Never Really Alone

Zaundads Timeline (by me)

Featuring

A divorced girl dad

A stressed single mother

Their children

Timeline

Married high school sweethearts (dead wife montage below)

Bitter divorce after domestic abuse allegations

Parental alienation

Custody hearing

Custody hearing Winner 🥇

Parental alienation (again)

CPS was called (they wanted custody of his child)

Family therapy after parental alienation

And finally...AU divorced-remarried parents

I could do more but the gifs are killing my phone 😂

vague continuation of this; sfw; angsty; apt neighbor!vi au

apartment neighbor!vi who comes home with bloody knuckles and a split lip, bruises the color of overripe plums blossoming along her cheek. you catch her in the elevator, once, running downstairs to grab a taco bell delivery at 2am, and she's just coming home. at first, you almost don't recognize her, with her hood pulled up, her shoulders scrunched up towards her ears, her body a live-wire tangle of tensed muscles and clenching fists.

apartment neighbor!vi who, when you ask her what's wrong, does everything she can to avoid the question, dodging and making up excuses, looking anywhere but at your eyes --

"just got into it with some dude at the bar -- you know how it gets rowdy sometimes."

you stare at her, a frown digging into the space between your brows.

"violet, you can look at me?"

it takes her a beat too long to comply, her fingers stretching open before curling back into her palms as she forces her face towards you, her expression stony as a tomb.

"i'm looking."

you let your eyes flicker between both of hers, and a few seconds later, you throw your hands up in a classic sign of surrender, shaking your head.

"alright, alright -- i won't ask --"

you hear her let out an audible exhale; you glance up to catch her mourning dove eyes watching you from beneath her thick, night-lanced lashes.

"i was thinking of trying to make hainanese chicken and rice this weekend."

vi grins, her shoulders relaxing, her posture loosening like a picked-out knot, "sure -- i'm free on saturday. what do you need?"

apartment neighbor!vi who is not slick, no matter how hard she tries to pretend. and the first time you come knocking at their door on a sunday afternoon, powder answers with a power drill in one hand, a capri-sun in the other.

"oh. its you," she falls a few steps back, waving her power drill haphazardly through the air, "c'mon in! make yourself at home! vi's not here -- if you're wondering. she's..." powder scoffs, an utterly disbelieving, derisive sound, "out."

you pause by the kitchen counter, staring at the pile of dishes in the sink for a second before your gaze swings back to powder, now bending over a strange contraption laid out in a million pieces on the living room floor.

"what do you mean, she's out?"

powder makes a noncommittal sort of grunting noise as she leans in to fit a screw to the tip of the drill, squinting as she presses it to what looks like a slab of broken-off drywall --

"i mean she's out -- doing whatever the hell she's doing... thinkin' she can just lie to us -- ugh, as if --" her voice trails off into a mutter, as if she's talking to herself, and a second later, all sound is drowned out by the drone of the power drill screeching as powder sets to work again.

you stare for a solid three seconds before sighing and turning back to the dishes in the sink. it takes about fifteen minutes before powder turns back around to realize that you're still here --

"what... are you doing?" she asks. you jump, jerking forward at the sound of her voice right next to your ear.

"oh shit! sorry -- uh -- i, i thought i'd help do these while vi's out -- it looks like they've been stacking up for a while," you offer, somewhat weakly as powder squints at you, leaning forward with apparently zero compunction for invading your personal space.

"huh. you're... a weird one -- has anyone ever told you that?" powder asks, falling back onto her heels, giving you a hard once-over. you lick your lips, feeling an unfamiliar heat creeping up the length of your spine.

"i -- i mean, vi helped me a lot when i was moving in so..." you lean a hip against the kitchen counter, a half-washed mug still held aloft in your right hand.

"right... and that's why you're..." powder's smile hooks, her eyes flashing bright as beatle-wings , "helping us with our dishes?" she jerks her chin towards the soapy mug.

you flush, turning back to rinse off the mug and set it on the rack to dry.

"it'll be one less thing for you guys to worry about."

apartment neighbor!vi who refuses to see you for days at a time, even though you text to ask her if she's alright (she leaves you on read). then, miraculously, she'll show up at your door on a tuesday night with an apologetic grin dominos (and all your favorite toppings), asking if you had any plans (she knows full well you don't -- you two have a standing movie-date on tuesday nights, though neither of you have had the balls to call it a date).

apartment neighbor!vi who makes up the dumbest excuses -- i was outta town, i got the flu, i was visiting my long lost... uh... cousin in... nebraska.

"nebraska?" you pause over a bite of pizza, eyes flicking up to catch vi watching you. the moment your gazes meet, she looks away, clearing her throat and reaching out for another slice, folding in half before shoving nearly the whole thing in her mouth.

"yeah -- my uh -- my dad's brother's... kid..."

"uh huh," you say, nodding around another skeptical bite, picking off a piece of pineapple to pop into your mouth.

vi sighs, "just... it's complicated, okay?"

you purse your lips, licking at the pizza grease, "you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, vi -- i just wanna know that you're... safe."

she chuckles, a ragged, mirthless sound, "thanks for worrying about me, sugar -- but i'll be okay."

you swallow passed your last mouthful of pizza, reaching for a napkin. you do not try to point out that okay and safe are two completely different things.

apartment neighbor!vi who goes to the gym an inordinate amount -- whenever you text her, it seems like she's at the gym. and whenever you pass by the large glass doors on the 5th floor, she's almost always there, going at one of the punching bags or doing some insane lift or other.

"are you a fitness influencer or something?" you ask one day as vi lounges on your couch (you know, the one she helped you build), watching as you pipe icing onto the tops of a dozen cupcakes (it's become something of a thing for her to come over on the weekends -- at least the one's she doesn't disappear -- and watch you "stress-bake"; and if the things you're stress-baking just so happen to be all of vi's favorites... well, that's neither here nor there).

"huh?"

you glance over your shoulder, your hands paused over the large plastic bag of cream-colored icing.

"you're always at the gym, so i thought you might be --" you shrug, "i dunno -- training for something or like a fitness influencer or something." you go back to your piping.

"oh!" vi's voice pitches unnaturally high before she clears her throat and settles back on to the couch, a scowl slotted between her brows, her eyes fixed on her phone screen even though her finger hasn't moved in a solid half minute, "nah -- i just -- it just helps me clear my head, y'know. gotta... train the body before you train the mind."

you nod, keeping your eyes fixed on the cupcakes as you flourish through the final bit of icing, reaching out with a finger to snag an extra bit from the tip, turning only to find vi hovering behind you, a strange, halfway-light caught behind her eyes.

wordlessly, you offer her your finger. and without ever breaking eye-contact, she leans down to lick the frosting from you. her tongue swirls around the pad of your finger and you feel a gasp stitch up the front of your chest.

"g-good?" you ask, cursing silently at your inability to keep the stutter from your voice.

vi licks her lips, the flash of her tongue across her lips shouldn't look so stomach-churningly delicious. and yet --

she gives her head a single, abortive nod.

"yeah... really good..." her voice comes out a whisper, barely more than a caught breath in the air between you. it hangs, pendulous as a pearl on a gossamer gold string, until --

"y-you should take some back for powder -- i know she likes sweets almost as much as you do, and some for --" you swallow, falling back half a step, your hip bumping into the kitchen counter; you wince, and vi's arm shoots forward, but she pauses just short of touching you, her palms hovering over your arm for a brief second before she tucks it into her hoodie pocket and forces a grin.

"yeah! for sure -- she'll -- she'll appreciate it, and -- i'll grab some for uh -- vander and --" she waves a hand; you nod, gulping down air as you turn and scramble to grab a box for her, busying your hands so you don't give into the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch her, to feel her skin beneath your fingertips.

"yeah, great!" you chirrup, your voice saturated with false cheeriness.

the moment unfurls in slow motion, her reaching out to try and help you grab the tupperware box on the highest shelf, you dropping back down and turning around to tell her it's alright --

your chests press, your noses are so close they might as well be touching. you can taste the sweet of her breath against your tongue -- frosted vanilla sugar.

apartment neighbor!vi who kisses like she's trying to swallow you whole, who presses you back into the hard marble of your kitchen counter with a hand on your hip, the other skating up the length of your spine to cup at the back of your head, cradling you closer. who moans low and long and desperate when you finally gasp open for her and she gets that first, mind-rending taste of your mouth against hers.

she kisses you like she want's to break you. she kisses you like she wishes you'd break her too.

her lips are trembling when you pull back for a heady breath, a soft laugh puffing out of you at the sheer incredulousness of the entire situation -- weeks of held-breaths and averted eyes, jumping pulses and late-night movie dates, of knees pressing, the back of your hand skimming along the back of hers.

of uncertainty. of this celestial dance, you and her, like twin stars in orbit, to a song old as the universe itself.

but there's a hardness crystalizing at the edge of her voice as she swallows, her throat bobbing around a hissed our breath --

"shit --" she pulls back, and you have half a mind to chase her. she tastes like cupcake frosting and a life's worth of words unsaid.

she runs a hand through her hair, her eyes fractured in the mid-afternoon light.

"vi?" you ask, and your voice seems to jolt her out of her strange reverie. but as her gaze focuses back on you, an crumpled expression flashes across her face as her hand flies up to rub over her mouth, as if she can still feel the phantom heat of your lips on hers.

she shakes her head, taking another step back. you feel something inside you shatter as she turns and heads for the door, her shoulders hunched, her fists clenched at her sides.

"vi -- wait --!" you call after her, stumbling after her, but she turns to slate you a glance that rhymes so much with heartbreak it stops you in your tracks and roots you to the ground.

she lets out a shuddering breath, her voice unsteady as she says --

"i'm -- i'm sorry but -- i -- i can't do this --"

and then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her, the batch of freshly frosted cupcakes sitting on the kitchen counter, the cupboard with one door open, as if waiting for something other to happen but this.

you blink, stunned at the sudden silence that permeates the air of your living room. you stare at the place where vi had been just a few ago before slumping back against the counter with a dull thunk and pressing a hand to your own mouth.

you can still taste the remnants of sugar on her tongue as she'd licked into your mouth. and for long moment, all you can muster into the accusatory quiet is --

"what the fuck was that?"

Hii i love your works so muchh and I just wondered if you could do an Ambessa x reader (angst), where Ambessa was supposed to die from the black rose but it ended up being the reader. Thank youuu🫂💗

An Altruistic Act

Contains angst, death of reader

You knew the time would come, you did but never had the guts to really tell Ambessa.

You were married to her, step mother to Mel who seemed to despise you with all that was in her.

Whatever the case was, Ambessa's orders were clear, "Stay where you are, don't intervene, don't move," and so you did when you watched Caitlyn Kiramman initiating a fight with Ambessa, a move you would've normally said was foolish.

But you could sense something darker underlying, you didn't know what to do. Every cell in your body was yelling from you to intervene but you didn't want to let Ambessa down.

Then it happened.

Caitlyn’s quick reflexes severed Ambessa’s protection—her talisman, the one safeguarding her from magic.

The moment it was ripped away, the room seemed to still. A sinister force coiled in the air like a serpent ready to strike.

But you didn't want to let it. You couldnt.

Ambessa had to live, she couldn't die this way.

The next few events went in a total blur, you lunged in front of her is all you remembered. White hot pain shot through every single vein of your body, agony gripping you, threatening to eat you whole and then you landed on the ground with a thud.

All the air knocked out of you.

Vision blurring with tears from pain.

Absolutely everyone watching was petrified, transfixed wherever they were as they stared, trying to comprehend Ambessa's reaction only there was none.

The woman walked closer to your limp body, sinking down on her knees for once, cradling your head.

Ambessa tilted your head delicately as if afraid your head would come detached into her hands, "Why?" She questioned, she couldn't cry. She couldn't let herself.

"Ambessa," her word was a whisper on your lips, hand raising to cup the side of Ambessa's face. "I'd rather die, than live without you." Your thumb rubbed against her cheek in a soothing manner.

"But you were supposed to live," Ambessa said, voice almost strained with emotion but she wouldn't let her resolve crumble.

"So were you," you chuckled weakly but then your hand fell limp from her face, Ambessa grabbed your hand tightly in her own.

You could see from your peripheral vision— Caitlyn and Mel stood there, horrified by what just happened. Not only did they miss their shot at Ambessa, they shot someone else completely.

"Stay with me," Ambessa said although she knew it was of no use, pressing her forehead against yours with oh-so desperation as if it would magically cure everything.

"Ambessa, promise me," you said, dark edges creeping in your vision, "Promise me, you'll win this battle and every other one after this."

Ambessa nodded, "I promise," she said with so much emotion, no Noxian had ever heard her like this.

Ambessa felt you fading from her arms, golden eyes raising with pure rage to lock over Caitlyn and Mel.

Perhaps nobody had ever heard Ambessa being so vulnerable before but now? No one would ever hear that again.

There was nothing more to lose for Ambessa for they had taken away what kept her going at the worst times in her life.

You.

ʚɞ 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 | 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ʚɞ

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚, 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬, 𝐫𝐞𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞.

𝟏𝟖+ 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒔 & 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒏𝒊

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲

༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺

an incessant blaring sound interrupts your nighttime routine. at first, you assume its from the apartment building next to yours. but then the smell of smoke slowly infiltrates any crevice and vent it can seep through. the noises of people frantically exiting the building doesn’t quell the alarm. you feel horrible for thinking what a major inconvenience this is. half of your hair is set with curlers. you grab your purse, keys and phone and follow the crowd down the stairs safely.

once you’re in the night air, you thank whatever gods may exist, it wasn’t your building effected. firefighters flutter in and out of the apartment units sharing an alley with yours. the flames appear somewhat tamed. neighbors mindlessly chatter—speculating what could have caused the fire. EMTs already set up a barricade but it doesn’t stop human curiosity. folks pressing tightly on the wooden barricades and incessantly pestering cops, firefighters or EMTs for any update.

༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺

thirty minutes later, the flames have succumbed to the efforts of the firefighters. a lingering smell of smoke sits in the air. mud and water mix with the black ash on the building. you see familiar faces crying and holding each other. the firefighters did their best but half of the building got hit the hardest. guilt washes over you. here you felt inconvenienced by the alarm but people have lost most of their belongings and most likely have to start from scratch.

unexpectedly the crowd erupts with a thunderous clap and cheering. it takes no time to realize everyone is commending the firefighters for their hard work. you witness the civil servants peeling off their helmets one by one. it’s clear all of them are exhausted. then some women start dog whistling. with an arched eyebrow, you locate the firefighter causing all the chaos.

the woman stands over 6 feet. she already removed the top layer of the suit which dangles off one shoulder. the moonlight and street lights reflect off her brown skin glistening with sweat. you can hear the gulp of women, straight and queer, as the firefighter curls her fingers underneath her fitted and soaked white t-shirt. she brings the hem of her shirt to her face—wiping off sweat and lingering ash. the entirety of her abs are on display. without even straining you see a drop of sweat rolling down her stomach.

a few women start fanning themselves. you even witness one pushing her cleavage up for prominent display. you hear through the chaos someone announcing residents in your building are allowed to enter again. sighing your relief, you start following the crowd. someone grabs your elbow—trying to get your attention.

swiftly turning around, you’re met face to face with the firefighter causing the lustful gazes and audible desires. with the distance closed—you’re able to see the faded scars on her face and the beginning wrinkles on the corners of her eyes. something about her, her face, those intense grey eyes stirs familiarity in your core. she presents you with a crooked smile.

“don’t recognize me, stranger?” her voice emerges as if from the squashed flames themselves.

you narrow your eyes and let them inspect those features. her fluffy and long eyelashes. her silken black hair that frames her face. the richness of her skin tone provoking you to kiss every inch.

you gasp with recognition. “sevika?”

sevika lets out the tiniest chuckle and nods. her hand on your elbow remains. it sends warmth and comfort throughout your arm. now that you’ve placed the face—you cannot believe you did not connect the dots sooner. yes, she’s aged but she’s still sevika. maybe not your sevika but still the sevika you grew up with.

the same sevika who fiercely protected you and let you crawl into her bottom bunk. the same sevika who beat up the boys for touching you the wrong way. then wiping your tears away moments later. especially the same sevika that took you to the overlook and shared your first kiss with. your guardian angel you never stopped thinking about or hoping turned out okay.

“you’re a firefighter now?”

“well i’ve been one for ten years but yeah.” sevika hold on your elbow shifts, you almost cry, but she only moves her hand underneath it.

your eyes continue searching sevika’s. “i thought you might’ve moved away or…”

sevika knowingly crooks a smile. “or jail?” you cringe but sevika laughs. “yeah, well i came too close a few times. but must’ve had my own guardian angel or something because the last time i got arrested—the judge told me enough was enough. she sent me to some reform program. i ended up liking the firefighter gig so…permanently fighting fires.”

“i’m so proud of you, sev. really.”

