Where The Hurt Doesn’t Reach Pt.2
can you do second part of where the hurt doesn’t reach with Sayaka, celestia and Sonia?
A/N: Yes, of course! A lot of people seem to be requesting this one :}
Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.2
pt.1 - pt.3
Sayaka, Celestia, and Sonia x Male!Reader
Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety /Avoidance, Mentions of Nightmares/Sleep Issues
Word Count: 4145
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Sayaka:
It was the first time (Y/N) had attended Hope’s Peak Academy in over a week. His teachers had stopped asking questions. Some students whispered behind his back, casting glances filled with a mix of curiosity and pity. He could handle that. What he couldn’t handle were the boys who walked too close in the hallways, who slapped each other on the back, laughed too loud, shouted too suddenly. His body would freeze, breath catching in his throat. He’d learned to keep his eyes down, hands tucked close, always calculating an exit.
The world had become a tightrope- and he was so, so tired.
Sayaka Maizono noticed him before anyone else did. She always had, in her own quiet way. The Ultimate Pop Sensation was used to being seen, followed, idolized- but something about (Y/N), the way he disappeared into corners and avoided everyone's gaze, made her heart twist. He didn’t look at her like the others. He didn’t really look at anyone.
She found herself lingering near him between classes. Close, but not too close. Humming softly under her breath, the gentle melodies filling the awkward silences. Not words- never words- until he was ready.
He always looked like he wanted to speak, but was too afraid to.
Until one rainy afternoon.
(Y/N) sat alone in the music room, the overcast light pouring through the tall windows. His sleeves were pulled down past his wrists, fists curled in his lap. He hadn’t meant to cry, but the storm outside had stirred something in him, a memory he wished would stay buried. His breathing was shallow, trying not to make a sound.
Sayaka slipped in without knocking, as if the world had gently told her exactly where to go. She spotted him immediately- curled in on himself, trembling in the dim. Her voice, when it came, was softer than the rain.
“Can I sit with you?”
(Y/N) didn’t answer right away. He didn’t move. But he didn’t say no. That was enough.
Sayaka lowered herself onto the piano bench beside him, careful not to brush against him. Silence lingered- but it wasn’t heavy. It was patient.
“I like this room,” she said after a while, voice low and soothing. “It’s quiet, but it echoes just enough that if you sing, it feels like the whole world is listening. Not judging. Just… listening.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. He was watching her now, his tear-streaked face blotchy and red, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice hoarse.
“For what?” Sayaka asked, gently.
“I don’t know. Being like this. Broken. I- I can’t be around people. I can’t breathe when they get close, and I hate it, and it’s stupid, and-”
“It’s not stupid,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “It’s not your fault.”
His throat bobbed. He looked away again, ashamed.
Sayaka hesitated, then reached out- slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he didn’t, she placed her hand over his on the bench. Light as a feather. No pressure.
“I know what it’s like to smile when you don’t feel safe. To pretend everything’s okay because you don’t want to cause trouble.”
(Y/N) blinked. Her smile was sad now, wistful.
“I had to do that all the time. For the cameras. For the fans. For everyone but me.”
He didn’t speak, but his hand turned under hers, fingers trembling as they curled around hers in a tentative grasp.
“I can’t fix what happened to you,” Sayaka whispered. “But I can be someone who doesn’t scare you. I can stay. Sing, if you want. Or just sit here, holding your hand, and not expect you to be anything but you.”
A breath hitched in his throat. He squeezed her hand just a little tighter.
“I want to trust someone,” he admitted, barely audible. “I want it to be you.”
Her heart ached, full and warm. She nodded.
“Then let’s start with this. Right here. Just us. You don’t have to smile. You don’t have to pretend. Just… be.”
As the rain tapped against the windows, Sayaka began to hum again. A soft lullaby, meant for no one else. (Y/N) closed his eyes, for the first time in months allowing himself to lean- not away, but toward.
Into her voice. Into her warmth.
Into the beginning of something safe.
Weeks pass, and something changed- not all at once, but in subtle, careful ways. (Y/N) still struggled. Crowded hallways remained overwhelming, and loud voices still made his heart race. But in between those moments of fear, he found something else… Her.
Sayaka Maizono had a way of making herself feel like calm in a storm. She never demanded. She never pushed. She simply… waited. Always nearby, always smiling in that soft, understanding way that never felt fake. With her, he didn’t need to keep looking over his shoulder. With her, he could breathe.
They started eating lunch together. In the back corner of the school courtyard, under the old cherry tree. She’d hum while she ate, and eventually she started talking about her life onstage- the costumes, the nerves, the rush of performing. Sometimes she brought him little things. A sweet from the bakery near her home, a flower she found on the way to school, a charm from a fan that she thought was “too cute not to share.”
And when (Y/N) spoke, she always stopped to listen. Like his voice was the most important sound in the world.
“I think I’m starting to like being around you,” he said one afternoon, the words awkward and shy. “Like, I actually look forward to it.”
Sayaka blinked, then beamed, a flush rising to her cheeks.
“I’m really glad,” she said. “Because I feel the same way.”
He smiled. A small one, unsure, but real.
They began spending more time together after school. The music room became their place. Sometimes she played piano while he read. Sometimes he sketched while she practiced a new song. Once, she taught him a simple melody and guided his hands along the keys. He stiffened at first, but she noticed instantly and let go.
“No pressure,” she said, giving him space. “Just when you’re ready.”
He nodded. A week later, he reached for her hand.
It became a routine. Hand in hand at the piano, their fingers brushing like a secret only they shared.
One day, after walking her home under a pale orange sunset, (Y/N) paused at her gate. He looked down, biting his lip, unsure. Sayaka tilted her head at him, waiting.
“I, um…” he stammered. “I know I still flinch sometimes. And I still panic. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel broken. You don’t make me feel weak.”
Her expression softened, almost glowing in the fading light.
“You’re not weak, (Y/N). You’re brave. Every day, you choose to keep going. And I get to be here and watch you heal… That’s an honor.”
A lump formed in his throat. His heart beat hard against his ribs.
“I think I…” He paused, panic rising. But then her hand found his, grounding him. He exhaled shakily. “I think I’m falling for you.”
Sayaka stepped closer, and for once, he didn’t flinch. Her hands were warm against his cheeks.
“Then we can fall together,” she whispered.
Their first kiss was a ghost of a thing- barely there, more promise than anything. But it was safe. Sweet. And (Y/N), for the first time in a long time, didn’t feel afraid.
He felt wanted.
He felt seen.
And most of all, he felt hopeful.
Celestia:
The hallway of Hope’s Peak Academy had long since emptied, save for the faint echo of heels clicking across polished tile. Celestia Ludenberg walked like a shadow with purpose- silent yet commanding. Every movement was deliberate, wrapped in her usual gothic lolita elegance.
Behind her, the silence was thick, but not as heavy as the quiet that clung to the dorm room she approached. His room.
(Y/N).
A boy with sad eyes and a habit of shrinking into himself whenever someone- especially a man- spoke too loud or too fast. Celestia had noticed from the first day. The way his shoulders tensed whenever Kiyotaka got passionate. The way his voice faltered in group conversations. The way he sat at the edges of rooms like a ghost hoping not to be noticed.
And most of all, the way he looked at her- not with desire or awe, like others did- but with a kind of cautious respect. Like he wasn’t sure how long kindness would last.
Today, he hadn’t shown up to class. Not even to the library. That was enough of a reason for her to knock.
A pause. Then a quiet, almost panicked voice- “Go away.”
Celestia didn’t flinch. “I’m afraid that is not an option.”
A rustle, a groan, the sound of someone stumbling across a cluttered room. After several seconds, the door cracked open just enough for one tired eye to peek through. That was all she needed.
He looked terrible. Eyes red-rimmed and dull. His shirt clung to him like he hadn’t changed in days.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
She tilted her head. “Because you are not where you ought to be.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
The door didn’t open wider, but he didn’t close it either.
“Let me in,” she said softly.
He hesitated. But something about the steadiness in her voice- the way she didn’t demand or pity, just... waited- made him move. The door swung open wider, revealing a room barely lit, its corners littered with open books and clothes. The air was stale with solitude.
Celestia stepped in without a word, gliding over to the chair near his desk. She did not sit yet. She turned to him.
“You’ve been hiding.”
(Y/N) looked down. “So what if I have?”
Celestia took a breath. “Then allow me to hide with you.”
His head snapped up, confused. “What?”
She shrugged delicately, shedding her usual smug detachment for something quieter. “Everyone has their limits. Even you, darling. But you do not have to suffer them alone.”
He stared at her. “Why do you care? I’m not... I’m not useful. Not like you.”
A shadow flickered through her expression, but it was gone quickly.
“You are mistaken,” she said. “You possess something quite rare in this academy of masks. You feel. Deeply. I find that... honest.”
(Y/N) sat on the edge of his bed, hands trembling in his lap. “I’m tired, Celeste. Of being scared. Of thinking someone’s going to hurt me every time they raise their voice. I hate this part of me.”
She moved slowly now, kneeling before him, her black skirts pooling like ink on the floor. She reached out, her fingers brushing his hand.
He flinched.
But she didn’t pull away.
“I would never touch you without permission,” she said quietly. “But I will remain here, if you let me. A Queen must protect her kingdom, after all. And you, dear (Y/N)... you are someone I have chosen to keep within mine.”
His breath hitched. “You make it sound like I matter.”
“You do.”
His eyes welled up- unwilling, ashamed.
Celestia leaned just slightly closer, her voice no louder than a whisper. “You are allowed to cry. Even Kings and Queens weep in secret.”
The tears fell then. He didn't sob- just quiet, broken rivers that refused to stop. He didn’t know why her words broke the dam. Maybe it was the way she made him feel safe without ever pretending to understand. Maybe it was the fact that she never tried to fix him.
She simply stayed.
Eventually, as the minutes passed, he spoke again. "I don’t know if I can be normal.”
Celestia offered the faintest smile. “Darling, who in this wretched school is?”
And for the first time in weeks, (Y/N) let himself laugh- just once, just a breath of it. But it was real.
She rose, finally, and sat beside him on the bed. She left space between them but let her sleeve brush his arm lightly.
“Sleep, if you can,” she said. “I will remain. Should the nightmares come.”
“Celeste?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
Her eyes lingered on his, warm beneath their usual sharpness. “No need for gratitude. Loyalty is not something I gamble with.”
As he lay down, his body worn and mind frayed, he felt something foreign settle beside the grief.
Hope.
He wasn’t healed. Not yet.
But he wasn’t alone anymore.
It became routine after that night.
Not loudly. Not all at once. But slowly, like light slipping through the cracks in a boarded window.
Celestia began visiting (Y/N)’s dorm more often. Sometimes she brought books from the library, reading them aloud in her velvety, theatrical cadence. Sometimes she brought tea- actual tea, with tiny biscuits, because of course she did. And sometimes, they just sat in silence. Not the heavy kind that used to choke him, but the kind that felt like breathing next to a fireplace. Comfortable. Undemanding.
She never pressured him to talk, but when he did, she listened. Actually listened.
No judgment. No pity.
Just her gaze- calm, observant, like she was reading the finer print of his soul.
One rainy evening, (Y/N) found himself lingering outside her door, a half-wilted flower clutched awkwardly in his hand.
It was nothing special. A violet he found near the edge of the courtyard, a little bruised but still beautiful. He hadn’t planned to pick it, but he thought of her. And for once, the thought didn’t carry fear or obligation. Just… warmth.
He knocked once, then almost turned to run. But the door opened swiftly.
Celestia stood in a cascade of crimson and black lace, her usual elegant poise giving way to something softer as she took him in- damp hair, shy glance, the flower.
“I, um… saw this and thought of you,” he muttered, not quite meeting her eyes.
She took the flower gently, her fingers brushing his.
“A violet,” she mused, tone almost amused. “You know, in the language of flowers, it means loyalty… and affection.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter.
That night, they shared tea on her ornate sofa, the violet placed delicately in a small crystal vase beside her bed. (Y/N) talked more than usual. He told her about his mother’s lullabies. About how his stepfather used to slam cupboard doors just to make him flinch. About how he once hid under a table for two hours after a stranger accidentally raised their voice near him in public.
Celestia’s expression never changed. But her hands tightened just slightly on the teacup.
“I often pretended, as a child,” she said once he finished, voice lower now. “That I lived in a grand castle where no one could hurt me. Where those who tried were cast into the dungeon with no key.”
(Y/N) glanced at her. “Did it help?”
She smiled, a small, secret thing. “I am still here, am I not?”
He let that sink in, then nodded.
A few weeks later, he reached for her hand.
She didn’t say anything- just turned her hand palm up, letting his fingers settle into the spaces between hers.
He marveled at how easy it felt. How right. No panic in his chest. No memories clawing their way forward. Just her cool, steady presence. Her gloved fingers curled gently around his.
“You don’t mind?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Not at all,” she replied. “In fact… I rather enjoy being close to you.”
His heart fluttered- not in fear, but in something else. Something that might’ve been the early shape of love.
“I like being around you,” he said, more firmly now.
Celestia tilted her head, almost coy. “Of course you do. I am delightful company.”
He laughed- a real one this time. And she smiled, pleased.
That night, as she walked him back to his dorm, she paused before he stepped inside. Her hand lingered near his sleeve.
“May I ask you something, darling?”
“Anything.”
“When you are near me… do you still feel afraid?”
He met her gaze. Her crimson eyes, so sharp and calculating when playing others, now held only curiosity. Maybe even… vulnerability.
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Her lashes fluttered. And in the hush of the hallway, she leaned in just slightly- not to kiss him, not yet. But close enough that her voice brushed his skin.
“Good,” she whispered. “Then I’ve kept my promise.”
“Promise?”
“To protect you. In my own way.”
(Y/N) swallowed. “You’ve done more than that. You’ve given me something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.”
“What is that?”
He smiled softly. “Safe.”
And Celestia- poker-faced, invincible, untouchable Celestia- felt something stir in her chest that even she couldn’t gamble away.
Because she was beginning to realize something as well.
She liked being around him, too.
Sonia:
The first time Sonia Nevermind saw (Y/N), he was sitting alone at the edge of the academy courtyard, curled into himself like he was trying to disappear. The spring sun dappled through the leaves overhead, casting soft light across the bruised look in his eyes- not physical bruises, no. These were the kind you didn’t see unless you knew how to look.
Sonia noticed.
She wasn’t oblivious. Despite her bright disposition and the silken lilt of her voice, she had grown up in a world that required constant reading between the lines. The etiquette of royalty demanded it. But even more than that, Sonia had always been drawn to the fragile, the broken, the misunderstood. She saw nobility in endurance. In survival.
And (Y/N) had survived something terrible.
He didn’t speak much. Most of the other students found his distance unnerving- he flinched if someone raised their voice, seemed to shrink when a male classmate passed too close. Rumors whispered through the halls, cruel and speculative. Sonia didn’t listen to them.
Instead, she sat beside him.
Not too close. Just enough.
He didn’t look up at first, but she waited patiently, hands folded in her lap, gaze fixed on the swaying trees ahead.
“You don’t have to talk,” she said gently, as though she knew how the weight of silence could also be a comfort.
(Y/N) peeked at her from the corner of his eye. Her presence was soft. Not imposing. There was no judgment in her expression, only a quiet certainty that unnerved him more than her title ever could.
“You’re… the princess,” he mumbled after a long while.
“I am,” she said, smiling faintly. “But here, I am simply Sonia. I would like to be your friend.”
He stared at his hands. His fingernails were chewed raw.
“…Why?”
She tilted her head. “Because you seem lonely.”
He didn't say anything more that day. But the next day, she sat beside him again.
And the day after that.
Sometimes she spoke about her homeland, about peculiar customs and ghost stories and festivals that lit the sky with fire. Sometimes she said nothing at all. He found he liked that best. Just her company. The way she never reached out to touch him without asking. The way she always kept space between them, yet never felt far.
One day, after weeks of these quiet meetings, (Y/N) showed her a small scar on his wrist. He didn’t explain it. He didn’t have to. Sonia only looked at him with solemn eyes and gently, reverently, pressed a kiss just above it.
“You are still here,” she whispered. “That means everything.”
His throat tightened. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t remember how. Not properly. The tears never came out right- they clogged up inside him like he didn’t deserve them.
But he nodded. Just once.
After that, he started walking with her between classes. Kept his head down, but her presence made it easier. When a male student bumped into him and muttered an apology, (Y/N) froze- but Sonia stepped between them, not protectively, but firmly. Like a wall of calm. She didn’t have to say anything. Her posture said it all.
Later that evening, when they sat together again under the trees, (Y/N) whispered, “Thank you.”
She turned to him, the last light of day dancing in her golden hair.
“I do not know what your past holds,” she said. “But I want to be part of your future.”
He flinched, not from fear, but from how gently she said it.
“How can you want someone like me?” he asked, voice barely audible. “I’m… broken.”
Sonia leaned in slowly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead, fingers featherlight. She did not touch skin. She honored the space between them.
“You are not broken,” she said. “You are mending. That is a noble, brave thing. There is no shame in healing slowly.”
A shaky breath escaped his lips. He hadn’t been told that before.
“I’m scared,” he admitted, almost a plea.
“I know,” Sonia said. “I will not rush you. I will wait as long as you need. And when you are ready… I will be here.”
For the first time in a long while, (Y/N) let himself believe it might be true.
That maybe, someday, he could let someone in.
And if anyone could be the first…
…it would be Sonia.
Over the next few weeks, things began to change.
(Y/N) started speaking more during their time together. At first, it was in fragments- simple comments on the weather, shy questions about Sonia’s homeland. But slowly, those fragments became full thoughts, and then stories.
Sometimes he’d catch himself smiling without realizing it. And more often than not, Sonia would already be smiling back.
He never felt pressured with her. She never demanded his happiness or questioned his past. There was no pity in her eyes- only compassion. The difference meant everything.
She took to bringing him little things- a ribbon folded into a rose, a handmade charm for his keyring, a book of folklore from her Homeland. “For when the nightmares come,” she said softly, placing it beside him during lunch. “This one has a happy ending.”
He didn’t know how to tell her that her presence had already begun softening the edge of those nightmares. But she seemed to sense it anyway.
One afternoon, they sat beneath the trees again. The breeze was warm, and the leaves whispered above them.
(Y/N) was lying on his back, hands tucked beneath his head. Sonia sat beside him, legs folded, her gaze turned toward the sky.
“It’s peaceful,” he said, exhaling slowly.
“It is,” she agreed, her voice a melody in the quiet. “Do you know what we say in my Country when we find a moment like this?”
He shook his head.
“Magnificent silence” She smiled down at him. “It is sacred, because it means your heart is calm enough to hear the world.”
(Y/N)’s chest tightened at that. Because for the first time in what felt like years, the silence around him wasn’t terrifying. It wasn’t suffocating. It was full.
And she was there.
“…I like being around you,” he admitted suddenly. It tumbled out before he could stop it.
Sonia’s eyes widened slightly- but then her smile deepened, softened.
“I like being around you as well, (Y/N). Very much.”
His cheeks flushed. He turned his head away, but she didn’t tease him. She only continued watching the trees, allowing him his small, fragile vulnerability.
And then- “I’m… still scared, sometimes. Especially around guys. It doesn’t make sense. I know they’re not all like- like him.”
“You are allowed to be afraid,” Sonia said. “It is not a weakness. It is a wound still healing. We would never call a bandaged arm weak for needing time.”
He bit his lip. She always knew what to say, not because she had all the answers, but because she saw him.
“I’m trying to be better.”
“You already are,” she said softly. “Because you are choosing to stay. To trust. Even just a little. That is what bravery looks like.”
A quiet beat passed between them. The breeze lifted her hair like a silken banner.
“…Can I hold your hand?” he asked, voice small.
Sonia looked at him, gently surprised. Then, carefully, she offered her palm, open and patient.
He took it.
His hand trembled, but she didn’t grip tighter. She simply let it rest there, warm and steady.
They stayed like that, fingers barely laced, as the sun dipped lower through the trees.
It wasn’t loud or showy, what they shared. It didn’t need to be.
More Posts from Deliciousspecimen and Others
Can you do Sayaka x reader fluff headcannons?
A/N: Yes, of course, @ultimategraffitiguy! You didn't specify the gender of the reader, so I kept it gender neutral :} Hope that's okay!
The Softest Spotlight
Sayaka x GN!Reader Fluff Headcannons
Warnings: None that I can really see :}
Word Count: 716
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- Constant cheerleader energy: Sayaka thrives on encouragement and gives it in abundance. Whether (Y/N)’s making breakfast or just trying to focus on studying, she’s their #1 hype girl- "You're doing amazing, sweetheart!" levels of support every day. She believes in destiny, but she also believes in working hard to protect what you have. Even when things get tough, she always says, “As long as we have each other, we’ll be okay.”
- Little love notes everywhere: She leaves (Y/N) sweet notes in the most random places: their notebook, your hoodie pocket, their shoe (once). They're always handwritten with cute little doodles and sparkly stickers.
- Cuddling = therapy: Sayaka is touchy and adores cuddles. Her favorite position is (Y/N) lying on their back with her draped over them like a weighted blanket. She hums her favorite songs softly while tracing patterns on their arm.
- Morning snuggles are a must: She wakes up first just so she can admire (Y/N)’s sleepy face. Her fingers brush their hair from their forehead as she whispers, “You look like a dream.” Then, when they stir, she gently pulls them back into bed- “Five more minutes, please~”
- Loves being the little spoon: Though she’ll happily big spoon too, her favorite thing is curling up in (Y/N)’s arms, her back against their chest, while they wrap their arms around her waist… She kicks her feet a little when she’s extra happy.
- Giggle fits under the blankets: Sometimes she just wants to be silly and soft- she’ll pull the covers over both of them like a little fort, tell (Y/N) jokes, make silly faces in the glow of her phone screen, and end up in a pile of giggles and forehead kisses.
- Soft lullabies as cuddles deepen: When (Y/N) is almost asleep, she hums a soft melody- usually something nostalgic from her younger days. It becomes (Y/N)’s personal lullaby, and now they can’t sleep well unless they hear her voice.
- Secret songs just for (Y/N): Despite being used to crowds, her favorite performances are the ones where it’s just the two of them. She writes lyrics inspired by their relationship, though she keeps some private in her journal. She’s promised- if she ever releases a solo album, (Y/N) will be the muse.
- Surprise back hugs: She always sneaks up behind (Y/N) when they’re doing something mundane- cooking, brushing their teeth, folding laundry- and wraps her arms around their middle, swaying gently with her chin resting on their shoulder. She just wants to be close.
- Blanket thief but in denial: Sayaka always ends up wrapped in the majority of the blanket by morning, yet she insists (Y/N) is the one who hogs it. The solution? (Y/N) ends up getting a bigger blanket just so she can burrito herself and still share with them.
- Loves curling up in your lap: When (Y/N) is sitting on the couch, Sayaka will crawl into their lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’ll curl up there like a cat, cheek pressed to their chest, arms tucked close as they stroke her hair.
- Says “I love you” when she’s half-asleep: When she’s drifting off, in that sleepy-soft voice, she mumbles “I love you” like a mantra. Sometimes it’s three times in a row. Sometimes it’s a barely audible whisper. But always sincere.
- Dates always feel magical: She plans the cutest little dates. Think picnics under fairy lights, karaoke at home in matching pajamas, or dancing around the kitchen with music blasting as they both sing terribly on purpose.
- The queen of matching fits: Sayaka lives for couple aesthetics. Matching accessories? Matching phone charms? She's already bought them. She even customizes (Y/N)’s stuff with their initials + a heart.
- Protective but soft about it: She gets anxious when (Y/N) is sad or overwhelmed. They’ll catch her sneaking worried glances, always ready with a warm hug, tea, or even calling her manager to cancel practice so she can stay with (Y/N).
- Public affection? Yep: She’ll hold (Y/N)’s hand anywhere, sneak kisses when no one’s looking, and gush about them in interviews (with a shy smile and sparkles in her eyes). Fans adore how much she loves (Y/N).
A/N: Hi everybody! This is the last part of my Young Silco fic :} Im am already writing a sequel, and I am excited to keep this story going. I hope you all like it!
Ember in the Dark pt.11
Young!Silco x Fem!Reader
pt.10 - Sequel
pt.1
Warnings: Violence/Physical Assault, Child Endangerment/Trauma, Death/Grief, War/Revolution, Substance Use.
Word Count: 9273
Summary: (Y/N) helps build a fragile life alongside Silco, Vander, Felicia, and Connol, raising Violet and Powder as their found family. After a violent encounter with Enforcers leaves everyone shaken, tensions escalate between Silco and Vander, leading to a planned uprising at the bridge. (Y/N) chooses to stay behind to protect the girls. The revolution ends in disaster- Felicia and Connol are killed, Silco vanishes, and (Y/N) is left to carry the girls to safety. Vander returns alone, claiming Silco abandoned them, but (Y/N) doesn’t believe it. She searches- finds no body, no trace- and quietly holds onto hope. Years pass. Violet and Powder grow. New kids join their family. The Last Drop becomes a haven, and (Y/N) stays at its heart- scarred but steady, protecting what remains. Silco’s name fades from conversation, but not from memory. She never truly lets him go.
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The Last Drop was alive with its usual rhythm- voices echoing off brick walls, the low clink of glass, laughter that rang too loud. But the second (Y/N) stepped inside, saying her hello’s, the mood shifted. Not all at once. Just enough to make the air feel different.
Felicia noticed quick. Her head snapped up from where she sat, Violet balanced on her hip. Her smile dropped like a stone. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of blood, the tension in (Y/N)’s shoulders, the way she clutched her bag like it was stitched to her ribs.
“Oh, god…” she breathed, already half on her feet. “Vander-”
Connol moved before she could finish, steadying Violet as Felicia stood. Vander looked up from where he was drying a glass behind the bar, brows drawing tight. He didn’t speak yet.
But Silco didn’t wait for anyone.
His stool scraped back sharply. The half-full glass he’d been nursing tipped and spilled across the bar, forgotten. He was across the room in seconds- quicker than anyone had ever seen him move when it wasn’t life or death.
His hands were on her before she could get another word out. One arm caught her around the waist, steadying her. The other came to her chin, tilting it gently, his fingers cool and trembling. His jaw clenched. Eyes scanned every mark on her face- the cut at her lip, the bruising along her cheekbone, the scraped edge of her brow.
“Who did this?” he asked, voice low and tight, almost quiet enough to miss. Almost.
She winced when his fingers brushed a sore spot, but she didn’t flinch away. Just looked up at him through lashes heavy with exhaustion, a ghost of a smile on her lips. It didn’t land.
“Enforcers,” she muttered. “Just a patrol.”
His expression darkened. He didn’t tighten his grip, but the air around him seemed to shift- an unspoken pressure that made the room hold its breath.
“They searched me,” she added, hoarse. “Didn’t find anything. They just… wanted to make a point.”
His thumb brushed a streak of blood from the corner of her mouth. His hand lingered there, and something flickered in his expression- hurt, maybe.
“You let them?” he rasped.
“I didn’t fight,” she whispered. “If I had… I might’ve hurt them. I didn’t trust myself not to lose control, even… If I can control it more now, than before...”
Silco closed his eyes, jaw tight with restraint.
Behind them, Vander stepped out from behind the bar. “Get her upstairs,” he said, voice low. “We’ll talk after.”
Felicia was already moving again, clutching Violet like a tether. Her face was a storm.
“I’m fine,” (Y/N) tried to say, barely above a whisper.
“No, you’re not,” Silco muttered. He slipped the edge of her cloak back over her shoulders, tightening it around her with careful hands. “Come on.”
He didn’t give her the chance to argue. With an arm secure around her waist, he guided her toward the stairs. His steps were sharp, shoulders taut with silent fury. Not a word was spoken as the door clicked shut behind them.
The quiet in the room was thick- not awkward, just heavy.
Silco didn’t ask her to sit. He simply steered her gently to the bed, helped her lower herself with careful hands, and moved across the room in a blur of precise motion. The tin basin. The pitcher. A cloth. A bottle of disinfectant- stings like hell, but it kept you alive.
He knelt in front of her and tilted her face toward the light. The cloth was warm. Gentle. He wiped the blood away with a steady hand.
She flinched when it passed over the split in her lip. “Sorry,” he murmured, almost too quietly.
“You’re better than they were,” she said, voice barely audible.
His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. He reached for the bottle, soaked a clean cloth, and pressed it carefully to her temple. It burned.
She hissed, eyes watering.
“Hold still.”
It wasn’t sharp. Just soft enough to keep her grounded.
He worked in silence. Cleaning every mark. Every bruise. Every scrape. His focus never wavered, but she could see the tension behind it- the way his brows knit together, the way he breathed through his nose like it was the only way to stay calm.
When he reached her hands, he stopped. Just for a moment.
They were torn up. Raw. Stone and dirt ground into her palms, her knuckles purpled from impact.
His thumbs hovered there, then moved with excruciating care, picking away the debris, soaking the cloth again and again. He didn’t speak until the worst of it was done.
“... You should have fought back.” he whispered, voice rough.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she said. “Not again.”
He said nothing. Just reached for the gauze. Wrapped her hands with the same precision, knotting them tight enough to protect, not tight enough to sting.
When he finished, he lifted her hand to his lips. A kiss to her knuckles, light as air.
“You should’ve called for me,” he said, finally.
Her throat caught. “I didn’t know if you were nearby.”
“I don’t care,” he said, sharper now. “I would’ve burned the streets down to get to you.”
His eyes met hers. They burned- not with blame. But with something colder. Sharper.
“I’ll find them,” he said. “And when I do-”
“Silco.” Her voice was small, but it cut clean through the tension. “I’m okay. You got me. That’s what matters.”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then his shoulders eased, just barely. He brought her hands to his lips again, eyes closed.
“You shouldn’t have to live like this,” he murmured.
“I want this,” she said, forehead pressing gently to his. “I want you.”
That was all it took to make the rage inside him quiet- at least for now.
He held her. Close. Like he could block out the world just by keeping her there.
No more words passed between them for a while. Just the sound of breath, the warmth of quiet touch. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands bandaged, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything she hadn’t said. Silco crouched in front of her still, hands never straying far.
Eventually, Silco helped her up with the same care he’d shown before. Arm around her waist. Not holding her up- just holding her steady.
They moved down the stairs together. Every creak felt too loud. The hum of the bar had returned, but the energy was different. Tense. Quiet.
Felicia still sat in her usual booth, Violet asleep in her arms, a worn blanket draped across them both. Connol was beside her, quiet and still. His eyes found (Y/N) the moment she appeared.
Vander was behind the bar again. Arms crossed. Watching. Measuring. Counting bruises.
Felicia’s eyes widened when she saw her. Relief flooded her face, but it didn’t erase the lingering anger.
“You’re alright,” she said. Like she needed to say it out loud to believe it. “Really alright?”
“I’m fine,” (Y/N) said, voice steadier now. “Just a little beat up.”
Vander exhaled through his nose and turned for a clean glass. “Sit,” he said, gruff but not unkind. “Drink something warm. You’ll feel it more in an hour.”
(Y/N) gave a tired smile. Let Silco guide her to the booth across from Felicia and Connol. She didn’t lean on him. But she didn’t let go either.
Silco didn’t leave her side. He slid into the booth like he belonged there, quiet and sure, his arm settling along the backrest, fingers grazing her shoulder. He didn’t say a word, but his presence was grounding- anchored, solid.
Felicia leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she took in the bruises on (Y/N)’s face. “If I ever see those bastards near here again…” Her voice was tight, sharp.
“Fel,” Connol said softly, placing a steadying hand on her knee.
She didn’t look at him. “No. I mean it. We can’t just keep letting them do this.”
Silco’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Still, he stayed silent. Not here. Not yet. Not when the eyes of the bar had already turned toward them. The murmur of conversation had slowed, dulled. Now, even those who tried to act like they weren’t listening… were.
The atmosphere thickened. Simmering tension pooled in the corners of the room- quiet, heavy, waiting for a spark.
Vander stepped in, a steaming mug in his hand. He set it gently in front of (Y/N), then stepped back, arms folding across his chest.
“We take care of our own,” he said. His voice was low, but it carried. “Always have.”
(Y/N) curled her fingers around the mug. Her eyes stayed down, watching steam rise in slow spirals.
Silco’s hand moved to her back, palm warm through the fabric. His thumb pressed slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades. Grounding. Gentle.
The bar’s rhythm resumed in cautious pieces- clinks of glass, low conversation, chairs scraping against wood- but something had shifted. A quiet understanding passed between the walls. One of theirs had been hurt. Again. And the Undercity remembers.
Behind the bar, Vander didn’t move much. But his posture spoke volumes. Hands braced against the counter, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. He wasn’t pouring drinks. The bottle beside him sat forgotten.
His eyes hadn’t left (Y/N) since she walked in- since he’d seen the bruises blooming across her skin, the blood drying at the corner of her mouth. The way she winced when she shifted. What haunted him most wasn’t the damage.
It was that she hadn’t even fought back.
She hadn’t used magic, hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t screamed. She was just walking. And they jumped her like she was nothing.
His fingers curled into fists. The wood beneath his palms creaked under the strain.
Silco noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t speak. His attention stayed on her, thumb still tracing circles.
Felicia broke the silence with a venomous whisper. “This city’s rotting from the top down.”
Connol said nothing. His jaw was clenched, hand resting protectively atop Violet’s blanket, as if shielding his newborn daughter from the world.
Vander’s voice, when it came, was quiet- but sharp as a blade. “She didn’t even raise a hand.” His gaze was distant, as though staring through the bar. “Didn’t say a word. Just walked. And they still thought they could beat her bloody.”
His fists trembled on the counter. “That’s the kind of peace they’re offering.”
Silco’s eyes flicked toward him. “Starting to see it, are you?”
Vander didn’t answer. But the silence said enough.
His shoulders sagged slightly, breath shuddering out. “I’ve spent half my life pulling people back from the edge. Telling them to wait. To think. To survive instead of strike.” He looked at (Y/N) then, something pained and heavy flickering behind his eyes. “But what do we do when there’s no fight left to stop? When we keep our heads down, and they still come for us?”
(Y/N) looked up. Her voice was quiet, raw. “I didn’t fight because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not because I was scared.”
Her gaze dropped again. “Didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to hurt.”
The weight of her words hung in the air. No one had an answer.
Vander ran a hand across his jaw, slow. “This city’s gonna crack,” he muttered. Then, barely audible- “And I don’t know if I can stop it this time.”
The weight in the room pressed against her skin, heavier than the bruises blooming beneath it. (Y/N) stared down into the mug. Herbal. Faintly sweet. Something Vander probably mixed together himself- pain relief, maybe. Or just something warm to hold. Something that made you feel less hollow.
She took a careful sip. The heat stung against her split lip.
The others were still talking. Still shifting around her like a gathering storm. Silco hadn’t moved. His hand stayed firm against her back. Steady. Present.
But even that comfort felt distant. Sharpened by the silence in her chest.
She didn’t want their fury.
Didn’t want Felicia’s wild-eyed rage, or Vander’s coiled grief. She didn’t want Connol’s quiet worry, or Silco’s unreadable stillness.
She just wanted them to stop looking at her like this was something new.
It wasn’t.
Pain had followed her since childhood- persistent, predictable, a shadow stitched into her every step. There was always someone bigger. Someone crueler. Someone who needed to remind her she didn’t belong.
This wasn’t new. It was just more of the same.
She didn’t want pity. Or promises. Or rage that would burn everything down.
She wanted peace.
She took another sip of her drink, hands trembling slightly, and said nothing.
Silco leaned in, voice low against her ear. “Do you want to go upstairs?”
She didn’t answer right away.
But eventually, she nodded.
He rose first, then reached for her gently, helping her stand without a word. He didn’t hold her- just offered the support, and let her decide how much she needed.
They didn’t look back as they left.
The climb upstairs was slow- not just from pain, though it still lingered with every step- but from the weight in her chest. A hollow sort of gravity.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t lean on him. Just walked.
Silco didn’t press. He kept close. Always within reach. But didn’t touch her unless she faltered. He walked with a kind of quiet restraint, as if every instinct told him to pull her in- but he knew she needed space more than shelter.
The door closed behind them with a soft click.
Inside, the room welcomed them in silence. Dim neon light filtered through worn curtains. The scent of the day- dust from the mines, candle wax, and faint smoke- still clung to the air.
(Y/N) didn’t stop moving. She crossed to the window, cloak slipping from her shoulders and falling where it may.
She didn’t pick it up.
She sank into the window seat, flicked her fingers, and summoned a small flame.
It sparked, sputtered. Her hand trembled.
She clenched her jaw, tried again.
This time, the fire steadied. She lit the cigarette between her lips and leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the cracked pane. The breeze drew it out slowly, like breath finally let go.
Silco stood near the door, watching.
She looked hollow.
Not broken. Not weak. Just… dimmed. Like the fire in her chest had drawn back behind old walls. Her hands trembled around the cigarette. Blood dried like rust along her bandages.
She didn’t try to hide it.
She didn’t say a word.
Silco stepped forward- slowly, deliberately- and knelt beside her, one arm resting on the windowsill. He tilted his head, studying her profile, but didn’t speak right away.
“Talk to me,” he said at last, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the hum of the Undercity outside.
(Y/N) didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant glow bleeding through the cracked glass- the Undercity’s fractured light, flickering like something half-remembered. Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers. Her silence stretched, brittle.
“I’m just tired,” she said finally. “Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
Silco swallowed, jaw tensing. She wasn’t talking about the bruises. Not really.
She drew in another breath of smoke, slower this time. “People always look at me like I’m strong. Like I can take it.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “And I can. But it’s starting to feel like that’s the only reason I’m still here.”
Her eyes dropped to her bandaged hands, and her voice cracked.
“To take it.”
He didn’t speak. Just reached out, fingers brushing hers as he gently took the cigarette from her grip. She let it go without a word. He crushed the ember into the ashtray, then stood, pulling her carefully to her feet.
She blinked up at him, caught off guard- but didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arms around her. Not tightly. Not to shield or protect. Just close. Like he was anchoring her, grounding her in something real.
“You’re not here just to endure,” he murmured into her hair. “Not to me.”
Her hands gripped the front of his shirt before she could even think of it, her face pressing into the warmth of his chest. His heartbeat, steady beneath her ear, became the only rhythm she could hold onto. The scent of smoke and iron clung to him, familiar, oddly soothing.
Silco said nothing more. He just held her, patient and still, while her body trembled quietly in his arms.
She tried to breathe. Not cry. Not break. But it was hard. The bruises on her ribs and hands still throbbed beneath her skin, but the worst pain lived deeper- in the place that never got the chance to heal.
Her voice, when it came, was almost too quiet to hear.
“I wish it was different.”
His arms tightened, just slightly.
“I know.”
“I wish I didn’t have this magic,” she whispered. “Wish I didn’t have to hide it. Didn’t have to be afraid of it. I wish I could fight back without making things worse. I wish we weren’t always hunted. Like prey in our own streets. I just…”
Her breath hitched. “I just want to live like normal people.”
Silco didn’t respond right away. His thumb moved slowly over her back, quiet and steady.
“Normal’s a lie,” he said eventually, his voice rough. “But freedom? That’s worth everything.”
She gave a shaky exhale, her cheek brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. Her eyes were heavy now.
“Feels like we’ll never have it.”
“We will.” His voice shifted- firmer now. Not idealistic. Certain. “Not tomorrow. Not soon. But one day. I’ll make sure of it.”
She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength.
Instead, she let herself lean into him, her body slowly releasing the tension it had carried all day. Her heartbeat slowed, syncing with his. If she couldn’t have peace, at least she had this. Him. The quiet safety of his arms.
The exhaustion caught up all at once. Her breath warmed the hollow of his neck as her grip loosened- not from retreat, but from surrender.
Without a word, Silco shifted, guiding her toward the bed. She didn’t resist. Just followed, limbs heavy with the weight of it all.
They slipped under the thin blanket, the only light coming from the dim Undercity glow through the window. She curled into him instinctively, her head on his chest, her hand tucked between them like she was trying to keep something safe.
Silco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until there was no space left between them. His legs tangled with hers, and he rested his chin gently on the top of her head.
It wasn’t the first time they’d fallen asleep like this. But something about tonight felt heavier. Closer.
Not just comfort. Not just need.
Recognition.
He didn’t say it, but she felt it in every breath, every touch, every heartbeat: I see you. I won’t let go.
Her body softened in his arms. Her breathing slowed.
Still scarred. Still whole. Still his.
And in the faint hum of Zaun’s restless night, they drifted off. Two souls bound together in the dark, held fast by something stronger than all the things trying to break them.
Time passed.
Not all at once. Quietly. Gradually.
The bruises faded- from her skin, then from her routine. Her hands healed. The ache in her chest took longer. But even that began to dull- softened by warmth, by routine, by Silco’s constant, quiet presence.
And Violet grew.
From a bundle of soft blankets and curious eyes to a sharp, babbling toddler who could clear a room with a single shriek and charm it again with a crooked grin. She toddled through the bar on unsteady legs, fearless. Felicia stayed one step behind. Connol three steps ahead, trying to catch every fall.
She became The Last Drop’s heartbeat. Even the roughest regulars melted when she approached with sticky hands and wide eyes. No one said no- not even Silco, who would scowl as she climbed into his lap, then let her stay anyway, a hand gently steadying her back.
(Y/N) began working fewer shifts in the mines. At first, it was just a few missed mornings. Then it became habit. She helped Vander behind the bar, swept the floors, restocked the shelves. Quiet work. Grounding work.
She said it was to help out. But they all knew better.
It was the Enforcers. She was avoiding them. Avoiding herself, maybe. The edge of what she could do- what she might do, if pushed too far.
Vander never asked questions. Just passed her a towel and a crate to lift.
And Silco?
He didn’t say much. But he was always near.
She felt it in the way his hand brushed hers when he passed a bottle. The way he leaned in close when the bar was loud, voice low, a flicker of humor in his eyes. How he watched her, always. Not possessive- present.
The world didn’t get easier. But it got smaller. Closer.
The city still tried to claw peace from their hands- but they held onto it anyway. Nights at The Last Drop had quieted. Less yelling now. Fewer brawls breaking out in dark corners. The fire hadn’t gone out, but it burned lower, steadier, like the amber light spilling across the bar’s worn wood.
The Undercity hadn’t changed. It was still raw. Still scarred. But something beneath it had settled.
Maybe it was Violet, growing fast and fierce, commanding a room with just a look- Felicia’s look- while perched on a hip and sucking juice from a chipped cup. Maybe it was the way Vander and Silco had finally stopped talking past each other.
They hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Too many nights had ended with slammed doors and clenched jaws- Silco all edge and conviction, Vander slow-burning with old weight and weary patience. But something had shifted. Not just in the room, but between them.
(Y/N) saw it first.
The way they leaned closer during late-night talks, voices low as the bar emptied out. Vander no longer shutting Silco down the second Piltover came up. Silco, surprisingly, actually listening- pausing, considering. Like he’d finally realized not every battle needed to be waged in fire.
Maybe it was understanding. Or maybe it was, again, Violet.
She’d changed everything.
Hard to talk about revolution when a toddler was dragging around a chewed-up mug, insisting it was “hers.” When her tiny feet echoed across the floorboards, scattering dust motes in the lamplight.
So when Silco spoke of the future now, he didn’t say now. He didn’t say soon.
He said eventually.
And Vander, once immovable in his pacifism, didn’t dismiss it out of hand anymore. Just nodded. Quietly. Said things like, “Maybe. Someday. When she’s old enough to run if she has to.”
(Y/N) had overheard them once- stood in the doorway, unseen, as Vander cleaned out his pipe behind the counter. Silco leaned nearby, arms folded, eyes on the wall.
“We can’t keep takin’ hits like that,” Vander muttered, jaw set. “They come down here like they own the place.”
Silco didn’t bristle. Didn’t grin. Just replied, low and even, “We won’t. Not forever.”
Vander wiped his hands on a bar towel. “I’m not about to light a fire I can’t put out.”
Silco nodded. “I’m not asking you to.”
A beat passed. Then Vander looked at him- really looked at him- and said, “But we’ll be ready when it comes.”
That was all. No shouting. No threats. Just a shared promise, spoken like a quiet oath.
Not today… Not yet. But one day.
(Y/N) stepped back from the doorway, heart heavy in that strange way- full of knowing. Not afraid. Just aware. The world would shift again. That was inevitable.
But not while Violet was still tugging on pant legs and chasing flecks of light like they were treasure. Not while mornings were still soft and slow, Silco brushing past her in the kitchen, his fingers grazing her back, his voice low and familiar.
“Let her be little,” he’d murmur. “Just a while longer.”
And Vander would nod. And they’d wait.
They’d build.
Time, as it does, slipped forward without asking.
Violet turned four. A blur of questions, fast feet, and sharper opinions. She mimicked everyone- Felicia’s sass, Vander’s sighs, even Silco’s scowls (to his quiet dismay). She perched on barstools like she owned the place. Vander even carved her a little wooden step to stand behind the bar, though she mostly used it to sneak sips from mugs when no one was looking.
And then, one morning, Felicia walked into the bar with Connol trailing nervously behind her, hands wringing.
“Well,” she announced, hands on her hips. “Looks like the baby bin wasn’t a waste after all.”
(Y/N) nearly spit out her tea. “You mocked me for keeping that thing.”
Felicia smirked, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Yeah, well. Maybe you’re good for something after all.”
Silco didn’t say much about the news of the new baby.
But he watched.
Watched Felicia move with a kind of defiant ease, even when the weight of it slowed her down. Watched (Y/N) make space again- pulling the bin out of storage, folding tiny clothes with a strange, wistful look in her eye. Watched Violet mimic it all, dragging around a spare bottle like she was training for something.
Spring came fast. And with it- so did the baby.
The bar cleared out quickly. Regulars were shooed off. Towels boiled. Water warmed. Ren showed up right on time, muttering, “You lot breed like rats in winter,” while rolling up her sleeves.
(Y/N) stayed with Felicia through the pain, Connol at her side, Vander hovering in the doorway. Silco didn’t pace this time- just stood by the window, hands behind his back, breathing like it hurt to do it wrong.
And then the cry came.
Sharp. Fragile. Real.
Everyone stilled.
Ren wrapped the baby carefully, then looked around. “Well?” she said. “Who’s first?”
Felicia, exhausted but smiling with that same smug pride, didn’t hesitate. “Give her to Silco.”
Ren raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”
“Vander named Violet,” Felicia said, leaning into Connol. “It’s his turn.”
Silco froze. Looked to (Y/N). She gave him the softest nod.
So he stepped forward.
Ren guided his hands under the baby’s head. He held her like she might vanish. Small and warm and impossibly new.
She was wrinkled and red and making soft, wet noises- but her hair…
Silco stared.
Fine, pale fuzz. Blue. So faint it was barely visible. But unmistakable.
“She looks like…” he started, stopped. Swallowed. “Powder.”
Felicia blinked. “You mean the color, or-?”
He didn’t look up. “I don’t know. It just fits.”
(Y/N) leaned close, gazing at the newborn. “It does,” she murmured. “It really does.”
Felicia smiled faintly. “Then Powder it is.”
The name stuck- odd, but perfectly hers.
And life moved on.
When Powder started walking (and then sprinting, and then climbing everything), Felicia and Connol got restless. The bar was safe, yes, but they needed more. The mines, for all their danger, offered steady work.
“We’re not vanishing,” Felicia promised one morning, Powder on her hip, Violet tugging on her coat. “Just a few shifts. Keep things balanced.”
Connol added quickly, “We’ll be around. Just not always underfoot.”
Vander frowned- he always did when someone went underground- but he didn’t stop them. He just nodded.
And that left them- Vander, Silco, and (Y/N)- as the keepers of the Undercity’s most chaotic duo.
Violet, sharp and loud and entirely too clever, claimed a booth as her throne and demanded pastries as taxes.
Powder… Powder was stranger. Quieter. She wandered more. Spoke to herself. Built towers out of bottle caps and knocked them over to study the fall.
And Silco, of all people, shadowed her like a silent guardian. He never said why.
But he always caught her before she fell.
It started gradually.
Silco began keeping her within his line of sight- subtle, instinctive. Even while buried in planning or half-snarled conversations with smugglers, his gaze would flicker toward her. A quiet “no” and a hand on her shoulder was enough to pull her away from dangerous corners. Sometimes, if he was deep in one of his journals, he’d lift her onto the stool beside him without a word. Powder would climb up too, wide-eyed, watching his pen move like it was casting spells.
(Y/N) noticed it first.
The way Powder drifted toward Silco, no matter how crowded the room was. The way she’d tug at his coat until he looked down, then silently lift her arms to be held. And the way Silco- sharp, precise, always in control- would let her crawl into his lap without protest, wrapping one arm around her as she fiddled with the buttons on his vest like they were treasure.
It was disarming. And a little bit adorable.
One afternoon, (Y/N) found him slumped in the back booth of The Last Drop, half-asleep. Powder was curled up against his chest, her small fingers hooked into the edge of his vest. His hand rested over her back, thumb moving slowly in quiet circles. She leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment before breaking the silence.
“You didn’t cuddle me like that when we were little.”
Silco cracked an eye open, unimpressed and half-drowsy. “You didn’t drool in your sleep.”
(Y/N) snorted and stepped closer, brushing a strand of blue hair out of Powder’s face.
“She’s got you wrapped around her tiny, sticky fingers, y’know.”
“She’s unpredictable,” he muttered. “Like a bomb with a smile.”
“And you love it.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t even try.
And as (Y/N) watched him shift just enough to pull the blanket a little higher over the girl in his arms, something warm and aching settled deep in her chest.
The Last Drop had always been a place of smoke and whispers- rebels meeting in corners, laughter shared over bruised knuckles and bitter liquor. But lately, the air had started to change. The whispers were louder. Plans took shape in the shadows. Smuggling routes reopened. Piltover shipments vanished, and the Enforcers never knew where to start looking.
The Undercity was stirring.
And at the center of it all stood two men: Vander, still carrying hope like a torch, and Silco, burning with something far more volatile. They didn’t agree on everything- rarely did- but they had found rhythm again, like bones remembering how to move.
(Y/N) watched from the edges.
Because she remembered what came of getting too close to that kind of fire. A sheriff dead. Ten people turned to dust. Her magic crackling out of control. The way the city looked at her afterward- not like a girl, but like a weapon that might go off again.
No one spoke of it anymore. Not Vander. Not Felicia. Not even Silco.
But she hadn’t forgotten.
So while they pushed forward- Vander meeting with people at dawn, Silco vanishing into alleyways and fixer dens- (Y/N) stayed behind.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she couldn’t let herself become that again.
So she looked after the girls.
Violet was seven now- quick-footed and fierce, with scraped knees and a sharp tongue. She climbed faster than most runners, had already started asking questions too big for her age.
Powder, at three, was quieter. Sloppy, brilliant, always tinkering. She'd pull apart broken tech just to rebuild it into something entirely new- and entirely unpredictable. More than once, Vander had flinched when her latest invention sparked to life.
(Y/N) was their constant.
She packed lunches. Cleaned up cuts. Told them stories when the nights grew long. Her rebellion wasn’t with fire and fists anymore. It was in keeping the people she loved intact while the world tried to wear them down.
One night, Silco came home late. His coat was torn at the shoulder, dried blood crusted on the sleeve. He stepped into the bar and stopped.
On the couch, (Y/N) lay curled with both girls half asleep across her- Violet stretched over her legs, Powder tucked under her arm. She looked up, eyes tired but soft.
“Don’t ask,” she said before he could speak. “They ran themselves ragged.”
Silco crossed the room and crouched beside them, his hand brushing over Powder’s hair, then Violet’s arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, flicked to (Y/N), darker than usual.
“You’re keeping them safe.”
“I have to,” she murmured.
He didn’t answer. But the thought hung there between them, heavy and unspoken.
And who’s keeping you safe?
(Y/N) didn’t need him to say it. She just reached out, brushing her fingers along his cheek, whispering- “I’m still here.” before carefully picking up the girls, and making her way up stairs.
The bar was full later that night. Shoulder to shoulder with the ones who mattered- runners, smugglers, chemists, old fighters with iron in their bones. You could feel it in the air. Something was coming.
Upstairs, (Y/N) and Felicia stood over the sleeping girls.
Violet had begged to stay up and “help with planning,” eyes shining. Powder had clung to her half-broken toy like it would anchor her. (Y/N) tucked the blanket in around them both, brushing their hair back with a hand that lingered too long.
“I don’t like this,” she said quietly as they stepped into the hall.
“I know,” Felicia replied.
Downstairs, the tension pressed against the walls like a held breath.
Vander stood tall at the center, arms crossed, jaw set. Silco was beside him, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back, speaking low.
No heat. No fight.
Just resolve.
When the time came, Vander raised a hand.
The room fell silent.
“We’ve been patient,” he said, voice clear and steady. “We’ve followed their rules. Tried to build something real in the cracks they left us.”
A few voices murmured agreement.
“But patience hasn’t bought us peace. It’s bought bruises. Blood. Fear.”
He swept the room with his gaze.
“And every time we let them walk our streets like they own ‘em, we tell our children this is all they’ll ever have.”
(Y/N) stood at the back with Felicia, arms crossed, shadows curling around her like second skin.
She didn’t speak.
She just listened.
Vander’s voice sharpened.
“So we’re taking it back. No more waiting. No more silence. If they want to walk our streets- they’re gonna have to bleed for it.”
Cheers rippled across the room, building slowly.
Then Silco stepped forward.
His voice was quiet. Precise. Cold.
“We hit them where they’ll feel it. The bridge. That’s where they hold power over us. That’s where they watch us- control us. So that’s where we remind them we’re not beneath them.”
Heads nodded. Plans took root.
And in the flickering light, (Y/N) stood still.
Watching. Remembering. Holding the weight of fire in her chest- and refusing to let it burn her again.
Vander lifted his hand to calm them. “We’ve got numbers. We know that bridge better than anyone. We fight smart. I’ll lead it.”
The bar erupted.
Chairs scraped. Bottles clinked. A half-dozen people surged forward, shouting their loyalty, their hunger for retaliation.
But not (Y/N).
She didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Her arms stayed folded across her chest, lips a thin line. Heart pounding behind her ribs like it was trying to run.
She got it. Really, she did. That righteous fury- they wore it like armor. And part of her wanted it, too. To burn hot. To burn back.
But all she could think about were two small girls asleep in the room upstairs… And the last time she’d let her magic answer violence with more of it.
Felicia stood near the wall, arms crossed, looking worn down to the bone. She glanced over, voice barely a whisper above the chaos. “You good?”
(Y/N) didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the center of the room. On Vander, solid as ever, holding the weight of the whole damn Undercity on his back. On Silco- quiet, sharp-eyed, unreadable.
She murmured, more to herself than anyone else, “I don’t know if this is the right way. But I think they’ve already decided.”
The meeting bled into the night, the bar slowly emptying until only low voices and the smoke of half-burned cigarettes remained. A plan had been made. A date.
Three months.
The bridge.
It still felt far.
But not far enough.
(Y/N) sat alone in the booth by the window, untouched drink in front of her, eyes distant as the Undercity’s green glow shimmered through cracked glass. Vander’s voice rumbled somewhere behind the counter. Silco’s lower, quiet, murmuring something to a smuggler near the back.
She barely heard them.
All she could think about… were the girls.
Powder would be four in two weeks. Gods. Four. She used to be a quiet bundle wrapped in a frayed blanket- Silco had held her once, stiff and unsure, like she might shatter. Now she was a walking whirlwind, inventing things from nothing but wires and junk.
And Violet- eight. A spitfire with scraped knees and fire in her veins, fierce as Felicia, stubborn as Vander. She looked at (Y/N) like she hung the stars when she helped her tie her boots or sound out long words in dog-eared books.
They weren’t hers. Not really.
But they were.
And now there was a war coming.
Not a whisper. Not a theory. A date. A choice.
She looked down at her hands. Scarred. Capable. And shaking.
Not from fear. Not exactly.
But because she knew what this path cost.
She heard a chair scrape back and looked up just as Silco approached. His coat was still draped over one shoulder, his expression unreadable, though the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual.
“You didn’t say anything,” he said as he slid into the booth across from her.
(Y/N) held his gaze. Steady. “Didn’t seem like there was much room for second thoughts.”
Silco tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t agree?”
“I don’t think it matters,” she said. “You’ve already decided.”
Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired.
Silco didn’t argue. Just leaned back, fingers tapping against the table’s edge. “You’re thinking about them.”
“Always.” Her voice softened. “Powder wants a new toolbelt for her birthday. Violet’s been asking for boots like Vander’s.”
She smiled, sad, faint. “They don’t know what’s coming.”
Silco went quiet. Long enough that the silence almost felt like an answer.
“Neither do we,” he said finally. “Not really.”
“But you’ll still go.”
“I have to.”
“I know.”
They sat there, still and silent, the weight of three months stretching out between them like a lit fuse.
Then- “Promise me something,” she said, eyes locked on his.
Silco straightened. “Anything.”
“If this falls apart,” she said, low and sure, “make sure you are safe.”
His eyes darkened- not from coldness, but something heavier. Fiercer. “I will.”
“I’ll stay behind,” she added. “With the kids. I won’t fight. Not this time. I’m not letting them wonder where I went.”
He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “You won’t lose what you built,” he said quietly. “Not if I can stop it.”
She nodded, throat tight. And squeezed his hand back.
Powder’s birthday came faster than expected.
The Last Drop still hummed with the tension of what was coming. But that day… that day, she didn’t let it touch them.
She slipped out early, arms full when she returned- scraps of cloth in soft colors, sweets from the docks, a small mechanical toy she’d bartered for with a vendor who owed Felicia a favor.
Most wouldn’t notice the changes in the bar. But the ones who mattered? They would.
Ribbons of powder blue and pink, twisted with wire, hung along the stair rail. A booth had been cleared- mismatched dishes, a crooked cake Vander swore wasn’t terrible, and two paper signs marked in shaky handwriting: VIOLET and POWDER.
Violet was the first down, barefoot and wide-eyed. “Is that cake?”
“Patience, firecracker,” (Y/N) grinned, scooping her up. “Birthday girl’s not even here yet.”
Felicia followed, Powder half-asleep on her shoulder, hair sticking out like she’d wrestled a static storm. Her fist still gripped a screwdriver.
“Happy birthday, Powpow,” (Y/N) whispered, lifting her carefully.
Powder blinked. “Is that… a cake?”
“Told you!” Violet beamed.
The party was quiet, small, warm. The best kind. Powder opened her little pile of gifts- buttons, gears, a satchel just her size, and a handmade goggle strap from (Y/N) that lit up at the clasp.
“Now you look like a real inventor,” she teased, ruffling her hair.
Powder beamed and threw her arms around her neck.
Across the room, Felicia met her eyes. A look passed between them. Quiet. Thankful.
(Y/N) just nodded and held Powder tighter.
She didn’t forget Violet either- slipping her a box wrapped in old newspaper with boot laces dyed her favorite color.
“Not your birthday,” she said with a smirk, “but being a big sister’s hard work.”
Violet grinned, tackled her in a hug.
The day passed in soft bursts of joy- chalk drawings on the bar walls, Powder tinkering with her new tools, Violet staging wild games in the back room.
For just a while, nothing else existed.
No war. No countdown. Just them.
Later, when the girls were asleep upstairs- bellies full, faces sticky with frosting- Felicia pulled her into a long hug.
“You’re too good to us,” she murmured.
“You’re my family,” (Y/N) whispered back. “I’d do it all again.”
Felicia sniffed. Laughed softly. “Don’t say that too loud. Might end up with another kid.”
“God, no.”
But she laughed too.
It was Powder’s day.
And (Y/N) made sure it was a good one.
Even with the clock still ticking.
The days had started to blur. Since Powder’s birthday, time had shifted- tilted on its axis. What used to feel like months now passed in weeks. Weeks collapsed into days. Now, the revolution was close enough to taste, and (Y/N) felt every second of it like a noose pulling tighter around her throat.
She kept moving. That’s how she managed it.
She cleaned up after the girls, swept the bar floors, restocked shelves, re-fastened loose nails. She fixed Violet’s boots in the mornings, helped Powder organize her new toolbelt, double-checked the locks at night. Always busy. Always doing. Because the moment she stopped- even for a breath- something in her chest cracked open.
She avoided Silco more than she wanted to. Slipped out of the room when he came in. Kept her replies short when he asked questions, her gaze lowered, never lingering. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t distance. She loved him- god, she loved him. But something in her gut had gone wrong. A slow, sick churn that wouldn’t leave her.
It was the same feeling she’d had before the last sheriff fell. Before every loss she hadn’t seen coming.
Everyone else seemed ready. The Undercity buzzed with tension, with quiet coordination. Weapons hidden. Escape routes mapped. Vander kept a layout of the city splayed across the back room table. Silco paced over it with sharp eyes, memorizing the paths like scripture. They were prepared. They believed.
And she wanted to believe with them.
She knew their reasons were real. She knew they were fighting for something better. But that didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from growing each time she walked past Vander bent over plans, or Silco murmuring to the others, fire catching behind his words.
At night, when the bar quieted, she sit awake in the dark listening to the soft sounds above- Powder’s breathing, Violet’s snoring- and wondered whether she’d ever hear them again once the smoke cleared.
One night, she stood at the window long after the lights were out, arms wrapped tight around herself. The city glowed that familiar, sickly green in the distance.
She didn’t hear him until he spoke.
“You’re avoiding me.”
His voice was soft. Not accusing- just... true.
(Y/N) flinched. Closed her eyes.
“I’m scared,” she admitted, barely a whisper.
Silco stepped closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.
“Of the fight?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Of what it’s going to take.”
Silco was quiet. Then, low and sure- “It’s already taken everything. This is the only way we get it back.”
She didn’t argue. Just turned her gaze back to the window, watching the city pulse.
“I just want them safe,” she murmured. “That’s all I care about now.”
He nodded once. “Then stay with them. No matter what.”
She turned finally, looked at him fully for the first time in days.
“You’ll come back?”
There was a pause. A long one. Then-
“…I’ll try.”
Not a promise. Just a truth.
It had to be enough.
…Dawn came too fast…
The Undercity held its breath beneath the pale, grey light, every alley and window draped in anxious silence. No birds. No whistles. No drunken laughter. Just boots, gear, metal. War at the door.
Inside The Last Drop, the air felt frozen in place. Violet and Powder sat on the stairs, wide-eyed and quiet. Not babies anymore. They understood enough.
(Y/N) knelt in front of them, steadying her voice even though her hands trembled.
“Just another day,” she whispered. “That’s all. You’re staying with me, doors locked, windows tight. We stay quiet, okay?”
Violet nodded slowly. “Is something bad happening?”
(Y/N) smoothed her hair and kissed her brow. “No. Not to you.”
Then came the footsteps.
Silco. Vander. Felicia. Connol. Benzo. Others, too. Armed, armored, resolved.
(Y/N) stood and moved to Felicia first, hugging her tight. “Watch Connol’s back.”
“Always,” Felicia murmured.
She hugged Connol and Benzo, firm and quick. Then Vander- no words, just a shared embrace, the kind that said everything without needing to speak.
And then Silco.
He stood still, but the moment she reached for him, his arms wrapped around her in an instant. No hesitation. It was the kind of embrace that tried to memorize- her scent, her warmth, the way her magic thrummed just beneath her skin.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, then leaned in, kissing him deep and desperate, her fingers curled in his coat, the other at his jaw. When she broke the kiss, her lips ghosted his ear.
“You better fucking come back.”
His breath hitched. Just a little. Then he rested his forehead against hers.
“I will,” he whispered. “If only so you don’t burn the city down looking for me.”
She huffed a shaky laugh. Didn’t let go until she had to.
And then- like that- they were gone.
She locked the door behind them with trembling fingers and turned back to the girls. Wrapped her arms around them and held on.
Outside, the Undercity marched to war.
Inside, she kept the light on…
The silence was wrong.
It wasn’t peaceful. It was bracing. Even the air held still, like the city was exhaling for the last time.
(Y/N) did everything she could to distract the girls. Old books. Chalk drawings. Gentle songs hummed through clenched teeth. But her hands kept shaking.
And she knew.
Then- the pounding. A heavy, urgent fist at the door.
She ran. Unlocked it.
Benzo stood there, blood on his shirt, breathing ragged, eyes wide with horror.
“They knew,” he gasped. “They were waiting- we walked right into it- too many-”
She didn’t wait to hear the rest.
“Stay with the girls,” she ordered, already pulling on her coat.
“Auntie-!” Violet cried.
“Don’t follow me,” (Y/N) barked. “Stay with Benzo.”
She was gone before they could answer.
Smoke painted the sky as she ran- choking, black smoke that billowed across rooftops. The closer she got to the bridge, the thicker it became.
She arrived to chaos.
Screams. Steel. Bodies. Blood slicking the cobblestones. Enforcers everywhere. Zaunites, too- some fighting, some fallen.
No time to think.
Magic surged to her hands, golden light cracking from her fingers. She fought like she was made for it. Threw herself over downed allies, cast fire toward enemies, keeping them at bay.
Then she saw him- Vander, bloodied and using his gauntlets to fight with every muscle. She cut her way to him. No words. Just movement. Two parts of the same storm.
And then-
“Auntie!!”
The voice cut through everything. High. Familiar. Too close.
She turned, eyes wide.
Violet stood just beyond the fight, Powder clinging to her side.
“Benzo let them leave?” she breathed, fury flashing hot.
She darted to them.
“Where are they?!” Violet sobbed. “Where’s Mama? Dad?!”
(Y/N) looked to Vander.
His eyes dropped- just once- toward a heap of rubble nearby.
And she knew.
She followed his gaze.
Felicia lay crumpled, blood on her temple, Connol’s hand still wrapped around hers. Still. Silent.
Gone.
Violet froze. Shaking.
And everything inside (Y/N) shattered.
Violet threw out an arm, shielding Powders eyes with her fingers. “Don’t look,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled.
(Y/N) was there in an instant, scooping them both into her arms and holding them tight- tighter than she’d ever held anything. Powder buried her face against her collar, breath hitching with quiet sobs. Violet clung to her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. (Y/N)’s knees nearly gave beneath her, but she didn’t fall. Not yet. She took a shaky step back from the wreckage, her eyes stinging, her lungs burning. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.
She held her girls.
Then Vander was beside her, silent for a moment, his hand landing heavy on her back.
“Take them,” he said, his voice raw, thinned by smoke and grief. “Please. Get them home. Somewhere safe.”
She looked at him- just once- and nodded. No argument. No questions. Just turned and carried them away.
One on each hip. Powder crying soft against her neck. Violet stiff and silent, arms locked around her like a vise. The walk back to The Last Drop felt endless. Every step rang in her bones.
She slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it, barred it. Dropped to her knees with both girls still wrapped in her arms. Held them like the world was trying to take them from her.
But in the back of her mind-
Silco.
She hadn’t seen him. Not once.
And the thought of him- alone, somewhere in the smoke, maybe bleeding, maybe worse- was already beginning to split her down the middle.
Vander didn’t return until long after nightfall.
His footsteps dragged through the rear hall like dead weight. His coat was half-burned, his hands red and raw, crusted with blood. The door creaked shut behind him, too final. Like a war had ended, but no one had won.
(Y/N) was on the floor by the hearth, sleeves rolled, hands trembling as she dabbed soot from Powder’s cheek. Violet sat close, arms around her knees, eyes fixed on the door.
Vander stood there, silent.
She looked up at him, heart already sinking. “…Well?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her. Through her. Like he hadn’t left the bridge at all.
“I couldn’t find him,” he said finally. The words scraped out of him. “He’s gone.”
Her chest tightened.
Vander’s expression twisted. “He disappeared. Coward.”
She flinched.
“He let it all fall apart.” He began to pace- restless, agitated, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “I trusted him. And he ran.”
(Y/N)’s hand froze, cloth paused at Powder’s temple. That didn’t sound like Silco. Not the Silco she knew. But she could see it- the rage in Vander’s eyes, the betrayal coiled beneath his skin.
Now wasn’t the time to argue. The smoke was still clinging to them all.
So she said nothing. Just nodded once. Quiet. Then turned back to the girls.
Powder sniffled. Violet leaned closer, a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders.
(Y/N) dipped the cloth again, wiped the soot away gently, one streak at a time. As if she could clean the night from their skin. As if it would undo any of it.
Vander sank into a nearby chair with a heavy groan and didn’t say another word.
The silence that followed didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a wound.
Silco’s name wasn’t spoken again.
Not by Vander. Not by Benzo. Not even by the few who survived and had once stood beside him.
But (Y/N) searched.
She helped move bodies from the bridge- limbs stiff, clothes torn, faces she’d known. She found Connol’s body. Felicia’s. Wrapped them herself. But Silco wasn’t there.
She checked every face, every coat. Her hands shook with each one she turned over. Hoping. Dreading.
He wasn’t dead. Not there. Not anywhere.
He was just- gone.
And somehow, that was worse.
Then, one night-
She was settling the girls into bed. Powder was half-asleep in her lap, Violet rubbing at her eyes and pretending not to yawn.
A slam. The front door.
She flinched, head snapping toward the stairs.
Vander. Soaked through. Water dripped from his hair, his boots. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at her. Just stormed through, fists clenched, leaving muddy footprints in his wake.
She watched him disappear into the back, heart thudding.
She didn’t ask. Not yet.
But something in her chest sparked. A small flame. One that hadn’t burned in a long time.
Weeks passed. Then months… Years…
Life reassembled itself in jagged pieces.
Violet grew louder, bolder, angrier. Powder withdrew into wires and gears, her grief funneled into creation.
Mylo came crashing into their lives a year later- mouthy, reckless, impossible to ignore. Vi challenged him before she even learned his name. Claggor followed soon after, calm and steady, the quiet gravity that kept the chaos from flying apart. And Ekko, sharp and fast, found a home with Benzo. He and Powder bickered constantly, but they always came back to each other.
The family grew. And (Y/N) stayed. Because someone had to.
The Last Drop softened. Fewer fights. More meals. It became a place worth protecting.
But the ache didn’t go.
Silco’s absence lingered in the corners. In the shadowed streets. In the quiet before sleep.
She never stopped loving him. She tried to. But she didn’t.
She stopped asking Vander. The look in his eyes when she did- the guilt, the anger- was enough.
So she let it go.
Or tried to.
The Undercity healed, if slowly. Vander swore off war, true to his word. The bridge remained, scarred and quiet. A marker of what had been lost.
Violet turned sixteen. All fire and fury, taller now, stronger. Protective to a fault.
Powder turned twelve. Brilliant. Strange. Her inventions more creative, even if most didn’t work, her mind was faster than ever. Her little fort in the kids room was a workshop of ideas no one else could follow.
And (Y/N) was still there.
Still waiting.
Still loving someone who might’ve died on a bridge or walked away from everything.
This was their world. Fragile. Messy. Real.
But somehow- it was still theirs.
I love this 🥺
High-ish quality scans of the Silco & Vander pages from the artbook
Can you do separate peko, Mikan and tenko with male!reader who is depressed and scared of males due to his past abuse of stepfather?
A/N: Yes, I absolutely can! You didn't specify what kind of writing you wanted, so I just made oneshots for each of them :}
Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.1
pt.2
Peko, Mikan and Tenko x Male!Reader
Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries
Word Count: 3628
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peko:
The first time Peko noticed him, it wasn’t because of something loud or dramatic.
It was because he wasn’t loud.
(Y/N) sat alone in the corner of the classroom, always a little too still, a little too tense. His eyes rarely met anyone’s directly, and when they did, they flinched away like they'd touched something too hot.
Peko understood silence. She understood stillness. But this wasn’t the silence of focus or discipline. This was a silence built from fear.
She didn’t approach him right away. Observation came naturally to her. She watched how he gripped the sleeves of his uniform during conversations. How he edged closer to the wall when a male classmate got too close. How his breathing would subtly hitch anytime a voice raised near him- even in laughter.
It wasn’t hard to piece together.
What she didn’t expect was how he looked at her.
Not with fear. Not with pity. But almost... curious. Like he couldn’t understand why someone like her- stern and composed- was the only one he didn’t shy away from.
They shared the same routine. Arrive early. Leave late. Avoid the crowd. So one day, when they passed in the hallway, and he flinched from someone else’s raised hand when going in for a highfive with another student, Peko made a choice.
She stopped.
“You’re hurt,” she said bluntly, her tone flat but not unkind. “You mask it well. But I see it.”
(Y/N)’s eyes widened, lips parting as if to protest, but nothing came out.
“I won’t ask what happened,” she continued, her voice steady. “But I’d like to offer... company. You don’t need to speak. I’ll simply sit.”
His throat bobbed. It was too much and not enough, all at once. He nodded.
That was how it started.
They began sharing quiet moments behind the school. No words, just the rustle of wind and the occasional time Peko pulled out her covered sword as she practiced her forms nearby. She never moved too fast, never startled him. The wood covering her blade slicing through the air with purpose, but her movements were deliberate- never violent, never chaotic.
(Y/N) started bringing a book. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he just listened to her breathe.
He trusted her long before he realized he did.
One afternoon, weeks into this fragile ritual, Peko put her sword down and sat beside him. Not close enough to touch- but closer than usual.
“I was trained to kill,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But I don’t want to be feared.”
(Y/N) looked at her. Really looked. Her eyes were steady, but there was something buried deep- something vulnerable.
“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered.
She turned to him. The softest flicker of something like relief crossed her face.
“You don’t flinch when I move,” she said.
“You don’t raise your voice,” he replied. “You don’t... look at me like I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken,” she said without hesitation. “You survived something that tried to destroy you. That takes strength.”
His breath caught. No one had ever said that before. Not like that. Not without expectation.
Peko looked down. “I don’t understand emotions well. But... I want to protect what’s important to me. You’ve become important.”
His heart stuttered.
He didn’t know what to say. But maybe he didn’t need to.
Because for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to hide.
And Peko, the girl who had only ever known her blade, sat quietly beside him- offering a different kind of shield.
After a while, they both stood, going off in their separate directions, like any other day.
The next day, around the end of the school day, (Y/N) was making his way to his loacker to gather all of his things.
The hallway was nearly empty, that sort of eerie quiet where footsteps echo too loudly. (Y/N) had stayed behind, as usual, hoping the other students would clear out so he wouldn’t have to squeeze through a crowd. But he hadn’t realized one of the seniors- Riku, loud and full of something bitter- was waiting around the corner.
“Hey,” Riku said, stepping into his path.
(Y/N) froze.
He recognized that voice. Recognized the way his tone coiled beneath fake friendliness. He backed up a step.
“Relax, man. Just wanna talk,” Riku smirked, inching closer. “You’re always glued to that sword-girl. Pretty sure she’s not into shy little losers.”
(Y/N)’s throat tightened. His breath came shallow. Riku moved fast- too fast- blocking his path with an arm against the lockers.
Something snapped behind his eyes. He wasn’t seeing the hallway anymore. He was seeing him. The stepfather who slammed doors. Who raised fists. Who spat words like nails. His body went rigid. Breath caught.
But then-
A voice, sharp and cold as steel, “Back away from him.”
Riku turned. “What the hell-?”
Peko stood at the end of the hall, eyes narrowed at Riku. She wasn’t holding it in an offensive stance. She didn’t need to.
Her presence alone was enough to shift the air.
Riku chuckled, but it was weak now. “Geez, you’re really babysitting him?”
Peko didn’t blink. “This is your final warning.”
Her hand moved slightly, her fingers brushing the handle of her sword on her back.
Riku scoffed but stepped back, muttering something under his breath. He wasn’t stupid. No one crossed Peko Pekoyama.
The moment he was gone, Peko turned her attention to (Y/N), whose back was still against the lockers, chest rising and falling fast.
“(Y/N),” she said, softly now. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”
It took a moment, but his gaze finally met hers. Wide, haunted.
She stepped closer. Slowly. “May I?” she asked, gesturing vaguely toward him- not to touch, just to be closer.
He nodded once.
They sat down on the bench nearby, the world narrowing to the silence between them. Peko waited. Patient. Steady. He clutched his sleeves tightly, knuckles white, before he finally broke the quiet.
“My stepfather…” he began. His voice cracked. He paused. Swallowed.
She waited.
“He used to do things like that. The cornering. The threats. And worse. I’d hear his boots coming down the hall and- I just- I couldn’t breathe.” His voice wavered, and he shut his eyes tightly. “I always thought it was my fault. That I wasn’t strong enough.”
Peko didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was low. Intent.
“You survived that,” she said. “Not because you were weak- but because you endured. And that kind of strength... is rare.”
His lips trembled. “Why don’t you run from me, Peko?”
She tilted her head slightly, frowning. “Why would I run from you?”
“Because I’m messed up. Broken. You could be with anyone-”
“I choose to be near you,” she interrupted, voice firm. “Not out of pity. Not out of duty. But because... when I’m with you, I feel calm. Like I don’t have to always be a weapon.”
His eyes widened.
She hesitated, then reached out- not touching him, just letting her hand hover, waiting. “May I?” she asked again.
Slowly, (Y/N) nodded.
She took his hand gently, her grip warm but never tight. Never controlling. Just… there.
And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a victim.
Mikan:
The first time Mikan saw him, (Y/N) was curled up in the corner of the classroom, sleeves tugged over his hands, eyes glued to the floor like looking at anyone might make him shatter.
She recognized it instantly- the stiffness in his shoulders, the flinch at every sudden movement, the way his breathing changed when someone walked behind him. Fear. Not the kind that faded with time, but the kind etched into the nervous system like a scar.
She understood that kind of fear too well.
Mikan had always been too much- too clumsy, too anxious, too eager to please- but she was never too much for pain. Pain, she'd learned, made people pay attention. She'd hated it, but she'd lived in it for so long that when she saw (Y/N), she knew. He lived there too.
It started small.
A quiet hello after class, barely above a whisper. A bandaid offered when she noticed he was biting the skin around his nails until it bled. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t look her in the eye. But he didn’t push her away either.
That was enough for Mikan.
She didn’t try to fix him. She just sat next to him sometimes, talked softly about things that didn’t matter- how the nurse’s office was out of gauze again, how her hair wouldn’t stay right no matter how she brushed it, how the sky looked heavy with rain. He never responded, but slowly, he started listening. And eventually, he started nodding.
Then one day, he spoke.
“I hate being touched.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
Mikan froze. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to. She just nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Okay. I won’t touch you,” she said.
(Y/N)’s shoulders relaxed, just a little.
Weeks passed like that. (Y/N) never told her what happened, but sometimes he’d trail off mid-sentence and she’d see the flicker of something behind his eyes- something haunted and heavy. She didn’t press. She just kept showing up. With warmth. With patience.
And one rainy afternoon, everything changed.
He was shaking when he stumbled into the nurse’s office, soaked through, bruises blooming across his ribs. He wouldn’t say who did it. Mikan didn’t ask. She only helped him sit down on the cot, hands trembling as she reached for the medical kit, then paused.
“I-I-I’m going to clean your injuries now, but… I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay, okay?”
There was a long silence. Then, barely audible:
“…Okay.”
It was the first time he let her touch him.
Her hands were soft, careful. Every movement was slow, narrated in a gentle whisper. “I’m cleaning the cut now. It might sting a little, b-but I’ll be really careful, promise…”
He flinched, but didn’t pull away. His breathing hitched. She didn’t say anything when a tear slid down his cheek. She just handed him a tissue.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so broken.”
“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head so hard her hair slipped from its pins. “You’re not. You’re hurt. You’ve been hurt really badly, but that’s not the same as being broken.”
He looked at her then. Really looked at her. She saw the raw ache in his expression, the doubt, the exhaustion. But also, the beginning of something else. Hope, maybe.
In time, (Y/N) stopped flinching as much. He started sitting closer. Sometimes, he even smiled. It was small and fleeting, but to Mikan, it was brighter than the sun.
He wasn’t healed, not completely. Healing didn’t happen all at once. It came in pieces. In trust built moment by moment. In safety found in gentle hands and soft voices.
Mikan didn’t need him to be perfect. She didn’t even need him to be okay.
She just needed him to know he didn’t have to suffer alone.
And little by little, he began to believe it.
After that, the nurse’s office had become a kind of sanctuary.
At first, (Y/N) had only gone there when he had no choice- when bruises needed hiding or a panic attack left him too dizzy to think. But now, he found himself drifting there even on quiet days. Days when nothing hurt, at least not visibly. Days when the ghosts were just whispers, not screams.
Mikan was always there.
She never asked him to explain himself. She never pushed when the words got stuck in his throat. She just smiled- nervous, shaky, but real- and made space for him beside her. Sometimes she offered tea. Sometimes she rambled about classwork or clumsily spilled cotton balls across the floor. Sometimes she just sat with him, in silence, and that was enough.
(Y/N) found comfort in her softness, in how careful she was. How she always announced every move.
“I’m reaching for the thermometer now, o-okay? I won’t touch you.”
“I’ll sit here, if that’s okay. I c-can move if it’s not…”
He never realized how deeply he craved that kind of gentleness until she gave it to him.
It was a Thursday when something shifted.
(Y/N) was staring out the window, watching a few birds hop along the grass just beyond the courtyard. The sky was a dull gray, the kind that made everything feel a little heavier. Mikan sat beside him on the cot, legs drawn up beneath her, chewing nervously on her lower lip.
She looked at him, then down at her hands. “U-Um… (Y/N)? Can I ask something?”
He stiffened, but nodded.
“Have you ever… had anyone tell you they’re proud of you?”
He blinked.
“…No.”
Mikan’s lips parted like she might cry, but instead, she scooted just a little closer. “I am,” she whispered. “I-I mean… I’m proud of you. You’re so brave. You keep going even when it hurts, and you’re always so kind even when you're scared, and… I just think that’s really, really strong.”
The room was too quiet. Too still.
Then- without thinking- (Y/N) reached out. His fingers brushed her sleeve. Not skin. Just fabric. But it was the first time he’d reached for anyone in years.
Mikan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Is… is it okay if I stay like this?” he asked, voice trembling. “Just for a minute.”
Her eyes went wide with emotion, then she gave the smallest, warmest smile.
“Yes. Of course it is.”
Later that night, (Y/N) sat on his bed with the lights off, staring at the soft imprint of her touch left in his memory. His stepfather’s voice still echoed sometimes, cruel and sharp and impossible to silence. But for once, it was quieter than the sound of Mikan’s voice.
“I’m proud of you.”
Those words replayed over and over, like a lullaby.
Tenko:
The dojo was quiet- unusually so. Dust motes floated in the sunlit air like tiny spirits, dancing just above the polished floorboards. Tenko Chabashira stood barefoot at the center of the room, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail that swayed with every practiced movement. Her breathing was controlled, sharp, matching the flow of her kata.
But she paused mid-strike, her sharp eyes flickering toward the door. Someone was there- hesitating. Hovering like a shadow.
"(Y/N)?" she called softly, letting her arms fall to her sides.
He flinched, half-hidden behind the sliding door, as if even hearing his name spoken aloud was too much. His knuckles were white where he clutched the edge of the frame, shoulders hunched beneath his too-large hoodie.
Tenko straightened and offered a gentle smile- not too big, not too forceful. She knew better than to rush him. Over the past few weeks, she’d noticed how (Y/N) never looked anyone in the eyes, how he avoided crowded hallways and jumped at loud voices. And worst of all- how he tensed around every man, like his whole body was bracing for a blow.
She had been careful. Always letting him choose the distance. Always making sure he knew she saw him as more than what the others whispered behind his back.
"I was just finishing up training," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. "You can come in… if you want."
He hesitated, then stepped forward like he was walking into an unknown world. Every step seemed like a negotiation with himself. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he sat at the far edge of the room, back to the wall, as if needing a way out.
Tenko didn’t mind. She simply walked to the corner, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a slow sip before sitting cross-legged across from him.
"You’re always welcome here, you know," she said softly. "No pressure. Just… a place to breathe."
(Y/N)'s hands curled tightly in his sleeves. His voice, when it came, was almost inaudible. “You’re the only one who doesn’t… look at me like I’m broken.”
Tenko’s heart twisted. She leaned forward slightly, mindful of her posture- open, nonthreatening.
"You're not broken, (Y/N). You've just been hurt. And healing... takes time. But you're strong. I can tell."
He shook his head. "I'm not. I can't even look at half the class without freezing up. I can’t-"
“You showed up here,” she cut in gently. “That’s strength.”
There was silence. A long, aching silence.
Then, as if asking for something he couldn’t name, he whispered, "Can I stay a while?"
Tenko’s expression softened. She nodded, voice quiet but firm. “As long as you need.”
And so they sat there, in the soft golden light, surrounded by the scent of pine wood and old paper walls. No fighting. No fear. Just two people- one offering calm, the other learning to breathe again.
Tenko glanced at him, watching the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly.
"I don’t usually like guys," she admitted suddenly, rubbing the back of her neck. "They make me uncomfortable. Scared, sometimes. I… guess that’s why I understand you a little."
(Y/N)'s head turned, just barely, and for the first time, their eyes met. Not for long, not intensely- but it was enough. Enough to see the sincerity in hers, the warmth behind the guarded strength.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Tenko gave him a soft smile- one that didn’t need words.
After that day, the dojo became their quiet haven.
Most days after class, Tenko would finish her practice while (Y/N) sat nearby, always keeping his distance, always watching. Sometimes, he brought a book. Other times, he said nothing at all. But he came back- day after day- and that was enough for her.
One afternoon, when the clouds hung low and the wind rattled the paper windows, Tenko finished a round of sparring with the training dummy and sat beside him on the polished floor. She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.
Instead, she handed him a cup of tea she’d brewed earlier. Chamomile. Something calming.
He took it slowly, hands trembling just slightly as he held the warm porcelain between his palms.
“I used to drink tea with my mom,” he said, voice low. “Before everything… changed.”
Tenko glanced over, surprised he’d spoken first. She stayed quiet, letting him decide how much to share.
“She used to hum,” he added. “All the time. While cleaning, cooking… even when things were bad. I miss that.”
Tenko looked down at her cup, her brow knitting softly. “I miss my sensei,” she said. “She taught me everything I know about Aikido. She said it wasn’t just about defense- it was about connection. With yourself. With others.”
She turned her head to meet his eyes.
“That’s why I started letting you sit here. I wanted you to feel safe… connected.”
(Y/N) bit his lip, shoulders curling in slightly like he was trying to keep himself small. But he didn’t move away.
“Sometimes I think I’ll never be normal,” he whispered.
Tenko scooted just a little closer- carefully, never pushing.
“What if you don’t have to be?” she said. “What if who you are now is already enough?”
He looked at her, eyes wide. There was no judgment there. No pity. Just Tenko-blunt, honest, warm. After a few moniutes, she suggested something.
“Just stretching,” she promised. “You don’t even have to touch me. It’s just you and your body. Reclaiming it.”
(Y/N) was hesitant. The idea of his body being his own felt... foreign. But Tenko’s voice was soft, and her patience never wavered.
He followed her lead one day, mirroring her as she slowly bent forward, arms extended. His form was shaky, unbalanced, but she never corrected him harshly.
“You’re doing great,” she said gently. “This part’s about feeling. Not perfection.”
Each day, he got a little better. He started standing straighter. Breathing deeper. Letting his hands relax at his sides instead of fisting in his sleeves.
He even laughed once- when Tenko tried to show off a high kick and accidentally knocked over a training mat.
She flushed red. “T-That was intentional, of course! A lesson in humility!”
His laugh was small but real, and she smiled like she’d just won a gold medal.
It was late one evening when (Y/N) had a nightmare and ended up knocking on her door at the dorms, pale and shaking.
Tenko didn’t ask questions. She pulled him inside and handed him a blanket. Made him tea. Sat on the floor with him until the trembling stopped.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She nodded. “Then we don’t have to.”
But after a while, as the tea grew cold between his hands, he said, “He used to come into my room when the house was quiet. Said it was my fault. That I was weak.”
Tenko’s hands tightened on her lap, her jaw clenching with quiet rage.
“You were never at fault,” she said. “Not even a little.”
And then- carefully, with the softness of someone offering a bridge- she opened her arms.
“I can hold you, if you want.”
His breath caught, chest rising unevenly.
“…Okay.”
He leaned in slowly, as if expecting her to flinch. But she didn’t. Her arms wrapped around his narrow shoulders, strong but warm. She held him like she meant it- like she wasn’t afraid of what he carried.
“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here.”
different anon but can you do another part to "where the hurt doesn't reach" but with a female reader? And with Mahiru, Toko and Maki?
Lmao just realised whilst writing that's one girl from each main game
A/N: Of course :} We love some wlw. Just so its made known, though, any time I write for Toko, I am going to add Jack into it as well. Just because there isn't exactly one without the other.
Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.4
pt.3 - pt.5
pt.1
Mahiru, Toko (Plus Genocide Jack), and Maki x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety /Avoidance, Mentions of Nightmares/Sleep Issues
Word Count: 3849
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mahiru:
The afternoon light poured softly through the old windows of Hope’s Peak’s photography studio, painting the floor in golden strips. Dust hung suspended in the beams, undisturbed until Mahiru Koizumi walked through them, camera slung over her shoulder, her gaze sharp but kind.
She hadn’t expected anyone to be here. The studio was usually empty this time of day- most students preferring the courtyard or their dorms. But as she stepped inside, her eyes caught the figure curled in the corner.
(Y/N) sat on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was holding herself together. She flinched before Mahiru even said a word.
Mahiru stopped. No sudden moves. No loud noises. Just a steady breath, then another.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” she said gently. “I can leave, if you want.”
(Y/N)’s eyes flicked up. She didn’t speak- just shook her head, barely perceptible. Her gaze was wary, but not unkind.
Mahiru studied her for a moment. (Y/N) had always kept to herself in class. Quiet. Careful. Like she was bracing for something. Mahiru had seen bruises like that before- not the kind on skin, but the kind behind the eyes.
“I just wanted to develop some photos,” Mahiru continued, moving to her usual table. She set down her bag with deliberate softness, not looking at (Y/N) again right away. “You can stay. I don’t mind.”
Silence stretched. A quiet, fragile kind. But Mahiru didn’t try to fill it. She just got to work, letting the scent of developer fluid and the rhythmic motions of her craft fill the room with calm.
A soft voice, almost a whisper “You… take photos of people, right?”
Mahiru turned. (Y/N)’s arms were still wrapped around herself, but her gaze had shifted. Curious. Afraid, but curious.
“Yeah,” Mahiru said. “Not the posed kind, though. I like catching real moments. People being themselves.”
“…Is that hard?”
Mahiru tilted her head. “Sometimes. Depends on the person. Some people put up walls. Some people just… disappear behind a smile.” She paused. “But I think everyone deserves to be seen. Really seen. Not judged. Not used. Just… seen.”
(Y/N) blinked. Her throat moved like she wanted to say something else but couldn’t find the words. Mahiru didn’t push her.
Minutes passed. Then… “Can I see one?”
Mahiru smiled, soft and genuine. She handed over a photo- black and white, grainy but intimate. A girl laughing mid-step, barefoot in the rain. The joy in her eyes was unfiltered. Free.
“She looks happy,” (Y/N) murmured, almost like it hurt to say.
“She was. For a moment.”
“…I don’t think I’ve ever looked like that.”
Something in Mahiru’s chest tugged painfully. She crouched near (Y/N), keeping a careful distance, her voice quieter now.
“Then maybe one day,” she said, “I can take a photo of you like that.”
(Y/N) tensed. She didn’t look up. “I don’t… like cameras.”
Mahiru nodded. “Okay. I won’t take any unless you ask.”
A long silence followed, but it was different now. Less sharp. Less suffocating.
Finally, (Y/N) asked, “Why are you being nice to me?”
Mahiru looked at her, earnest and unwavering. “Because I’ve seen what cruelty does to people. And because being kind… costs nothing. But it means everything.”
(Y/N)’s eyes shimmered, and she wiped at them with the back of her sleeve. Not sobbing. Just letting go, piece by piece.
“Most guys I knew didn’t think that way,” she whispered.
“I’m not most guys,” Mahiru said simply. “And they were wrong. About everything.”
The room felt warmer now. Not fully safe- not yet- but safer than it had been. Mahiru turned back to her photos, giving (Y/N) her space, but the quiet between them no longer felt like a wall.
It felt like a bridge.
The next time Mahiru entered the studio, (Y/N) was already there.
She sat on the windowsill this time, knees tucked up, eyes on the light slanting across the floor. She didn’t look surprised when Mahiru arrived- just quietly acknowledged her with a small nod.
Mahiru smiled softly. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
That was all. No explanations, no apologies for taking up space. Just presence.
Mahiru began setting up her camera again, checking the prints she’d left to dry last time. Her hands worked by muscle memory, but her mind was half on (Y/N). She could feel the quiet shift in the air- not tension, but something fragile trying to grow roots.
“You come here a lot,” (Y/N) said after a while, her voice still soft but a little more open.
Mahiru glanced up. “Yeah. It’s my favorite place. It’s quiet, but not lonely. You know?”
(Y/N) nodded. “I think I do.”
They spent more afternoons like that- saying little, doing even less. Sometimes (Y/N) brought a book. Sometimes she watched Mahiru work in silence, eyes following her movements with a kind of wary fascination.
One day, after Mahiru developed a print and held it up to the light, she felt (Y/N)’s gaze linger a little longer than usual.
“…Can I try?”
Mahiru turned, blinking. “You want to take a photo?”
(Y/N) hesitated, like the offer might collapse if she reached for it. Then she nodded.
“Of something else. Not people. Just… I want to know what you see through the camera.”
Mahiru handed it over gently, careful not to overwhelm her. “It’s all about finding the moment,” she said. “Even if it’s quiet. Especially if it’s quiet.”
(Y/N) moved slowly through the room, camera clutched like something precious. She didn’t raise it to her eye right away. Just observed. Then- click.
A stack of worn books on a shelf… The light catching on Mahiru’s film strips. A photo pinned crookedly on the wall, curling at the edges like it had been there too long.
When she handed the camera back, her hands were shaking just a little. But her eyes were calm.
Mahiru reviewed the shots, brows lifting. “These are good.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I’m not.” Mahiru turned the display toward her. “Look. You’ve got an eye for the quiet things. The things most people overlook. That’s rare.”
Something bloomed faintly in (Y/N)’s chest- small, unfamiliar. Not pride. Something gentler. Like she mattered.
“You’re the only one I like being around,” she admitted quietly. “Everyone else feels… too loud. Too close.”
Mahiru set the camera down, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she moved to sit near her, again keeping distance but close enough to be felt.
“I’ll never be loud with you,” Mahiru promised. “Not unless you want me to be. And if you ever want space, I’ll give it. You call the shots.”
(Y/N) looked at her- really looked at her- and for the first time, the fear in her eyes wasn’t the strongest thing there.
“…Can I take a photo of you?” she asked. “Just once?”
Mahiru blinked. “Me?”
(Y/N) nodded, already lifting the camera. “You were the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t broken.”
Mahiru didn’t speak- just sat still, the warmth in her expression softening every line of her face.
Click....
(Y/N) lowered the camera. Her hands weren’t shaking anymore.
Toko (and Jack):
(Y/N) kept to the corners of Hope’s Peak like a ghost- silent, untouchable, half-there. Shadows had become home, and solitude, the safest companion. The halls were too loud, the stares too sharp, and worst of all, there were too many boys. Too many broad shoulders, too many lowered voices and sudden movements, too many ways for fear to bloom in their chest like a bruise.
So when Toko Fukawa noticed them- really noticed- it was like the page of a book folding open mid-sentence.
She was used to being invisible, too. Not that she wanted attention. Attention meant judgment. Meant whispers and the gleam of disgust in someone’s eye. But (Y/N) wasn’t disgusted. When she looked at her, it was like she was bracing for a storm that never came. Like she was holding her breath, and still chose to meet her gaze anyway.
It unsettled her. And fascinated her.
One afternoon in the library, the silence between them finally broke. (Y/N) sat at the farthest table, fingers twitching as she turned the same page over and over, unread.
“You’re… uh… you’re not doing it right,” Toko blurted, then flinched at herself. “I mean-! You’ve been on that page for six minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
(Y/N) startled like a deer, flinching before shrinking into herself. Toko nearly apologized- nearly- but the words died in her throat. She saw the fear then, tucked behind her eyes like a broken wing.
“I wasn’t watching you,” she lied, cheeks burning. “Okay, maybe I was, but not in a creepy way, I swear. I just- ugh! I mean-” She groaned, burying her face in her sleeves. “This is why I should just talk to paper…”
“…You’re not scary.”
The voice was so soft, Toko almost didn’t hear it.
(Y/N) was still hunched, but she looked at her with something new: caution, not fear. As if testing the waters of her presence.
“You’re not like them,” she said.
Toko blinked. Then flushed deeper.
“W-Well of course not! I’m disgusting and weird and hideous and- wait, no, that wasn’t the point-!” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “God, I’m screwing this up…”
But (Y/N) wasn’t retreating. Their lips twitched upward- not quite a smile, more like the idea of one.
A beat passed. Then Toko hesitated. “Do you… wanna read with me?”
The next few days were different.
(Y/N) didn’t talk much, but she didn’t have to. Toko would sit across from her in the library, the space between filled with the quiet rustle of pages and the faint tap of pencils. She’d sneak glances when (Y/N) wasn’t looking. Noticed how her shoulders flinched whenever someone loud passed by. How she always kept a wall at her back.
Toko knew trauma. Knew what it was like to live with the ghost of a hand too rough and a voice too loud. It made her stomach twist, thinking of what (Y/N) must’ve endured. But she didn’t ask. Instead, she gave her space- and safety.
At least, until Genocide Jack decided to make an appearance.
(Y/N) had been particularly quiet that day. Paler than usual. The bruise of nightmares still dark under her eyes. Toko barely had time to ask what was wrong before the pressure in her chest burst.
A jolt, a cackle, a sneeze- and she was gone.
In her place stood Genocide Jack, twirling scissors in her hand like they were an extension of her fingers.
“Well, hellooo, cupcake!” she sang, eyes glinting. “Didn’t expect to see such a sad little cutie on this fine, freaky day!”
(Y/N) froze.
Jack noticed.
Her smirk faltered, just a little. She cocked her head, lowering her scissors.
“Hey. Hey, woah. Easy there, sweetheart,” she cooed. “You think I’m gonna hurt you? Nah. You’re not my type.” She winked, but it didn’t carry the same manic glee. More… reassuring. Protective, even.
“You’re shaking,” she said, softer now. “Who did it?”
(Y/N)’s eyes flicked away.
Jack crouched down in front of them, still keeping a careful distance.
“You know, Toko’s real boring about this crap. She’d stammer and flail and write you a sad sonnet or whatever.” She tapped her chin. “But me? I get mad. Real mad. No one- and I mean no one- gets to hurt my little book buddy.”
That surprised (Y/N). “Book… buddy?”
“Damn right,” Jack said, grinning. “You’ve been sharing brain space with Toko. Which means, like it or not, you’ve got me too. Congratulations! You’ve earned a raving lunatic guardian angel.”
It was ridiculous. And terrifying. And oddly… comforting.
When Toko returned, blinking back into herself like a splash of cold water, she gasped. “Did she say something weird? She always says something weird-”
“She called me her book buddy,” (Y/N) murmured.
Toko froze. A flush crept up her face.
“She… she what?!”
(Y/N) chuckled.
It was quiet, fragile- but real. The first sound of real laughter that had left her in weeks.
And in that moment, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt safe.
Not because the world was safe.
But because someone saw her. Bruises and all. And stayed.
After that strange, oddly healing moment, something began to shift.
(Y/N) kept coming to the library, but now she didn’t sit across from Toko- she sat beside her. Close enough that their sleeves would sometimes brush. Close enough that when loud footsteps echoed down the hall, (Y/N) would inch a little nearer, and Toko wouldn’t say a word. She’d just keep reading, heart pounding but steady, letting her presence do what words couldn’t.
And sometimes, when things got especially bad- when the nightmares came back, when (Y/N) walked the halls like she was holding back tears with each breath- Genocide Jack would come out, unprompted.
Toko didn’t always understand it, but somehow, (Y/N) liked her.
Her. The maniac. The murderer. The sharp-toothed, unfiltered chaos hiding in her bones.
“You’re not afraid of me,” Jack had said once, tilting her head as she sprawled upside down across the library bench. “Why’s that, huh? You like girls with a little stab in their step?”
(Y/N) gave her a look that was half-smile, half-sigh. “You’re honest,” she said simply. “You never lie about what you are.”
Jack blinked. Then she gave a laugh that wasn’t manic at all- just warm.
“Damn. You’re weird. I like it.”
They became an odd trio, in their way. (Y/N), quiet and ghostlike, Toko with her words and shame and fragile pride, and Jack, blazing through it all like a storm with scissors and sarcasm.
When Toko asked, in one of her rare moments of boldness, why (Y/N) kept showing up, she answered without hesitation:
“Because you make me feel okay… just being here.”
That stayed with Toko. Long after the library closed. Long after (Y/N) had gone.
It haunted her in the best way.
One evening, the library was nearly empty. Toko sat with her knees hugged to her chest, notebook open but untouched. (Y/N) hadn’t said much all day. She was pale again. Too still.
“Bad night?” she asked quietly.
(Y/N) nodded, then hesitated. “He used to bang on the door before coming in. Even now… I flinch when I hear knocking.”
Toko’s hands clenched around her sleeves.
“…I know how that feels.”
She looked up, surprised.
Toko wasn’t looking at her- she was staring at the floor, trembling just slightly.
“I had someone like that… he never knocked, either,” she whispered. “Sometimes I think I still hear his footsteps. I hate it. I hate how my body still remembers even when I try to forget.”
(Y/N) shifted. Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand over Toko’s.
Just that.
Toko froze.
But she didn’t pull away.
Neither of them said anything for a while. The silence wasn’t heavy this time. It was soft. Tentative.
“Do you… wanna stay with me tonight?” (Y/N) asked. “We don’t have to talk. Just… I sleep better when I know someone’s nearby.”
Toko’s breath caught.
Then she nodded.
That night, Toko sat curled in a beanbag in (Y/N)’s dorm room, notebook in her lap, glasses slipping down her nose. (Y/N) was in bed, curled under her blanket, already breathing softly.
Jack didn’t come out. For once, she stayed quiet. Still. Maybe even… at peace.
Toko watched (Y/N) sleep for a while, blinking slowly.
She didn’t understand why she liked being around her- around them- but she felt it. Felt it in the way (Y/N) leaned into her presence. Trusted her. Wanted her there.
It didn’t make her feel disgusting.
It made her feel wanted.
Maki:
It started with a broken cup.
(Y/N) hadn’t meant to drop it- it was just a clumsy twitch of the wrist, a ghost memory of flinching at a voice that wasn’t there. The ceramic shattered on the dormitory floor, echoing far too loud in the quiet of the common room. Her breath caught, eyes wide, body frozen like prey expecting punishment.
Maki Harukawa stepped into the doorway at that exact moment.
Her expression was unreadable, the same quiet storm it always was. Sharp eyes flicked from the broken cup to (Y/N), then to the trembling in her hands.
“I’ll clean it,” (Y/N) said quickly, too quickly. Her voice was thin and shaky, like a thread pulled too tight. “I didn’t mean to- please, don’t-”
“I’m not mad.” Maki’s voice was flat, but not cold. She moved slowly, deliberately, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I’ll get the broom.”
(Y/N) blinked. That was all she said.
Minutes passed. The shards were swept into a dustpan. Maki didn’t ask questions, didn’t press. She simply crouched, scooped the last of the fragments into a bag, and threw it away.
Then silence.
(Y/N) stood awkwardly in the corner, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
“You... wanted to?”
Maki finally looked at her then- really looked. Not with pity, but with a kind of quiet understanding that unnerved and comforted at once.
“I’ve seen that look before,” she said after a pause. “The way you flinched. The way your voice changes around men.”
(Y/N) stiffened.
Maki sat down on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her. She didn’t ask (Y/N) to join her. She didn’t ask anything at all.
But after a moment, (Y/N) sat too. Not beside her- just near enough to feel the warmth of someone who wasn’t going to hurt her.
“It was my stepfather,” (Y/N) whispered, unsure why the words came out. “He was... angry. A lot. And when I couldn’t be what he wanted, he made sure I understood that.”
Maki didn’t look away. Her face didn’t twist in sympathy. She just listened.
“I’m afraid all the time,” (Y/N) admitted. “Especially around men. I know not everyone’s like him, but my body won’t listen. It freezes. I... freeze.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” Maki’s tone didn’t change, but there was something soft behind it now. “Fear is how we survive sometimes.”
(Y/N) looked at her- the calm way Maki sat, so still, like a blade sheathed but never dull. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t reach out. She gave them space in a way no one else did.
“You’re the first person who hasn’t tried to fix me,” (Y/N) said, voice barely audible.
“That’s because you’re not broken,” Maki answered. “You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
Silence wrapped around them again, this time not suffocating, but protective. Like a blanket pulled just high enough to hide behind.
Maki stood after a while, heading for the door. But before she left, she paused.
“I’m in the training room most mornings,” she said. “You don’t have to come. But if you do, I won’t ask why.”
(Y/N) blinked. “Are you... inviting me?”
Her eyes met (Y/N)’s. “I’m saying... it’s easier to fight ghosts when you’re not alone.”
And then she was gone.
But the room didn’t feel empty after.
It felt like the beginning of something quiet and kind.
It took three days for (Y/N) to show up.
She lingered at the edge of the training room, hands in her sleeves, unsure if she was welcome or just tolerated. But Maki didn’t stop mid-punch or raise an eyebrow. She just glanced toward her once, nodded like she’d expected it all along, and kept moving.
The rhythmic sound of fists against the sandbag was oddly soothing. Predictable. Controlled.
Unlike the chaos in (Y/N)’s chest.
“Want to try?” Maki asked without turning around.
(Y/N) hesitated. “I don’t really... fight.”
“That’s fine,” Maki said simply. “You don’t have to be strong like me.”
She offered a pair of gloves anyway, left them on the bench without pressure. (Y/N) didn’t touch them. Not that day.
But she came back. Again and again.
And slowly, something changed.
It wasn’t about the punching bags or the training. It was the routine. The silence. The way Maki didn’t push or prod or fill the air with empty words. She understood the language of people who flinch when spoken to too loudly.
(Y/N) started stretching beside her. Then mimicking the jabs. Then laughing- only once- when she tripped over her own feet, and Maki’s mouth twitched with something dangerously close to a smirk.
She was different when she let her guard down. Her sarcasm was dry and unexpected, her observations razor-sharp but never cruel. And (Y/N) found herself relaxing, just a little, every time she was near.
One morning, (Y/N) came in with a hoodie pulled tight over their head, shoulders hunched. Her eyes were puffy. She didn’t say anything.
Maki didn’t ask.
She just took a water bottle, cracked it open, and handed it over wordlessly.
“I had a nightmare,” (Y/N) whispered after a while. “I woke up and thought I was back there.”
Maki looked at her, silent for a moment. Then she said, “Sometimes I still dream of the first person I had to kill.”
(Y/N)’s breath caught.
“I didn’t want to,” Maki continued. “But I was told it was necessary. That if I didn’t, they’d kill me instead.”
A pause.
Then, gently: “You’re not alone in waking up afraid.”
(Y/N) looked down at her hands. “I hate how weak I feel.”
“You’re not weak. You survived.”
One week later, (Y/N) asked if she could walk with Maki to the courtyard.
It wasn’t much. Just sitting together in the chilly breeze, backs against the wall, sharing a peach Maki had taken from the kitchen like it was nothing.
Maki glanced sideways as (Y/N) chewed in silence. “You don’t have to stay near me just because I make you feel safe.”
(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “That’s not the only reason.”
“Oh?”
“I... like you.” The words stumbled out in a rush. “I mean, not just the way you make me feel calm. I like you. The way you listen. The way you don’t treat me like glass.”
Maki blinked. For a second, she said nothing.
Then: “I like being around you too.”
She didn’t blush. Didn’t fidget. But she let her knee brush against (Y/N)’s, the contact featherlight but real. Present. Intentional.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” Maki said quietly. “But if you ever want to be close, I’ll be here.”
And (Y/N), for the first time in years, leaned in just enough to rest her head against her shoulder.
The air smelled like fallen leaves and something new.
Something safe.
Hello my friend; I just came across your account so I wanted to say that I love your stories and everything! I also wanted to know if you are doing any stories requests or anything?🌷✨🤗🍒
Hiiii, @lelewright1234!!!! :}
I do indeed take requests! All of my boundaries and fandoms are in my masterlist, feel free to request anything you'd like! I have a few other requests I'm working on currently, but I love writing, I normally I get them done pretty quickly.
Hiiii!!!
I absolutely adore your Silco x reader, it's wonderful. Your writing it great 🥺 I was wondering if I could make a request? Okay, so, I love TOH, and SU, and you have both listed on your masterlist, sooooooo I was thinking maybe you could mix them?
Here's my idea, Hunter x reader, but reader is half Gem, like Steven. She somehow finds herself in the Demon realm, and ends up having to join the Coven Scouts, so she can find a way home.
A/N: Hiiii!!! Thank you so much! I can absolutely do that. I also love TOH and SU, so this is awesome. Actually, if it's okay, I'd love to make this into a new series because I had SO much fun writing it! If it's not okay, you can go ahead and send me a dm or another ask, and I won't, but I loved the idea, so I'd be more than willing to.
Drifting Between Worlds pt.1
Hunter x Fem!Reader
pt.2
Warnings: Violence/Physical Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Manipulation, Blood/Injury, Power Imbalance/Authoritarian Abuse, Themes of Control/Oppression
Word Count: 7292
Summary: (Y/N), a half-human, half-Gem, is transported to the Boiling Isles and brought to Belos by his scouts. Forced into the Emperor’s Coven, she trains alongside Hunter, growing close to him while searching for a way home. During a scouting mission, they discover Eda Clawthorne teaching a human girl- Luz. Knowing the danger of this revelation, (Y/N) hesitates to report it, but Hunter insists on following protocol. When they inform Belos, he punishes Hunter, leaving him scarred. Furious but powerless, (Y/N) helps Hunter recover and comforts him, strengthening their bond. However, witnessing Belos’s cruelty sparks (Y/N)’s growing doubts about his rule.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(Y/N) gasped for air as she broke through the surface of the water, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her entire body ached from the force of being shot through- whatever that was. One second, she was swimming in the ocean back home, and the next, she was being hurled through some kind of portal.
She blinked, disoriented. The sky above her was a deep, unnatural purple, with swirling clouds. Strange, jagged rock formations jutted out of the landscape around her, glowing with eerie light. But the most terrifying thing? The water below her boiled.
(Y/N) barely managed to grab onto a rocky ledge before she slipped back down. Her fingers burned slightly from the heat of the steam rising off the water. Breathing heavily, she pulled herself up, rolling onto her back and staring at the alien sky.
“What the heck,” she muttered, sitting up. She took stock of herself- her bathing suit was intact, even if it wasn’t ideal for whatever situation this was. She patted her collarbone, where the smooth, light pink Onyx was embedded into her skin. At least it wasn't cracked...
She had been through weird situations before- living with Steven and the Crystal Gems meant weird was normal- but this? This was new.
(Y/N) stood, shaking out her limbs and glancing around. The terrain was wild and unfamiliar, filled with crooked trees and strange creatures flitting about in the distance. “Okay,” she said to herself, taking a deep breath. “Step one: find someone in charge. Step two: figure out where I am...”
She moved cautiously, her bare feet brushing against the rough ground. She wasn’t too worried about getting hurt- her being a Gem meant minor scrapes and cuts weren’t a problem- but she didn’t exactly want to go charging into danger.
After what felt like an eternity of wandering, (Y/N) spotted movement- a figure, in uniform, carrying some kind of spear, walking along a worn dirt path.
A guard!
Hope flared in her chest, and she ran toward them. “Hey! Hey, excuse me!”
The guard- a creature with a birdlike mask and a white cloak- whipped around, gripping their spear tighter. “Halt! Who goes there?”
(Y/N) skidded to a stop, holding up her hands. “Whoa, whoa! I don’t mean any harm. I just- I need help. I’m lost. I don’t know how I got here.”
The guard’s head tilted. “You are… human?”
(Y/N) hesitated. “Uh… half?” She tapped her Gem. “Long story. But yeah, mostly human.”
The guard stepped back. “Humans are not meant to be here.”
(Y/N) groaned. “Yeah, I figured. Look, I just need to find someone in charge- some kind of authority? Maybe they can help me figure out how to get home?”
The guard hesitated, then sighed. “You should not be here. But I cannot leave you to wander. Come with me.”
Relieved, (Y/N) followed as the guard led her down the path, her mind racing. She had no idea what world she had stumbled into, but one thing was for sure- she had a long way to go before she found her way home.
(Y/N) followed the masked guard through the bizarre landscape of the Boiling Isles, her bare feet brushing over gnarled roots, uneven stone, and patches of strange, pulsing moss. Everywhere she looked, there were creatures that seemed ripped straight from a fever dream- multi-eyed birds, chimeric beasts with too many limbs, and even a small, scampering thing that looked like a skull with legs.
She tried to keep her face neutral, but every now and then, a shudder ran through her. She had seen weird before- Homeworld’s Gems, corrupted monsters, the things that lurked in Beach City’s more supernatural corners- but this? This was something else entirely.
“Are we almost there?” she asked after what felt like forever.
The guard barely turned their head. “Patience, human.”
She huffed, crossing her arms, but kept walking. Eventually, they emerged onto a wide, towering bridge that stretched over a massive chasm, and beyond it stood an enormous structure.
The castle- or palace- was massive, carved from gleaming white stone with gold accents. Tall spires twisted toward the sky, adorned with massive banners depicting a sigil she didn’t recognize. The entire place had a looming, eerie feel, like it was meant to impress and intimidate.
The guard gestured toward it. “This is Emperor Belos’s Castle. You stand before the heart of the Emperor’s Coven.”
(Y/N) frowned. “Right. And that means…?”
The guard didn’t answer, simply leading her across the bridge.
As they entered the palace, (Y/N) got an even better look at the inside- huge corridors lined with pillars, flickering torches casting long shadows, and walls decorated with more of those same sigils. Guards in similar white masks patrolled, watching her with curiosity- or suspicion.
“Where are we going?” she asked, voice lower now.
“To the Emperor,” the guard replied.
(Y/N) blinked. “Wait, seriously? I was meaning more of like, a local with some sort of knowledge or something… Not your leader or whatever...”
“You wished to meet someone with authority,” the guard said plainly. “There is no higher authority than Emperor Belos.”
Well. That was something.
As they walked deeper into the castle, (Y/N) felt her stomach twist uneasily. She had no idea who this Belos guy was, but something about this place felt… wrong. There was a heaviness in the air, a weight that settled against her skin, making her Gem hum faintly in her chest.
Something was off.
But she had come this far. If this Emperor guy could help her get home, she had to try.
Squaring her shoulders, (Y/N) followed the guard deeper into the palace, toward whatever fate awaited her.
The grand doors to the throne room swung open with an eerie creak, revealing a vast chamber lined with towering pillars. The air was thick with the scent of something old, like parchment and candle wax, but there was an undercurrent of something… darker.
(Y/N) swallowed hard as she stepped forward, her feet hitting the cold stone floor. At the far end of the room, seated atop an imposing throne, was the man she assumed to be Emperor Belos.
His presence filled the room like an unseen weight pressing against her shoulders. He was draped in a flowing white cloak, gold accents catching the dim light, and his face was hidden behind an ornate golden mask. Even though she couldn't see his eyes, she felt his gaze settle on her.
Beside her, the masked guard immediately knelt, lowering their head in reverence.
(Y/N), on the other hand, shifted awkwardly.
Yeah...
She wasn't doing that.
Instead, she let out a nervous laugh and rocked on her heels. “Uh. Hi. I take it you're the guy in charge?”
The guard shot her a look from beneath their mask, but Belos merely tilted his head. His voice, when he spoke, was smooth- calm, but holding a distinct weight to it.
"You are… different.”
(Y/N) blinked. “Uh. Yeah, understatement of the year.” She gestured vaguely to herself. “Human. Or, well, half. Kind of got lost, ended up here. Thought maybe someone in charge could help.”
There was a long pause. The air in the room felt colder.
“Half-human…” Belos murmured, almost as if he was turning the thought over in his mind. He rested his chin on one gloved hand. “How fascinating.”
(Y/N) didn’t like the way he said that.
Her fingers twitched, and instinctively, she reached up to brush her Gem- a small, subconscious action she often did when she was nervous.
Belos’s head moved ever so slightly, like he had noticed.
“You say you arrived here by accident,” he said. “How?”
(Y/N) hesitated. “I, uh… I was swimming. In the ocean. Then, boom- portal. And next thing I know, I’m nearly getting boiled alive.” She gestured vaguely toward the door. “So, if you could help me find a way back to my world, that’d be great.”
Silence.
Belos regarded her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he rose from his throne.
(Y/N) stiffened. She was good at reading emotions- her connection to them ran deeper than most- but right now, standing in front of this man, she felt… nothing. It was like standing in front of a void.
“You wish to return home,” he said, stepping down toward her. “And yet… you are something quite rare. A human in the Demon Realm is already an anomaly. But a half-human with a power I do not yet understand? That is even more intriguing.”
(Y/N) took a step back. “Uh. Cool? I mean, I’m flattered, really, but I kinda just wanna go home.”
Belos stopped a few feet in front of her. He was tall- taller than she expected- and even though she couldn’t see his face, she felt the intensity of his gaze.
“You may yet prove useful, child.”
That set off every alarm in her brain.
“Yeahhh, see, I don’t love being called ‘useful’ by ominous masked guys in creepy castles,” (Y/N) said, forcing a grin. “So, if that’s all, I think I’ll just-”
She turned on her heel, ready to leave, but before she could take another step, a wave of green magic flickered out from Belos’s fingertips.
(Y/N) barely had time to react before the ground beneath her feet locked up, thick green tendrils snapping around her ankles like chains.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Okay. Not good. Really not good.
Belos tilted his head. “I believe you will stay here a while longer.”
(Y/N) stood frozen, the green bindings around her ankles pulsing faintly with energy. Her mind raced, trying to figure out the best way to not be trapped in this nightmare situation, but Belos spoke before she could act.
“I have made my decision,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You will join my Coven.”
(Y/N)’s stomach dropped. “Wait, what?”
“You will receive the mark of the Emperor’s Coven,” he continued, ignoring her protests. “And you will train to become one of my Scouts. You will learn our ways, our laws, and how magic truly works in this world.”
(Y/N)’s hands clenched into fists. “Yeah, huge problem with that- I don’t do well with being told what to do.”
Belos regarded her, unmoved. “You wish to return home, do you not?”
(Y/N) hesitated.
Belos took a step closer. “There are no known portals back to the Human Realm. None that I know of.” There was something about the way he said it that made her gut twist- like maybe he did know something, and just wasn’t planning on telling her. “But if one were to be discovered…”
(Y/N)’s breath caught.
“I would decide whether or not you needed to know.”
Her fingers twitched toward her Gem, her instincts screaming at her. She could fight him, try to break free- but the room was filled with guards, and she wasn’t exactly at full strength after being thrown into this insane world.
For now, she needed to play along.
She forced her shoulders to relax and exhaled sharply through her nose. “So let me get this straight. I get branded with some magic tattoo, train to be one of your creepy bird-mask guys, and in exchange, you might help me get home?”
Belos tilted his head, as if amused. “That is the arrangement.”
(Y/N) gritted her teeth. The sigil- whatever it was- was meant for witches, right? But she wasn’t a witch. That whole system shouldn’t even apply to her. And yet, he still wanted her branded.
Something about that sat very wrong with her.
But she had no choice.
Not right now.
She forced herself to nod. “Fine.”
Belos lifted his hand, green magic curling around his fingertips. “Then we begin.”
A wave of energy surged forward, striking her wrist like searing hot ink.
(Y/N) clenched her teeth, swallowing down a hiss as the magic carved itself into her skin. The symbol of the Emperor’s Coven flared bright for a moment before settling, leaving behind an eerie, glowing mark embedded into her flesh.
She glared up at Belos, heart pounding.
"Enough of this," Belos said, his voice echoing through the throne room. His tone was final, dismissive. "The decision has been made. Send word to Hunter- she will be joining him in his room. That way, I can ensure the human is kept under watch."
(Y/N) stiffened. Hunter? That name meant nothing to her, but the idea of being shoved into some random room with a complete stranger wasn’t exactly comforting.
Belos turned his gaze toward one of the scouts. "You. Take her to her quarters."
The scout immediately bowed. "Yes, Emperor Belos. It would be my pleasure."
(Y/N) scowled but kept her mouth shut as the scout gestured for her to follow. As much as she wanted to argue, to push back, she knew she had no leverage here. Not yet.
The golden sigil on her wrist still tingled uncomfortably as she was led through the castles halls. The deeper they went, the more she realized just how massive this place was. There were halls lined with banners of the Emperor’s sigil, corridors guarded by silent scouts in their eerie masks, and doors leading to rooms she probably didn’t want to know the purpose of.
She kept her arms crossed over her chest, partly from irritation, partly because she was still just wearing a bathing suit.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they arrived at a set of large wooden doors. The scout opened one, stepping aside.
"This will be your room," the scout said. "You’ll be sharing it with the Emperor’s nephew, Hunter. He’s also training to become a scout. You’ll receive your uniforms and off-duty clothing shortly."
(Y/N) arched an eyebrow. "The Emperor’s nephew?"
The scout gave a stiff nod. "He is young, but skilled. The Emperor believes it best that he keeps an eye on you."
Of course he does… (Y/N) sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Great. He's on babysitting duty."
The scout didn’t respond- just motioned for her to step inside.
(Y/N) hesitated before entering. The room wasn’t terrible, but it was nothing fancy either. Two small beds sat on opposite sides of the space, both neatly made. There was a single wardrobe, a desk against the far wall, and a few shelves lined with books, candles, and training manuals.
The room smelled faintly of parchment and dust, mixed with something vaguely metallic- probably from whatever weapons or armor were stored in here.
And then she spotted him.
A boy sat on the edge of one of the beds, hunched over a book. He looked up when she walked in, his bright magenta eyes immediately locking onto her.
He was younger than her- probably twelve, a little shorter than her, with short blond hair that swooped slightly in front of his face. His features were sharp, with a hooked nose and a slight gap between his teeth. He had a small chip in his ear, but other than that, he didn’t seem to have any visible scars.
For a second, they just stared at each other.
Then, (Y/N) sighed dramatically and flopped onto the unoccupied bed.
“So, Hunter, huh?” she said, folding her arms behind her head. “Guess that makes you my new babysitter.”
The boy bristled. “I’m not your babysitter,” he said quickly, his voice carrying the kind of indignant edge only a twelve-year-old could manage. “I’m training to become a scout. I have actual responsibilities.”
(Y/N) smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, kid.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not much older than me.”
“I’m thirteen.”
“That’s barely a difference.”
“Still older.”
Hunter exhaled sharply through his nose and shut his book with a snap. “Look,” he said, crossing his arms. “I don’t know why my uncle wants me to share a room with you, but just stay out of my way, and we won’t have any problems.”
(Y/N) snorted. “Oh, trust me, staying out of the way is the last thing I plan to do.”
Hunter gave her a long, scrutinizing look.
Before either of them could say anything else, a knock at the door interrupted them.
A scout stepped inside, dropping a neatly folded pile of clothes onto a nearby chair. "These are for you," they said to (Y/N). "Your scout uniforms, a mask, and a few off-duty outfits."
(Y/N) sat up, finally feeling a little relieved. "Awesome. Running around in a bathing suit wasn’t exactly my plan for today."
The scout gave a curt nod before leaving.
(Y/N) picked up one of the uniforms, inspecting it. The material was sturdy but flexible, mostly gray with black accents- same as what she had seen on the others. The off-duty clothes were simpler, mostly dark tones, but comfortable-looking.
Hunter watched her from his bed, arms still crossed.
"So," he said, voice measured. "You’re really human?"
(Y/N) glanced at him, then tapped her collarbone where her Gem gleamed faintly. "Half."
Hunter’s magenta eyes flickered to the gemstone, curiosity flashing across his face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, Hunter tilted his head. "Well… at least you’re not completely useless."
(Y/N) snorted. "Not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult, but I’ll take it."
Hunter just hummed, flipping open his book again.
(Y/N) exhaled, rubbing at the fresh sigil on her wrist.
This was her new reality- for now, at least.
But she had no plans to stick around forever.
She just had to play along… until she found a way out.
Two years had passed since (Y/N) had been thrown into the Boiling Isles. Two years since she had been forced into the Emperor’s Coven, branded with a sigil meant for witches- one that, strangely, never seemed to affect her the way it did others.
She had learned a lot in that time.
Magic wasn’t just one thing here- it was divided, structured, controlled. There were different types of magic, and each coven specialized in one: Abominations, Healing, Illusions, Potions, and so on. Every witch was expected to join a coven, to be marked with a sigil that locked them into one type of magic for life. Only the Emperor’s Coven- Belos’s personal force- had the privilege of wielding multiple types of magic.
And anyone who refused to join a coven?
A wild witch.
(Y/N) had heard plenty about them. The Emperor painted them as dangerous, reckless, a threat to the system that kept order in the Isles. But the more she learned, the more she saw how much of it was just control.
She had trained alongside Hunter, learning the ways of the scouts, learning about the world she had been thrown into. And, in that time, she had become something she never expected- a partner.
After their training, they had been officially paired as scouting partners, working together on missions for the Emperor’s Coven. They had been given a slightly larger room than before, though they still shared it- two separate beds, a single wardrobe, and a small desk where Hunter often poured over books late into the night... Plus the little things (Y/N) made, scattered about in some places.
Despite their rocky start, they had grown into a strange, competitive sort of friendship.
Hunter was still Hunter, stubborn, cocky, always trying to prove himself. But over the years, (Y/N) had seen the cracks in his mask. He wasn’t just some power-hungry lackey- he wanted to be something, to prove his worth.
She got that.
And, despite everything, she trusted him more than anyone else in this place.
Not that she’d tell him that.
(Y/N) leaned against the railing of a high balcony overlooking the city of Bonesborough. The sky was dimming, lanterns flickering to life across the streets below. She tugged her gloves higher over her hands, absentmindedly brushing her fingers over the sigil on her wrist.
It still didn’t affect her.
Not the way it did witches. She had seen them struggle when they tried to use magic outside of their coven’s restriction, felt their pain when the sigil burned into them. But her? She could still summon her weapons, still feel the hum of energy in her Gem, still do things no one else here could.
And Belos knew it.
He had never spoken about it directly, but she had seen the way he watched her, the way he monitored her training, like she was an experiment he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
And she hated it.
“(Y/N).”
Hunter’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She turned to see him approaching, his white Scout cloak swaying with each step. He had gotten taller over the years- not by much, but enough that he was no longer shorter than her. His face had grown sharper, more defined, but his magenta eyes still held that same intense focus.
“Daydreaming again?” he asked, stopping beside her.
(Y/N) smirked. “What can I say? Your Uncle gives us such boring work, Blondie.”
Hunter rolled his eyes. “We have a mission tomorrow. Higher-ups want us scouting near the Knee. We leave at dawn.”
“Right, right,” she said, waving a hand. “Any actual details, or do I have to guess?”
Hunter huffed, crossing his arms. “It’s just recon. There have been rumors of wild witches moving in that area. We’re supposed to investigate, report back if we find anything.”
(Y/N) exhaled through her nose. She knew how this went. If they found wild witches, they were supposed to report them, let the coven take care of it.
The problem was…
She wasn’t so sure she wanted to.
Over the past few months, rumors had been circulating- whispers about wild witches banding together, resisting the coven system. And, more interestingly, there had been talk of something else.
Another human.
(Y/N) had been keeping her ears open, listening for any mention of this mystery person. A human in the Isles? That wasn’t something that happened every day. If there really was someone else from her world here, she needed to find them.
Hunter shifted beside her, his eyes scanning the streets below. “You’re distracted.”
(Y/N) shrugged. “Aren’t I always?”
Hunter frowned but didn’t press. He knew her well enough by now to know when she wasn’t ready to talk. Still, as the sky darkened and the city lights flickered, (Y/N) made a silent decision. If there was another human here… She was going to find them.
After gazing at the area below for a while longer, the two of them head back to the Castle, to rest and prepare for the mission in the morning...
When the time came, the wind howled as (Y/N) and Hunter crouched low behind a jagged rock formation, scanning the Knee for any signs of wild witch activity. The area was desolate- snow-covered ruins and eerie skeletal remains of the Titan’s long-dead body stretched across the landscape. It was cold, but nothing (Y/N) couldn’t handle.
Hunter adjusted his mask, his magenta eyes narrowing as he peered through the holes. “Anything?” he asked.
(Y/N) kept her eyes on the distant figures ahead. “Couple of witchlings,” she muttered. “Nothing worth reporting.”
Hunter sighed. “Great. Another boring recon mission.”
(Y/N) smirked. “You’re the one who wanted to take this seriously, Blondie.”
Hunter shot her a glare, but she ignored him, focusing on the three witches she had spotted earlier.
The Blight kids.
She recognized them from past missions- Edric and Emira, the older twins, and their younger sister, Amity. They weren’t causing any trouble, just training. The twins were helping their sister with a training wand, guiding her as she practiced spells.
It was harmless.
(Y/N) leaned back against the rock. “Nothing to worry about. They’re still in school. Too young to be locked into a coven yet.”
Hunter hummed in agreement, but they both knew that wasn’t always a guarantee. Not many were allowed to join covens as young as they had been, but the Emperor had made exceptions before.
(Y/N) turned her gaze elsewhere, scanning the landscape for anything unusual.
That’s when she saw them.
At first, she thought they were just another pair of witches training in the wilderness. One was tall, wearing a red dress, with a coat over it. She was moving with practiced ease, magic swirling at her fingertips. The other was younger- around twelve, maybe- with a small frame and a hat covering her head.
(Y/N) wouldn’t have thought anything of it… if it weren’t for the way the girl struggled.
The older woman flicked her wrist, effortlessly making a spell circle. The younger girl tried to copy her… but nothing happened. She tried again, waving her hands frantically, but the magic simply wasn’t there.
The girl pouted, stomping her foot in frustration.
(Y/N)’s breath hitched.
That… wasn’t normal. Most witchlings could do at least some magic, even if it was weak, even if it needed assistance. But this girl? Nothing. Her eyes darted back to the older woman. It took her a second to recognize her, but when she did, her stomach twisted.
The Owl Lady.
(Y/N) had heard about her before- Eda Clawthorne. A notorious wild witch, a troublemaker, and someone the Emperor had his eye on.
And she was training a girl who couldn’t use magic.
(Y/N)’s fingers twitched toward her Gem, her mind racing.
A human.
It had to be.
She could feel Hunter shift beside her, his attention also locked onto the scene ahead. “That’s the Owl Lady,” he murmured. “We should report this.”
(Y/N) hesitated. “Should we?”
Hunter turned to her, brow furrowed. “She’s a known wild witch. You know the rules- if we spot her, we report her.”
(Y/N) clenched her jaw. She knew the rules. She had followed them for two years- but this was different. This wasn’t just a wild witch causing trouble. This was another human.
And if Belos found out?
She had no doubt in her mind- this girl wouldn’t get a choice in what happened next.
“…Not yet,” (Y/N) said.
Hunter frowned. “What?”
(Y/N) forced a smirk. “Come on, Blondie. You really think Belos doesn’t already know the Owl Lady’s out here? If we bring him this, he’s just going to say we wasted his time.”
Hunter hesitated, clearly torn.
(Y/N) pressed further. “Let’s keep watching. See what they’re up to. If it’s anything actually dangerous, then we report it.”
Hunter exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. “Fine. But if we get in trouble for this, I’m blaming you.”
(Y/N) grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She turned her gaze back to the girl.
This was it.
This was her chance to finally get some answers.
(Y/N) moved silently through the snow-covered terrain, crouching low behind the jagged rock formations as she and Hunter edged closer to The Owl Lady and the young girl. The wind howled through the valley, but she barely felt the cold, her entire focus locked onto the scene in front of her.
She needed to be sure- was this girl really human? Or just a witch with some sort of magic-blocking issue?
Hunter followed after her, his arms crossed, clearly annoyed. “This is reckless,” he muttered under his breath. “We should’ve reported this already.”
(Y/N) smirked. “You should’ve reported this already. I never said I was going to.”
Hunter groaned. “This is why I don’t let you plan things.”
(Y/N) ignored him, her eyes fixed on Eda and the girl.
The Owl Lady was… something else.
Instead of teaching the girl proper spells, she was eating snow, explaining the different types as if that had anything to do with magic. The girl- who was bundled up in a coat and hat- looked increasingly frustrated, her arms flailing as she pouted.
(Y/N) raised an eyebrow. What kind of training method is that?
“She’s not even teaching her,” Hunter whispered, unimpressed. “What is this supposed to be?”
“No clue,” (Y/N) muttered, tilting her head as she watched.
The girl huffed, stomping her foot. “Eda! I wanna learn real magic! Not about weird snow flavors!”
Eda licked a bit of snow off her hand, nodding sagely. “That’s exactly what someone who doesnt know what they are doing would say.”
The girl groaned dramatically, throwing her arms up. “Come on! You said you’d teach me properly if I became your apprentice!”
Eda sighed. “And I will! But magic isn’t just about waving your hands around and hoping for the best, kid.” She turned her back for a moment, rummaging through her bag. “You’ve gotta understand it, feel it-”
(Y/N)’s eyes sharpened as the girl suddenly perked up, her expression shifting.
Something mischievous.
She glanced over at where the Blight siblings had been training earlier- where Amity’s training wand still lay abandoned in the snow.
(Y/N)’s stomach clenched as the girl quickly tiptoed over, her boots crunching lightly in the snow.
“Ohhh, here we go,” (Y/N) murmured.
Hunter frowned. “What?”
The girl smirked, crouching down and snatching up the wand before Eda could notice. Her fingers curled around the handle as she straightened up, holding it like it was some kind of trophy.
Then, with a spark of excitement in her eyes, she quickly copied the spell circles Eda had been trying to teach her. Before (Y/N) could see if she could actually cast the spell, Hunter jabbed at her slightly with his elbow, making her glance over at him.
“We need to go back and tell Belos,” Hunter said, his voice tense.
(Y/N) snapped her gaze to him. “Are you kidding me?” she whispered harshly. “We just found another human, and your first thought is to run off and tell him?”
Hunter’s jaw tightened. “That’s what we’re supposed to do.”
(Y/N) scoffed. “Right, because Belos totally won’t just lock her up the second he finds out she exists.”
Hunter exhaled sharply through his nose. “You don’t know that.”
(Y/N) narrowed her eyes. “Yeah? And you do?”
He hesitated. Just for a second. But it was enough.
(Y/N) shook her head. “Come on, Hunter. You know how he is. You know what he does to people who don’t fit into his perfect little system.” She gestured toward the girl. “She’s human! She’s not even a wild witch! What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out she doesn’t belong?”
Hunter’s grip on his staff tightened. “That’s not our call to make.”
(Y/N) stepped closer, lowering her voice. “So what, we just hand her over? Let Belos decide what happens to her? Just like he decided for us?”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed at her slightly. “That’s different.”
(Y/N)’s heart pounded. “How?”
“Because we chose this!” he hissed. “We trained for this! We earned our place in the Emperor’s Coven! She-” He motioned toward the girl. “-She’s just some random kid who got stuck here!”
(Y/N) crossed her arms. “So was I! So why should we turn her in?”
Hunter groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You’re being reckless again.”
“And you’re being blind.”
Hunter whipped toward her, his eyes sharp. “I follow the rules, (Y/N)! That’s what keeps us safe!"
(Y/N) opened her mouth to retort, but before she could, Hunter grabbed her by the shoulders.
She froze.
His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm. Desperate. His magenta eyes locked onto hers, his expression taut with something almost pleading.
“We need to go back and tell Belos,” he said, his voice quieter now, but more urgent. “You don’t understand- he… We’ve already done too much.”
(Y/N)’s breath hitched.
She did understand.
Hunter wasn’t the Golden Guard yet, but he was striving for it. He wanted to prove himself, to be someone in Belos’s eyes. And he knew- just as well as she did- that they had already gone too far off course.
If they stayed, if they pushed this any further…
There would be consequences.
For both of them.
(Y/N) felt the tension in Hunter’s grip, the slight tremble in his fingers as he held onto her shoulders. She didn’t need to use her Gem’s abilities to feel the desperation radiating from him- his expression said it all.
He was scared.
He was scared of failing.
Scared of what would happen if they made the wrong call.
(Y/N) swallowed hard, her shoulders slowly relaxing under his grip. She had spent two years by his side, training, fighting, surviving in this world. They had started as rivals, as reluctant partners, but now?
He was the only person in this entire place that she trusted.
Her lips curled into a soft, almost resigned smile. It wasn’t her usual cocky smirk, nor the teasing grin she always threw his way.
It was something real… Something gentle.
“Okay,” she said quietly. “We’ll go back.”
Hunter blinked, surprised at her sudden change of tone. He let go of her shoulders, stepping back slightly, as if unsure whether to believe her.
(Y/N) exhaled through her nose, running a hand through her hair. “You’re right,” she admitted, though it pained her to say it. “We’ve already done too much. If we wait any longer, we’ll get in trouble.” She let out a dry chuckle. “And I really don’t feel like getting locked up today.”
Hunter studied her, searching her face for any sign of deception. But there was none.
(Y/N) meant it.
His shoulders lowered slightly, and he nodded. “Good. We’ll report what we saw. Belos needs to know.”
(Y/N) forced herself not to grimace at that part. She just casted a glance toward the girl again, before nodding slowly.
“Alright, Blondie,” she said, rolling her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
With one last look at the wild witches in the distance, (Y/N) turned on her heel and followed Hunter back toward the Emperor’s Coven.
The wind whipped past them as Hunter’s staff soared through the sky, cutting through the dark clouds over the Boiling Isles. (Y/N) held on tightly, her mind racing.
She glanced at Hunter, his face set in a determined, almost grim expression. He believed this was the right thing. He had to. This was his whole life, his whole purpose- following orders, proving himself, earning his place.
And, for better or worse, (Y/N) had chosen to stand beside him.
As the castle loomed ahead, its towering white spires gleaming under the pale light, (Y/N) forced down the unease bubbling in her gut. When they entered the throne room, (Y/N) immediately felt the oppressive weight of Belos’s presence settle over her.
He sat on his throne, his golden mask unreadable, his long cloak draped over his form like a shroud. The air was thick with something dark, something wrong.
(Y/N) and Hunter both dropped to one knee.
No matter how much (Y/N) hated bowing to anyone, she knew better than to test Belos’s patience.
Hunter spoke first, his voice steady- though (Y/N) could hear the faint edge of nerves beneath it.
“We scouted the Knee as ordered,” Hunter reported. “We spotted a few witchlings, nothing of concern… but then we saw The Owl Lady.”
At that, Belos tilted his head slightly. “And you did not return immediately?”
Hunter swallowed. “We wanted to be sure-”
That was the wrong answer.
Before (Y/N) could react, a sickly green tendril of dark, corrupted magic shot from Belos’s fingertips, moving too fast.
It slashed across Hunter’s face and neck.
Hunter choked on a breath, his eyes going wide as pain ripped through him. His body instinctively curled inward, one hand shooting up to press against the fresh wound. Blood dripped between his fingers, staining his gloves.
(Y/N) moved without thinking- she was at his side in an instant, her Gem flaring to life, her eyes burning bright pink.
She glared up at Belos, her fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. She could feel everything- the suffocating darkness in the air, the flicker of pain rolling off of Hunter, the twisted amusement buried deep in Belos’s presence.
This wasn’t a lesson.
It was punishment.
Her voice was sharp, shaking with barely contained rage. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
The room fell into a suffocating silence… Gi didn’t care. She knew she had just crossed a very dangerous line.
But right now?
She didn’t give a damn.
Belos tilted his head slightly, his golden mask betraying nothing. The room still felt suffocating, heavy with his presence.
“This is punishment,” he said calmly, his voice steady, as if explaining something simple to a disobedient child. “For not following orders.”
(Y/N)’s blood boiled, her pink-glowing eyes still locked onto him.
Hunter, still doubled over, sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers pressing against the wound on his cheek and neck. He was trying to keep quiet, trying to stay composed, but (Y/N) could feel his pain like it was her own.
“Next time,” Belos continued, his voice dripping with authority, “maybe you’ll think twice before disobeying.”
(Y/N)’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
But she knew better than to push further… Not now.
Belos flicked his wrist dismissively. “Leave me.”
(Y/N) was already moving- she slid an arm around Hunter’s back, careful but firm, helping him stand as his legs wobbled slightly. He still held one hand against his wound, his breaths shallow but controlled.
They didn’t say a word as they left the throne room, moving through the castle halls in tense, heavy silence.
The Healing Wing of the Emperor’s Coven was quiet when they arrived, dim candlelight flickering in glass lanterns along the walls. It was meant for scouts who got injured during missions- but not for those injured in the throne room.
Still, (Y/N) didn’t hesitate. She carefully led Hunter to one of the cots, easing him down before turning to one of the nearby healers. “He needs help. Now.”
The healer, a middle-aged witch from the Healing Coven, raised an eyebrow but quickly got to work, their hands glowing with soft blue light as they approached Hunter.
(Y/N) took a slow breath, crossing her arms tightly over her chest, trying to breathe past the lingering rage still burning inside her. Hunter just sat there, silent as the healer examined his wound, his magenta eyes staring at the floor.
She hated this.
She hated all of this.
But more than anything- more than the mission, more than the punishment, more than Belos- she hated that Hunter wasn’t surprised… Like he had expected this. Like it had happened before.
(Y/N) clenched her fists, her Gem pulsing faintly.
She wasn’t going to forget this- and she sure as hell wasn’t going to forgive it.
The soft glow of healing magic flickered against the dim candlelight as the healer worked on Hunter’s wound. (Y/N) stood off to the side, arms crossed tightly, watching every movement. The healer’s hands glowed a calming blue, slowly sealing the gash, easing the bleeding, knitting the torn skin back together. But even with magic, some things couldn’t be undone.
When the healer finally stepped back, they sighed. “That’s all I can do. The wound is closed, but the scarring… it’ll stay.”
Hunter barely reacted. He just gave a stiff nod, his jaw tight. (Y/N), however, clenched her fists. She knew that. She knew it wasn’t going to disappear entirely. But hearing it made her stomach twist with anger all over again.
The scar ran from the side of Hunter’s neck, up along his jaw, and across his cheek, ending just below his eye. His skin was still bruised around it, tender from the rawness of fresh healing.
Belos had done this to him.
Their own leader had scarred him just for hesitating.
(Y/N) inhaled sharply through her nose and forced herself to swallow the rage bubbling inside her. Now wasn’t the time. She stepped forward, moving to Hunter’s side. He hadn’t spoken much since they left the throne room.
“Come on, Blondie” she murmured, her voice softer than usual. “Let’s get you back to our room.”
Hunter didn’t argue. He stood, stiff but steady, and let (Y/N) guide him out of the healing wing.
The walk back to their shared quarters was quiet… Too quiet.
(Y/N) glanced at Hunter out of the corner of her eye. His expression was unreadable, his gaze fixed straight ahead. But she could feel the way his emotions twisted and churned inside him. She wanted to say something. Anything.
But what was she supposed to say? Sorry our boss is a complete psychopath? Sorry this happened to you? Sorry I dragged this out and made things worse?
None of it would fix this… So she said nothing.
When they finally reached their room, she guided him inside and shut the door behind them. Hunter wordlessly sat on his bed, rubbing a gloved hand over his face before resting his elbows on his knees. He exhaled slowly, staring at the floor.
(Y/N) hesitated, then sat beside him, not too close, but close enough. For a long moment, they just sat there in silence.
Then, finally, Hunter spoke. “I shouldn’t have argued,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, tired. “I should’ve just… obeyed.”
(Y/N)’s eyes flashed. “No.”
Hunter blinked, looking up at her.
(Y/N) turned to him fully, her (E/C) eyes- still faintly pink from lingering emotion- burning with something fierce. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like this is your fault.”
Hunter frowned, his fingers twitching at his sides. “But I-”
“No.” (Y/N) shook her head. “Belos chose to do this. He didn’t have to, Hunter. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Hunter swallowed hard, his gaze dropping again. “Doesn’t change anything.”
(Y/N) exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “Maybe not. But it wasn’t your fault.”
She hesitated for a moment, then reached out, gently touching his sleeve, just for a second. A small, silent reassurance… Hunter didn’t pull away. He just sighed and closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping slightly.
She hated seeing him like this.
Carefully, she shifted a little closer, keeping her movements slow, deliberate. Her free hand lifted, hesitating for just a second before cupping the uninjured side of his face.
Hunter stiffened at the contact, his magenta eyes flicking to hers in surprise… But he didn’t pull away. Her thumb brushed against his jaw, slow and soft, a comforting touch rather than anything demanding. She let out a quiet sigh, her Gem glowing faintly in the dim candlelight.
“Hunter,” she murmured.
His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, but he stayed quiet.
(Y/N)’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile, her voice dropping to something softer, something teasing. “I am sorry, though.”
Hunter frowned. “For what?”
She tilted her head slightly, her smile turning just a little playful. “For dragging this out. For making things harder. But, y’know…” Her thumb brushed along his cheek again. “You still look just as handsome.”
A slow blink.
Hunter’s ears immediately turned pink.
His mouth opened, then shut. Then opened again, as if he was trying to find words but failing miserably. His usual composure, his sharp retorts and perfectly structured logic- gone.
(Y/N) grinned.
There it was...
A small, flickering moment of something other than pain, than duty, than the crushing weight of what had just happened. Just for a second.
She could do more. She could use her Gem, could ease the tension twisting in his chest, could make him feel lighter, could quiet the storm inside of him.
But she wouldn’t.
Because even though she could sense emotions, even though she could manipulate them if she wanted to… That wasn’t her choice to make. Hunter’s emotions, his pain, his feelings- those belonged to him.
So instead, she just let her hand linger, warm and steady, letting him decide what to do next.
After a moment, Hunter finally managed to find his voice. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, his face still lightly flushed.
(Y/N) smirked. “And yet, you’re not denying it.”
Hunter groaned, rolling his eyes, but she could feel the shift- the tiniest, smallest change. The weight of the moment didn’t disappear, but it eased, just a little.
Question: Aside from fanfics, are you open to headcanon requests? If so, do you have any sort of character limit?
Hello, anon! :}
I'm open to doing headcannons, I mean, I basically insert all of my hc's into the stories I write LOL
It might take some getting used to, though! Since I'm so used to writing flowing stories.
As of right now, I don't have a character limit. But be aware, the more that is requested, the longer it might take to write. I usually write every other day, so I have days in between to draw. I'd appreciate if the characters requested are in the same fandoms, though. Unless it's something like a mix of fandoms, like my Hunter x Fem!Reader (which was a mix of TOH and SU) fic that was requested.
Just make sure any requests follow the guidelines on my masterlist, and I'd be more than willing to try!
Thank you for asking!
Art post!
I decided I wanted to make a bigger version of my little profile guy, with my new hair since I cut it sorta recently.
I actually finished this one, which is sorta surprising lolol. I have like, 20 unfinished pieces I'm currently working on.
My masterlist, where all my other art or writing posts are :}
Hello my friend, I hope that you are having a good day! 😊 Well, For my story request, I wanted to see if you could do a headcanon with Demon Slayer AU x short black!reader where they suffered and take medication from Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) or Multiple Personality Disorder where they act just like Junko Enoshima from Danganronpa but instead of killing their friends they are very protective of them to the point where they will kill/hurt someone else!~ 😂🥹💔😈
A/N: Of course, @lelewright1234! I want to make it known, though, I do not over-dramatize mental illness. DID is usually very overly portrayed to be "evil" or "harmful" in media, and I very much do not like that. I made sure to do some research before writing this, to make sure I am not doing any harm. Reader is aggressive, but only when it comes to keeping those they love safe :} Also, the gender of the reader wasn't specified, so I kept it gender neutral, but also also, the dialog is pink, cuz... Well... All the other colors were taken LOL
All of Me, All of You
Tanjiro, Inosuke, Zenitsu, Nezuko, and Genya x GN!Black!Reader Headcannons
Warnings: Topics of Mental Health, Violence/Gore, and Trauma Responses
Word Count: 2108
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tanjiro:
- Tanjiro is initially overwhelmed, but never fearful of (Y/N): Their energy reminds him of Zenitsu and Inosuke, but darker… sharper. He senses something fractured beneath the surface, and his kindness becomes a safe anchor.
- He learns the names and mannerisms of their alters over time: He is always calling them by their preferred name and tone. He’s especially good at grounding them during dissociative episodes- placing their hand on his heartbeat, holding eye contact, and speaking gently, “You’re here. You’re with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
- (Y/N) jokes about being "completely unhinged for their man,": Tanjiro just chuckles nervously until he sees them genuinely lose control when someone threatens him. One time, someone tried to kill Tanjiro during a mission and (Y/N) didn’t hesitate to gouge the enemy’s eyes out. Calmly. Softly. With a smile on their face. It terrifies everyone- except Tanjiro, who simply checks if they’re okay afterward.
- (Y/N) leaves bloodied love notes: “They touched you. I touched them back. With a blade.” Tanjiro keeps them hidden in a box because he doesn’t know what to do with them, but he can’t bring himself to throw them away.
- Medication and herbs help them sleep and prevents violent switching: But… It doesn't work all the time. When it fails, Tanjiro’s voice and scent help stabilize them. Tanjiro never forces them to change. Instead, he helps build routines that give structure without control.
- When he asks them out, he doesn’t do a big dramatic thing: He just says, “I love all of you. Every version. Every day.” And (Y/N) genuinely glitches for a second before saying yes.
- Tanjiro lets (Y/N) carve protective symbols into his blade hilt: Some are from folk tales (Y/N) remembers. Some they made up. He never questions them.
Inosuke:
- Inosuke lives for (Y/N)’s unpredictability: Their switching between personalities reminds him of a beast showing multiple stances- it's wild, it’s powerful, and it intrigues him.
- (Y/N)’s main protector personality treats their crew like royalty: Friends are sacred. Anyone who hurts one of them? Their lifespan just got significantly shorter. Inosuke once saw (Y/N) curb-stomp a demon for insulting Tanjiro’s nose. He fell a little in love that day.
- (Y/N)’s manic energy and sudden voice switches never throw Inosuke off: he adapts on the fly, meeting their different states with a mix of curiosity and brute loyalty. (Y/N) will giggle and switch from baby-talking Inosuke to planning someone's murder in a split second, and Inosuke just tilts his head like, "Huh. That’s hot."
- They take medication daily: They store their herbs and things in a cute pouch they sewed themself, covered in wild patterns and a tiny plush of a pig (for Inosuke, obviously). Some days, it works great- other days, (Y/N) is unhinged in a dangerously loving way. On those days, they cling to Inosuke like a talisman, grounding themselves through physical contact.
- When they dissociate badly, Inosuke doesn't fully understand it: He recognizes the signs- the blank stare, the disconnection. So he drops his usual yelling and becomes weirdly gentle. He’ll sit silently with them in a tree, hand on their back until they come back to him. He doesn’t try to "fix" them. He just accepts them. All of them.
- All of the alters agree on one thing: Inosuke belongs to them. Try flirting with him and see how fast a blade appears. Tanjiro helped them all come up with a color-coded system to identify who’s fronting. Inosuke ignores it and just uses vibes.
- Inosuke doesn’t say "I love you" much: He says “You’re strong,” “You smell like home,” or “If anyone touches you, I’ll break their arms.” (Y/N) says “I love you” through their chaos- they’ll cook him an entire feast, braid flowers into his hair, then threaten someone with a dagger in the same breath.
- When they switch, Inosuke has learned to adapt his affection: He hugs one alter, spars with another, brings meat to another, and just sits silently with the one that prefers calm. Sometimes they both sleep outside, like wild animals. He holds them like a baby boar, and they twitch in his arms until they settle.
- They don’t do PDA unless they’re in a certain headspace: When that time comes, it’s all over. Straddling his lap, biting his neck playfully, dramatic love declarations. Inosuke never knows what hit him.
- (Y/N) once got mistaken for a demon because of their intensity: Inosuke jumped in front of them, screaming “THEY’RE MY DEMON, BACK OFF!”
- (Y/N) writes love letters to Inosuke in different handwriting depending on the alter writing it: He collects them in a box he calls his "pride box." They both have a shared journal. Inosuke can’t really write well, but he draws them like a beast with heart eyes- every version of them.
Zenitsu:
- Zenitsu immediately falls for (Y/N)’s looks and protective aura- but is terrified the moment they switch alters in front of him for the first time: One second (Y/N) is soft-spoken and sweet, offering him a dumpling with a shy smile, and the next they’re standing on a table, eyes wide and grinning like a maniac, threatening to stab a merchant for “looking too long.” Zenitsu passes out. But when he wakes up and (Y/N) apologizes, stuttering and nervous, he just... melts. He realizes they weren’t trying to scare him- they were trying to protect him.
- Zenitsu learns to spot the signs of a switch: He respects each alter like a separate person. He greets them differently, talks with them differently, and never gets them mixed up.
- (Y/N) takes medication and herbs regularly, but sometimes it doesn’t work: Either the effects don’t kick in, or it causes physical side effects like dizziness or nausea. On rough days, Zenitsu becomes extra clingy and attentive. He holds their hand, braids their hair, lets them lay in his lap even when he’s panicking himself.
- He once tried to fight off a switch manually: “No, no, no! Stay here with me! Please don’t go scary mode, I can handle this-!” Spoiler… He could not. The protector alter came out and bodied the guy trying to rob them. But after every switch, Zenitsu wraps them in a blanket and reassures them they’re still loved. No matter what version of (Y/N) he’s with- he loves all of them.
- Zenitsu calls them “Sunshine,” no matter which alter he’s talking to: He says they’re his reason for fighting. Sometimes they wake up from dissociation and find that Zenitsu’s already made them food and is softly singing to himself nearby.
- The protector alter secretly adores Zenitsu, even if they pretend to be annoyed by how clingy and scared he is: They’d wreck someone for hurting him. On bad days, all three versions of (Y/N) might blend into one- and Zenitsu will stay by their side the whole time, gently reminding them who they are, and who he is.
- The protector alter takes the lead if the fight turns ugly: Think elegant blade work, laughing threats, wild eyes under a blood-smeared smile. Zenitsu does not like seeing them that way, but he understands it’s necessary. He’ll fight at their back, even when trembling. After every mission, no matter who fronted, they always find Zenitsu. And he always pulls them into a hug and says, “You’re safe. You’re still you. I’m proud of you.”
Nezuko:
- Nezuko loves how expressive and animated (Y/N) is: Even when they're cycling through personalities or dramatic outbursts, she’s calm, patient, and strangely entertained. She’ll tilt her head and smile sweetly, like “Yep. That’s my partner.”
-(Y/N)'s protectiveness is legendary: If anyone dares to look at Nezuko sideways, especially those that judge her, (Y/N)'s demeanor shifts instantly. Think wide grin, slow clap, and then, “Awww~ Did you think you were safe just because she’s sweet? That’s adorable. Let me fix your attitude... permanently.”
- When they’re “off-meds” or their symptoms spike: Nezuko recognizes it almost immediately. She’ll gently guide (Y/N) away from people, softly humming, holding their hand or petting their hair until they calm down.
- They bond through quiet activities when things are rough: Doing each other’s hair (Even though it was a process to teach Nezuko how to do (Y/N)'s hair, with the different texture and all), flower-picking, or watching fireflies in silence. Even with (Y/N)’s chaos, Nezuko grounds them. And they adore how peaceful she is.
- They don’t hide that they have DID. But they do downplay it with dramatic flair: They say things like, “Oh you know, I just keep life interesting~ One (Y/N) at a time!” All while flipping their hair and spinning dramatically.
- Nezuko and (Y/N) often tag-team missions: (Y/N) is the chaos, Nezuko is the calm. It throws demons way off. Some demons have tried to mess with Nezuko by provoking (Y/N), which is a mistake. (Y/N) will absolutely go feral, all while laughing and saying things like, “Oooooh you think you’re scary? Honey, you haven’t even met all of me yet~”
- (Y/N) sings loudly and off-key in the morning: Nezuko doesn’t mind- she mimics them and makes silly faces until they laugh.
- They sleep tangled up: Nezuko is usually gently curled into (Y/N)’s chest. If an alter is panicking in the night, Nezuko will sit up and rest her forehead against theirs until the shaking stops.
- Their dynamic is very "chaotic sunshine and quiet strength": When (Y/N) goes full dramatic monologue, Nezuko just holds up a peace sign or pats their head like, “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
Genya:
- (Y/N) is a compact firecracker, barely reaching Genya’s chest, but what they lack in height they more than make up for in intensity: Their presence is loud, chaotic, dramatic, and unpredictable- you’ll never know if they’re about to cradle you or cuss you out in three different accents.
- Medication is... complicated: With the time period, it's more herbs and calming agents passed to them by the Butterfly Estate, combined with daily grounding rituals they've invented themselves.
- Genya learns every single step of (Y/N)’s routine: He memorizes which teas help what symptoms. Which scents make them come back to themself. Which alter not to call cute unless he wants to get punched.
- At first, Genya didn’t know how to handle the... whirlwind that is (Y/N): He assumed they were unstable in a bad way. But then they saved him from a demon by breaking a bottle over its head, giggling the whole time, and said, “Touch my man again and I’ll make origami outta your spine.” That was the moment he knew. He was in deep.
- (Y/N) calls him “baby bird” sometimes: It makes him blush and scowl at the same time. “I’m not a bird, dammit- stop ruffling my hair!”
- (Y/N) talks a lot: Genya listens more than he speaks, but (Y/N) likes to think out loud, switch voices mid-sentence, and dramatically throw themselves across the room while explaining how hot Genya looks when he’s angry.
- Genya doesn't treat (Y/N) like they're broken: He treats them like they're human. And that is a huge deal to all of them. He sometimes stutters when talking to their more aggressive alter, but (Y/N) finds it adorable. “You’re scared of me, baby? I only bite people I don’t like.”
- They have a system: a code word when (Y/N) is losing time, grounding phrases that Genya uses to help bring them back, and a little sketchbook (Y/N)'s alters leave notes in for each other- and for Genya, too.
- (Y/N) fights like a theatrical maniac: They use erratic, unpredictable movements that confuse demons- suddenly graceful, then wild, then eerily still before a kill strike. They’ve been known to laugh during battle. Not a villainous cackle- more like a delighted child at a fireworks show. Their combat personality is ruthlessly protective. If a demon so much as grazes Genya, they go absolutely feral, dragging it by the throat back into the sun with zero hesitation.
- Genya will hold (Y/N)'s hand when they switch mid-conversation: Hed whisper, “You okay?” like it's the most normal thing in the world. They made Genya a beaded bracelet with alternating colors for each of their alters. He never takes it off. - When they’re having a rough time, Genya wraps them in his haori: He rubs their back, and gently says, “I don’t care which one you are today. I love all of you.” One of their alters once asked Genya out without asking the others. It became a thing. Now, every alter gets to ask in their own way.
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20-year-old artist in learning (Digital and traditional)| Gender fluid (They/Them) | ♑ | Pansexual/Demiromantic/Polyamorous | @piratemaxine05 is my lovely wife | On the Spectrum | SOCIALS!!! (Tumblr: @DeliciousSpecimen | ao3: DeliciousSpecimen | Wattpad: @idefcanyway | FFnet: DeliciousSpecimen | Insta: delicious.specimen)
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