Eri. She knew he cared, but Y/n also knew Eri was capable of more than Aizawa often gave her credit for.

“He’s so annoying sometimes,” Eri groaned, shaking her head. “Like, I’m not a baby. I can come here without him hovering. I know how to handle myself.”

“Of course you do,” Y/n said with a smile, ruffling Eri’s hair as she leaned over the workbench. “But I bet he just worries, that’s all.”

Eri rolled her eyes dramatically, then returned to inspecting the various tools scattered around the workshop. “Still, it’s lame. But at least I finally get to see what you do up close. It’s awesome,” she said with another smile.

Y/n chuckled softly, enjoying the ease of their conversation. Despite the busy atmosphere of the workshop, Eri’s presence was a welcome distraction. Y/n wasn’t used to many people coming by—except for clients, of course—but Eri always brought a certain lightness with her. Maybe it was the way she always saw the world with wonder or how she found joy in the little things. It reminded Y/n that it wasn’t just the work that mattered, but the people you shared it with.

“Alright, alright,” Y/n said, pushing off from the counter and standing up straighter. “But I better not catch you touching any more parts without asking.” She smiled at Eri’s guilty expression, watching the younger girl nod dramatically.

“I promise! I’ll just watch you finish your work,” Eri said, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I’m just happy you’re letting me hang out here.”

Y/n smiled fondly, walking over to the workbench where the nearly finished gauntlet sat. "Well, I guess you’ve earned it. Just don’t go telling Aizawa I’m spoiling you, alright?" she said with a wink.

Eri giggled in response, her voice soft and content. “I won’t, I promise. Thanks, Y/n."

With that, the two fell into an easy silence, with only the sound of Y/n's tools clinking and the faint hum of candles filling the space between them. The snow continued to fall gently outside, its quiet beauty slipping unnoticed through the windows as the night deepened.

Y/n carefully affixed the last piece of Red Riot’s gear, attaching a sleek, polished plate to the side before finishing it off with a small red star right on top. It was a small touch, but it made the entire thing feel like a gift, something that would bring warmth to the hero, especially with the holidays just around the corner. The star shimmered against the light of the candles on her workbench, a tiny beacon of celebration amidst the mechanics and technical parts.

Eri had been watching her work the entire time, her eyes wide with fascination, her hands absentmindedly fidgeting with one of the tools on the table. She had always been captivated by Y/n’s skill, the way she seemed to move through the process with such ease and precision, as if she knew exactly what each part needed without hesitation.

“Everything you do is so cool, Y/n,” Eri finally said, breaking the quiet hum of the workshop. Y/n smiled at the younger girl’s admiration, knowing it came from a place of genuine curiosity and respect. Eri wasn’t quite a little kid anymore, though. She was 15 now—growing up and gaining more independence, even if it meant finding ways to get past the overprotective Aizawa.

Eri hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting around the room before landing back on Y/n. “Hey, could you maybe ask Shota if I could sleep over? He’s always said no! I’m 15 now, and plus, you're responsible. Just maybe if I could prove to him I could do it, maybe he’d let me sleep over with my friends for once. Please, Y/n?”

Y/n glanced at her, a soft laugh escaping her lips at the sheer pleading in Eri’s voice. She already knew how Aizawa could be. The man was about as stubborn as they came, especially when it came to Eri. But there was no denying how much the young girl had grown, and how much she wanted to experience things beyond the restrictions he constantly put on her.

Y/n sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. She didn't want to get involved in something like this—it wasn't her business, after all. But she also knew the ways to approach Aizawa, the right words to say that might make him reconsider his rigid stance.

“Alright, alright. Fine,” Y/n said, her voice soft but firm. “But don’t get your hopes up too high. Aizawa’s not exactly the kind of guy to bend easily.”

Eri’s eyes lit up at the promise, and Y/n could practically see the excitement bubbling up inside her. She bounced on the balls of her feet. “Really? Oh my gosh, you’re the best, Y/n! I swear, I’ll make it worth your while!”

Y/n chuckled, shaking her head. “Go next door and get us some treats while I call him. A simple text won’t do the trick, and you know it. I’ll talk to him, but you’ve gotta be patient.”