“thanks, kid.” sevika takes one step back then inconspicuously checks you out. “maybe not a kid anymore. you’ve filled out well.” she reaches out with her free hand and lifts some hair away from your ears. “and you’ve grown into your ears.”

an instantaneous blush spreads on your cheeks and you swat sevika’s hand away. your fingers reach to situate your hair but sevika catches them. you watch as sevika brings your hand to her lips, pressing a tender kiss on your knuckles. the feel of those full lips sends signals all over your skin. it’s almost the same effect she unwillingly provoked on all those women. refraining from retracting your hand, you keep your eyes locked on sevika.

she only smiles. her lips spreading across your knuckles. dammit. sevika fully knows the effect she’s having on you. she drinks it in eagerly despite your limited reactions.

“you hurt or anything? you didn’t live in that building, right?”

you shake your head in response to both questions. sevika smiles again. “oh, good. not a damsel in distress anymore. i get off in an hour. you’ll still be up?”

blinking away your visible confusion, you think over her question. “um, probably, yeah? why?”

a laugh rumbles in sevika’s chest but it never escapes her lips. “because i wanna come over, pretty girl. it’s been so long. can you blame me for wanting to make up for lost time?”

“oh. no, i mean, yes.” you groan—feeling like that helpless teenager that always needed sevika around. “yes, you can come over. i’ll be up. im apartment 8C—ring the buzzer and i’ll come get you.”

sevika hums her acknowledgment then releases her hold from your hand and elbow. yet her touch doesn’t cease and she reaches for a few strands of hair. “it’s kinda unfair, ya know?”

“what’s unfair?”

“you’re outside in a robe and hair half done but still the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen.”

༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺

placing a kettle on the stove, you reach for two mugs and a container of all your special teas. sevika won’t know, but you never offer anyone your good teas. tonight feels special though. you can feel those grey eyes boring into your back. in the hour and a half window sevika allotted you—you showered, finished with the curlers in your hair, and found a pair of your cutest pajamas. the ruffles on the hem of the shorts barely grazed the crease meeting your butt and thighs. maybe overly ambitious?

when you had greeted sevika at the front door—you could tell her eyes didn’t know what to take in first. in sevika’s mind you were the picture of femininity. pink cotton pajamas hugging your curves sinfully. the cute little bow on the camisole teasing her eyes. she hadn’t expected her heart to momentarily stop at witnessing a fray strand you missed in your curler set. and the way you smelled? a mixture of strawberries and coconut with the faintest dash of something earthy.

sevika’s always found hyperfemininity attractive in the women she dated and slept with. but it was something about you…you wore it effortlessly and without second thought. it was apart of you.

she took in your apartment but eventually found herself staring at you as you prepared the tea.

“need any help, pretty girl?”

the words linger in the air before settling into your skin. when did she get so comfortable with petnames? the kettle whistles pulling you away from the lustful thoughts. “i’m good, thanks. do you still take a heap of sugar and milk in your tea?”

sevika barks out a laughter and you cannot help looking over your shoulder to witness the melodic sound. “i guess some things don’t change. yeah, you know what i like.”

squashing your nerves, you carefully pack some tea herbs into a tiny meshed infuser. once they’re packed—you steadily pour water over them in the mugs. normally you’d watch the tea steep, darkening the water, but instead you carry the mugs over to sevika. placing them down carefully on the thrifted mahogany coffee table, you rush back into the kitchen grabbing a pint of milk, brown sugar and some shortbread cookies.

there’s a sudden warmth that appears behind you. before you can properly investigate a calloused yet familiar hand gently rests on your waist.

“you sure you don’t need help with that…sugar?”

you’re hopeless against the drawl of sevika’s words. the end of her sentence hitting with a double entendres. you cannot place a time sevika’s petnamed you, sugar. she awakens another level of curiosity and arousal within you. if only you could see the look on sevika’s face. the knowing smirk of her affect on you. her pupils dilating and darkening in a way you’ve never been privy to.

you cannot help the racing of your heart. or closing your eyes. you don’t even notice you’re leaning back into sevika’s comfortable warmth until her hand shifts towards the front of your hip. as if she’s catching you and relaying the same message: i miss you.

“yes, you can carry the sugar, sev.” the words somehow manage to crawl out after the long pause between question.

sevika barely grunts her response before reaching underneath your arm. she purposely leans forward. her hips now pressed against your butt. you feel the encompassing safety of her broad shoulders brushing on your neck. you find yourself holding your breath until she pulls away. her prosthetic arm, this one different than the one from the fire earlier, smoothly retrieves the sugar jar.

then she steps back, as if, nothing happened and walks nonchalantly back to the couch. she might as well have whistled with the cockiness oozing off of her. you shakily inhale, one, two, three, then exhale, four five six. jitters remain nonetheless.

you find sevika on the love seat and taking up space at that. yes, you technically have room to sit. but you’d be forced to sit directly underneath her. despite the presence of another sofa, you are both aware that is not how this dance flows.

as sevika already suspected, you delicately lower yourself in the couch cushion next to her. your thighs have no space besides pressed tightly against hers. you cannot tell if you’re hallucinating or can actually feel the warmth through her jeans. not wanting to address the obvious silence you begin prepping the teas. a crap ton of sugar and then enough milk the color turns almost a sandy color.

sevika intently watches your actions. your fingers moving with remembered fluidity. she likes the color you polished your nails. finding herself wondering how they’d juxtapose against the pinkness of your spread pussy. sevika cannot deny the intense arousal building within her. it came the second she spotted your face. it dwelled and grew with her longing to hold you and whisper how much she missed you.

every second spent in your presence reminded sevika why she never lasted long in previous relationships. it took her some therapy and time alone to realize she unintentionally looked for you in every kiss, every hug, every fuck. no one ever came close to the calming water you poured on her raging fire. she could not leave the apartment without, at least, holding your face and kissing you tenderly then passionately.

“i learned to make chai. authentic chai.” your carefully plucked words barely relieves the tension.

sevika tips her head a little. “you did? why?”

you blush and hand sevika her tea. the answer feels rather obvious. “you said whenever we got outta there—you’d make me your amma’s chai.” you stop there. you cannot bring yourself to finish. but you know sevika can deduce and fill in the rest.

“did it help?”

“help with what?”

“help you feel closer to me.”

the words linger between the two of you. sevika’s expertly laid her intentions out with a few words. the bait flops in your hands—far too easy to deny or resist.

you turn your head—finally meeting sevika’s gaze for the first time since she entered the apartment. you expected another cocky smirk. instead you’re met with rounded eyes of vulnerability. they almost pool sevika’s desperation. even if you had planned on lying, on denying the obvious, everything vanished. reflected back at you was the same fifteen year old girl you fell in love with.

“no. no, it didn’t. nothing did.” you whisper out the words. almost believing if you speak the truth you’ll awaken from a beautiful dream.

sevika rests her mug on the coffee table. mindful of the coaster present. you focus on the action but within seconds her hand, no longer on the mug, cups your face. it emanates the lingering warmth from her mug. even without thinking, you reach for her prosthetic arm rested on her lap. you settle it on your other cheek. the balance of cold metal and warm flesh somehow feels symbolic. or maybe you’re searching for too much meaning in reuniting with an old friend…lover?

the magnetic pull draws you both closer until your lips are slotted together. moving in synchronization as if 15 years haven’t passed. as if you didn’t only share one kiss. all the longing and aching over pours into the kiss. your heart somehow thumps rapidly yet feels calm and steady within its cavity. when sevika tenderly swipes her tongue against your plump bottom lip—you know in that instance you’d do anything she wanted.

you graciously part your lips with a whimper. you feel sevika hesitate before she parts your lips by an inch.

“you always sound like that, pretty girl?” sevika barely murmurs the question on your lips.

too impatient to answer or decipher what sevika means, you take the inch of space back and unite your lips once again. sevika laughs into the kiss and indulges the neediness. she is just as desperate, maybe even more. her hands ever so slightly tighten their hold on your face. a tiny whimper escapes once again as sevika tangles her tongue with yours. she responds with a eager grumble of her own.

sevika, testing the waters, pretends to pull away. your lips, without hesitation, chase after hers. you both do this dance until sevika manages to guide you into her lap. any hesitancy dissolves. you are reunited with an old flame and you’re desperate to kindle it and let it burn and consume you. straddling sevika’s hips, panting into the kiss, sevika presses one hand on your lower back—keeping you firmly in place.

letting your body make the decisions, not wrapped in the cloud of lingering doubt, you nip on sevika’s lower lip. sucking flesh between your lips as your tongue strokes the inner softness of her lip. you relish the feeing of sevika’s hand gripping your back. the little groan she emits. her shifting underneath—as if you’re already getting her hot and bothered (you are).

her grip still firm on your lower back—sevika tips her head back on the couch. her eyes remain closed as she processes the weight of her actions and of you in her lap. your own lips tingle as you analyze sevika’s face. a smile stretches on yours as you notice her thoroughly kissed and swollen lips. you’re already itching for another kiss. instead, patient as ever, your fingers work to remove the curlers from your hair. it’s no point in pretending you and sevika are not having sex tonight. curlers and sex don’t necessarily pair.

sevika eyes barely manage open as she feels the shift in her lap. she watches in intense fascination as you free your hair. there are varying curl patterns since some curlers where in place longer than others. your fingers delicate despite the slight panting on your chest. your nipples already pert in attention. you do not catch sevika’s gaze until you’re almost done.

she smiles without hesitation the second your eyes meet. her hands begin wandering up your sides. in the wake your camisole rides up with the action. goosebumps populate your skin. your fingers almost tremble pulling the last bobby pin. sevika drags you closer the second the final curl falls. your hair creates a curtain of privacy.

sevika rakes her eyes over the exposed skin and how your camisole rests underneath your breasts. “can i take this off, pretty girl?”

an immediate nod comes from you. “please, yes.”

sevika moans. she moans at your eagerness and how willing you are to trust her. the surprise only lasts momentarily as sevika’s peeling off the tiny fabric. you watch her lips fall apart with a flux of emotions on her face. once the shirt is freed from your hair—sevika opens her mouth to ask for permission.

your hand cradles the back of sevika’s neck and draw her closer to one nipple. “you don’t have to ask permission, sev. i want what you want.”

sevika moans again with the permission. you effortlessly taking control of what you want—turns sevika on more than she’s ready to admit. nonetheless her lips circle around your nipple. her tongue darts around the bud. it earns her the response of you bucking your hips and pushing her closer to your breast. she gladly obliges.

her lips suction your nipple with a little more pressure. a hand comes to cup the neglected breast. palming and kneading with expertise. her large hand encompasses in a way you don’t think any lover has before. her teeth carefully experiment with nibbling on your nipple. you whine in response.

your hips move on their own accord. the combined sensation of teeth, tongue, lips and her hands leaves you desperate and wanting. you relish in the feeling of her jean crotch providing the perfect friction to your needy grinding. sevika groans into your nipple once she connects the dots.

her lips move from your nipple. a string of saliva leaving a connection. she lifts her eyes to yours. a sound traps in your throat seeing the pure need in sevika’s eyes.

hushed and rushed words tumble from sevika’s lips. “i need to make you feel good, baby. please. please can i taste you?”

you are positive sevika’s never had such desperation in her words. because you know no one in their right mind could deny her. but with you…she’s uncertain. the years of yearning bubbling over into this precise moment. you capture her lips in response. trying to say; yes take everything, all you need and want, drink and fill yourself.

with grace of a ballerina—sevika turns the tides and she’s standing with you in her arms, bridal style. you don’t even have the opportunity to be thrown off guard. she moves around your apartment as if she’s walked in this space numerous times. sevika locates your room without instruction.

she lowers you on the bed like a delicate flower. you’re tempted to protest but you give her the grace. you both deserve a tender reunion. sevika hastily steps out of her jeans. she stands before you in her navy boxers and a black shirt. your breathing matches hers with built up tension and anticipation. sevika moves closer to the bed and you begin crawling backwards.

she catches your ankle, shaking her head. “not yet, baby.”

sevika kneels at the edge of the bed on the floor. understanding without her saying much, you position yourself where she placed you before. sevika nuzzles her cheek against the inside of your knee. your fingers find solace in her strands. your nails softly scratching at her scalp. with your soothing yet tingling touch sevika begins her journey of kisses up your thighs. interchangeably switching sides until her lips meet the hem of your shorts.

sevika’s eyes travel the length of your body and her lips spread into a smile as you lift your hips. chuckling lowly, sevika parts with enough space to remove your shorts and underwear in one swift motion. she loses her breathing at the sight of you bare before her. the tussles of hair on your mound travel down to your lips. sevika gently widens your thighs. her action reveals how drenched you are. she can hear the slick separating between your folds. her mouth salivates at the sight and sound.

her hands massage at your thighs eliciting a trembling moan from you. you whimper, looping one leg on sevika’s shoulder. digging the heel of your foot into her shoulder blade to draw her near.

“don’t make me beg, sev. come on…”

sevika groans and circles her arms around your thighs, tugging you closer off the edge of the bed. “i’m sorry, princess. i don’t mean to make you wait. let me fix that.”

she presses a chaste kiss on your clit. you’re about to admonish her for teasing but your words are caught in your throat. sevika roughly drags her tongue up the length of your cunt. she moans deeply as your taste floods her mouth. now paired with your scent, sevika knows she will never get enough. her fingers firmly grip into your thighs and she feasts.

her tongue expertly explores every single inch it can reach. she starts with the languid yet pressured licks. each lick causes you to buck into her mouth. too unaware you could potentially bust her upper lip. not that sevika cares either. she switches her methods and uses the tip of her tongue to tease circles on your clit. she basks in the heavy moan you release as she focuses on your clit. your hips move in faint circles meeting each stroke of her tongue. one hand remains in sevika’s hair—softly caressing her hair or on occasion tugging on the silk-like strands.

sevika whimpers into your cunt as you play with her hair. her whimpers vibrate on your clit in such a sensual way. it produces a high pitched whine that you’ve never heard from yourself. even sevika briefly paused to fully appreciate the noise that graced her ears. nonetheless she returns to worshiping your clit. as she sucks it between her pursed lips, her own hand snakes down into her boxers.

not at all surprised with the pool of her own arousal. her calloused fingers rub an immediate circle around her clit. she’s so wet and sensitive she can barely feel the roughness embedded on her fingertips. but that’s not the stimulation she’s seeking. the second sevika’s tongue dips inside your cunt—her two fingers push past her entrance. you and sevika simultaneously groan. sevika allows you the opportunity to arch off the bed and grind down on her tongue. the warm and wet muscle teasing that special, squishy spot inside of you. her own fingers knuckles deep inside herself.

sevika almost cries into your pussy with the overwhelming sensations. riding her own fingers while you ride her tongue. through the haze in her eyes sevika witnesses the beauty of you chasing your desires. she wants you to topple over on her tongue continuously. if she could, she’d put brush to canvas and honor this moment forever. it only instills in sevika she must never depart from your life again.

your fingers tug sevika’s hair. sevika replies with a whimper and somehow understands the frantic look in your eyes. her lips return to your clit, applying the perfect amount of pressure. she witnesses your eyes rolling towards the back of your head. her own hips speeding up in hopes of climaxing with you. sevika’s tongue dashes across your clit occasionally intent on seeing you lose control with the added stimulation.

“seeeev!” your back arches off the bed and your thighs squeeze her head in place.

those manicured nails sevika adores so much scrape over her scalp. she moans with the stinging sensation. her fingers make squelching noises as she works them rapidly. you’re too lost in the heights of your climax. unable to register sevika is fucking herself as her mouth sends black spots over your vision.

sevika, relentlessly, obliges after hearing a pleading whimper. her lips leave a departing kiss on your clit before pulling away. but sevika continues grinding on her fingers. she bites into your thigh as she chases her own release. it takes everything in you to prop up on your elbows. your eyes watch in widened excitement.

she catches your gaze and you forget how to breathe. the unadulterated need and yearning in those grey eyes set you off for another round. sevika seems to read your thoughts before they even form. she carefully retracts her fingers then climbs on the bed. sevika helps guide you towards the center of the mattress.

“you flexible, pretty girl?” sevika questions. her soaked fingers teasingly run through your folds.

“depends. why?”

sevika smiles too wide for it being such a loaded question. she spreads your legs wider then hovers a little above you. you instinctively press your hand into the shell of her lower back. urging the woman to apply more of her weight. sevika happily follows the non-verbal instruction. she sighs at the feeling of your body.

her intentions soon become clear as sevika presses her swollen and perturbed clit on your mound. you let out a shaky gasp at the sensation. sevika reaches underneath your knee and lifts your leg on her shoulder. a guttural moan escapes you from the unexpected stretch.

“fuck, i’m sorry, baby. too much? i can stop.” sevika is already attempting to lower the leg.

without hesitation you grab sevika’s wrist and shake your head. “no, please. i need to see you come. please…use me.”

sevika bucks her hips with the unexpected words you bestow on her. she leaves the leg on her shoulder. her works to find the perfect rhythm and fluidity to grind her clit down. she eventually settles on moving her hips up and down. it allows both your clits to feel stimulated when she drags down. her prosthetic fingers dig into your thighs as her hips work in momentum. once you’ve grown accustomed to sevika’s pacing—you lift your hips to meet her halfway.

you almost drool at the sight of sevika’s head thrown back in ecstasy. the rhythmic bumping of your clits. the sensitivity it invokes—one you’re bound to chase for the rest of your life. sevika lets out the tiniest mewl. it sounds so unlike her, you almost question, if it came from you. yet her eyes are half hooded and eyebrows scrunched as if in concentration. a thin layer of sweat shines on her face. she’s majestic.

sevika attempts to focus her gaze on you. a pleading tone laced into her words. “baby…baby…gonna…pl-please…”

you refrain from the shit eating grin wanting to overtake your face. “asking me to come, sevi-baby?”

biting her lip, sevika nods shamelessly, needing the permission. craving the permission from her most special girl. “please…”

“you’re perfect, sevika. i’ve missed you. go ahead, beautiful. come for me. let me see you…”

sevika turns her head into the propped leg on her shoulder and messily kisses the tender flesh. you continue meeting her hips despite sevika forgoing any sort of rhythmic pacing. she whispers incoherent love rambles and gratitude. a moan trapped in sevika’s throat gives away her platitude. she slams her hips into you, as if, coming inside of you.

her body tenses above you right before moans bubble from her lips. eventually her tension alleviates to waves of trembling. you remove your leg from her shoulder and instantly sevika collapses atop of you. her legs slotted with yours. you feel just how wet this ordeal made her.

sevika nuzzles her nose into neck. your fingers trace nonsensical shapes over her back. overtime your hearts sync as you listen to each others breathing.

“my pretty girl…it’ll be until death do us part before we are separated again.” sevika whispers the promise into your neck.

an exhausted yet satiated smile tickles your cheeks. “is that a marriage proposal, sevika?”

sevika cheekily nips the sensitive skin of your neck. “and a promise, sugar.”

Helloo, I was wondering if you could do a sevika x reader but Reader got back from a mission and was just so tired that they fainted and Sevika takes care of reader. Thankk youuu i love your works so muchhh💗💗

Dizzy Love

Thank you so much for readingggg mwah <333

You were so exhausted by the end of your mission, legs wobbly and hands tired from carrying the heavy loads and bags.

Your shoulders hurt too and you would kill for a peaceful massage. As you stalked to the door, your body felt like it'd fall apart any moment. You grabbed the doorknob, heaving a sigh and opening it with your key.

The moment you stepped passed the threshold, Sevika scrambled to her feet to greet you. Not really with words, just a silent stare at you as she checks you out and assess whether you have any injuries or not.

"How was it?" Sevika finally grumbled. She didn't miss the way your head swayed a little as you closed the door behind yourself.

"Baby..." You began but then your body gave away and the darkness crept into the frames of your vision. Your body hit the floor with a thud, Sevika rushed forward.

Her eyes were wide but she didn't say anything. "Fuck." She cursed under her breath as she picked you up bridal style with no strain.

Sevika got you to the bedroom and started peeling your clothes off slowly to let your skin out and help you breathe better.

She propped a pillow up under your legs to elevate the blood and massaged your body simply to ground herself.

"You'll be okay." She mumbled more to herself than you. Sevika pressed a kiss on your forehead and stroked your hair as she waited for you to wake up.

You stirred a little, eyes fluttering open slowly as you scrambled a little. Sevika squeezed your shoulder reassuringly. "Baby, are you okay?" Sevika whispered.

"I'm okay..." You tried to get up but Sevika pushed you down, shoving a glass of water in your hands. You smiled weakly and took a few sips of water. "Did I pass out?"

"Yeah. Guess you pushed yourself too hard." Sevika stroked your hair, taking the empty glass away and settling it on the bedside table. "Just let me pamper you, 'kay?"

You smiled up at her and nodded. "I love you."

"I love you too, angel."

mdni. sub-bottom vi. fem-top reader. strap-on usage. fwb. vaginal sex. degradation.

wc; 1,160

thinking about being friends with benefits with vi. despite the casualness of your relationship, she’s always so needy for you, and you love how addicted your own best friend has become to your touch—to the way your hands and mouth and cock can reduce the tough, headstrong woman to a desperate, mewling mess. it’s a heady feeling, knowing that vi can't get enough of you.

she texts you at odd hours, short and direct—you free?—as if you’d ever say no. and when you show up at her place, she’s already waiting by the door like an overeager puppy, hair messy, lips red and parted, pupils wide as if she’s been thinking about this all day—and you know she has been. she’s always desperate for cock, but it’s not her fault; with how well you take care of her sweet hole, of course she’s become dependent on you for her pleasure.

she needs you to be rough with her, to be mean, and you’re the only one who knows how to use her exactly as she craves, how to put her in her place. no matter how much she tries to hide it, you’re completely aware that vi gets off on the roughness, the dominance, the sheer ownership in your touch, and you’re more than happy to give it to her—to use her strong body for your own twisted pleasure.

tonight, she’s laying on her stomach, atop her bedsheets, while you ride her ass. in this position, her pussy is so much tighter than usual, it’s almost hard for you to fuck in and out of her, and her glistening cream is obscenely glazing your strap.

your hands grip her hips bruisingly, guiding her onto your cock as she buries her face in her pillow, stifling the sounds of how desperate and whiny she is. her body shudders beneath your touch, trembling because you’re filling her just the way she needs, and she’s clawing against her bedsheets like a misbehaving cat.

”you love it when—mmf, i fuck you like a bitch?” you murmur against her ear, and she gasps as if she’s been burned, like your words have struck a cord deep inside her.

she doesn’t answer right away, too caught up in the way you’re using her little pussy for your own entertainment, her breath coming out in sharp, uneven bursts—but eventually, she blubbers, ”yes, yes, i love it so much—mghff!”

”what are you, then?” you press, breathlessly.

you pull your hips back until only the tip of your cock is being gripped within her tight heat, before slamming back inside her in a single, harsh thrust, keeping her hips pinned to the bed so she has nowhere to run. vi keens like a wounded soldier.

”a bitch—aghh! i’m your bitch!” vi sobs, and she’s trying to fuck back against your strap—trying to feel you as deep inside her gummy, pink walls as she possibly can—but you won’t allow her to.

you admire the way her ass ripples every time your pelvis bounces off of her, the firm globes of muscle jiggling, and it’s hypnotizing. the lewd sound of skin smacking against skin echoes throughout her obsolete bedroom, mingling with the obscene wet noise of vi’s creamy pussy being fucked into submission.

you press kisses to her shoulder blades, licking over her tattoos, before groaning, ”yeahhh, that’s right, fuck—ahh, guess you’re not so dumb after all.”

vi whines louder than before, as if she’s agreeing that your cock always fucks her stupid without fail.

she has no choice but to clench down around your thick strap stretching her open, relishing in the way it kisses her cervix with each punishing drive of your hips. vi’s arousal is dripping down her thighs now, the dirty sound of her juices squelching plays in your ears like music. you’re using her as if she’s a cocksleeve, as if she’s nothing more to you than a toy for you to fuck, and it’s making her eyes cross with irrevocable pleasure.

you continue your relentless pace, hips grinding forward with a brutal intensity that rocks vi’s entire body with each thrust. you swear you can feel her pussy clenching and fluttering around your strap, gripping it like a vice; a boa constrictor squeezing the life out of its prey.

the dirty view only spurs you on, pushing you to fuck into vi’s tight heat with even more animalistic fervor, determined to make her come undone until she can’t even speak, until static fills her ears and her brain melts out of her head.

”unghh—! you’re fucking me, you’re fucking me,” vi slurs mindlessly. she sounds like a desperate whore that’s been fucked stupid. you know she’s getting close, that her tongue has probably lolled out like a dumb dog by now, that her chin is most likely drenched in her own drool.

yeah. she’s your bitch, alright.

snickering, you dig your nails into her ass, spreading her cheeks apart so you can see the nasty way her pussy is gripping onto your cock with added clarity, and then you deliver harsh smacks to each globe. vi squeals—as you expected her to—and her pale skin blossoms red like roses in the spring.

she tries to get up onto her knees, but you’re sitting on the back of her thighs. she tries to fuck back onto your cock, but you harshly press her hips to the bed. she can’t run from the pleasure, she can’t find relief, all she can do is take it.

with newfound ferocity, you pound away at her ass as if it personally offended you. the flesh of your hips is clap, clap, clapping against vi’s rear perhaps faster than the speed of light, and it’s exhausting, it takes immense strength and determination—but you’re determined to make vi come so hard she cries.

you spit onto your fingers and then slip your hand underneath vi’s muscular body, rubbing two of the digits against her clit with the precision of a brain surgeon. you know exactly how much pressure to apply to her clit, how fast she likes it to be, which side of the little nub is more sensitive than the other—and vi orgasms then, intense and sudden.

milky white cream leaks from her cunt in splotches around your shaft and it almost looks like you, yourself, came inside her. you groan at the sight, unabashedly, and rub your fingers harsher against vi’s clit, until she’s flinching away from your touch and sobbing. 

you remove your fingers from her clit and trace up the length of her spine with your tongue, before pressing soft kisses to her shoulder blades, feeling the way her skin is buzzing beneath your lips. and vi’s panting harshly against her pillow but not saying a word, so you know you successfully fucked all thoughts from her head.

gently, you pull your cock out of your best friend’s pussy, while she can only lay there trembling.

taglist; @marvelwomenarehot0, @marieeeluvsyou, @mxchi-mxxn, @el-amor-que-tu-quieres, @jinxvex, @mwahbabe, @teddybearbutch28, @stupendousbananasharkcop, @nahcala, @ellieslob, @idontwannabehereatm, @rhian88, @kyur1jinx, @vivispace, @girlbeatings, @thatgrlnany @blackdykegirlblogger, @imfckngfantastic

(2/13/25)

i just loathe you lately — .✦

ᯓ VI ARCANE X READER

SUMMARY : 5k+ word count one-shot! (sorry if you dislike longer fan-fiction) ; the secrets of highland parks are kept under lock and key, never to be whispered beyond its borders.

“whatever happens in highland parks, stays in highland parks.” — you’re a registered, licensed FBI agent who's made a name for herself in the world of crime-solving. working alongside a team of sharp-minded professionals, apart of what's become New Jersey's go-to crew for getting things done. their reputation? polished, and trusted.

then, there’s vi west: your work partner, equally sharp but just a step ahead in some ways. almost too close for comfort. who would've thought work partners could be this competitive? the irony? they’re unstoppable together, but neither is quite the same without the other.

WARNINGS : fbi agent! vi ; fbi agent! reader. eventual smut. tons of self doubt. modern fbi! au. inaccurate descriptions of the profession! i’m not a professional. this is for fun. work rivals (one sided beef) to lovers. LONG AS FUCKKK SORRY I YAP. female reader with female anatomy. y/n is used. “thorne” is your last name. vi’s last name is “west”. you refer to her by her last name mostly. reader is high-key a crash out and mean. reader is an overachiever and insecure. vi and powder aren’t related. tons of banter. bottom! reader & top! vi. spitting. praise. fngering r! rec. pussy eating r! rec. detailed descriptions. crime scenes mentioned.

A/N : also i’m not that great at writing and my english isn’t spectacular, so i apologize for any confusion!

this was previously written in THIRD person with OCS previously, and is edited to be in second — so I apologize if things seem odd! I didn’t wanna overuse y/n. it switches from vi to violet when perspectives shift, and and the end, it’s because they get intimate. this also sucks I genuinely do not like how it turned out, but I wanna post this sooo badly.

MINORS + MEN DO NOT INTERACT! GO AWAY!

"Great," you muttered, rolling your eyes at the red light like it had personally offended you. One hand gripped the leather steering wheel, while the other balanced a bagel slathered in thick cream cheese and peppered with everything seasoning. You took a bite, savoring the soft, fresh bread—a far cry from the jaw-breaking bagels they served at the headquarters.

No need to spend the rest of her shift nursing a sore jaw, right?

South Jersey always gave you this weird ghost-town vibe. It was like all the real Jersey energy got stuck up North, and down here? It was all tumbleweeds and out-of-towners. And the drivers? Somehow even worse.

"Dude, go!" you groaned, smacking the horn with your free hand.

The truck in front jolted to life at the sound of your obnoxious horn, hesitating like it couldn't decide if it actually wanted to move. But you were late for work, and patience wasn't exactly on the menu today. The light had barely turned green when the Ford finally screeched forward, turning right without so much as a flick of its blinker.

Not even surprised.

Okay, maybe calling this place a 'ghost town' was a bit dramatic, but it wasn't exactly buzzing with life either. A population of five thousand? It wasn't tiny, but small enough that you pretty much knew everyone, or at least recognized their faces.

You rip off another chunk of your breakfast, chewing thoughtfully as you kept her eyes on the road ahead.

The headquarters sat smack in the middle of town, like the town's claim to fame. Not that it had much else going for it, anyway. The place was known for one thing and one thing only: a team of agents who dealt with crime and shady stuff, navigating the waters of illegal activities with professional ease.

And you were one of them. FBI agent—living the dream. Except for mornings like this, you weren’t so sure. Some days you questioned all of it. Why didn't you go for Wall Street like every other uptight, middle-aged guy who loves his over priced suits and has a receding hairline? But, of course, you were not a man. And would never be a man. So, that was that, unfortunately.

Other days though? Absolutely loved it. The thrill, the purpose. It kept you going.

You slammed your car door shut, the headlights flickering as if saying goodbye. Your boots clicked on the pavement as you tossed her brown paper bag with trash into a nearby bin, finishing off the last bite of the bagel while juggling your bag and keys in one hand.

(Y/N) Thorne. Not exactly the name that struck fear into anyone's heart. You were, after all, everything someone would want in a woman: totally normal. And boring as hell.

"G'morning," you called out, voice rippling through the main office full of her co-workers as you scanned your ID and pressed the door open with your forearm. Inside, it was warmer — nothing fancy, just your typical government building. Functional, plain, and definitely not the kind of place that got decorated for Thanksgiving.

November in Jersey wasn't exactly charming. Sure, it had its cozy moments but it was mostly cold, wet, and kinda depressing. You shrugged off her trench coat, and tossed your bag onto the desk, just as Jayce swiveled around in his stool, that annoying smirk plastered across his face.

"Wow. You're late," he teased, his eyes darting to the clock behind her.

"Like, late-late. Late as hell."

You then shot him a look, knowing full well that you was over half an hour late. Unlike everyone else who was seated and working as usual.

"You think I don't know that? I got caught up in traffic," you say, the lie slipping out as easily as it always did on mornings like these. The truth? There was almost never traffic in Highland Parks. Maybe during the holidays or when something big was going on, but never on a random weekday morning.

You started unloading your personal bag, pulling out the essentials: a still-steaming insulated cup of coffee, pens, some files you’d taken come to look over, and your planner. Everything else was digital of course, but you liked having these things on hand. It just made you feel more grounded.

Jayce raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying her excuse. "Traffic? Don't tell me you're coming down with schizophrenia, (Y/N)."

You then rolled your eyes, brows pinching together. "You don't 'come down' with schizophrenia, Jayce. It's not a cold that comes and goes." You didn't bother looking up at him, already used to the back-and-forth banter. They both were close enough for this to be just another day in the office.

"That still doesn't explain whatever you've got smeared around your mouth," Jayce quipped, pointing at you like he'd just caught you in some criminal act.

You halted, then swiped at your lips, just now realizing the cream cheese from the bagel you were eating earlier had betrayed you. "Shut up."

Jayce spun back around to his dual monitors, both lit up with the usual chaos. One screen was a mess of opened unnamed files, highlighted sections jumping out at him like some kind of fucking neon nightmare. The other? A classified CIA document he probably shouldn't have access to but, hey, Jayce was Jayce. A pain in the ass sure, but damn good at what he did, and you could respect that at least.

You plopped into your chair and rolled it forward, the familiar hum of the workspace coming to life. Resting your head in your hand, and letting out a sigh that felt as if it had been building up for days on end. Sleeping through your alarm again. It was becoming a pattern, and you was starting to seriously think about just camping out here at headquarters.

At least then you wouldn't have to rush to work every other week because of your growing bad habits.

You glanced around the room. Everyone else was locked in, focused on their screens, their tasks. A hushed few conversations floated in the background —just the usual work chatter between people you’d known for years now. They were solid. Resilient. You felt lucky to be surrounded by a team you could count on, even on days like this where your brain felt like it was running dry.

You wiped away the last remnants of cream cheese from her lips, still mildly annoyed that Jayce had been the only one to point it out. Not that you wanted everyone in the office to make a big deal out of it, but seriously, not one person gave her a heads-up?

Jesus Christ. It was way too early to care about that kind of still, especially right now.

Outside, the sky hung heavy with thick clouds, the kind that obviously promised rainfall later—great just what you needed. You moved your hand over the cursor, pulling up the files for the marriage fraud case you’d been slogging through. It was equally as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence. But a job's a job, and no one ever said working for the government was supposed to be fun.

Your eyes scanned the screen, index finger clicking away as you moved through the organized files. Your routine, monotonous. It was keeping your hands busy, at least. If nothing else, the day had nowhere to go but up from here.

"The money transferred to the spouse was unlabeled, and we're talking a decent amount. Anywhere from a grand up to five grand. Normally, separate bank accounts wouldn't draw too much attention, but in this case it's a red flag." You say, half to yourself as you rummaged through the stuffed file drawer. One folder was delicately tucked under your chin, held in place as you flipped through files with your manicured fingers. Brows furrowed in concentration as you searched for a similar case.

Tax fraud cases were like the PP&J to your workload, with a few shady marriage fraud scenarios thrown in to mix things up. Sometimes the scandalous ones were entertaining enough to break the pattern, but this one? Torture.

Jayce stood nearby, leaning back against the marble counter, which was digging into his lower back. He took a slow sip of his iced oat-milk latte, listening to you work and ramble through your day's work. It had been a quiet morning, with nothing dramatic or exciting happening, which should've been a good thing.

Still, it left you with that uneasy feeling—like the calm before a storm.

You were never relaxed for this long. Clocked in for almost three hours and had surprisingly plowed through a solid amount of work, even with a fried brain that was practically begging for a nap. That was another thing you found weird—you were usually a mess by now, half-distracted or complaining about some new crisis.

The files slapped onto the counter with a loud thud as you set them aside, hands brushing together like you was dusting off the whole ordeal. Jayce’s eyes flicked to her bare hands—no ring, no sign of marriage or any serious relationship. You were always all work, never any talk about a significant other or anything personal.

You slowly sighed pushed your hair back from your face, shutting the file cabinet with a firm click and locking it for good measure. Sliding your personal key into your pocket, ready to move on from whatever boring task awaited her next.

"This Wren Staples woman is kind of smart. I mean," Jayce held up a hand before you could even start to question his logic, giving you that familiar look. "I'm not saying it's right, but if someone offered me five grand a month to stay silent and just show up to some fancy business dinners? You wouldn't have to ask me twice."

He paused, waiting for a reaction, but you just stared at him, face scrunched up like you couldn't decide if you was more irritated or confused. Clearly not amused. Jayce let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like this conversation was nothing but a lost cause. Adjusting his belt, he gave it one last go, this time sounding more defeated than the first time.

"Forget it." He waved it off dismissively, taking a long sip of his drink while you mentally rubbed a hand down your face in pure frustration.

"Yeah, I will forget it," you say dryly. "Because if anyone heard you say that, you'd be stuck at the front desk while a janitor took your place. Or," you added, picking up your files, "you'd just be fired."

Jayce smirked, a dimple creasing his cheek. "You're obsessed with the idea of me getting fired, but who else would have your back when West over here starts breathing down your neck?"

At the mention of West, your mood took a nose-dive. Violet West—the co-worker from the literal pits of hell. If you had to sum her up in three words it, was be easy: haughty, a know-it-all, and self-indulgent.

You’d like to say you didn't hate West, but that would be a lie. And sure, lying wasn't illegal, but pretending to tolerate Violet felt criminal. The woman was all sharp words, choppy hair, and superiority complex wrapped in a suit.

"Yeah, you mean 'she-who-must-not-be-named'?" you mutter as you both walked down the dim hallways, the usual morning light blocked out by the overcast skies. Jayce snorted.

"What? Is she a forbidden topic now, Ms. Thorne?" Jayce raised an eyebrow, teasing as they headed back to the main room. You shot him a long side-glance, silently telling him to knock it off as they neared West's usual... territory.

You scanned your ID at the door, unlocking it with a beep and pushing it open for the both of them. Your expression blank, and voice deadpan.

“Just very, very taboo.”

You rip a piece of tape off the roll with your teeth, holding it between yours lips for a moment before carefully sticking it onto the document you were patching up. The team had already gone through a ridiculous amount of ink today, and printing another copy of this page would be a waste. A little tape, and it was good as new. Well, good enough. No one would notice unless they were trying to be a detective about it.

Smoothing the tape down with the pad of your thumb, stood up, and pushed your chair back with a small scrape. So far, this week wasn't too bad. It was only Tuesday, but still better than the disaster that was yesterday. Not that it mattered much — work was work, and that was that.

"Lunch started ten minutes ago, (Y/N)."

You turned to see Mel, stirring honey into her tea, the spoon gently clinking against the glass. The smell hit you, and seconds in you were already fighting the urge to grimace. Tea wasn't your thing. It always left this weird aftertaste, like lukewarm juice that had been forgotten in a car on a hot day. Gross, but you get it.

Mel wasn't bad, though. Laid-back, easy to deal with, which was more than you could say about most people at the HQ. In your mind, everyone had something annoying about them, and you weren’t shy about digging for it. Nobody's perfect, why pretend?

You laid your stack of papers down, giving Mel a tight, thin-lined smile with a small shrug. "Who else is gonna organize our cases by date, importance, and agent?"

"You do know there are six other people working in this office, right?" Mel raised an eyebrow, amused but not surprised by your martyr complex.

You knew you were not technically responsible for everything. You weren’t dense. But every time someone else tried to handle the file-work, things ended up in a chaotic mess, and that drove you crazy. You’d rather just do it on your own, your way, even if it meant taking on more. Loosening your tie, slipping a finger into the knot and giving it a tug as you got back to sorting through the paperwork.

Policy guides? Tossed onto the pile on her left. Investigation files? Those got dropped into a drawer with a firm hip-check to shut it. Personnel records? Neatly tucked into a black folder. You had a system, and it worked.

"Exactly," the words came out as a drawl, not really in the mood for chit-chat as you worked through the stack. You still needed to collect some files, but that could wait until later, maybe even tomorrow. The week had been more relaxed since most of the tasks were in-office, which was honestly a relief. The days when public affairs or training sessions were on the agenda? Those were the ones that pushed you to the edge of madness.

As you started to walk away, Mel called after you, "Tell Jayce his phone's rung fifteen times in the past twenty minutes!"

Of course it had. Jayce avoided work calls like the plague.

You shut the door behind you and slipped a hand into your right pocket, pulling out your cellphone. It was mostly your work phone—you kept your personal life strictly separate. The idea of mixing the two was a disaster waiting to happen. Scrolling through your contacts, you found the number you were searching for, and tapped it. You needed to update the attorney general. Your boots clicked softly against the floor while stroding down the hallway, phone pressed to your ear.

It rang a couple of times before a voice answered. "FBI Legal Division."

You inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly to gather your thoughts before responding. Tone direct, professional. "Thorne, (Y/N), speaking. Just calling to update you—we've covered all files and documents this past week. Fingerprinting is being handled by Shimes, and the lab services are currently in progress. Everything else looks good for now. If anything changes, I'll let you know as soon as possible."

You kept it short and to the point, just the way it needed to be.

A satisfied hum came through the line. "Great work, I'll review the details and let you know if I need anything else."

You thanked your attorney, lowering the phone as you pushed open the doors to the lounge. You had about twenty minutes to eat which was more than enough, though the thought of food didn't exactly thrill you. When your mind was full of work, your stomach didn't have room to complain. Sliding your cellular device into her pocket, you noticed a few co-workers giving her a glance.

"Where've you been?" Powder asked, nosy as ever. Powder Shimes was hunched over, chewing on what looked like the remains of a sad, microwaved breakfast burrito—probably from hours ago—and washing it down with a can of Dr. Pepper that looked far too room temperature. Was that ketchup on her burrito?

Ekko tilted his head, giving her a once-over. "Probably the HQ. She looks pretty pissed."

You rolled your eyes and yanked open the lounge fridge. Taking her time to riffle through the bagged lunches, each marked with large initials to avoid any office food theft drama. You grabbed your pre-prepped Caesar salad—the one you didn't have time for the day before—and a small bottle of water.

"Where's Jayce?" you asked, settling into a chair a seat away from the two of them. You ignored their commentary about your supposed "pissed-off" look. It wasn't like you were mad, but your resting face had always given off those vibes. "Matter of fact, where's everyone at?"

Powder and Ekko were always together, so their presence wasn't exactly surprising. Mel was eating at her desk while taking phone calls. Jayce was MIA for reasons unknown, even though he was usually first to hog the entire couch in the break lounge. Caitlyn popped in sometimes after training, but she hadn't expecting to see her today.

You popped the lid off the salad and grabbed a plastic fork from the tin holder nearby. As for West? Well, she wasn't here either, which was a relief. Lunch without Violet West around was a small victory in itself. It wasn't like seeing her would brighten your day. If anything, the distance was a blessing.

You stabbed at the Caesar salad, spearing a few leaves and bringing them to your mouth. A quiet lunch was all you really needed right now.

"Caitlyn went to grab some stuff from Home Depot. Something about the sink breaking—something with the piping. I don't know," Ekko shrugged, digging into his half-full peanut butter cup ice cream with a plastic spoon. Meanwhile, Powder took another horrific bite of her ketchup-slathered burrito, opening yet another packet of ketchup like it was a delicacy.

You uncomfortably clenched your jaw, doing your absolute best to ignore Powder’s obnoxious eating habits. She gulped down her food with an unnecessary loud sigh and crushed her soda can with a loud crack. "Like Ekko said, Cait’s at the store. Jayce? Off doing whatever, said he'd be back after lunch. Vi?" Powder raised her hands once mentioning the girl in mock surrender, a crumpled napkin in her palm. "No idea where she is, and honestly? Don't care."

You picked at the chicken in the Caesar salad, chewing slowly. You really needed to up your protein intake, especially with how grueling training days had been. But Caesar salads? The only kind you could enjoy without wanting to throw the bowl out the window. "So it's just you two?"

"Yup," Ekko confirmed, licking his spoon clean.

Spectacular. Stuck with these two for the next fifteen minutes. Not that long, but in moments like this, you found herself wondering how they were the same people she did real-world investigations with. Ekko, a grown man, devouring ice cream like a five-year-old, and Powder, well.

"That's disgusting, Shimes," you deadpanned, eyeing the ungodly amount of ketchup Powder was consuming. Ekko barely stifled a laugh, grinning against his spoon. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the headache that had started creeping in. Who knew the break room could actually make things worse?

Powder scoffed, leaning back in her chair, her work jacket tossed aside. Now just in a wrinkled button-down, she looked far too comfortable for someone whose eating habits were under fire.

"Like I care. That was delicious. I'd give it like an eight out of ten—only because it was kinda cold in the center."

That earned a grimace from you. You did not need to know how cold her burrito was or how much she enjoyed it in great detail. As much as Jayce could be a pain, you’d trade this scenery for his company any day. At least Jayce wasn't… this.

Just as you were starting to imagine a more peaceful lunch break, a gruff female voice broke through your thoughts. "Thanks for saving me a seat."

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor made you freeze. Ekko shot you a knowing look, and Powder’s grin only widened.

"Surprise guest!" Powder announced with a clap, running a hand through her hair like she was prepping a show.

Surprise guest? More like surprise loss of appetite. Because who else would be sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, than Violet West herself. No invitation, no polite "is this seat taken?" just West, plopping down like she owned the place.

Your fork hovered above your salad, chewing coming to an abrupt stop. You stared down at the greens, the moment of peace you had been savoring now utterly ruined.

You've got to be kidding me.

Three shots rang out. You adjusted your earplugs with one hand and tightened your grip on the Glock 19M with the other. The gloves were pulled snug over your hands, and you squeezed the gun a little harder than usual. You didn't bother with safety glasses during training. What was the point? You didn't wear them on the job.

Agents like you practicing shooting all kinds of targets — stationary, moving, from cover to cover, on the move. The whole deal. Training days like these were crucial for staying sharp, and even though they ran these drills once a week, you always tried to push yourself, especially with your Glock. The gun had a way of making your skin crawl every time she fired, but you had to be good with it. You hadn't had to use it much in the field, thankfully, but when you did, it never felt great. Obviously.

"Not bad, Thorne," Caitlyn muttered as she patted your wrist, adjusting it slightly and motioning for you to fix your posture. You hadn't even realized you were holding the gun so close to your body until she gave that look. A lump of saliva slid down your throat and you nodded. Caitlyn was a solid instructor. She didn't sugarcoat anything—if you were doing something wrong, she told you straight up, step by step, how to fix it.

You appreciated that.

The days rotated every week. Monday meant outdoor training, Tuesday indoor, then back outdoors on Wednesday, and so on from there. Weeks of drills. Not your personal favorite, but it was part of the job, and you had to be ready to reach for your waist when things went sideways. And in a town like Highland Parks, things often did.

You bit your cheek, thinking about how unpredictable this place was. The citizens too. Not that you were any better — you wasn't exactly a poster child for predictability yourself. You let out a breath, firmly holding the handle of the Glock as if it could settle your nerves.

Caitlyn handed you a pair of safety glasses, breaking your focus. "You need to wear these. None of that 'I'm too good for this' nonsense. If you lose an eye because you're being stubborn, you're not touching a firearm again. Take them."

Irritable but not wrong. You weren’t offended. Rumor had it someone lost an eye once because they ignored safety, though that was before her time.

"Thanks," you say, slowly taking the glasses from her hand. She stomped off, her heavy boots thudding against the ground as her vest shifted with each step. You put on the glasses and popped your knuckles, already feeling that strain in your hands that would stick until the end of the month.

Nearby, Powder was lounging with his legs spread, while Jayce gnawed on a marshmallow-studded protein bar. Powder’s face was slick with sweat as he gulped water, some strands of her azure hair sticking to her forehead. Ekko was swapping out his gun, peeling off his thick vector gloves.

You placed your weapon down and rolled your tense shoulders, feeling a knot in your neck release. The relief was short-lived, though, she glanced over at Caitlyn, who was now standing in front of West. Another knot formed in your gut, this one a mix of annoyance and envy. You clenched her jaw unconsciously.

Of course, Caitlyn was probably praising the hell out of West. She was the best with the weapons out of everyone, aside from Caitlyn herself. Powder was more into forensic work, Ekko handled lab services, and Jayce was a crime-solving machine, and (Y/N)?

Just... good. At a little bit of everything. You were organized, which was great, but that was also Mel’s job. A deep inhale filled your lungs, and you sighed heavily. You was useful — a great help, a mix of skills, but nothing extraordinary.

Ekko’s voice snapped you back to reality. "Dude, instead of choking back a hundred protein bars, try starting with eggs in the morning. Those are food, but God damn."

He was talking to Jayce, who was hunched over elbows on his knees. You resisted the urge to critique his posture. You didn't, but that was primarily because it would make you a hypocrite. Caitlyn had just corrected hers. You slipped off your own gloves, then decided to stand and stretch your legs, feeling more awake on your feet.

"Eggs are nasty as hell," Jayce waved Ekko off, and Ekko shrugged, half agreeing as he lazily sipped his water.

"Cottage cheese? Tofu? Greek yogurt?" Ekko continued, trying to offer solid protein options, but Jayce’s chewing slowed at his suggestions. Even though Ekko’s advice came from someone who clearly knew what he was talking about, Jayce’s eyes narrowed, his olive-tanned skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.

A firm smack on your back snapped you upright before you could even think about it, body reacting on instinct. Caitlyn’s voice echoed in her mind, reminding her about her posture, and for a split second, you wondered if she'd hunched over under the weight of your responsibilities again. But when you turned to see who had hit her, it wasn't Caitlyn and her sharp, fine eyebrows. Instead, you were met by a different pair—thick and scarred along the edges.

West.

Your stomach dropped. Caitlyn, she respected. Caitlyn had the right to correct your posture, whether in training or in office. Violet, on the other hand, had not. Jayce could get away with being a little touchy sometimes, and Caitlyn, if it was educational, but Violet? No. Never.

"You aren't a Pilates teacher," you say in a calm, yet perfectly passive-aggressive tone. Your brows furrowed as you tried to smooth out the back of the suit jacket you had on, trying to ease any trace of Violet’s unwanted touch. In another timeframe, you might've smacked her hand away, but today you settled for being politely firm.

Violet, of course, gave you another pat, this one being more condescending than the first. "Another profession? I'd be making bank. Every housewife would be in my classes," she replied, her voice smug and dripping with fake charm.

Your skin prickled with irritation, patience running thin by the second. You would've given everything for earplugs at the moment. The sound of Violet’s voice was enough to make your head throb. Meanwhile, Jayce, ever the opportunist, chose this exact moment to stay silent, focusing more on his marshmallow protein bar than on you, clearly about to bite down hard enough to crack a molar.

"You'd be making below minimum wage. No one would willingly attend those classes," you dragged out, voice flat and uninterested, though the tension in your jaw spoke volumes. Violet didn't have to do much to get under your skin, and honestly, she didn't even have to try. She was the walking embodiment of something that made your veins itch.

"Realistically, that is."

Violet studied your face, noticing the way your expression had tightened, a visible vein of pure irritation. It wasn't like you hated Violet once again—if you did, you would've moved locations a long time ago. But there was a thin line between tolerance and whatever the hell this was. Tolerable, in your world, meant zero contact. Silence. Absolute distance. And right now, West was far too close for comfort.

"Realistically, a business run by someone confident in their growth is more likely to succeed than someone who's just a follower."

Violet’s smug response hit you like a match to gasoline. You could feel the heat of your frustration under your skin, a familiar sensation that always seemed to bubble up during their rare, but tense interactions. Most days, they kept their distance, sticking to cold, judgmental glances. But on days like this, when they were forced into the same space, it was inevitable-snarky exchanges, backhanded compliments, and that thick, suffocating air of competition.

You bit back the flood of insults threatening to slip out. Pressing your chapped lips together, irritated by the dry, rough feeling but too focused on the current situation to care. "You can't speak from experience," you finally muttered, knowing full well that it was a weak retort. You weren’t in the mood to come up with anything clever. Keeping it safe was the safest bet for your sanity right now.

Violet, naturally, didn't miss a beat. "I'll have that privilege one day." she flicked her ID badge with a cocky flourish, the engraved letters of her last name catching in the light. Her face was twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, the kind that made you want to roll her eyes so hard they'd get stuck.

There was nothing motivating about Violet’s arrogance. Only aggravating.

You cleared your throat, forcing a thin smile.

"Fun talking to you, as always," you said, determined to get the last word in, as usual. Their exchanges were like a never-ending thumb war, both women pushing for dominance without truly getting anywhere. Two years of this, and nothing had changed.

Violet smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "I'm flattered, but I can't help wondering if you're considering stand-up comedy for those with lobotomies, of course." She punctuated the remark with a firm hand on your shoulder.

Your stomach churned at the touch, and you shrugged off Violet’s hand like it was a spider crawling on you. Resisting the urge to vomit right then and there, you reached down for your Glock, thumb brushing over the magazine release as it could somehow end this insufferable conversation.

You needed to reload, which at least gave you a reason to focus on someone else.

"Be my guest," you said flatly, eyes fixated on the gun, not on the smug woman hovering over you.

West’s lips quirked again in amusement, but she stayed quiet, watching as you methodically reloaded the 19M, clicking the slide back in place with more force than necessary. You were hyper-focused now, anything to block out Violet’s presence.

You slipped the gloves back on, fastening the Velcro tightly, mentally preparing yourself to get back to training.

"Trainings over for the day, you know," West said, casually reminding you. She was annoyingly familiar with your habits on the range, probably because she always kept an eye on you, just waiting to see if you messed up.

You didn't bother looking up. "I'm aware everyone else is gone. I prefer extra training."

"You hate training," Violet replied, her tone laced with smug knowingness. She clearly enjoyed pushing your buttons, and right now, you kinda wound tighter than the Velcro on your gloves.

"No." you simply state, cocking your head to crack your neck.

I just fucking hate you.

Your raised the Glock and fired at the nearest dummy, ending the conversation with a bang.

The sweet relief of coffee never failed to satisfy Vi, even on days when everything else seemed to fall apart. She let her calloused fingers linger on the coffee maker as it hummed, her other hand twiddling a packet of sweetener absentmindedly. With nothing pressing on her mind or plate today, she pulled the pitcher from the machine and dragged her New York embroidered mug forward. The coffee poured steadily, just below the rim, and she tore the sweetener packet, dumping it in with practiced precision.

But before she could savor a sip, her forearm nudged open the lounge door, and—splash. Hot coffee cascaded over her freshly pressed suit, drenching her pants and top in a scalding, sticky mess.

What—the fuck?

Audrey's eyes slowly drifted down to the damage, the burning liquid stinging her skin beneath the fabric.

Her grip tightened on the mug as she looked up, fury already simmering behind her eyes.

And there, frozen in shock with wide eyes, was none other than you. Of course. Vi could see the words forming in her head before they even left your mouth; you never missing an opportunity to make things worse.

"Watch where you're going next time," you grumbled, tone dismissive, like the whole thing was somehow Vi’s fault. You had also whispered something under your breath, and it couldn't have been good. The coffee dripped silently between them, pooling on the floor and marking its territory on Vi’s ruined clothes. She had managed to get through the rain this morning without so much as a spot, but your clumsiness had managed to wreck her in mere seconds.

Vi’s upper lip twitched in irritation. Was she being blamed? Really? "What are you in hurry for, the last few munchkins in the fridge? You don't exactly look busy, (Y/N).”

Your eyebrows drew down slowly, eyes narrowing in offended disbelief. Vi might've found it amusing to mess with her in any other circumstance, but right now? Right now, it really irked her. She was being blamed for this, and she wasn't going to let it slide.

"If you've got time to throw insults, why don't you go and do Mel’s job again? After all, you went to school for years to play assistant at headquarters, right?" Vi’s words were sharp, deliberately cutting. It was a bitchy move, but she'd had enough.

You’d had been riding her nerves all week.

Monday, you’d shredded Vi’s files by "mistake," chalking it up to be tired. Tuesday, you’d nearly wrecked her Glock 17M and tried to convince Caitlyn it was just a mix-up. Wednesday, there were dirty looks and backhanded compliments in the middle of a meeting. And yesterday? You’d almost derailed an entire investigation with your impatience.

Two years of this, and it was finally pushing Vi to her limit. It wasn't just competitive banter anymore—it was real animosity. Vi had always tried to keep things light, a little teasing here and there, but (Y/N?). (Y/N) downright hated her, and it was getting mutual.

You, ever so unfazed, didn't even glance at the mess you’d made. "Who pissed in your coffee this morning?" you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And don't worry about how I handle my tasks around here. Why don't you go cozy up to Caitlyn while I keep things easy and simple for you? Sound good?"

Audrey clenched her jaw, her fingers tight around the now empty mug. This woman...

"You've got a lot of nerve," Vi snapped, her voice low but sharp, each word deliberate. "I don't have an issue with you, but for some reason, you're always trying to get on my bad side. I try to be halfway decent with you, but you always find a way to ruin that too." Audrey stepped closer, exaggerating her words, hoping it would hit you harder. For someone who walks in heeled boots everyday, the shorter woman still hadn't quite figured out how to own them.

Before you could fire back, Audrey cut you off.

"And if you want to accuse me of cozying up to Caitlyn, then take a good look at yourself, Thorne. Your last name fits you precisely. You're like a thorn to someone's side."

You let out a sharp huff, clearly caught off guard by Audrey's sudden willingness to stand her ground. You weren’t used to being confronted, especially by someone you considered to be an annoyance. Vi could see the gears turning, the effort you put into keeping your voice steady as she shot back.

"At least I have a good relationship with everyone. You pick and choose who you talk to. You're not down to earth, (Y/N). You're just a shitty person."

You felt your blood simmering, but you kept your expression neutral, even as the insult landed. By habit loosening your tie, fingers trembling just slightly with adrenaline, and tossed your now-empty mug into the trash bin by the door without a second thought.

The satisfying crack of glass echoed through the room, but she didn't care.

Not about the mug, not about your words. Not now.

She brushed past you, not sparing a second glance as she headed toward the restroom. The coffee was already soaking into her clothes, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She peeled off her ruined pullover as she walked, letting it fall down her arms before she entered the bathroom, where she was greeted by her reflection.

Vi stared at herself for a moment, hair falling messily over her eyes. It had grown longer than she liked, brushing just past her nose slightly. She pushed it away impatiently and leaned over the counter, scrubbing at her button-down with frustration.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, working at the larger stains with more force than necessary. The top had cost her over fifty bucks, and the thought of it being ruined because of your clumsiness made her blood boil. If it had been some cheap shirt, she wouldn't have lost her cool like that, but it wasn't.

"Fucking come out, Jesus." Vi’s voice cracked slightly as she scrubbed harder, knowing full well she was only making it worse. But she couldn't walk back into HQ with this mess on her. Not after what had just happened. She wasn't about to give you the satisfaction of seeing her like this.

As the stains slowly faded, her mind raced. Were you insecure? Vi didn't know, and frankly, she didn't care. The woman was a confusing mess of contradictions, and Vi had no desire to decipher her. All she knew was that you got under her skin, and made her head throb with frustration. An impatient groan escaped her lips as she managed to get some of the deeper stains out, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Vi stared at the shirt, feeling like the whole situation was ridiculous. And yet, here she was, scrubbing out coffee stains and stewing over someone who should've been nothing more than an office inconvenience.

The urge to tell you off bubbled up again, but Vi bit it back. Sure, she was pissed, but wasn't trying to escalate this any further. She had done the right thing by standing up for herself, like anyone else would. There was no point in pushing things to the point of no return, where they might both end up fired and jobless.

She slung her ruined pullover over her arm and walked out of the women's restroom, her steps heavier with the weight of her lingering frustration.

She wasn't about to let it go, not completely, but she wasn't going to make it worse either.

If nothing else, she thought, I'm not worse than (Y/N). That was for sure. Vi had rattled her pride a little with the teasing, but it wasn't like she'd gone overboard. In fact, if you had any sense of humor, they could've had some fun with the back-and-forth. But no, the hostility from you felt different, like it was more personal. You ribbed Ekko and Powder too at times, but with Vi, it felt deeper, like there was something else fueling it.

As she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping, she made her way down the hallways of the HQ, her mind still buzzing with the aftershocks of their argument.

"That was my favorite shirt," she muttered under her breath, glancing down at the faint coffee stains that still clung to the fabric.

You grimace, hesitating before fully letting your eyes take in the crime scene photos clipped to the case folder in front of you. One side is filled with notes detailing the body discovered, the evidence collected by officers and K-9 units, while the other holds the photographs. It’s never easy looking at the dead, but this case in particular—one involving children and animals—settles like a weight in your stomach.

Just suck it up and focus.

Jayce is out today, which means his ridiculous pile of files is now your responsibility. For someone who jokes around constantly and eats while reviewing these kind of things, he’s got a stomach of fucking steel. You, on the other hand, find yourself letting out a quiet, uneasy strings of grunts as you shuffle a set of dated photos into an envelope hastily. You barely register your own signature as you scrawl it across the front before tossing it into the small brown box beside you leveled on Jayce’s chair.

The barely touched coffee on your desk doesn’t help your mood. Mel had been nice enough to bring drinks from the local coffee shop for everyone, but yours? It tasted watered down, and the undissolved brown sugar left a grainy texture that made it hard to enjoy. You had set it aside, already planning to let it get cold so you could toss it out without feeling guilty.

Bad coffee is worse than no coffee. You’d rather suffer through exhaustion than force yourself to drink something made by a barista who clearly didn’t know a basic coffee rule: to stir the damn sugar while it’s hot.

You bite the inside of your cheek, inhaling deeply, forcing yourself back into work mode.

Outside, thunder grumbles in the distance, and the printers rattle beside you, filling the silence of an otherwise empty space. The office is quieter than usual, the seat next to you noticeably unoccupied. Rainy Novembers are typical in Highland Parks, but in all honesty you don’t have much of an opinion on the weather. You spend most of your time indoors anyway.

Working.

Your stomach interrupts your train of thought, rumbling loudly in protest. You unconsciously glance at the digital clock near Jayce’s empty desk, its red numbers flickering back at you. Lunch passed a while ago. Not that it mattered. After spending hours handling Jayce’s case files, your appetite had disappeared. Your meal, along with your Diet Coke, was probably still sitting untouched in the lounge fridge.

Powder and Ekko are out training one-on-one with Caitlyn. Not your business, but you’re curious anyway. You always are. Why didn’t you ever get one-on-one training? Everyone else did.

Are you lacking something?

You chew on your thumbnail, the thought making an unwelcome home in your head. This always happened.

A sudden tap on the top of your head yanks you from your inner turmoil. You glance over your shoulder, expecting Viktor, the guy who fixes the printers and every other broken thing in HQ. Jayce is good friends with him, so, you are as well in that case. But instead, it’s Mel. Your shoulders loosen slightly. You’ve been tense all week.

“Not exactly the best way to get my attention, Mel,” you say, stacking some of the finished files on your desk, head still heavy with lingering doubt.

“Lighten up a bit. You’re such a pessimist,” Mel hums, dropping the stack of documents onto your desk. “You should go eat. I saw you skipped lunch. Plus, Jayce can finish the rest tomorrow. You’ve done more than enough.”

You exhale, considering her words. Why didn’t you just work a role like Mel? She had a clear job, an essential purpose. Meanwhile, you felt like you spent most of your time quietly filling in the gaps—like a seat filler, temporary, replaceable. All that school for what?

A stubborn voice in your head protests the comment about your pessimism, but your hunger wins out. You push back your chair and stand, rolling your shoulders to shake off the stiffness.

“You can take the file box then. I’ll be back.” Grabbing your ID lanyard, you stride out of the office, making your way through the mostly empty space.

The walk down the same hallway you’d been pacing for two years somehow felt longer every day. Realistically, nothing had changed—it was the same damn stretch of floor, the same fluorescent lights buzzing above. But lately, the need to move your feet, to just get to where you were going, had started to feel like a chore.

You had three keys to this building: one for the main office where the bulk of the work happened, another for the lounge, and the third just to get into the damn building in the first place. Underwhelming. Your pay was the same as Jayce’s, even Ekko’s. You were making more than both Powder and Mel combined.

So why did it still feel like you were scraping for something?

You pushed open the lounge door with your elbow, only to immediately regret it.

Violet.

A grumble of annoyance rumbled in the back of your throat as she turned her head to glance over her shoulder at you. Her cool, ashy-blue eyes flicked to you for only a moment, but it was enough to make your skin prickle uncomfortably.

It felt like every time a coworker looked at you, it was out of pity, not respect. As if all the work you put in was just something to be tolerated, not acknowledged. The thought made your heeled boots feel loose, like you were one wrong step away from rolling your ankle under the weight of Violet’s occasional, unimpressed glances.

Why was she even here?

Yes, this was the employee lounge, but she never lingered here long. And yet, here she was. You weren’t even sure if she had food, and she definitely wasn’t making coffee.

You ignored her gaze, forcing yourself toward the fridge. Your hands were already clammy before you saw her, but now they were straight up sweaty. The cool air from the fridge was a small relief as you reached for your neatly labeled chicken and lettuce wrap, along with your untouched sealed Diet Coke.

It had been this way ever since the coffee incident. Ever since you’d—“accidentally”—ruined an entire month’s worth of her research.

West had stopped making jokes around you.

At first, that satisfied you. But now? Now, it made your gut feel like a crumpled-up sticky note.

Had you actually liked the attention? No. Absolutely not. Jayce spoke to you every day, cracked his ridiculous jokes around you, so it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t about communication. You and Violet didn’t even work in the same department. You weren’t exactly friends, either. Strictly coworkers. Two people who knew just enough about each other’s flaws to be annoying and pick at them.

So why was she bothering you so much?

Your flimsy fingers tightened around your wrap as Violet finally looked away. But she didn’t move. Didn’t eat. Didn’t make coffee. Just existed. Silently.

Judgment was awful, but silent judgment? That was even worse.

“Can you quit watching me like that?” you snapped before you could stop yourself, your voice sharp with the bitterness that always seemed to linger between you two. “It’s weird. And aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Violet barely reacted, just blinked at you, unimpressed.

“Lunch ended three hours ago,” you added, “unless you’re digging for Caitlyn’s crumbs.”

Your jaw clenched as you unwrapped your lunch, your teeth sinking slightly into your torn up bottom lip. Uncalled for. You knew that. And Violet knew exactly how to weaponize the moment.

“Thanks for the reminder, Thorne,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something biting. “But I actually don’t have to make that effort. Cait pays attention to me without me having to act like some crazy addict who thrives off her validation on every thought.”

Your fingers stilled.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t said worse to her before. The difference? Violet never hid behind her words. She always said them looking you dead in the eye, unwavering, direct.

The comment shouldn’t have hit a soft spot, but it did.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to play it off, pretending it didn’t get under your skin.

“You know me so well,” you muttered with a strained chuckle, though your jaw ached with the effort of keeping it together.

Because deep down, you knew exactly where your problem with Violet had started.

It wasn’t out of nowhere.

You’d been intimidated by her from the moment she got the job—without even needing an interview. She made more than you right off the bat. Caitlyn warmed up to her almost immediately. It wasn’t like Violet had ever rubbed it in your face, but envy was something you never handled well.

Do this better. Do that better. Finish this. Try harder. Ask to do more.

Violet ran a hand down the front of her work suit to smooth out the cotton. Ever since the coffee incident, she’d switched to wearing black button-downs under her blazers, likely to avoid another purposeful coffee disaster.

“You don’t exactly make it hard to read you,” she mused, her voice irritatingly casual. “Especially when you have a vein bulging from your forehead every time you see me.”

Your first instinct was to snap back—who wouldn’t be irritated when you think everyone is your buddy? But you knew better. And honestly? You didn’t have the energy for another round of verbal sparring this week.

Jayce was out. Your workload was heavier than usual. You hadn’t had coffee, and you hadn’t eaten all day.

So, instead of feeding into it, you focused on your food. You took a bite from the edge of your wrap, careful not to let the contents spill from the sides. It hurt to open your mouth too wide. Your lips had been painfully chapped for a month now. February was creeping closer, and with it came dry skin, exhaustion, and the growing desire to sleep at your desk instead of work.

Your bottom lip had split more times than you could count in the past week, but you hadn’t done much to fix it either. No time for chapstick when you could barely keep up with everything else.

Violet had noticed.

You always got like this in the winter; pushier, more irritable. You weren’t as unbearable when the weather warmed up, but your attitude toward her never thawed. You were always on edge around her, always competing, always watching.

She had caught you staring the day Caitlyn pulled her aside to discuss a raise, the same day you had taken on extra side gigs and hadn’t gotten so much as a mention. She had seen you fist your hair at your desk after downing your fifth cup of coffee. She had been on the receiving end of your little retaliations, the way you’d ruin her things in ways so small they could almost be called accidents.

Violet had always noticed.

“A chicken wrap with a side of blood,” she mused lightly, resting her hip against the counter.

Your chewing slowed for a beat before resuming, your brows furrowing just slightly. You still curled and coated your lashes every morning for work with an older tube of mascara you couldn’t seem to let go, still maintained some things about yourself, but you weren’t oblivious. You knew you looked rough lately.

“You seriously need chapstick,” Violet continued, eyeing your lips with something between amusement and concern. “That’s gotta hurt.”

It was the first semi-joke she’d made around you since November. It wasn’t even really a joke, but it was… easier to hear than the usual biting remarks.

You swallowed your food and huffed. “My lips are none of your business, nor your concern. I’m applying chapstick just fine. It’s allergies.”

Wrong.

Allergies were the least of your problems. You had been biting your lips raw and were probably vitamin deficient in more ways than one. Even Jayce had commented on it the other day, asking if you were cosplaying as a grumpy vampire or some other nonsense.

Violet scoffed. “Are you looking to eat your lunch or your lips?” She rubbed her own lips absently, likely remembering the thin scar that stretched across her upper lip from training. “You’re running on nothing but caffeine. Have you forgotten what real food tastes like?”

You scowled, cutting her off before she could continue. “Why are you in here?”

Audrey blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the abrupt subject change.

“I mean, I could be just as annoying, but I’m not in the mood, West.”

She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head with a small smirk, arms crossing over her chest. Your eyes hesitated for just a second, catching the way the layers of her uniform—button-down and blazer—did nothing to hide the muscle beneath them.

What kind of moron actually wore both layers inside HQ?

“Why?” she taunted. “Because you’re finally getting a taste of your own medicine? Or because Jayce isn’t here to defend you?”

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you fucking serious?” you huffed, your voice laced with disbelief. “You think Jayce not being here affects how I feel?”

The defensiveness in your tone was embarrassingly obvious, and Violet knew it. Her lips quirked upward, her smirk deepening.

“Well,” she dragged the word out in fake thought, pursing her lips in a way that made your eye twitch. “Can you blame me? Your only real friend isn’t here, and now you’re just moping around HQ. Moping around with your head down, and your ass up.”

“Do not say that,” you snapped, your irritation spiking.

Audrey grinned like she had just won a prize. “Really? You draw the line at a simile?”

Your brows furrowed. “A what? That’s a metaphor, you slow beet.”

Audrey should have been offended—I mean, you had just called her slow—but instead, she froze for half a second, her expression shifting to something almost amused.

“…Did you just call me a beet?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “A beet-root. For a choppy haircut, you’d think you’d at least change the color to redeem yourself. You look like a damn beet.”

Audrey’s lips twisted into a half-smirk, half-grin.

“Wow, (Y/N),” she murmured. “Did you just make a joke?”

Your stomach dropped.

Your pride plummeted.

She thought you were joking. Audrey—Audrey fucking West—thought you had joked with her?

The realization made your grip tighten around your soda can, your lips pressing inward as if disgusted by yourself. You wanted to grab the words back, throw them out, insist that you meant that as an insult, not a joke.

But you couldn’t.

And that grin on her face? That damn grin?

It made you want to rip your hair out.

“Never-fucking-mind.”

Vi undid the cuffs of her button-down, rolling up the sleeves until the fabric no longer restricted her movements. Tattoo work peeking out. The uniform was fine—professional, sleek, practical—but nobody actually liked wearing it. Not in the HQ.

Across the office, Jayce’s voice rang out, louder than necessary, pulling her attention. She glanced up briefly, watching as he bantered with one of the techs. Jayce was easy to get along with. Smart, good with computers, and a complete slacker when given the chance. She had no issue with him personally. When the two of them worked together, they wasted time more often than not, but when Jayce worked with you? Somehow, he managed to joke around and get things done. Maybe that’s why Caitlyn didn’t mind having his desk right next to yours.

Vi exhaled in amusement but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t in the office much, her job kept her busy elsewhere. Restocking gear, replenishing ammunition, training the interns who wanted to join the department someday. It was a privilege, but it was also pretty exhausting. Still, she knew she was the favorite around here, and that privilege came with its own set of complications.

Caitlyn had once commented on it—on you and her—during a routine weapons inventory.

“Everything good between you and Thorne? You don’t seem close, but your work styles mesh well. You’re both dedicated.”

The statement had been so off-base she almost laughed. Close? Not even remotely. But that wasn’t on Vi.

You had been different lately. More distant.

No spilled coffee on her desk, no mysteriously shredded files, no petty, one-sided beef getting in the way of the workday. Odd.

Then again, you had been odd lately in general.

The banter had lessened. Sure, a few snide remarks here and there, but the tantrums, as Vi fondly called them, had also significantly decreased. She wasn’t sure if she found that concerning or relieving.

Casually, her gaze drifted across the office until it landed on you.

You sat with your legs crossed, the tip of your heeled boot absently twisting under your desk. Your trench coat hung over the back of your chair as it normally did. You only wore it when the building’s heater was busted or if you had gotten caught in the rain.

Pencil skirt. Off-white ironed button-down. Navy tie. Black pantyhose.

Mel didn’t bother with the extra layers or formalities, but you did.

Vi exhaled at the realization. You had fashion preferences, apparently.

Funny. And a little uncanny, imagining you caring about anything other than being annoyed, irritated, or outright pissed. That’s all you were to her: a tightly wound ball of something pent up and ready to just snap.

Though… she did sort of pity you at times. Again, at times.

You turned in your chair, handing Jayce a stack of printed files, speaking lowly to him before refocusing on your own work.

Vi continued watching, still as an observer. Bored. You, Jayce, Mel, and Viktor held the office together while she spent most of her time outside of it. She only came in once a week, just enough to notice that, despite all your efforts, you were stretching yourself too thin.

You made things harder for yourself. She knew that.

Her gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to your legs.

She blinked.

Weird.

She had never really looked at you before, not past all the other stuff; the petty rivalry, the constant need to one-up her, the way you made every little thing a competition.

It wasn’t exactly easy to look beyond that.

And yet, she hesitated before glancing back, this time without moving her head, just her eyes.

You weren’t… unattractive.

Her fingers tensed slightly against the armrest of her chair before she shifted, leaning into her palm instead.

You had good facial symmetry. Nice skin—tired, sure, but even Jayce had made jokes about you cosplaying a grumpy vampire lately. It was funny, but to you? You were furious, but hey, you started to apply chapstick more often throughout shifts. Your makeup was always neatly applied, and your uniform fit well—not too tight, not too loose.

You also cared about appearances. Not just your own, but others’.

Vi silently grinned at the memory of your voice echoing through the office just a few weeks ago:

“So unprofessional. It’s embarrassing. Don’t wear a badge and walk around in saggy pants. You went to university for what? To not know how to measure your own waist? Gosh.”

You’d aimed it at Jayce after he had opted for a more relaxed fit, but your commentary extended to everyone who slacked off in dress code.

Audrey exhaled slowly.

Then, unfortunately, you caught her staring.

Her body tensed as your gaze flickered to hers, and she immediately cleared her throat, shifting to cover her mouth like she had just zoned out. Definitely not like she had just been looking at you for longer than necessary. Longer than she had ever looked at you, really.

You furrowed your brows, shook your head slightly, then returned to work.

Vi sighed, pressing further into her palm.

Her eyes shifted to Mel as she strode across the office, posture perfect, heels clicking at a steady pace, files balanced in one arm. A sweetheart. Objectively, Mel was a beautiful woman, but Vi didn’t know her well. Certainly not as well as she knew you.

When Mel passed, she caught sight of you again, now looking down at paperwork with those stupid reading glasses perched on your nose. Looking like you were gonna pop a blood vessel.

They looked ridiculous on you, far too big for your face, because Jayce had so helpfully gotten you the wrong size.

“Didn’t know they’d be big on you, (Y/N). Relax, relax.”

Indeed, you did not relax. You had thrown a fit.

It was… kinda cute.

Audrey blinked, her lips parting slightly.

Wait.

What? No.

She must be losing her mind. She straightened in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t blind, she could admit when someone looked good—but this was you.

You, of all people. The epitome of stress and irritation in her damned life. So what if you were pretty? Every woman was pretty in their own way. It didn’t mean anything.

Audrey forced her gaze away, focusing on the stack of paperwork she had been handed—a rare task for her, but one she had to do nonetheless. Maybe she was just stressed. Maybe her cycle was about to start. Definitely not you.

Another week passed. Your workload was heavier than usual, keeping you out of Jayce’s business, out of Mel’s, even out of Viktor’s. Caitlyn had given you a detailed to-do list. You. Not Beckett, not Zade, not West. Agent Thorne.

You had come into work on Thursday morning already exhausted, having snoozed through all three of your alarms. You almost knew this week was going to end badly—your track record with jinxing yourself was near flawless. But for once, it didn’t.

Your hands hovered over the case file on your desk. A fresh case. Not one of Jayce’s hand-me-downs, not something already combed through a dozen times. The seal along the side was still intact, a loud, physical reminder that no one had read this yet. Your heartbeat thrummed against your ribs.

Your fingers tensed as you looked up, scanning the office. Everyone was busy.

Was this actually meant for you?

The doubt crept in before you could stop it. Was it bad that you questioned this? That you questioned being given your own case? Jayce’s voice echoed in the back of your mind—“You’re too hard on yourself. Just take the damn opportunity.” You wanted this. You had been waiting for this. Caitlyn was trusting you with the first glance, the first look, the first opinions, the first impression.

You exhaled, shaking off the nerves as you sat down. The file was thin, because you were the one who would be passing it around, not the one receiving it after five other agents had already picked it apart.

“Soft tacos,” Jayce whistled in pure delight, stretching his legs out under his desk.

You didn’t even have to look up to know he was grinning like a damn idiot. No one but Jayce would be eating soft tacos at eight in the morning. And not even the good kind, these weren’t the ones he brought back after holidays at his mom’s house. These were microwaved, doused in sour cream, and inhaled like he was running late to something.

Jayce plopped into his chair beside you, lifting the taco to his mouth, but he barely got a bite in before his body jerked forward, his eyes going wide.

You turned, brows pulling together. “Jayce, it’s a Dollar General taco. You—”

“No way! You got a case?”

Jayce cut you off, speaking through the mouthful of scalding-hot taco, eyes glued to the file in your hands. You grimaced at the sight. He hadn’t even swallowed before rushing the words out. But then, you realized that’s why he had burned himself. He had been so excited to say something that he hadn’t waited for his food to cool.

Pride? Your heart picked up slightly at the thought. Jayce, your desk partner, your closest ally in this damn office, looked genuinely excited.

“Oh, yeah. I— I think I did?” you said, unsure. “I mean, Caitlyn could’ve meant to leave this on your desk for all I know.”

Jayce raised his brows, leaning back in his chair. His taco hovered in his left hand, airing out now that he’d learned his lesson. “Mel was right. You’re a pessimist.”

“What?” You put the file down carefully. “It’s not pessimism. It’s called being realistic.”

“That sounds boring as hell,” Jayce mused, clearly amused. He was a realist too, but unlike you, he had an open mind when it came to cases. You treated every file like it was life or death, like one wrong note would collapse the entire operation.

“Whoever highlighted the third section word for word is an absolute idiot. No one is reading that. It doesn’t support the evidence or the tax fraud either.” You had once scoffed, tearing open a fresh pack of sticky notes.

Or: “Let me guess. Whoever started this case let an intern do the honors. Jesus. What is happening.”

“I’d rather be boring than wrong,” you countered, turning back toward your desk, firing up your computer. You draped your coat over your lap for warmth. Your office chair was always too cold in the mornings.

“You’re often both of those things.”

“Sorry—? Oh. It’s just you.”

Your voice flatlined the second you spotted Violet standing behind Jayce. Your face dropped, irritation slipping in as she leaned against the back of your chair, one hand perched on her hip.

Jayce twisted around, his face lighting up at the sight of her. “West! Good to see you, as always. Even if Cait put us on opposite ends of the office.”

You blinked in confusion as the two of them exchanged a ridiculously complicated handshake, your stomach twisting slightly.

Of course Violet was buttering up Jayce. He was your closest friend in HQ, and yet here they were, shaking hands like they had some kind of inside joke you weren’t a part of. Not even you had a handshake with Jayce.

“Yeah, yeah,” Violet brushed it off. “I’ll talk her into putting me right between you and grumpy over here.” She nodded toward you.

“You wish,” you scoffed, clicking through your unread emails. The blue light from your screen reflected on your face, making your eyes narrow slightly as you read. Your legs pressed together under your coat, absorbing what little warmth you could get.

Violet teasing you in front of Jayce wasn’t new. Not even close. But something else was.

This wasn’t the first time you had caught her looking at you differently.

It wasn’t just the usual watching to make fun of you anymore.

It had happened in the lounge, on the training field, even when she thought you hadn’t noticed. She was good at eye contact—everyone knew this—but lately? Lately, she had been slipping.

Apparently, you had grown an extra pair of eyes on your uniform, because Violet had been staring at you more than usual.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Unfortunately, Jayce kept talking.

“Thorne got her first case,” he grinned, pointing at you with his pinky. You felt your fingers tighten around the mouse. Jayce. Seriously? Why was he telling people?

Audrey tilted her head, attention shifting fully to you. “Cool. I can give her a few tips and tricks, as someone who’s gone through a dozen or so.”

The last thing you needed was Violet West handing you advice. If she did, she’d rub it in your face for weeks. She’d take credit for half the investigation. She’d never shut up about it.

You snapped your gaze up, meeting hers.

“I’m good,” you said, your voice flat. “I don’t need your help.”

You barely moved, but there was a twitch, something small, something almost unnoticeable. Violet’s eyes flickered from yours, down to your tie. Your fingers moved automatically, adjusting it. A habit, one she had clearly picked up on, because she reached for her own and tugged it into place like she was mirroring you.

Was she taunting you?

“My desk has enough room for two,” Violet said, pivoting on her heel. As she turned, you caught a glimpse of that Roman numeral tattoo under her left eye, barely concealed beneath a thin layer of lazy concealer. It didn’t concern you. Why would it? Who the hell got a tattoo on their face?

So unprofessional.

“Yeah, I bet it does. Call a therapist.” You muttered the words just loud enough to be caught in the silence of HQ. Violet didn’t miss a beat, letting out a laugh that shook her shoulders slightly. Your eyes flickered to the way her body moved with it, a ripple of motion.

“Not what I meant, but alright, Thorne.”

Jayce, still chewing, raised a brow and looked between you and the door as Violet exited, then turned back to you.

“Is there something going on, or…?”

“Always,” you said, voice rough but not nearly as irritated as it should have been. That realization bothered you. Normally, you’d be clenching your fists, itching with irritation, but the usual sneer wasn’t there. Jayce definitely noticed, blinking at your quick response.

“…Ooookay then.” He dragged the word out but shrugged, returning to his disgusting breakfast taco.

Still nasty.

Never in your life had you thought you’d enjoy working on a murder case. It sounded strange from an outside perspective, but getting your first solo case had been something you had wanted—had waited for—for three years. And it was worth it. You had spent overtime in the office, completely immersed.

Highlighting sections, sticking tabs on documents, writing down key notes. By the time you finished, two markers had dried out, and a busted pen had leaked ink all over your palm from how hard you had pressed it against the paper. But it was done. You finally dropped the completed file on Caitlyn’s desk before clocking out.

Walking outside alone, the night air was cold, biting at the skin of your legs despite the sheer pantyhose you had layered under your knee-high boots. Practical, comfortable. You weren’t a fan of showing too much calf, it just felt better this way.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were dead on your feet. No one enjoyed a Monday morning, especially not in early March when climate change was kicking everyone’s ass. Walking into HQ, the air inside was warmer than the entrance, and shrugging off your trench coat felt like a small relief.

“Finishing an entire case file in a day. That’s impressive.”

You almost jumped out of your boots.

Some asshole had breathed down your neck, not literally, but close enough. You whipped around, half-asleep daze completely shattered.

West.

Again.

You exhaled sharply, so close to snapping. “Can you not go around scaring people half to death for once?”

Violet didn’t even look sorry. She stood there, perfectly smug, like she had just told the funniest joke of the century. You wet your lips, easing the sting from the cold. Your jaw tensed before you finally said what had been lingering in your mind for the past two weeks.

“Are you okay?”

Violet tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Yeah, I’m all good. Perfect, actually. Woke up today, had breakfast for once—it was delicious. Had a cup of coffee, and—”

“I don’t care about your damn coffee,” you cut in, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Or how perfect and sparkly with unicorns your morning has been, West. You know what I’m asking. Don’t act dense.”

You weren’t the only one who had noticed.

The way you two spoke had changed. The fights were less. The banter was different. You had stopped arguing over stupid things; eye contact, for example. It had stopped feeling taunting and started feeling like…

Like something else.

Something you hated.

You scolded yourself for it, constantly. In meetings, when Caitlyn said something that involved Violet, your eyes automatically found her. You expected her to look back.

It made you uncomfortable.

And now, here she was, grinning like this wasn’t a big deal at all. “I think unicorns are pretty cool, though. Can’t lie.”

You inhaled sharply.

“This isn’t about unicorns—! You’re actually going to give me a headache.”

You dragged a hand down your face, exasperated. Violet laughed, the sound light and unbothered, as she toyed with her lanyard. Her ID badge swayed slightly, catching the overhead lighting.

You hated that grin.

Mostly because you had no idea what it meant anymore.

The air felt different. It wasn’t just the stares that carried a new weight—it was the shift in body language, the subtle shifts that were hard to ignore. Your temper had settled, your instinctive irritation toward Violet dulled. Her jokes still grated on your nerves, but the feeling in your chest wasn’t heavy anymore.

Humiliating. That’s what it was.

Not liking Violet was what kept you going. As terrible as it was to admit, hating her pushed you— forced you to be better, to work harder, to be faster than her. But now? Now, that loathing had soured into something sickly, something different. Interest. God, even thinking that word made you feel ridiculous.

You shouldn’t be this hung up on whatever unspoken thing was happening. It was probably a joke. Another way for her to get under your skin. Or maybe she was just bored, looking for entertainment at your expense. You needed to cut this off, now, before it spiraled into something even worse.

You turned, walked back to your desk, and dropped your bag beside your chair with a sigh that rattled through your chest. You weren’t stupid. You were looking for something, some kind of reassurance, confirmation that Violet wasn’t thinking the same things you were. But it wasn’t there. She was still watching. And when she got up, taking something of Caitlyn’s to the lounge, your body moved before your brain caught up.

Jayce didn’t even bother questioning it. You’d been making excuses to leave all week. Tugging down the hem of your skirt, you inhaled deeply and stepped out, boots clicking steadily against the floor. You swiped your ID at the lounge door, pushing it open, already knowing exactly who you’d find.

Violet did a double take.

She hadn’t expected you to follow. A conversation in the office? That was normal. You coming to her without Jayce nowhere nearby? Not so much.

“Had a feeling you’d follow me here,” she lied.

“Sure you did,” you deadpanned, dropping your ID onto the counter and leaning against it. Violet eyes flickered, hesitated. She was staring again, and you noticed. You both noticed.

This wasn’t the usual hostile tension between you two. It wasn’t irritation or resentment. It was something else, something you didn’t want to name. Something that made your skin burn.

“This needs to stop,” you cut in before she could say anything.

Audrey’s brows knit together, feigning confusion. But you knew she understood.

“Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth, Thorne.” Her voice was slow, calculated. “You started this. All of it, I mean—picking fights, sabotaging me, making this job feel like a competition.”

You didn’t have an ego. That’s what you told yourself. But your pride? It had always been fed by approval. A nod from Caitlyn, praise from the department, respect from your coworkers.

But none of that ever filled the hole, did it?

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight, irritation slipping into your tone. A familiar reaction. One Violet was used to by now.

It shouldn’t be her attention that made your chest tighten. It shouldn’t be her opinions that made your skin tickle. And yet, here you were. A few days ago, you had actually questioned whether thinner tights would make your legs stand out more. Whether a thicker lash would make your eyes more striking during those lingering glances. Whether she had noticed the slightly darker tie you had worn that day.

She had noticed all of it.

Violet’s gruff voice cut through your thoughts. “Do you hate me?”

Your breath caught. You stiffened. Yes. Yes.

But your lips pressed together.

“No,” you managed.

“No?” Violet repeated.

“Yes, I do,” you corrected, but your voice wobbled. It sounded weak, like even you didn’t believe it. Violet head tilted slightly, her maroon hair slipping over her face the way it always did.

How was she not dying in a suit like that every day?

“Yes, no, yes, no,” she mused, her tone deliberately teasing. “You’re stuttering.”

Your legs pressed together instinctively, your pencil skirt suddenly feeling too much, too tight, too revealing.

You were a pain in the ass. That was the best way to describe you. Someone who knew exactly what to say, what to do, to get a reaction out of you.

Violet was someone who never needed approval, who carried herself like she owned the room. And now, that smugness was focused entirely on you.

The room felt hot. You reached for your collar, but before your fingers could slip beneath the fabric, Violet voice stopped you.

“You don’t have to wear that tie if you have to keep loosening it.” Her voice was softer now, but still edged with something knowing. “You have tons of bad habits. Can’t expect you to just stop.”

Your fingers froze around the fabric.

Then, she stepped forward.

Her presence was impossible to ignore. Broader frame, heavier stance, rougher edges. Her hands slid into her pockets, the motion easy, casual, like she wasn’t closing the space between you two on purpose.

She was.

You were still against the counter, meaning she had the height advantage now. Even though the difference wasn’t that much, standing above you like this, she felt taller.

Her fingers hesitated before brushing against the smooth white collar of your shirt. Your breath hitched. Your skin burned.

Your eyes flickered, searching for an escape—except you didn’t want to escape. Her thumb traced up and down along your pulse, slow and deliberate. Your stomach curled.

Then, she nudged your chin up. The silence was unbearable.

“Violet,” you breathed.

Her hand faltered.

Three years of strict last-name basis, and now you had just said it.

No one called her Violet. No one. It was always something shorter, sharper, less personal.

You sounded good saying it.

“Violet? So professional,” she taunted, her fingers tapping against your cheek. It wasn’t meant to piss you off. But you wanted to piss her off.

Your fingers shot out, grabbing the tie between them, yanking her closer. Embarrassingly, your noses bumped. But that didn’t stop you. One hand fisted around the tie, the other gripping her bicep, steady, grounding. You felt the way her muscles tensed beneath your palm, felt the pause as her breath hitched.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips caught hers, firm, certain, and when she didn’t pull away—when she didn’t resist—you took.

You felt the scar along her upper lip, traced the curve of it with your own mouth, tasted the hesitation that melted into something hotter, something heavier. Mapping her out like you were willing to change professions.

Violet didn’t know what to do with her hands at first. They hovered at your back, hesitant, but her eyes were barely cracked open, watching, waiting.

Either you could stop here, or you could throw everything out the window.

Then you bit her fuller bottom lip, tugging and letting it ripple into place.

Violet groaned.

And suddenly, the second option sounded so much more appealing.

Vi hadn’t expected this—ever.

You had always been untouchable. Not in the literal sense, but in every way that mattered. Unreachable, impenetrable, untamed in your own rigid way. You did what you needed to do: woke up, worked, excelled, then left the HQ like none of it ever touched you.

But this?

Vi barely had time to register it before her hands moved, gripping your hips, pulling at your pencil skirt with little care, silently begging, urging for things to move further.

Your knees buckled as Vi backed you against the table, the cool marble pressing into the backs of your thighs as she settled between them, crowding you, consuming every ounce of space.

Her fingers looped through the knot of your tie—that stupid, fidgeted-with-like-a-necklace tie—and with a single, sharp tug, it came loose. Slipping down, forgotten.

Then, her hand cupped the back of your neck, pressing her lips against yours with something so deep, so thick with years of this, years of tension, of misplaced resentment, of fuck, how did we get here—

And yet, neither of you wanted to stop.

Vi’s fingers traced from the back of your neck to the front of your throat, just barely gripping, teasing, testing. It was already hard to breathe, but the idea of that, of her taking it just a little further, had your stomach twisting.

Kissing the woman you had despised for years was going to be hilarious to explain.

But later.

Not now.

“Is the door—locked?” you barley managed out, your glossed lips brushing against hers, voice raw, uneven. Vi shook her head, hummed, lips curling against yours.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, hands moving—one sliding down to your thigh, gripping, pulling, propping it around her waist.

Then her mouth descended.

Hot, wet kisses trailed down the slope of your throat, her tongue flicking out just slightly, tasting, savoring the mix of sweat and whatever faint perfume lingered on your skin.

Your pulse pounded beneath her lips, and Vi felt something deep in her tighten at the sound of your breath hitching, the way your body gave just slightly, as if caught between pure instinct and resistance.

Then, smack.

Her palm landed against the underside of your thigh, firm, not particularly harsh, but deliberate.

A sharp, raspy gasp broke from your lips, your body twitching against hers, your bottom lip swollen from the way you had abused it between sloppy, desperate kisses.

Vi’s eyes flickered, catching the way you tensed, how your cheeks were burning, how your hands trembled against her chest.

Everything needed to come off.

Her fingers dragged up your thigh. Rubbing in slow, lazy circles before moving up, slipping beneath the first few buttons of your work blouse.

One by one.

Single-handedly.

Meticulously.

You slowly sucked in a breath, your own hands fisting the fabric of her blazer.

This was—just kissing. Yeah.

Vi let go of you entirely, her fingers deftly working the rest of your buttons open, sliding the blouse off your shoulders before tossing it onto the chair beside the table. Her gaze swept over you, dark and unreadable, before she bit her bottom lip, teeth raking over it as she exhaled through her nose.

She didn't know what was better; finally having you, the woman who had spent years making her job hell, unraveling beneath her touch, or the sheer fact that you looked this damn good doing it.

Her hand moved instinctively, fingers splaying across the lace covering your chest, feeling the warmth of your skin through the fabric. She pressed a kiss between the valley of your breasts, slow, before trailing up, tongue flicking over your collarbone, tasting the faint traces of perfume and heat.

The sounds leaving your lips sent something sharp through her, something she had never allowed herself to acknowledge before now. Your legs tensed around her hips, a slow, burning heat building between them. Your pussy was drenched.

Then, she moved. Rolling her hips forward, pressing herself against you, the friction earning a shaky grunt from your throat.

You felt good.

Her hand traced down your spine, unhooking your bra with ease. The straps loosened, fabric slipping from your body, and Vi took a step back to let her eyes drag over you.

She dampened her lips. "I'm so lucky to see you like this. So gorgeous.”

Her voice was lower now, rougher, hands returning to you. Thumbs circling your nipples, teasing, before sliding down to your waist.

She sat you up, lips grazing your jaw, before murmuring, "What happened to that mouth of yours?"

Her fingers flicked over your erect breasts, and your breath hitched, body arching slightly before you could stop yourself. The sound you made earned a knowing chuckle from her, and before you could snap at her for it, she was moving again, pressing you back against the table.

Then, her hands slid down your thighs, rolling your skirt up at an agonizing pace.

Vi huffed, giving your knee a light tap.

"Is the pantyhose really necessary?"

You exhaled sharply. "Yes. It is."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something amused behind it, something fond—before her fingers traced slow circles over the thin, black fabric covering you.

And then, without hesitation, she hooked her fingers through the material and tore it.

A sharp gasp left your lips. "Vi! Those were expen—"

She silenced you with another sharp tug, the ruined fabric giving way enough to give her the space she wanted. She could have pulled them down, but this was much better.

The sight of you like this, obedient beneath her, legs trembling slightly, breath uneven

She wanted to ruin you further. Needed you.

Jesus.

Her hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting and adjusting them until they rested over her shoulders.

Your breathing hitched, erratic. You knew what was coming, felt it before it even happened, but when her lips finally met your pussy; wet and painfully slow. You gasped, your spine curving inward, nails curling into the marble beneath you.

A broken sound left you, high and breathless. "That’s so good."

Vi huffed a quiet laugh against you. "I haven't even started yet."

She hooked your panties aside, her mouth pressing against you fully, tongue dragging slow, then flicking, savoring, sucking on your swelled clit. She worked like she had time, like this was something to be unraveled piece by piece, something she could take apart and put back together again.

Your clammy hands flew to grip the edge of the table, your body shifting under her touch, her mouth sending sharp waves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Fuhh—ck, Vi." Your voice cracked.

That only spurred her on, hands gripping your thighs tighter, nails pressing into your skin as she curved her tongue, shifting her movements, searching, memorizing what made you fall apart.

She had spent years watching you, knowing exactly how to get under your skin. It was fun to put it to use.

Vi’s mouth worked you over with hungry desperation, her tongue sucking every inch of skin she could reach. Your folds, pulsing clit, labia—every so often, she flicked her gaze upward, watching you writhe against the table, back arching, lips parting in helpless, breathless sounds.

If she had known this was the key to shutting you up, to making you melt, to finally silencing that sharp mouth of yours—she would have done this sooner.

Her lips curled against you, satisfaction lacing her voice as she murmured, “Good girl. How’s this, hm? Yeah? So good?”

Her breath was hot, damp against your skin, sending a shudder through your sopping core.

Your only response was a whimper, your hand sliding up to your chest; grasping at yourself, desperate for anything to ground you. But the moment you tried to regain control, Vi sucked on your clit once more with enough force to break it.

Your spine arched off the table. Another sharp, wrecked gasp slipped past your lips. Vi’s grip tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer, forcing your legs to stay apart as she devoured you like you were her last damn meal.

The pleasure was too much—too sharp, too overwhelming—but stopping now wasn’t an option.

“So—” your voice trembled, barely coherent, “so, so good, Violet.”

Your hips rocked against her mouth, helpless against the way she was working you over, the way she was holding you down, keeping you open, keeping you hers.

This was insane.

Doing this in the employee lounge? Absolutely wrong.

“Keep your legs around my shoulders,” Vi ordered, voice rough, edged with something close to command. “If you move, I’m stopping.”

Your breath hitched.

Before you could protest, she lifted her hand to her lips, sucking two fingers between them, coating them with her own spit. Saliva moved down the digits in thick beads.

Then, she thrusted them inside of you.

Your body jolted, your nails scraping against the table as the pressure spread you open, slick and hot and perfect. You were definitely cracking a nail today.

Audrey whistled lowly, amused, before curling them just right—

“My—God!”

The sound ripped out of you raw and shameless.

Vi hummed, the vibration shattering against you, her fingers sinking deeper, curling again, chasing that sound like it was her new favorite thing in the world.

The sound of your squelching pussy that sucked her in and tightened when she moved even just a second too quickly.

Here’s the refined version with a smoother flow, keeping the intensity and raw emotion intact while making it even more immersive:

“You’re a mess, baby.”

Vi’s voice was thick with amusement, her palm coming down to deliver a second sharp smack against your reddened thigh. Before you could react, she spit. A slow gesture. Watching as it mixed with the release already dripping down your swollen, aching core.

Her right hand never stopped, fingers still working in and out of you, dragging along every sensitive spot. Rough, but slow. Just enough to make sure you felt everything—every curl, every drag, every time she pulled out just to push deeper. Your insides protested, torn between needing a break and wanting more.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Look at you.”

Then, she blew a soft stream of air over your glistening cunt, watching the way your body twitched in response.

Your head was somewhere else. Your hips moved on their own, helpless to the sensation coursing through you. Strings of moans and profanity fell from your lips, your body tightening around her fingers, pulsing—begging without words.

“Vi,” you whimpered. Your lashes damp with unshed tears.

She hummed in response, but didn’t let up, her fingers keeping that same relentless, torturous pace. A shaky moan ripped from your throat, your thighs trembling over her shoulders.

“I think—I think I’m going to come.”

Vi’s ashy eyes flicked up to you at your words, dark and heated, before her lips curled.

“Yeah?”

She then went faster.

Your gasp turned into a cry, body jolting at the sharp, intense pleasure flooding your sensitive nerves. There was no way no one had heard you two—not when you were here, back arched, lips parted, begging for her, falling apart because of her.

“No—! I—Vi! I can’t—!”

Your legs snapped shut around her head as your body tensed, spine bowing as the orgasm hit you. Ripping through your system, spilling over Vi’s fingers and dripping onto the marble beneath you. Down your used pussy.

Your breathing came in heavy. Overstimulation setting in as your body shuddered through the aftershocks.

Vi finally pulled her fingers from you, gaze flickering between your spent, trembling form and the slick coating her hand. Then, without hesitation, she brought her fingers to her lips and gave them a slow and greedy suck.

Your back falls flat on the cool marble.

Vi had won, again.

How do you think arcane characters would react to burn scars? I have them on the back of my thighs and thought I can't see them everyone who can says they cover most of my thighs and there dark

Your burn marks are a symbol of strength, not flaws. They tell a story of resilience, and that makes you uniquely beautiful. <3 please never feel otherwise.

Burn scars.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, ekko

☆ ◞ summary: arcane characters reacting to your burn scars

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. A lot of sensitive topics like, burn marks , insecurities, self doubt, the way the reader got the scars are not mentioned, if anyone is uncomfortable in reading about scars or is triggered I suggest to please not read this

Jayce Talis.

The evening was warm, the kind of night where the city hummed with quiet life outside the lab’s tall windows. Jayce sat on the floor of his apartment, leaning against the couch, his arms stretched out behind him as he watched you.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs stretched in front of you, absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh.

The moment your fingers brushed over a particular spot, you flinched.

Jayce noticed immediately.

"You okay?" His voice was soft, careful. Not his usual booming confidence, but something gentler.

You hesitated. "Yeah, just..." Your fingers ghosted over the area again before you sighed. "Old scars."

His brows furrowed, eyes dropping to your legs. And that’s when he saw them.

Burn scars.

uneven marks stretching across the back of your thigh, the kind that told a story—one you clearly weren’t eager to share.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of his silence. "They’re not a big deal," you said quickly, a half-hearted attempt to brush it off. "I don’t even think about them most of the time."

Jayce didn’t look convinced.

"Can I?" He gestured slightly, not reaching out but offering the space for you to decide.

You hesitated.

Most people pretended not to notice them. Others stared without thinking, their curiosity poorly disguised. But Jayce... he was just waiting.

After a long moment, you nodded.

Carefully, he reached out, his fingers brushing over your skin—warm and deliberate. He didn’t recoil, didn’t wince, didn’t try to mask any reaction.

He just held you.

His thumb traced the edges of the scars with something close to reverence, his touch featherlight but grounding. "You know..." His voice was quieter now. "Scars aren’t something to hide."

You scoffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have—"

"I don’t," he admitted. "Not like these. But I know what it’s like to carry something from the past. And I know it doesn’t make you any less..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "You."*

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone.

Slowly, his hand slipped down, intertwining his fingers with yours. "You don’t have to pretend they don’t exist," he murmured. "And you sure as hell don’t have to pretend they don’t bother you."

The knot in your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say—if you even could say anything. So instead, you squeezed his hand, letting the weight of his words settle between you.

Jayce squeezed back.

And in that moment, the scars didn’t feel quite as heavy.

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

Mel Medarda.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the silk-draped walls of Mel’s quarters, casting long shadows across the ornate furniture. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of Piltover’s nightlife.

You sat curled up on the velvet chaise lounge, legs draped over the side, basking in the rare quiet moment. Mel was beside you, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along your arm as she studied a painting she had been working on earlier.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," she observed, her voice smooth but laced with curiosity.

You hesitated before shrugging. "Just tired."

She hummed softly, setting aside her brush before shifting to face you fully. Her golden eyes roamed over you, perceptive as always, until they landed on where your pants had shifted slightly—just enough to expose the back of your thigh.

Her fingers stilled.

"Come here," she murmured, voice softer now.

You hesitated for a beat before sitting up, allowing her to gently tug you closer. With a delicate touch, she brushed the fabric further up, revealing the burn scars beneath.

You watched her expression carefully, waiting for the usual flicker of pity, the well-meaning reassurances you’d heard a hundred times before.

But Mel Medarda did not deal in empty sentiments.

Her eyes traced the scars slowly, as if committing every detail to memory. "These..." she started, her fingers ghosting lightly over the uneven skin. "They remind me of gold leafing."*

You blinked. "Gold leafing?"

"Mhm." She tilted her head, her braids shifting over her shoulder. "In my homeland, when something is broken, it is often mended with gold—highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them. It is meant to show resilience. Beauty in imperfection."

Your throat tightened slightly. "I don’t think most people would call these beautiful."*

Mel’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your gaze to hers. "Most people lack vision."

The weight of her words settled between you, unspoken but understood.

Then, her lips brushed against the scarred skin—slow, deliberate, reverent.

A shiver ran through you at the intimacy of it, the way her breath warmed your skin, the way her fingers trailed up your thigh with featherlight precision. She placed another kiss, then another, until the tension in your shoulders melted under her touch.

"You are art," she whispered against your skin. "Even in the places you try to hide."

A shaky breath left your lips, but for once, you didn’t pull away.

For once, you let yourself believe her.

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

Viktor.

The lab was quiet except for the steady scratching of Viktor’s pen against paper and the occasional hum of machinery. You were seated on the workbench across from him, stretching your legs out absentmindedly after a long day.

It had been a particularly warm evening, and in the comfort of the empty lab, you had rolled up your pants slightly to cool off. You hadn’t even realized that in doing so, you had exposed a part of your thigh—until Viktor’s gaze flickered over, and he stilled.

His pen halted mid-word. His golden eyes lingered, brows furrowing slightly.

"You are injured?" His voice was quiet, yet laced with something unreadable.

You blinked, following his line of sight before quickly tugging your pant leg back down. "No, it’s just... scars," you muttered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of his stare. "Old ones."

Viktor didn’t look away. "May I see?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because most people either avoided acknowledging the scars altogether or gave you the same well-meaning but rehearsed reassurances.

But Viktor wasn’t most people.

With a quiet breath, you slowly rolled the fabric back up, revealing the uneven burn scars across the back of your thigh. You didn’t look at him—didn’t want to see whatever expression he might be wearing.

Seconds passed in silence.

Then, the gentle scrape of his chair as he moved closer.

Viktor didn’t reach out immediately. Instead, he observed them carefully, like he was reading something important—tracing the pattern with his eyes as if piecing together a puzzle only he could solve.

"Scars are... interesting things," he murmured, voice softer now. "They are proof of endurance. Evidence that pain was felt, yet you remained."

You swallowed thickly. "That’s one way to put it."

His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time, you caught something in his expression—understanding.

Slowly, Viktor shifted, rolling up the fabric over his own leg. The scars along his knee and shin were different—ones born of overuse, surgeries, the toll of time—but they were scars nonetheless.

"People see these and assume they know my story," he said, tilting his leg slightly. "They assume pity is required. That weakness is present." His golden eyes flickered back to you. "But we are not weak, are we?"

Something tightened in your chest. "No," you said softly. "We’re not."

Viktor studied you for a moment longer before, carefully, he reached out. His fingers hovered over your thigh—giving you space to pull away.

You didn’t.

His touch was light, barely there, but warm nonetheless. "Your scars do not lessen you," he murmured. "They do not take away from who you are. They are merely a part of your story. And if anyone tells you otherwise..." He huffed a small breath, a ghost of amusement in his voice. "Well, they are simply not as intelligent as I am."

A small, breathy laugh left your lips despite yourself. "Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?*"

Viktor smirked faintly, withdrawing his hand only to tap lightly at his temple. "Genius, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingered.

And for the first time in a long time, the scars didn’t feel like something to hide.

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

Caitlyn kiramman.

It had been a long day of patrolling the streets, and Caitlyn had returned to her estate looking exhausted. The moment she stepped through the door, she was greeted by the warmth of the fireplace and the soft hum of the house’s familiar sounds. It felt like a reprieve from the intensity of the day.

You were already curled up on the couch, a book in your hands, though your mind was elsewhere. Caitlyn’s presence always brought a sense of calm, but today, there was an unease you couldn’t shake.

As Caitlyn removed her coat and began to relax, she noticed you glancing at your legs, the slight fidgeting of your hand around the hem of your pants. She’d learned to read you like a book, noticing the smallest shifts in your behavior. Something was off, but she wasn’t sure what.

She walked over to you, gently resting a hand on your shoulder, her voice calm but insistent. "What’s going on, darling?"

You hesitated for a moment before you replied, your voice quieter than usual. "It's nothing, just... been thinking."

Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she perched herself on the armrest, her gaze never leaving yours. "About what?"

You sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze press on you. It was a warmth that made it hard to hide things from her. Slowly, you moved to pull your pants up slightly, revealing the scars on your thigh—old, deep burn marks that you had long since grown used to but never really let anyone see.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched, and her hand instinctively reached for yours, her thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. "You’ve never mentioned these before..."

You swallowed, not wanting to look at her, but you couldn’t help it. "They’re just scars, Cait. They don’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, clearly not convinced. "I don’t believe that for a second." Her voice softened, and she slowly knelt down beside you, her fingers brushing the skin around the scars with tenderness, her touch barely grazing you as if you were something fragile. "Scars tell stories, but they don’t define you. Not to me."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t the first time Caitlyn had said something so reassuring, but it was the first time it felt like she truly meant it. The quiet compassion in her voice was enough to make you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You don’t have to hide them," Caitlyn continued, her gaze meeting yours with gentle intensity. "You don’t have to hide anything from me, ever."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem weak. But Caitlyn, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in you. With a soft sigh, she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"You don’t have to carry the weight of this alone," she murmured against your hair. "I’m here, always."

You allowed yourself to lean into her, the warmth of her embrace easing the tension in your chest. The touch of her fingers against the scars felt like a promise, a silent vow that no matter what had happened before, no matter how you felt about those marks on your skin, Caitlyn would always see you for who you were—not for the pain you’d been through, but for the person you had become.

"I’ll always be here," Caitlyn whispered again, her voice low and steady. "And I love you, scars and all."

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you let yourself melt into her arms, the comfort of her presence washing over you. For the first time in a long while, the scars on your body didn’t feel like something to be hidden. With Caitlyn, they simply became another part of the story, and it was a story you were no longer afraid to share.

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

Vi.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the smell of damp concrete and rust in the air. Vi kicked off her boots as she stepped into your shared apartment, shaking the water from her hair with a tired groan.

"That was a hell of a patrol," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck before flashing you a lopsided grin. "Miss me?"

You looked up from the couch, giving her a small smile. "Always."

Vi plopped down beside you, tossing an arm over your shoulder with easy affection. "What’s up, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet."

You hesitated, shifting slightly, but Vi felt the tension immediately. She leaned back, studying your face, and her playful grin softened.

"Talk to me," she coaxed, voice dipping into something more gentle. "Something’s on your mind."

You sighed, glancing away. "It’s stupid."

Vi gave you a pointed look. "Babe, you know I don’t do ‘stupid’ when it comes to you. Spill it."

You hesitated before slowly rolling up the hem of your shorts, exposing the burn scars on the back of your thigh. You felt Vi go still beside you. Her usual warmth, her teasing nature, all of it quieted in an instant.

You braced yourself for some kind of pitying response, for words you didn’t want to hear. Instead, Vi’s fingers brushed over your skin—rough, calloused hands moving with the gentlest touch.

"How long have you had these?" she asked, her voice unreadable.

"For a while," you admitted. "I just… don’t really show them to people."

Vi was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edges of the scars, slow and deliberate. You could feel her exhale against your shoulder before she finally spoke.

"You know," she murmured, "scars tell me more about a person than their words ever could."

You huffed out a dry laugh. "Yeah? And what do these tell you?"

Vi smirked, but there was something softer behind it, something careful. "That you’re tough as hell. That you’ve been through shit and still came out standing."

You swallowed hard, something twisting deep in your chest. "I don’t always feel tough."

Vi shifted closer, pressing her forehead lightly against yours. "That’s ‘cause you don’t see yourself the way I do." Her hand curled around your thigh, grounding, steady. "But I see you. Every single part of you."*

Your breath hitched when she leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss over one of the scars. Then another. And another.

Your fingers curled into her shirt as she whispered, "You’re beautiful, scars and all."

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

Jinx.

Jinx was never good at staying still. Even now, as she lay sprawled across your lap, she fidgeted—twirling a wrench in one hand while her other absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm.

"You’re awfully quiet today, sugar," she mused, tilting her head up to peer at you. "Not planning to ditch me for some boring, normal life, are ya?"

You gave her a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Nah, just thinking."

Jinx flipped onto her stomach, resting her chin against your thigh. "Ugh, thinking’s overrated. What’s got you so—" Her words trailed off as her gaze flickered lower, landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

For once, Jinx went completely still. No jokes, no teasing—just silence. You knew she’d seen them before in flashes, but you had never sat down and talked about them. And Jinx? She never pried.

Until now.

"Where’d ya get these?" Her voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t playful. Just quiet.

You shrugged, trying to pull your leg away, but she caught your knee, holding you in place. "They don’t matter."

Jinx’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Kinda seem like they do, since you never let me see ‘em."*

You exhaled sharply, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "I just… don’t like how they look. It’s not a big deal, Jinx."*

"Uh, yeah it is."

She sat up abruptly, straddling your lap, and before you could react, she reached for a marker off the table. With an impish grin, she clicked it open and began doodling over your scars.

"What are you doing?" you asked, baffled.

"Making ‘em cooler," she replied, sticking her tongue out in concentration. "I mean, these could totally be lightning bolts—oh! Or flames. Hell, we could even add little skulls, make it look all badass, like, ‘yeah, I survived a hellstorm, what of it?’"

Despite yourself, you laughed. "Jinx—"

"Shh, shh, artistic genius at work," she interrupted, tapping your nose with the marker.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop her. Her focus shifted as she ran a gloved hand down your thigh, fingertips barely grazing over the scarred skin.

Then, softer, she murmured, "Does it still hurt?"

Your chest tightened. "Not physically."

Jinx hummed, twirling the marker between her fingers. "Yeah… I get that."

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the city outside. Then Jinx leaned down and pressed a kiss to one of the scars, quick but sincere.

"There. Now it’s magic. You’re stuck with me forever."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter. "Is that how magic works?"

"Duh." She kissed another one, then another, grinning against your skin. "You’re mine, and I’m yours. No stupid scars change that."

You reached up, brushing her cheek. "You’re a menace, you know that?"

Jinx beamed. "And you love it."

And yeah. You did.

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

Ekko.

The Firelights’ hideout was quieter than usual tonight. Most of the crew had already turned in, leaving just you and Ekko sitting on the worn-out couch, the soft hum of old music crackling from a beat-up radio.

Ekko had his legs stretched out, arms draped behind his head, watching you with that easygoing gaze of his. "You’ve been weird today," he finally said. "What’s up?"

You hesitated, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts. "It’s nothing."

Ekko arched a brow. "Right. And I’m Councilor Jayce Talis."

You huffed a laugh, but it quickly faded as you shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep your legs tucked beneath you. Unfortunately, Ekko was too damn observant for his own good. His eyes flickered downward, catching the movement—then landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

His expression faltered. "Yo... what happened?"

"It’s nothing," you said quickly, shifting to pull your legs away, but Ekko reached out, stopping you with a hand on your knee.

"Nah. Don’t do that." His voice was gentle but firm. "You always let me ramble about my scars. What makes yours different?"

You swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "Because they’re ugly."

Ekko frowned. "Ugly?"

"Yeah." You exhaled sharply. "People stare. Whisper. It just… reminds me of shit I don’t wanna think about."

Ekko was quiet for a moment. Then, without warning, he shifted, adjusting his weight until he was kneeling in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your legs.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You hesitated before finally meeting his gaze. His eyes weren’t filled with pity. No forced reassurances. Just raw, quiet understanding.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured. "Somebody strong enough to still be here. Somebody who’s been through hell and didn’t let it break ‘em."

His fingers traced feather-light over the scars—not afraid to touch, but careful, like he was memorizing them. "You think these make you ugly? Nah. They just prove that you survived something meant to take you out. That’s powerful."

Your throat tightened. "I don’t always feel powerful."

Ekko huffed out a small smile, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against one of the scars. "Then let me remind you."

Another kiss. And another. His lips were warm, grounding, a silent promise in every touch. You closed your eyes, exhaling as you let yourself lean into his presence.

"You’re still you," he murmured against your skin. "Scars don’t change that. They never will."

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I must apologize to all of you because of such a delay I have been dealing with alot lately and also last year of highschool so much Happening BUT PUSHING THROUGH please send requests tho! I LOVEEE em!

A slutty little waist is amazing but have you considered love handles? They are perfect and comfortable to hold and rest your hand on.....Just saying→⁠_⁠→

I am not writing this to inherently target the English speaking people but I just had to say I hate the way people are pronouncing Sevika's name as an Indian I know it gets a little confusing with pronouncing Sanskrit names it is a very difficult and centuries old language afterall but just to put it out there you don't pronounce the letter E in sevika as e you pronounce it as a just like how we say the word egg we use the letter E but we pronounce it as A and no you don't have to pressurize in the V-I in Sevika for clearance it should be a simple S-A-V-I-K-A you say it in one smooth flow