Kaden

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• 💖 Fluff, angst, romance, hurt/comfort, smut, and more!

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• 🚫 Harmful or highly triggering content. (P3dophilia. explicit non-con, darkships)

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My writing style:

I adore exploring deep character dynamics, emotions, and relationships. Whether it’s a sweet one-shot or a heartbreaking scene, I will pour my heart into it. Every request gets the attention it deserves! 🎉

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Sebastian doesn’t cry anymore. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t think he can. His body - if you can still call it that, is different now. Cold-blooded. Scaled. Gilled. Twisted into something unrecognizable, into a mockery of what he once was. Into something she would have never kissed.

His mind still replays it, though.

The way Eliza used to touch his jaw so gently, like she could feel the thoughts shifting behind his skin. The way her laugh melted into the corners of their tiny home. The way she used to say, “Come home safe,” like it was a prayer she never doubted would be answered.

She doesn’t know he never made it home.

Not really.

Not as himself.

She doesn’t know that the experiment went wrong—horribly wrong. She doesn’t know he clawed his way out of a lab on instinct alone, full of brine and blood and fear, changed. She doesn’t know he lives in a shitty, run down shop now, deeper than daylight can reach, clutching the scraps of their life together like they’re worth more than gold.

She doesn’t know he’s still alive.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the way his fingers have fused into something clawed. Not the echo of sonar in his head. Not the sleepless nights or the way he flinches from mirrors.

No. It’s the fact that Eliza probably thinks he’s dead.

Buried. Lost. Gone forever.

And he can’t even tell her otherwise.

He dreams of her voice sometimes. Not words. Just the sound of her. Like a lullaby underwater, blurred and fading. He dreams of her fingers brushing his face, and he wakes up clawing at the walls, choking on air that never feels clean enough.

She would’ve held him. Kissed his forehead and said he was still hers. She would’ve believed in him, even like this.

Or maybe she wouldn’t have.

Maybe that’s the part that really kills him.

Because if she saw him now—this creature, this half-human ghost of the man she loved—would she even recognize him?

Would she scream?

Would she run?

Would she cry the way he still does, inside, silent and bitter and endless?

He turns the pages of her old letters until the ink runs under his fingers. He whispers her name to the dark.

And the Blacksite lights hums back.

He can’t go to her. He can’t be seen. They’ll find him again if he surfaces. They’ll rip open what’s left. They’ll turn him back into nothing.

So he stays here.

Building things he doesn’t need.

Fixing things that will never be whole.

“You chose duty over me.”

“No, I chose Piltover. I thought you understood that.”

She did. Gods, she did. That was the worst part.

Caitlyn stood in front of the little apartment tucked in a quiet corner of the Undercity—the one she used to sneak into late at night, her boots left by the door, her badge set aside for you. Her knock was soft, hesitant. Part of her hoped you wouldn’t answer.

You did.

Eyes swollen, arms crossed, you stood there with the look of someone who had bled dry from crying and still had more to give.

“What are you doing here?” your voice cracked.

“I… I made a mistake,” Caitlyn whispered. “I thought I was protecting you. But I destroyed us.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get to say that now. Not after disappearing for weeks. Not after walking past me on the street like I was no one.”

“I couldn’t face you. I couldn’t face what I’d done.”

“And what did you do, Caitlyn?” Your voice trembled, sharp and cruel in your grief. “Tell me, so I can at least hate you properly.”

“I let them take you,” she admitted, breath hitching. “When they raided the safehouse. I knew it was yours. I knew. But I told them to go anyway.”

You went still. That silence was worse than any scream.

“I thought if they arrested you, you’d be safe. Safer than being with me. But they didn’t arrest you. They hurt you.” Her voice cracked. “I saw the report. The bruises. The—Gods, I’m sorry.”

Your jaw clenched. “You let them beat me to a pulp and called it protection?”

“I didn’t know they’d—”

“You didn’t want to know.”

She reached for you, but you stepped back.

“No,” you said. “You don’t get to touch me like you still love me.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, lost in the rain. She looked at you like you were already a ghost.

“I never stopped loving you,” Caitlyn said softly. “But I killed that love the day I betrayed it.”

You closed the door before she could see you fall apart too.

And outside, Caitlyn stood in the rain until it washed away everything—except the guilt.

Daylight in the Undercity

• Ekko is fiercely protective without being possessive. He watches your back during missions and always gives you a confident nod or a cocky grin to show he trusts you. You’re his equal—he just happens to glance back a little more when you’re involved.