Eri didn’t even need a second to think about it before she darted out the door, her footsteps light and quick as she rushed down the street. Y/n watched her go, a soft smile lingering on her lips. It was nice to see Eri so happy, so full of life. Even though she still had a lot to learn, it was clear that she had a good head on her shoulders, and a strong sense of determination.

Once Eri was out of earshot, Y/n turned back to her workbench and pulled out her phone from her pocket. She scrolled through her contacts until she found Shota’s name and tapped it.

Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she typed out a simple, but direct message:

“Hey Shota, I know you’re probably going to say no, but Eri’s been asking about a sleepover with her friends. She’s 15 now, and I think she’s old enough to handle it. You should really let her have some freedom. Just think about it, okay?”

After a brief moment of thought, she hit send. She wasn’t sure what kind of response she’d get, but she had a good feeling that Aizawa would at least give it some thought. He had a soft spot for Eri, even if he didn’t like to show it.

Y/n set her phone down and leaned back, her fingers brushing the edge of the workbench. The peaceful ambiance of the workshop seemed to wrap around her, the soft light of the candles flickering as she gazed out the window, watching the snow fall gently outside.

She had never been one to get involved in personal matters like this, but when it came to Eri, it was hard not to want to help. Y/n understood the importance of finding balance in life, of having fun and making memories. And if Eri could prove to Aizawa that she was responsible, well, maybe this time he’d allow it.

Y/n only hoped that, for once, Eri could have the simple pleasures of a normal teenager, even if just for a night.

Y/n’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment, but then she quickly put the phone down and decided it was better to call him directly. She pressed the dial button and waited, tapping her fingers lightly against the workbench as she listened to the dial tone. She knew Aizawa well enough to know that he wouldn’t be thrilled with the interruption, especially considering how exhausted he always seemed, but she hoped he would listen.

After a few rings, he picked up, his voice groggy and a bit strained. "What is it?"

Y/n immediately felt a pang of guilt, knowing he was probably busy grading papers or dealing with his never-ending pile of work. "Hey, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re probably up to your neck in work, but there’s something Eri’s been asking about."

He sighed on the other end, and she could almost hear the fatigue in his breath. "What is it?"

Y/n took a deep breath before speaking, choosing her words carefully. "So, Eri’s here with me right now. And she’s asking if she can sleep over. She’s 15, and I’ll be watching her the whole time. I know you’re very strict about this, but she’s a good kid, Aizawa. She really is. And eventually, she’s going to want to push those boundaries, and it might be worse if you don’t give her a little bit of trust. I know I did when I was 15."

She paused for a moment, allowing her words to settle in, but not letting the silence drag on for too long. "She was so excited when I said I’d ask you. What do you say? Just this once? I’ll keep an eye on her."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Y/n could practically hear Aizawa thinking it over. He was the type of man who didn’t make decisions lightly, especially when it came to Eri. He was fiercely protective, and even though Y/n had no doubt he trusted her, she also knew he didn’t easily give in to requests like this.

After a long moment, he finally spoke, his voice still a bit worn, but with an underlying warmth that only Y/n would pick up on. "You’re right," he muttered. "She’s 15 now. And you’re not wrong. But don’t let her get any ideas. If this is going to work, you have to make sure she stays responsible, and nothing goes wrong."

Y/n smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "I’ve got it covered. Thanks, Aizawa. I promise, I’ll keep her out of trouble."

"Fine. Just don’t make me regret it," Aizawa replied, his voice softening just a little.

"I won’t," Y/n assured him, already hearing the faint click of him hanging up.

She held the phone in her hand for a moment longer, just letting the quiet settle around her. She exhaled deeply, glancing at the workbench where Red Riot’s gear sat neatly finished. After a brief moment of reflection, Y/n stood up, stretching her arms above her head. That was one problem solved—now, she could relax a bit, knowing Eri would get to enjoy a sleepover for once.

As she heard the door creak open, she turned to see Eri standing in the doorway with a bag of treats in her hands, her face lighting up when she saw Y/n.

"Guess what?" Eri grinned, holding up the bag. "I got us everything we need! And, you’ll never believe it… he actually said yes, he said i could sleep over here tommorow night!"

