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dee-writes-anime · 8 days ago

Note

I am requesting the saddest most gut wrenching deku x reader angst ever

So imagine reader with a transformation quirk right? And every time she shifts she gets more tired? And one day after the war she just never wakes up again.

Do as you please with this

Can’t wait for deku’s reaction 🫩😈

MONTY! Eat sleep drink!

We Did It, Didn't We?

FEATURING Izuku 'Deku' Midoriya x Reader

SUMMARY for the world, the war against All for One is over, but inside a hospital, a war still rages for Izuku against time.

CONTENT WARNINGS hella angst, major character death, greif and loss, pain, descriptions of war

AUTHORS NOTE medical related fics just seem to keep finding me these days, hope you enjoy this gut wrenching angst monty! Remember, you asked for this MUAHAHAHHAHA

The war was over.

That’s what they kept saying. Like it was some kind of comfort. Like it meant anything at all.

The world outside was already beginning to rebuild. Streets once leveled by destruction were now lined with scaffolding. Windows gleamed again. Flags waved in the summer wind, bright and proud, as if plastering over the ruins made the scars disappear. People cheered in the streets, called him the Symbol of Peace.

But none of them were in this room.

In here, the war still lived. In here, it refused to end.

The hospital room was cold and sterile, the soft hum of machines filling the stale air. An IV ticked steadily beside your bed. Monitors blinked with quiet indifference, beeping rhythmically as if mocking the fragility of life.

Your life.

You laid so still.

Your skin was pale under the fluorescent light, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling in careful, mechanical rhythm. Not your breath. The machine’s breath. A steady imitation of life.

Izuku sat beside you, slumped forward in the chair he rarely left, his broken frame a stark reflection of the price paid.

His arms—what remained of them—rested awkwardly in heavy prosthetic braces that clamped around his shoulders and torso. The metallic frames gleamed under the lights, still unfinished, still temporary. His real arms were gone. Torn away in the final battle, shredded beyond anything Recovery Girl or even Eri could fix. His body had been salvaged. His heart… less so.

Even now, months later, he still woke up forgetting they were gone—only to try moving them, only to feel nothing but the weighted pull of the harness, the dull ache of phantom pain.

He stared at your face as if he could will your eyes to open.

You hadn’t opened them since that day. Since you collapsed in his arms on the battlefield.

Your quirk had been a double-edged sword from the beginning—a transformation ability with near-infinite potential. You could shift, adapt, mold your body into weapons, shields, whatever the battle demanded. You were brilliant. Fearless. Terrifyingly strong. But every shift drained you. Every transformation took something you couldn’t get back.

And in that final fight — when everything was ending — you gave all of yourself to shield him.

He replayed it constantly, that final moment.

The way you threw yourself in front of him, shifting your body into armor as a blast tore toward them. You screamed through the transformation, muscles shredding, cells breaking apart under the strain. He could feel your heartbeat weakening as you braced against the blow that would’ve ended him.

You smiled through the blood.

"We did it, didn’t we?" you whispered, right before your knees buckled.

And you never woke up again.

Izuku exhaled shakily, the movement making the prosthetics hiss softly as the internal servos adjusted. His breath misted slightly against the chill of the room.

"You didn’t have to do that," he whispered, voice raw. “You didn’t have to protect me like that.”

His voice trembled, eyes burning behind red, sleepless lids.

"You always did this," he continued, his words cracking beneath the weight of guilt. "You always pushed yourself further. You took on more than anyone ever should’ve asked of you… and you smiled like it was nothing."

He tried to swallow the lump building in his throat, but it caught and burned.

"You promised me you'd stop pushing yourself so hard." The words slipped out like a prayer. "You promised me you'd rest after this."

He shifted forward slightly, the braces creaking with effort as he leaned toward your hand. His shoulder tensed under the straps as he tried to raise his prosthetic to touch you but failed. The weight of his ruined body mocked him again.

His head dipped instead, his lips brushing against the back of your cool hand. The small contact was all he could manage now.

"You saved everyone," he whispered. "You saved me."

The machine's steady beeping filled the silence like a cruel metronome, counting down seconds that stretched endlessly.

Sometimes, he still talked to you like you were here.

"Maybe tomorrow," he always told himself. "Tomorrow she'll wake up. Tomorrow it'll change."

It was foolish, childish even. But hope had always been his curse.

Outside the window, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the floor. The world kept moving. People kept living. The war heroes were honored. Statues raised. Newspapers printed stories of victory.

Victory.

But what did victory mean if you weren’t here to see it?

Izuku’s breath hitched sharply, and the tremor in his jaw returned.

"I was supposed to protect you," he whispered. "I swore I wouldn’t lose anyone else."

His shoulders shook as silent tears fell freely now, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into your blanket. The cold steel of his braces dug into his sides as his broken frame curled tighter into itself.

"I wasn’t strong enough," he sobbed. "Not for you."

Then— A sharp, piercing tone filled the room.

The monitor flatlined.

Izuku froze, blood draining from his face. His stomach hollowed out instantly.

"No," he whispered. “No, no, no, please—please—”

The door burst open as nurses rushed in, calling out orders, moving like a well-rehearsed dance.

“Code blue!”

Hands tried to gently pull Izuku back, but he fought them weakly, stumbling against the bed with the awkward weight of his braces pulling him off-balance.

“She was stable!” he gasped. “She was stable—!”

The nurses didn’t answer. Their eyes said everything.

He watched them work—compressions, shocks, the frantic movements—while something deep inside him shattered completely.