• He’s tactile in subtle ways. A shoulder bump when he passes by, a hand to steady you on a hoverboard, fingers brushing your wrist before he lets go. It’s not that he’s shy—it’s just that when it comes to you, he wants every touch to mean something.

• He has a habit of calling you nicknames—nothing too sweet, but things like “gearhead,” “speedster,” or “hotshot.” The more flustered you get, the more smug his grin gets.

• You patch him up a lot. He always tries to act tough about it, but the way he sits quietly while you clean his cuts, looking at you like you’ve hung the stars—yeah, it gives him away every time.

• If you’re ever upset or anxious, Ekko will straight-up ditch whatever he’s doing to find you. “Time’s not wasted if I’m with you,” he’ll mutter, ruffling your hair or holding you close in an empty alley behind the Firelight hideout.

• He always invites you along when he’s out riding. Wind in your hair, neon lights flashing past, the sound of your laughter rising over the city’s chaos—he swears the world slows down just for you two sometimes.

• He teaches you how to fight, how to keep balance on a board, how to think fast. But he also listens. If you know tech, he wants to hear your ideas. If you talk about your past, he’s quiet, focused, never interrupting.

• The first time he told you he loved you, he didn’t say it with words. He just brought you a piece of tech he scavenged, cleaned and repaired it, and handed it to you like it was treasure. “Thought you could use this,” he said—but his eyes gave it away.

Only when it’s you.

• Ekko’s not used to resting, so when he does cuddle with you, it means he trusts you deeply. He doesn’t fall asleep on just anyone—he falls asleep on you. Usually with his face pressed into the crook of your neck or shoulder, arms loosely curled around your waist, breathing slowing into something calm.

• He tends to fidget before he relaxes. Hands tracing circles on your ribs, fingers tapping a beat into your skin. You always know the exact moment he lets go of the tension because he exhales and mutters something like, “Damn. You’re warm,” like it’s a surprise every time.

• When you’re lying together, he’ll tilt his head and just watch you. Memorizing the way your lashes rest on your cheeks or how your mouth curls when you’re about to smile. If you catch him staring, he plays it cool: “What? You’re nice to look at. Don’t blame me for having good taste.”

• He absolutely steals your hoodie. It’s not even subtle. He’ll tug it on with a cocky smirk, sleeves too long, hood over his hair, and ask, “This mine now, or do I have to fight you for it?” Spoiler: he wins. Every time.

• After a long day, he likes to lie on your chest, listening to your heartbeat. It grounds him. “It’s the only clock I care about,” he once whispered, half-asleep, cheek resting over your heart.

• Pillow talk with Ekko is always a mix of soft teasing and genuine vulnerability. He tells you about his dreams for Zaun, the burdens he carries, and sometimes… he just wants to hear you talk. “Keep goin’. Doesn’t matter what it’s about—I like your voice.”

• He kisses you lazily when you’re curled up together—half-lidded eyes, fingers under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. It’s not rushed. Never rushed. He savors it.

• He runs warm, so cuddling in summer turns into a tangled heap of sweaty limbs and groaning complaints. “I love you, but if you don’t get your damn leg off me I’m gonna melt.” Still… he doesn’t move. Neither do you.

• Playful Teasing

Jinx loves to tease you, especially when you’re trying to be serious. Expect playful comments or her pulling funny faces to keep things light. She thrives on making you smile when you’re trying to stay composed.

• Protective Streak

Jinx may seem wild, but in quiet moments, she’s surprisingly protective. She’ll tuck you under her arm when you’re watching TV or hold you close during storms, her chaotic side subdued by the need to make sure you’re safe.

• Spontaneous Adventures

She’ll drag you on spontaneous adventures, like a midnight snack run, lighting fireworks just for fun, or pulling off a random heist because why not? The thrill of the moment is her favorite, but she always looks to you for the extra bit of excitement.

• Tension After a Fight

When things get rough between you two, Jinx’s chaotic energy is more frantic, her eyes wild as she tries to talk herself out of how she feels. She might push you away, only to regret it moments later, her guilt eating away at her.

• Affectionate in Her Own Way

Jinx might not say “I love you” often, but she shows it in small, tender ways—fixing your hair, sharing her favorite snacks, or staying in bed with you when you’re feeling down. It’s her form of affection, one that feels all the more meaningful because it’s hers.

• Isolation After a Mess-Up (Angsty)

When Jinx messes up—whether it’s something big or small—she retreats into herself. She might lock herself in her room, unsure of how to make it right. It’s in those moments that you have to decide whether to let her be or break through her walls.