Y/n couldn't help but laugh, nodding toward the bag of sweets in Eri’s hand. "I know. I just got off the phone with him."

Eri squealed in excitement, rushing over to sit next to Y/n. "I can’t believe it! I’m gonna text my friends right now! This is the best day ever! If my sleepover with you goes well tomorrow, then he has to let me eventually sleep over with my friends."

Y/n smiled, watching Eri's face light up. She had made a promise, and now it was time to let Eri enjoy a bit of freedom, something that she hadn’t gotten to experience much of. The small, quiet moments of joy were what made all the hard work worth it.

The soft flicker of candlelight illuminated the cozy corners of the shop, casting long shadows as the night wore on. Eri was still buzzing with excitement, chatting non-stop about her plans for tomorrow, her sleepover, and the treats they’d just eaten together. But Y/n could see the exhaustion creeping into her eyes as the clock ticked closer to 9 p.m. She was used to these late-night chats, but she also knew it was getting dangerously close to the time Aizawa had set for Eri to be home.

Y/n stretched her arms out, the weight of the long day finally catching up to her. She knew how protective Aizawa was—he’d probably be pacing at home by now, waiting for Eri to get back before the clock struck a certain hour. No matter how much Eri was pushing for a little more freedom, Y/n knew Aizawa had a point about keeping her safe and sticking to boundaries.

"Alright, kiddo," Y/n said softly, pulling herself out of her chair and stretching once more. "It’s getting late. You know how Aizawa is about the time, and I think we should get you home before he starts worrying."

Eri pouted, clearly not ready to leave just yet. "But I wanna stay longer! We were just talking about everything!"

"I know," Y/n chuckled, giving her a gentle smile, "but tomorrow’s your big day. You’ve got your sleepover to look forward to, and I’m sure Shota wouldn’t be happy if you were out too late tonight."

Eri huffed, but there was no real anger in it. She was already pulling on her boots, grabbing her coat with a sigh. "Yeah, I guess you’re right. He’d probably give me the lecture of the century."

Y/n laughed softly, nodding. "You know him well. But he’s just looking out for you."

The two of them walked toward the door, Eri still bouncing on her feet with excitement about the sleepover the next day. The snow outside had slowed to a gentle fall, the cold crisp in the air as they stepped out of the warmth of the shop. Eri dusted the snow off her shoulders before giving Y/n one last, hopeful glance.

"Thanks for everything tonight, Y/n. You’re the best," Eri said, her smile as bright as ever despite the cold.

Y/n smiled warmly, feeling the soft sting of emotion as she glanced at the girl she’d helped raise. "You’re welcome, Eri. I’m happy you had fun."

"See you tomorrow!" Eri waved as she walked down the street, the sound of her boots crunching in the snow the last thing Y/n heard before she stepped back inside.

She closed the door quietly behind her and locked it, glancing at the time once more. It was getting late, and with Eri now safely on her way home, Y/n could finally take a breath. She glanced at the workbench, the faint outline of Red Riot’s gear still resting there, finished and ready. Tomorrow would be another busy day.

But for tonight, all she wanted was to relax and unwind. She pulled off her shoes and settled on the couch, the quiet of the night wrapping around her as she thought back to everything that had happened. Eri’s smile, Aizawa’s reluctant approval, and the snow-covered streets all combined in a warm, peaceful atmosphere.

Tomorrow was going to be a good day.

After closing up for the night, Y/n moves through her apartment, turning off the workshop lights and heading upstairs to her bedroom. The house feels quieter now, with the snow falling gently outside and the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. She changes into comfortable pajamas, the warm fabrics a welcome end to a long day of work. Her thoughts drift back to the conversation with Eri—how happy the girl was about the sleepover, and how much she'd grown since she first came into Y/n’s life.

Y/n pulls back the covers on her bed and settles in, grabbing her phone to check for any messages before turning in. She notices a few texts from Izuku, but they’re all just casual updates, like how Aizawa is holding up or how his students are doing. She smiles, knowing how easy it is for him to worry about his friends and teammates.

As Y/n relaxes into her bed, her phone rings once again. It's Izuku’s name lighting up the screen, and she answers it without hesitation, still feeling the afterglow of a quiet evening.

