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comatosebunny09 · 3 months ago

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not quite human [ 02 ] | sylus

— cw: reader implied to be femme, gendered terms (miss, girl), profanity, sarcasm, existentialism, groping, innuendoes, sylus is an android, futuristic au, inspired by detroit: become human — notes: fuck it. here, have an update. [ part 01 ]

You know how you get something you thought was useless, yet you’ve grown accustomed to having it around for so long, you can’t envision your life without it?

Like, a towel warmer. You think, who the fuck would waste money on one of these things? What’s the point of one when you have a dryer? But say, your friend buys you one as a birthday gift. You can’t give it away or throw it out—that would be rude, asshole.

So, it sits in your bathroom for ages, collecting dust and shit particles from your toilet. That is, until that one day you reluctantly decide to use it. And you realize, okay, maybe this isn’t so terrible. And soon, you’re using it every day. Used to the little luxury of having a hot towel against your ass—one of the few, minuscule pleasures distracting you from the whirlwind of your life.

That’s how you’ve come to view your android friend, Sylus. He’d give you the piss for comparing him to a towel warmer. But you’re not very good with analogies so he can suck it.

He’s become a part of your life you never knew you needed—someone to fill the gaps you leave around your home, to color the once quiet space of your apartment with his nerdisms, sarcasm, and presence.

It was an adjustment, getting used to this hulk of a man—machine?—moving around your home like he’d always been a part of it, quiet as a cat, scaring you shitless. He’s like the pair of Crocs you said you wouldn’t be caught dead in. And yet, trying them out, you understand why they’re so damn convenient, especially in sport mode.

You can’t deny how nice it feels to return to a clean apartment. To journey home after an arduous day of work to hot food, clean sheets, and an asshole kicking you around in Mario Kart. Every. Single. Time. It’s not fair; he’s using his AI to hack the game, you just know it.

Yet, as much as you’ve wanted to fight him for besting you at every game on your Switch, you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to disassemble him more than now.

You’re fighting for your life. Literally. No matter how much you gulp down air, you don’t feel like it’s enough. You might die here, coated with sweat and breathing like a pregnant woman ascending a set of stairs. You’ll at least ask Sylus to delete the browsing history on your laptop following your untimely demise—the things you’ve researched there out of morbid curiosity would warrant a visit from the FBI agent spying on you.

“One more round,” he says in that unfairly smooth voice as if he’s completely unfazed by the fact that you’re dying.

You turn pleading eyes on him, your hands dropping at your sides. He smirks, eyes gleaming with amusement from behind the safety of the punching bag.

“That’s what you said the last three rounds!”

Sylus shrugs. “You’re the one who said you wanted help utilizing your gym membership.”

“Yeah! With Pilates or Spin!” You coil your body into a fighting stance, striking the thick leather of the punching bag out of frustration. “Not with this shit! You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

His face is an impassive mask as he holds the bag, unaffected by your anger-fueled jabs. His cold indifference encourages you to hit harder. His stupid face, his dumb, silky hair.

“Pilates won’t enhance your cardiovascular endurance like boxing will.”

Thwack!

“And, based on your eating habits and the sedentary life you lead, it’s only a matter of time before you have a heart attack.”

Thwack!

“I’m merely helping you stave off the inevitable.”

Sigh.

You drop your stance, flailing about like a brat. Some of the gym’s other members eye you warily before returning to their workouts. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack doing this. I’m not Mayweather. I’m just a girl.”

He chuckles, the sound carrying below the cacophony of racking plates and the music spilling from the speakers to tingle your toes. You try not to think about it. How his mirth makes your stomach feel weird and makes your lips twitch with the threat of a smile.

It’s terrifying how human he seems. Despite the electricity and blue blood flowing through his biocomponents, he’s not much different from a regular man. He’s become more human-like as the months eased by, trading his stoic, efficient robot-speak for something more casual. He’s become something like a roommate. A roommate who doesn’t eat, sleep, or go a day without making you want to hurl yourself into the void.

“Your sex doesn’t exclude you from your human limitations,” he says, disrupting your ruminations.

You glare at him, wondering if you can reprogram him to be less of a dick. That, or sell him for spare parts.

Sylus’ eyes soften the slightest, fleeting bit. For a moment, you think he’ll be sympathetic. But you forget this man wants you dead. “One more round, and we’ll be done.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Give him a wary once over, ignoring how his tank bares his artificially toned physique, how his shorts boast the power of his thighs. You’re sure CyberLife is also out to wipe out the human race, what with how much detail they put into their androids. You’re no better than a man.