He saw the doctor glance at the clock. Then the slow, painful shake of his head.

"Time of death — 5:42 PM."

The words struck like a blade to the ribs.

Izuku collapsed, knees hitting the floor beside your bed. His body trembled as he fought to breathe, as if his lungs refused to keep going without you.

His broken, prosthetic-wrapped frame hunched over as his forehead pressed against your lifeless hand.

"I’m sorry," he sobbed. His voice broke into nothing but raw, breathless sound. "I’m so sorry… I couldn’t save you."

The weight of his failure bore down heavier than any injury he'd ever suffered.

The nurses stepped back, leaving him alone with you. The world outside faded entirely. All that remained was the quiet hum of the machines shutting down, the fading warmth of your hand under his trembling lips.

Victory meant nothing.

The war was over.

And yet, here he was.

Alone.

Izuku stayed long after the room grew dark.

And though the world crowned him as its Symbol of Peace, though monuments bore his likeness, though people spoke his name with reverence—

He carried you inside every shattered piece of him.

The battle was over.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #my hero acedamia #my hero academy fanfiction #dee's asks #mha #izuku midoriya #mha izuku #bnha izuku #izuku x reader #midoriya #mha deku #deku #bnha deku

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lethargicluv · 2 years ago

Text

Firefighter Ghost Blurb 2

Part 1

Firefigher Simon "Ghost" Riley who didn't think he'd ever mess up a team training exercise until he's falling from the scaffolding to the safety mats below because his boot missed a rung when he saw your face smiling at them from your second story window. Soap is gaping down from the top of the obstacle course in disbelief because LIEUTENANT SIMON RILEY just fumbled so hard he actually fell, he never thought he'd ever see that happen. Gaz is still in position to start once Ghost made it to the top joining Soap but is now trying very hard not to laugh outloud so his face is buried in his arms and his shoulder are trembling slightly. Price has his clipboard to his forehead in exasperation because how would they even make it to regionals for the upcoming yearly firefighter team obstacle course competition if they were messing up in practice like this. Simon has never been more thankful for his mask because he's more red than the firetrucks in the station now that he knows you saw what just happened. He can see you giggling in your window from where he lies splayed out on the mats and he thinks that if he gets to see you laugh like this more often he wouldn't mind falling again.

You find out that they've been training to compete next month when you bring today's taco tuesday dinner over to them. The recipe seemed to call for a bit too much spice and you get to witness Soap choke and splutter while Gaz brings the table more water. Simon muses that it can't be that bad and that Soap's just a wimp until he takes a bit as feels like someone lit his mouth on fire. Price jokes and tells you it's a good punishment for them for messing up training today. When Soap recovers from his coughing fit he asks if you'll come watch them compete and Simon wants to strangle him because he knows that Soap knows exactly what he's doing the cheeky little bastard. He's going have to discuss upping the level of training with Price after this because if you're coming there's no way in hell he's going to let 141 place anything but first place. They're going to nationals and that’s final. It's now non-negotiable.

You tell him as he walks you back across the street to your house after dinner that you're thrilled to watch them compete and that you think he looks particularly handsome when hes moving. A week later he brings you a sweatshirt that matches theirs that says 141's honorary member, Hearth, and when you ask his why Hearth he says they all agreed that you remind them of Hestia the goddess of the hearth. You're hospitable and always by the fire stations side. Someone that takes care of them all. You make him what’s possibly the best shepard’s pie he’s ever had the next day.

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balrogballs · 6 months ago

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The Clean Break

a little take on Aragorn and Elrond’s final meeting, a removed scene from Cast in Stone (no context required; it’s canon compliant) that I liked too much to toss.

Aragorn was Estel when he broke his wrist, somewhere between five and six years old. It was a perfectly ordinary break, which happened for a perfectly ordinary reason: he had been running about on a wet floor, slipped, and crashed over a threshold. Elladan and Elrohir had come running at his wails, picked him up and took him to Elrond.

He remembers how Elrond explained to him that it was a clean break, and a very small one — it would stop hurting in a few days if he kept it still. The twins, those ardent connoisseurs of broken bones, had kept up a steady stream of joking patter to distract him whilst their father slowly applied a pain-relieving poultice and began to wrap up the wound.

Estel had been sobbing and sobbing, regardless of how mild the injury truly was. He was only five years old, and was more frightened than hurt, because he had never broken a bone in his life and he did not understand what everyone was doing, did not understand why his arm was being covered in white cloth, and it did hurt quite a lot, so he wailed.

And at some point in the process, he remembers looking up and realising that his father was crying too. Elrond hadn't made a sound, but his cheeks were awash in silent, indecipherable tears. Aragorn remembers how his expression didn't change at all, blank and beautiful in the white afternoon light: wrought from stone like a weeping statue, a quiet miracle, a promise of faith.

He remembers Elladan's tense, barked-out "Ada! What is it? What is wrong? You said it’s a clean break!"

And Aragorn remembers how Elrond had sat back on his heels and smiled, the motion pulling his features back into familiar lines. He remembers sitting silently, watching the last tears fall down the marble face, as Elrond said: "hush, my boy, you will scare Estel. Nothing is wrong, it is only a clean break. He will be fine tomorrow."

"Then why are you in tears?" Elrohir had asked, equally worried.

"Oh dear, am I? Aha, I am. Truly, it is only because he is," Elrond admitted sheepishly, sniffing. He had stroked a lock of hair back from Estel's face, laughing self-consciously, and his voice shook only a little. "I hate seeing him in pain. It breaks my heart seeing him cry so ceaselessly, even for such a small cause. It is only that, Elrohir, do not worry."