"Hey, Izuku," Y/n says, settling deeper into the covers. "What’s up?"

Izuku's voice is slightly muffled, as if he’s pacing around or maybe trying to gather his thoughts. "Hey, Y/n! I just wanted to give you a quick heads-up about tomorrow. So, Bakugo and Kirishima are planning to stop by together. They’re best friends, after all, and… well, I guess it makes sense for them to come as a pair. So, it’ll be the two of them—hope that’s okay with you!"

Y/n pauses for a moment, trying to picture the scene. Bakugo, unpredictable and intense, alongside Kirishima, the more easy-going and friendly of the two. She could already sense the clash of personalities that might occur, but she had agreed to help Bakugo, and she wouldn’t back out now.

"I mean, I figured it would be one or the other," Y/n says, her voice teasing but calm. "But two? That’ll be interesting."

Izuku laughs nervously on the other end of the line. "Yeah, it’s probably going to be a bit chaotic. Bakugo can be… well, Bakugo, but Kirishima’s pretty good at keeping things balanced. I hope you don’t mind. They’re both really excited about the gear! Well Kirishima is, i dont know about Bakugo"

Y/n smirks to herself, leaning back on the pillow. "I’m sure they are. As long as I get my work done, I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to get caught in the middle of a shouting match."

Izuku chuckles, though there’s a nervous undertone. "Oh, trust me, I don’t think that’ll happen. Kirishima’s really good at keeping Bakugo in check. And if anything gets too out of hand, I’ll make sure I step in."

Y/n’s smile widens as she imagines the dynamic between the two. She could already picture Kirishima’s upbeat energy and Bakugo’s explosive attitude. It would definitely be an interesting interaction. "Alright then, it’s a date. I’ll see them tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll make it work."

"Thanks, Y/n! I really appreciate you taking this on," Izuku says, relief washing over his voice. "I’m sure they’ll be in good hands. I’ll see you tomorrow, then!"

After hanging up, Y/n lays back in bed, thoughts swirling around the upcoming encounter. Bakugo and Kirishima together in her workshop—now that was going to be something. She quickly glances over through her window, admiring the outside.

With a soft sigh, Y/n snuggles deeper into the blankets. Tomorrow was going to be a big day. She only hoped she could keep her cool when Bakugo showed up, especially with Kirishima there to keep things balanced.

---

#bnha #mha #mha x reader #bakugou katsuki #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou #mha katsuki bakugo

110 notes · View notes

songbirdsanctuary · 2 months ago

Text

Grian and Mumbo fic(Such creative name, definitely not what I've been naming my past five fics.)

Warnings: Mild blood/injury

Word count: 2,843

Mumbo picked a comparator up and set it carefully on a blue strip of wool, the cool metal clicking softly against the fabric. His voice flowed steadily as he explained the contraption he was building to Grian, his words a stream of redstone logic and technical jargon. He was halfway through describing a potential observer clock when he noticed the absence of Grian’s usual quick-witted responses. The room had fallen into a quiet that felt softer than it should, the only sounds now the faint hum of machinery and the gentle rustle of Mumbo’s own moth wings as they shifted restlessly.

Curious, Mumbo turned, his dark eyes searching for his friend. Grian had slumped against a red shulker box, his head tilted back and his mouth slightly open, breaths slow and even. His feathers, normally so lively, lay ruffled and still, the soft hues blending with the muted red of the box beneath him. His small, talon-like hands were loosely curled against his chest, as if he had simply drifted off mid-thought.

A smile tugged at the corners of Mumbo’s lips, his expression softening. Grian looked so peaceful like this, the weight of their often chaotic lives slipping away in sleep. Mumbo wondered how long he had been asleep, how long he had been too wrapped up in his redstone to notice his friend’s fatigue. It wasn’t the first time Grian had run himself into the ground, pushing through projects and plans until exhaustion caught up to him.

Mumbo set his redstone components down with deliberate care, not wanting to disturb the quiet. Rising to his feet, he moved toward Grian with light steps. The avian felt almost weightless as Mumbo gently scooped him up, his wings brushing against the soft fabric of Grian’s jacket. He couldn’t help but marvel at how easy it was to carry him. Was Mumbo stronger than he thought? It seemed unlikely—he was all limbs and angles, tall and wiry, his strength more a matter of leverage than muscle. Maybe Grian was simply that light, his hollow bones lending him an airy weightlessness.