• Comforting in Her Own Way

If you’re having a bad day, Jinx’s comfort is the quirky, offbeat kind. She might hand you a random trinket, crack a joke, or drag you to do something totally ridiculous to take your mind off things. It might not always be what you expect, but it’s always just what you need.

• Guilt

Jinx feels everything deeply, even when she hides it behind her wild energy. If she feels like she’s hurt you in any way, even unintentionally, she’ll drown herself in guilt. You might catch her staring out into space, lost in thought, fighting off her inner demons.

• Shared Quiet Moments

After a long, chaotic day, Jinx enjoys those rare, calm moments with you. Whether it’s laying in bed, sharing stories, or simply holding each other as you both relax, it’s her way of finding peace amidst the storm.

• Sudden Emotional Outbursts

He hissed through his teeth when you poured alcohol over the deep gash on his side, the muscles of his abdomen tightening under your palm.

“Stop squirming,” you muttered, not unkindly, pressing gauze against the wound. “You’re making it worse.”

Arthur chuckled low in his throat, voice rough. “You pokin’ at it is what’s makin’ it worse.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t answer. You were too busy working, sleeves rolled up, collar open just enough for Arthur to catch a glimpse of collarbone. He shouldn’t have been thinking like this—not with his shirt ruined, blood staining the camp cot, pain still pulsing in his side—but damn, he couldn’t stop.

Your hands were firm and practiced. You pressed down, wiped clean, stitched. He barely flinched.

“You always this gentle,” he muttered, watching the way your fingers threaded the needle, “or is it just me you like touchin’ this long?”

You paused.

Just for a second.

Then continued with the stitches, like you hadn’t heard him—but your lips curved, just barely.

Arthur grinned.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That little smile. Thought I was losin’ my touch.”

You tugged the thread tight. “You keep talking, and I’ll start sewing your mouth shut instead.”

“Ooh,” Arthur drawled. “Kinky.”

You jabbed the needle just a little harder than necessary.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

But when you leaned in to check the stitching—face closer, lips parted, breath ghosting over his chest—Arthur’s hand lifted, slow. Calloused fingertips brushed your jaw.

“You’re real pretty when you’re angry,” he said lowly. “Y’know that?”

You froze.

Then looked him right in the eye.

“So stop getting hurt,” you replied, voice even. “And maybe I’ll show you what I look like when I’m not.”

His breath caught.

And even with the pain, even with the blood drying on his side—

You’d never seen König like this.

Not on the battlefield. Not during those quiet nights in base when he’d speak just a little softer with you. This wasn’t shy König who hesitated before touching your hand. This was something else—something darker. Something that stirred in him the moment he got you alone in his quarters and locked the door behind you.

He stood before you now, massive and looming, the overhead light casting sharp shadows over his mask. The balaclava never came off. Not even now, not even when he’d stripped you bare and bound your wrists to the headboard with black paracord. You could feel the cool air against your skin, every nerve exposed under his watchful gaze.

You weren’t cold.

You were burning.

He knelt on the bed between your legs, the thick fabric of his tactical pants rough against your skin. His gloves were still on too. It was unfair how good it felt when those rough fingers traced the lines of your hips—slow, teasing, deliberate.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and accented. “So fucking pretty like this. Tied up and twitching for me.”

You whimpered when he dragged one gloved finger over your stomach, down between your legs, grazing over where you were already wet, already aching. His mask tilted slightly. Watching. Calculating. Enjoying the sight of you squirming.

“König, please—”

He cut you off with a growl, pressing his hand flat against your core. Not rubbing. Just holding. Dominating.

“Beg properly.”

The weight of his hand alone had you grinding against his palm. His size alone made it so easy for him to overpower you—easily twice your width, and with the kind of strength that made you feel utterly breakable. And you loved it.

“Please, König,” you gasped, barely able to breathe as he leaned closer, one knee pressing your thighs open wider. “I need you to touch me. Please.”

A satisfied hum left him. “That’s better.”

Without warning, he slipped his fingers between your folds, slick already coating the leather of his gloves. He was slow at first—sliding through your wetness, circling your entrance, then dragging up to rub over your clit. The texture of the glove made you arch, crying out, already so close to losing it.

“Already?” he teased. “I’ve barely started. You’ll be a mess when I’m done with you.”