At the time, the twins had laughed, teased their father for his softness as they often did, made so many jokes about it that even little Estel, who didn't really understand the fuss and at the time had just probably assumed Elrond had a broken wrist too, was laughing alongside the three of them for absolutely no reason at all. It was casual, domestic, completely ordinary and commonplace as far as his childhood went: there were funnier incidents, sadder scenes, happier conversations.

But for some reason, this one is Aragorn's first real memory. The day he broke his wrist is the scaffolding he built his life atop, the day he looked at his father and found something sacred within him.

________

"I thought for a very long time," Aragorn says, on the tallest tower in Minas Tirith, their final meeting. "About what I could give you as a parting gift."

"If it is anything extravagant," Elrond warns him, raising a finger. "You know as well as I that I will take it to mean you are offering me a bride price, and I will take deep offence."

Aragorn grins, winks: "it's actually less than worthless, financially speaking" and cackles at how Elrond actually looks somehow more offended at that option.

"And what is this less than worthless thing you are donating to the one who raised you all your life?" he raises his eyebrows, a smile playing on his lips. "What castoff hand-me-down do you deign to bestow me with?”

"I know you must be weary of rings," Aragorn gestures at Vilya, winking away on Elrond's finger. "But perhaps this one may restore your faith in them."

"I am of a race that thinks nothing: jewels, lives, wars, is eternal," he continues, hair drifting over his face. "Of an old jewelry box my mother had, many trinkets were lost to time, some earrings were without a pair. And such loss of heirlooms never grieved us. After all, they were not ours to grieve."

"The oddest thing in the box was an old, battered golden ring. When I was first given the collection, I was only twenty yet already that ring was far too small for me. I thought that it belonged to a petite woman, perhaps a sister or a mother. Yet more recently, I was thinking of it and it confused me — why would a noblewoman own a cheap, plain ring? The other stones in the box were all precious, valuable, true heirlooms. When my mother died, she told me to pass them on to my children, and I will: but with this ring, I intend to disobey her."

"It was only some weeks ago, as Arwen showed me her own rings, that I realised something," said Aragorn, fishing around in his collar. "That this trinket I carry was no woman's ring, it was made to be worn by a child. You had given me one of these too, if you recall, as per tradition — on my sixth begetting day, a flat gold ring like this with my name carved into the inside. That was when I looked closer at this one, at the inscription on the inside of its hollow."

He unfastens the clasp on the chain, slips a small ring into Elrond's palm. He watches as all the blood leaves the elf's face only to be replaced by a harsh, terrible expression.

"Nothing is eternal, Ada," repeats Aragorn. "But some things should be."

"You are — you are giving me this?" Elrond's voice is strangled, eyes wide. "It —"

"I am. It is not mine to grieve."

Elrond does not say a word, does not even look at Aragorn, instead turning away and walking towards the far side of the balcony where he stood silently, ring clutched tightly in a shaking fist. Aragorn allows him to hold on to dignity.

Dignity, and a small, burnished gold ring.

It was rather battered, some of the plating rubbed off, a groove carved into it from all the times its owner tied it to a string and used it to tease cats with. It had a small dent in the frame, warping it slightly, and if you looked closely you could make out a little tooth mark, as though someone had a habit of gnawing at it. It was less valuable heirloom, more solid proof that the ancient king Elros Tar-Minyatur of Numenor, had once been a messy, careless little boy.

A few minutes pass, in which neither of them speak.

"I had nothing of him," Elrond tells him quietly after a while. "All my life, I had nothing of him at all. It had felt wrong, you see, sailing off to Numenor and demanding his possessions from his grieving children. So for five thousand years, I had nothing of him."

"But I never told you of him," Elrond's voice is searching, harsh and confused, trying to find a justification for the gift. "I had never told you of him, and yes, you had known of him from your lessons but I had tried so hard never to speak of him to you lest you, for one second, thought that I only loved you because you were the heir of Elros. You had no reason to know how I loved him, how fiercely I missed him, how I had nothing of him at all."

Elrond sounds almost angry, wrenching the words through gritted teeth like a scolding, his back still turned to Aragorn: "who made you so kind, Estel? Who made you so selfless — that you — that you give me this without ever being told — that you thought of it — who made you, boy?"

Elrond is breathing in deep, clarifying breaths and Aragorn stands there silently. He does not answer any of the fevered questions. It was Elrond, after all, who once told him over a chalkboard: stupid questions did not deserve answers.

"I never wanted to hurt you, Ada," says Aragorn at last, when only a sliver of sun is left behind in the sky. "Not for a moment. That is why I had… I had… that is why I had hoped we could have a clean break. I just didn't want to hurt you."

"I know you didn't," Elrond says, half-smiling as he turns back, composed again yet not entirely unruffled. "But I would rather it hurt in such a way, than it not hurt at all."

"Would you?"

"Of course," Elrond tells him, unconsciously running a finger across the flat, golden surface of the ring he had slid onto his smallest finger. "After all, the most treasured things in the world are only so valued because of how debilitatingly painful it would be to lose them."

Aragorn cannot speak. He has dawdled and delayed, pushed this parting to a cliff-edge, given gifts and made jokes, all the while waiting for a clean break that would never come for those who love like the two of them. He walks forward in a daze, and Elrond takes him into his arms and Aragorn is five again — building a life atop the scaffolding of the heart Elrond offered to him.

"I do not know what divinity made you this way," his father's voice is rough as he repeats his earlier question, but it does not break. "I do not know which of the Valar wielded the knife that carved you out of kindness. But I am glad, Estel, so glad that I know you."

Aragorn stays pressed in that embrace, shaking. He fights a sudden, absurd urge to laugh and roll his eyes, to say don't ask stupid questions, to say who made me kind? oh, I don't know, perhaps the one who loved me so wholly that he beheld a five year old's silly, childish tears, and wept that I shed them at all.

Still, he does not move: he does not want to see Elrond's face, does not want to see his own, not at this moment. Time passes, strains like molasses through linen, slowly and with great reluctance. At last, the king draws away and takes in this final image, the one who raised him standing before his son with an inscrutable expression on his face.

When he was younger, Aragorn used to think it might make it easier for his father to bend with the marred world if he learned how to be as cruel as it was, instead of taking each slap in the face as a surprise. But he understands now that whilst he wasn't looking, the marred world had bent itself to Elrond's gentleness; that it is a strength, an honest one, to be kind when the world not only abides by cruelty but insists upon it.

Aragorn cannot bring himself to turn and leave, wanting to brand Elrond’s face into the back of his eyelids with knife-hot tears. It is anything but a clean break.

“I cannot bring myself to turn,” he admits, the moonlight limning the silver in his hair. “Because when I turn, you'll be gone, and it will be the end of everything. Is this the end of everything now, Ada? Are we done now, you and I?"

Elrond smiles, looking at Aragorn in the same way he had always looked at him, every day since the moment he was put in his arms: eyes bright with unconditional adoration, unashamed pride, and a constant, total faith in him. He shakes his head.

"You and I will never be done,” he says softly; resolute. It is the only oath he ever makes.

#lord of the rings #elrond #aragorn #lotr #tolkien #lotr fic

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aspenmissing · 4 months ago

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Hiii, so I love LOVEEEE reading your arcane x reader one-shots (I am literally obsessed) and I have a request. Would it be possible to write a Jayce x reader, where the reader is Vander's biological daughter, was raised alongside Vi, Powder, Claggor and Mylo, is four years older than Vi, so that means she is 19 when Vander dies, she also doesn't know what happened with Powder and Vi and assumes they are death (she was there when Powder's monkey bomb exploded but was under the debris and no one found her there, she is also injured), she doesn't have anybody else in Zaun and her dream has always been to see Piltover with her own eyes, so she decides to go there before she dies of her injuries and there she encounters Jayce and Heimerdinger, who help her and as years pass her and Jayce develop feelings for each other? Thank you in advance ☺️💜

ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴꜱ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ꜰᴇᴀᴛ. ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ᴠɪ, ᴘᴏᴡᴅᴇʀ, ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ, ᴍʏʟᴏ, ʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀᴅɪɴɢᴇʀ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ) || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 5242 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴇxᴘʟᴏꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ?, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ!!! ɪ'ᴍ ꜱᴏ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ!! ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜᴘᴘᴏʀᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | (ᴛᴏᴏ ᴍᴀɴʏ ꜱᴡᴀᴘꜱ ɪɴ ᴄᴏʟᴏᴜʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ)

Zaun had never been kind, but Y/N had never known anything else. She had been born in the undercity, in a world where survival meant being strong, clever, or lucky. And Vander—Vander had made sure she was all three.

She was his first, his only biological child, though he had never let that create a divide between her and the others he took in. To him, blood didn’t matter—family was chosen, built, protected. And Y/N had been raised with that belief stitched into her bones.

She had no memories of her mother. Vander never spoke of her, and Y/N had learned early on not to ask. But what she did have was Felicia, her aunt in everything but name.

Felicia, who had rocked her to sleep when she was small, who had always found a way to sneak her sweets when Vander wasn’t looking. Who, despite the hardships of Zaun, always smelled of warm bread and had hands soft enough to soothe away nightmares.

Y/N had been a child of both shadow and warmth. She played in the grimy streets of the undercity, scraped her knees climbing rusted scaffolding, learned how to fight alongside the street kids, but at the end of the day, she always had a home to return to. Arms to hold her. A family to remind her that even in Zaun, there was love.

And then, four years later, Vi was born.

Y/N remembered the first time she saw her baby sister, wrapped in too-big blankets, her tiny fists waving in the air. She was so small, so loud, already filled with fire before she could even speak.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” Felicia had teased, placing the newborn into Y/N’s arms.

Y/N had stared down at Vi, her heart swelling with something fierce and unfamiliar. She had never known she could love someone so instantly, so completely.

From that day forward, Vi had been hers as much as she had been Vander’s.

Years passed, and their family grew. First Powder—Felicia’s second daughter, born a few years after Vi. Their little home above the bar became a haven, a place of warmth in a city that tried to swallow them whole.

As the eldest, Y/N had become the one they all turned to. She soothed Powder’s fears when nightmares crept in. She was Vi’s hero, the one her little sister followed in every footstep, determined to be just as strong, just as fearless.

She had promised to always protect them.

And yet, before she could even begin to understand what loss truly meant, the world started tearing pieces of their family away.

It began with Felicia and Connol.

The rebellion on the bridge had been doomed before it even began. But they had fought anyway. And for that, they had paid the price.

Y/N had been there.

She had heard the clash of steel, the cries of the dying, the gunfire that tore through the air. She had felt the ground tremble beneath her feet as enforcers cut through Zaunite rebels like they were nothing more than pests to be exterminated.

And she had seen them—Felicia and Connol—lying lifeless on the cold stone of the bridge, their bodies broken, their blood pooling beneath them.

She had wanted to run to them, to do something, but there was no time.

Vi was screaming, trying to fight her way past Y/N’s grip, but she held firm, shielding her sisters from the sight. Powder was sobbing, burying her face against Y/N’s chest, small fingers tangled in her shirt as if letting go would mean losing everything.

“Don’t look,” Y/N had whispered, voice shaking as she forced them back, away from the carnage, away from the truth that would haunt them forever.

She didn't know how long she held them there, hidden in the shadows of a crumbling alleyway just beyond the bridge. The sounds of battle faded into silence, replaced only by the quiet gasps of her sisters and the distant echo of enforcers marching away.

When Vander found them, his face was hollow, his fists bloodied from trying to fight back. He knelt before them, eyes dark with grief, his hands trembling as he reached out.

“It’s over,” he had said, voice raw.

After that, Silco was next to go.

He and Vander had always been a unit—two sides of the same coin, bound together by shared dreams and scars. And then, one day, he simply disappeared.

Vander returned bloodied, bruised, his knuckles raw, and though he never spoke of what had happened, Y/N saw the truth in his silence.

Something had shattered between them. And Silco, once her father’s closest friend, had become nothing more than a ghost.

For a while, it was just them—the four of them in a world that didn’t want them to survive. But then Mylo and Claggor came into their lives, two boys with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

Vander had opened his doors to them without hesitation. And soon enough, Y/N did too.

Their family had grown, and though the wounds of the past lingered, they had each other.

And then, in a single night, she lost them all.

Pain was the first thing she knew. A deep, throbbing agony that pulsed through every fiber of her being as she forced herself to move.

Her fingers, raw and bloodied, clawed at the debris above her, her nails splintering as she dragged herself forward, inch by agonizing inch. Every movement sent fire lancing through her body, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she choked on the dust clogging her throat.

The air was thick with smoke and the sharp, acrid scent of burning metal. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint, eerie crackling of flames licking at the ruins of what had once been her home.

The explosion had shattered everything.

Her ears still rang with the force of it—the deafening roar, the crack of collapsing metal, the screams that had been cut too short.

She had fought. She had fought with everything she had, alongside Vi, tearing through Silco’s men to get to Vander, their father, the only man who had ever made them feel safe in a world that had never been kind. She had been so close. They all had.

They had gotten him out of his restraints.

For a single, fleeting moment, she had thought they had won.

And then Powder’s bomb went off.

The explosion had torn through the factory like a monster unleashed.

She barely had time to react before Claggor was sent flying into a wall, his skull cracking with a sickening sound. He was gone before he even hit the ground. Mylo was thrown beside him, a metal pole spearing through his shoulder before the collapsing structure buried them both.

Vi had screamed their names, tried to reach them, but then the debris came crashing down, trapping her beneath it.

Y/N had been sent sprawling, her body slamming into the cold, hard floor. The world had turned into dust and fire, rubble pressing down on her, pinning her in place.

She didn't know how long she lay there, half-buried in the ruins of everything she had ever known. Time blurred—seconds, minutes, hours.

No one came for her.

Mylo and Claggor were gone. Vander was gone.

Vi and Powder… there was no sign of them. No voices calling out in the darkness. No hands reaching for her own.

Only silence.

She had screamed for them, had called their names until her throat was raw. But the only response was the crackle of distant flames, the groan of broken metal settling into place.

Tears streaked down her dirt-stained cheeks as she clenched her fists, her broken nails digging into her palms.

She couldn't stay here.

If she stayed, she would die.

With sheer, agonizing effort, Y/N began to crawl. Her arms shook with the strain, her legs barely responding as she dragged herself over shattered glass and twisted metal. Every breath was fire in her lungs, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

It felt like an eternity before she finally reached the edge of the ruined building. Her trembling fingers gripped onto the ledge as she pulled herself up, the fresh air burning her lungs as she inhaled deeply.

And then she saw it.

Piltover.

The City of Progress stood above her, golden and gleaming, untouched by the destruction that had just consumed her world. Its towers stretched toward the sky, their lights flickering like distant stars against the night.

A choked, bitter laugh escaped her lips, but it quickly dissolved into a sob.

She had always dreamed of seeing it.

They were sitting on the rooftop of The Last Drop, their legs dangling over the edge as the city lights flickered below. The air was thick with the scent of oil and smoke, but up here, it almost felt like they were above it all. "You ever think about leaving Zaun?" Y/N had asked, her gaze fixed on the towering silhouette of Piltover in the distance. Vi, only eleven at the time, scrunched up her nose. "Nah. Zaun's home." Powder, curled up against Y/N’s side, peeked up at her with wide, curious eyes. "Do you?" Y/N hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah. Not forever. Just… I want to see it. Piltover. With my own eyes. I want to know what it’s like to walk on clean streets, to breathe air that isn’t filled with smog." Vi snorted. "Bet it's boring. Too clean. Too fancy." "Maybe," Y/N admitted, a small smile playing on her lips. "But I still want to see it." Powder tugged at her sleeve, her voice soft. "Maybe one day, we can all go together." Y/N had wrapped an arm around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Yeah. One day."

A hollow ache settled in her chest as she stared up at the golden city that had once been nothing more than a distant dream.

Piltover.

It loomed above her like something out of a fairy tale—untouched, pristine, shimmering in the night. The towers stood tall, bathed in golden light, their reflections dancing in the sky as if the stars themselves had fallen to the earth. Even from here, from the filth and ruin of Zaun, she could see its streets, its sprawling bridges, its untainted perfection.

It was everything she had imagined.

And yet, in this moment, it felt impossibly far away.

She wasn’t dreaming anymore.

Her body trembled as she clutched her side, fingers coming away slick with blood. The pain was unbearable, a searing, pulsing agony radiating from her ribs, her legs, her back. Every breath burned. Every step felt like her last.

But she had nowhere else to go.

She was alone.

Her entire world—her family, her home, everything she had fought to protect—was gone.

Her mind raced with memories, a whirlwind of faces and laughter, of nights spent huddled together in the dim glow of candlelight, of whispered promises and childish dreams. She could almost hear their voices. Vi, teasing her about taking things too seriously. Mylo, always talking too much, always trying too hard. Claggor, quiet and steady, the foundation of their little gang. Powder, with her wide, hopeful eyes, always clinging to Y/N’s side, always looking up to her.

And Vander. Her father. The man who had carried the weight of the Lanes on his back, who had sacrificed everything to give them a chance.

They were all gone.

Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging as they streaked down her dirt-streaked face. She wiped at them furiously. She couldn’t afford to cry. Not now. Not when she still had something left to do.

If she was going to die, she would die chasing that dream.

With a sharp inhale, she forced her legs to move. The first step nearly sent her crumpling to the ground, her knees buckling beneath her. She caught herself against the remnants of a rusted pipe, her breath hitching at the jolt of pain that shot through her ribs.

But she didn’t stop.

She dug her fingers into the crumbling stone, gripping onto whatever she could as she began to climb. Every pull of her muscles felt like agony, every movement a battle against her own failing body. Blood dripped from her wounds, leaving a faint, crimson trail behind her.

But she climbed.

Hand over hand, foot over foot, she pulled herself up, her vision swimming, her body screaming in protest. The higher she went, the thinner the air seemed to get, the smog of Zaun fading as the cold, crisp wind of Piltover brushed against her sweat-slicked skin.

She had never been this close before.

The bridges connecting the two cities stretched out before her, shining metal and stone that had never known the touch of rust or ruin.

She gritted her teeth, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

Almost there.

Just a little further.

Her fingers grazed the edge of the bridge, her arms shaking violently as she heaved herself up. The moment she reached solid ground, her body gave out, and she collapsed onto the smooth stone, her vision darkening at the edges.

She had made it.

The thought barely had time to register before her world tilted, the pain finally swallowing her whole.

And then—

Darkness.

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cold, damp air of Zaun. Not the sharp bite of metal or the suffocating grip of smoke in her lungs. Just warmth. Soft, clean, unfamiliar warmth.

Her fingers twitched against the fabric beneath her, smooth and crisp—too smooth to be the rough blankets of the Lanes. She shifted slightly, and a dull, aching pain flared through her body, pulling a sharp gasp from her lips.

Her eyes fluttered open.

Bright. Too bright.

She blinked against the soft glow of daylight filtering through sheer curtains, her vision swimming as she tried to take in her surroundings. The room around her was… pristine. The walls were a soft ivory, the furniture polished wood, the air carrying the faint scent of something floral and clean.

Nothing like home.

A thick blanket was draped over her, far too fine to belong to someone from the Undercity. Slowly, she pulled it aside, eyes widening as she took in the sight of herself.

Bandages wrapped tightly around her arms and torso, fresh and neat. A cast encased her right leg, holding it in place, a stark contrast to the grime and blood she had been covered in before.

This wasn’t Zaun.

Panic swelled in her chest as she struggled to sit up, her body protesting with every movement. Where was she? How did she get here? The last thing she remembered was reaching the bridge, collapsing on the cold stone—

The door creaked open.

Y/N's head snapped toward it, muscles tensing on instinct despite her injuries.

A woman stepped inside, pausing mid-step when their eyes met.

The nurse was young, her uniform crisp, her expression flickering from professional composure to shock as she realized Y/N was awake.

“Oh! You’re awake?” she gasped, eyes widening. “I—let me—oh, they’ll want to know you’re up!”

Y/N didn’t answer, her throat too dry, her mind too disoriented to form words.

The nurse quickly composed herself, stepping closer with a careful, reassuring smile. “You’re safe,” she said gently, as if speaking too loudly might startle her. “You were brought here a few days ago. The Dean of the Academy, Professor Heimerdinger, and Mr. Talis found you at the bridge and had you taken in for treatment.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, confusion swirling in her tired mind.

The nurse stepped back as the door to the room opened once more, and in walked two figures who made the air feel slightly different, a change from the sterile quiet of the room.

The first was a small man, frail in appearance, with an impressive white beard and long, wispy hair that framed his face like an ancient sage. His eyes twinkled behind thick glasses, giving off an air of wisdom and curiosity. His small frame didn’t detract from the aura of quiet authority he held, and there was a warmth to his gaze that seemed to instantly put Y/N at ease. The second figure was taller, his broad shoulders commanding a quiet power. A man with clean, sharp features, short-cropped dark hair, and eyes that held a sharp focus—clearly the opposite of the gentle Yordle beside him.

Y/N’s body stiffened instinctively, but she held her ground, wary yet curious. These were the people who had saved her. Who had brought her here.

The small man, the Yordle with the striking white beard, smiled warmly at her as he approached. "Ah, it’s good to see you awake, young one. I am Professor Heimerdinger, and this is Mr. Jayce Talis."

Y/N blinked, her voice a dry rasp when she finally managed to speak. “Where… Where am I?”

Heimerdinger’s smile softened, and Jayce nodded slightly, exchanging a glance with the older man before addressing her. “You’re in Piltover. The University. You were brought here after we found you. You’ve been… unconscious for some time.”

Y/N frowned, disoriented. "Found me? How long—"

Jayce took a step forward, his tone gentle but edged with concern. "About two weeks ago. We found you barely clinging to life near the Piltover bridge. You were badly injured—broken bones, internal bleeding, severe exhaustion. We couldn’t leave you in that state."

Heimerdinger’s voice softened as he joined in. “Yes, indeed. You were in quite a poor condition. You've been in a coma for quite some time, but we’ve been keeping a close eye on you. You've made considerable progress, but... recovery will take more time. You were fortunate to survive, truly.”

Y/N felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach, the harsh reality of her situation sinking in. Two weeks. Two weeks lost in unconsciousness, unaware of everything—what had happened, who had survived.

"But..." The question escaped her almost before she could stop it. "What happened to Zaun? The explosion... my family... Did anyone survive?"

The room seemed to freeze as the words left her lips. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with unspeakable sorrow. Jayce exchanged a long, somber glance with Heimerdinger, before the Yordle spoke in a tone laced with regret.

"We don’t know," Heimerdinger replied, his voice low but steady. "What we do know is that the explosion destroyed everything. We’ve heard no word of survivors."

Y/N’s chest tightened as their words settled into her mind. She had hoped, even just a little, that someone—anyone—had made it out. But no. Vi. Powder. Mylo. Claggor. Vander. All gone.

The world felt like it had shattered all over again, the grief rising up and drowning her in its cold embrace.

Jayce seemed to sense her growing distress and knelt beside her bed, his expression softer than she had expected. “I know this is hard. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of. You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

His words weren’t empty. There was something sincere, something real in them, and Y/N found herself staring at him for a moment, struggling to process what he was saying through the fog of grief. But the weight on her chest refused to lift.

“I’m sorry,” Jayce continued, his voice low and gentle. “We did everything we could. We searched for days, but there was nothing left to salvage. The debris... it was too much. We wish we could’ve done more.”

Y/N felt like the room was tilting again, her vision swimming with unshed tears and unspeakable loss. She had always been the strong one—the protector. But now? She was nothing.

She was alone.

A flicker of warmth in Jayce’s eyes caught her attention, grounding her back in the present. "I know this is a lot," he said gently, "but you don’t have to figure it all out right now. We’re here to help."

Y/N swallowed thickly, her throat dry. She nodded slightly, though her head still felt like it was spinning from the shock. “What happens now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper, as though the question itself would pull her further into the unknown.

Heimerdinger placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his ancient, wise eyes filled with compassion. "Now, you heal. We will help you, as best as we can. There is a place for you here, if you choose it. Piltover is vast, and you are not without options."

Y/N looked between Heimerdinger and Jayce, the weight of their offer settling around her like a heavy, yet oddly comforting, blanket. She wanted to ask a hundred more questions, wanted to know where she fit into this strange new world, what she could do now. But the future felt impossibly distant, like a fog she couldn’t yet navigate.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to be still. To breathe, though raggedly.

She wasn’t sure what the future held, but it was the only thing left for her to move toward. And maybe, just maybe, Piltover could be where she rebuilt herself.

Or at least, she would try.

The golden city that had once seemed like an impossible dream had slowly become her reality.

Piltover had been overwhelming at first—the clean streets, the endless inventions, the people who walked past her with their noses high, dressed in finery she had never even imagined. It was a world so far removed from Zaun that, for a long time, she had felt like an intruder, an imposter pretending to belong.

But as the years passed, Y/N had begun to carve a place for herself.

It hadn’t been easy. There were nights she had spent awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she had made the right choice. Days when the weight of her past threatened to crush her. The ache of loss never truly left, lingering in the quiet moments between conversations, in the silence of an empty room. But she had learned to live with it.

Jayce had been there through it all.

At first, it was small things—checking in on her, making sure she ate, dragging her out of the apartment when he thought she’d been inside too long. He had offered her a place to stay, a spare room in his new apartment after the previous one had been reduced to rubble in an explosion. She had hesitated, unsure if she could accept such kindness, but in the end, she had nowhere else to go.

Living with Jayce had been… an adjustment.

He was meticulous about his workspace but careless with everything else. He would leave blueprints scattered on the dining table, trinkets from his projects half-assembled in the oddest places. More than once, she had nearly tripped over some Hextech device he had forgotten to put away.

But he was also warm, patient. He never pushed her for details about her past, never pried when she grew quiet and withdrawn. He simply let her be, offering companionship without expectation. And, over time, something shifted between them.

The once awkward silences turned into comfortable conversations over late-night tea. The careful distance they had kept at first disappeared, replaced by easy touches—a hand on her shoulder, fingers brushing as they passed in the kitchen, a lingering warmth when he stood just a little too close.

Y/N had never expected to find anything resembling home again. But somehow, in the heart of Piltover, with Jayce beside her, she had begun to feel something close to it.

And she wasn’t sure what terrified her more—losing it or wanting it to last.

Y/N had never imagined herself working in a place like the Academy.

She had never been given the luxury of a formal education, never sat in a grand hall filled with brilliant minds discussing theories and discoveries. Back in Zaun, survival had been her priority—learning to fight, to scavenge, to take care of her siblings. But here, in Piltover, she had been given the chance to do something more.

It had started with Jayce.

After Hextech’s success, his workload had grown tenfold. Between meetings with the Council, developing new projects, and keeping up with research, he barely had a moment to breathe. One day, after catching her idly flipping through a book on Hex Crystals, he had casually suggested she help out at the Academy.

At first, she had been hesitant. What did she know about working in a place like this? But Jayce had insisted, and Heimerdinger—ever the enthusiastic professor—had agreed that it would be beneficial for her to learn.

That was how she had met Viktor.

Jayce had introduced them one evening, and for the first time since coming to Piltover, Y/N felt a sense of familiarity in someone.

Viktor, with his sharp mind and dry humor, was unlike anyone else she had met in the golden city. He carried the same resilience she did—the quiet strength of someone who had climbed their way out of Zaun, who had fought for every opportunity, every bit of recognition. And despite their different paths, there was an unspoken understanding between them.

He never looked at her like she was an outsider. Never made her feel like she didn’t belong.

Over time, she found herself working alongside him and Jayce, assisting with research, organizing notes, and even offering insights where she could. She wasn’t an inventor, but she had a knack for problem-solving, a way of looking at things from a different angle. Viktor appreciated it. Jayce encouraged it.

For the first time in years, she felt like she was building something. Like she had a purpose beyond just surviving.

And when she looked at Jayce—his easy smiles, his unwavering faith in her—she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she was meant to be here after all.

It happened gradually, in the small moments between work and home.

At first, it was subtle. The way Jayce’s eyes lingered on her a little longer than before, the way his hand would brush against hers when they passed papers between them in the lab. The way he always made sure she had a cup of tea waiting when she worked late, how he would nudge her plate closer at dinner when she barely touched her food, or how he seemed to brighten whenever she entered the room, as if her presence alone was enough to make his day better.

Y/N told herself it was nothing. That it was just Jayce being Jayce—kind, warm, and a little too good at making people feel like they mattered.

But then, there were moments she couldn’t ignore.

Like when she caught him staring at her across the workshop, lost in thought, his expression softer than she had ever seen it. When she raised an eyebrow, silently questioning him, he had quickly looked away, clearing his throat and pretending he had been focused on something else.

Or when they would return home late from the Academy, exhaustion weighing on their shoulders, and he would linger at her door. Sometimes, it seemed like he wanted to say something—his fingers flexing at his sides, his lips parting slightly—only to shake his head and offer a quiet, “Goodnight, Y/N,” before retreating to his own room.

She felt it, too.

The warmth that bloomed in her chest whenever he laughed, the way her heart stuttered whenever he leaned in too close, his shoulder brushing against hers as they worked side by side. The quiet comfort of just existing beside him, knowing that no matter how much time passed, he was there.

She had spent years surviving—fighting, scraping by, never allowing herself to dwell on anything more than what needed to be done. But Jayce made her pause. Made her think about things she had long since buried.

Viktor noticed before either of them did.

One evening, after a particularly long day at the lab, he had given her a knowing look as Jayce walked ahead, rolling his eyes in exasperation.

"You know, he is quite terrible at hiding it," Viktor remarked, amusement lacing his tone.

Y/N frowned, confused. "Hiding what?"

Viktor only chuckled, shaking his head. "Nothing, nothing. You will figure it out eventually."

She thought about that conversation for weeks afterward.

And then one night, everything changed.

It had been another late evening at the Academy, just the two of them left in the lab. The only sound was the quiet hum of the machinery, the occasional scratch of Jayce’s pen against paper, and the steady ticking of the clock. The air was thick with the faint scent of metal and ink, of old books and oil, and despite the exhaustion tugging at her bones, Y/N found a strange sense of peace in the stillness.

She was staring at blueprints, tracing lines with the tip of her finger, lost in thought when she felt his gaze on her.

She looked up.

Jayce was watching her, something soft and uncertain in his expression. His brows were slightly furrowed, lips pressed together as if he was working through something in his head.

"Y/N," he started, hesitating.

She raised a brow, setting her pen down. "What?"

Jayce sighed, running a hand through his hair, his usual confidence replaced with something more vulnerable, something uncertain. He shifted on his feet, glancing at the floor before finally meeting her gaze.

"I just—" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if frustrated with himself. But then he stepped closer, his voice quieter, steadier this time. "I care about you. A lot more than I probably should."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

He was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. Like she was something precious, something worth holding onto.

And in that moment, she realized—she had spent so long convincing herself she was alone that she hadn’t seen what had been in front of her all this time.

Jayce had been there, always.

And maybe… maybe she wanted him to be.

She swallowed, forcing herself to speak despite the rapid beating of her heart. "You're an idiot," she murmured, her lips curving slightly, though her voice was barely above a whisper.

Jayce let out a breathless laugh, relief flickering across his face. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said, softer this time. Then, after a pause, after letting herself breathe, after letting herself believe this was real, "But I care about you too."

Jayce’s smile was wide, genuine, and impossibly warm.

For the first time in years, the weight in her chest didn’t feel so suffocating.

He reached for her hand, hesitant at first, his fingers brushing against hers as if waiting for permission. But when she didn’t pull away, he threaded them together, his grip firm, steady—grounding.

She had spent so long believing she had no one left, that she had to carry the weight of her grief and survival on her own. But Jayce had been there, always. Patient. Steady. Waiting for her to see what had been right in front of her all along.

She looked at their intertwined hands, then back at him, and something inside her settled. She wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

And maybe, just maybe, she never had to be again.

#Arcane #Arcane Fandom #reader insert #jayce x y/n #jayce x reader #jayce talis x reader #jayce x you #arcane fluff #Arcane angst

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