As he cradled Grian against his chest, Mumbo’s wings twitched reflexively, wrapping around to shield the smaller man from the cool air. He moved slowly through the corridors of his base, the familiar path to his bedroom winding through half-finished builds and neatly stacked chests. The room was dim, the late afternoon light filtering through the window, casting long shadows across the bed. Mumbo eased Grian down onto the mattress, his movements practiced and gentle. The avian stirred slightly, a soft sound escaping his lips, but he didn’t wake.

Mumbo tugged the blankets up, tucking them around Grian with a tenderness he rarely showed. He hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering above Grian’s head before he gave in and gently smoothed a tuft of hair away from his face. The coolness of his fingers seemed to soothe the avian, whose breathing evened out again. Mumbo set a bottle of water on the bedside table, the glass catching a sliver of light. It would be there for when Grian woke, groggy and likely confused about how he had ended up in bed.

Satisfied, Mumbo stepped back, letting his wings brush against the doorframe as he left. He moved with a sense of purpose back to his redstone project, but his mind lingered on Grian, hoping his friend would rest well. Mumbo settled back onto the floor, his knees tucked up, and his eyes narrowed as he examined the fine, twisting lines of redstone dust. His fingers moved with practiced precision, but his thoughts kept circling back to the warmth of Grian’s weight in his arms and the quiet trust that sleep represented.

Mumbo worked for a while, his hands moving with careful precision as he adjusted the redstone components. His focus had narrowed to the tiny, intricate movements, the soft clicks of repeaters and the gentle hum of redstone lamps. The room was a tapestry of dust and circuitry, his mind threading through possibilities and problem-solving with every adjustment. He had almost tuned out the world around him when a sudden, heavy thud broke through the quiet.

He froze, the delicate line of redstone dust between his fingers slipping to the floor. His mind raced through possibilities—a creeper, maybe? But no, his base was well-lit and secure. A malfunctioning piston? But nothing in this room should have moved. His chest tightened as he stood, his wings twitching with a shiver of unease, and he moved quickly toward his bedroom. His feet barely made a sound on the stone floor, his body all sharp, quick motions as he pushed the door open.

Grian was on the floor. His small form was crumpled, limbs tangled awkwardly in the blanket that had slipped with him, his wings splayed against the cold ground. His head was tilted back, mouth slightly open, and his breaths came in shallow, uneven puffs. He was still asleep, but it was not a peaceful kind of rest. His expression was twisted, brows drawn together, and Mumbo’s heart clenched at the sight.

Mumbo moved to his side, kneeling down and carefully sliding his arms beneath Grian. The avian’s body was limp, the weight of his exhaustion pulling him down even as Mumbo lifted him with ease. He shifted, turning Grian to cradle him against his chest, mindful of his wings. It was the second time today he’d held Grian like this, and yet now it felt heavier. He laid Grian back in the bed, the mattress dipping under his slight weight.

As Mumbo drew the blankets back over him, he noticed the wetness on Grian’s cheeks. Tear tracks glistened in the low light, his lashes damp and clumped together. His face was flushed, a faint red against his pale skin, and his lips trembled with the whispers of words not spoken. Mumbo’s fingers hesitated over his face, brushing just above his skin as if afraid his touch might shatter something delicate.

Had Grian been crying? Had the nightmare reached him even through the veil of sleep? Mumbo’s throat tightened, a thousand questions swirling in his mind. He debated waking him up, his fingers flexing against the blanket. Would it be kinder to pull him from whatever horror had him trapped? Or would the waking world feel just as harsh, his confusion and fear only magnified in the sudden light?

In the end, Mumbo let his hand fall to his side. He stepped back, his legs feeling heavier with every step toward the door. His instinct was to give Grian space, to retreat back to his redstone and let his friend find his way back to calm on his own. But his feet wouldn’t carry him across the threshold. His body resisted, his wings folding tightly against his back as if to anchor him in place. He didn’t want to leave Grian alone. Not like this.