Resigned, you posture yourself for another round, adrenaline spuming through you, your knuckles turning white beneath the cotton bindings of your wraps. “Fine. But after this, I want the greasiest slice of pizza in the city, and I don’t wanna hear shit about it.”

Sylus huffs a sound, his eyes narrowing with mischief. “I’ll keep quiet, then. You have my word.”

Motivated, you start wailing on the punching bag like it owes you money, driven by the image of a slutty pizza slice melting in your mouth.

—

You should’ve known better. Should’ve known he’d make you work even harder for that pizza. The thought of it now makes you nauseous, and you’re once again fighting for your life.

“I don’t even,” pant, “want the fucking,” wheeze, “shit anymore!”

He turns devious eyes on you from a broad shoulder, running ahead like it's effortless as breathing. Of course, it’s easy for him. He doesn’t have to worry about his lungs exploding or faceplanting on the pavement.

“Come now,” he calls, and did he really just speed up? “The pizza parlor is only a block away.”

You roll your eyes, jogging behind him, all sloppy and about to fall apart like Patrick Star when he first entered Sandy’s dome. “You’re a,” pant, “real pain in the ass, ya know that?”

Fuck him and his stupidly long legs and his inability to feel pain. Maybe you’re in over your head. Didn’t know what you were signing up for when you asked him to help you get into shape. Normal women would be getting their nails done or picking out ridiculously expensive purses by now, not training like a fucking Saiyan.

You slow to a hobble as the crosswalk pans into view, the red, holographic lines signifying you stop and wait for traffic, your saving grace. You dry heave as cars swish by, hands on your knees. A heavy, wide palm claps down on your back. You glower, and if you had the energy to, you’d chuck him in front of a speeding bus.

“You did well,” he says. It sounds patronizing coming from him. But you asked him to show a little personality after your first week together, so you have no one to blame but yourself.

You straighten, your heart ready to leap from your chest with how ferociously it pounds. Sweat eases down your nose, and you cut your eyes at your robotic tormentor. “I did, huh? I only thought about killing you three times. I should pat myself on the back.”

Sylus snorts, his lips pulling into a smile. A dimple craters his cheek. Had you not been fighting to breathe now, you’re sure you’d be rendered breathless by the sight.

“That’s a new record. But if the number of times you’ve wanted to harm me is dwindling, I’m not doing an effective job as your workout partner.”

Before you have the luxury of a response, he takes off across the street when the crosswalk glows green. You stare after him, mouth agape like a fish out of water. “You bitch!” you shout, chasing him, your chest warming at the boyish cackle he tosses you over his shoulder.

—

After a taxing game of tag—or, a game of you crying and throwing a tantrum in the midst of the shopping district, and Sylus taking pity on you (or trying to shut you up)—your journey concludes in front of a coffee shop.

“It’s the least you could do after running me into the ground,” you grumble around a pout, crossing your arms.

Sylus peers at you from his periphery, that effervescent humor never leaving his face. “Fair enough.” He holds the door to the swanky little coffee spot open for you, bowing like a butler in wait. “After you, Miss.”

You scoff, brushing past him. The rich aroma of coffee beans and warm cream washes over you like a soothing balm, smoothing the divot between your brows. You smile, exhaling beneath the ambient, artificial lights, twirling around like a child. “These are my people,” you sing-song, garnering a few perturbed looks from the cafe’s other patrons.

You skip towards the counter to order, only to be halted by the cashier’s sheepish voice.

“I’m sorry, Miss.” She rubs the back of her neck and shrinks away like she’s afraid you’ll hit her. “No androids allowed.” The cashier then motions to a sign overhead, Androids in bold Comic Sans struck through.

With all these technological advancements, you would think Comic Sans would be outlawed.

You scowl with your hands on your hips. “Well, that’s fucking stupid.”

The cashier sweat-drops, tittering nervously. “I don’t make the rules, ma’am. I just enforce them. It’s to keep it from getting crowded in here.”

“Or an excuse to be racist.” You turn to Sylus, watching him pensively. His gaze slides from the sign overhead to you, his processors seeming to work overtime as he studies you. “C’mon,” you clip, grabbing his arm, “let’s go somewhere else. This place smells gentrified and overpriced, anyway.”

As you step towards the door, he doesn't budge, and you spin to ask why.

“You’ve been talking about coming here for a while now. I won’t stop you from enjoying yourself.”

