All Of Me, All Of You

Ember in the Dark pt.3

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.2 - pt.4

pt.1

Warnings: Survival Struggle, Dark Themes, Alcohol use, Smoking, Themes of oppression and struggle, and Trauma.

Word Count: 2893

Summary: After a failed heist exposes (Y/N)’s magic, she, Vander, Silco, and Felicia lay low by working in the mines. Over the years, they establish themselves in the Undercity, with Vander saving to buy the bar that becomes the "Last Drop." As their influence grows, Silco shares his vision of an independent Zaun, planting the seed of revolution. While Vander is hesitant, (Y/N) listens- intrigued but cautious. Lost in her past, she drowns her thoughts in smoke and whiskey, avoiding what haunts her. Yet, the idea of change lingers, and the path ahead is uncertain.

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The weight of (Y/N)’s secret still hung thick in the air, pressing against them like the smog outside their hideout. Now that everyone knew, there was no going back.

She sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at her hands- at the faint traces of magic that still tingled beneath her skin. The others were quiet, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Silco was the first to break the silence. "We need a plan."

Felicia snorted. "You think?" She gestured vaguely in (Y/N)’s direction. "This isn’t just some petty theft or smuggling job, Silco. She’s a mage. The second the wrong people find out, they’ll be all over us."

Vander leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His face was grim. "Felicia’s right. The Enforcers will come looking for whoever set off that magic during the heist. We don’t know if anyone saw your face, but if they did…" His jaw tightened. "It won’t just be you they come for, (Y/N). It’ll be all of us."

(Y/N)’s stomach twisted.

She knew. She knew.

She had spent her whole life hiding, knowing that even in the Undercity, where the laws were loose and survival meant everything, people still feared magic. Mages were either used, sold out, or killed.

Silco was watching her again, that calculating look back in his eyes. "Do you know how to control it?"

(Y/N) hesitated.

"Kind of," she admitted. "I’ve had to teach myself, but it’s-" She swallowed. "It’s not perfect. And when I panic, it’s harder to stop."

Felicia let out a long breath. "So if something goes wrong, you might accidentally blow up a building?"

(Y/N) shot her a glare. "I don’t blow things up."

"Could’ve fooled me."

"Felicia," Vander warned, before turning back to (Y/N). "We’ll figure it out," he said, like it was that simple. Like they could just sit down and solve this like any other problem.

(Y/N) wished she could believe that.

Silco leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "You need practice," he said bluntly. "You need to learn how to control it before it controls you."

(Y/N) frowned. "And how exactly do you suggest I do that? I can’t exactly go around throwing magic in the streets."

"Underground," Silco said without hesitation. "There are places in the Lanes where no one asks questions. The lower sectors, the abandoned tunnels- hell, even the Fissures. People go missing down there all the time. No one would notice a few sparks."

Vander didn’t look convinced. "And if someone does see?"

Silco tilted his head, smirking slightly. "Then we make sure they don’t talk."

Felicia groaned. "Great. Now we’re considering murder. Love that."

"We’re not killing anyone," Vander said firmly. "But Silco’s right about one thing- (Y/N) does need to learn how to control it. If the Enforcers come knocking, she needs to be able to hide it. Or fight back."

(Y/N)’s hands curled into fists. "I don’t want to fight."

Vander’s face softened. "I know."

Felicia sighed, rubbing her temples. "Alright. Say we do train her. Say she figures out how to keep her magic in check. What’s the endgame here? We just keep hiding forever?"

The room fell silent again.

Because none of them had an answer.

Eventually, someone would find out. The Undercity thrived on secrets, but it also thrived on selling them. And (Y/N)’s magic was worth more than just coin.

Silco’s gaze flickered toward her. "We don’t have to figure out everything tonight. But the sooner you learn to control it, the safer we all are."

(Y/N) took a slow, shaky breath. She didn’t like it. She didn’t want this.

But what choice did she have?

"Okay," she murmured. "I’ll do it."

Felicia sighed dramatically, throwing up her hands. "Fine. But if you do accidentally blow something up, I’m telling everyone it was Silco’s idea."

Silco smirked. "You say that like it would be the first time."

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, but something in her chest loosened… They weren’t running yet, but they would be ready when the time came.

The decision settled over them like dust, thick and inescapable. If they wanted to keep (Y/N) safe, they needed to stay put. No more bouncing from hideout to hideout, no more risky jobs that put them in Enforcer sights.

For a while now, they had talked about joining the Miners. It wasn’t glamorous work- nothing in the Undercity was- but it was steady, and more importantly, it was a place to disappear.

Felicia was the first to voice it aloud. "We should actually head for the mines, I guess..."

Vander nodded, rubbing his chin. "Yeah. The mines are deep enough that no one asks questions. No Enforcers, no Pilties. Just workers doing what they have to do to survive."

Silco looked less convinced. "It’s miserable work," he pointed out. "Back-breaking, dangerous, and not exactly known for long life expectancy."

"It’s better than getting caught," (Y/N) muttered.

That shut him up.

Felicia huffed, leaning back against the wall. "Besides, people go missing in the mines all the time. If (Y/N) needs a place to train, no one’s going to notice a little flicker of magic in some abandoned tunnel. They’ll just assume it’s fumes or gas leaks."

(Y/N)’s stomach twisted. She didn’t like the idea of being buried underground, of working herself to exhaustion in the mines just to stay invisible. But she liked the alternative even less.

Vander stretched, cracking his neck. "We’ll need to find someone to vouch for us. Miners don’t just take in new hands without a good word."

Silco smirked. "I might know someone."

Felicia raised a brow. "Of course you do."

"I make it a point to know useful people."

(Y/N) exhaled slowly, then nodded. "Okay. If this is what we have to do, then let’s do it."

The decision was made.

Tomorrow, they would start making arrangements. They would lay low, keep (Y/N) hidden, and work in the mines until they figured out their next move.

For now, it was enough to have a plan, it was enough to be together…

The years in the mines had hardened them all, but they had done what they set out to do. (Y/N) could control her magic now, keeping it hidden when needed, calling on it when necessary. She had learned to harness it, to let it flow without losing herself to it.

And more importantly, she had survived.

The four of them still lived together, still watched each other’s backs, but things were changing. They weren’t just desperate kids scrambling to make it through another day. They had goals now, real ones.

Vander had been saving for a while, working longer shifts, cutting corners on meals, taking riskier but better-paying jobs when he could. And now, he had almost enough to buy the old abandoned bar near the Markets.

Felicia had rolled her eyes when he first mentioned it. "You want to be a bartender now?"

Vander had just grinned. "I want to own something. To have a place of our own. A real home."

The idea had stuck.

It would take time, but if they pulled it off, it could be the start of something bigger. A place where they didn’t have to run. A place they could build something for themselves.

Silco had been skeptical at first, but even he had to admit- having a secure location came with its advantages. And Felicia? Well, she liked the idea of a bar because it meant easy access to drinks and a place to keep an eye on the people who owed them favors.

(Y/N)? She just liked the idea of having a home that wasn’t temporary.

They weren’t there yet. But soon, they would be.

And for the first time in a long time, the future felt like something worth looking forward to.

The mines had given them more than just a way to hide- they had given them purpose. Vander and Silco had worked their way up the ranks, gaining respect and authority, while (Y/N) and Felicia put in long hours, their earnings adding to Vander’s growing stash.

The bar was so close to being theirs.

And now, they just had to name it.

"‘The Last Drop,’" Vander mused, leaning back in his chair. "I like it."

Felicia snorted. "Of course, you do. It sounds dramatic enough for you."

(Y/N) smirked. "It is a good name, though. Feels… fitting."

Silco nodded, swirling the cheap liquor in his glass. "A place for the desperate. The ones at the end of their rope. The last refuge before you fall."

Vander grinned. "See? Dramatic. But I like that."

Felicia raised her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine. ‘The Last Drop’ it is."

It felt right… It wasn’t just a name. It was theirs.

It didn't take long to actually achieve it.

After years of scraping by, of moving from place to place, of struggling just to survive, they finally had something permanent…

Vander had stood in the middle of the empty space, hands on his hips, taking it all in with a quiet sense of pride. "Needs work," he had admitted. "But we’ll fix it up."

And they did.

It wasn’t grand, not yet, but it had walls, a roof that mostly kept the rain out, and a counter where drinks could be poured. It had a future.

As Vander and Silco’s reputation grew, so did their network of trusted allies. They weren’t in power- not yet- but they had people who listened when they spoke. People who respected them. And in the Undercity, that was worth more than coin.

One of those people was Benzo, a shop owner they had recently met. His pawn shop sat close to the bar, a place filled with oddities, old weapons, and trinkets that told stories of lives long past. He was sharp, experienced, and- most importantly- he knew things. The kind of man who had eyes and ears in the right places.

And then there was Connol.

Felicia had met him recently, and though she hadn’t shared much about him yet, there was something different in the way she talked about him. A flicker of something new.

The world was shifting around them, and they were finally in a position to shape it instead of just surviving it.

For the first time in years, the future wasn’t just something to fear. It was something to build.

The bar had settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind that only came when the night had dragged on and most of the patrons had stumbled home.

(Y/N) exhaled a slow breath, the ember of her cigarette glowing softly in the dim light. Next to her, Silco leaned over his book, writing with careful strokes, his whiskey glass half-full beside him. Vander stood behind the bar, absentmindedly wiping down the counter, still getting used to the rhythm of tending to the place.

Felicia wasn’t here- she had been disappearing more and more, off doing whatever it was she did with Connol. None of them had asked. Not yet.

Silco turned a page, but his mind wasn’t on the words. It hadn’t been for a while.

He had been thinking- turning an idea over in his mind, letting it take root, letting it grow. The Undercity… It wasn’t just a slum, wasn’t just a place where people survived at the mercy of Piltover’s scraps. It could be more. It should be more.

And maybe- just maybe- they could be the ones to make it happen.

He tapped his pen against the book, then glanced at (Y/N), who was watching him through the smoke curling between them.

"You’ve got that look again," she murmured.

Silco smirked. "What look?"

"The one that means you’re thinking too much."

Vander chuckled from behind the bar. "That is a dangerous thing."

Silco leaned back in his seat, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Have you ever thought about what the Undercity could be?"

Vander raised a brow. "It is what it is, Silco."

Silco shook his head. "No, it’s what they let it be. Piltover controls everything- our work, our trade, our lives. We live in their shadow, scraping by, pretending that’s all we’ll ever have."

(Y/N) stubbed out her cigarette, watching him closely. "And you think we can change that?"

Silco’s grip tightened around his glass. "I know we can."

Vander sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Silco…"

"No, listen," Silco pressed, leaning forward. "We have a foothold now. We have people who trust us, who listen to us. The bar isn’t just a business- it’s a gathering place. A starting point." His eyes gleamed with conviction. "We could be more than this. It could stand on its own. No more crawling to Piltover for scraps. No more living under their rule."

Silco let the words settle between them.

(Y/N) glanced at Vander, who was frowning, thoughtful but hesitant.

"You want to make a war out of this?" Vander finally asked, voice low.

Silco exhaled slowly. "I want to make a home. A real one. One where we don’t have to answer to anyone but ourselves... We can make Zaun..."

(Y/N) was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she reached for another cigarette. "You really think we could pull it off?"

Silco met her gaze, unwavering. "I think if we don’t, no one else ever will."

Vander sighed again, shaking his head- but he didn’t argue.

Because deep down, maybe part of him agreed.

Silco let the idea simmer, allowing Vander and (Y/N) to sit with it, to think about it. He knew better than to push too fast- Vander was cautious, (Y/N) measured. But the seed was planted.

He had spent years thinking about it, turning the idea over in his mind like a gambler weighing his last coin. The Undercity didn’t have to be a gutter for Piltover’s discarded souls. It could be Zaun- not just a slum, not just the shadows beneath the gleaming city above, but a true city. A force of its own.

The mines, the industry, the people- they were the backbone of Piltover’s prosperity. Without them, the Pilties would crumble under the weight of their own arrogance. And yet, the Undercity was treated as a wasteland, a place to be managed rather than respected.

Silco envisioned something greater. A Zaun that stood apart, that no longer bowed to Piltover’s rules. A Zaun where they decided their own future, not one dictated by Piltover’s Enforcers and Council laws.

The bar was quiet now, save for the occasional clink of glass and the low hum of the Undercity’s ever-present machinery beyond its doors. The night stretched on, thick with unspoken thoughts and the weight of Silco’s vision lingering between them.

(Y/N) nursed her drink, her fingers loosely wrapped around the glass as the warmth of it settled in her chest. She was buzzed- definitely buzzed. A lightweight, as always. But that was just how things were down here. You started young, numbing the cold grip of the Undercity however you could.

Vander had stopped trying to stop her a long time ago.

"You’re thinking about it," Silco mused beside her, his voice low and knowing.

(Y/N) smirked lazily, swirling the remnants of her drink. "’Course I am. It’s a lot to think about."

He nodded, taking another sip of his whiskey. "You don’t have to decide anything now."

She snorted. "I know. You’re letting it sit with us, right?"

Silco chuckled, amused. She was sharp, even with alcohol softening the edges of her thoughts. He liked that about her.

She leaned back, exhaling. "Zaun," she murmured, rolling the word on her tongue. "Feels... different. Feels like something real."

Silco glanced at her, studying the way she stared at her drink, thoughtful even through the haze of liquor.

"It will be real," he said, certainty laced in his tone. "Someday."

(Y/N) didn’t argue. Didn’t scoff. She just nodded, because maybe, just maybe, she could see it too.

After some time, Vander started to moved through the bar with practiced ease, cutting people off, sending the last stragglers stumbling toward the door. The place was shutting down for the night. Not that it mattered much to (Y/N) or Silco. They lived here.

Silco sat comfortably, still sipping at his whiskey, but (Y/N)… She had gone quiet.

Her second drink sat half-finished in front of her, her gaze fixed on the worn wood of the bar. The alcohol had softened her edges, but instead of making her talkative, it had drawn her inward.

She was thinking.

Silco knew that look.

(Y/N) didn’t talk much about her past- not beyond the bare bones of it. They all knew about her magic, but her mother? Her life before coming to the Undercity? That was a locked door she never let them open.

Instead, she lit another cigarette, the flicker of flame briefly illuminating her face before she inhaled, filling her lungs with smoke and whiskey, pushing everything else down.

Silco watched her for a moment before breaking the silence.

"Heavy thoughts?"

(Y/N) exhaled, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. "Always."

He hummed, tilting his glass. "Anything worth sharing?"

She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Not tonight."

That was how it always was, so Silco didn’t push.

He just poured himself another drink and stayed beside her, letting the ghosts settle in around them.

YAYYY thanks for Kyoko/Celeste/Toko request it was awesome (the inclusion of Jack caught me off guard since I personally don't find her attractive but idm!!! /Gen I should've been more specific whoopsie haha!) very well written, I enjoyed it alot!

Ps. Unfortunately an infamous ableist, homophobic, fatphobic (amongst other awful things) user liked that post :( if you wanted to block them or not M/ommy/hon/da (without the slashes, they search their name up for people talking about them hence the censoring

Oh, my bad about the Jack inclusion! I hope it was okay nonetheless! And yes, I noticed that user, and I already promptly blocked them :}

Thank you for the warning. If you have any more requests, feel free to make them. I'll try to keep it strictly to the characters asked from now on. I consider Jack/Toko sorta the same person (or ya know, two people sharing the same body), which is the only reason why I added them lmao.

Welcome!

I'm Gi, thank you for visiting my profile :}

Okay, so, I'm going to be so honest... I'm not exactly experienced when it comes to Tumblr. I mostly use it to look at art, and read fanfiction. Nonetheless, I want to try! I'm planning on posting my art, along with any fics I decide I want to write. I normally posty art on Insta, and my fics on Wattpad, but I thought it was time for a change, so I migrated here. I don't know what I'm doing exactly, but I would love suggestions on how to make things better, my writing, art, profile, everything! Feel free to give me any tips you want, I'll appreciate anything given to me :}

I'm going to start off with posting some art, just so this isn't my only post. If you like my work, don't hesitate to send me requests or suggestions!

Can you do separate peko, Mikan and tenko with male!reader who is depressed and scared of males due to his past abuse of stepfather?

A/N: Yes, I absolutely can! You didn't specify what kind of writing you wanted, so I just made oneshots for each of them :}

Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.1

pt.2

Peko, Mikan and Tenko x Male!Reader

Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries

Word Count: 3628

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Peko: 

The first time Peko noticed him, it wasn’t because of something loud or dramatic.

It was because he wasn’t loud.

(Y/N) sat alone in the corner of the classroom, always a little too still, a little too tense. His eyes rarely met anyone’s directly, and when they did, they flinched away like they'd touched something too hot.

Peko understood silence. She understood stillness. But this wasn’t the silence of focus or discipline. This was a silence built from fear.

She didn’t approach him right away. Observation came naturally to her. She watched how he gripped the sleeves of his uniform during conversations. How he edged closer to the wall when a male classmate got too close. How his breathing would subtly hitch anytime a voice raised near him- even in laughter.

It wasn’t hard to piece together.

What she didn’t expect was how he looked at her.

Not with fear. Not with pity. But almost... curious. Like he couldn’t understand why someone like her- stern and composed- was the only one he didn’t shy away from.

They shared the same routine. Arrive early. Leave late. Avoid the crowd. So one day, when they passed in the hallway, and he flinched from someone else’s raised hand when going in for a highfive with another student, Peko made a choice.

She stopped.

“You’re hurt,” she said bluntly, her tone flat but not unkind. “You mask it well. But I see it.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened, lips parting as if to protest, but nothing came out.

“I won’t ask what happened,” she continued, her voice steady. “But I’d like to offer... company. You don’t need to speak. I’ll simply sit.”

His throat bobbed. It was too much and not enough, all at once. He nodded.

That was how it started.

They began sharing quiet moments behind the school. No words, just the rustle of wind and the occasional time Peko pulled out her covered sword as she practiced her forms nearby. She never moved too fast, never startled him. The wood covering her blade slicing through the air with purpose, but her movements were deliberate- never violent, never chaotic.

(Y/N) started bringing a book. Sometimes he read. Sometimes he just listened to her breathe.

He trusted her long before he realized he did.

One afternoon, weeks into this fragile ritual, Peko put her sword down and sat beside him. Not close enough to touch- but closer than usual.

“I was trained to kill,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “But I don’t want to be feared.”

(Y/N) looked at her. Really looked. Her eyes were steady, but there was something buried deep- something vulnerable.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he whispered.

She turned to him. The softest flicker of something like relief crossed her face.

“You don’t flinch when I move,” she said.

“You don’t raise your voice,” he replied. “You don’t... look at me like I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken,” she said without hesitation. “You survived something that tried to destroy you. That takes strength.”

His breath caught. No one had ever said that before. Not like that. Not without expectation.

Peko looked down. “I don’t understand emotions well. But... I want to protect what’s important to me. You’ve become important.”

His heart stuttered.

He didn’t know what to say. But maybe he didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to hide.

And Peko, the girl who had only ever known her blade, sat quietly beside him- offering a different kind of shield.

After a while, they both stood, going off in their separate directions, like any other day. 

The next day, around the end of the school day, (Y/N) was making his way to his loacker to gather all of his things.

The hallway was nearly empty, that sort of eerie quiet where footsteps echo too loudly. (Y/N) had stayed behind, as usual, hoping the other students would clear out so he wouldn’t have to squeeze through a crowd. But he hadn’t realized one of the seniors- Riku, loud and full of something bitter- was waiting around the corner.

“Hey,” Riku said, stepping into his path.

(Y/N) froze.

He recognized that voice. Recognized the way his tone coiled beneath fake friendliness. He backed up a step.

“Relax, man. Just wanna talk,” Riku smirked, inching closer. “You’re always glued to that sword-girl. Pretty sure she’s not into shy little losers.”

(Y/N)’s throat tightened. His breath came shallow. Riku moved fast- too fast- blocking his path with an arm against the lockers.

Something snapped behind his eyes. He wasn’t seeing the hallway anymore. He was seeing him. The stepfather who slammed doors. Who raised fists. Who spat words like nails. His body went rigid. Breath caught.

But then-

A voice, sharp and cold as steel, “Back away from him.”

Riku turned. “What the hell-?”

Peko stood at the end of the hall, eyes narrowed at Riku. She wasn’t holding it in an offensive stance. She didn’t need to.

Her presence alone was enough to shift the air.

Riku chuckled, but it was weak now. “Geez, you’re really babysitting him?”

Peko didn’t blink. “This is your final warning.”

Her hand moved slightly, her fingers brushing the handle of her sword on her back.

Riku scoffed but stepped back, muttering something under his breath. He wasn’t stupid. No one crossed Peko Pekoyama.

The moment he was gone, Peko turned her attention to (Y/N), whose back was still against the lockers, chest rising and falling fast.

“(Y/N),” she said, softly now. “He’s gone. You’re safe.”

It took a moment, but his gaze finally met hers. Wide, haunted.

She stepped closer. Slowly. “May I?” she asked, gesturing vaguely toward him- not to touch, just to be closer.

He nodded once.

They sat down on the bench nearby, the world narrowing to the silence between them. Peko waited. Patient. Steady. He clutched his sleeves tightly, knuckles white, before he finally broke the quiet.

“My stepfather…” he began. His voice cracked. He paused. Swallowed.

She waited.

“He used to do things like that. The cornering. The threats. And worse. I’d hear his boots coming down the hall and- I just- I couldn’t breathe.” His voice wavered, and he shut his eyes tightly. “I always thought it was my fault. That I wasn’t strong enough.”

Peko didn’t speak right away. When she did, her voice was low. Intent.

“You survived that,” she said. “Not because you were weak- but because you endured. And that kind of strength... is rare.”

His lips trembled. “Why don’t you run from me, Peko?”

She tilted her head slightly, frowning. “Why would I run from you?”

“Because I’m messed up. Broken. You could be with anyone-”

“I choose to be near you,” she interrupted, voice firm. “Not out of pity. Not out of duty. But because... when I’m with you, I feel calm. Like I don’t have to always be a weapon.”

His eyes widened.

She hesitated, then reached out- not touching him, just letting her hand hover, waiting. “May I?” she asked again.

Slowly, (Y/N) nodded.

She took his hand gently, her grip warm but never tight. Never controlling. Just… there.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like a victim.

Mikan:

The first time Mikan saw him, (Y/N) was curled up in the corner of the classroom, sleeves tugged over his hands, eyes glued to the floor like looking at anyone might make him shatter.

She recognized it instantly- the stiffness in his shoulders, the flinch at every sudden movement, the way his breathing changed when someone walked behind him. Fear. Not the kind that faded with time, but the kind etched into the nervous system like a scar.

She understood that kind of fear too well.

Mikan had always been too much- too clumsy, too anxious, too eager to please- but she was never too much for pain. Pain, she'd learned, made people pay attention. She'd hated it, but she'd lived in it for so long that when she saw (Y/N), she knew. He lived there too.

It started small.

A quiet hello after class, barely above a whisper. A bandaid offered when she noticed he was biting the skin around his nails until it bled. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t look her in the eye. But he didn’t push her away either.

That was enough for Mikan.

She didn’t try to fix him. She just sat next to him sometimes, talked softly about things that didn’t matter- how the nurse’s office was out of gauze again, how her hair wouldn’t stay right no matter how she brushed it, how the sky looked heavy with rain. He never responded, but slowly, he started listening. And eventually, he started nodding.

Then one day, he spoke.

“I hate being touched.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Mikan froze. She didn’t ask why. She didn’t need to. She just nodded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Okay. I won’t touch you,” she said.

(Y/N)’s shoulders relaxed, just a little.

Weeks passed like that. (Y/N) never told her what happened, but sometimes he’d trail off mid-sentence and she’d see the flicker of something behind his eyes- something haunted and heavy. She didn’t press. She just kept showing up. With warmth. With patience.

And one rainy afternoon, everything changed.

He was shaking when he stumbled into the nurse’s office, soaked through, bruises blooming across his ribs. He wouldn’t say who did it. Mikan didn’t ask. She only helped him sit down on the cot, hands trembling as she reached for the medical kit, then paused.

“I-I-I’m going to clean your injuries now, but… I won’t touch you unless you say it’s okay, okay?”

There was a long silence. Then, barely audible:

“…Okay.”

It was the first time he let her touch him.

Her hands were soft, careful. Every movement was slow, narrated in a gentle whisper. “I’m cleaning the cut now. It might sting a little, b-but I’ll be really careful, promise…”

He flinched, but didn’t pull away. His breathing hitched. She didn’t say anything when a tear slid down his cheek. She just handed him a tissue.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so broken.”

“No,” she said immediately, shaking her head so hard her hair slipped from its pins. “You’re not. You’re hurt. You’ve been hurt really badly, but that’s not the same as being broken.”

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. She saw the raw ache in his expression, the doubt, the exhaustion. But also, the beginning of something else. Hope, maybe.

In time, (Y/N) stopped flinching as much. He started sitting closer. Sometimes, he even smiled. It was small and fleeting, but to Mikan, it was brighter than the sun.

He wasn’t healed, not completely. Healing didn’t happen all at once. It came in pieces. In trust built moment by moment. In safety found in gentle hands and soft voices.

Mikan didn’t need him to be perfect. She didn’t even need him to be okay.

She just needed him to know he didn’t have to suffer alone.

And little by little, he began to believe it.

After that, the nurse’s office had become a kind of sanctuary.

At first, (Y/N) had only gone there when he had no choice- when bruises needed hiding or a panic attack left him too dizzy to think. But now, he found himself drifting there even on quiet days. Days when nothing hurt, at least not visibly. Days when the ghosts were just whispers, not screams.

Mikan was always there.

She never asked him to explain himself. She never pushed when the words got stuck in his throat. She just smiled- nervous, shaky, but real- and made space for him beside her. Sometimes she offered tea. Sometimes she rambled about classwork or clumsily spilled cotton balls across the floor. Sometimes she just sat with him, in silence, and that was enough.

(Y/N) found comfort in her softness, in how careful she was. How she always announced every move.

“I’m reaching for the thermometer now, o-okay? I won’t touch you.”

“I’ll sit here, if that’s okay. I c-can move if it’s not…”

He never realized how deeply he craved that kind of gentleness until she gave it to him.

It was a Thursday when something shifted.

(Y/N) was staring out the window, watching a few birds hop along the grass just beyond the courtyard. The sky was a dull gray, the kind that made everything feel a little heavier. Mikan sat beside him on the cot, legs drawn up beneath her, chewing nervously on her lower lip.

She looked at him, then down at her hands. “U-Um… (Y/N)? Can I ask something?”

He stiffened, but nodded.

“Have you ever… had anyone tell you they’re proud of you?”

He blinked.

“…No.”

Mikan’s lips parted like she might cry, but instead, she scooted just a little closer. “I am,” she whispered. “I-I mean… I’m proud of you. You’re so brave. You keep going even when it hurts, and you’re always so kind even when you're scared, and… I just think that’s really, really strong.”

The room was too quiet. Too still.

Then- without thinking- (Y/N) reached out. His fingers brushed her sleeve. Not skin. Just fabric. But it was the first time he’d reached for anyone in years.

Mikan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“Is… is it okay if I stay like this?” he asked, voice trembling. “Just for a minute.”

Her eyes went wide with emotion, then she gave the smallest, warmest smile.

“Yes. Of course it is.”

Later that night, (Y/N) sat on his bed with the lights off, staring at the soft imprint of her touch left in his memory. His stepfather’s voice still echoed sometimes, cruel and sharp and impossible to silence. But for once, it was quieter than the sound of Mikan’s voice.

“I’m proud of you.”

Those words replayed over and over, like a lullaby.

Tenko:

The dojo was quiet- unusually so. Dust motes floated in the sunlit air like tiny spirits, dancing just above the polished floorboards. Tenko Chabashira stood barefoot at the center of the room, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail that swayed with every practiced movement. Her breathing was controlled, sharp, matching the flow of her kata.

But she paused mid-strike, her sharp eyes flickering toward the door. Someone was there- hesitating. Hovering like a shadow.

"(Y/N)?" she called softly, letting her arms fall to her sides.

He flinched, half-hidden behind the sliding door, as if even hearing his name spoken aloud was too much. His knuckles were white where he clutched the edge of the frame, shoulders hunched beneath his too-large hoodie.

Tenko straightened and offered a gentle smile- not too big, not too forceful. She knew better than to rush him. Over the past few weeks, she’d noticed how (Y/N) never looked anyone in the eyes, how he avoided crowded hallways and jumped at loud voices. And worst of all- how he tensed around every man, like his whole body was bracing for a blow.

She had been careful. Always letting him choose the distance. Always making sure he knew she saw him as more than what the others whispered behind his back.

"I was just finishing up training," she said, wiping sweat from her brow. "You can come in… if you want."

He hesitated, then stepped forward like he was walking into an unknown world. Every step seemed like a negotiation with himself. He didn’t meet her eyes, but he sat at the far edge of the room, back to the wall, as if needing a way out.

Tenko didn’t mind. She simply walked to the corner, grabbed a bottle of water, and took a slow sip before sitting cross-legged across from him.

"You’re always welcome here, you know," she said softly. "No pressure. Just… a place to breathe."

(Y/N)'s hands curled tightly in his sleeves. His voice, when it came, was almost inaudible. “You’re the only one who doesn’t… look at me like I’m broken.”

Tenko’s heart twisted. She leaned forward slightly, mindful of her posture- open, nonthreatening.

"You're not broken, (Y/N). You've just been hurt. And healing... takes time. But you're strong. I can tell."

He shook his head. "I'm not. I can't even look at half the class without freezing up. I can’t-"

“You showed up here,” she cut in gently. “That’s strength.”

There was silence. A long, aching silence.

Then, as if asking for something he couldn’t name, he whispered, "Can I stay a while?"

Tenko’s expression softened. She nodded, voice quiet but firm. “As long as you need.”

And so they sat there, in the soft golden light, surrounded by the scent of pine wood and old paper walls. No fighting. No fear. Just two people- one offering calm, the other learning to breathe again.

Tenko glanced at him, watching the way his shoulders relaxed just slightly.

"I don’t usually like guys," she admitted suddenly, rubbing the back of her neck. "They make me uncomfortable. Scared, sometimes. I… guess that’s why I understand you a little."

(Y/N)'s head turned, just barely, and for the first time, their eyes met. Not for long, not intensely- but it was enough. Enough to see the sincerity in hers, the warmth behind the guarded strength.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Tenko gave him a soft smile- one that didn’t need words. 

After that day, the dojo became their quiet haven.

Most days after class, Tenko would finish her practice while (Y/N) sat nearby, always keeping his distance, always watching. Sometimes, he brought a book. Other times, he said nothing at all. But he came back- day after day- and that was enough for her.

One afternoon, when the clouds hung low and the wind rattled the paper windows, Tenko finished a round of sparring with the training dummy and sat beside him on the polished floor. She didn’t speak at first. Neither did he.

Instead, she handed him a cup of tea she’d brewed earlier. Chamomile. Something calming.

He took it slowly, hands trembling just slightly as he held the warm porcelain between his palms.

“I used to drink tea with my mom,” he said, voice low. “Before everything… changed.”

Tenko glanced over, surprised he’d spoken first. She stayed quiet, letting him decide how much to share.

“She used to hum,” he added. “All the time. While cleaning, cooking… even when things were bad. I miss that.”

Tenko looked down at her cup, her brow knitting softly. “I miss my sensei,” she said. “She taught me everything I know about Aikido. She said it wasn’t just about defense- it was about connection. With yourself. With others.”

She turned her head to meet his eyes.

“That’s why I started letting you sit here. I wanted you to feel safe… connected.”

(Y/N) bit his lip, shoulders curling in slightly like he was trying to keep himself small. But he didn’t move away.

“Sometimes I think I’ll never be normal,” he whispered.

Tenko scooted just a little closer- carefully, never pushing.

“What if you don’t have to be?” she said. “What if who you are now is already enough?”

He looked at her, eyes wide. There was no judgment there. No pity. Just Tenko-blunt, honest, warm. After a few moniutes, she suggested something. 

“Just stretching,” she promised. “You don’t even have to touch me. It’s just you and your body. Reclaiming it.”

(Y/N) was hesitant. The idea of his body being his own felt... foreign. But Tenko’s voice was soft, and her patience never wavered.

He followed her lead one day, mirroring her as she slowly bent forward, arms extended. His form was shaky, unbalanced, but she never corrected him harshly.

“You’re doing great,” she said gently. “This part’s about feeling. Not perfection.”

Each day, he got a little better. He started standing straighter. Breathing deeper. Letting his hands relax at his sides instead of fisting in his sleeves.

He even laughed once- when Tenko tried to show off a high kick and accidentally knocked over a training mat.

She flushed red. “T-That was intentional, of course! A lesson in humility!”

His laugh was small but real, and she smiled like she’d just won a gold medal.

It was late one evening when (Y/N) had a nightmare and ended up knocking on her door at the dorms, pale and shaking.

Tenko didn’t ask questions. She pulled him inside and handed him a blanket. Made him tea. Sat on the floor with him until the trembling stopped.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head.

She nodded. “Then we don’t have to.”

But after a while, as the tea grew cold between his hands, he said, “He used to come into my room when the house was quiet. Said it was my fault. That I was weak.”

Tenko’s hands tightened on her lap, her jaw clenching with quiet rage.

“You were never at fault,” she said. “Not even a little.”

And then- carefully, with the softness of someone offering a bridge- she opened her arms.

“I can hold you, if you want.”

His breath caught, chest rising unevenly.

“…Okay.”

He leaned in slowly, as if expecting her to flinch. But she didn’t. Her arms wrapped around his narrow shoulders, strong but warm. She held him like she meant it- like she wasn’t afraid of what he carried.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here.”

[Request]

HH x TOH AU

This one is with Amity and Angel bonding with each other after they both find out that they have similar experiences with abuse.

(WARNING: Mentions of Self Harm, Suicide, both Physical & Psychological Abuse.)

A/N: @beastkeeper91, I love writing for fandom crossovers, so I love how many I've been getting :}

Trust Fall Trauma pt.2

pt.1

Sinner!Amity Blight x Hazbin Hotel.

Warnings: Mentions of Self Harm, Suicide, Physical/Psychological Abuse, Toxic parent-child relationships, Trauma responses, Mild language.

Word Count: 1377

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It started, as many things at the Hotel did, with chaos.

“WHO put glitter in the toaster?!” Vaggie shrieked from the kitchen, holding up the crime scene with righteous fury.

“That would be me,” Angel Dust said proudly, sipping something fizzy and definitely not Charlie-approved. “I was experimenting.”

“With what? Arson?” Vaggie snapped.

Angel winked. “Domestic sparkle.”

In the corner, Amity bit back a snort. She was draped lazily across the bean bag she’d claimed during the last “team-building” activity (A.K.A the hostage decorating session). A book was open on her lap, mostly ignored.

Charlie breezed in, arms full of new flyers for her “Soulful Sundays” program, handing them out like cursed coupons.

“Angel, Amity- go put these up around town, please!”

“What am I, your poster boy?” Angel asked, examining one with his face doodled onto the logo. “Wait… actually, this is kind of cute. Look at my lashes.”

Amity rolled her eyes but stood. “I swear, if I get stabbed doing this again, I’m charging something next time.”

They were out the door five minutes later, squabbling lightly as they walked through the dim streets of Pentagram City.

“I still don’t get why I have to help,” Amity muttered, clutching her roll of posters.

“Because you have claws and you’re scary and people won’t mess with us?” Angel offered. “And because you secretly like us.”

She snorted. “Keep dreaming, spider.”

They wandered for a while, stapling posters to demon poles and charmingly decrepit walls, dodging the occasional mugging in progress. Eventually, they found themselves on the roof of a low building overlooking the twisted skyline.

Amity sat on the edge, feet dangling. Angel joined her, legs crossed delicately, cigarette in hand. For a while, they just watched the city breathe.

It was surprisingly… peaceful.

“Hey,” Angel said after a beat, glancing at the stripes on her arms. “You always had those?”

Amity tensed, glancing down.

The markings were faint, like natural fur patterns. But they weren’t. Not really... Not to her.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I've had them since I got to hell… Had them before too, but uh… They weren't exactly just marks at that time.”

Angel didn't push. He just nodded, taking a drag.

“I got scars, too,” he said after a minute. “...Val made sure of that.”

Amity looked at him sideways. There was something raw in his voice, despite the lightness he tried to fake. The cracks showed through if you knew where to look.

“My mom,” she said slowly, “Didn’t even care that I was hurting myself when she found out. She used to say the pain meant I was being shaped into something ‘worthy.’ That I’d thank her someday…”

Angel scoffed. “Let me guess. You didn’t.”

“I bled out on the floor of my bedroom when I was sixteen,” Amity said flatly. “So, no. I didn’t.”

Silence.

Angel took another drag, then offered the cigarette to her.

To no one's surprise, she declined it.

“Val told me I was nothing without him,” Angel said, voice softer now. “Just a pretty face with a hole to fill. Said I was lucky he kept me.”

“He sounds like Odalia,” Amity muttered, watching the smoke curl up from the cigarette Angel was smoking, into the deep red sky. “Except she preferred emotional evisceration. Less mess.”

“You ever try to fight back?”

“Once,” she said. “Got locked in my closet for a week.”

Angel winced.

They sat there, two ghosts with matching bruises in different shapes, saying nothing for a while.

Eventually, Amity spoke again.

“You ever wonder why the scars aren’t here, but the damage still is?”

“All the time,” Angel said. “I think Hell takes the pain and turns it into something you gotta wear. Like a suit. Or a warning.”

Amity looked down at her arms. The fur shimmered faintly under the lights of Hell.

“Maybe it’s not a punishment,” she said. “Maybe it’s a reminder. That we went through it...”

Angel looked at her then, really looked. The kid who called Charlie "Mom" by accident. The tough girl with the sharp wit and the too-tired eyes.

“You’re alright, Blight,” he said, tapping ashes into the void. “Kinda messed up, but in a way I respect.”

“You too, Angel,” she replied. “Spider freak.”

He grinned. “Trauma twins?”

She held up a fist.

He bumped it.

Eventually, Angel's cigarette burned down, and the chill of the rooftop crept in- not that Hell had real seasons, but the air still found ways to bite… Even with the heat.

Amity stretched, tail flicking lazily behind her. “We should finish the job before Charlie has a meltdown and starts handing out redemption-themed stickers again.”

“God forbid,” Angel groaned. “Last time I found one on my ass.”

They hopped down, finishing their poster rounds with minimal incident- aside from one demon who tried to flirt with Angel and got a mouthful of claws courtesy of Amity’s quick temper.

“Damn, girl,” Angel whistled as they walked away. “Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Good,” she said. “I was gonna put that on a business card.”

By the time they got back to the hotel, the front lobby was quiet, lit only by the warm golden glow of Charlie’s favorite chandelier and the soft flicker of whatever infernal candles Alastor insisted on lighting. The chaotic noise of earlier had faded. For once, things were… calm.

They stood in the doorway for a second. Neither of them moved.

“You ever get that thing,” Angel said, voice oddly gentle, “where you walk back into a place, and it feels like home, but your brain’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop?”

Amity nodded slowly. “All the time.”

They entered together. Quietly. Like if they talked too loud, the spell might break.

Charlie was curled up on a couch in the lounge, half-asleep with a book open across her chest and her hair messed up a bit.

Angel grinned. “Sunshine passed out mid-sentence.”

Amity smiled faintly, something warm flickering behind her ribs. “She does that.”

They didn’t wake her. Just set the last few posters on the coffee table and sank into the nearby beanbags- Angel flopping like he was melting, Amity perching with the caution of a cat ready to bolt.

“You think she really means it?” Amity asked suddenly. “All this redemption stuff?”

“Charlie?” Angel leaned back, arms behind his head. “Yeah. She's nuts, but she means it. I’ve never seen someone try so hard to love everyone. It’s kinda annoying, honestly.”

Amity smirked. “She’s nice to me…”

“She's nice to everyone, but... Yeah, pretty sure she has an extra soft spot for you,” Angel teased. “Especially after the whole 'Mom' thing.”

Amity gave him a half-hearted glare, then sighed. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Sure,” he said. “But you felt it.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin there, eyes tracing the edge of the chandelier above.

“I used to imagine what it would feel like,” she murmured. “To have someone who didn’t hurt me. Someone who stayed. But after a while, it just… felt stupid. Like fairy tales for broken kids.”

Angel was quiet.

Then, softly, “I used to fake voices when I was little. Pretend someone was reading to me at night. Said goodnight. Said I was safe.”

Amity looked at him. “You've never told anyone that, have you?”

“Nope,” he said. “You’re just special.”

She rolled her eyes, but it lacked heat.

A long moment passed. Then she asked:

“What does healing even look like for people like us?”

Angel thought about it.

“Not running,” he said finally. “Not hiding. Laughing more. Flinching less. Waking up and not feeling like the worst version of yourself.”

Amity nodded, quiet. “That sounds… impossible.”

He smiled sadly. “Yeah. But Charlie thinks we can get there. And I guess…” He nudged her foot with his own. “If I’ve gotta stumble toward healing with anyone, I don’t mind if it’s you and the rest of these idiots...”

She didn’t say anything.

But she didn’t pull away either.

Instead, she leaned back into the beanbag and let herself breathe. For the first time in longer than she could remember, Amity didn’t feel like she had to earn the right to just exist…

Ember in the Dark pt.2

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.1 - pt.3

Warnings: Violence, Themes of survival, Themes of secrecy and trust., Trauma, and Emotional distess.

Word Count: 2281

Summary: (Y/N) reveals her long-hidden magic to Silco, who, instead of reacting with fear, warns her of the danger if others find out. As they return to their hideout, she struggles with whether to tell Vander and Felicia. Silco advises secrecy, reminding her that once shared, it’s no longer just hers. Before she can decide, an unexpected visitor arrives- Vander and Felicia, worried about her disappearance. Their concern turns to frustration, prompting (Y/N) to make a choice. She reveals her magic, summoning a flicker of golden light. Stunned, Felicia reacts with shock and exasperation, while Vander, though concerned, reassures her that she’s still one of them. Despite their initial frustration, they accept her, and the tension eases.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Y/N)’s hand was still in Silco’s as he helped her up, steady despite the grime and damp clinging to her skin. For a second, she just stood there, forcing herself to breathe, to push down the tremors in her limbs.

She had to decide.

She could tell him.

The thought sent a sick kind of fear curling in her gut. For years, she had fought to keep it hidden. She had watched her mother waste away under the weight of survival, all while whispering the same warning over and over: Never let them see. Never let them know.

But Silco had seen something. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what, but she could feel his eyes on her, sharp and calculating even as they started walking back toward Vander and Felicia.

If she told him now, if she trusted him, would he keep it?

Or would he look at her like she was something other?

"You're quiet," Silco muttered as they weaved through the labyrinth of rusted pipes and narrow alleys. "Not like you."

(Y/N) huffed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. "Almost got caught by enforcers. Guess I’m not in a talking mood."

Silco gave her a sidelong glance. "You weren’t just running from them."

Her throat went dry.

She kept her expression even, but she could feel him watching her. The way he always did when he was picking someone apart, digging beneath the surface until he found the weak spot.

She should lie.

She should.

Instead, she stopped walking.

Silco took a few steps before realizing she wasn’t following. He turned, brow furrowing as she clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides.

"(Y/N)," he said, slower now, careful.

Her chest ached. Say nothing. Swallow it down. Keep it buried.

But she was tired of swallowing it down.

"I have to tell you something," she blurted before she could stop herself.

Silco’s expression didn’t change, but she saw the way he straightened slightly, the way his hands twitched as if bracing for a fight. "Alright," he said, voice measured.

(Y/N)’s heart slammed against her ribs. This was it.

She glanced around, making sure no one was nearby, then took a slow breath.

Her fingers twitched.

And then, with a hesitant, controlled motion, she let the smallest flicker of golden light spark between them.

The glow barely lasted a second, just a tiny crackle of warmth between her fingertips, like the dying ember of a flame.

But Silco saw.

His whole body went rigid.

The silence between them stretched, thick and suffocating.

(Y/N) clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet his gaze. If he ran- if he flinched- she would bolt and never look back.

But Silco didn’t flinch.

He just stared, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp, dark eyes.

"You’ve been hiding that this whole time," he said at last, his voice disturbingly calm.

(Y/N) swallowed hard. "Yeah."

A long, tense pause.

Then-

"Smart," he murmured.

She blinked. "What?"

Silco tilted his head, watching her like he was seeing something new, something dangerous. "If people knew, you’d be dead."

She exhaled sharply, some part of her unraveling at the words. "I know."

Silco’s gaze didn’t waver. "Does Vander know?"

She shook her head. "Just you."

His lips twitched slightly, not quite a smirk, but something close. "And you trust me with it?"

"Wouldn't have shown you if I didn’t."

Silco was quiet for a moment, eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite name. Then, to her surprise, he let out a short breath of laughter.

"Well, shit," he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. "That explains a lot."

(Y/N) frowned. "You’re… not freaking out?"

He looked at her, something sharp in his expression. "Oh, I am," he admitted. "But not because of what you can do." His voice lowered. "Because if the wrong people see, we won’t just be running from Enforcers next time."

(Y/N)’s stomach twisted.

Silco sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Vander and Felicia are still looking for you. We need to go back before they start tearing up the whole damn city."

She hesitated. "And… you’re not going to tell them?"

Silco met her eyes, something dangerous curling at the edges of his smirk. "Your secret, your choice."

(Y/N) felt her chest tighten.

She had always expected fear. Hatred…

But Silco…

Silco just looked at her like she was a puzzle he had finally solved.

Like she was someone important.

Something powerful.

"Come on," he said, turning back toward the hideout. "Wouldn’t want Vander to cry over you."

(Y/N) snorted despite herself. "Yeah, right."

She followed him.

And for the first time in years, she wasn’t running.

The walk back was quieter than (Y/N) expected.

Silco didn’t push her to talk. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t prod at the weight sitting heavy on her chest. He just kept walking, hands tucked into his pockets, his sharp eyes flicking toward her every so often like he was keeping tally of her breaths, making sure she didn’t disappear again.

She should have felt relieved.

Instead, her stomach twisted tighter with every step.

She had told Silco.

The words still rattled in her skull, the image of that tiny spark of magic dancing between her fingers burned into her mind. For years, she had kept it buried so deep it felt like a second skin, an instinct as natural as breathing. But now-

Now, he knew.

And soon, she’d have to decide if Vander and Felicia would too.

The old hideout came into view- a crumbling, half-abandoned space wedged between rusted pipes and makeshift walls of scrap metal. It wasn’t much, just a shelter against the chaos of the Undercity, but it was theirs. A place where they could breathe, even if the air was thick with smog and secrets.

Silco pushed open the creaky door and stepped inside, the dim glow of a stolen lantern casting shadows across the room. (Y/N) hesitated in the doorway, her fingers tightening around the frayed edge of her cloak.

"You coming in, or you planning to stand there all night?" Silco asked, throwing himself onto one of the old crates they used as seats.

She rolled her eyes but stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind her.

The space was eerily quiet without Vander’s gruff voice or Felicia’s sharp, teasing remarks. Their absence made the place feel hollow, like a ribcage missing its heart.

(Y/N) paced.

Sat down.

Got back up again.

Silco watched her, an amused tilt to his expression. "You’re overthinking."

"Shut up," she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair.

Silco didn’t argue. Just leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. "You don’t have to tell them," he said after a beat.

(Y/N) froze mid-step. "What?"

"You heard me." He tilted his head, studying her with that sharp, calculating gaze. "It’s your secret. No one else’s."

Her throat tightened. "But if they find out later-"

"They’ll be pissed," Silco finished bluntly. "But that’s a problem for later, isn’t it?"

(Y/N) clenched her jaw. She hated that he was right.

She should tell them. They were family- or as close to it as anyone could get in the Lanes. Vander, with his stupid protective instincts and his too-big heart. Felicia, who could cut with words as easily as with a blade, but always made sure they had food, even if it meant going hungry herself.

She trusted them.

Didn’t she?

"Would you?" she asked suddenly, turning to face Silco.

He raised a brow. "Would I what?"

"Tell them. If you were me."

Silco considered that for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he smirked, lazy and sharp. "I would take it to my grave."

(Y/N) groaned, flopping onto a crate beside him. "That’s so helpful, thanks."

Silco shrugged. "I’m just saying. People don’t react well to things they don’t understand. You already know that."

She did.

Gods, she did.

Her fingers curled into her palms.

"Vander’s not like that," she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Silco hummed. "Maybe. Maybe not." He tapped his fingers against his knee. "But once you tell someone a secret, it’s not just yours anymore."

The words settled deep in her ribs, heavy and true.

She hated that.

The handle of the door rattled before she could respond. Silco had locked it when they came inside…

Both of them stiffened.

(Y/N)’s breath caught as she shot a look at Silco. His expression shifted instantly, the easy amusement fading into something sharp and ready.

Then-

"Oi, you in there?"

Vander’s voice, rough and edged with something tight- worry.

(Y/N) exhaled, her pulse still hammering in her throat.

Silco smirked, rolling his eyes. "Took them long enough."

Felicia’s voice cut in, laced with irritation. "If she’s not in there, I swear, I’m-"

(Y/N) pulled the door open before she could finish.

Vander and Felicia stood on the threshold, their expressions a mix of frustration, relief, and exhaustion.

Felicia’s narrowed eyes swept over her. "You little shit-"

(Y/N) barely had time to brace before Felicia yanked her into a tight, bone-crushing hug.

"You scared us," she muttered into (Y/N)’s shoulder, her grip fierce, like she was making sure she was real.

(Y/N) swallowed against the lump in her throat. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Vander crossed his arms, his gaze flicking between her and Silco. "What happened?"

The question lingered in the air, waiting.

(Y/N) felt Silco’s presence beside her, silent but steady.

This was it.

Tell them. Keep it secret. Trust them. Keep them safe.

Her fingers twitched.

She took a breath-

And made her choice.

(Y/N) stepped aside, letting Vander and Felicia into the hideout. Her stomach churned as she shut the door behind them, sealing herself in with the weight of what she was about to do.

Felicia flopped onto a crate with a dramatic sigh, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "Do you have any idea how much time we wasted looking for your ass?" she grumbled. "Vander was ready to bust down half the city."

Vander didn’t deny it. He just gave (Y/N) a long, searching look before sitting down himself. "You alright?"

That was Vander. Not scolding her. Not demanding an explanation right away. Just… asking.

(Y/N) swallowed, nodding stiffly. She wasn’t alright, not really. But she was here. And she had made her choice.

Silco leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching but not interfering. It was her secret to tell. He’d already said as much.

(Y/N) clenched her hands into fists, then forced herself to relax. Just do it. Before you lose your nerve.

"I need to tell you something," she said, voice tight. "And before I do, I just- I need you to listen. Just listen. Don’t freak out."

Felicia narrowed her eyes. "That’s a terrible way to start a conversation."

Vander frowned. "(Y/N), what’s going on?"

(Y/N) took a deep breath, before raising her hands, steady despite the tremor in her fingers.

A spark of golden light flickered to life. Small, hesitant, barely enough to illuminate the dim space. It crackled like embers, dancing across her fingertips, warm and alive.

The room felt too quiet.

Felicia stiffened. Vander’s eyes widened, his lips parting slightly, but he said nothing.

(Y/N) forced herself to meet their gazes.

"I have magic," she said, barely above a whisper. "I’ve always had it. I just- I never told you because I couldn’t. Because it’s dangerous. Because-" Her throat tightened. "Because I was scared."

The silence stretched.

Felicia blinked. "What the fuck?"

Vander exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "Shit."

(Y/N)’s stomach plummeted.

Felicia stood, staring at her like she was seeing her for the first time. "Magic," she repeated, slower this time, like she was still trying to process it. "You’re telling me you’ve had magic this whole time?"

(Y/N) nodded, bracing for the worst. For them to pull away. For them to tell her she wasn’t one of them.

Vander sighed heavily, but his expression wasn’t anger. Just… concern. "How long?"

"Since before I came here," she admitted. "Since I was born."

Felicia let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through her hair. "I don’t- shit, (Y/N), do you know what could’ve happened if someone else found out?"

"Yes," She snapped, frustration bubbling over. "Of course I know. Why do you think I kept it secret?"

Felicia opened her mouth, then shut it again, jaw tightening.

Vander rubbed his temples. "And Silco knew?"

(Y/N) hesitated, but Silco answered for her, his voice calm. "She told me first."

Felicia turned on him, eyes flashing. "And you didn’t think to tell us?"

Silco shrugged, utterly unbothered. "Not my secret."

Felicia made a strangled noise, but Vander put a hand on her shoulder before she could start yelling properly.

"Alright," Vander said, his voice steady in the way that made people listen. "Alright. We… we’ll figure this out." He looked at (Y/N) again, his gaze softer this time. "But you should’ve told us sooner."

(Y/N) swallowed hard. "I know."

Vander sighed, then did something she didn’t expect.

He reached out and put a hand on her head, ruffling her hair the way he always did when he was trying to be reassuring.

"We’re not gonna turn on you, (Y/N)," he said, quiet but firm. "You’re still one of us."

Her throat tightened painfully.

Felicia groaned, throwing herself back onto the crate with a dramatic flop. "Gods, I hate that I’m not mad at you."

(Y/N) let out a breath that was half a laugh, half relief. "Yeah?"

Felicia shot her a glare. "Yeah. Asshole."

Silco smirked from his spot against the wall. "That went better than expected."

...Felicia flipped him off...

Ember in the Dark pt.1

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.2

Warnings: War, Violence, Death, illness, Grief, Poverty, Persecution, Oppression, and Child neglect/orphanhood.

Word Count: 2914

Summary: Nayesa, a refugee from Ionia, flees to the Undercity with her infant daughter to escape Noxian forces, suppressing her magic to survive. She toils endlessly to keep her child safe, but when the girl unknowingly uses magic, Nayesa realizes their past will always haunt them. She works herself to death, leaving her daughter alone in the unforgiving streets. Forced to survive, the girl joins a group of orphans- Vander, Silco, and Felicia- learning to steal, fight, and conceal her powers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The putrid scent of burning wood and flesh clung to the air as Nayesa ran, her breath ragged, her muscles screaming for respite. Behind her, the once-pristine forests of Ionia were choked with smoke, their vibrant greens now painted in the sickly fire glow. The rhythmic clang of Noxian steel against Ionian blades still rang in her ears, but she dared not turn back.

Her infant whimpered softly in her arms, her tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of her tattered robes. She adjusted her grip, pressing the baby closer to her chest, shielding her from the cold wind sweeping in from the coast. She couldn't cry- she mustn't cry. If the Noxians heard them, if they saw the faint shimmer of magic that still crackled beneath her fingertips, they would be hunted down.

She had seen it before. A woman who tried to fight back, her magic searing through Noxian armor- only for the warbands to descend upon her like beasts, silencing her screams beneath iron and blood. She had turned away, biting back her own fear, and fled. Magic is a death sentence. That was the one lesson Ionia’s war had taught her.

The boats at the shore were barely visible through the thickening fog. She stumbled onto the dock, her heart hammering as she found an old ferryman willing to take her. He was a man of few words, his face lined with the hardship of someone who had smuggled too many refugees, but his hand was steady as he took her trembling coin. No questions asked. She clutched her daughter tighter as the boat rocked, her gaze fixed on the horizon where The Undercity- dark, industrial, and suffocating- waited.

It was not home. It never would be. But it was safe.

The Undercity embraced the lost, the forsaken, and those with secrets to keep. Here, in the slums where even Piltovan Enforcers feared to tread, they could disappear. She learned to hide in the shadows, to suppress the flicker of magic in her blood, to live as just another nameless refugee in a city built on the bones of the forgotten.

Her baby would grow up not knowing Ionia’s forests, not hearing the songs of the wind dancing through cherry blossoms. But she would live. And for now, that was enough…

Nayesa’s fingers tightened around the threadbare cloak wrapped around her daughter, her mind drifting as the boat rocked gently beneath them. The salt-laden air of the ocean mixed with the acrid scent of smoke still clinging to her skin was a cruel reminder of what she had left behind.

Ionia was gone to her now. The home where she once played among the cherry blossoms, where the rivers whispered songs of old, where the spirits still danced in the wind- lost. She forced herself not to think of the faces she would never see again, the family she had abandoned to the fire and steel of Noxus. Guilt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts, but she buried it deep. She had no choice.

The ferryman, silent as the grave, guided the vessel through the thickening mist. His hands, calloused and cracked from years of toil, moved with mechanical precision as he adjusted the sail. Nayesa knew better than to speak- men like him survived by knowing nothing, saying nothing. Still, when his gaze briefly flickered to the bundle in her arms, there was no malice there, only understanding.

She exhaled, glancing down at her child. Small, fragile, yet warm against her chest. A spark of life amid the ashes of war. She traced a gentle hand over the baby’s cheek, whispering a promise she had no idea how to keep.

By the time they reached the docks, night had swallowed the sky. The towering, rust-streaked structures loomed overhead, their smog-drenched exteriors casting jagged shadows against the dim glow of neon signs. The scent of oil, metal, and damp earth thickened the air, an oppressive contrast to the crisp mountain breezes of Ionia.

She stepped off the boat, her legs weak from exhaustion, and nearly collapsed. The ferryman caught her arm- only for a second before slipping away into the murk, his presence vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Nayesa pulled the hood of her cloak low, blending into the throngs of workers, refugees, and outcasts that moved like restless phantoms through the lower districts. No one spared her a glance. In The Undercity, survival meant minding your own business.

The slums welcomed her with the cold indifference of a city built on desperation. She found shelter in a crumbling tenement, a place where the air was thick with the scent of rust and mildew, where the walls groaned under the weight of their decay. But it was a place to rest, to breathe.

Days blurred into weeks, then months. She worked where she could- scrubbing factory floors, mending torn garments, selling whatever scraps she could barter. She spoke little, kept her head down, and made sure no one saw the shimmer of power that still lived beneath her skin.

Her daughter, whom she named (Y/N), grew into the shadows of the Lanes. She never knew the wind-chimes of Ionia, never saw the blossoms bloom in spring, never ran through the open fields where the spirits once roamed. Instead, she learned the rhythm of the Undercity- the hiss of steam vents, the distant hum of chem-tech engines, the quiet desperation in every hushed conversation.

She would watch her at night, curled up in the dim glow of a flickering light, and wonder what kind of life she had truly given her.

Safe. But at what cost?

One evening, as Nayesa walked home through the winding alleys, she heard a sound that froze her blood.

Laughter.

A child’s laughter, light and unburdened, echoed through the filth and grime of the Undercity’s streets.

She turned the corner and saw (Y/N), no longer a baby but a bright-eyed child, her tiny hands outstretched as small, golden sparks danced at her fingertips. A wonder, a gift- one that could get them both killed.

Nayesa’s heart pounded.

Magic is a death sentence.

The war may have been left behind, but its lessons had not.

She rushed forward, scooping (Y/N) into her arms, extinguishing the light with a whispered hush.

No one could see. No one could know.

She had sacrificed everything for her daughter’s safety.

And now, the Undercity would demand its own price.

It was a city that took as much as it gave, swallowing the desperate and forgotten whole. Nayesa had always known it would come for her too, sooner or later.

For seven years, she scraped by in the underbelly of the city, enduring the choking smog, the filth-ridden streets, and the cold that seeped into her bones. She endured it all for (Y/N). Every coin she earned, every sleepless night, every bruise from the fists of those who thought a refugee woman was an easy target- it was all for her daughter.

(Y/N) was bright and full of wonder despite the bleak world around her. She didn’t remember the war, the flames that consumed their home, or the screams that once haunted Nayesa’s nights. To her, Ionia was nothing more than stories murmured in hushed tones, tales of Magic and rivers that whispered secrets to those who listened. Nayesa never told her the full truth of their exile, only that they had left because it was too dangerous to stay.

But the real danger wasn’t behind them- it was here, in the Lanes, lurking in the shadows, waiting.

Nayesa had felt the sickness creeping into her body long before she admitted it to herself. The air in the lower districts was thick with toxins, a slow, creeping poison that gnawed at her lungs. Every cough was deeper, wetter. Every breath was a struggle. There were chem-doctors in the Lanes who could cure anything- for a price. But Nayesa had no money for miracles.

She worked until she couldn’t stand. Then, she worked more.

She didn’t tell (Y/N). She couldn’t.

But children saw more than adults ever gave them credit for.

"Momma, why are you always so tired?" (Y/N) asked one night, her small fingers tracing the lines of her mother’s weathered hands.

Nayesa smiled, brushing a stray lock of soft hair from her daughter’s face. "Because I have the best little girl in the world to take care of," she said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "And that’s worth everything."

But love alone wasn’t enough to keep her alive.

One morning, Nayesa didn’t wake up.

(Y/N) shook her at first, small hands gripping the worn fabric of her mother’s cloak. "Momma?" she whispered, her voice uncertain, scared.

She didn’t move.

The room was cold. The single candle by the bedside had long since burned out, leaving only the distant glow of the Undercity’s ever-present green smog filtering through the cracks in the walls.

(Y/N) curled up beside her mother, waiting for her to wake up. She didn’t understand. Not yet.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the gnawing ache of hunger set in, that the truth began to sink in.

Her mother wasn’t waking up.

She was alone.

No one in the Lanes cared about another dead refugee. There were no mourning bells, no neighbors offering condolences. By nightfall, scavengers would come, rifling through their tiny home for anything of value.

(Y/N) didn't wait for them.

She packed what little she could- her mother’s old cloak, a handful of stolen ration bars, a rusty knife too dull to be a real weapon- and ran.

The streets of the Undercity were not kind to the weak.

She learned quickly. How to steal without being seen. How to disappear when Enforcers patrolled too close. How to navigate the tangled maze of pipes, vents, and back alleys that served as the lifeblood of the Undercity.

She was small, fast, invisible. And she was hungry.

The first time she stole from a chem merchant’s stall, she was caught. A rough hand yanked her back, slamming her against a wall.

"Little rat," the man snarled, his breath reeking of grease and sour alcohol. "Think you can take from me?"

(Y/n) trembled, her fingers curling instinctively. A warmth flickered in her palms, tiny sparks of golden light dancing between her fingers.

Magic.

No. No, no, no.

She clenched her fists, forcing it down, burying it deep. Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind.

Magic is a death sentence.

She braced herself for the beating- but it never came.

Instead, another voice cut through the heavy air.

"Let her go."

A boy, older than her, stood in the shadows of the alley. His arms were crossed, his clothes patched and dirt-streaked, but his gaze was sharp, calculating. His black hair covered his eyes a bit, too short to tie back, too long to look completely neat. "She’s with us."

The merchant sneered but let her go with a shove. "Keep your rats on a leash…" he spat before stalking off.

(Y/N) coughed, her ribs aching, but she turned to the boy, confused. "I’m not with you…" she said, wary.

"You are now," he replied simply.

And just like that, (Y/N) found herself among the lost children of the Lanes- the orphans, the runaways, the ones who had no homes… Vander, Silco, and Felicia… They moved like ghosts through the city, stealing to survive, hiding in the forgotten corners where the Enforcers wouldn’t dare to tread.

(Y/N) learned their ways. How to fight, how to climb, how to read the shifting tides of the city’s underworld. But most importantly, how to keep her secret.

She never used her magic. Not once.

Not until the day she had no choice.

It happened during a heist gone wrong- when she was fourteen...

They had planned everything perfectly- distract the shopkeeper, grab the goods, and slip away before anyone noticed. But no plan ever survived the chaos of The Undercity.

The Enforcers came down on them fast, too fast. (Y/N) ran, her breath sharp in her chest, her feet pounding against metal grates and uneven cobblestone. She took a wrong turn- a dead end.

The Enforcers were closing in.

She panicked.

A flicker of warmth ignited in her palm. Then a spark. Then a flame.

Golden light flared to life, illuminating the alleyway in brilliant, searing heat. The Enforcers reeled back, blinded, startled.

And (Y/N) ran.

She ran until her legs gave out, until she collapsed in a forgotten corner of the city, her heart slamming against her ribs.

She had been careful. She had hidden it for years… But now they would come for her. In The Undercity, secrets never stayed hidden for long…

For seven years, she had hidden what she was. Buried it beneath bruised knuckles and nimble fingers, beneath the hunger and the cold, beneath the fight to survive. But now, the secret she had fought to keep was out. Maybe not fully- but it was a crack, and cracks always widened.

The others would know soon enough.

She couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not with the heat still on her.

So, she disappeared into the veins of the Undercity, into the places where the air stank of rot and rust, where even Enforcers hesitated to follow. The tunnels beneath the city were a maze- only those born to the Lanes could navigate them, and (Y/N) had lived here long enough to know every passage, every broken grate, every hidden crawlspace.

She found a hollow space beneath a collapsed structure and curled into it, pressing her back against the damp stone, pulling her knees to her chest. She needed to think. To plan.

But plans meant nothing when Silco was the one sent to find you. Silco moved through the Undercity like a shadow, his sharp eyes scanning every alley, every abandoned structure. He knew how to track a runaway. They all did; life had made them that way.

Felicia had been worried, of course. "She’s been gone too long," she had muttered, arms crossed, trying to mask her concern. "What if the Enforcers-"

"She’s fine," Vander had cut in, though his frown betrayed his doubts. "She’s one of us."

And Silco? He hadn’t said much. He had only grabbed a knife and set out.

(Y/N) was fast. Smart. She knew how to disappear.

But he knew her.

He knew the places she went when she wanted to be alone, the paths she took when she needed to breathe. And more than that- he knew fear.

He had seen it in her when they ran from the heist, when the Enforcers had almost caught them. But there was something else, something deeper in the way she had looked at them before she fled.

Not fear of getting caught.

Fear of being seen.

It gnawed at him as he moved through the city, picking his way through the forgotten tunnels. If she was hurt, if someone else had found her first-

No. He pushed the thought away. He would find her.

The search had fractured them into three silent battalions. Felicia, driven by equal parts concern and duty, combed through the labyrinthine upper corridors where the stale, clinging mist of decay blurred every step. Vander took a divergent route, his methodical pace revealing an unspoken determination as he retraced familiar paths that had once served as escape routes. And then there was Silco- moving like a whisper among the ruins, his focus as sharp as the blade he carried.

In the winding gloom beneath a collapsed structure, Silco’s calculated steps slowed as a fragile form emerged from the darkness.

She was curled up beneath a collapsed structure, half-hidden in the darkness, her body taut with exhaustion. She looked smaller like this, the rough edge she carried worn down by fear and fatigue.

For a moment, he just watched her.

"You gonna come out," he finally said, his voice calm, "or do I have to drag you?"

(Y/N)’s head snapped up, her eyes sharp and alert despite her exhaustion. She hesitated, her muscles coiled like a cornered animal.

"You alone?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

Silco scoffed. "No, I brought a whole damn parade." He stepped forward, crouching slightly so she wouldn’t bolt. "What the hell happened back there, (Y/N)?"

She swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. "We got sloppy."

"Not what I meant." His gaze didn’t waver. "You ran like they were hunting you."

(Y/N) flinched, just slightly, but Silco caught it.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she exhaled, looking away. "I just… I can’t go back yet."

Silco tilted his head, studying her. "Why?"

She bit her lip, hesitating.

Because I have magic. Because I lost control. Because if you knew, you’d never look at me the same way again.

But she couldn’t say that.

So instead, she forced a smirk, weak but convincing. "Didn’t feel like dealing with Vander’s lectures."

Silco snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, well, you’re gonna hear them anyway. So get up."

She didn’t move.

Silco’s smirk faded. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "You don’t have to tell me, you know. But whatever’s got you scared?" He straightened up, eyes dark. "Don’t let it turn you into prey."

(Y/N) looked at him then, something unspoken passing between them.

Silco had always been sharp, always seeing things others missed. Maybe he didn’t know the truth yet. But he knew something.

And that was dangerous.

Still, she took his outstretched hand...

I would like to request „where the hurt doesnt reach with kyoko, kaede and miu

A/N: Yes, of course! :} Slowly but surely getting through all of my requests.

Where the Hurt Doesn’t Reach pt.5

pt.4 - pt.6

pt.1

Kyoko, Kaede, and Miu x Male!Reader

Warnings: Themes of Trauma/Abuse, Mentions of Assault/Threats, Mental Health Topics, Sensitive Touch & Boundaries, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety/Avoidance, Mentions of Nightmares/Sleep Issues

Word Count: 2930

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kyoko: 

(Y/N) kept his head down in the dorm lounge, hands clenched around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The mug felt heavy- heavier than ceramic should- like the memories clawing at his chest had poured themselves inside.

The dorm was quiet. He had planned it that way. Early mornings were the safest. Fewer eyes, fewer voices. Fewer men.

He flinched as the door clicked open behind him.

Footsteps- measured, soft, deliberate- crossed the floor. No harsh breaths. No creaking floorboards from someone stomping in. Just silence.

“Good morning.”

He knew that voice. Soft and clear, like the first breeze after rain… Kyoko Kirigiri.

He didn’t answer. Just dipped his head lower.

But she didn’t mind. She never did.

“Do you want me to sit with you?” she asked.

(Y/N)’s grip on his cup tightened. His lips parted, but no sound came. He didn’t know how to say yes. Not without explaining the panic in his chest, or the constant crawl of anxiety under his skin. Not without revealing how he didn’t trust anyone- especially not the boys in this school, the ones with rough laughs and too-loud voices.

But Kyoko wasn’t like them.

She waited. Silent. Letting him answer in his own time.

“…yeah,” he breathed, almost inaudibly.

She didn’t ask any more questions. Just sat across from him, folded her gloved hands on the table, and looked at him- not with pity, but with understanding.

“You’ve been avoiding the others,” she said plainly, but gently. “The male students.”

His jaw tensed. Shame burned under his skin like acid.

“I’ve noticed,” she added, after a pause. “That’s all. I’m not judging you.”

“…I just… can’t,” he whispered. “I-They remind me of… Someone.”

Kyoko’s gaze didn’t waver. “Your stepfather?”

He froze.

“…How do you know that?” he murmured, eyes wide.

“I’m the Ultimate Detective,” she said softly. “But more than that… I noticed how your shoulders tense when anyone raises their voice. How you instinctively put space between yourself and any guy who walks near you. How you relax, just slightly, when you’re with me.”

(Y/N)’s breath hitched. Tears threatened behind his eyes, but he blinked them back, ashamed. He didn’t want to cry. Not in front of her.

But Kyoko reached across the table- slowly, so gently- and placed her gloved hand near his, not touching, just close. An offering. A silent I’m here. You’re safe.

“You don’t have to explain everything,” she murmured. “Not until you’re ready. And even then, only if you want to.”

The room was quiet again. But it wasn’t lonely. Not with her there.

“I feel… broken,” he confessed, his voice cracking.

“You’re not,” she said, firmly. “You’re hurt. But not broken.”

(Y/N) looked up- really looked at her- and for the first time in days, the crushing weight in his chest loosened, just a little.

Maybe, with Kyoko… healing didn’t have to be loud… Maybe it could start here.

In silence. In stillness.

 In the presence of someone who didn’t demand anything from him- except honesty, when he was ready.

Healing is quiet, but constant.

The halls of Hope’s Peak were always noisier in the afternoon, but (Y/N) found himself in the library. He liked the silence there. The weight of books around him felt grounding, the muffled sounds a safe sort of background noise.

He was flipping through a random mystery novel when a shadow passed the table- and without needing to look, he knew who it was.

Kyoko.

“Hi,” he murmured before she even spoke.

She stopped mid-step, slightly surprised… and then smiled faintly. “Hi.”

She took the seat across from him again, like it had become a silent ritual. There were no expectations between them. Just moments. Just space shared without pressure.

“You’re reading mystery novels now?” she asked, voice laced with a rare warmth.

(Y/N) gave a tiny shrug, fingers playing with the page corner. “Thought I’d try to understand what makes your brain tick.”

That earned him the smallest chuckle- soft and barely there, but real. His chest swelled with something fragile and new. He liked making her smile. Especially when she did it just for him.

“Do you want help solving it?” she asked, gesturing at the book.

He nodded, and they spent the next hour side by side- her pointing things out, him guessing and missing obvious clues, but laughing softly anyway. For a moment, the weight on his shoulders lifted, and it almost felt like he was just… a normal student. A normal boy. With a friend.

No- more than a friend. At least on his end.

He liked her. Liked the way she gave him space, but always showed up when he needed someone. Liked how she never asked about his scars but always looked like she wanted to fight whoever caused them.

Not all pain is visible. But she sees it anyway.

It happened in the courtyard. He hadn’t meant to go out, but he wanted air.

 Then a group of guys passed by- too loud, too close- and one of them bumped into him hard, muttering something under his breath that wasn’t even mean, but his chest clamped down instantly.

The panic came fast. Sharp. Ugly.

His breath caught. Vision blurred.

He stumbled back toward the wall, heart hammering in his ears, the sky spinning above him-

“(Y/N)!”

Her voice cut through the noise.

She was there in seconds.

Kyoko didn’t touch him. She didn’t crowd him. She just knelt beside where he’d sunk to the ground, her gloved hand resting lightly against the pavement, near his.

“Breathe with me,” she said. Calm. Grounding. “In… and out. Match me.”

She inhaled slowly. Exhaled even slower. Repeated. Over and over.

And (Y/N), shaking and pale, tried to match her. At first it didn’t work. His chest was too tight. His throat burned.

But she didn’t leave. Didn’t falter.

“In… and out.”

Eventually, the tightness loosened. The dizziness passed. His hands stopped shaking.

“…I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, voice barely there.

“Don’t apologize,” she said gently. “You’re not weak for surviving.”

Those words hit harder than anything else. He blinked hard, biting down the emotion swelling in his throat.

She sat beside him then, her shoulder close. Not touching- just present. Solid.

“I hate how scared I am,” he murmured. “How small I feel when they’re around.”

Kyoko was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “You’ve never been small to me.”

He turned his head toward her, startled. She met his eyes- clear and unwavering.

“You're brave,” she said. “Not because you’re unafraid. But because you keep going, even when you are.”

And- that was the moment he fell just a little harder.

Kaede: 

(Y/N) didn’t speak much when he first arrived at Hope’s Peak. He flinched at sudden noises, kept his eyes on the floor, and sat in the back of every room, as far from the boys as he could manage. Rumors spread quickly in schools like this- but Kaede never paid them any mind.

She saw him- really saw him- when she stayed after class to pack her sheet music, and he lingered a little longer than usual. Just the two of them in the room. She glanced up to say goodbye, and (Y/N) visibly tensed.

Her voice softened. “Hey… sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

(Y/N) didn’t answer at first. But he didn’t bolt either.

That was enough for Kaede.

The next day, she played a melody in the music room after class, loud enough for the hallway to hear. Just in case he passed by again. She kept doing it for days. Weeks.

Until one afternoon, she looked up between notes… and there he was. Standing in the doorway, holding his arm with a nervous grip, eyes unfocused.

She smiled, gentle and bright. “You can come in, if you want.”

He stepped inside- slowly, like the floor might give out under him.

Kaede kept playing. Nothing fancy. Just something soft and warm, like sunrise through a window. When she finished, she turned to him.

“…You okay?”

“…I don’t really like being around people,” he mumbled, “especially… guys.”

Kaede nodded, never once looking away.

“I get it. You don’t have to explain. But I’m not a guy, and… I promise, I’ll never make you feel unsafe.”

(Y/N)’s lip trembled slightly. But he stayed.

That became their quiet ritual- no words needed. He’d sit nearby while she played, sometimes reading, sometimes just… existing. In a room where no one could hurt him. A place where her music filled the silence he carried like a second skin.

One rainy evening, she asked gently, “Can I show you something?”

She pulled a chair beside the piano and motioned for him to sit.

“You don’t have to play,” she smiled. “I just… want you to feel what it’s like to be near music like that. To feel safe inside something.”

He hesitated, then slowly sat beside her. Their shoulders didn’t quite touch.

She began to play, her fingers moving across the keys in slow, deliberate tenderness. The piece wasn’t just music- it was comfort. A lullaby for someone long overdue for kindness.

Halfway through, she felt it- (Y/N) leaned in, his head resting against her shoulder. Light, like a bird settling onto a branch for the first time.

Kaede didn’t stop playing.

And for the first time in a long, long while… (Y/N) closed his eyes and let himself breathe.

The next day, he was there before her.

Kaede blinked when she opened the door to the music room and found (Y/N) already seated near the piano bench, a sketchbook in his lap. He looked up, startled- like he hadn’t meant to be caught.

“I… I wanted to hear you play again,” he said quickly, almost apologetically. “If that’s okay.”

She smiled. “Of course it is.”

As she sat down at the piano, she peeked at the edge of his notebook. Scribbles- music notes, little stars, a clumsy sketch of what might’ve been her fingers on the keys.

She didn’t comment. Just started to play.

Over time, it became something sacred. She'd play for him every afternoon. And when her fingers rested, they’d talk. At first, he only answered in nods or short phrases- but the wall between them was crumbling, brick by fragile brick.

One day, he surprised her.

“Do you… remember the first song you played for me?” he asked, barely louder than the hum of the heater.

Kaede paused, then nodded. “Yeah. Clair de Lune.”

“It reminded me of…” He trailed off, swallowing hard. “Of my mom. She used to play music on a little radio in the kitchen. Classical stuff. Before she met him.”

Kaede’s fingers stilled on the keys, but she didn’t say anything. She let the silence hold the space, like the soft pedal of a piano, gentle and unpressing.

“She stopped playing music after he moved in,” he whispered. “After a while, everything got quiet. Like… too quiet. I didn’t think I’d ever like music again.”

Kaede blinked slowly, heart aching.

“But I like yours,” he added, with the faintest smile. “I like… being around you.”

That made her heart flutter. Not with giddiness, but with something deeper. Like trust taking root.

She turned to him, her voice quiet. “I like being around you too.”

From that day on, something shifted.

He started waiting for her outside the music room instead of sneaking in early. He’d walk with her down the hall, always keeping a careful distance from the louder male students, but close enough that his shoulder brushed hers now and then.

And sometimes- when the room was empty, and the song was soft, and the sun hit just right- he’d smile. Not just at the music, but at her.

Kaede would smile back, her heart swelling.

She knew healing wasn’t a straight line. There were days when he still flinched at loud voices. When group activities left him drained and hollow-eyed. But he always found his way back to her.

One afternoon, after a particularly long session, he stayed behind after she packed up.

“Kaede?” he said, voice trembling.

She turned, instantly focused on him.

“…Can I hug you?”

The question knocked the wind from her.

But she nodded, gently, like she was answering a question from a dream. She opened her arms without a word.

(Y/N) stepped forward hesitantly. Then slowly- like a scared animal testing the air- he melted into her.

It wasn’t tight or desperate. Just a quiet press of his face into her shoulder, arms loosely around her waist.

Kaede held him with the kind of care reserved for breakable things. Her hand rubbed soothing circles on his back. “You’re safe,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

Miu:

(Y/N) had flinched when Miu first barged into his dorm, voice carrying that usual volume and vulgarity like a storm in stilettos.

 “Yo, pencil-dick! You alive in here or what? You didn’t show up for breakfast and I ain’t got time to invent a search drone with tits just to find your sorry a-”

She stopped. Mid-rant. Her blue eyes scanned the dark room and landed on him, curled up in the corner with trembling shoulders, the edge of his sleeve wet where he’d been biting it to stay quiet. Not because he was hiding from her- but from the memories her voice had triggered.

“…Ah. Shit.”

It was the first time she didn’t call him a name.

Miu didn’t step closer. She dropped to sit cross-legged by the door, fiddling awkwardly with a spare screw in her hand, voice dipping just enough to feel like a whisper.

“Okay, so... maybe screaming like I’m in heat wasn’t the move,” she mumbled, chewing her bottom lip. “You wanna talk or should I just sit here and talk to myself like a damn lunatic? ‘Cause I can do both.”

(Y/N) didn’t answer. His voice was buried too deep behind the fear. But he didn’t tell her to leave.

She took that as permission.

Later that night, after hours of her rambling about new inventions- some genius, some dangerously stupid- he finally managed a small voice. Fragile.

“…Why’re you being nice to me?”

Miu blinked, caught off guard. Her usual grin didn’t come. Instead, she shrugged, arms resting loosely on her knees.

"'Cause I know what it’s like to hate being touched. To hear someone’s footsteps and feel your chest lock up. To build a thousand walls with your bare hands 'cause you don’t trust a single fucking person not to break you again.”

(Y/N) looked up at her, eyes wide. She wasn’t loud anymore. She was... real.

She smirked, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Plus, you’re the only guy who doesn’t try to touch me or tell me to shut up. That’s kinda hot.”

A breathless, broken laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

And that was the first night he fell asleep with her sitting beside him- quiet, steady, and real.

It wasn’t overnight. But it was something.

The next morning, Miu came back. Same knock, a little softer this time. She waited- didn’t barge in. When (Y/N) cracked the door open, she was standing there with a weird contraption in her hands.

“It’s a... uh... noise-canceling headset,” she said, trying and failing to sound casual. “If I yell too loud, it automatically dampens my voice before it reaches your ears. Like a built-in anti-Miu filter. Patent pending, dickweed.”

He blinked at her, then... laughed. A real laugh, quiet and airy, but genuine.

She flushed bright pink. “S-Shut up, it’s not because I like you or anything! I just got bored! You think I sit around all day worrying about your trauma baby brain or some shit?!”

(Y/N) smiled.

“Thank you.”

She looked like she short-circuited for a second. “…Whatever.”

Over the next few weeks, they started eating together- sometimes in the cafeteria, sometimes in his room. He talked more now, slowly. Haltingly. But it was there.

“I used to be afraid of falling asleep,” he admitted one evening, his fingers picking nervously at the hem of his sleeve as they sat cross-legged on his bed, a blanket pulled over both their legs. “If I stayed awake, I could hear him coming. I’d have time to hide.”

Miu didn’t answer right away. She just scooted closer, their knees brushing.

“If you ever need someone to sleep next to you,” she said softly, “I’m right here. I snore and occasionally yell ‘ORGASM!’ in my dreams, but like- other than that, I’m pretty fuckin’ cuddly.”

He laughed again, but this time, there were tears running down his cheeks.

One night, he reached for her hand.

She was rambling about a new sex robot idea (“It makes you breakfast and calls you daddy! Revolutionary!”), and he wasn’t really listening- just watching her, soft-eyed and warm.

His fingers brushed hers. Hesitant. Unsure.

She froze mid-sentence, cheeks blooming with color. “W-Woah. D-Don’t get all handsy on me, lover boy…”

But she didn’t pull away.

And when his grip tightened, just slightly, her own hand squeezed back. Gentle. Careful. A little shaky.

“…But if you wanna hold hands like some lame high school anime couple, I guess I can allow it.”

(Y/N) didn’t say anything. He just leaned his head on her shoulder.

And for once, Miu Iruma- Ultimate Inventor, self-proclaimed genius perv, filthy-mouthed storm of chaos- didn’t say a word either.

She just let him rest there.

Art post!

These are some of my older, finished pieces. Most of my art is posted on insta, but I do have two art books posted ony Wattpad too (both of which are in my bio). I have a lot more of my old art in those, all from the age of like 12, all the way to current time. I won't lie, a lot of it is cringe, but art is a journey. It would be more surprising if I wasn't cringe in my early teens, to be honest.

Anyway, here is my art! It's a bit old, but I will post more recent art in another post :}

A/N: Hi everybody! This is the last part of my Young Silco fic :} Im am already writing a sequel, and I am excited to keep this story going. I hope you all like it!

Ember in the Dark pt.11

Young!Silco x Fem!Reader

pt.10 - Sequel

pt.1

Warnings: Violence/Physical Assault, Child Endangerment/Trauma, Death/Grief, War/Revolution, Substance Use.

Word Count: 9273

Summary: (Y/N) helps build a fragile life alongside Silco, Vander, Felicia, and Connol, raising Violet and Powder as their found family. After a violent encounter with Enforcers leaves everyone shaken, tensions escalate between Silco and Vander, leading to a planned uprising at the bridge. (Y/N) chooses to stay behind to protect the girls. The revolution ends in disaster- Felicia and Connol are killed, Silco vanishes, and (Y/N) is left to carry the girls to safety. Vander returns alone, claiming Silco abandoned them, but (Y/N) doesn’t believe it. She searches- finds no body, no trace- and quietly holds onto hope. Years pass. Violet and Powder grow. New kids join their family. The Last Drop becomes a haven, and (Y/N) stays at its heart- scarred but steady, protecting what remains. Silco’s name fades from conversation, but not from memory. She never truly lets him go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Last Drop was alive with its usual rhythm- voices echoing off brick walls, the low clink of glass, laughter that rang too loud. But the second (Y/N) stepped inside, saying her hello’s, the mood shifted. Not all at once. Just enough to make the air feel different.

Felicia noticed quick. Her head snapped up from where she sat, Violet balanced on her hip. Her smile dropped like a stone. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of blood, the tension in (Y/N)’s shoulders, the way she clutched her bag like it was stitched to her ribs.

“Oh, god…” she breathed, already half on her feet. “Vander-”

Connol moved before she could finish, steadying Violet as Felicia stood. Vander looked up from where he was drying a glass behind the bar, brows drawing tight. He didn’t speak yet.

But Silco didn’t wait for anyone.

His stool scraped back sharply. The half-full glass he’d been nursing tipped and spilled across the bar, forgotten. He was across the room in seconds- quicker than anyone had ever seen him move when it wasn’t life or death.

His hands were on her before she could get another word out. One arm caught her around the waist, steadying her. The other came to her chin, tilting it gently, his fingers cool and trembling. His jaw clenched. Eyes scanned every mark on her face- the cut at her lip, the bruising along her cheekbone, the scraped edge of her brow.

“Who did this?” he asked, voice low and tight, almost quiet enough to miss. Almost.

She winced when his fingers brushed a sore spot, but she didn’t flinch away. Just looked up at him through lashes heavy with exhaustion, a ghost of a smile on her lips. It didn’t land.

“Enforcers,” she muttered. “Just a patrol.”

His expression darkened. He didn’t tighten his grip, but the air around him seemed to shift- an unspoken pressure that made the room hold its breath.

“They searched me,” she added, hoarse. “Didn’t find anything. They just… wanted to make a point.”

His thumb brushed a streak of blood from the corner of her mouth. His hand lingered there, and something flickered in his expression- hurt, maybe.

“You let them?” he rasped.

“I didn’t fight,” she whispered. “If I had… I might’ve hurt them. I didn’t trust myself not to lose control, even… If I can control it more now, than before...”

Silco closed his eyes, jaw tight with restraint.

Behind them, Vander stepped out from behind the bar. “Get her upstairs,” he said, voice low. “We’ll talk after.”

Felicia was already moving again, clutching Violet like a tether. Her face was a storm.

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) tried to say, barely above a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Silco muttered. He slipped the edge of her cloak back over her shoulders, tightening it around her with careful hands. “Come on.”

He didn’t give her the chance to argue. With an arm secure around her waist, he guided her toward the stairs. His steps were sharp, shoulders taut with silent fury. Not a word was spoken as the door clicked shut behind them.

The quiet in the room was thick- not awkward, just heavy.

Silco didn’t ask her to sit. He simply steered her gently to the bed, helped her lower herself with careful hands, and moved across the room in a blur of precise motion. The tin basin. The pitcher. A cloth. A bottle of disinfectant- stings like hell, but it kept you alive.

He knelt in front of her and tilted her face toward the light. The cloth was warm. Gentle. He wiped the blood away with a steady hand.

She flinched when it passed over the split in her lip. “Sorry,” he murmured, almost too quietly.

“You’re better than they were,” she said, voice barely audible.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. He reached for the bottle, soaked a clean cloth, and pressed it carefully to her temple. It burned.

She hissed, eyes watering.

“Hold still.”

It wasn’t sharp. Just soft enough to keep her grounded.

He worked in silence. Cleaning every mark. Every bruise. Every scrape. His focus never wavered, but she could see the tension behind it- the way his brows knit together, the way he breathed through his nose like it was the only way to stay calm.

When he reached her hands, he stopped. Just for a moment.

They were torn up. Raw. Stone and dirt ground into her palms, her knuckles purpled from impact.

His thumbs hovered there, then moved with excruciating care, picking away the debris, soaking the cloth again and again. He didn’t speak until the worst of it was done.

“... You should have fought back.” he whispered, voice rough.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” she said. “Not again.”

He said nothing. Just reached for the gauze. Wrapped her hands with the same precision, knotting them tight enough to protect, not tight enough to sting.

When he finished, he lifted her hand to his lips. A kiss to her knuckles, light as air.

“You should’ve called for me,” he said, finally.

Her throat caught. “I didn’t know if you were nearby.”

“I don’t care,” he said, sharper now. “I would’ve burned the streets down to get to you.”

His eyes met hers. They burned- not with blame. But with something colder. Sharper.

“I’ll find them,” he said. “And when I do-”

“Silco.” Her voice was small, but it cut clean through the tension. “I’m okay. You got me. That’s what matters.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then his shoulders eased, just barely. He brought her hands to his lips again, eyes closed.

“You shouldn’t have to live like this,” he murmured.

“I want this,” she said, forehead pressing gently to his. “I want you.”

That was all it took to make the rage inside him quiet- at least for now.

He held her. Close. Like he could block out the world just by keeping her there.

No more words passed between them for a while. Just the sound of breath, the warmth of quiet touch. She sat on the edge of the bed, hands bandaged, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything she hadn’t said. Silco crouched in front of her still, hands never straying far.

Eventually, Silco helped her up with the same care he’d shown before. Arm around her waist. Not holding her up- just holding her steady.

They moved down the stairs together. Every creak felt too loud. The hum of the bar had returned, but the energy was different. Tense. Quiet.

Felicia still sat in her usual booth, Violet asleep in her arms, a worn blanket draped across them both. Connol was beside her, quiet and still. His eyes found (Y/N) the moment she appeared.

Vander was behind the bar again. Arms crossed. Watching. Measuring. Counting bruises.

Felicia’s eyes widened when she saw her. Relief flooded her face, but it didn’t erase the lingering anger.

“You’re alright,” she said. Like she needed to say it out loud to believe it. “Really alright?”

“I’m fine,” (Y/N) said, voice steadier now. “Just a little beat up.”

Vander exhaled through his nose and turned for a clean glass. “Sit,” he said, gruff but not unkind. “Drink something warm. You’ll feel it more in an hour.”

(Y/N) gave a tired smile. Let Silco guide her to the booth across from Felicia and Connol. She didn’t lean on him. But she didn’t let go either.

Silco didn’t leave her side. He slid into the booth like he belonged there, quiet and sure, his arm settling along the backrest, fingers grazing her shoulder. He didn’t say a word, but his presence was grounding- anchored, solid.

Felicia leaned forward, eyes narrowed as she took in the bruises on (Y/N)’s face. “If I ever see those bastards near here again…” Her voice was tight, sharp.

“Fel,” Connol said softly, placing a steadying hand on her knee.

She didn’t look at him. “No. I mean it. We can’t just keep letting them do this.”

Silco’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Still, he stayed silent. Not here. Not yet. Not when the eyes of the bar had already turned toward them. The murmur of conversation had slowed, dulled. Now, even those who tried to act like they weren’t listening… were.

The atmosphere thickened. Simmering tension pooled in the corners of the room- quiet, heavy, waiting for a spark.

Vander stepped in, a steaming mug in his hand. He set it gently in front of (Y/N), then stepped back, arms folding across his chest.

“We take care of our own,” he said. His voice was low, but it carried. “Always have.”

(Y/N) curled her fingers around the mug. Her eyes stayed down, watching steam rise in slow spirals.

Silco’s hand moved to her back, palm warm through the fabric. His thumb pressed slow, steady circles between her shoulder blades. Grounding. Gentle.

The bar’s rhythm resumed in cautious pieces- clinks of glass, low conversation, chairs scraping against wood- but something had shifted. A quiet understanding passed between the walls. One of theirs had been hurt. Again. And the Undercity remembers.

Behind the bar, Vander didn’t move much. But his posture spoke volumes. Hands braced against the counter, shoulders tight with barely restrained fury. He wasn’t pouring drinks. The bottle beside him sat forgotten.

His eyes hadn’t left (Y/N) since she walked in- since he’d seen the bruises blooming across her skin, the blood drying at the corner of her mouth. The way she winced when she shifted. What haunted him most wasn’t the damage.

It was that she hadn’t even fought back.

She hadn’t used magic, hadn’t lashed out, hadn’t screamed. She was just walking. And they jumped her like she was nothing.

His fingers curled into fists. The wood beneath his palms creaked under the strain.

Silco noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed. But he didn’t speak. His attention stayed on her, thumb still tracing circles.

Felicia broke the silence with a venomous whisper. “This city’s rotting from the top down.”

Connol said nothing. His jaw was clenched, hand resting protectively atop Violet’s blanket, as if shielding his newborn daughter from the world.

Vander’s voice, when it came, was quiet- but sharp as a blade. “She didn’t even raise a hand.” His gaze was distant, as though staring through the bar. “Didn’t say a word. Just walked. And they still thought they could beat her bloody.”

His fists trembled on the counter. “That’s the kind of peace they’re offering.”

Silco’s eyes flicked toward him. “Starting to see it, are you?”

Vander didn’t answer. But the silence said enough.

His shoulders sagged slightly, breath shuddering out. “I’ve spent half my life pulling people back from the edge. Telling them to wait. To think. To survive instead of strike.” He looked at (Y/N) then, something pained and heavy flickering behind his eyes. “But what do we do when there’s no fight left to stop? When we keep our heads down, and they still come for us?”

(Y/N) looked up. Her voice was quiet, raw. “I didn’t fight because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not because I was scared.”

Her gaze dropped again. “Didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to hurt.”

The weight of her words hung in the air. No one had an answer.

Vander ran a hand across his jaw, slow. “This city’s gonna crack,” he muttered. Then, barely audible- “And I don’t know if I can stop it this time.”

The weight in the room pressed against her skin, heavier than the bruises blooming beneath it. (Y/N) stared down into the mug. Herbal. Faintly sweet. Something Vander probably mixed together himself- pain relief, maybe. Or just something warm to hold. Something that made you feel less hollow.

She took a careful sip. The heat stung against her split lip.

The others were still talking. Still shifting around her like a gathering storm. Silco hadn’t moved. His hand stayed firm against her back. Steady. Present.

But even that comfort felt distant. Sharpened by the silence in her chest.

She didn’t want their fury.

Didn’t want Felicia’s wild-eyed rage, or Vander’s coiled grief. She didn’t want Connol’s quiet worry, or Silco’s unreadable stillness.

She just wanted them to stop looking at her like this was something new.

It wasn’t.

Pain had followed her since childhood- persistent, predictable, a shadow stitched into her every step. There was always someone bigger. Someone crueler. Someone who needed to remind her she didn’t belong.

This wasn’t new. It was just more of the same.

She didn’t want pity. Or promises. Or rage that would burn everything down.

She wanted peace.

She took another sip of her drink, hands trembling slightly, and said nothing.

Silco leaned in, voice low against her ear. “Do you want to go upstairs?”

She didn’t answer right away.

But eventually, she nodded.

He rose first, then reached for her gently, helping her stand without a word. He didn’t hold her- just offered the support, and let her decide how much she needed.

They didn’t look back as they left.

The climb upstairs was slow- not just from pain, though it still lingered with every step- but from the weight in her chest. A hollow sort of gravity.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t lean on him. Just walked.

Silco didn’t press. He kept close. Always within reach. But didn’t touch her unless she faltered. He walked with a kind of quiet restraint, as if every instinct told him to pull her in- but he knew she needed space more than shelter.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Inside, the room welcomed them in silence. Dim neon light filtered through worn curtains. The scent of the day- dust from the mines, candle wax, and faint smoke- still clung to the air.

(Y/N) didn’t stop moving. She crossed to the window, cloak slipping from her shoulders and falling where it may.

She didn’t pick it up.

She sank into the window seat, flicked her fingers, and summoned a small flame.

It sparked, sputtered. Her hand trembled.

She clenched her jaw, tried again.

This time, the fire steadied. She lit the cigarette between her lips and leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the cracked pane. The breeze drew it out slowly, like breath finally let go.

Silco stood near the door, watching.

She looked hollow.

Not broken. Not weak. Just… dimmed. Like the fire in her chest had drawn back behind old walls. Her hands trembled around the cigarette. Blood dried like rust along her bandages.

She didn’t try to hide it.

She didn’t say a word.

Silco stepped forward- slowly, deliberately- and knelt beside her, one arm resting on the windowsill. He tilted his head, studying her profile, but didn’t speak right away.

“Talk to me,” he said at last, his voice low, nearly lost beneath the hum of the Undercity outside.

(Y/N) didn’t answer. She kept her gaze fixed on the distant glow bleeding through the cracked glass- the Undercity’s fractured light, flickering like something half-remembered. Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers. Her silence stretched, brittle.

“I’m just tired,” she said finally. “Tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Silco swallowed, jaw tensing. She wasn’t talking about the bruises. Not really.

She drew in another breath of smoke, slower this time. “People always look at me like I’m strong. Like I can take it.” Her voice wavered, then steadied. “And I can. But it’s starting to feel like that’s the only reason I’m still here.”

Her eyes dropped to her bandaged hands, and her voice cracked.

“To take it.”

He didn’t speak. Just reached out, fingers brushing hers as he gently took the cigarette from her grip. She let it go without a word. He crushed the ember into the ashtray, then stood, pulling her carefully to her feet.

She blinked up at him, caught off guard- but didn’t pull away when he wrapped his arms around her. Not tightly. Not to shield or protect. Just close. Like he was anchoring her, grounding her in something real.

“You’re not here just to endure,” he murmured into her hair. “Not to me.”

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt before she could even think of it, her face pressing into the warmth of his chest. His heartbeat, steady beneath her ear, became the only rhythm she could hold onto. The scent of smoke and iron clung to him, familiar, oddly soothing.

Silco said nothing more. He just held her, patient and still, while her body trembled quietly in his arms.

She tried to breathe. Not cry. Not break. But it was hard. The bruises on her ribs and hands still throbbed beneath her skin, but the worst pain lived deeper- in the place that never got the chance to heal.

Her voice, when it came, was almost too quiet to hear.

“I wish it was different.”

His arms tightened, just slightly.

“I know.”

“I wish I didn’t have this magic,” she whispered. “Wish I didn’t have to hide it. Didn’t have to be afraid of it. I wish I could fight back without making things worse. I wish we weren’t always hunted. Like prey in our own streets. I just…”

Her breath hitched. “I just want to live like normal people.”

Silco didn’t respond right away. His thumb moved slowly over her back, quiet and steady.

“Normal’s a lie,” he said eventually, his voice rough. “But freedom? That’s worth everything.”

She gave a shaky exhale, her cheek brushing the warm skin above his collarbone. Her eyes were heavy now.

“Feels like we’ll never have it.”

“We will.” His voice shifted- firmer now. Not idealistic. Certain. “Not tomorrow. Not soon. But one day. I’ll make sure of it.”

She didn’t argue. She didn’t have the strength.

Instead, she let herself lean into him, her body slowly releasing the tension it had carried all day. Her heartbeat slowed, syncing with his. If she couldn’t have peace, at least she had this. Him. The quiet safety of his arms.

The exhaustion caught up all at once. Her breath warmed the hollow of his neck as her grip loosened- not from retreat, but from surrender.

Without a word, Silco shifted, guiding her toward the bed. She didn’t resist. Just followed, limbs heavy with the weight of it all.

They slipped under the thin blanket, the only light coming from the dim Undercity glow through the window. She curled into him instinctively, her head on his chest, her hand tucked between them like she was trying to keep something safe.

Silco wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until there was no space left between them. His legs tangled with hers, and he rested his chin gently on the top of her head.

It wasn’t the first time they’d fallen asleep like this. But something about tonight felt heavier. Closer.

Not just comfort. Not just need.

Recognition.

He didn’t say it, but she felt it in every breath, every touch, every heartbeat: I see you. I won’t let go.

Her body softened in his arms. Her breathing slowed.

Still scarred. Still whole. Still his.

And in the faint hum of Zaun’s restless night, they drifted off. Two souls bound together in the dark, held fast by something stronger than all the things trying to break them.

Time passed.

Not all at once. Quietly. Gradually.

The bruises faded- from her skin, then from her routine. Her hands healed. The ache in her chest took longer. But even that began to dull- softened by warmth, by routine, by Silco’s constant, quiet presence.

And Violet grew.

From a bundle of soft blankets and curious eyes to a sharp, babbling toddler who could clear a room with a single shriek and charm it again with a crooked grin. She toddled through the bar on unsteady legs, fearless. Felicia stayed one step behind. Connol three steps ahead, trying to catch every fall.

She became The Last Drop’s heartbeat. Even the roughest regulars melted when she approached with sticky hands and wide eyes. No one said no- not even Silco, who would scowl as she climbed into his lap, then let her stay anyway, a hand gently steadying her back.

(Y/N) began working fewer shifts in the mines. At first, it was just a few missed mornings. Then it became habit. She helped Vander behind the bar, swept the floors, restocked the shelves. Quiet work. Grounding work.

She said it was to help out. But they all knew better.

It was the Enforcers. She was avoiding them. Avoiding herself, maybe. The edge of what she could do- what she might do, if pushed too far.

Vander never asked questions. Just passed her a towel and a crate to lift.

And Silco?

He didn’t say much. But he was always near.

She felt it in the way his hand brushed hers when he passed a bottle. The way he leaned in close when the bar was loud, voice low, a flicker of humor in his eyes. How he watched her, always. Not possessive- present.

The world didn’t get easier. But it got smaller. Closer.

The city still tried to claw peace from their hands- but they held onto it anyway. Nights at The Last Drop had quieted. Less yelling now. Fewer brawls breaking out in dark corners. The fire hadn’t gone out, but it burned lower, steadier, like the amber light spilling across the bar’s worn wood.

The Undercity hadn’t changed. It was still raw. Still scarred. But something beneath it had settled.

Maybe it was Violet, growing fast and fierce, commanding a room with just a look- Felicia’s look- while perched on a hip and sucking juice from a chipped cup. Maybe it was the way Vander and Silco had finally stopped talking past each other.

They hadn’t always seen eye to eye. Too many nights had ended with slammed doors and clenched jaws- Silco all edge and conviction, Vander slow-burning with old weight and weary patience. But something had shifted. Not just in the room, but between them.

(Y/N) saw it first.

The way they leaned closer during late-night talks, voices low as the bar emptied out. Vander no longer shutting Silco down the second Piltover came up. Silco, surprisingly, actually listening- pausing, considering. Like he’d finally realized not every battle needed to be waged in fire.

Maybe it was understanding. Or maybe it was, again, Violet.

She’d changed everything.

Hard to talk about revolution when a toddler was dragging around a chewed-up mug, insisting it was “hers.” When her tiny feet echoed across the floorboards, scattering dust motes in the lamplight.

So when Silco spoke of the future now, he didn’t say now. He didn’t say soon.

He said eventually.

And Vander, once immovable in his pacifism, didn’t dismiss it out of hand anymore. Just nodded. Quietly. Said things like, “Maybe. Someday. When she’s old enough to run if she has to.”

(Y/N) had overheard them once- stood in the doorway, unseen, as Vander cleaned out his pipe behind the counter. Silco leaned nearby, arms folded, eyes on the wall.

“We can’t keep takin’ hits like that,” Vander muttered, jaw set. “They come down here like they own the place.”

Silco didn’t bristle. Didn’t grin. Just replied, low and even, “We won’t. Not forever.”

Vander wiped his hands on a bar towel. “I’m not about to light a fire I can’t put out.”

Silco nodded. “I’m not asking you to.”

A beat passed. Then Vander looked at him- really looked at him- and said, “But we’ll be ready when it comes.”

That was all. No shouting. No threats. Just a shared promise, spoken like a quiet oath.

Not today… Not yet. But one day.

(Y/N) stepped back from the doorway, heart heavy in that strange way- full of knowing. Not afraid. Just aware. The world would shift again. That was inevitable.

But not while Violet was still tugging on pant legs and chasing flecks of light like they were treasure. Not while mornings were still soft and slow, Silco brushing past her in the kitchen, his fingers grazing her back, his voice low and familiar.

“Let her be little,” he’d murmur. “Just a while longer.”

And Vander would nod. And they’d wait.

They’d build.

Time, as it does, slipped forward without asking.

Violet turned four. A blur of questions, fast feet, and sharper opinions. She mimicked everyone- Felicia’s sass, Vander’s sighs, even Silco’s scowls (to his quiet dismay). She perched on barstools like she owned the place. Vander even carved her a little wooden step to stand behind the bar, though she mostly used it to sneak sips from mugs when no one was looking.

And then, one morning, Felicia walked into the bar with Connol trailing nervously behind her, hands wringing.

“Well,” she announced, hands on her hips. “Looks like the baby bin wasn’t a waste after all.”

(Y/N) nearly spit out her tea. “You mocked me for keeping that thing.”

Felicia smirked, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Yeah, well. Maybe you’re good for something after all.”

Silco didn’t say much about the news of the new baby.

But he watched.

Watched Felicia move with a kind of defiant ease, even when the weight of it slowed her down. Watched (Y/N) make space again- pulling the bin out of storage, folding tiny clothes with a strange, wistful look in her eye. Watched Violet mimic it all, dragging around a spare bottle like she was training for something.

Spring came fast. And with it- so did the baby.

The bar cleared out quickly. Regulars were shooed off. Towels boiled. Water warmed. Ren showed up right on time, muttering, “You lot breed like rats in winter,” while rolling up her sleeves.

(Y/N) stayed with Felicia through the pain, Connol at her side, Vander hovering in the doorway. Silco didn’t pace this time- just stood by the window, hands behind his back, breathing like it hurt to do it wrong.

And then the cry came.

Sharp. Fragile. Real.

Everyone stilled.

Ren wrapped the baby carefully, then looked around. “Well?” she said. “Who’s first?”

Felicia, exhausted but smiling with that same smug pride, didn’t hesitate. “Give her to Silco.”

Ren raised an eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“Vander named Violet,” Felicia said, leaning into Connol. “It’s his turn.”

Silco froze. Looked to (Y/N). She gave him the softest nod.

So he stepped forward.

Ren guided his hands under the baby’s head. He held her like she might vanish. Small and warm and impossibly new.

She was wrinkled and red and making soft, wet noises- but her hair…

Silco stared.

Fine, pale fuzz. Blue. So faint it was barely visible. But unmistakable.

“She looks like…” he started, stopped. Swallowed. “Powder.”

Felicia blinked. “You mean the color, or-?”

He didn’t look up. “I don’t know. It just fits.”

(Y/N) leaned close, gazing at the newborn. “It does,” she murmured. “It really does.”

Felicia smiled faintly. “Then Powder it is.”

The name stuck- odd, but perfectly hers.

And life moved on.

When Powder started walking (and then sprinting, and then climbing everything), Felicia and Connol got restless. The bar was safe, yes, but they needed more. The mines, for all their danger, offered steady work.

“We’re not vanishing,” Felicia promised one morning, Powder on her hip, Violet tugging on her coat. “Just a few shifts. Keep things balanced.”

Connol added quickly, “We’ll be around. Just not always underfoot.”

Vander frowned- he always did when someone went underground- but he didn’t stop them. He just nodded.

And that left them- Vander, Silco, and (Y/N)- as the keepers of the Undercity’s most chaotic duo.

Violet, sharp and loud and entirely too clever, claimed a booth as her throne and demanded pastries as taxes.

Powder… Powder was stranger. Quieter. She wandered more. Spoke to herself. Built towers out of bottle caps and knocked them over to study the fall.

And Silco, of all people, shadowed her like a silent guardian. He never said why.

But he always caught her before she fell.

It started gradually.

Silco began keeping her within his line of sight- subtle, instinctive. Even while buried in planning or half-snarled conversations with smugglers, his gaze would flicker toward her. A quiet “no” and a hand on her shoulder was enough to pull her away from dangerous corners. Sometimes, if he was deep in one of his journals, he’d lift her onto the stool beside him without a word. Powder would climb up too, wide-eyed, watching his pen move like it was casting spells.

(Y/N) noticed it first.

The way Powder drifted toward Silco, no matter how crowded the room was. The way she’d tug at his coat until he looked down, then silently lift her arms to be held. And the way Silco- sharp, precise, always in control- would let her crawl into his lap without protest, wrapping one arm around her as she fiddled with the buttons on his vest like they were treasure.

It was disarming. And a little bit adorable.

One afternoon, (Y/N) found him slumped in the back booth of The Last Drop, half-asleep. Powder was curled up against his chest, her small fingers hooked into the edge of his vest. His hand rested over her back, thumb moving slowly in quiet circles. She leaned against the doorframe, watching for a moment before breaking the silence.

“You didn’t cuddle me like that when we were little.”

Silco cracked an eye open, unimpressed and half-drowsy. “You didn’t drool in your sleep.”

(Y/N) snorted and stepped closer, brushing a strand of blue hair out of Powder’s face.

“She’s got you wrapped around her tiny, sticky fingers, y’know.”

“She’s unpredictable,” he muttered. “Like a bomb with a smile.”

“And you love it.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even try.

And as (Y/N) watched him shift just enough to pull the blanket a little higher over the girl in his arms, something warm and aching settled deep in her chest.

The Last Drop had always been a place of smoke and whispers- rebels meeting in corners, laughter shared over bruised knuckles and bitter liquor. But lately, the air had started to change. The whispers were louder. Plans took shape in the shadows. Smuggling routes reopened. Piltover shipments vanished, and the Enforcers never knew where to start looking.

The Undercity was stirring.

And at the center of it all stood two men: Vander, still carrying hope like a torch, and Silco, burning with something far more volatile. They didn’t agree on everything- rarely did- but they had found rhythm again, like bones remembering how to move.

(Y/N) watched from the edges.

Because she remembered what came of getting too close to that kind of fire. A sheriff dead. Ten people turned to dust. Her magic crackling out of control. The way the city looked at her afterward- not like a girl, but like a weapon that might go off again.

No one spoke of it anymore. Not Vander. Not Felicia. Not even Silco.

But she hadn’t forgotten.

So while they pushed forward- Vander meeting with people at dawn, Silco vanishing into alleyways and fixer dens- (Y/N) stayed behind.

Not because she was afraid.

Because she couldn’t let herself become that again.

So she looked after the girls.

Violet was seven now- quick-footed and fierce, with scraped knees and a sharp tongue. She climbed faster than most runners, had already started asking questions too big for her age.

Powder, at three, was quieter. Sloppy, brilliant, always tinkering. She'd pull apart broken tech just to rebuild it into something entirely new- and entirely unpredictable. More than once, Vander had flinched when her latest invention sparked to life.

(Y/N) was their constant.

She packed lunches. Cleaned up cuts. Told them stories when the nights grew long. Her rebellion wasn’t with fire and fists anymore. It was in keeping the people she loved intact while the world tried to wear them down.

One night, Silco came home late. His coat was torn at the shoulder, dried blood crusted on the sleeve. He stepped into the bar and stopped.

On the couch, (Y/N) lay curled with both girls half asleep across her- Violet stretched over her legs, Powder tucked under her arm. She looked up, eyes tired but soft.

“Don’t ask,” she said before he could speak. “They ran themselves ragged.”

Silco crossed the room and crouched beside them, his hand brushing over Powder’s hair, then Violet’s arm. His eyes, usually so guarded, flicked to (Y/N), darker than usual.

“You’re keeping them safe.”

“I have to,” she murmured.

He didn’t answer. But the thought hung there between them, heavy and unspoken.

And who’s keeping you safe?

(Y/N) didn’t need him to say it. She just reached out, brushing her fingers along his cheek, whispering- “I’m still here.” before carefully picking up the girls, and making her way up stairs.

The bar was full later that night. Shoulder to shoulder with the ones who mattered- runners, smugglers, chemists, old fighters with iron in their bones. You could feel it in the air. Something was coming.

Upstairs, (Y/N) and Felicia stood over the sleeping girls.

Violet had begged to stay up and “help with planning,” eyes shining. Powder had clung to her half-broken toy like it would anchor her. (Y/N) tucked the blanket in around them both, brushing their hair back with a hand that lingered too long.

“I don’t like this,” she said quietly as they stepped into the hall.

“I know,” Felicia replied.

Downstairs, the tension pressed against the walls like a held breath.

Vander stood tall at the center, arms crossed, jaw set. Silco was beside him, leaning slightly forward, hands clasped behind his back, speaking low.

No heat. No fight.

Just resolve.

When the time came, Vander raised a hand.

The room fell silent.

“We’ve been patient,” he said, voice clear and steady. “We’ve followed their rules. Tried to build something real in the cracks they left us.”

A few voices murmured agreement.

“But patience hasn’t bought us peace. It’s bought bruises. Blood. Fear.”

He swept the room with his gaze.

“And every time we let them walk our streets like they own ‘em, we tell our children this is all they’ll ever have.”

(Y/N) stood at the back with Felicia, arms crossed, shadows curling around her like second skin.

She didn’t speak.

She just listened.

Vander’s voice sharpened.

“So we’re taking it back. No more waiting. No more silence. If they want to walk our streets- they’re gonna have to bleed for it.”

Cheers rippled across the room, building slowly.

Then Silco stepped forward.

His voice was quiet. Precise. Cold.

“We hit them where they’ll feel it. The bridge. That’s where they hold power over us. That’s where they watch us- control us. So that’s where we remind them we’re not beneath them.”

Heads nodded. Plans took root.

And in the flickering light, (Y/N) stood still.

Watching. Remembering. Holding the weight of fire in her chest- and refusing to let it burn her again.

Vander lifted his hand to calm them. “We’ve got numbers. We know that bridge better than anyone. We fight smart. I’ll lead it.”

The bar erupted.

Chairs scraped. Bottles clinked. A half-dozen people surged forward, shouting their loyalty, their hunger for retaliation.

But not (Y/N).

She didn’t move. Not even a twitch. Her arms stayed folded across her chest, lips a thin line. Heart pounding behind her ribs like it was trying to run.

She got it. Really, she did. That righteous fury- they wore it like armor. And part of her wanted it, too. To burn hot. To burn back.

But all she could think about were two small girls asleep in the room upstairs… And the last time she’d let her magic answer violence with more of it.

Felicia stood near the wall, arms crossed, looking worn down to the bone. She glanced over, voice barely a whisper above the chaos. “You good?”

(Y/N) didn’t answer. Her eyes were locked on the center of the room. On Vander, solid as ever, holding the weight of the whole damn Undercity on his back. On Silco- quiet, sharp-eyed, unreadable.

She murmured, more to herself than anyone else, “I don’t know if this is the right way. But I think they’ve already decided.”

The meeting bled into the night, the bar slowly emptying until only low voices and the smoke of half-burned cigarettes remained. A plan had been made. A date.

Three months.

The bridge.

It still felt far.

But not far enough.

(Y/N) sat alone in the booth by the window, untouched drink in front of her, eyes distant as the Undercity’s green glow shimmered through cracked glass. Vander’s voice rumbled somewhere behind the counter. Silco’s lower, quiet, murmuring something to a smuggler near the back.

She barely heard them.

All she could think about… were the girls.

Powder would be four in two weeks. Gods. Four. She used to be a quiet bundle wrapped in a frayed blanket- Silco had held her once, stiff and unsure, like she might shatter. Now she was a walking whirlwind, inventing things from nothing but wires and junk.

And Violet- eight. A spitfire with scraped knees and fire in her veins, fierce as Felicia, stubborn as Vander. She looked at (Y/N) like she hung the stars when she helped her tie her boots or sound out long words in dog-eared books.

They weren’t hers. Not really.

But they were.

And now there was a war coming.

Not a whisper. Not a theory. A date. A choice.

She looked down at her hands. Scarred. Capable. And shaking.

Not from fear. Not exactly.

But because she knew what this path cost.

She heard a chair scrape back and looked up just as Silco approached. His coat was still draped over one shoulder, his expression unreadable, though the shadows beneath his eyes were darker than usual.

“You didn’t say anything,” he said as he slid into the booth across from her.

(Y/N) held his gaze. Steady. “Didn’t seem like there was much room for second thoughts.”

Silco tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t agree?”

“I don’t think it matters,” she said. “You’ve already decided.”

Her voice wasn’t bitter. Just tired.

Silco didn’t argue. Just leaned back, fingers tapping against the table’s edge. “You’re thinking about them.”

“Always.” Her voice softened. “Powder wants a new toolbelt for her birthday. Violet’s been asking for boots like Vander’s.”

She smiled, sad, faint. “They don’t know what’s coming.”

Silco went quiet. Long enough that the silence almost felt like an answer.

“Neither do we,” he said finally. “Not really.”

“But you’ll still go.”

“I have to.”

“I know.”

They sat there, still and silent, the weight of three months stretching out between them like a lit fuse.

Then- “Promise me something,” she said, eyes locked on his.

Silco straightened. “Anything.”

“If this falls apart,” she said, low and sure, “make sure you are safe.”

His eyes darkened- not from coldness, but something heavier. Fiercer. “I will.”

“I’ll stay behind,” she added. “With the kids. I won’t fight. Not this time. I’m not letting them wonder where I went.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “You won’t lose what you built,” he said quietly. “Not if I can stop it.”

She nodded, throat tight. And squeezed his hand back.

Powder’s birthday came faster than expected.

The Last Drop still hummed with the tension of what was coming. But that day… that day, she didn’t let it touch them.

She slipped out early, arms full when she returned- scraps of cloth in soft colors, sweets from the docks, a small mechanical toy she’d bartered for with a vendor who owed Felicia a favor.

Most wouldn’t notice the changes in the bar. But the ones who mattered? They would.

Ribbons of powder blue and pink, twisted with wire, hung along the stair rail. A booth had been cleared- mismatched dishes, a crooked cake Vander swore wasn’t terrible, and two paper signs marked in shaky handwriting: VIOLET and POWDER.

Violet was the first down, barefoot and wide-eyed. “Is that cake?”

“Patience, firecracker,” (Y/N) grinned, scooping her up. “Birthday girl’s not even here yet.”

Felicia followed, Powder half-asleep on her shoulder, hair sticking out like she’d wrestled a static storm. Her fist still gripped a screwdriver.

“Happy birthday, Powpow,” (Y/N) whispered, lifting her carefully.

Powder blinked. “Is that… a cake?”

“Told you!” Violet beamed.

The party was quiet, small, warm. The best kind. Powder opened her little pile of gifts- buttons, gears, a satchel just her size, and a handmade goggle strap from (Y/N) that lit up at the clasp.

“Now you look like a real inventor,” she teased, ruffling her hair.

Powder beamed and threw her arms around her neck.

Across the room, Felicia met her eyes. A look passed between them. Quiet. Thankful.

(Y/N) just nodded and held Powder tighter.

She didn’t forget Violet either- slipping her a box wrapped in old newspaper with boot laces dyed her favorite color.

“Not your birthday,” she said with a smirk, “but being a big sister’s hard work.”

Violet grinned, tackled her in a hug.

The day passed in soft bursts of joy- chalk drawings on the bar walls, Powder tinkering with her new tools, Violet staging wild games in the back room.

For just a while, nothing else existed.

No war. No countdown. Just them.

Later, when the girls were asleep upstairs- bellies full, faces sticky with frosting- Felicia pulled her into a long hug.

“You’re too good to us,” she murmured.

“You’re my family,” (Y/N) whispered back. “I’d do it all again.”

Felicia sniffed. Laughed softly. “Don’t say that too loud. Might end up with another kid.”

“God, no.”

But she laughed too.

It was Powder’s day.

And (Y/N) made sure it was a good one.

Even with the clock still ticking.

The days had started to blur. Since Powder’s birthday, time had shifted- tilted on its axis. What used to feel like months now passed in weeks. Weeks collapsed into days. Now, the revolution was close enough to taste, and (Y/N) felt every second of it like a noose pulling tighter around her throat.

She kept moving. That’s how she managed it.

She cleaned up after the girls, swept the bar floors, restocked shelves, re-fastened loose nails. She fixed Violet’s boots in the mornings, helped Powder organize her new toolbelt, double-checked the locks at night. Always busy. Always doing. Because the moment she stopped- even for a breath- something in her chest cracked open.

She avoided Silco more than she wanted to. Slipped out of the room when he came in. Kept her replies short when he asked questions, her gaze lowered, never lingering. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t distance. She loved him- god, she loved him. But something in her gut had gone wrong. A slow, sick churn that wouldn’t leave her.

It was the same feeling she’d had before the last sheriff fell. Before every loss she hadn’t seen coming.

Everyone else seemed ready. The Undercity buzzed with tension, with quiet coordination. Weapons hidden. Escape routes mapped. Vander kept a layout of the city splayed across the back room table. Silco paced over it with sharp eyes, memorizing the paths like scripture. They were prepared. They believed.

And she wanted to believe with them.

She knew their reasons were real. She knew they were fighting for something better. But that didn’t stop the pit in her stomach from growing each time she walked past Vander bent over plans, or Silco murmuring to the others, fire catching behind his words.

At night, when the bar quieted, she sit awake in the dark listening to the soft sounds above- Powder’s breathing, Violet’s snoring- and wondered whether she’d ever hear them again once the smoke cleared.

One night, she stood at the window long after the lights were out, arms wrapped tight around herself. The city glowed that familiar, sickly green in the distance.

She didn’t hear him until he spoke.

“You’re avoiding me.”

His voice was soft. Not accusing- just... true.

(Y/N) flinched. Closed her eyes.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, barely a whisper.

Silco stepped closer, not crowding her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

“Of the fight?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Of what it’s going to take.”

Silco was quiet. Then, low and sure- “It’s already taken everything. This is the only way we get it back.”

She didn’t argue. Just turned her gaze back to the window, watching the city pulse.

“I just want them safe,” she murmured. “That’s all I care about now.”

He nodded once. “Then stay with them. No matter what.”

She turned finally, looked at him fully for the first time in days.

“You’ll come back?”

There was a pause. A long one. Then-

“…I’ll try.”

Not a promise. Just a truth.

It had to be enough.

…Dawn came too fast…

The Undercity held its breath beneath the pale, grey light, every alley and window draped in anxious silence. No birds. No whistles. No drunken laughter. Just boots, gear, metal. War at the door.

Inside The Last Drop, the air felt frozen in place. Violet and Powder sat on the stairs, wide-eyed and quiet. Not babies anymore. They understood enough.

(Y/N) knelt in front of them, steadying her voice even though her hands trembled.

“Just another day,” she whispered. “That’s all. You’re staying with me, doors locked, windows tight. We stay quiet, okay?”

Violet nodded slowly. “Is something bad happening?”

(Y/N) smoothed her hair and kissed her brow. “No. Not to you.”

Then came the footsteps.

Silco. Vander. Felicia. Connol. Benzo. Others, too. Armed, armored, resolved.

(Y/N) stood and moved to Felicia first, hugging her tight. “Watch Connol’s back.”

“Always,” Felicia murmured.

She hugged Connol  and Benzo, firm and quick. Then Vander- no words, just a shared embrace, the kind that said everything without needing to speak.

And then Silco.

He stood still, but the moment she reached for him, his arms wrapped around her in an instant. No hesitation. It was the kind of embrace that tried to memorize- her scent, her warmth, the way her magic thrummed just beneath her skin.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, then leaned in, kissing him deep and desperate, her fingers curled in his coat, the other at his jaw. When she broke the kiss, her lips ghosted his ear.

“You better fucking come back.”

His breath hitched. Just a little. Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“I will,” he whispered. “If only so you don’t burn the city down looking for me.”

She huffed a shaky laugh. Didn’t let go until she had to.

And then- like that- they were gone.

She locked the door behind them with trembling fingers and turned back to the girls. Wrapped her arms around them and held on.

Outside, the Undercity marched to war.

Inside, she kept the light on…

The silence was wrong.

It wasn’t peaceful. It was bracing. Even the air held still, like the city was exhaling for the last time.

(Y/N) did everything she could to distract the girls. Old books. Chalk drawings. Gentle songs hummed through clenched teeth. But her hands kept shaking.

And she knew.

Then- the pounding. A heavy, urgent fist at the door.

She ran. Unlocked it.

Benzo stood there, blood on his shirt, breathing ragged, eyes wide with horror.

“They knew,” he gasped. “They were waiting- we walked right into it- too many-”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest.

“Stay with the girls,” she ordered, already pulling on her coat.

“Auntie-!” Violet cried.

“Don’t follow me,” (Y/N) barked. “Stay with Benzo.”

She was gone before they could answer.

Smoke painted the sky as she ran- choking, black smoke that billowed across rooftops. The closer she got to the bridge, the thicker it became.

She arrived to chaos.

Screams. Steel. Bodies. Blood slicking the cobblestones. Enforcers everywhere. Zaunites, too- some fighting, some fallen.

No time to think.

Magic surged to her hands, golden light cracking from her fingers. She fought like she was made for it. Threw herself over downed allies, cast fire toward enemies, keeping them at bay.

Then she saw him- Vander, bloodied and using his gauntlets to fight with every muscle. She cut her way to him. No words. Just movement. Two parts of the same storm.

And then-

“Auntie!!”

The voice cut through everything. High. Familiar. Too close.

She turned, eyes wide.

Violet stood just beyond the fight, Powder clinging to her side.

“Benzo let them leave?” she breathed, fury flashing hot.

She darted to them.

“Where are they?!” Violet sobbed. “Where’s Mama? Dad?!”

(Y/N) looked to Vander.

His eyes dropped- just once- toward a heap of rubble nearby.

And she knew.

She followed his gaze.

Felicia lay crumpled, blood on her temple, Connol’s hand still wrapped around hers. Still. Silent.

Gone.

Violet froze. Shaking.

And everything inside (Y/N) shattered.

Violet threw out an arm, shielding Powders eyes with her fingers. “Don’t look,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her hands trembled.

(Y/N) was there in an instant, scooping them both into her arms and holding them tight- tighter than she’d ever held anything. Powder buried her face against her collar, breath hitching with quiet sobs. Violet clung to her shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. (Y/N)’s knees nearly gave beneath her, but she didn’t fall. Not yet. She took a shaky step back from the wreckage, her eyes stinging, her lungs burning. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

She held her girls.

Then Vander was beside her, silent for a moment, his hand landing heavy on her back.

“Take them,” he said, his voice raw, thinned by smoke and grief. “Please. Get them home. Somewhere safe.”

She looked at him- just once- and nodded. No argument. No questions. Just turned and carried them away.

One on each hip. Powder crying soft against her neck. Violet stiff and silent, arms locked around her like a vise. The walk back to The Last Drop felt endless. Every step rang in her bones.

She slammed the door shut behind them, bolted it, barred it. Dropped to her knees with both girls still wrapped in her arms. Held them like the world was trying to take them from her.

But in the back of her mind-

Silco.

She hadn’t seen him. Not once.

And the thought of him- alone, somewhere in the smoke, maybe bleeding, maybe worse- was already beginning to split her down the middle.

Vander didn’t return until long after nightfall.

His footsteps dragged through the rear hall like dead weight. His coat was half-burned, his hands red and raw, crusted with blood. The door creaked shut behind him, too final. Like a war had ended, but no one had won.

(Y/N) was on the floor by the hearth, sleeves rolled, hands trembling as she dabbed soot from Powder’s cheek. Violet sat close, arms around her knees, eyes fixed on the door.

Vander stood there, silent.

She looked up at him, heart already sinking. “…Well?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her. Through her. Like he hadn’t left the bridge at all.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said finally. The words scraped out of him. “He’s gone.”

Her chest tightened.

Vander’s expression twisted. “He disappeared. Coward.”

She flinched.

“He let it all fall apart.” He began to pace- restless, agitated, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it hurt. “I trusted him. And he ran.”

(Y/N)’s hand froze, cloth paused at Powder’s temple. That didn’t sound like Silco. Not the Silco she knew. But she could see it- the rage in Vander’s eyes, the betrayal coiled beneath his skin.

Now wasn’t the time to argue. The smoke was still clinging to them all.

So she said nothing. Just nodded once. Quiet. Then turned back to the girls.

Powder sniffled. Violet leaned closer, a protective arm around her sister’s shoulders.

(Y/N) dipped the cloth again, wiped the soot away gently, one streak at a time. As if she could clean the night from their skin. As if it would undo any of it.

Vander sank into a nearby chair with a heavy groan and didn’t say another word.

The silence that followed didn’t feel like peace. It felt like a wound.

Silco’s name wasn’t spoken again.

Not by Vander. Not by Benzo. Not even by the few who survived and had once stood beside him.

But (Y/N) searched.

She helped move bodies from the bridge- limbs stiff, clothes torn, faces she’d known. She found Connol’s body. Felicia’s. Wrapped them herself. But Silco wasn’t there.

She checked every face, every coat. Her hands shook with each one she turned over. Hoping. Dreading.

He wasn’t dead. Not there. Not anywhere.

He was just- gone.

And somehow, that was worse.

Then, one night-

She was settling the girls into bed. Powder was half-asleep in her lap, Violet rubbing at her eyes and pretending not to yawn.

A slam. The front door.

She flinched, head snapping toward the stairs.

Vander. Soaked through. Water dripped from his hair, his boots. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even look at her. Just stormed through, fists clenched, leaving muddy footprints in his wake.

She watched him disappear into the back, heart thudding.

She didn’t ask. Not yet.

But something in her chest sparked. A small flame. One that hadn’t burned in a long time.

Weeks passed. Then months… Years…

Life reassembled itself in jagged pieces.

Violet grew louder, bolder, angrier. Powder withdrew into wires and gears, her grief funneled into creation.

Mylo came crashing into their lives a year later- mouthy, reckless, impossible to ignore. Vi challenged him before she even learned his name. Claggor followed soon after, calm and steady, the quiet gravity that kept the chaos from flying apart. And Ekko, sharp and fast, found a home with Benzo. He and Powder bickered constantly, but they always came back to each other.

The family grew. And (Y/N) stayed. Because someone had to.

The Last Drop softened. Fewer fights. More meals. It became a place worth protecting.

But the ache didn’t go.

Silco’s absence lingered in the corners. In the shadowed streets. In the quiet before sleep.

She never stopped loving him. She tried to. But she didn’t.

She stopped asking Vander. The look in his eyes when she did- the guilt, the anger- was enough.

So she let it go.

Or tried to.

The Undercity healed, if slowly. Vander swore off war, true to his word. The bridge remained, scarred and quiet. A marker of what had been lost.

Violet turned sixteen. All fire and fury, taller now, stronger. Protective to a fault.

Powder turned twelve. Brilliant. Strange. Her inventions more creative, even if most didn’t work, her mind was faster than ever. Her little fort in the kids room was a workshop of ideas no one else could follow.

And (Y/N) was still there.

Still waiting.

Still loving someone who might’ve died on a bridge or walked away from everything.

This was their world. Fragile. Messy. Real.

But somehow- it was still theirs.