With a quiet sigh, Mumbo crossed to a worn armchair in the corner of the room. He pulled a blanket off the back of it, letting it drape over his lap as he settled in. His hand found a book on the side table, one of the adventure novels Grian had recommended, with frayed edges and dog-eared pages. He opened it, his eyes skimming over the words, but they swam in and out of focus. His mind kept drifting back to the bed, to the soft rise and fall of Grian’s chest, to the way the shadows clung to the corners of the room.

Time seemed to stretch. He turned pages, but the story never settled into his mind. His ears were tuned to every sound, every rustle of the blankets, every uneven breath. He debated slipping away, back to his redstone project where everything made sense, where logic and mechanics could fill the empty spaces in his head. But then, a scream tore through the room, sharp and raw, shattering the fragile calm.

Mumbo’s book slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. His body reacted before his mind caught up, propelling him to the bed. Grian’s wings had flared wide, feathers bristling in every direction. His body was a storm of motion, thrashing against the tangled blankets as if caught in the grasp of some unseen force. His mouth was open, another scream building in his throat, the sound edged with pure, animal panic.

Mumbo grabbed for his shoulders, his hands firm but gentle, trying to ground him. “Grian! Hey, it’s me. You’re safe.” His voice was low, but Grian’s mind was too far away to hear it. His talons lashed out, sharp and wild, and Mumbo felt a sudden, searing pain as they caught his shoulder. He hissed, his wings flaring instinctively, but he didn’t pull back.

He tried again, his hands finding purchase on Grian’s arms. The touch only seemed to drive him deeper into the nightmare. His talons raked across Mumbo’s stomach, the fabric of his shirt giving way to sharp, stinging heat. Mumbo’s breath hitched, but he stayed, his body a wall between Grian and the edge of the bed.

“Grian! Wake up!” His voice broke, the urgency crashing over them.

Finally, Grian’s eyes snapped open, unfocused and wide with terror. He struggled against Mumbo’s grip, his movements clumsy and desperate. The momentum carried him over the edge, and he fell to the floor, the blankets trailing after him like the tail of a comet. His breathing came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as he pressed himself back against the bed frame.

Mumbo stayed where he was, his hands raised, palms out. His own breathing was fast, his chest tight with the echoes of Grian’s screams. He ignored the sting of his wounds, the damp warmth spreading beneath his shirt. His focus was only on Grian, on the way his friend’s eyes darted around the room, still seeing the ghosts of his nightmare.

“It’s okay,” Mumbo said, his voice softer now, a gentle thread in the chaos. “You’re safe, Grian. It was just a dream.”

The words hung between them, a lifeline in the dark.

Mumbo held out a hand, his palm open and steady, a lifeline in the dim light of the room. Grian’s breaths still came in shuddering gasps, his chest rising and falling unevenly. His wide eyes searched Mumbo’s face, flicking over every feature as if trying to find something familiar in the haze of fear. Slowly, achingly slowly, the wildness in his gaze began to ebb, like a tide pulling back to reveal the jagged rocks beneath.

When Grian finally gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, Mumbo shifted closer. He moved with the cautious grace of someone approaching a wounded animal, every movement slow and deliberate. His wings folded tightly against his back, his body angled to be as unthreatening as possible. He wrapped his arms around Grian, the embrace loose and warm, avoiding the worst of the blood staining his shirt. He could feel Grian’s sharp edges against him—the brush of feathers, the press of thin shoulders, the tremors that ran through his small frame.

Grian remained stiff in Mumbo’s arms at first, his muscles tight with the remnants of his nightmare. His hands were balled into fists, knuckles pale, his talons digging into his own palms. Mumbo could feel each shallow breath, the way Grian’s ribcage expanded and contracted under his touch. He didn’t push for more, didn’t try to squeeze or draw him closer. He simply stayed, a quiet, steady presence.

It took a long time for Grian to soften. His rigid posture gave way to a sagging kind of exhaustion, his weight settling against Mumbo’s chest. His breathing evened out, though each inhale still caught on a sharp edge, a hiccup or a soft, broken sound. It was as if the walls inside him were crumbling, stone by stone, until finally, the first tear slipped free.

The sobs started small, a quiet hitch in his breath, and then they grew. His body trembled, his shoulders shaking as he clung to Mumbo, his fists uncoiling to grip at the fabric of Mumbo’s shirt. He cried with the force of someone who had held back too much for too long, the kind of grief that seeped into every corner of him and refused to be silenced. His tears soaked into Mumbo’s shirt, warm and damp, but Mumbo didn’t move, didn’t dare shift away from the raw vulnerability in his arms.

Mumbo’s fingers found their way into Grian’s hair, his touch gentle and rhythmic. He murmured soft, wordless sounds, a quiet comfort. He didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t press for answers. He knew Grian well enough to understand that the words wouldn’t come—not now, maybe not ever. There were some things too tangled to unravel, some pains too deep to put into words.

Eventually, the storm began to pass. Grian’s sobs faded to quiet sniffles, his breathing evening out into a fragile rhythm. Mumbo loosened his hold, giving Grian the space to pull away if he wanted. And, slowly, Grian did. He sat back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, his feathers ruffled and damp. His face was blotchy, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy, but there was a softness to his expression, a quiet kind of surrender.

“Hey,” Mumbo’s voice was soft, a whisper between them. “I need to clean up real quick…”

He moved to stand, but the shift drew Grian’s attention, his head snapping up. “Cl-clean up…?” His voice was hoarse, the syllables rough around the edges. His brow furrowed, confusion swimming through the lingering fear.

Mumbo offered a small, reassuring smile. “Got a few injuries. I’m fine, though. Promise.” His tone was light, but the words seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Grian’s gaze dropped, and Mumbo followed the line of his eyes. The blood had seeped through Mumbo’s shirt, dark patches spreading across his shoulder and stomach. Grian’s expression shifted, horror washing over his features as he looked down at his own hands, his talons still stained. The realization struck him like a physical blow, his face paling, his lips parting in a silent gasp.

Before Grian could spiral, Mumbo hurried to the bathroom. His movements were quick but controlled, his fingers steady even as his mind spun. He peeled off his shirt, the fabric sticking to the wound on his shoulder, and winced as the cool air hit his skin. The scratches were jagged, the talon marks shallow but long, red welts that stung beneath the wash of warm water. His stomach bore similar marks, thin lines where Grian’s panic had raked across him.

He cleaned the wounds methodically, his hands moving on autopilot. He wrapped gauze around his torso, the white bandages stark against his skin, and slipped on a fresh shirt. The lightheadedness hadn’t faded, but he pushed it aside, focusing on each task, each step. When he finally looked at himself in the mirror, his face was pale, his hair disheveled, but his expression was calm.

He made his way back to the bedroom, his feet soft against the stone floor. Grian had moved to the bed, his small form curled into himself, wings wrapped tight around his body. His head was down, and he startled when Mumbo entered, his whole body flinching. His eyes were wide, fear and guilt mingling in the blue depths, and when he spoke, his voice cracked.

“I-I’m s-sor-ry…” Grian choked out. His hands twisted in the blanket, his knuckles white, and he seemed to struggle with the weight of the words, as if they hurt on the way out. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

Mumbo moved closer, cutting him off gently. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.” His voice was a balm, soothing and steady. He sat down on the edge of the bed, close enough for Grian to reach out but not so close as to crowd him. “It was an accident. I’m not hurt, promise.”

Grian’s breathing stuttered, but the words seemed to reach him. He wiped at his eyes, his fingers trembling, and after a long moment, he leaned against Mumbo. His weight was light, his body warm, and Mumbo shifted to support him, his arm draping over Grian’s shoulders. He could feel the way Grian’s breathing evened out, each inhale a little less ragged, each exhale a little steadier.

Mumbo didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t need to. Whatever darkness had wrapped itself around Grian, whatever nightmare had bled through into reality, it wasn’t something that words could fix. But he could be here, a quiet presence in the storm, a steady ground to hold onto. And that, Mumbo thought, was enough.

They sat like that for a long time, the room settling into a gentle quiet. Outside, the sun had begun to set, the sky washed in hues of orange and purple. But inside, in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, there was only the soft sound of breathing and the steady warmth of two friends finding solace in each other’s presence.

#hermitcraft fanfic #hermitfic #hermitcraft #hermitblr #grian #mumbo jumbo

26 notes · View notes