You moaned louder when he added pressure, rolling his hand in a rhythm that had your thighs trembling. His other hand came up to your throat—not squeezing, not yet, just resting there, his thumb under your chin to tilt your head toward him.

“I want to see your face when you come.”

Your back arched violently as two fingers plunged into you, stretching you wide in one brutal thrust. He didn’t let you adjust—he just started moving, fucking into you with slow, deep pumps, his other hand tightening on your throat just enough to make your pulse flutter.

“Gott, you’re so tight. So good for me.”

Your hands clenched against the ropes, hips bucking against him, chasing that edge. But every time you got close, he pulled back, slowed down, denied you. It was maddening.

“König, please, let me—”

“No,” he growled, low and sharp. “Not yet.”

You whimpered again, thrashing under him as he sped up, only to stop again. He was enjoying this. Watching you come undone. Holding you at the edge.

When he finally gave you permission, it was with his mouth at your ear.

“Now,” he growled. “Come. Scream for me.”

And you did.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, pleasure crashing in waves as he fucked you through it, not slowing down, not letting up. Your body writhed beneath him, over-sensitive and crying out, but König only growled, “Again.”

Your second orgasm was messier. Louder. You begged him to stop, tears in your eyes, but your hips betrayed you, grinding against his hand, desperate for more. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulled you up so you were straddling his lap now, legs spread wide over his thighs, your chest against his plate carrier.

He didn’t even bother undressing fully—just pulled down the front of his pants enough to free his cock, thick and heavy against your thigh. You barely had time to register before he was lining up, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds.

“You’re going to take it all.”

You gasped when he pushed in, slowly, too slowly. He was massive—stretching you wide, making you feel like you were going to split apart.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he groaned. “Taking me so well…”

You buried your face in his shoulder, crying out as he bottomed out, the stretch deliciously painful. He didn’t give you a second to breathe before he started thrusting—deep, brutal strokes that punched the breath from your lungs.

All you could do was hold on. Scream his name. Let him use you like he needed to.

You came again, harder than before, clenching so tightly around him that he cursed in German, fucking into you even faster.

“Mine,” he snarled, hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back to kiss your neck. “You belong to me.”

You were boneless when he finally came, buried to the hilt, his moan muffled by the mask. You felt the heat of it deep inside you, and the way his arms wrapped around you after—tight, possessive.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Empty.

That’s the exact word to describe what Silco felt as he sat in his office, the only thing lighting the room was the dimly lit lamp on his desk that would occasionally flicker.

You’d noticed the tremor first.

Subtle. Barely a flicker. Just a twitch in his fingers when he lifted his glass—easily mistaken for nothing if you weren’t always watching.

But you were.

And it got worse.

He started forgetting meals. Snapping at people he usually tolerated. The circles beneath his eyes darkened into bruises. His voice, always rasped and raw, began to crack in ways it never had before.

The vials of Shimmer on his desk multiplied.

You’d catch him standing too still, staring at the walls like something was whispering to him. Or sitting too long in his chair, breathing slow and shallow, eyes wide and unfocused like he wasn’t even there.

“Silco,” you said one night, stepping into the low light of his office, “when’s the last time you slept?”

He didn’t look up from the map. Just clicked the cap off another vial with a sharp snap of his thumbnail.

You crossed the room, heart pounding. “You need to rest.”

“I need this territory secured,” he muttered, injecting the Shimmer into his neck like it was routine. Like it didn’t burn him. “I need people to listen. To comply. And I need to stay alive long enough to make sure Zaun survives.”

“And what happens when you don’t survive it?”

That made him stop.

He looked at you. Really looked. His eye—bloodshot, rimmed with purple veins—flicked over your face like he was trying to memorize you. Like he hadn’t seen you in days.

“You think I haven’t already given everything for this city?” he asked, voice hollow. “There’s nothing left in me to protect.”

Your chest ached. You stepped closer, lowering your voice.

“There’s me.”

He blinked slowly. And something in him faltered.

“I don’t need—” He cut himself off. Shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” you snapped, voice cracking. “You’re killing yourself. One vial at a time. One night at a time. And I’m standing here, watching the man I love disappear.”

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Then—barely a whisper:

“Don’t say that.”

You took his hand, trembling. “Say what?”

“That you love me. Not while I look like this.”

You looked at him, exhausted and high and shaking.

“I loved you before this. I still love you through this. And I’ll love you when you come back—if you let yourself.”

His hand tightened in yours. It was cold. And god, you hated how fragile it felt.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe a word—but wanted to.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispered.