collidescopeeyes

[collidescopeeyes]

Who is next on your list after Swain you think?

Not sure! I've got some shorter WIPs for Jhin and Aphelios sitting in the drafts, plus a very short intro for a Heartsteel AU that was mostly for shits and giggles, so probably one of those unless inspiration randomly smacks me in the face

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Relationship Headcanons: Viego

- Wants to be near you literally all the time. Loves physical contact and will find any excuse to get it.

- He physically can't blush, which is a tragedy because otherwise you could see how flustered you make him :( you still catch him just staring at you with open adoration so it's ok though

- Gives you privacy if you ask for it but his default state is wanting to be around you. Kind of guy who would be thrilled to watch paint dry with you cuz it means you get to spend time together. Will follow you around until you pay attention to him, 100% sulks if neglected for too long but can't stay mad at you for long.

- Gets jealous easily but is working on not being so possessive, so he just gets clingy(er) if he's feeling insecure. It's kinda cute.

- Low key gets freaked out if he doesn't know where you are. His last love died painfully in front of him ok he's got Trauma

- Can tell immediately if there's something up with you, pls talk to him about it, he worries and he just wants to help

- Likes to read, from romance novels to historical texts. Goes through surviving texts from Camavor frequently, trying to jog his memory. Keeps a journal now, in case the mist takes any more memories. A lot of it is prose about how pretty you were today, a fair hand at sketching too.

- Likes animals, especially dogs and horses–royal hunts were a big family event growing up. Animals do not like him anymore, the mist makes them uneasy. It makes him sad sometimes :(

- Has strong opinions on wine and ballroom music. Will talk about the composition of a symphony for hours if you let him. Would love to teach you to dance.

- Used to care a lot about how he dressed, but those memories are still pretty fuzzy and he doesn't really think about it anymore–dying kinda puts vanity into perspective. Likes dressing you up though, and will definitely dress to match if you're going somewhere. He likes the idea of coordinated outfits.

- Gets moody occasionally, it all gets a bit much for him sometimes and he starts thinking about all his fuck ups. Alternates between sad and self-blaming to frustrated and kinda bitchy, but does his best not to take it out on anyone. Instantly feels bad and apologizes if he says anything out of line. Give him time, cuddles and reassurance and he'll start feeling better.

- Can't sleep without you in his arms. Doesn't choose to sleep often anyway (he gets bad nightmares), but will happily lay there all night watching you sleep. Doesn't like to admit that though bc he knows it's kinda weird.

- Doesn't need to eat or sleep or drink, but likes doing it anyway. The other wraiths in the isles are shadowy mist creatures because they're souls the mists have taken, and the bodies are somewhere else. Viego’s situation is closer to him ACTUALLY being the crown and just possessing his own body constantly, sort of like he'd possess anyone else’s. He's still technically undead though so his only real bodily need is the magic that's keeping him walking around

- The crown can't be moved, his head just moves with it. It's sort of like horns, except they're not actually attached to his head. Yank him around by it ;). He can demanifest it if he tries but it makes him feel numb and weirdly claustrophobic

- Speaking of, is claustrophobic. Man was trapped in a sword for like a thousand years; he was only quasi aware that whole time, kind of like having a nightmare or sleep paralysis, but it still makes him uncomfortable. Doesn't come up much since he just kinda mist teleports out if he starts feeling cramped. If it's ever for some reason necessary he will be holding you like an emotional support stuffy and you won't get a choice about it.

- His tears are black and dissipate into mist after a bit. It's very goth. Can control the amount of mist pouring from his heart; at its thickest it's almost like a small waterfall.

- Lets you put your fingers in his chest hole exactly one time. It was so cold you couldn't actually feel anything. He described it as akin to someone squeezing his heart.

- He can float but it takes concentration and he honestly prefers just walking. Also, he's tall asf. You need something off a high shelf, he's your man.

- His sense of temperature is fucked. He can tell if something's hot, but if you hand him an ice cube and a piece of wood he can't tell which ones colder without looking. Worries his hands are too cold for you since you always feel warm to him (they're not)

- Looking at his reflection weirds him out, and sometimes you catch him staring at his hands. Man doesn't have an introspective bone in his body though so he couldn't tell you why, but really he only sort of remembers what he used to look like and sometimes the dissonance gets to him.

- In the far far future of TIARW some of the restored shades will choose to stay in the kingdom, since apparently Viego was beloved by the people before his wife died and he went fully off the deep end. Viego gets the opportunity to redeem himself to his people and kingdom, and another shot at being king but older and wiser now. With you as his queen, he swears not to make the mistakes of his past and to rule with the best interests of Camavor in mind. Maybe I'll write an epilogue along those lines at some point.

NSFW (under cut)

- Look he's perma stuck in honeymoon phase he's Thirsty

- High libido. A menace if you let him be but 100% respects if you aren't feeling like it, he knows he can be a bit much. Does need lot of physical intimacy but that doesn't need to be sex necessarily, he just likes making you both feel good

- Despite this, doesn't jerk off much. It's being with you that gets him going, not that he specifically wants to get off

- He doesn't get tired. Like ever. 0 refractory, will just go until either you tap out or he's so overstimulated he can't anymore. Watching his cum drip out of you just gets him so worked up though so it's a vicious cycle

- He's got a filthy mind and will have you every which way he can think of, in every room you'll let him. Fav position is probably you riding him cowgirl though; he likes the view

- Likes leaving lovebites, but he lowkey feels bad if he bruises you by accident. He gets carried away and forgets his strength sometimes, you'll have to convince him you're fine. He heals too fast for you to leave marks on though, it's tragic :(

- He's touch starved, we all know this, he was trapped in a sword for a thousand years. In particular though, his neck is very sensitive, as well as his thighs and lower back. Doesn't like the area around his chest cavity being touched. Loves having his hair pulled.

- He's got experience. He was a heartbreaker in his youth and he figures out exactly what you like uncannily quickly

- Love love loves going down on you, he loves watching you and he gets to make you feel good, doesn't even care if he cums as long as he gets to eat you out

- Boss him around, he loves it when you take charge. Loves being both praised and degraded, will try so so hard to be good for you. Edge him until he cries, make him cum over and over, yank him around by the crown and tell him what a pathetic cum drunk slut he is, he'll take it all and beg for more <3

- Not specifically dommy so if you aren't taking the reigns he's the perfect combination of loving and so horny he can't think straight. Tells you how pretty and perfect you are while he makes a fucking mess of you.

- He's so loud. If he's not telling you how good you feel or how perfect you are, he's moaning and whimpering and swearing. Ask him a question and watch him struggle to put a coherent sentence together in real time.

- If you want to give him a task you know he'll fail, tell him to keep quiet. Fucks it up immediately and he gets SO upset, full tears in eyes begging to make it up to you.

- Will happily do whatever makes you both feel good, willing to try most things you want to. Hard limits, wouldn't like saying mean things or hurting you even as part of a scene (receiving tho, yes pls). Also, very mixed feelings about doing it anywhere anyone could ostensibly see you–on one hand everyone should know you're his and he's yours, on the other he'd have to kill them. It would be the only way, they gotta die.

- Aftercare is a must, whole nine yards, hot scented bath and cuddles and affirmations all around.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #leauge of legends #x reader #reader fic #f!reader #reader #viego x reader #viego lol #headcanons #look honestly i just wanna bully him a lil yk

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel: Swain WIP Pt4

It's a week to Ionia on Swain's behemoth of a ship. You have dinner in his very classy quarters, and you talk about literature, the secrets of the universe, and on day two he brings out a Xa’h board, which is remarkably similar to chess but with slightly different pieces. You'll admit you may use your powers just a tad, to give yourself just a tad more time to think. You end the night tied–one win, one tie, one loss, after he adapted to your ‘unconventional strategy’. The next night you teach him chess, and he thrashes you.

Ostensibly, you're guarding him. Your little dance of not-quite flirting continues.

---

Your iteniary in Ionia consists at first of visiting select cities so Swain can make speeches and menace the local populace into maximum efficiency. After that, you travel out into contested borders, and that's when Swain puts you to work. Sometimes it's geography that needs changing, battles that need overseeing. In one place you uncollapses a building ravaged by a manastorm, in another you unbuild a wall and let an army in. You wear a nondescript cloak, get in, and do what you do, and get out. You figure Swain doesn't want to put your face to your deeds when he only has you for a limited time. Better it stay some unspecified Noxian sorcery than the work of an asset that they'll eventually lose. It's a preferable arrangement for you–maybe it was the years of isolation thing, but you never liked attention when it comes to crowds.

“They’ll be treated fairly,” Swain says. He doesn't turn to look at you when you appear back by his side, but somehow he always knows you're there.

You look out over the city, the one that will soon sport Noxus banners, and find you don't really feel much of anything. Maybe it's because for some ungodly reason, you trust him, trust that he'll do right by his people, that this isn't conquest for conquest's sake. Or maybe it's because he's right, and caring is a face you put on to feel human, that giving a shit is just something else the Void carved out of you. “What happens to them?” You ask anyway.

He glances at you. “They have seven days to swear fealty, or to leave. It's the same courtesy I extended the houses of Noxus, and every city Noxus has taken under the Trifarix’s banner.” He looks back at the city, frowning. “Darkwill left deep scars on Ionia, and I expect they think me the same as him, power hungry and cruel. It will take time for them to understand that isn't the case. I suppose I could–”

You’re both distracted by a choking noise behind you. You whip around just in time to watch the guards drop, their throats opened by invisible knives. Swain lashes out with his demonic hand, a crackle of eldritch energy wracking through the guards and their assailants. A cry of pain, as the guards drop, four masked figures shimmer into visibility. They each split into illusionary clones, all launching at Swain at the same time–

And you freeze each and every one in place. “My thanks,” Swain says congenially. He makes a circuit across the room, dragging his clawed hand through each assassin, and flesh or illusion his hand passes through each throat regardless. One, two, three–the last one, he skims his claw across their throat, but doesn't cut. You let the others drop. “If you wouldn't mind reviving the guards?” he requests politely, turning to look at you as he flicks the blood off his clawed hand.

You circle around the suspended assassin, reach your hands out towards the guards, and raise them back to life. It's a testament to their professionalism that they don't freak out.

One of them clears his throat, reaching up to rub where the cut just was. “Did we…die, Grand General?”

“Yes,” he says. “You may thank Iso for your continued existence. For now, take this one to the holding cells.”

“Yes, sir,” they say in unison. You unfreeze the assassin, and they both utter thanks as they walk past you to detain him. On their way out, you're pretty sure you hear one asking the other if this will affect their performance review.

“Does that happen often?” You ask, dragging your foot through the bloodstains and rewinding them back to clean.

“Occasionally,” he allows, frowning thoughtfully in the direction the guards went. “Ionians are willful, and their magic makes them unpredictable,” he sounds distracted, as if his attention is elsewhere.

You glance down at the blood staining his sleeve. “Do you want me to fix that for you, or…?”

He looks back at you, then at his sleeve, as if he's only just noticed the blood there. “That would be appreciated, yes,” he says, holding his hand up for you. You tug on his sleeve and rewind it to clean, and he regards your work with something akin to appreciation. “And you have my thanks for earlier, as well. That could have been much messier without your assistance.”

Professional, you remind yourself.

—

“Can I ask you a strange question?” You ask. “Bearing in mind that I can put your guts right back outside your body if you tell anyone about it?”

The soldier whose guts you did indeed just put back in their rightful place blinks at you, then at the next person you're resurrecting from the dead. “Y'know what, sure. Why not,” she says with a full body shrug, and then a wince. You were only healing the life-threatening/ending injuries to conserve your energy, so her arm is still broken.

“Does Noxus have any rules against, y'know, workplace relationships?” You ask, gesturing vaguely.

“No?” She says slowly. “I mean, you get in trouble getting caught hooking up in the barracks and shit like that, but assuming you're doing your job…no?”

The soldier under your hands comes back to life with a wracking gasp, hands flying to where the arrow in his neck had been. “What about dating your superior?” You press, shaking the blood off your hands.

“Why…” she pauses, glancing over at where Swain stands across the tent, urgently discussing something with their warhost commander. “Oh. Shiiiit.”

“I died,” the newly alive man gasps, struggling to sit up. “I died, Valcine–”

“Yeah, you and everyone else,” Valcine, apparently, says dismissively. “And Captain's gonna make us run laps until we do again cuz of it, you can bet your ass over it. I mean, c'mon, we crumbled out there as soon as those wind mages showed up, we're better than that.”

The man gives her an appalled look. “Wh–we don't even get a day off? For dying?”

She rolls her eyes. “Man, bring it up with the union or something, I don't care. Now fuck off, I'm trying to have a conversation here.” The man staggers off, grumbling, and she leans forwards intently. “Seriously? Grand General Swain?”

“I can kill you slow and bring you back and nobody would ever be able to prove anything,” you remind her. She laughs.

“Oh, don't you worry about that. I've got no intention of pissing you off, and even less of pissing him off,” she jerks her head in Swain's direction. You give her a confused look, and she shrugs. “I never seen anyone treat him as casually as you do and not have their head taken off.”

You blink. “I thought that was just because I'm useful.”

She raises a brow. “Ma’am, all due respect, this is Jericho fucking Swain we're talking about. This is a man demands respect from the biggest and baddest in the whole world. I don't believe he'd let a single thing slide if he didn't want to. Plus, I'm pretty sure I saw him smile at you earlier, and I've never seen him do that without borders changing hands. Point being, if that man is capable of having a soft spot, he's got one for you,” she says, sitting back and crossing her legs.

You don't know what to say to that. “I…suppose?” You hazard. “I thought he was just…less intimidating once you got to know him.”

She looks at you like you're insane. “Look, I can't say I know him, but by all accounts, that is not fucking true.” You frown. Somehow, that seems lonely to you–to represent so much that no one saw the person underneath. “Anyway, to answer the question you definitely didn't ask, also no. Noxus is a meritocracy, and we don't tolerate incompetence. If there was any kind of quid pro quo fuckery going on, it'd be found out pretty quick if some fuckwit got into a job they didn't earn and couldn't handle. You do your job, your personal life is your personal life, no questions asked.”

“Huh,” you say. “That's…good, I suppose.” You reach out and restore her arm. She blinks at you, then at it. “You'd better get back to it.”

“That I should,” she allows, tilting her head. “Take care, ma’am. And good luck with…all of that.”

—

One minute you're in a carriage headed for the next settlement in your grand tour, and the next the side of the mountain explodes. Your carriage is sent tumbling down the cliffside end over end before slamming into the ground with an almighty crash, although admittedly that sound could have just been the ringing in your ears from slamming your head into the wall. You look outside, except the carriage is almost on it's side and the rightmost window of the carriage looks up the steep cliff you just came down, which is now occupied by a fucking rockslide. You lurch out just as the first boulder strikes the window, freezing it and the rest in place before they can crush you. Your head spins from pain and exertion–the rocks you had froze had more rocks piling on top of them, and reality dearly wants to reassert laws like gravity.

“Iso, are you okay?” Swain asks urgently. His voice is very close to your ear, and it takes you a moment to register that you landed on him–or rather, he caught you, because his demonic arm is wrapped around your waist, your back pressed to his chest. You crane your head back to look at him, your hands still outstretched to the rockslide you're keeping in place. He looks at you intently, and his face is very close to yours. It's dark now, the rockslide blocking out any light from outside, so there's only the soft red glow of his arm. Not that the dark bothers you much these days–you can still see his face clearly.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have very pretty eyes?” You say vaguely. It's true–usually they're a dark sort of hazel, occasionally gold-flecked in the sun, but the way the red shines off of them right now makes him look almost ethereal.

He frowns, raising his human hand to the back of your head. His glove comes away wet with blood. “You're concussed.”

You blink. “Am I?” You ask vaguely, and then rewind yourself. The haze in your mind immediately lifts, and you wince. “Okay, yeah, I was. Are you okay?”

“Aside from the army of rebels up on that cliffside waiting to finish us off, yes,” he says dryly. Newly unconcussed, you realize that red gleam in his eyes isn't a reflection–no, his eyes have taken in a ghostly shadow of Raum’s as he sees through the demon's eyes. “It appears they're waiting to see who crawls from the rubble so that they can pick them off from a distance.”

“Did anyone else make it?” You ask.

“Not anymore,” he says grimly. “The rocks did most of the work. I take it our continued survival is your doing?” You feel more than see him nod at the rocks, frozen midway through crumpling the carriage like a can. The half-broken window is suspended in midair, a freeze frame shattered glass about to explode into your face. You nod. “How long can you hold that for?”

You shrug. “A few hours, at least. Wouldn't count on me being much good after, though.”

He's quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. “We'll wait. They aren't searching the rubble, and it appears we've taken the brunt of the rockslide. With luck, they'll assume we've died and depart.” You nod your agreement. He's quiet for a moment. “How long is it, before you're unable to bring someone back from death?”

You hesitate. “It's not really a question of how long for them, it's how long for me. I do too much and I render myself comatose. Death is harder to undo than an injury–the souls gone, and bringing something like that back from the Spirit World is a lot to ask from a reality that doesn't like what I'm doing in the first place. Putting aside that some people just can't handle dying…I dunno, how many were in the convoy?”

“Sixty three,” he answers immediately.