You blink, thoroughly confused. Sure, it’s a new coffee spot you’ve heard your coworkers rave about. Seen ads for it on your socials—thanks, Zuckerberg. But you’ve intentionally avoided establishments outlawing androids. You’ve become accustomed to having Sylus attached to your hip, and you hate seeing him wait at those stupid Android Parking shelters.

To you, he’s more than a machine (when he isn’t pissing you off). Sure, he’s an amalgamation of wires and metal, a complicated intelligence constantly learning and adapting to a world that gives you whiplash. But he’s…Sylus. And since you’ve known him, he’s acted like he’s grown sentience. You really wish people would stop treating androids like objects, even if they aren’t capable of understanding the human experience like you.

His gaze lightens, a rare flash of empathy. “I’ll be alright. I promise.”

Carefully, he pries your fingers from his forearm, the feel of his palm on your knuckles temporarily turning your brain to smog. You watch with a retort on your lips as your companion steps out, moving behind the window to stand in the Android Parking zone along with the others, staring straight ahead with rigid apathy.

Dejectedness stirs in your gut. You bite the inside of your cheek, begrudgingly stepping into the line. This coffee better be worth the fucking hype. Otherwise, you’ll air this bitch out.

After ordering your fraud-u-ccino, you plop on a chair that reminds you of those Little Tikes play-sets, scrutinizing the cafe like a Karen over crossed arms.

“Is that the new SYL model?” giggles a woman behind you.

You turn slightly, your blood running cold. You try to appear uninterested, toying with a discarded straw paper at your table.

“Sure is,” says her friend, cupping her hand around her mouth in secret.

“Wow! They look even better in person!”

“I know, right? They look so hot. And there’s only been, like, three of them ever made. Wonder who owns that tall chunk of plastic.”

You scoff. Who owns him? Sylus and ownership aren’t two words you’d typically use in a sentence. You’re his primary user—the person whose instructions he’s programmed to follow. But you can’t recall a time you intentionally ordered him to do anything, let alone referred to yourself as his owner.

“Must be somebody rich. Those models are expensive.”

“God, I bet it’s big. I’d ride that thing into the sunset.”

You let out an incredulous sound, looking out the window beside you. And if the ichor pouring through your veins wasn’t already frigid, it’s undoubtedly iced over by now.

For there stands Sylus, your stoic and unassuming companion, slowly gathering a crowd of women, blushing and fawning over him like a shiny new toy. You’re moving on autopilot when one of those bitches gropes his junk, taking advantage of his trance-like state beneath the kiosk.

Stepping into the balmy, spring air, the sounds of women cooing and giggling are like nails dragging down a chalkboard. You wend through the steadily building crowd, elbowing and shoving, channeling your inner Marlon Wayans in White Chicks to rescue your friend.

The noise simmers to dull murmuring when you grab Sylus’ wrist, pulling him from his daze. He blinks owlishly, looking around before stumbling after you, wondering where all these people came from.

You’re wordless as you tug him down the street, a seething little tea kettle, tight-lipped, shoulders set. So what if he’s an android? Doesn’t give people the right to cop a feel whenever the urge arises. Sexual harassment is all the same, machine or not.

You’re so busy, heatedly tugging him down the sidewalk towards a cab, you miss his smoldering, scarlet eyes studying the space between your shoulder blades, a sly smile pulling on his lips.

#sylus x non mc reader #sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace sylus #sylus fic #lnds sylus #sylus qin #lads sylus #sylus #l&ds sylus #android!sylus au #qin che

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improbable-outset · 6 months ago

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📄 𝐀 𝐙𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬

Jayce Talis x gn!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | ��𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: very slow burn, flirting, unresolved romantic tension, open ending, Zaun and Piltover dynamics, light angst

𝐀/𝐍: Ok I know I said no more tumblr, but I had to share this…if it reaches the Arcane audience, cool. If it doesn’t…ah well at least my moots see this

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: As a Zaunite inventor, you don’t trust uninvited visitors in your sanctuary, especially from Piltover Councillors. But Jayce Talis isn’t like most people. Persistent, curious, and infuriatingly charming, he keeps showing up to your workshop, refusing to back down. And neither are you…

An earthy tang hit the back of your throat as you swept the concrete floor, each stroke of your broom sending swirls of dust in the air. The dust particles caught the setting sunlight spilling through the open doorway, casting a golden glow inside your workshop.

It wasn’t a huge space, but it was yours— clattered with shelves of spare parts, half finished projects, and various tools.

The main door stood propped open, letting in the faded sunlight and occasional cool breeze.

The wind slowly brushed past you as you continued to sweep, the sound of the wind charm that hung outside of your property tinkered in the air. Its delicate sound was a contrast to the mechanical hum that usually filled the space.

Your routine was as steady as the machines you built. Each day was just as predictable as the last. Sweep the dust, sort out spare parts, tinker with inventions that no one would use— or buy.

Most of your work came from the Chem-barons, commissions for complex weapons or gear that promised devastation in the right hands.

They didn’t visit often, but their demands could keep you busy for days. Then, when the work was done, the stillness returned.

No one came unless they needed something done, and you prefer it that way. The fewer interruptions, the fewer chances for someone to stick their nose where it didn’t belong.

And everyone seemed to respect that.

You paused mid-sweep, the broom still in your hand, as you felt a prickle run up the back of your neck.

The air in the Undercity was always thick with pollution and smoke, but now it felt heavier— like the weight of a storm waiting to break.

The usual hum of your machinery seemed muted, and even the wind chime faltered, the tinkering notes faded into the background.

You told yourself to ignore it, brush it off like it was nothing more than a stray thought. But then you heard it again— a faint shuffle, just outside.

It sounded too deliberate to be from the wind, and too hesitant to be a usual runner.

A figure emerged from the shadows of the alleyway, stepping into the dim light of your workshop. It didn’t take long to figure out who it was— his attire was too clean for this side of the bridge.

He moved with purpose, pausing a few metres before your doorway like he’d stumble upon something precious.

You didn’t flinch, broom still in your hand, watching. You’d learn that speaking first was usually a mistake— it only gave the other person the upper hand.

The man looked at you, his stare caught somewhere between admiration and the detached curiosity of someone staring at an animal behind glass.

His height and physique could naturally draw attention. But even without that, his clothes did most of the talking.

The gold trim on his suit caught what little light filtered through the smog. His boots polished to a shine and echoed softly in the quiet streets— just loud enough to announce his arrival.

“You lost, Talis?” you asked, finally breaking the silence.

Your property wasn’t exactly on the map, it was tucked away in the maze of the alleys. Only locals could navigate these paths.

That’s why seeing someone from Piltover standing outside your doorstep caught you off guard.

His name had the desired effect, setting alarm bells in him. His posture stiffened, his expression flickered with surprise with his eyes darting back to yours. “You…know who I am?”

You leaned your broom against the wall and crossed your arms.

“Everyone in Zaun knows the Golden Boy from Piltover.” Your tone was flat, like you were stating a fact. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. Exit’s that way.”

“I’m not selling anything,” he said quickly, his hands coming up in a half-hearted gesture of surrender. “I just came to see your work.”

“My work? Why?”

Jayce Talis— a name rang out in both Piltover and Zaun. His face was everywhere— on posters, merchandise, and in carefully curated photos plastered across every surface in the city.

You always knew the pictures were crafted to perfection. They had to be. The Man of Progress couldn’t afford a single flaw.

Still, seeing him in person was…something else. You hated to admit it, even to yourself, but the pictures didn’t exaggerate much.

His hair was slick back just enough to look effortlessly polished. His thick brows and light stubble framed his features that were far too symmetrical to your liking.

And then there was his outfit— his crisp white jacket with gold pieces tailored so perfectly it felt like a statement itself.

It wasn’t overly tight, but it clung in the right places, hinting at broad shoulders and accentuating a physique that made heads turn. Each time he shifted, the fabric pulled slightly against his muscles, as if barely keeping itself together.

Even his eyes seemed to sparkle more up close in the low light, a reflection of his boundless confidence and a sign that he didn’t belong here. Not in your space.

“I’ve heard words about you going around and I was curious.”

“So what? You’re gonna give me a gold star? Show off my work at the Piltover parties?”

“No, no. I mean—” he hesitated, the words fumbling for footing. “People say you’re brilliant, and I wanted to see for myself.”

Brilliant. Of course. You’ve heard that compliment being tossed around before, along with other sweet talks from people trying to butter you up before hitting you with some impossible demand.

But he wasn’t fumbling entirely, there was still a smooth air about him. One that came naturally to someone that’s used to speaking to a room full of people hanging onto every word.

Even so, there was something different up close. Was he trying too hard? Nervousness beneath his charm?

“You think I’m gonna perform for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly, his voice dipping lower to a more soothing note.