You think. “Assuming that we can recover the bodies…if I can get to them within a few days, I'd say it'd take me about a week?” You hazard.

He's quiet for a moment. “There were good men and women in this escort. I should have seen this coming. If it weren't for your quick thinking, we would both be crushed under rubble right now.”

“Given the timing, I'd assume they have access to the same invisibility as the last people who tried to kill you, and for all your vision you don't get truesight,” you point out. “In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that was just a test to see if you could see through it.”

He shifts his weight, so you're more sat between his legs than laying on top of him, though you can still feel his chest rise with every breath. “Did you want me to move…?” You offer, though there's hardly anywhere else to go in the half crushed carriage.

“You’re the one stopping us from being crushed to death. In this situation, you can do whatever you please,” he says mildly. He does not move his arm from around your waist.

“Oh good. You're much more comfortable than the wall.” You drop your head back against his chest. He's warm. You sit in silence for a while–ironically, your sense of time has never been good. “I don't like waiting,” you mutter.

“I couldn't have guessed,” he drawls. “Tell me, how long have you been in Runeterra for?”

You squint at nothing, thinking. “...almost a year, now.” You hazard. “Coming to you wasn't at the top of my list of ideas, no offense.”

He shrugs. “None taken. Had I had the option, the celestial dragon would have been my first choice too. Correct me if I'm wrong, but…you haven't truly stopped in all that time, have you? Always moving relentlessly towards your goal, until you came to me.”

“Not true. Sometimes I stopped to get very, very drunk,” you rebute. You can feel it when he laughs. “It's not just that, though. Sitting still like this would've gotten me killed, back…well, you know.”

“When you were taken into the Void,” he supplies. You don't answer. His human hand comes up to your chin, gently urging you to look at him.“How long were you there?” The uncertainty on your face must show, because his lips thin. “Do you even know?”

“Linear time and I don't have the best relationship in places that have celestial bodies to track the days with,” you say with a shrug. Somehow looking him in the eye is difficult, even though you're pretty much spooning–like he can see parts of your past that you don't even particularly like looking at. You look down instead, and realize you've been fidgeting with the feathery down of the arm around your waist. Well, really, petting. Swain hasn't objected, though, which you take as tacit permission–he really doesn't strike you as the type to tolerate–anything he doesn't actively want, really.

“Can you feel it? The other arm?” You ask softly, idly dragging your fingers into the down. It's oddly soft, for being made of glowing eldritch energy. You had a roommate with a pet bird once, and you vaguely recall that they like being patted against the feathers. You wonder if it's the same for him.

“Like it was my own flesh and blood,” he says. “Albeit one that is attempting to stage a revolt against the rest of my body.”

You snort a laugh, only to squeak as Swain's gloved hand comes out to cover your mouth. “Hush,” he murmurs into your ear. “They're climbing down to check for survivors.”

You're so, so fucked. Is he doing this on purpose? You focus on keeping the stones frozen, and not doing something clinically fucking insane like putting his fingers in your mouth. You can be normal about this. You're great at acting normal.

What passes next is perhaps the most agonizing ten minutes of your life, and for once it has absolutely nothing to do with the people who are actively trying to kill you.

“They're gone,” Swain finally murmurs. He doesn't move his hand. You're going to go insane. You bite his finger, gently closing your teeth around the warm leather and putting just enough pressure to sting. He clicks his tongue, but moves his hand. “Careful, girl.”

“You're one to talk,” you mutter. “Can I move the rubble off us now?”

“If you'd be so kind,” he says. You reach out and rewind the rubble, back up the clifface and into the mountain it was broken off of. The newfound light is almost blinding. Swain stands, lifting you up with him with the arm around your waist, and you vaguely wonder if his demonic arm is stronger or if he's just like that. He's certainly not a small man, by any means. He lifts you out of the carriage, and you do your best not to think about any other contexts where he might have his hands around your waist as you swing open the door and climb out. He's tall enough that he barely has to climb to do the same.

“They aren't far,” he says as he dusts himself off. “We need to move fast–Iso?” He looks at you in alarm, and you realize you're swaying.

“You know how I said that if I used my powers too much I'd pass out?” you mumble. “That, um…took more out of me than I thought. Sorry.”

The last thing you see is his alarmed expression, before you pass out.

—

You wake up in a bed. You sit up, alarmed, only to immediately see Swain in an armchair by the bed. You're in a farmhouse of some kind, though judging by the layer of dust over everything it's been abandoned for some time.

“Back with the living, are we?” He observes mildly. He's idly flicking through a book on herbology.

You frown. “I was dead?”

“A figure of speech, my dear,” he says, snapping the book shut with one hand and placing it on the bedside table. “We should be safe here. Reinforcements will arrive within the hour.”

You consider him. “You could've left me there,” you point out slowly.

“I could have,” he allows. “However, I feel as though you're either underestimating your worth or overestimating how difficult you are to carry.”

You sit up, swinging your legs off the bed. “So you carried my unconscious body through the woods, while actively being hunted, even though I can't die, can't be captured and can't even really be hurt in any way that matters?”

“Yes,” he says easily.

You consider him. “Why?”

He tilts his head, oddly similar to his birds. “Exactly what answer are you hoping to get here, Iso?”

“A straight one,” you counter. “You risked your life for me when you know damn fucking well that there was no risk to mine, and this entire trip has been one enormous game of chicken. I want to know what you want from me.”

He leans back, considering you and his next words. “I enjoy your companionship,” he finally says, tone matter-of-fact. “If you were so inclined, I would like it to continue in a personal capacity. I can honestly say that my regard for your abilities has little to do with my interest in you as a person, but I won't pretend that I don't fully intend to utilize them, and you, for the good of Noxus. I have no doubt that you intend to use me to serve your ambitions as well. However, I don't see any reason that has to get in the way of our relationship.”

You blink. That was upfront, but you suppose you probably should have expected that from Swain of all people. The man had been very clear about what the expectations were for you working for him–you suppose this was no different. “You understand that I'll be leaving as soon as physically possible, right?” you say cautiously. If you were going to have an adult conversation about your relationship, that seemed like an important thing to be clear on.

He raises a brow. “I am aware, yes.”

“And you're sure you're not seducing me for the good of Noxus?” You continue.

He laughs. “Should I be flattered that you think me so selfless? No, but I suppose you're entitled think and do whatever you please.”

You consider him, reclining in a beaten up armchair as if it were a throne, and you think fuck it. “I'll hold you to that,” you say, and proceed to climb into his lap and kiss him. He responds immediately, winding his feathered arm around your waist, the other threading through your hair. His kiss is both hungry and meticulous, like taking you apart with his mouth alone is his god-given purpose, and when you part you feel out of breath in ways that have nothing to do with the air in your lungs.

“You know, I was planning to have this conversation with you after we returned to Noxus,” he says mildly, tucking your hair behind your ear. If it weren't for the hungry gleam in his eye, you'd be offended at how unaffected he seemed. Still, you're struck with the urge to crack that composure.

“Best laid plans and all that,” you say somewhat breathlessly. You go to mouth down his neck, but his hand shifts to the back of your neck and tightens, tilting your head back like an unruly cat.

“If I am to have you, it will not be in some run-down shack in enemy territory,” he says, his tone almost idle if not for the undercurrent of steel.

“If I wasn't pretty sure I'd pass out immediately, I'd teleport us back both to Noxus right now,” you say.

He smirks, and his hold on your nape softens, his hand coming up to caress your cheek instead. “Patience, my sweet.”

You lean into his touch, feeling oddly like a cat looking for affection. “Because that's notoriously my strong suit.”

He chuckles darkly, and you're sure the little shiver that goes through you doesn't escape his notice. “Oh, I'm sure you'll learn.”

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #swain lol #swain x reader #WIPs

[collidescopeeyes]

Coming to the harrowing realization that Swain runs Noxus like I run a 4x game. The entire map WILL be an egalitarian utopia minmaxed to optimal efficiency and you DO NOT have a choice about it, either you are a vassal or an Enemy

#not fics #anyway cut to me playing space noxus in my next Stellaris game

[collidescopeeyes]

I like your swain fics, keep it up ♡´･ᴗ･`♡

Ty!! I think we're getting to some spicy bits soon 🫣

[collidescopeeyes]

Would you ever do Machine Herald Viktor next? So many elements to explore about healing flesh and machine and what it means to be human when you can't truly die.... 🫣

Hmmm that is a great point, the aesthetics are Poignant. Honestly I don't know much about non-Arcane Viktor, partially since I never play him cuz I never got the hang of his weird lazer attack. I can totally see a story where Iso goes 'hey I'll help you with your mad science if you get me home :) free test subject right here :) :)' tho, so maybe!

#asks

[collidescopeeyes]

you've done one of the best takes i've ever read on an Isekai. usually i find them hard to like but your flow and characterisation makes it so cool and interesting. can't wait to see who you do after Swain <3

Thank you!! Honestly when I first started writing roulette wheel I wasn't sure if I wanted to do the full League is A Video Game thing but I ended up really liking how flexible it made the story

#asks

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is Roulette Whee: Swain WIP Pt3

“I'm not allowed to make deals with you anymore,” you tell the raven sternly on your next outing. “Also, that was very rude. It's not like dying is new to me, but some warning would have been nice. Not that I think you can talk, per se. I mean, you have those creepy whispers, but I don't know the demonic language. I can probably guess what you're trying to get at, though, and no. I'm not letting you rip my head open for juicy tidbits, and also, I'm not making any bargains to free you from Swain's control. Anything you know he knows anyway, and he's less likely to fuck me over than a literal demon. Especially one that very rudely let's me get my throat shrapneled from the inside.”

The raven caws from your shoulder. “Yeah, that's what I thought,” you grouch.

—

You don't do much over the next month, honestly. Once every few days or so, a raven arrives with an envelope clutched it's beak, and inside is a time you're to arrive at Swain's office, wrangle Raum under control, and chat. He seems to like talking to you, or at least you assume that's why he keeps doing it. You do occasionally feel like you're on the business end of a reconnaissance mission, but you can't imagine knowing your opinion on yordles somehow gives Noxus an edge on their many conquests. No, at this point you figure that Swain just has an intense demeanor that makes him seem like he's always doing something important, even when he's just asking you how your days been, or how you're settling in, or your thoughts on the book you were reading. That last one might be a reminder that you're under constant surveillance, actually, but it's not like you particularly care. Spending years in a nightmarish hellscape completely isolated save for the inhuman monsters trying to kill you kind of maxed out your lifetime requirement for alone time. Besides, you're pretty sure the birds can't open doors or unbar windows, and if you really wanted privacy you could always rewind yourself to Piltover or something. Still, you leave your window open for the birds most days.

—

The bird on your windowsill caws to get your attention. You wave it over without looking, focused on your book and your breakfast. Noxus probably would've been higher on your list of leads if you knew their food was so good, honestly. Who knew artisanal bread and cheese could elevate a grilled cheese sandwich so much?

The bird lands on your table, Swain's fancy envelope in beak. You wedge your bookmark in place and take it with your clean hand, breaking the crimson red seal and fishing the card out one handed. “Three pm,” you read aloud, tossing the card back on the table. “Standard Raum wrangling duty, it seems.”

The bird croaks at you. You shrug. “I don't make the rules.” You rip off a piece of crust to feed to it, then frown. “Come to think of it, how do you work, anyway? Does Swain see everything you see, or do you just report the important stuff to him?” You frown. “That would be awkward. He is technically my boss. That being said, respect for authority was never my strong suit.” You consider the bird a moment, then turn back to your meal. “Ah, whatever. He has like a hundred of you running around. I'm sure he's not paying attention to me telling you about embarrassing things I did in primary school. Hell, maybe it'll convince him to stop having you follow me around.”

—

“I can hear everything you say, and no, the inanity of your conversation is not going to convince me to leave a mage of your caliber unchecked,” he says by way of introduction that afternoon.

You blink, shutting the door behind you. “I’m not a mage.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? How does one traverse the Void without magic, then?”

You shrug as you seat yourself across from him. He changed the chair out shortly after your first visit–it’s nicer now, with actual padding. You wonder if that's for your benefit, or if someone got the other one broken over their head. “It's a secret. Hand,” you wiggle your fingers at where his left arm lies hidden inside his imposing military coat.

“Would you tell me in exchange for a recommendation to a cake shop?” He asks, placing his red-lit palm in yours. His tone is dry, but there's an edge of sincerety there that makes you think he's not entirely joking. “They make a lovely lemon meringue.”

You click your tongue. “Sorry, no dice. Besides, I'm sure you can figure it out from the tidbit your birdie already got out of me.”

“I understand it was a Voidspawn that took you from your world, and I take it your powers are a result of harnessing whatever you found there,” he says offhandedly. “What I don't understand is how you came to be here.”

You glance up at him. He has that look again, the one that makes you feel vaguely like a butterfly pinned to a board, like he wants to peel you open and see what's inside. “If I knew that, I probably wouldn't still be here.”

“Hm. I hope you know I won't be opening any Void Rifts on your behalf,” he says casually. “Far too much cleanup.”

“If you can find me a trajectory through a hellish nightmare void that defies time, space and euclidean geometry, I will personally slaughter every Voidspawn from here to the nearest Shuriman Rift,” you say cheerfully.

He raises a brow. “Not overselling yourself, I hope?”

You shrug. “I don't die. Don't strictly need to eat or sleep because of that, either. And believe me, I know how to kill Voidspawn.”

“You also take several hours to revive,” he points out. “Hardly time efficient.”

You shake your head. “Reality is…rigid, here. Inflexible. Not the Void. Those things bring a little bit of nothingness with them. Makes it easy to change things, change me.” You frown at his hand, trying to find your way around your curse. “First time I died after coming here, it was morning by the time I woke up, and I was not happy about it.”

“Hm. How fast would you say, with exposure to Void energy? Minutes?” He peers intently at your expression. His brow hitches. “Seconds?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” you say breezily. “And if you don't mind, I'd rather change the subject, before I say something I shouldn't and end up spitting blood in your face.”

He grimaces. “Very well. What would you like to speak about, then?”

You blink. “Yknow, you're different from what I was expecting.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? And what did you know of me, before you met me?”

You open your mouth, except you have no idea how to answer that question. “I don't think I can fully answer that,” you say slowly.

“Partially, then,” he says.

You frown at him. “Hey, you were following me for weeks before we met, and you don't see me interrogating you about what you know about me, other than that I like lemon meringues.”

He blinks. “I did not know you liked lemon meringues, just sweets. And putting aside what you have willingly divulged to my birds, I know that you're stubborn, intelligent, pragmatic, and more ruthless than you like to pretend you are. You go out of your way to help others, but pain doesn't seem to phase you anymore and without that nothing in this world seems to pose any real threat to you, so the life-threatening risks you take aren't particularly high-stakes for you. You subject yourself to the mundanities of human life your powers could erase the need for–food, water, rest, walking to places you've been or practicing a knife when you could unmake a city. You don't shy away from your powers, so you must not think they pose any threat, but you don't use them as a crutch either–that leads me to believe you mistrust them, perhaps that they'd desert you once you return to your world. Please, correct me if I'm wrong on any of those counts,” he says, spreading his free hand invitingly. You don't. “There. I've told you all I know about you.”

You raise a brow at him. “I know you didn't tell me all that just to hear about yourself,” you say dryly, and release his hand. “But if you really must…I know you get kick out of getting under people's skin.”

He smirks. Whatever answer he was looking for, that was apparently good enough. He's handsome when he smiles–well, he's handsome all the time, but in the same way a classical statue is, a cold and untouchable sort of beauty. When he smiles, that wicked little twist on his lips, it makes him look human. Not quite approachable, but at least like someone that lives on the same plane of existence as you. “I can neither confirm nor deny. You may restore the walls of Bitharix tomorrow at your convenience. That will be all.”

“Yes, sir,” you say with a mock salute, rising from your seat as he returns to his work.

“The shop is called Halcyon, and it's near the war memorials,” he says as you turn to leave. You look back to him, taken aback.

“Are you just telling me that because I wasn't expecting you to, and you like throwing me off?” You ask skeptically, though there's mirth in your voice.

“I decided I should reward you for your rare approximation of respect,” he drawls.

“If I'd known I got a reward for being a good girl I'd have done it sooner, sir,” You say teasingly, because spending years in the Void talking to yourself just to stay sane has really done nothing good for your already tenuous brain-mouth connection. Swain looks up at you, brow raised, and the satisfaction you derive from his taken aback expression is almost enough to cancel out the fact that you just hit on your boss.

…Your boss, Jericho Swain, Grand General of Noxus, who you have to look in the eye in a scant few days. Who, judging by the smirk curling on the edge of his lips, has no doubt cottoned on from your deer in headlights that you weren't just fucking with him, and you've completely lost why opportunity to play that off as a joke.

Welp. He might think you don't use your powers as a crutch, but you've never left somewhere so quickly in your life. You make your escape before he has the chance to say anything.

—

He doesn't call on you for a few days after, and you almost, almost put the incident out of your mind. You've had more embarrassing fuck-ups, you're sure, and honestly everything you've been through kind of puts social blunders into perspective on an odd way. You decide not to worry about it.

—

“What is that?” Swain asks, squinting at the paper bag you've deposited on his desk.

“A lemon meringue?” You say, plopping into your seat and wiggling your fingers at him.

“Why is it here?” He says. He doesn't even look at you when he puts his hand in yours, busy opening the packet to peer inside, as if you've somehow put a bomb in a clearly labeled baked goods bag.

You blink at him. “It's for you?” He gives you a blank look. “I figured you liked them, since you didn't know I did and you brought them up anyway. If you don't want it I'll take it. You were right, though, they're amazing.”

“Hm. No, I'll take it. My thanks,” he says. There's a strange look in his eye when he regards you. “Is there something you want?”

You consider him. “People don't often just do nice things for you without wanting something in return, do they?”

“Implying you don't want something from me?” He asks.

You pointedly do not think about your last encounter. “Well, sure, but you know what I want.”

“Do I?” He says, his voice low and considering. His palm is warm in yours. You're so fucking made.

You resist the urge to squirm. You've spent years in the Void, whatever this is can't be worse. “Look, if this is about what I said last time–”

“It's not,” he says easily, completely derailing what was about to be a very awkward apology about your lack of professionalism. Not that you'd ever had much of that. Before you can ask what the fuck that means, he hands you a sheet of paper. “In any case, your services are required in Ionia. We will be departing tomorrow morning. The details are there.”

You scan the piece of paper, which is part mission detail and part itinerary. “We?” You ask, flipping the page over. “Wait, you got the Leviathan back? Didn't Gangplank steal that?”

He grimaces. “Yes. Captain Fortune returned it after she deposed her predecessor, as a gesture of peace towards Noxus.”

You glance up at him. “Did it work?”

A smirk pulls at his lips. “For now. Bilgewater is more useful to me as it is now. Besides, bringing that mis-managed shantytown to heel would be far more effort than it's worth.”

“Would be useful to have serpent callers on staff, though,” you point out idly. “If there's one thing I'm not going to miss about this world, it's the sea monsters.”

“A fair point,” he says thoughtfully. “Though I must say that relying on the favor of a god sits ill with me.”

You shrug. “Can't say I know much about Nagakaborous, but gods can be brought to heel like anything else. Look at Aurelion Sol.”

He gives you a sharp look. “The celestial dragon? What about it?”

You blink. “Oh. I suppose that would predate your demon. The Aspects enslaved it using a magic crown and bent it to the will of the Ancient Shuriman’s, creating the god warriors which ultimately led to the civilizations downfall. As far as I know he's still floating around Targon doing their bidding. When I tracked him down, he refused to help without the crown being removed, and putting aside how long I'd be comatose for if I tried to undo however many thousands of years, I'm pretty sure he intends to blow up the planet if he gets free.”

There's a predatory gleam in his eye. “I see. What else do you know, about the Aspects?”

You raise a brow. “If you're expecting me to sit here and lay out the secret history of Runeterra, you're at least buying me dinner.” Shit. Wait. You've done it again.

He laughs, rich and dark. He turns his hand in yours, his clawed fingertips brushing over the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is currently thundering through your veins. “I can give you so much more than that, dear girl. Tell me, what is it you're craving today?”

…You're so fucked, and what's worse, he knows it.

—

Once you scraped your brain into your head, the first thing that came to mind to request for dinner that didn't involve clothes coming off was steak. You spend an hour comparing your understandings of the Aspects, Mount Targons general political landscape and possible resources, and you go into a impassioned aside about how the cosmic dragon that created the stars in your sky was a pretentious prick. He does, in fact, get you dinner–which is to say, the tower has its own kitchen staff, and he invites you to dine with him. He's actually very cordial–for all that talking to him sort of feels like you're somehow being played, he also holds open the door and pulls out your chair. You notice he only uses his demonic arm in front of you–in the hall, he keeps it tucked away in his coat when you're walking, but as soon as the serving staff have filed out of the room he's back to normal.

“How many people know about Raum?” You ask, cutting into your food. It is, of course, excellent.

“Only the Trifarix, Katarina Du Couteau, and you,” he says. “More convenient to have our enemies underestimate me as a cripple, and those who witness my powers firsthand don't tend to survive the experience.”

You glance at him. “Is it really that bad, that you lost an arm?” He raises a brow at you, and you wave a hand. “Not as in–look, I've been dismembered before and it fucking sucks, but what I mean is…I don't think having two arms is what makes you dangerous.”

For a moment a bittersweet smile pulls at his lip. “Things were different under Darkwill. Martial strength was all that Noxus valued, and that is one of the many reasons it was rotting from the inside. It's a mentality some still share, inside Noxus and out.”

You snort. “Like it matters how good someone is in a fistfight when they have a fortress and an army?”

“Some would describe that as cowardice,” he points out mildly.

“I'd call it pragmatism,” you retort. “Do you frequently say the opposite of what you mean just to see if people will agree with you?”

He smirks. “No. But I don't particularly care for most people's opinions.” Implying he cares about yours? “Wine?” He offers.

(The wine is, of course, as excellent as the food.)

—

“When you said morning, you did not say pre-sunrise,” you grouch, huddling under your new coat. The wind is bitingly cold in the harbor; Swain seemed unbothered by it, though it sends his coat flaring dramatically around him. The upper deck has a balcony that leads directly to his quarters, and he cuts an imperious figure overseeing the Leviathan's launch.

“Not a morning person, I take it?” He drawls, as if he doesn't know damn well from his birds.

“There are three things that wake me up in a good mood–sex, food, and coffee, in that order,” you say archly. “And I don't imagine you have an eggs benedict and a vanilla latte under that coat.”

He raises a brow. “Unfortunately, no.”

Hm. That's a surprisingly lukewarm response. You pause, finally taking a good look at him. “You look tired,” you say, noting the shadows under his eyes. Exhausted would probably be the better term.

“Yes,” he agrees. “There was much to do before we left, and I hadn't planned on our talk being quite so engaging.”

You hold out your hand and wiggle your fingers at him. He glances at you curiously, but places his gloved hand in yours. You rewind him back to rested, and his brows hitch. “Convenient,” he notes.

“I'm not doing that on the regular, and I don't care how efficient you'd be if you didn't need to sleep,” you tell him bluntly, releasing his hand. “Even without the physiological side effects, there are deep-seated psychological ramifications to not sleeping you really do not want to mess with.”

“I'll take your word for it,” he says. “I appreciate the assistance, but the reason I called you here is because there's been a slight change of plans. You'll be serving as my primary bodyguard for the duration of this trip, not just part of my entourage.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you need a bodyguard?”

“No, but the Ionians’ don't know that, and I'd prefer it to stay that way,” he allows. “That does however mean that I expect you to stay by my side, unless I explicitly order otherwise.”

You nod. Internally, your head is in your hands. You're sure that being next to him all day will have only positive effects on whatever bizarre game of cat and mouse you're in with the man. Which, now that you think of it, you're not entirely sure if he's trying to seduce you, use you for the good of Noxus, or just enjoys fucking with you. Probably all of them, to some extent or another.

He turns to look at you, considering. Then he looks back over the still-grey horizon. “Your quarters are there. I suppose I won't take issue if you chose to return to bed. We are still in Noxian waters, after all.”

And little acts of kindness like that are doing nothing to help you make up your mind.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #swain lol #swain x reader #WIPs

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel: Swain WIP Pt2

SFW

Not me spending like an hour in the weeds of the fandom wiki trying to reconstruct a timeline for Noxus. Apparently after Swain killed the previous Grand General and established the Trifarix council he pulled back most of the warhosts but maintained a bunch of coastal territories in Ionia and Shurima, which is roughly when I'm setting this, but also at some point in the future he decides on Ionian Invasion Pt: Back In The Saddle Again re: the awaken cinematic, which apparently isn't even necessarily canon?? Anyway I'm extrapolating a bunch of information about Noxus' current political climate from those two things

----

They give you a nice room in what you take to be a guest wing, and Garret departs again. There are guards outside your door, which you aren't sure if you're to take as a threat or a luxury. You aren't really in the mood for their oppressive hospitality, though, so as soon as the doors close you rewind yourself to the streets outside.

Your latest raven sights you almost immediately. There's lots of them outside the palace–you assume because that's where Swain is. You make it to the block outside the tower before you stop and turn to look at it, exasperated. “Come on then,” you wave it over. It flits down to the fence next to you, cocking it's head at you. “If you're going to be following me around anyway, I'd rather know where you are,” you say, offering it your arm.

It blinks, one eye at a time. “I'll tell you a secret? Something no-one else in Runeterra knows…” you coax. It caws softly. “Alright, you drive a hard bargain. Two.”

The raven steps onto your arm and caws. You grin. “Okay, let's see…hm. When I was six, I stole all of my friends glitter pens and blamed it on a boy who was mean to me. Then I felt bad, so I threatened him into writing an apology note and planted it and the pens back in her bag the next day.”

The raven caws harshly at you. You shrug. “I never said they were ground-breaking secrets.” Nevertheless, the bird settles on your shoulder when you lift your arm up to it, and you set out again.

You walk without any particular purpose, just exploring the City. You were somehow expecting it to be more depressing, but despite the grim and brutality architecture the people are lively and vibrant. It reminds you of Bilgewater, but with less outright crime, honestly. The market hawkers holler offers across the street, beside you a woman argues sharply with a weaver about the cost of a bolt of silk. A vastayan man on a street corner does an elaborate fire-breathing display, and his hat is piled with coin. Nobody apologizes when they knock into you in the busy streets, but not once does anyone try and lift your purse. You eventually find your way to the markets, where you permit yourself to buy a few books and a glass figurine that catches your eye. You usually prefer to travel light, but here's hoping that you'll be staying here for at least a while. You get skewers from a food stall that smells irresistible, and you feed chunks to the raven as you walk back. You suppose that they must be like normal ravens to some extent, because it accepts the food easily enough.

The raven departs with a soft caw as you make your way back to the tower, the sun setting in the distance. You rewind yourself back to your room and read until your dinner is brought.

—

If you were counting your entire stint in the Void as a single incident, meeting the Trifarix is the second most stressful thing that's ever happened to you. It's like a job interview, except you're pretty sure they're going to try and kill you if you don't get the job.

You're led into a cavernous throne room, with the Trifarix seated at a simple stone table at the foot of the empty throne. Swain sits in the center, Darius on his right, and to his left the Faceless in their many layered robe. You sit across from them, feeling distinctly like you should be wearing something nicer. Your guard escorts fall back, and Swain prompts you to recount your offer.

What follows next is the most exhaustive hour of negotiation you've ever been party to. The Faceless asks where you got your powers. You explain that you can't explain, and then go through all of the unpleasantness of proving it by hacking glass up on their table. Darius wants to know what exactly you have to offer Noxus, the limits of your powers, whether you can be sent to the front lines. You tell him you're immortal, and then when he laughs in your face, you say he can behead you and prove it if he's fine waiting a few hours for you to come back. He kind of pauses, then, and either the seriousness in your offer or the shard of mirror glass still sitting on the table seems to convince him, because he's a tad less rude after that.

Swain seems more concerned with the terms of your agreement than your worth to the empire–what your duties will be, for how long, how each party will assure the other that they're fufilling their end of the contract. He doesn't know off the top of his head how to get you home, but he suggests several promising avenues a team of mages and researchers could pursue. The Faceless suggests you work for them until they find a way to send you home, you point out that that motivates them to purposely delay or fail their research to keep you here. You suggest that you work for them for a year regardless of their findings; at the end they either send you home, or you fuck off elsewhere. Swain suggests a ten year term with updates. You point out that if you find out that they're trying to fuck you over, you’ll unmake this entire goddamn city around them. Swain points out, almost idly, that that would disproportionately affect the citizenry, and you don't really have a rebuttal for that, so you relent and amend that fine, you'll just kill all of them, but that's a much less dramatic threat. Darius laughs. The other two do not.

You settle on a three year term.

---

“Garret, be honest with me, are you reporting my every move back to the Trifarix?” You ask wearily, on your way out of the meeting.

Garret blinks. “Not specifically. Of course I'll be honest if asked, but to be frank, ma’am, they have better ways to keep tabs on you.”

You grimace, glancing up at the birds on the rooftops around you. “That's fair. Why were you assigned to me, then?”

“If the need arised, to kill you,” he says evenly.

You raise a brow at him. He doesn't look any more dangerous than your average Noxian, but there must be some reason he was the one assigned to take you out. He looked Ionian–maybe some form of magic that would take you off guard. “Unlucky.”

“So I hear,” he says dryly. He stops in front of your new residence, a two story in a nice looking part of the city, or as nice as Noxus' imperious architecture gets. “This will be your new residence. Someone should have already been by to drop off your citizenship documents. Welcome to Noxus, ma’am.”

“You won't be escorting me anymore, I take it?” You extrapolate. He shakes his head. “Can I ask you a personal question, then?”

He blinks. “Not standing out here in the street, no. You may invite me in for tea, however.” He fishes a set of keys out of his pocket and hands it to you.

You crack a smile, open the door, and then turn to stand inside it. “Could I invite you in for tea, Colonel I don't know your first name Garrett?” You say with your best approximation of an Ionian bow.

“You may, Madam Iso I don't know your last name,” he responds in kind. There's the edge of a smile on his lips, which is as expressive as you've ever seen him.

“I don't actually know if I have tea,” you say as you close the door behind you. “I didn't bring any.”

“I don't drink tea,” he says plainly. He goes to sit at your new couch, politely folding his hands in his lap. “You may ask your question.”

You sit across from him, bemused. “Are all Noxians this abrupt?”

He inclines his head at you, akin to a bird. “We value our time. Was that your question?”

You laugh. “No. I wanted to ask, and you can feel free to tell me to fuck off if it's too personal, but…you're Ionian, right? Why are you here, in Noxus?”

He pauses for a moment. “That is very personal, yes. May I ask why you want to know?”

You pause a moment, mulling over your words. “Because…look, you know what I did in Shuriman. I work for Noxus now, and honestly there isn't a hell of a lot I wouldn't do to get home, but…all the same, I want to know what I'm getting into. What I've done to those people.”

He sighs. “It was…different, for me. My village was poor, and we had little to resist with when Noxus came almost a decade ago, under Darkwill’s rule. It was brutal, and I lost people I cared for in a hopeless attempt at resistance. The army raided our temple for relics, and we were told to bend the knee or die. I bent.” He spreads his hands to indicate to his practical Noxian garb. “I thought our lives would be as senseless and cruel as the army was. For a time it was. Then Grand General Swain deposed Darkwill, and things changed. The world opened to us. My sister pursued an education in history, my son an apprenticeship in smithing. We were recognized for the worth of our craft rather than the blood in our veins. I miss my wife, yes, and my son his mother, but we are fed and content.”

You look down. “Does that make it worth it?”

His lips thin slightly. “The spring does not justify the winter. They are merely things that happen, and we weather them.” You sit in silence for a moment, before he offers “Grand General Swain is just, as far as I have seen. He has inherited his predecessors' wars, but there is a purpose there where Darkwill only had tyranny and madness. He is not war-like by nature, I believe, but securing Noxus' future relies on stabilizing the borders of our acquired territories.”

“So that makes the brutal expansionism justified?” You ask dryly.

He shrugs. “Justification is the tool of a dishonest conscience. I know who I am and what is valuable to me, and I know what I must do to have it. So do you. That is why you are Noxian now. The citizens of Bitharix will have a choice to make, whether they value their lives or their ideals, and then they will either be dead or they will be the same as any other Noxian. I can tell you that the Trifarix cares for the wellbeing of Noxus. I cannot tell you if Noxus' wellbeing is more valuable than that of Shurima’s, but here is where I live, here is where I thrive, and so here is where I will serve. Whether the same can be said of you is your own decision to make.” With that, he rises to his feet and offers you a bow. “I will be going now.”

You nod. “Thank you, for your assistance, and for your advice.”

He nods. “Whatever path you choose to walk, I hope that you walk it with surety.” And then he turns and leaves.

You sit in silence in your new Noxian house for a few minutes. Then you abruptly decide this situation calls for ice cream and hop to your feet.

—

“Birdie, do you know if this place has ice cream?” You ask the raven that flies down to the fence next to you. It caws harshly, and you get the sense it's offended. “Oh, come on. I'll tell you a real secret this time if you bring me somewhere nice,” you offer enticingly. It caws again, this time somewhat uncertain. “C'mon, it's riiight on the tip of my tongue, can't you just taste it?” you taunt.

The raven stares at you so intensely you think it might actually be able to, and then hops onto your shoulder and caws in the direction of the markets. You beam and set off.

—

“God, I really needed this,” you tell the bird appreciatively as you devour your chocolate chip cone. “I know you're a demonic entity whose reporting my every move to Swain, since I'm under contract now, here's a secret for free: that man stresses me the fuck out.” The bird caws in what you take to be agreement. “I know, right? It's the resting bitch face, I think. It makes me feel like I've forgotten my homework or something.” You shudder.

As you finish your cone, the bird caws at you impatiently. “Alright, you did good, I guess you earned it,” you relent with a sigh. It hops onto your knee and peers up at you intently. The words rise to your tongue unbidden. “The thing that took me had a name, but I haven't been able to remember what it is since I killed it. I try, and it's just…white noise, like blood in my ears. I don't even know why I knew it's name, it's not like it ever told me,” you say forlornly. Then you blink. “Wait. I shouldn't have been able to say that. How did you–”

The raven crows triumphantly, and then pain beyond anything your curse has ever given you rips through you.

—

You wake up on a plush couch. You sit up groggily, only to realize you have no idea where you are.

“You weren't lying about your immortality, it seems,” Swain observes mildly. He's at a large desk, writing something. You're in his office, it seems.

You rub your throat. “What happened?”

“Raum suppressed your curse long enough to draw out a secret, and you paid the price for speaking where you shouldn't.” Swain says. He signs the page at the bottom, puts his quill in his inkwell, and then steeples his hands and looks at you. His expression is neutral, but there's an intent glint in his eye you aren't sure what to make of. “You were found with about a dozen shards of glass protruding from your throat. You have been dead for…” he glances at his desk clock. “Approximately one hour and twelve minutes.”

You blink. “That was quick. Usually takes longer here.” You look down at the couch you're on, which is covered in what is most likely your blood. You rewind it clean with a grimace. “Why bring me here?”

“For one, to verify your claims of purported immortality. For another, we need to discuss your duties. I had intended to give you some time to settle in, but given the circumstances it seems best to be expeditious. Do you need anything, before we continue?”

You frown. Your mouth tastes like blood. “Water would be good.”

He produces a pitcher and some glasses from a side table hidden from your view by one of his enormous stacks of paper, and gestures for you to sit across as he pours. “What do you know of Raum?”

You settle yourself across from him and drink. It tastes faintly of lemon. “Demon who eats secrets. I know generally what you can do with his powers, but I don't have the specifics of how you control them.”

He nods. “I see. Suffice to say, Raum becomes more difficult to control if I overuse his power, or if he's…overfed, shall we say.” He gives you a pointed look. You wince. “I purposefully let him loose to see if you could contain him unassisted. Not only did you accomplish that, but your intervention significantly weakened his bids for control. As such, part of your duties for your time with Noxus will be assisting me with Raum’s ongoing containment, starting now.”

You blink. “Now?”

“Now,” he repeats, unimpressed. “May I remind you that you fed him a secret capable of leveling a kingdom so that you could find the best ice cream parlor in Noxus, and now I am paying the price.” His voice is so dry it rivals the Shuriman dunes.

You wince slightly. “Yeah, that's fair. Give me your hand.”

He blinks. You hold your hand out towards him and wiggle your fingers expectantly. His lips thin slightly, but he complies. The leather of his gloves is warm, and you can feel the shape of his past beneath it, but… “Something's not right,” you mutter, opening your eyes. “Other hand.”

“Pardon?” He says.

You furrow your brows. “Give me your other hand.”

“This wasn't necessary last time,” he points out warily.

“Last time, I was being actively fried with demonic energy, which gave me a physical connection to Raum’s timeline,” you point out. “Now, I'm pretty sure there was a term in my contract that says you're not allowed to eldritch blast me just because you really want to, so I suppose you're just going to have to give me your hand.”

He lifts his hand from where it lies hidden under his coat, and if it were a word you thought could be physically applied to Swain, you'd say he seemed hesitant. Alas, it's not, so you go with wary instead. It casts a soft red glow across your skin, and when he finally places his palm in yours, it has the oddest sensation of electricity–a current that's just strong enough to hum under your skin, but not to hurt. Other than that, it feels like a normal hand, though admittedly one with long curling claws and feathers at the elbow.

“Satisfied?” He asks dryly.

“Yes,” you agree easily. You shut your eyes and begin to work–it’s strangely difficult, like every inch you wind Raum back he tries to regain. “This will take some time. He's not happy about it.”

“Hm.” He hums in response. “Tell me something. Why Bitharix?”

You blink at him. “It was in an important strategic location to connect trade from the coastal cities, and a sustained seige would cost too many resources, leave your forces too exposed for too long. Plus, I figured altering the geography of an entire city would be the fastest way of getting my point across.”

“Why not Port Alkaline?” He counters. “It was closer to Tereshni. It's an important coastal stronghold with strong walls.”

You furrow your brows. “I figured you were planning to blow their wall up and then just build it back. It's not nearly as thick, and you had more stone shipped in than you'd need for the those big ominous arches you like to build.”

“And do you know why we build the arches?” He pushes.

You frown. “It’s an ever present reminder of Noxus' presence, and their resources, as well as a defensible structure? Why are you…” you pause, narrowing your eyes at him. “Are you quizzing me?”

“Hm,” he hums noncommittally. “You mentioned you could restore the walls, and the Bitharix ravine.”

You nod. “Sooner would be better. Longer something is the way it is, the more it wants to stick. Won't take me long, though, I can go back to anywhere I've been before without much effort. Same goes for Alkaline, if you do end up blowing their wall.” You pause, listening. “...can you hear that whispering?” You ask.

“Constantly,” he agrees. “Best to ignore it.”

You frown. “Can you tell him to shut the fuck up?”

“I truly wish so, but no,” he sighs.

You open your eyes and squint down at his feathered hand. “Hm. Maybe if I…” and here, you slow the rhythm of Raum’s existence to a crawl, until there's quiet in your mind. Swain looks at you in what might be surprise, but doesn't comment. You sit in blessed silence for the few more minutes it takes to claw Raum back to what feels like a reasonable equilibrium. “Hm. Is that better?”

He removes his hand from yours, flexes it experimentally, then nods. “Yes. You're dismissed. I’ll send for you when I have need,” he returns to his work.

You stand, apparently dismissed.

“Oh, and Iso?” He calls as you turn to leave. “If you have any more pressing questions about local cuisine, please refrain from making bargains with my birds.”

You consider him. “...in that case, do you know where I can find a good seafood mornay? I've got a craving for fish.”

He gives you an unimpressed look. You're fully expecting to be ignored, but apparently he decides answering you is the fastest way to get you out of his office. “Sailmaker’s Bounty, on the east side. Now begone.”

“Thanks, boss!” You chirp with a grin before you close the door.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #swain lol #WIPs

[collidescopeeyes]

I absolutly love your writes, even if English isn't my mother language i find myself inmersed in your stories❣️

Thank you so much!! ❤️

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel: Swain WIP

SFW

There's been a raven following you around since you started approaching Noxus occupied territory. It's more annoying than you thought it would be, honestly–getting jumped by a shadowy cabal of assassins would be a pain in the ass, and if you're going into negotiations with the Trifarix you'll need the upper hand of surprise. No, you carefully do not use your powers while Swain is watching, even though it's a huge pain in the ass. You can't even get rid of them, either, because the one person you ask when you get a moment of fucking privacy seems to think they're just crows. Even though they're a) too huge to be crows, and more importantly b) have six glowing red eyes. A side effect of Noxus hemomancy, the ferryman says cheerfully as he takes you across the gulf to Shurima. The so-called crows don't seem to be inclined to cross the open water, and the one that's been tailing you watched balefully until your ship disappeared into the distance.

Another raven is on you as soon as you disembark. You're not the only one, either–travellers of interest all seem to get a corvid escort. It follows you in the days it takes you to travel out of town, into contested territory, to the City under siege by Noxian forces. You don't bother learning it's name–they’ll change it soon. It's in a key location to expedite trade routes between the existing Noxian settlements, but it's resisted capture so far by virtue of its defences, natural or otherwise. The city sports a grand wall, set against the edge of a narrow ravine on one side and a mountain on the other, the city was accessible only by a great drawbridge–by the same turn, though, it was constrained in size and relied on it's status as a trade hub to sustain its populace. Currently, you believe the Noxians plan was to starve them out, but that had its own complications–the city was dug in for a seige, and the Noxians had to keep their own troops fed and safe from the Shuriman wildlife, not to mention the resources required to sustain an extended seige. That makes it the perfect place to make your point.

The raven follows you as you trek your way out to the ravine. The mountain blocks the moon, and a lone figure without a light passes without notice.

(It was always dark, in the Void, yet you could still see. You thought that was just the way it was. It didn't occur to you until after that it was you that had changed.)

You reach the edge of the ravine, the wall towering overhead. The raven perches on a jagged rock nearby. You lean over the abyss, holding out hand out towards the wall, and you don't pull time backwards so much as you tear it away like peeling wallpaper. Back, before the walls were built, and then further still, to when the desert had water and the streams eroded this cut into the earth. The stone around you blurs, reality ripping at the edges, and then the city stands undefended.

You turn to the raven. It blinks, one eye at a time, so that it's never not looking at you. “Tell Grand General Swain I’d like a word. I’ll be in Tereshni.” You glance back at the city, now swarming with the beginnings of panic. “I can put the walls and the ravine back after you have the city, don't worry.”

The bird cocks it's head, and then takes flight north. You wait until it's gone, and then rewind yourself back to the room you rented. You're safe, for now–the ravens probably knew you'd paid for the place, but they couldn't get in on their own, and it would take at least a few days for Swain to arrive from Noxus Prime.

The world spins into little fractals of darkness, and you feel sleep dragging you down like a riptide. Undoing centuries like that will take you out for a week at least, but you have no doubt Swain will send someone after you before then.

Here's another trick you learned from your time in the Void; whatever brings you back, it brings you back perfect. Sleeping in the Void generally ended with you dying anyway, but if you really can't afford to be out that long, well. It's not like dying is anything new for you.

—

You come back a few hours later, clean up after yourself, and then sleep until morning. A polite knock wakes you.

You're greeted by a man in military uniform, who bows his head at you. “We're here to escort you to Noxus Prime, per Grand General Swain’s command,” he says. “Are you ready to depart?”

You blink. “What's your name?”

“Colonel Garrett, ma’am,” he says. “And you're Iso…?” He trails off, searching for a last name. On the rooftops around your rented room, ravens peer intently down at you.

“Yes,” you answer instead. He blinks. “It's like seven am, Garrett. I'm going to get breakfast, and then we can go.” You grab your bag off the side table, sweep past him and head for the market.

There's a whole squad you hadn't seen in the courtyard beyond your door. Garrett falls into step beside you, and they fall into step behind him. The pastry vendor you stop at doesn't even charge you.

—

They escort you to a private ship, and from the ship a carriage. Your escort spares no expense, though nobody exactly expects them to pay–the one thing they don't bend over backwards to accommodate you on was getting to the capital quickly. Before long, the looming plateau of Noxus Prime pierces the horizon. The gate guards let you through, and you're taken to a tower near the center of the city. There, you're taken to a refined yet reserved sitting room, and Garrett bids his farewell. A maid comes in to serve out tea, but other than that, you're alone.

You're sure this is a power play of some kind. You're sure it's also no coincidence that the assortment of artfully arranged finger foods are all the sort of thing you like. You are kind of baffled that Swain's magic demon arm that fed on secrets was being used to set the snack menu, but also, you're not complaining. It didn't take an army of spying birds to figure out that you're food motivated.

Swain comes in about five minutes later. He sweeps into the room, and he has the sort of commanding presence that makes him seem grand without doing anything in particular, an air about him that demands attention when he's doing something as utterly mundane as entering a room. You can't even attribute it to the glowing demon arm you know he has, because it's hidden behind the imposing coat he wears over his shoulders. He sits elegantly on the couch across from you, and does not say a word. You get the distinct impression that he's sizing you up.

You blink at him. “Did you want some tea, or can we get straight to business here?”

His expression doesn't change. “Let's. You brought down the walls of Bitharix to let our troops in. Why?”

You nod. “I figured you wouldn't take my offer seriously without a gesture of good faith, and a show of power.”

He inclines his head. “That is the Noxian way, yes. What is it you seek?”

“I'm from a world beyond the Void. I want to go home. If you agree to help find me a way back, I'll be your weapon for a year,” you tell him evenly. You figure it was better to be concise here. Swain does not strike you as a man with an open schedule.

He considers you clinically for a long moment. “I assume there's a reason you elected to bring this offer to me specifically, and not the Trifarix?”

You nod. “You’re the one with the demonic arm that eats secrets. I figure if anyone knew how to get me home, it would be you. I can also guarentee that if at any point during my employment the demon in your arm happens to take control of you, I can undo it.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “And how do you know that?”

“About your demon, or that I can fix you?” You ask. He doesn't answer. You shrug. “I know a lot of things about this world. I know about the Immortal King that built the bones of this city, I know about the Black Rose and their experiments, and I know who you have on staff to kill you if you ever lose yourself to that arm of yours. I also know that all the promises in the world don't mean shit when it comes down to it, so you can test my powers however will make you believe me.”

He considers you. Then he says “Very well,” and then explodes into crackling red energy. It's only years of instinct that moves you from the path of the arcing scarlet lightning that fan across the couch you were just sitting on, flickering back in time to stand just by the doorway. The air burns, and you watch as shadowy wings flare from his back as he comes to hover in the center of the room. He looks almost disinterested, the fucker.

You flicker back to the now ruined couch, darting aside from another blast of eldritch energy, and as you close the distance between you a blast soulfire rips through you. The burning wound it leaves barely lasts for a second before you rewind it, and as you reach your hand out towards him you watch your skin crack and burn from being too close. Then, you rewind him, until that burning shadow recedes, and he lands on both feet with an infuriating grace. He examines the shining red of his hand for a moment, and then looks up at you, now unharmed and more than a little annoyed.

“Acceptable,” he says with a nod. “I will vouch for you before the Trifarix. There will be a meeting in the morning. In the mean time, you may avail yourself to Noxus’ hospitalities. Good day.” He inclines his head at you, and then sweeps out of the room just as swiftly as he came in. As he leaves, Garrett enters again, now followed by a small squadron of maids. You have the distinct feeling that you've somehow been played.

“Is he always like that?” You ask Garrett, pointing at the door Swain just left through.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, ma’am,” Garrett says placidly, pointedly not looking at the destroyed room around you. The maids begin to pick up the shattered china.

You open your mouth, then groan. “Crazy fucking Noxians,” you mutter under your breath, and wave a hand across the room as you rewind it to its pre-Swain state. One of the maids squeaks in surprise.

Garrett blinks once, and that's about the extent of his display of surprise. “I'll show you to your accomodations, then?” He asks. You nod, and as he turns and walks out of the room, you grab one of the macarons off of the newly restored biscuit platter. If you're going to get ambushed at your job interview, you're at least getting sweets out of it.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #swain lol #WIPs

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Viego Smut that didn't make it into Roulette Wheel under cut.

NSFW: Cockwarming, edging (m!receiving), begging, femdom ig? Idk I just feel like the man would do literally anything you wanted if you asked nice enough

Unlike his touch-starvedness, even if you had thought about it, you probably wouldn't have predicted his libido. The dead don't tire, and apparently that applied just as much to cleaving his way through hordes of wraiths as it did to fucking you senseless. Whatever supernatural stamina healed his wounds and kept him functioning without food or sleep also apparently meant that he had no refractory period beyond being horny, which frequently spirals into him being so caught up that he ends up railing you until he's so oversensitive he can't even think straight. Not that you get tired either–blessings of time travel, you suppose.

If you hadn't been staunchly avoiding the thought, you could have immediately guessed that Viego was the clingy sort. Unfortunately, you're apparently very talented at being in denial, so you're a little bit caught off guard by how earnestly he wants to be near you. Walking to the hall? You're holding hands now. Sitting in the garden? Your lap seems like a very nice pillow. Reading a book by the fire? You really could be doing that in his lap. Going to bed? Well, he never specifically asks to sleep in your bed, but he also looks so hopeful that you can't not offer. Though that's assuming that at some point in the evening he hasn't worked himself into a horny mess literally begging to take you to bed, in which case he naturally stays the night anyway.

Another thing you've learnt is that Viego really, really likes it when you boss him around.

“I was right,” you say, in as even a voice as you can manage. “You are cute when you're begging.”

He whimpers, his hips twitching up into you. You have his wrists tied to the bed, and though you're absolutely certain he could break those silk sashes in a heartbeat if he really wanted to, he won't. It would be an overstatement to say you're riding him–no, at this point you're just sitting there, feeling him throb inside of you, and watching him slowly lose his mind. His eyes, now glazed over with lust and desperation, flick hazily across your face, as if he's trying to make sense of why you're not moving.

“Is that any way to receive a compliment?” You chide, lifting off of him entirely. He moans at the friction, probably the most you've let him have in almost an hour, only for it to turn into a sob when his cock leaves you. He's so hard that it slaps against his abs before standing almost upright, wet strings stretching from the tip of his cock to his stomach. “Use your words, Viego,” you tease, watching as his cock throbs, sending a fresh glob of precum dripping onto his abs.

“S-sorry,” he slurs, hips jumping up against nothing. “T-thank…you.” he chokes on a moan as you take his cock in hand, idly stroking it.

“Good boy,” you purr, and his cock jerks in your hand. His hips keep shifting in place, either like he can't help himself or like he doesn't even notice he's doing it. You raise yourself up again, lining him up with your entrance, and he practically sobs with relief.

“Thank you, please, please, I nhh–need–” he begs, and when you take him to the hilt in one swift movement his eyes practically roll back into his head. He breaks off into a string of swears, throwing his head back. You're sure that the grip he has on those silks would be white-knuckled even if he wasn't already so pale.

“Do you want to cum?” You ask lightly. He nods furiously. You think he might be crying. You run a light touch up his torso, watching his stomach jump from tension, to one of his bound wrists. “Do you want to touch me?”

“Yes, yes, please–ah!” he moans as you roll your hips, planting your hand on his chest for balance.

“You’re doing so good, just hold on for a little longer,” you coo, riding him in earnest now. You're already close–edging goes both ways when you're cockwarming. “You can be good and not cum yet, right?”

He have an articulate response so much as a needy whimper. “Y-yes,” he pants, glazed eyes struggling to focus on your face. “I can–nhh, I can b-be…good.”

That goes straight to your pussy, the way he's so needy he can't even think straight and yet still trying so hard to please you. You rock down on him, feeling his cock push against your deepest parts, and come undone with a moan. Viego makes an almost pained sound, and you can feel his cock twitching desperately inside you as you clench around him.

“P-please,” he pants, his hips making desperate little twitches up into you. “Please, can I cum, you feel so good, I need, nnhh, please please–”

“You did so good,” you praise, reaching up to touch his silks. He keens. “You can cum now,” you assure him, and rewind his silks to undone. As soon as he's free he grabs you by the hips, hammering up into you in the same desperate motion as he lifts you up and down his cock, as if you were some sort of life-sized fleshlight. His thrusts are sloppy and desperate, and all the while he chants thank you thank you as he pounds you. Not even a minute later he cums, pulling you onto his cock with a bruising grip, practically sobbing a moan. Of course, you know better than to expect that to be it–you spent all this time winding him up, and like any wind up toy, now you let him wear himself out.

He sits up, mouthing at your neck and breasts as he starts to thrust again. He quickly gets frustrated with the lack of traction he can get in this position though, and you yelp as he swiftly repositions you onto your back, following you down without his cock ever leaving your folds. He moans against the skin of your throat as he begins to move again, slurring out praise and thank you's.

#drabbles #NSFW #league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #viego x reader #x reader #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #viego lol

[collidescopeeyes]

Perhaps the solution to my beef with literally every word editors formatting is just to stop posting stuff from my phone

#not fics

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Pyke: Pt 3

League of Legends | Pyke x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego | Pyke: 1 - 2 - 3

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

SFW

He’s on deck tying nets. It's simple work, but time consuming. Over, around, cinch, repeat. Shanks is chattering to him about something or other, but Pyke's long since started tuning him out.

Across the deck, Iso laughs. He glances up without meaning to. She's talking to the wind mage, Addison; they need to stay on deck while they channel the breeze, and they like company. She tucks her hair behind her ear, blown loose by the wind, and he watches for a moment as she mimes something to accompany whatever story she's telling. He's never been the type to get distracted by a pretty face, but something about her draws him in like a fish on a line. Always has, ever since that first day when he realized she was one of the few honest things about a dishonest town.

He notices a suspicious silence. He glances to the side to see Shanks watching him, or rather watching him watch her. There's a grin on the other man's face he doesn't like. “So, when you finally pop the question, am I gonna be your best man?” Shanks crows, elbowing him in the side. Pyke lets his unimpressed glare be all the answer he needs, and Shanks leans back, hands in the air. “Alright, point taken, you scary motherfucker. God, you're the only man who could ship out with a real bed and a beautiful, talented woman to warm it and still be as sour as an old fucking lemon, y'know that?” He doesn't bother to respond to that. Over, around, cinch. Shanks presses on, undeterred. “You are gonna ask her to marry you, right? Truso’s gotta be paying you enough to afford a nice ring.”

His hands pause on the net. “Never thought about it,” he grunts, and that's true enough. Pyke's never been good with sweet words or grand gestures, not unless she wanted him to kill a giant fish for her. She's never mentioned wanting to get married. Was it even the same, where she's from? He's never asked, and she gets antsy when her past is brought up–he would too, if answering the wrong question had him coughing up glass. He looks at her and thinks my wife, and that's a pleasant enough thought. Never thought he'd be much of a husband, though. Never thought he'd find anyone he wanted to stick around for in the first place, either.

“Unbelievable, you are!” Shanks scoffs. “Haven’t thought of it, Bearded Lady’s hairy tits, man. How’d you land her, anyway? Certainly wasn't with your shining personality.”

Good question. Shanks is a pest, but he's not wrong. He shrugs. “She picked me.”

“C'mon, gotta be more to it than that,” Teal, another harpooner, plops down on the deck next to them. He makes no move to help with the netting. “How'd you meet? Bar?”

“He'll tell you if you help with the bloody net,” Shanks offers in what he probably thinks is a tantalizing voice. Pyke shoots him a glare, but Teal picks up a rope and starts working, and his knotwork is respectable so he supposes letting them pry into his personal life isn't the worst trade.

He sighs. “Buddy down at the slaughter docks nearly had his arm taken off, heard her clinic was good at stuff like that. She gave me a decent price, so I came back when I busted my leg. Lost my purse, but she offered to let me work it off porting for a personal project. Gig was decent, so I kept it on the side.”

There's a moment of silence. “That's it?” Teal says expectantly. “Nothing else?”

He thinks back. “We played cards a lot?” He says hazily.

Teal squints at him. “And she just, what, randomly decided to jump you one day?”

Over, around, cinch. “Pretty much.” Not that he hadn't been just as surprised. Plenty of looks linger on his arms and his muscles, he's not blind. He's got a mean face and a sour attitude to go with it, though, and not many women want to stick around for that. He'd been pleasantly surprised by her interest, but if you'd told him then she still wouldn't be sick of him in a years time he'd have thought you were full of shit.

“You motherfucker, I had money riding on this,” Teal hisses. “I thought for sure there would be alcohol involved.”

“I mean, why you?” Shanks laments. “Just why?”

“Because he's loyal and considerate and handsome, and if I hear this question again I'm going to start disinfecting wounds with vinegar,” Iso says mildly, her arms crossed. The other two were so focused on him they didn't notice her walking up. Shanks startles so badly he almost goes overboard, and Teal ducks his head in shame. Pyke staunchly continues his work, though that's really not a combination of words he would have expected anyone to apply to him.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Shanks says sheepishly, Teal mumbling the same. She nods, gives him a smile, and walks off.

“...you know we're just giving you shit, right?” Shanks says a moment later. “We're happy for you, really.”

“Shut up and tie the line,” Pyke sighs.

---

They collect more sea-beasts than they can store and start heading back a day ahead of schedule. No Jaull-fish yet, but you refuse to let your guard down until you're both safely back on shore.

You've thought about asking him to quit before. You're comfortable enough without the money. Seeing him out here changes your mind; this is his element, and he's worked damn hard to be here. You can't ask him to give that up for something that might not even happen now.

(Putting aside if he even would, just because you asked, but you don't want to think about that)

A week out from home, you're woken in the middle of the night by yelling. You push yourself up off of Pyke's chest muzzily, and he makes an irritated noise. There's a bell going off in a rhythmic pattern; Pyke listens for a moment before groaning “Pirates.”

You clamber to your feet and quickly start changing into your day clothes. Pyke, likewise, sits up and starts shoving his feet into his boots, grumbling. Despite being such an early riser, he hates being woken up. He shrugs on his cloak and passes you your knife belt, before rolling his shoulders and trudging out the door.

The deck is lousy with sailors running to and fro, getting ready to receive the ship plowing towards you. “Iso, good!” Truso catches you by the shoulder, stuffing what has to be far too many flintlocks in his belt. “I don't know how comfortable you are in a fight, but–”

“Pretty comfortable,” you say easily. He sags in relief.

“Perfect, as you were then,” he gives you a thumbs up and then immediately spots someone with a keg of something they shouldn't and strides off, yelling.

“Doc!” A sailor you vaguely recognize appears by your side. “If someone gets hit by a cannonball, how much of them needs to be in one piece for you to fix em?”

“Why?” You ask warily. He points at the railing, where Shanks is swinging a pair of bolas wrapped in a wet cloth.

“He reckons he can land it in a cannon barrel before it goes off, so it backfires,” he explains.

You look at Pyke in wonder. “How the fuck have you not died already?”

He shrugs.

—

“I get it now!” Shanks announces, huddling behind a crate as he frantically reloads his pistols. “She's with you because she's fucking crazy!”

Pyke barely spares him a glance. Any second now this bastard shooting at them is going to have to reload, and then Pyke is going to yank him onto their deck and stab him in the face–

Iso goes launching onto the enemy ship, using the crate they're covering behind as a step up. Love of his life plunging headfirst into active gunfire aside, he's not one to waste an opportunity, so he stands and launches his harpoon into the gunners shoulder and drags him against the railing Iso has just landed on. She doesn't even spare him a glance, just kicks him hard in the temple and moves on. Pyke doesn't make the conscious decision to go after her, but nonetheless finds himself halfway across the deck.

“That's what I'm fucking talking about!” Shanks yells as Pyke scales the rope still stuck between gunner and the railing. “Crazy!”

She moves like she has no concept she could even get hurt. He crests the railing in time to watch her throw knife after knife, hilts to throats and skulls and eyes. Two men approach from her side–he rips his blade from the body and throws it at the furthest one's knee, piercing it from the side, and pulls the rope taut to trip the other. She turns and launches a knife into his head before he even hits the ground, but in her distraction another pirate pulls a sword on her. He yells before he even registers the warning leaving his mouth, and she turns in time to take the blade through the shoulder instead of the throat. She kicks, sending the man stumbling back, and then rips the blade out of her shoulder and cuts him down. There's barely even blood on her shirt, how fast she healed herself. No pause in her movements from the pain, just focus in her eyes as she moves to the next target.

“Iso!” He yells, voice harsh with anger and adrenaline and a bone deep fear he's never quite felt before. The next pirate between them gets his blade to their throat, and he doesn't stop to look as he rips it out of them, just keeps heading her way. She glances at him as he approaches, and it's like she doesn't even recognize him for a moment. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” She blinks, and the fog clears, like she's coming back from somewhere far away. She glances down at the tear in her shirt where the blade was like she's only just noticed it.

“I liked this shirt,” she says mournfully. Someone swings at her, and she ducks under it and plants a knife in their gut.

“Stop getting stabbed, then,” he suggests tersely, catching a sword swing on his harpoon blade. “There's no fixing dead.”

She has the audacity to snort at him as she knifes the wielder of the blade he's fending off. A tide of sailors floods the deck, heartened by their charge. He sticks close behind her, watching her back and creating opportunities for her to strike, and together their knives cut bloody swathes through the pirates. He's never had much problem with fighting pirates, but there's a new viciousness in him with her on the line. It's a swift battle, but brutal, and they come out on top.

After, Iso fixes up their wounded, and Pyke watches her. Not for the first time, he's struck with the sensation that he's caught a glimpse of a ghost, that someone she used to be rose to the surface for just a moment. She fights like a pit rat, like someone who's been doing it so long that fighting feels like home. Her hands are soft and she doesn't have any scars to speak of, but she fights like she ought to. She has a past, and he won't ask because she can't tell, but he wonders.

She tucks her hair behind her ear as she sends the last of the wounded off, and blood smears on her cheek. He frowns. He knows where she keeps the clean cloths, at least–she’s particular where she puts things back home, and it's the same here. She gives him a soft smile when he kneels down and starts cleaning her hands off.

“You scared the shit out of me out there,” he tells her. She looks sheepish, at least. “I know you can fix yourself, but that doesn't make watching you get hurt easy.”

She shrugs one shoulder uncertainly. “I just…I’m used to it, I guess. Didn't have much choice, back when…” and she pauses, swallowing, feeling the edges of her curse.

He wants to ask, but knowing her she might just try to answer, so he doesn't. He folds the cloth over and wipes the blood from her cheek. “Goes both ways, y'know,” he says instead. Her brow creases in confusion. “You die, I'm gonna kill you.”

She laughs. “You don't have to worry about that.”

A knock on the door frame. “Cap wants you, Pyke,” he glances over to see a sailor, one of the men who prepares the sea-beasts for transport. “We’re stealing their grog and sending the survivors off with enough to get to land.”

Iso perks up. “There are drinks on the table?”

—

He forgot Iso is a lightweight. She doesn't tend to drink much at home, though most drinks in Bilgewater are watered down piss anyway so he's never thought much of it. The tipsiest he's ever seen her was at a going-away party for one of her regular patients and his old crew mate, a newly-wed couple off to try their luck in Piltover–to be fair, he'd also probably had too much to drink, because his only clear memories of that night are arriving, a cask of Freljordian mead, Iso trying to jump him in the back, and then trying to walk home carrying her while she mouthed at his neck and did her level best to wreck his tenuous self-control. This is probably as bad.

She's singing a shanty from her home, and aside from the fact that he's never heard of a place called France, it's hardly any different from the ones he's heard. She bellows the last line, and someone else picks up with another song as she catches her breath. She turns to look at him, eyes bright, and the way she smiles at him does something funny to his insides. He's not exactly sober either, he'll admit. She makes her way across the galley to the corner he's claimed–he’s not one for being the center attention, and everyone wanted a piece of hers after the stunt she pulled.

“Pyke,” she croons as she reaches him, half falling against his side. She rests her head against his chest and looks up at him through those pretty lashes of hers. He winds an arm around her waist, and she’s so soft that sometimes he feels like he's committing some sort of sacrilege just by touching her. His hands are made for bone and salt and blood, not softness or sweetness. “I can't believe your name is actually Pyke. I thought that was a nickname. Cuz of the, y'know,” she mimes throwing a harpoon. “Although I don't know what it'd be short for. Pycheal!” she says, then bursts out laughing at her own joke.

He frowns down at her. “That's like saying Iso is short for…” he pauses, struggling with his limited vocabulary. “Isometric?” He's pretty sure that's a word he's heard her say before.

She laughs. “Fuck, I dunno, maybe it is. I just picked it.”

He looks at her curiously. “Not the name you were born with?”

She shakes her head. “Wasn't allowed to use my old one, when I came here.” She gestures at her throat and he nods in sudden understanding. “I dunno why. Most of the rules make sense, but my name? Why the fuck does that matter?” She looks off into the distance, frowning. “All the Voidspawn have weird names. Maybe it's just important for them.”

He blinks. His understanding of the Void goes as far as that it's a big problem somewhere far away from here. “What does that have to do with…” he pauses, then shakes his head. He doesn't need to know, and she probably shouldn't answer.

She looks up at him again, this time with an odd look in her eyes. Remorseful, almost. “Sorry I got stabbed. And for jumping on the pirate ship. People kept calling me crazy and I realized that that's because that was a crazy thing to do, and I thought that if you did something crazy like that I'd be pretty mad at you, so. Sorry.”

He must be drunk, because the next thing out of his mouth is “D’you wanna marry me?”

She blinks at him. “Like, now?”

It's not a no. He swallows, trying to conceal the way his heart is flopping in his chest like a beached trout. “Sure.”

She squints. “Do you have a ring? Do people even use rings here?”

“Doesn't have to be a ring,” he says. “Buhru tradition is a trophy from a hunt. My ma got a shark tooth."

She blinks up at him, then pokes one of the shark teeth he wears on his belt. “Okay. Give me that one.”

He looks at the tooth she's pointing at. “What, just that one? You don't want a…special one?”

“That one is special, it's yours,” she says earnestly. “Some big fucking fish tried to kill you, and you said no. Just keep doing that, keep coming back home to me, and I'll marry you as many times as you want.”

He's not good with words, and his tongue feels thick in his mouth, so he just reaches over and snaps the tooth off its chain. She beams as he hands it to her, and he watches in bemusement as she bends down and undoes one of the leather laces for her tall boots. She fishes a knife out and cuts it halfway, and then sets the tooth against the wall and strikes it in the center as if her knife was a chisel. It cracks into two halves, the edges slightly jagged where they fit together, which she binds up as pendants with her improvised leather cords. Her creations complete, she stands up on her toes to loop one around his neck.

He swallows harshly as the bone settles against his skin. She hands him the other and turns around, pulling her hair out of the way, and he’s never been so careful about tying a knot in his life. When it's done, she turns to smile at him, and there isn't a thing on this earth that could stop him from kissing her in that moment.

—

You wake up with the worst headache you've ever had. You groan, throwing your arm over your eyes to block the light.

“Not even magic fixes hangovers, huh?” Pyke rumbles. You decide that wedging your face in between his arm and his side is much more effective means of blinding yourself.

“Aren't you supposed to be doing, iunno, sailor stuff?” You croak.

“Cap’n gave us a honeymoon off,” he says. His fingers trace up and down your spine. “May have had a few words with him about my wife getting stabbed under his employ.”

Oh yeah. That happened. Vague memories return to you about necklaces, and then Shanks insisting on doing a ceremony, and then a lot more drinking. “Do you think Shanks is actually a priest?” You wonder aloud. He claimed very loudly to be, but by that point he was also insisting he had personally executed the pirate's captain, so.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

You suppose it doesn't. It's Bilgewater–not like there's a marriage registry. Laws are only laws insofar as anyone can be fucked to enforce them. If Shanks said he was a priest, then fuck it, you may as well be married now. You lift your head up and rest your chin on his chest, next to the pendant. He cracks one sea-glass green eye and looks at you, not quite smiling but as at peace as you've ever seen him, and you think no, it really doesn't matter. You're happy right here, right now.

—

“Tell me again,” you grit out.

The captain–no point remembering his name, he's a dead man walking anyway–shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. “There was a Jaull-fish. It almost sunk the ship. Pyke was already in the water, and the lines snapped–”

“Don't fucking lie to me,” you snap. “You cut the lines.”

He flinches, and tries to cover it with a scowl. “Ma’am, I know it's tough to hear, but I don't appreciate what you're insinuating–”

“I'm not insinuating anything,” you hiss. “You know what you did, and if you weren't already as good as dead I'd kill you my fucking self. Now get out of my house.”

“Ma’am–” he tries. You hurl a knife at him, and it embeds itself in the wall next to his head. He gets the message and leaves.

After, you sag against the floor. Stupid. Stupid, stupid man got himself eaten by a stupid fucking fish, and you were a stupid idiot for thinking that he wouldn't. It wasn't even the Terror–when he left, he said it was named something stupid, something to do with Guppies. Why was it still a Jaull-fish? What changed? What didn't change? What the fuck do you do now?

You scrub your wet eyes, trying to reign your breathing in. Fine. So he got eaten by a fish. He'll come back. With a list of names being manipulated by fish from the bottom of the world, sure, but he'll come back, and you'll fix him. You just have to find him first.

—

“Wh-what do you want with me?” The sailor asks, after he wakes up. One convenient thing about being a doctor is no one thinks much of you buying chloroform.

“Me? Nothing,” you say, watching him struggle against the rope. “But Pyke does, and I've got some strong words to have with him.”

His eyes go perfectly round. “P-Pyke’s not…he's dead, lady, I-I’m sorry, but he is, I saw him go down myself–”

“I know,” you say grimly. “That's why you're here.”

—

“Pyke?” You say cautiously. He looks up at you as he rips his blade from the sailors throat. You're not broken up about it–you’d followed the man for weeks before you got a chance to nab him, and he was a real piece of shit.

Pyke turns to look at you, and it's like seeing double. That's your husband, the man you've grown to love over the last two years, and it's the corpse you were expecting to see ever since you met. He looks almost the same as the day he left, except there's a trifecta of scars running across his face and his eyes glow with an unearthly blue. You already miss his eyes, the sea-glass green, the warmth in them. Now he looks at you like a stranger. “Pyke, it's me,” you urge, willing recognition into those awful blue eyes.

His eyes narrow. “You look…familiar. What's your name?”

“Iso,” you prompt, cautiously approaching with your hands up. The list is already in his hand from the last guy, but surely he already knows the names on it–was the Deep manipulating it already? Was he ever after the crew that got him killed? He glances it over, then frowns and shakes his head.

“That's not…” his voice is thick with confusion and his eyes are hazy. Then he glares at you. “Tell me your real name.”

You blink, an awful strangling feeling between hope and despair straining your voice. “How do you know that? Think, Pyke. You know I can't tell you.” Another step.

His eyes go to the list again. “Iso…Iso?” He mutters under his breath. “I don't know an…” he shakes his head furiously, clutching it with a groan. You wait with baited breath. For one glorious moment, there's a spark of recognition in his eyes–and then it fades, fogging over. He tilts his head, as if he's listening to something you can't hear, then shakes his head. “You're not on my list,” he says.

You're close enough. You launch yourself at him, sweeping his legs out and pinning him to the dirty warehouse floor. You feel him trying to come apart under your hands, his edges going damp and indefinite with seawater that isn't quite there, but you grip his time tight and force it back, back–until you can't anymore. It's the same feeling you got when you tried to rewind yourself back home, that something had changed so fundamentally that what you are and who you were are only connected in your mind, that the past was so far away nothing could ever bring it back. That the man you know is the gone.

“No, nonono,” you plead. Pyke looks up at you with blank, uncomprehending, blue eyes. “Give him back, you piece of shit. Give him back to me!”

“What are you–?” You can stop him from turning to sea mist under your hands, at least, wind him back to solid. He's trying to leave. Fucker. “Get off me.”

You grip him by the collar and pull him up, searching his eyes for something, anything. “Can they hear me, your new bosses? Can you hear me, you fish fucks? I'll kill you. I've killed bigger and worse and you picked the wrong man to take.”

He hisses under his breath, apparently giving his newfound ocean powers up and resorting to good old fashioned violence. He swings, and you duck back in time to avoid taking a fist to the face, but as your balance shifts he surges up and throws you off him. For a moment he looks at you, obviously torn, and then he vanishes.

“You motherfucker,” you seethe into the empty night.

—

You hunt him more intently than any bounty hunter. You don't really stop him from killing anyone, mind–near as you can tell everyone he kills makes Bilgewater a better place, but honestly in a town like this you could throw a knife in any given direction and accomplish that. You don't know where he goes when he's not on the hunt, but he only seems to come up in proximity to a dead body. Still, you dog his every step like a bloodhound. He doesn't quite try to kill you, but you obviously unsettle him, and he does everything in his power to avoid you short of giving up a kill.

“Who are you?” He demands, after the third time you track him down. “Why won't you fuck off already?”

You fish your pendant out of your clothes. “I'm your wife, you ungrateful fuck, and when you finally get your memories back in that thick skull you're gonna feel like a real asshole.”

His fingers go to his cloak, where his matching one would rest underneath the fabric. “A wife? No, I don't have a…” and this is the part that shits you off the most. That moment of clarity where he almost, almost recognizes you, and then it slips away. He clutches his head, and there it is, the cusp of understanding dragged away by whatever voices drive him now. He looks back up at you, and there's something oddly desperate in his voice when he grits out “You're not on my list. I don't know what you're trying to do or who you think I am, but you're wrong. Leave me alone.”

“Not happening,” you hiss, even as he turns and dives into the water. He's right, though, as much as you hate to admit it–this wasn't working. Being around you wasn't jogging any memories, and if it was, the Deep smothers then back down. Maybe you needed to go directly to the source, then.

—

“This is new,” you note. Pyke's blue eyes stare at you from the reflection of the water. You were only on this pier to drink your woes away–he's never sought you out before, and despite yourself, hope rises in you. “Is it cuz I killed that Jaull-fish?”

“You what?” He says, confused.

You sigh. “Guess not. Didn't help, by the way. Don't know if you've ever tried to negotiate with a giant murder fish, but they don't fold easy, even when they're drowning.” You rewound miles of ocean to before it was ever a sea just to air-drown a fucking fish, and it still got you nothing but a raging headache, a week comatose, and some increasingly exaggerated rumors about yourself, courtesy of the boat you paid to bring you out there.

He's quiet for so long you would've thought him gone, if not for his reflection in the water. Then, he sits heavily next to you on the docks, his blade in his lap. “Deep calls to me,” he says slowly, like he's not sure how to explain it. “In a thousand voices, all of them wanting blood. You make them go quiet, and they don't like that.” He presses his thumb to the edge of his blade. “They don't like that you call to me, too.”

You slide him a sideways look. “Do you even still have it?” You ask tiredly. “The pendant?”

He hesitates a long moment, as if he's struggling to focus. Then he fishes it out from under his cloak and looks at it, brow furrowed. You sigh. “You made me a promise, on that tooth. You said you'd come back home to me. But you're not home, and you're not even you, and I don't know if you'll ever be again.” You scrub your face with your hands. It's been months since he died. You're so, so tired. “I don't know how to fix you, Pyke, and I…I don't even know if I can.”

“I don't…” he says slowly, then shakes his head. “My head’s not right, I know that. Things keep changing on me, and most of the time that doesn't matter to me, but with you I feel…” he trails off.

“Feel what?” You prompt.

“When you're drowning, it starts to feel like home, like peace. It's breathing again that hurts the most.” That burbling echo in his voice goes distant, and you don't have to look to know he's gone.

You drink alone on the pier.

—

You haul your equipment out to the hill again. Hiring another porter seems like a pain in the ass, and you made a lot of money off that Jaull-fish, so you buy the land and build a cottage on it. Clinic gets less traffic now that people think you're some kind of sea-god, anyway.

—

Sometimes you see blue eyes watching you from the dark. He never comes close, and you don't either. He made his choice.

—

You find it. Your world, or something that looks so close it makes your heart ache. You project it onto a full-length mirror frame and you watch the world that used to be yours go by, until the sun fully sets and the crystals in your telescope dim and your world slides out of focus again. The mirror shows nothing but your own reflection, slumped to your knees before it. You hadn't realized you were crying until you see the tear tracks on your face.

You sit there, in the dark, for a very long time.

—

Pyke stays gone, until you turn around one day and he's right there. “Fish finally convince you I need killing?” You ask dryly. It's the only reason you'll let yourself think of for him being here, and they're about to be real fucking disappointed if that was the case.

His wide eyes, which were fixed over your shoulder, fly to you. “No, that's not…” he shakes his head, and then drops his knife, holding his empty hands up imploringly. “Don't go. Please.”

Your brow furrows in confusion, and you follow his gaze to your mirror–he’s arrived just as the sunset hit your telescope, as the light cast a window to your world into your home. It probably said something about you, that for all that you've watched that mirror every day for the past month, your chest burning with grief, the second he shows back up you completely forget about it. You turn back to him slowly, heart in your throat. “Pyke?”

He takes a step towards you, and then pauses like he's not sure he should. “I remember now. The Kraken Priestess, she did something to me, and I…I'm sorry. I know I hurt you, and I know my head still isn't right but I…” he looks at you pleadingly. “I’m here. I came back home to you.”

“Took your fucking time,” you say, voice tight, and throw yourself into his arms.

—

After you're done crying, and then punching him in the arm, and then kissing him senseless, you curl up on the couch in front of the fire.

“I don't know if it's the same, if that's really back home,” you explain softly, your head on his chest. He doesn't have a heartbeat anymore, but somehow he's still warm, still smells like the sea. “Looks like it is, but honestly, even if I could figure out how to actually get there without opening a gaping hole in this reality, there's no guarentee it'd be where I came from. And that's putting aside that it's been decades since…” you trail off, your curse at the cusp of burning in your throat. Honestly, nature of parallel worlds being what it was and with your fucking luck, you'd probably end up in the KDA universe or something stupid like that.

“I wouldn't blame you, for leaving,” he says, voice rough and low. “I'd hate it, but I wouldn't blame you.”

You glance up at him, at his blue, blue eyes. Then you swing yourself up to sit in his lap, cupping his face between your palms. He wraps his arms around your back, letting you turn his head this way and that, examining his face. The well-healed ridges of his new scar, and the glow of his eyes–they make his gaze seem much more piercing than before, like a shark. He's gotten paler, too–not much sun where he spends his time, you suppose. He still looks like him. “Why are you back now?” You ask softly. “What changed?”

He's quiet for a moment. “What Illaoi did…put a new voice in my head, one that wasn't the Deep demanding blood. The Mother Serpent is a thing of flow, of moving towards what you want, and after that anger was gone…what I wanted most was you.”

You make a reminder to yourself to heal every Buhru you meet for free. “Is it gonna stick?” You ask, voice thready with uncertainty.

He glares at nothing in particular. “It will. I'll make it. They want me to do their killing, I'll do it on my terms.”

“How do you know they won't just…stop keeping you alive?” You ask hesitantly. Your fingers trace over his chest, next to his pendant, where a heartbeat would be if he had one. It scares the absolute fuck out of you, that your powers can't help him.

“Don't think they can, not anymore,” he shrugs, careful not to upset your balance. “Whatever I am now doesn't belong just to the Deep, Mother Serpent saw to that.”

You hesitate a moment. “I don't care, about the whole…Blood Harbor Ripper thing,” you tell him. “I mean, maybe I would if those people weren't complete fucking scumbags, but apparently the fish have morals, so whatever. It's just…you know those people you kill aren't what you think they are, right? They weren't there when you died.”

He's quiet for a long, long moment. “I know. At least, sometimes I do. Deep gives me a reason to hunt, but I've never been much fussed about killing people who deserve it anyway.” He looks up at you, frowning. “I'm…crazy, I know that much. I know I'm not what you married, anymore.”

“You are,” you insist. “I knew…I mean, I didn't want to admit it, and by God did I try to stop it, but…I knew this could be you, and I married you anyway, and I meant what I said when I did. I don't care about…fucking eldritch murder fishes, or their hitlist, or that you're only breathing when you need to talk. As long as you keep coming home to me, that's enough,” you tell him earnestly.

He lets out a soft breath, and a rough hand comes up to cup your cheek. “I love you. You know that, right?”

You lean into his touch. “Obviously. I love you too.”

He chuckles. “Good, ‘cause I haven't told you that I'm going to the Shadow Isles to kill Gangplank yet.”

You blink again, this time in confusion. “Wait, what? Why? Didn't Fortune already kill him?”

He shrugs. “Apparently not. Deep wants him dead, Nagakaborous wants him dead, I get to renegotiate my contract if I kill him. Everyone swims away happy.”

You frown. “I'm obviously coming with you. And before you get all fussy, I can take care of myself, I literally can't die, and I'm not letting you leave me again."

He blinks. “You…can't die," he repeats.

“Did I not mention that? I swear I mentioned that,” you say sheepishly.

He looks at you, blue eyes searching yours, and then sighs. “Not like I'm in any position to doubt. Besides, Fortune’s probably gonna be happier to see you than me.” You give him a confused look, and he shrugs. “Swimming to the Shadow Isles would take too long. Fortune wants him dead, Nagakaborous wants me to kill him, Fortune recruited Nagakaborous' priestess to help her kill him. And she has a ship."

“So you were gonna just show up and ask to join the murder party, because she hired someone whose god hired you to help kill a guy who should already be dead?" You summarize slowly. He nods. “Well, okay, yeah, Fortune probably wants Gangplank dead more than she cares that you're a wanted murderer. Wait, do the fish want you to kill Fortune?”

He shrugs again. “She's near the bottom of the list. I don't work overtime for free.”

You can't help it. You laugh, dropping your head against his shoulder. “What, like you're getting a salary? A benefits plan? You should unionize.”

“I'm their only employee, I've got all the bargaining power in the world,” he says easily. He cups your cheek, turning your face to his so he can kiss you softly. “They're not keeping me from you again, I swear it.”

You lean into him, feeling him warm and solid and here, him, finally just him. Your husband, the man you love and the man you've dreaded him becoming since you met and the man you knew deep down he was always going to be. You don't know what exactly the Deep wants with him, or where the wind blows from here, but you know you're going to face it together, and that's enough for you.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #crossposted on ao3 #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #Pyke #pyke x reader

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Pyke: Pt 2

League of Legends | Pyke x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego | Pyke: 1 - 2

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

NSFW

So Pyke becomes your assistant on and off for the next few months. He's certainly easier to work with than your last porter, and he has a dry sense of humor you like. Even if he keeps whipping your ass in cards.

“Pyke, if I didn't know you, I'd think you were cheating,” you gripe as he deals out another hand.

“Whose to say I'm not?” He says idly as he hands you your cards. He stretches out as he examines his own hand, resting his weight on his arm behind him. It's a warm day, and his only shirt is a long vest he's left unbuttoned, so the pose puts a lot of well-muscled dark skin on display. You realize he's looking at you and flush, throwing out a card at near random just to save face.

“You wouldn't,” you say confidently. It's not like you're even betting anything–he doesn't strike you as the type to cheat even for profit, forget vanity.

He looks at you for a moment, then shakes his head. “Poker’s all about reading the eyes. Yours practically scream what you're thinking.” Fuck. He totally caught you staring. You glance up at him, in case you're somehow misinterpreting that statement, but his wolfish smirk dashes that hope.

You narrow your eyes at him. Then, you pretend to examine your cards hard, leaning forward in such a way that makes your cleavage look just so, and–got him. His eyes flick down, then up to your victorious smirk, and narrow.

“Careful there, little lady,” he drawls, throwing out two cards. His tone is casual, but there's a hungry edge in his gaze. “Sure you're not making a bet you can't settle?”

Ah, fuck it. He leans in to deal the river (you still don't totally get Bilgewater threecard, honestly), and you catch him by the lapel and reel him in. “You ever known me to come up short?” You challenge, your lips not quite touching.

“No, ma’am,” he breathes, and when you kiss him he tastes like sweet tea and saltwater.

You both swiftly forget the card game after that.

—

You do not get as many tests in that day as you were initially hoping. You think this is a perfectly worthwhile trade off for getting to crawl into Pyke's lap and ride him until you see stars. Pyke, for his part, seems perfectly content to let you do whatever you want to him, though perhaps content is an understatement for the way you have him gritting out curses below you, his grip on your thighs almost bruising as he cums. He also laughs at you when you realize the time, yelp, and then have to run your sun-down test half dressed.

“What're you looking for out there, anyway?” He asks, after you've both got your clothes back on and started packing up the telescope.

You open your mouth to answer automatically, then sigh. “Would you believe me if I said I have a magic curse on me that means I can't actually answer that question?” You try.

He considers you. “Yeah.”

You look up at him, shocked. “Wait, really?”

He shrugs and taps just under his eye. “Told you.”

Huh. “Thanks,” you say softly. “Not many people give me the benefit of the doubt on that one, and proving it hurts like a motherfucker.”

He lifts your crates up, one under his arm and one on the other shoulder, and good lord he was fit. “Never known you to be anything but too honest for your own good. Figures it'd take a magic curse to put a stop to that.”

“Oi!” You yelp, grabbing your bag and scrambling after him as he starts down the hill. “Is this cuz I called your boss a tightass to his face? Cuz he is, and I don't regret a damn thing!”

His laugh carries loud and clear on the wind.

—

It's definitely a more pleasant way to spend your trips than getting your ass kicked in cards. Pyke starts to show up outside of when you hire him, too–sometimes he just hangs out at the clinic after work, sometimes you'll invite him up for dinner. Occasionally you'll go out for a drink, although all the taverns near yours are also frequented by butchers who are very interested in the fact that Pyke apparently has a lady now. Not that you've spoken about what the fuck is going on between you in any official capacity–what started off as a casual fling is definitely something more, by now. You just like having him around, and he seems to like being around, so that's good enough for you.

Which is why he happens to be around when the latest gang with bright ideas shows up. You know it's going to be one of those nights when the door crashes open and you don't immediately smell blood. You're both in the back, you filling out forms and Pyke lounging on the couch whittling something. Pyke sits up, immediately on edge, and you don't miss the way he changes his grip on his carving knife as if he intends to stab someone with it. You wave him off as you make your way into the lobby, hoping the multiple pairs of boots you can hear are just carrying in an unconscious body.

No such luck. Five people, all armed, one with a smarmy look on his face. “Gentlemen,” you greet evenly. You can feel Pyke at your shoulder more than you hear him–of course he wouldn't stay put. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I think you can,” the one in front with the smug face says, exaggeratedly examining your waiting room. “See, we got this turf off of the Green Serpents, and it's come to our attention that your establishment hasn't been paying dividends. I'm sure that must be a mistake, what with the change in management and all, so I'll let you off easy and not charge you any interest. That'll bring it down to, oh, two hundred gold?” He grins at you in a way he probably thinks is charming.

You blink placidly at him. “Who the fuck are you again?”

His expression sours instantly. “Don't get cocky, bitch. I'm Suzuya, from the Seven Dagger Gang. Now pay up.” His eyes rake over you, and the smug grin is back. “Or would you rather pay a different way?”

Pyke growls behind you. You sigh deeply, brushing off your skirts. “Okay, Suzuya. You can tell your boss–” you speed yourself up, pulling a fan of knives from your belt pouch and letting them fly. Two hit Suzuya in the chest, the other three hit the two lackeys behind him in the legs. You don't have a clear shot at the last two and are prepared to throw again as they charge, but Pyke intercepts, catching one in a headlock, kicking the other so hard he goes flying, and then slamming the first ones head into the wall until he passes out. He goes to the other and presses his boot to his throat, and you make your way to where Suzuya is on the floor gasping. “My clinic doesn't answer to anyone,” you say carefully, gripping the hilt of one knife. He yells as you pull it out. “Not the Serpents, not the Daggers, not even gods. Ooh, ouch, that one hit an artery,” you click your tongue as you pull out the next knife, and his shaking hand scrabbles to staunch the flow. He's babbling something, but you can't make sense of it. “Now, if I see you here again, it better be as a customer, hm?” You smile at him, and then rewind his wounds. He gasps, frantically patting at where the gushing cut just was, before scrambling to his feet and legging it.

You stand up, quickly making the rounds to do the same to his men, and each one scrambling out of the door as soon as they're physically able to. “You sure about letting them go?” Pyke asks, his voice tense. He's staring after them, brow furrowed into a glare.

You sigh. “Dead men make for vengeful friends. Scared men make for scared friends. It's probably not the last I'll see of them,” you say exasperatedly, closing the door behind them. They never fucking shut the door behind themselves. “Last gang tried four times before they ran out of guys willing to come down here. You alright?” You glance him over, but you can't see any wounds. He's tense as a spring, though, hands fisted so tight you're half surprised there's not blood. Belatedly, you remember what Bard said about his mean streak, and for a second you think he's going to go after them.

Then he glances at you, lets out a deliberately even breath, and unclenches his fists. “I’m fine. Are you?” He tilts his head, examining you.

You shrug. “It's not my favorite way to spend my Thursday night, but it's gotta be done. Thanks for your help, by the way.”

He shakes his head. “Don't mention it. Should probably buy another lock, though.” He nods at where the door is slowly swinging open again. You curse–the thing hadn't even been locked, why did he have to go and kick it in?

You glance at Pyke, then mutter “Ah, fuck it,” and touch the lock. The mangled edge of the dead bolt blurs, only to reappear totally fixed. You shut the door, flip the closed sign and turn back to Pyke.

“Huh.” Is what he has to say. “Not just people you fix, then?”

You shrug, making you say back into the part of the clinic you live in. You drag your foot on the bloodstains as you pass over them, and they vanish too. “No, but can you imagine the kind of people I'd get in here if I advertised that? Poncy pricks trying to restore eighteenth century pottery and shit? A laundry service? No thanks,” you shudder.

He snorts a laugh. “Can't argue with that.”

—

“I'm signing on with a ship,” he tells you a few weeks later. The morning light filtering in through your window makes his eyes look especially bright when he looks down at you.

You blink up at him from where you were tracing the tattoos on his shoulders. He's talked about wanting to sign with a ship before, get out of the dredge of backbreaking butcher work, but hadn't found one who’d take him for a fair price. “What kind?”

“Fishing,” he answers. “Leaving next week. Be back in a fortnight or so.”

You frown. It's not. It can't be. Even so… “What's the name of the ship?”

He raises a brow at you. “The Dancing Dauphin. Why?”

You shrug, looking down so he can't see your face. “Old superstition. Bad luck, not to know the name of a ship you're expecting back. Don't worry about it.” He frowns at you, but doesn't press. You quickly distract him by swinging a leg over his hips and straddling him. “Guess I better make the best of having you around, huh?”

—

“You cut your hair,” you note, except it comes out much breathier than you mean it too, because Pyke is currently sucking a mark onto your neck that you have no hope in hell of hiding.

“Got in the way,” he mutters against your skin, pulling back to kiss you once more. He's always like this after he gets back, and this latest trip he was gone almost a month. He has you perched on your desk, and you're sure there's probably some important finances you're sitting on right now, but this seems more important. You hope he flipped the sign before he came in.

“Suits you,” you say, tracing his jaw. It's true–the saltwater and seawind always made his hair dry and he never cared too much about taking care of it. He leans into your touch for a moment, closing his eyes, and then promptly drops to his knees and proceeds to show you just how much he missed you.

(Actually, you amend, that's one thing you miss about his hair–Pyke goes down on you like he doesn't need to breathe, and at least then you had something to hold onto for dear life.)

---

“I told you, you blasted lump of a man–” someone is loudly complaining in your lobby. You walk into the room, only to see Pyke half-dragging a man in a sling into your clinic.

“You're back!” you exclaim, grinning. The man in the sling looks between you and Pyke, baffled and shocked.

“Hang on, you're the lady?” He says, flabbergasted. He looks back at Pyke. “You can smile?”

Said smile, which is really just a subtle curve of the corner of his lips, immediately vanishes into an eye roll as Pyke slaps the man upside the head. “Show some respect or I'll drop you out in the gutter.” To you, he says “Ship doc said it'd take months to heal without potions. Think you can help?”

You wave them both further into the clinic. “Course. How long ago was it?”

Pyke helps him onto your examination table. “Two weeks now. Know it's a bit of an ask, but if he's out of work for that long he'll probably wind up getting stabbed by a prostitute for not paying up.”

“That happened once!” The man protests. “Can you believe this guy? I mean, I guess you can, since you're his missus ‘n all. Do you know how insufferable he gets when we're on our way back to port? Pyke, I say, come get a drink with the boys, I say, and it's like talking to a brick wall! Second that plank hits dock, off he fucks! Sometimes even before then! One time he swam!” He throws his hands up, then blinks when he notices you un-broke his arm while he was ranting. “Huh. Fancy that.”

You look at Pyke, who is staunchly avoiding your gaze. “Is that true?”

“Every word,” the man swears. “Hey, you should come out to sea with us next time. Coulda used some mojo like yours when that kraken was smacking me around, and maybe it'd stop this miserable bastard from being so goddamn surly all the time. I'll tell ya, best bloody harpooner I ever worked with, and he's got the shittiest attitude to go with it.”

“Shanks, there is not a soul on this earth that can tolerate being around you for ten consecutive minutes and stay in high spirits,” Pyke sighs. “Now pay the woman and get the fuck out of here.”

Shanks, apparently, grumbles, but complies. After he's gone, you waste no time cornering Pyke. “You swam?” You crow.

He covers his face with a hand, but that doesn't disguise the red tinge in his ears. “Our dock had another ship in it, would've been out there for hours.”

“So you swam,” you confirm in a sing song. “Because you missed me.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, and then decides to take matters into his own hands by kissing you senseless.

—

“What's the ship named?” You ask groggily. It's outrageously early, but you'd been so busy with his send off you'd forgotten to ask the night before.

“The Lucky Lady,” he answers. He doesn't question your need to know. He just presses a kiss to your hair, pulls your blanket up, and goes. He's wearing the coat, the one you remember, with the jawbones on the shoulders. A gift from the last crew he sailed with, after he killed a kraken that almost sank the whole ship. Used one of its mouths to make it, apparently. Every day he looks a little bit more like the man you know is going to die.

You don't know what you're going to do, when he finally says those two words you're dreading.

—

He doesn't even tell you he's moving in. Crew doesn’t get much storage on most ships, so he doesn’t own more than he can pack in a rucksack, and he's basically at yours any time he's on shore anyway. He just asks if he can have one of the spare keys to the clinic, and you don't think anything of it until you run into his old landlady at the market and she asks if he's died. When you say no, she pouts. “Ah, suppose he's living with you then? Figured it was that or dead, when he didn't rent his old room back. Shame, he always paid on time.” She sighs, brushing her skirts off with a businesslike nod. “Welp, do let me know if you decide to kick him to the curb, and I always have vacancies.”

“I…will, I guess?” You say, slightly bewildered.

Pyke is at the kitchen table when you get home, varnishing the figures he whittled when he was out at sea. His hands are deliberate and careful on the figure, a sea-bird in flight. You think about the shelf over your mantle where his carvings live, about the loop he keeps his keys on, which for the last three weeks has just had yours. You think about how you sleep, tucked snug and warm into his side, about the slow and soothing rhythm of his breathing, how he always gets up at the crack of fucking dawn and even though he's so quiet, you always wake up when his weight leaves the bed.

You think about mentioning it, and pretty quickly realize you don't actually mind. Instead, you tell him you picked up some eel, could he make that spicy stew from last week for dinner? He hums in agreement, and that's enough for you.

—

“You haven't taken the telescope out lately,” he notes, dusting his hands off. You asked him to carry some crates of medical supplies into storage–he must've noticed the dust in your old equipment chest.

“I, uh, yeah,” you say. Your uneven tone must tip him off, because he looks at you concerned.

“Seemed pretty important to you,” he floats the question. Pyke’s not exactly the most delicate conversationalist, but he tries. Even if right now you really wish he didn't.

You bite your lip for a moment, then sigh. “I…well, you've probably noticed, but I'm not from around here.” He nods slowly, not sure where you're going with this. “I'm from…a very long way away, and I can't go back home. I thought that thing might help me find a way to.”

“And it couldn't?” He prompts slowly.

“And…I've been gone for so long now, it didn't seem as important as it used to,” you say. You hear him take a breath, but you can't bring yourself to raise your eyes.

Instead, he crouches down in front of you, taking your hands in his. “That's nothing to be ashamed of. This town needs you.” Then, softer, “I need you.” You look up at him, startled–Pyke’s not really the type to talk about his feelings. The imploring look in his eyes says everything he doesn't, though.

You let out a shaky breath and squeeze his hands. They're always so rough, calloused from saltwater and hard work, but he's gentle with you. “Yeah. I know.” You scrub your eyes, and stand. “Saves me a shitton of money, I'll tell you that much. C'mon, let's go get lunch.”

—

“Take two a day, one when you wake up and one an hour before you go to bed,” you instruct as you wrap up the prescription at the counter. Unfortunately, part of your job included regular pharmacology–diseases were usually present in the system for too long before symptoms presented for you to fix without a lot of effort.

The woman sniffles and nods as she takes the bag. “Thank you, ma’am.” Her husband is less cooperative.

“You sure you can't just–” the man says. It's the third time he's asked.

“She's sure, man,” Pyke growls. Normally he doesn't speak up, but some men don't listen unless someone bigger than them is speaking. You suppose he also looks very menacing with his knife, considering from that side of the counter you can't see him trying to carve a platypus. He's pretty insistent that you're wrong and they're not a real animal, but there's not much in the way of wildlife other than fish and seabirds in Bilgewater and he seems to like hearing you talk about ones from back home.

The couple shuffle out, and someone else comes in. Captain Truso, you recognize, had a leg infection from his last trip out to sea. He takes his hat off in greeting when he sees you at the counter, only to double take when he sees Pyke leaning against the wall next to you.

“Captain Truso, how's the leg treating you?” You greet.

“Well enough,” he says with a shrug. “We're shipping out next week, an’ I figured I oughta check with you it ain't gonna fall off.”

“If you've been following my instructions, it shouldn't,” you say, ushering him through to the clinic proper. The wound is coming along well, though he admits he probably has had more to drink than you advised (“It was my cousins birthday!” he defends). You take him back out to the front as you wrap up his prescription, and he strikes up a conversation with Pyke.

“Heard you were sweet on a doctor, Pyke, but didn't think it was little miss magic fingers here,” he says jokingly. Pyke grunts in response, which Truso takes as encouragement. “Listen, funny enough, I was actually looking for you. Word has it you're the best harpooner in the business, and we're going after some big fish. It'd be a pleasure to have you on board.” You hand him his parcel of medication, and he nods at you. “You too, if you can spare the time, Doctor Iso. My ship doctor took off for Piltover and I haven't got a replacement yet.”

The sound of Pyke's knife on wood stops. “All due respect, Captain, I'm not really looking for a change in work,” you say, bemused.

“Just for this trip,” he assures you. “I've negotiated Doctor Kaiser off the Going Galleon, now he's trained up his apprentice, but they're not due to dock for another month. Just a quick go round, two weeks out, and I'll pay you handsomely for the favor you'll be doing me.”

You glance at Pyke, who’s looking at you. He lifts one shoulder. A denial is on the tip of your tongue, but then you think, “What's the name of your ship?”

“The name of…?” He glances at Pyke.

“Old tradition of her peoples,” he shrugs. “Never sailed on a ship she didn't know the name of.”

Huh. You guess that was true. Truso huffs a little laugh. “Fair enough.” He does a fancy little dip of his hat. “William Truso, Captain of the Whaler's Terror, at your service.”

“I'll do it,” you blurt. Pyke raises a brow at you, only to frown when he sees your face. You staunchly keep your eyes on the captain. “Leaving next week, right? I'll see you then.”

Truso beams. “Excellent! Don't you worry, milady, we'll have the ship docs quarters all cleaned up for you. And you, Pyke?” Pyke tears his eyes away from you long enough to nod tersely at the man. “Good lad. I'll let you get to it then, sure you've got a lot to wrap up here.” And he trots out the door whistling.

“Iso?” Pyke questions when you just stare after him. “Hey, what's wrong with you?”

You blink at him. “I, uh…”

He sets his knife and carving aside. “You're not acting like yourself. Talk to me.”

“I…” you trail off. What do you say? You're not even sure it's the Terror. You're not even sure what you're going to do if it is. Pyke is looking increasingly concerned though, so you scrub your face and steel your nerves. “Okay. I'm not sure I'm allowed to say this, but you–”

Bad move. Not allowed. The pain starts up immediately, and you crumple to your knees as you hack up the glass shard. You're distantly aware of Pyke hovering over you, obviously not sure what to do, but the fit passes quick. You grimace, wiping blood away from your mouth as you rewind the wound.

“What the fuck?” He says, understandably alarmed. He's staring at the mirror shard on the floor.

“You know that curse I mentioned?” You say weakly. “Well, that's what happens. Don't worry, I'm fine now, it's just…there to remind me, y'know.”

He stares at you incredulously, which quickly morphs to rage. “Who did this to you?”

You laugh. “They're already dead, if that's what you're getting at. Here, help me up, I need a drink after that.”

He clasps your arm and hauls you to your feet. You pad into the kitchen, and without a word he goes and gets one of the good bottles of wine–supposedly a present from Shanks after the arm thing. “So there's something about a ship you think I'm gonna sail on, and you don't know when, but you do know what it's called?” He summarizes, popping the cork as you sit at the kitchen table. You open your mouth, and he holds up a hand. “Don't answer that.”

“Nothing's for sure,” you say instead, watching him pull the tankards from the cabinet. “Could've been, but things’ve changed, so.”

He pours you a cup, then himself. “Hm. So you're one of those prophets, huh?”

You choke on your spit. He passes you the wine, brow raised. You sip, only to grimace and splutter.

“Why's it salty?” You croak.

He blinks down at his own cup, then sips. “Cut with salt water. Huh. Shanks knows how I like it,” he muses.

You rub your face. “How is prophet the first conclusion you reach?”

He shrugs. “Buhru religion’s all about getting visions from the Great Serpent. Don’t see why you can't get ‘em from somewhere else.”

You laugh, disbelievingly. The wine isn't so bad, now that you're expecting the bitter edge. Pyke drums his fingers against the table in thought. “So you're thinking whatever it is that might happen, you can stop it by being there?” You don't respond. You don't need to. Pyke, bless his heart, has always been able to read you like a book. He frowns, as uneasy as you've ever seen him. “...don't like this. Lot can go wrong at sea.”

“Tell me about it,” you sigh. “I just…look. I could be wrong about this, in which case hey, alls well that ends well. If I'm not, then…just please promise me you'll listen? Even if I can't explain?”

His hand finds yours across the table. “Been telling you the name of every ship I've sailed on for almost a year now, all cuz I thought you thought it was bad luck. You say jump, I'll jump.”

Your heart is doing flips in your chest from fear and hope and something much warmer you're not sure you're ready to name, so you launch out of your seat to clamber into his lap and kiss him. He wraps his arms around you and you loop yours around his neck and when you draw back for breath you swear “If you die, like, ever, I'm bringing you back.”

He laughs. “So you can kill me yourself?” He suggests.

“No. Well, maybe.” You kiss him again. “Thank you. For trusting me.”

“Never given me any reason not to,” he rumbles. He steers your head back down, and this time it's hungrier, his hands roaming to where your skirts are rucking up your thighs and his hips rolling up into yours–

And then the chair gives out.

—

“Doc!” Shanks is the first person to come see you.

“There's no way you've already broken something,” you say skeptically. “You can still see the harbor.”

“What? Nawww,” he laughs nervously. He's conspicuously holding his arm behind his back. You sniff the air delicately, and the coppery scent of blood reaches your nose, followed shortly by the sound of it dripping on your floor. You both stare at the new stain, and he gives you a sheepish grin. “Okay, there might've been a slight incident with some poorly stowed hooks, 100% not my fault.”

You sigh and wave him in. “Alright, sit.”

He happily seats himself on the examination table and produces a hand with a very large fishing hook through it. “Surprised to see you here, doc. Glad, don't get me wrong, the crews real heartened to have some mojo on deck. Our last ship doc was the ol’ fashioned type, real sour motherfucker, whiskey and oranges for a cut sorta guy–”

“Shanks,” you interrupt, because it really doesn't seem like he's going to stop anytime soon. “I can do this two ways, fast or careful. The hook’s barbed, so I can just pull it out, which will hurt like a motherfucker but it'll be over and done with. Other option, I can get someone to file the loop off and we can pull it off the other way, but that'll take a while.”

“How long?” He asks.

You shrug, making a so-so gesture. “Iunno, hour or so?”

He makes a face. “Fuck that, it already hurts. Just yank it out. Just, uh, you'll fix it after it's out, yeah? Just a quick lil’ bit of agonizing pain and then we're good as new, yeah?”

You nod. You could probably rewind the hook out of him, but that would raise questions you'd really rather not answer. “Hang on, let me get someone, gonna need a strong arm for this one. Don't touch it,” you warn as you stand. The sick bay is towards the back of the upper deck, facing out towards the water. You peek your head around the corner to the main deck and yell “Who wants to yank a fish hook out of Shanks’ hand?”

At least five men swivel their heads to look at you (you're not counting Pyke, who looks up when he hears your voice and then calmly goes back to coiling rigging when he sees you aren't in any particular distress). The two men closest to you engage in a quick slap fight before one of them manages to get to his feet and stride over to you. “Right here, ma’am!” He declares proudly. “Porter Harris at your service!”

“Ah, fuck, not you,” Shanks groans when he sees who you brought.

“Oh-hoh, yes, me!” Harris crows. “Look on the bright side! I'll finally forgive you for throwing up in my fucking mouth, you rancid bastard!”

You make a face. Shanks splutters. “Not in front of the lady, if you fucking please!”

“Oh, you wouldn't have a cinders chance in the Freljord with her even if she found out Pyke was fucking the Captain tomorrow,” Harris snorts, then nods awkwardly at you. “Uh, no offense, ma’am.”

“None taken.” You gesture him over and angle the hook in such a way you think will come out easiest, holding his wrist steady. “Okay, pull on three.” Behind Shanks back, you hold up two fingers and raise your eyebrows meaningfully. Harris grins. “One…”

“A man's got his pride–” Shanks begins to grumble.

“Two,” you count. Harris rips, and you're sure even the guys below deck hear Shanks holler ‘FUCK!’.

You immediately rewind the wound. “All done!” You say brightly. “Thank you, Harris.”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Harris says with relish. He walks out, swinging the hook on his finger and whistling.

“You're a heinous bitch, you know that?!” Shanks accuses somewhat hysterically, shaking his hand. “A duplicitous harpy, a–a…” he trails off, looking past you at the door. “A right good doctor, you are, much thanks, I'll be going now,” and he scurries off faster than you've ever seen anyone move while not technically running.

“Busy first day?” Pyke drawls from the doorway.

“Is he always like that?” You ask, getting a rag to mop up the blood. He puts a hand on your shoulder as he comes up behind you.

“Mhm. Captains looking for you. I'll take care of that,” he takes the rag from you and nudges you towards the door.

“Thanks,” you pause, cocking your head at him. Apparently the whole crew knew you were together anyway, so fuck it. “See you tonight?”

He glances at you, then the cot tucked away in the corner, and nods. You think you hear him humming softly as you leave.

—

It's an uneventful four days before you get out to deep enough seas. The Whaler's Terror has a wind mage in its employ, so it's fast travel. The food is shit and the bed is small (Pyke is not a small man–he sleeps on the bed, and you sleep on him. You ask him if you're too heavy and he straight up laughs at you), but other than that, it's comfortable enough.

On day five, you get to see why Truso offered to pay Pyke so much. He's a fucking marvel–Pyke has always moved like he knows exactly where he wants to be at the end of it, but it's something to behold when that somewhere is at the business end of a giant fish. The spotter in the mast calls out another dorsal fin breaching the surface, and you watch Pyke put his leg up on the railing with a harpooning blade in hand, pulling his arm back and lining up the shot before letting loose. The knife flies true and lands square in the things eye, another sailor pulling it's line taut, and Pyke wastes no time leaping off the ship onto the things back, using the harpoon and his spiked soles to hang on for dear life. Another knife comes from the belt, and this one goes in the other eye–now it just has the small ones left, and those barely see in the light. The fish dives, barrel rolling sideways into the water, and you watch with baited breath as it comes back up with Pyke still on its back. It launches from the water, nearly straight up, and you resist the urge to gasp as Pyke rips the ropeless blade from its eye and lets go, letting it throw him up in the air. He grasps the knife in both hands, and as gravity brings him back down onto the fish, drives it into its skull with one almighty swing. It floats to the surface, twitching, and Pyke gets to his feet and starts climbing one of the harpoon lines back onto the ship as the crew drag the body in. As he hauls himself back on deck, dripping seawater, you realize you're so head over heels it's not even funny.

—

“Better keep your voice down,” Pyke murmurs into your ear. You whimper in response, and you feel him grin against your skin. “Ah-ah, there's a good girl. Wouldn't want any of the crew hearing their doctor moaning like that, hm?” He punctuates the sentence with a particularly hard snap of his hips, and you make a strangled sound that approximates a hiccup. He chuckles, and you really don't know how he can sound so composed when he's pounding you within an inch of your life. You can only hope the sound of the ocean waves drowns out the sound of your equally wet pussy struggling to accommodate his cock.

He has you on your knees, one hand supporting his weight while he whispers filthy things in your ear. The other goes down to your clit, and oh, god in heaven–you bury your face in your pillow to try stifle your moans as you cum, only for Pyke to loop an arm around your torso and pull you back up. “That's cheating,” he grunts, and forces his fingers into your slack mouth. He tastes like salt and you, and his hips stutter when you suck them clean. “Fuck. D’you know how many times I thought about you just like this, when I was out at sea and you were back home? How I made myself cum imagining it was you wrapped around my cock?” You moan around his fingers, and he laughs roughly. “Good answer.”

You cum again, and he grunts as your walls grip down on him. His pace goes irregular, chasing his own release, and his hand goes from your mouth to your hips so he can pull you back against him. You can feel your own fluids dripping down your legs with every frantic thrust. With a groan, he buries himself in you, and he's so deep you can feel his cock throbbing as he cums.

With a satisfied sigh, he rolls off you to retrieve a wet cloth. He seems to like cleaning you up, after–Pyke’s not a man of many words, but he likes to show he cares. After, he pulls you to his chest, one arm slung around your shoulders and the other under his head, your legs tangled up with his. You've always envied how fast he can get to sleep.

You drift off listening to his heartbeat and wondering if you can just kill every Jaull-fish in the ocean.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #reader fic #leauge of legends #x reader #crossposted on ao3 #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #pyke #pyke x reader #nsfw

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Pyke: Pt 1

League of Legends | Pyke x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego | Pyke: 1

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

SFW

It's not that you even knew it was Pyke. You're running a clinic out of Bilgewater while you try to calculate the very specific angle you need to break the universe at to get you back home, because you can import just about anything there with no questions for the right price. And, well, there's always someone who needs healing in this place, so you're not wanting for customers.

He comes in dragging a co-worker whose arm had been near taken off by a sea-beast that wasn't quite dead. He says, urgently, that the man needs his arm to work, he doesn't have much to pay with but he'll give you a portion of his pay for as long as it takes.

“Flat rate for all fresh injuries,” you remind him, reaching out to touch the man's arm. The space around his bleeding arm blurs, and he yelps as it abruptly returns to its undamaged state. You've gotten in the habit of leaving the bloodstains–makes the healer act more believable. You don't want any bigger fish getting bright ideas about your powers–being a simple healer suits you just fine. “That'll be 30 gold.”

They both look floored. The injured man turns nervously to the other, who sighs heavily and says, “I'll sort it, don't worry. Get back to your kids.”

The formerly injured man ducks his head, thanking you both profusely as he scurries out of your clinic. You're left alone with his friend, who digs out a purse and begins counting out coins. He's a handsome fellow, tall and dark-skinned with sharp features. He's got the strong arms of a dock worker, and tattoos you've learned to recognize as Buhru. Unlike the Pyke you remember, his eyes are a sea-glass green and he has dark curls that fall past his ears. He has a bandana tucked around his neck, but most slaughter dock workers do to keep the smell of guts out. His voice is undistorted by the depths, a deep baritone that inexplicably makes you think he has a good reading voice, and he's wearing plain workers clothes with no distinctive fish jaws to speak of. So no, you don't recognize him.

He sets the last coin down, nods at you, and walks out. That, you think, is that.

Except next month he comes in with some other poor fuck. This one, at least, pays for himself–Pyke just drops him off, nods at you, and walks out again. Not that you know his name at this point. Two weeks later he's back, and you're about to ask who he's hauling in this time when you notice the limp.

“What did this?” You ask curiously as you roll up his tattered pant leg to reveal an ugly set of bruises and broken skin. He hisses when you touch it, and you think it might be broken–honestly, you're not too far off the docks, but he must be one stubborn motherfucker to make it here.

“Caught in a line,” he grunts as you pick out the worst of the debri. “Got dragged halfway down the dock.”

You wince. “That'll do it, yeah.” You rewind the wound and quickly wipe the blood off. Then you pat his (very solid) leg and stand. “Good as yesterday.”

He stands experimentally, then nods. Same as before, he goes for his coin purse to pay, then pauses. He checks one pocket, then another, then the first one again. Then he sighs deeply. “Must've lost it when I was getting dragged.”

“You work on the Red Docks, yeah?” You recall. He nods, and you whistle lowly. “That'll be long gone by now, then.”

He gives you a look that's half guarded, half pleading. “Give me a day and I can put the gold together.”

You consider him, or more accurately the corded muscles of his arms. “Tell you what. You're a big guy, and I'm in need of a strong arm for a personal project. When's your next day off?” He gives you a wary look, and you roll your eyes. “I'm not asking you to kill someone or smuggle drugs or anything like that, I just need some equipment lugged around. I'll pay twenty an hour for your time, and we’ll take the first hour and a half out your debt. Deal?”

He hesitates a moment, then sticks out his hand. “Deal.”

You shake on it, then immediately wince when he practically crushes your hand. “Oh christ, you really are strong,” you say, shaking out the sting.

He looks slightly abashed. “Sorry. Butcher's habit. I'll be back…day after tomorrow, should be?”

You nod. “Anytime around noon is fine, but we probably won't be getting back into town until dark. That fine?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He pauses a moment, then ducks his head. “Thanks.” And then he just leaves, as is his way.

—

He shows up at noon exactly. You feel a bit bad about making him haul your equipment crates down to the ferry, but he doesn't seem overly strained by the work, which leads you to believe your last porter was just trying to pad his hours. The ferry takes you to one of the islands about forty minutes out, and he lugs your equipment up to the hill. He's good at following instructions, and it takes less time than you'd expect to get your contraption set up.

“Okay, now we just have to wait for it to stabilize,” you say, dusting your hands off.

“What…is it?” He says slowly, examining the precarious mass of bronze and crystal.

“It’s a telescope that looks into the space beyond existence,” you say distractedly, opening up your bag and rifling through it. “Here,” you hand him a wrapped sandwich.

He blinks at it like he's never seen one before. You wiggle it impatiently at him, and he takes it almost automatically. You set your own aside so you can pull out your thermos and pour both of you a cup of ice tea. He takes that with no small amount of skepticism either.

“What is this?” He says, sniffing it. He sips, then makes a face that gives you absolutely no information on whether he likes it or not. “It's sweet.”

“It’s fruit tea,” you say, sipping your own. One nice thing about having time powers is it's just as cold as when you pulled it out of the icebox.

He gives the sandwich the same suspicious once over, though this one he doesn't eat. “This coming out of my pay?” He asks.

You raise a brow. “What? No. Jeez, what kind of shitty bosses have you had?”

“Won't argue shitty, but that's normal on the docks,” he says, eyeing you consideringly. “Must be well off, if you can afford to be nice.”

You shrug. “Always people who need healing in that city, and I'm not under anyone's thumb, so I actually get to keep what I make.”

His gaze shifts, now filled with a mix of both wariness and respect. “Not easy in a town like Bilgewater.” You shrug again, and he seems content to eat in silence.

“So how long’s it gonna take?” He asks, after you've eaten.

You make a so-so gesture. “Haven't tried this configuration before. Shortest it's ever been is ten minutes, longest is an hour.” You give him a considering look. “You play cards?”

–

He whips your ass in Bilgewater threecard, but you make a comeback in snap. You pause occasionally to fire the machine, but the viewfinder shows nothing but Void, so you adjust the crystals and return to the game. As sunset approaches, you adjust the crystals to catch the light, and you both squint on as the thing begins to hum and glow. You peer into the viewfinder excitedly, spinning the dials as you try to home in on anything that looks like reality–

Then it sparks and gives out. “Slut motherfucker,” you groan, throwing a card at the contraption.

“Didn't work?” He extrapolates.

“Nope!” You say with fake cheerfulness, grumpily getting to your feet to start taking the thing apart. “C'mon, that's it for today. Help me pack this piece of shit up and we'll head back.”

It's just getting dark by the time the ferry lands. He helps you lug the crates back home, and you count out his pay.

“It's a good thing you showed up yesterday,” you muse, scooping his pay into a separate bag. “Had to lay off my regular guy after he tried to steal my stuff.”

He glances up at you as he tucks the bag into his pocket. “You're out of a porter, then?”

You know that look. “It’s not regular work,” you warn. “And, uh, some days there will be a risk of getting slightly blown up.”

He gives you a considering look. “Define ‘risk’.”

You make a so-so gesture. “I mean, I'll let you know if I'm doing anything dangerous, but let's say…iunno, one in twenty? Promise I'll fix you up for free if that happens, though.”

He shrugs. “Fine with me. I'm down at Heimlich House most days. Ask for Pyke.” He inclines his head at you, and then walks out. It's probably for the best he does, because you're left staring at his back in sheer disbelief.

—

It's not, like, 100% Pyke Pyke. You think. You ask about him at the pub nearby, and Bard behind the bar asks if you mean tall Pyke, short Pyke or Pegleg Pyke.

“Tall Pyke?” You guess. He's certainly not short, and unless they're somehow talking about his dick, he's got both his legs too. “Buhru tattoos, green eyes, doesn't talk much? Hired him for a porting job, thinking of inviting him back on the regular. You think of any reason I shouldn't?”

“Tall Pyke, nah, he's the good one,” Bard says with a laugh. “Hard worker, sticks up for his crew. Mean motherfucker if you do him dirty, sure, but I don't reckon you're the type to go fucking anyone over. I'm sure he'll do you right, whatever you're hiring him for.”

You nod, sliding him a tip. “Thanks Bard. Hey, you got any of those battered fish things?”

So maybe it's not him. Apparently it's not an uncommon name–or was it a nickname? Not like Bilgewater had much in the way of legal records, honestly–nicknames were as good as official here. You just showed up and told people your name was Iso, after all. Him being called Pyke didn't mean it was Pyke, destined to be eaten by a big fucking fish, Blood Harbor Ripper Pyke. He isn't even a harpooner, he works on the slaughter docks. You're sure it's fine. Probably.

#league of legends x reader #league x reader #leauge of legends #reader fic #x reader #crossposted on ao3 #f!reader #reader #my fics: tiarw #Pyke x reader

[collidescopeeyes]

Tumblr make a text editor that doesn't suck on mobile, I beg of thee :(

#not fics