You narrowed your eyes, holding back a scoff. So he thought a change in his tone would win you over? Clearly, he hadn’t met enough people like you.

But the real question still nagged at the back of your mind. How had he found you? It still baffled you. Your workshop wasn’t the kind of place you could just stumble across— it was hidden by design

So how had Jayce Talis done it? Had he bribed someone for directions? Pulled strings with someone that owed him a favour?

Or had he stubbornly worked his way through the Undercity on his own, pretending to look harmless?

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. He looked glaringly out of place. And yet, he stood there, looking like he genuinely cared about your answer.

Not that it mattered. You learned not to trust a nice tone or an earnest expression.

Before you could tell him to get lost, his eyes flickered past you. He stepped forward, just slightly, but enough for the air between you to shift.

“Is that…a chem-powered stabiliser?” Jayce asked, pointing past you.

You froze, following his gaze to the machinery perched on the workbench. He even had the cheeks to step closer and peered through the doorway to get a better look.

“I’ve never seen one so compact before. How did you—”

“Don’t touch that!” you snapped, stepping in to block out his view. “These aren’t for you to admire.”

He pulled his hand back immediately, fingered curling to his palm, but his eyes were still glued to the device.

“Is this some sort of new hobby? Charity work for the poor Zaunite researchers? You think you could waltz into the Undercity, slap a few compliments, and go back feeling good about yourself?”

You see him deflate a little, genuinely taken back by your words. For the first time, you saw his brows furrow as your words seemed to sting. “That’s not why I’m here, I just—”

“Then why are you here? I don’t need your approval, councillor.”

The title landed a sharp jab, but instead of retreating completely, Jayce straightened his posture.

“Fine, fine— I’m going.” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. “But your work is incredible, even if you hate me for saying it.”

His expression softened, his gaze flickered between the stabiliser and you. For a moment, he looked like a wounded animal, retreating quietly but with a trace of stubborn determination in his eyes.

“Don’t come back, Talis.” you called sharply, already turning your back to head inside.

“Can’t make any promises.” he smiled faintly, disappearing back into the shadows of the alleyway.

The muted hiss of the soldering iron filled the quiet. Your hands worked with precision, the glow from the tool casting flickering light across the delicate gears in front of you.

It had been almost a week since Jayce’s unsolicited visit, and you haven’t had a single visitor after that. Days like this weren’t unusual— visitors were rare, and you were accustomed to that.

Despite the chaos of the Undercity, it always felt distant here, muted by the walls and your deliberate isolation. Your workshop was designed to block out the clamour of the outside world.

The only sounds were the occasional clink of metal and the crackle of circuitry.

You adjusted your position, leaning closer to your work, and ran your tongue over your slightly chapped lips as you steadied the gear. The solder melted, releasing a soft wisp of smoke that carried a sharp metallic scent.

With the rare visitors and social interactions, your tools were the only thing keeping you company. They didn’t have any demand explaining or carrying expectations. They only required patience and precision.

The silence gave you room to think— sometimes too much room. After days without a single visit, you felt the weight of it begin to press on you. It wasn’t something you dared to admit to anyone— not even yourself— but you felt the toll of it.

The lack of noise sharpened your senses, as if your ears were always straining to fill the void. You heard every creek of the floorboards beneath your feet, every shift of machinery in the room, every distant echo from across the streets.

Sometimes you could even hear the faint thrum of your pulse in your ear.

And that’s why you heard them before you even saw him.

Boots.

Not the mismatched kinds that the locals wore. These sounded like it came from a clean sole that didn’t stick to the streets. A confidence that you didn’t hear often.

You paused mid-solder and tilted your head slightly, listening carefully. The sound grew louder, sharper, and irritably more familiar. It was the same stride you heard a few days ago.

Placing the iron down, you turned towards the doorway. A shadow lingered in the dim light before a figure emerged.

And there he was, flesh and blood.

Again.

“Still not lost this time,” he announced.

He carried the same easy warmth, light but steady, that seemed to sweep into the room and disturb the peace you cultivated.

Except now, it was more infuriating than the last. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” you asked, glancing at him briefly.

“You did,” he admitted, unfazed. “I have a habit of not listening.”

Your gaze dropped briefly to his boots, taking in the faint sheen leather material that hadn’t been scuffed by Zaun’s grime.

“You really got some nerves, Talis.”

Of course he hadn’t learned. Why were you even surprised? Of course he thought he was entitled to walk back in here, as if the first time wasn’t enough.

“What do you want, Talis?” Your voice was a blade against steel. “You don’t belong here.”

“What, and you do?” He arched his brow, as though he caught you in a contradiction. “Doesn’t seem like you get a lot of visitors.”

“I like it that way.”

Usually, your words were enough to send someone packing. Your cold indifference was a shield, and most people didn’t push past. But Jayce didn’t flinch.

Instead, his expression softened, giving you a steady gaze. There was no mockery. Just…patience.

You didn’t know what to make of that, like his warmth stonewalled your annoyance. You stared, half expecting him to make some sort of patronising comment. But he didn’t.

It dawned on you that he really wasn’t going to give this up.

You opened your mouth and closed them again, struggling to find the words before you finally hear yourself speak again.

“You might as well come in since you came all the way down here…again.”

The words left your mouth before your brain could catch up. Part of you wished you could snatch your words back, but it was too late now.

Jayce had already stepped closer, his broad shadow loomed across the threshold. His boots scraped against the uneven floor. His steps felt measured, like he was testing how far he could go without setting you off.

The workshop always felt just the right size when you were alone— a perfect balance between cramped and cozy. But now it suddenly felt stifling. The creek of the floorboard under his weight and his shuffling steps sounded amplified in the quiet. His height alone made the walls feel closer.

Even his presence had some volume.

The glow lamps casted a soft light around the room. The workshop area had a few overhead lamps with exposed bulbs that threw harsh lighting over the workbenches, drawing attention to every imperfection.

“You know,” he started, his voice carrying a light teasing to it, “most people are at least a little polite to unexpected guests.”

“You’re in Zaun. Niceties get you robbed,” you shot back.

“Good thing I’m not carrying anything worth stealing.”

“Those boots say otherwise, Councillor.”

You didn’t wait for his resort, turning to glance around your workshop. To an outsider, the area probably looked like a disaster— grease stains on the wall, loose screws and scraps of metal littered the workbenches, and half finished work lay abandoned in various states of progress.

But to you, it’s an organised chaos. Everything had its place. You could locate a specific bolt buried under a pile of blueprints in seconds.

If anyone even dared to call it a mess, it wouldn’t bother you. Their opinions didn’t matter.

However, you’d never have a Piltovern in here. Not until tonight.

You didn’t have to look at him to imagine the look of disdain he must feel. A poorly lit workshop that reeked of oil and soldered metal wasn’t part of his orderly world.

Surely the grime and chaos would send him scurrying back to his prestigious lab in Piltover.

But when you turned to face him, the look in his face stopped you short.

Jayce leaned casually against one of the shelves, carefully avoiding anything breakable. His eyes scanned the room like he’d just stumbled upon a treasure trove. The faint glow of the lamps reflected in his eyes.

It only made you stiffer. Was this real awe, or just another layer to whatever act he was putting on?

People didn’t come here to admire your work. They came with demands and offers, often laced with ulterior motives.

His sincerity didn’t fit. It was foreign and dangerous. You weren’t used to it and you weren’t sure if you wanted to be.

And you certainly didn’t trust it.

“You made this?” he asked, picking up the small contraption with surprise care. The device whirred softly in his hand. Despite the scrubby appearance, the mechanism was fine and intricate, every piece deliberately placed.

You frowned, folding your arms across your chest. “Do you always just reach for anything that fascinates you?”

“Sorry I just—” he set the device down, as if it burned his skin. “I guess I got too curious.”

His sheepish tone irritated you more. It was easier to deal with people that were openly arrogant.

He turned his attention past you to the wall-mounted shelves stacked with material. Tools hung from hooks in neat rows, their placement a product of necessity rather than decoration.

Space was limited, so you had to think vertically, every inch of the walls serving a purpose.

Jayce stepped closer, his movement slower and more mindful. His gaze was glued to the tools, taking them in as though each one was a masterpiece.

“These tools look amazing, I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

“Well, I’d hope not. Because I made them.”

“You made them all yourself?”

“Most of them.”

The words came out clipped, but his reaction wasn’t what you expected. If he was fazed by your snarky attitude, he didn’t show it. Maybe he braced himself this time, expecting your hostility, or maybe he found it amusing.

“How long…how long did it take you?” he asked softly.

“Depends on how complex it is.”

“It’s incredible,” he said. “People back in the Academy spend months trying to get this kind of precision…and even they don’t come close”

For a moment you faltered, your eyes twitched at his words. His praise sounded genuine, and you knew it. And that’s what nerved you.

Compliments always came with strings attached.

You quickly deflected. “Flattery won’t work. I’m not one of your lapdogs.”

“Good, I don’t want lapdogs,” he replied, his grin disarming. “I like inventors who can outthink me.”

The casual delivery of his words struck you unexpectedly, leaving a hairline fracture in the armour you’ve built around yourself. It was a small blip in your radar. You didn’t know why you trusted him enough to stretch the conversation this far.

For now, you allowed the unfamiliar feeling to linger, watching as he wandered through your sanctuary.

Jayce’s gaze combed through the shelves and your unfinished project with childlike wonder. At this point, you truly couldn’t decide if this was an act of not.

People didn’t come in here to admire your work— they came to collect it. Usually they would mutter a few pointers about what needed tweaking, toss their payment on the nearest bench, and leave without so much of a second glance.

You were used to that rhythm— content with it.

But, now you weren’t sure.

Having someone appreciate your work felt foreign, and the way he handled your creation with care left an uncomfortable knot in your chest.

You silently cursed yourself for noticing the subtle curve of his smile when he discovered something particularly interesting.

It was only his second time here and for some reason you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. He was already threatening to throw you off balance.

A week hadn’t past before you heard his footsteps again, cutting through the tinkering of the wind chimes, as familiar as the beat of your own pulse.

“Is this going to be a routine now?” you asked, arching your brow inquisitively.

He stepped closer, his voice almost teasing. “As long as you allow it.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead you turned, stepping back into the workshop without looking back. You knew he’d follow; given his last visit. Though you never made it easy for him.

But despite the lack of warmth in your welcoming, the air between you was different now. No hostility, no tension. But no comfort either.

It didn’t take long for Jayce to settle into the rhythm that grated your nerves in the worst way— calm and unhurried. It wasn’t just that he was an inventor, too. It was how he saw things with such fresh eyes, as if the clutter was all just a puzzle for him to piece together.

But there was still an odd feeling that tugged at the back of your mind.

Piltover men didn’t linger; they demanded, bargained, gloated. Then left without looking back. They didn’t come back three times, and they certainly didn’t waste their time applauding your work like it came from some exhibition.

It made you bristle. Not because he was here, but because you couldn’t figure out why.

You’ve already cycled through the possibilities, and none of them made sense. If he was scouting for talent for Piltover, why not send an envoy? If he wanted to commission something from you, surely an assistant could’ve handled it. And why three separate visits, at irregular intervals?

Your thoughts spiralled tighter, refusing to pinpoint and answer that fit. Then, a thought you didn’t dare to acknowledge emerged.

It couldn’t be that, could it? The possibility— absurd, offensive, ridiculous— settled in your mind like a splinter.

Your throat tightened, a heat rising up your neck. You shouldn’t entertain it. But the only way to gain some clarity was to confront him about it.

“You’ve been sulking around my workshop for the third time now…” your voice came out sharper than intended, but you didn’t regret it.

You let him linger around in your threshold once already, and this time, you were determined to figure out what he wanted.

“Yes..” his tone was annoyingly steady. “I just wanted to see your work.”

“Please. I know men like you. You act interested, then expect me to fall into your lap.” You stepped closer, crossing your arms over your chest. The next words edged with frustration. “If that’s what you’re here for, you can save both of us the time and get lost.”

The word tasted bitter, even when you said them. You weren’t sure why you mind went to that possibility. But it felt like the only way to shatter the weird tension that you were feeling when he was around.

Jayce froze. And then his face grew flustered at your words, like you’ve just crossed a line he hadn’t even considered.

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked softly, before his voice gained conviction. “I don’t care about…that. I wouldn’t be that selfish. I wanted to see what you’ve built because it’s nothing I’ve ever seen before. I don’t have an ulterior motive, I swear.”

You wanted to snap back, to call him out on what you assumed was an elaborate excuse, but you couldn’t find the words. You felt embarrassment cross your form.

The moment of stillness filled the space, the absurdity of your accusation sinking in. A Councilman slinking into a Zaun for…something improper. You almost wanted to laugh at yourself.

He’d never once cross a boundary. His posture was careful and his steps were measured. His gaze on you was momentary, but it never strayed too far from your workbench.

“Hmph…you’re persistent I’ll give you that.” You muttered, your voice far quieter now. “Most people don’t make it past the first visit.”

The corner of his lips quirked up to a bashful smile. “So I’m not most people?”

Your lips twitched before you quickly smothered it, fixing him a look. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Golden Boy.”

Despite the harshness in your tone, you felt the lingering awkwardness pressing at the edge. Your accusations made your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You couldn’t look him in the eye anymore, not that you ever tried before. But now it felt different.

Jayce, on the other hand, redirected his attention back on your workbench. He offered a few offhanded comments, his tone deliberately casual. You could tell he was trying to smooth out the tension, though you barely registered his words.

Just a few weeks ago, you’ve done everything in your power to push him away. Sharp words, cold stares, anything to make him leave and never come back. All proven futile.

But now, you weren’t sure if you wanted to ruin…whatever it was between the two of you.

Having someone like him around brought a spark of something you hadn’t realised you missed.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes. His broad shoulders seemed almost out of place in your cramped workshop— like an elephant in a china shop. But his presence didn’t feel intrusive now.

His eyes scanned over your blueprints and half-finished projects with genuine interest. There was a strange sense of pride that washed over you, one you tried to ignore.

Knowing that someone like him valued your craftsmanship, took the time out of his day to see your work, was almost unsettling. And you didn’t want to think too hard about why.

“This joint,” his voice cut through your reverie, drawing you back to the present, “it might seize under pressure. Have you considered a pivot here?”

You blinked, following the direction of his finger on the diagram. “It works fine as it is.”

“I’m sure it does, but it could work even better.”

He wasn’t backing down. His voice wasn’t condescending or dismissive. But something else that made you tense, and you didn’t want to acknowledge it.

He continued to offer feedback and suggest adjustments, but you weren’t fully listening. His words were slipping through your focus, weaving around you. You were too distracted but his voice. The way he said things. The way his presence seemed to fill the room.

You felt your heart stutter, and you realised you hadn’t heard a word from him for the past minute. All you could focus on was how close he was, making your skin feel tight, his hands moving over the blueprint.

“You know,” you said, leaning back slightly, “you’re kind of cute when you ramble.”

“What?”

“I said you’re cute,” you repeated, shifting your weight and hoping he hadn’t noticed the flush creeping to your face. “You’re not deaf, are you?”

“I— uh— I’ve never had anybody describe me as ‘cute’ before.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“You know, I’m a councillor. You are aware of what that status means, right?”

“Being a councillor doesn’t spare you from being cute. Or are you implying that councillors are above compliments?

Jayce rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, letting out a chuckle to conceal something deeper— maybe nerves, perhaps. “I guess it’s a change from the more…superficial compliments I get.”

“Superficial?”

“I get a lot of ‘handsome’ and ‘charming’ and all the usual words.“

“That’s because they’re boring.”

A small shift seemed to pass over him— maybe he hadn’t expected that response. His gaze lingered before he looked away, as if your words had an effect on him more than he let on.

You hadn’t known Jayce for long— not personally, at least. But the more you were around him, the more you realised he wasn’t as unreadable as you first thought.

You’ve seen glimpses of him, like fitting together different parts of him that made him who he was.

The defeated look he wore when you first shut him out of your workshop. The awe that lit up his face when he stepped inside and took in your projects for the first time. The stunned silence after your accusation, as if the words had thrown him off balance.

And how he was flustered— caught completely off guard. His mouth twitched into a hesitant smile, and he quickly covered it with his palm, as though trying to shield it from you.

This was your favourite expression by far.

Something about watching him internally stumble, seeing him stripped off his usual poise struck a chord in you. It wasn’t just satisfaction— but something softer. As if you weren’t the only one out of your depth for once.

After a few heartbeats, Jayce cleared his throat, breaking the momentary silence like pebble tossed in water.

“Well, I should probably let you get back to it,” he said.

His usual confidence faltered as he turned to the door, muttering something along the lines of “cute” under his breath. The door opened to reveal the darkness of the night, with the flickering glows of the street lights.

You rolled your eyes and suppressed a grin as he stepped outside. “Don’t get used to the hospitality, Talis.”

He glanced back with a smirk, a mix of shyness and mischievous. “Wouldn’t dream of it…”

Then he was gone, disappeared into the night, leaving you alone again with your tools.

#★— ayrus writes #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #jayce talis x y/n #jayce talis x gender neutral reader #arcane #arcane jayce #jayce talis arcane #jayce arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane jayce talis #jayce x reader

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counterblows · 4 months ago

Text

𝐀 𝐙𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐀𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬

Jayce Talis x gn!Reader

𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.6k

𝐂𝐖 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐖: very slow burn, flirting, unresolved romantic tension, open ending, Zaun and Piltover dynamics, light angst