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Humming in the Dark | Sevika x Reader | 10k

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, slow-burn, teasing, vulgar language, sexual implications, sexual tension, Sevika has a good heart, secrets, possible betrayal and angst, no sexual activity... yet

You don’t know how you ended up tied to a chair in the Undercity, but here you are with your white dress tattered and torn all over the place. One would think you purposely threw yourself into the dirt and ran through a myriad of rose bushes. Certainly, your family would be appalled by your current state, not to mention the place you found yourself in.

“What business does a pretty Piltover bird like you have here in Zaun?”

Stoically, you stare straight ahead, determined to ignore every word that falls from her lips. Her very full and soft-looking lips.

The woman who is currently keeping you imprisoned is a sight for sore eyes, you'd be a fool to state otherwise, but of course, you'd never admit aloud that you find someone from Zaun attractive. No, it would go against everything you have been taught. It doesn't matter that your captor is tall with brooding eyes and a curious scar on the side of her face... Well, you suppose, most importantly, a face like hers screams trouble.

“One would think mommy and daddy taught you some manners considering the jewels you were clad in,” she huffs.

Illuminated by the colorful signs from outside, your face is clearly visible to her and she takes all of your features in. Siren-like eyes and a sharp jawline break the softness that your lips and nose offer. You're beautiful, despite the dirt that's coating your cheeks. She reaches out, more on instinct than actual awareness, and swipes her thumb over your smooth skin, removing remnants of what looks to be grease. Whatever were you up to before she caught you?

“Let me guess, you were oh-so curious if the rumors about the dirty Underground were true that you simply had to come look for yourself.”

You're stubborn, biting the inside of your cheeks to keep yourself from talking to her, but you're not the first person to be at her mercy. She will break you, she always does.

Her eyes fall to the slit on your dress that ripped even further when you were fighting against the restraints earlier. A predatory smile stretches across her lips, revealing rows of sharp teeth. She made sure to wrap the rope extra tightly around you, your arms bound stiffly to your sides. No matter how much you struggle, there is no way you're escaping her any time soon.

“Or are you one of Babette’s new whores?”

Your eyes widen and your mouth falls open. Never in your life has anyone used such a filthy word in your presence, especially not in the same sentence as your fine name.

Noticing the reaction such a meaningless word caused, she decides to push you a little further. Her hand slowly slides up the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. Her palm is warm and rough, a strong contrast to your skin. Even in your current state, she can tell the importance of your family by merely touching your skin; skin that is void of scars and blemishes, proof of a life lived in sheltered comfort, like a bird in a gilded cage.

You squirm in your spot, attempting to shut your legs, but her arm is a whole lot stronger than your legs. The brunette watches your every move, grey eyes solely focused on your face. Your cheeks and neck turn a deeper shade of pink the further her fingers climb up and the rope digs into your arms so harshly that she is almost concerned about restricted blood flow.

Your eyes snap to her as her hand almost reaches a place far too private for someone like her. Her eyes are squinted, silently testing you to make a move, to tell her to stop, and who are you to refuse a challenge as such? Puckering your lips, you spit. It was an instinct, really, and it certainly achieved what it was supposed to.

The woman lets go of your leg, stunned by your little attack. Breathing heavily, you watch your saliva drip from her cheek, at least the bit that didn't end up in splatters across her face. She glowers at you over the bridge of her nose as she straightens her posture.

“Oh, princess,” she laughs, wiping over her face with the corner of her cape. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

At once, a dull echo rings through the room, bouncing off concrete and wooden walls loudly. Squealing, you feel yourself falling backward once she pushes your chair back with a strong kick. She catches it again mere centimeters from the ground, her fingers biting into the back of the chair, keeping it tilted. The movement causes her red poncho to reveal her copper prosthetic and your eyes are immediately drawn to it. Smirking, she flexes the mechanical fingers, displaying her claws to you.

Tilting your head back, you roll your eyes at her. “Is that supposed to be scary?”

Once again on this beautiful evening, the woman is taken aback. The resonance of your voice rings through the empty room, sending a shiver down her spine and enticing the little hairs on the back of her neck to straighten. Your voice is thick, like honey slowly dripping off a spoon, and there is a posh accent to every syllable that you utter. Greed flows through her system, urging her to lure more sounds from your red lips. Curiously, she bends down to your height and finds herself awfully close to your lips.

“So the little birdie does know how to sing,” she murmurs, eyes glistening in delight.

Her breath fans over your face, and you swallow audibly. Everybody knows how threatening a beautiful woman can be to one's cause, you mustn't get distracted by her and her incredibly long lashes. So instead of wondering what her flexing muscles would feel like underneath your fingers, you should force yourself to think about an escape plan. Eyes flickering to her mouth, you smile.

“The little birdie can do a lot more than singing,” you whisper, leaning as much forward as you can. “She can tell you to piss off.”

She blinks at you and suddenly, her body begins to shake with laughter and she has to turn her head away to stop herself from unraveling entirely. Howling, she screws her eyes shut tightly, replaying your last words and the defiant little gleam in your eyes over and over again. It’s cute how you think that she would find these words intimidating, or insulting for that matter. She's probably been saying phrases ten times worse than that since she could speak. You clench your jaw at her reaction, heat rising to your cheeks once again, and she decides to let go of your chair just for shits and giggles.

Your back collides harshly with the hard floor below you, and you swear under your breath as you wheeze for air. You groan, a throbbing pain pulsating from the back of your head.

Taking a step forward, she stands over you with a smug smile. The skirt of your dress rode up, revealing your legs all the way up to your mid-thigh. She studies the dried blood that's coating one of your knees. The first physical scar of your life, perhaps. She almost feels sympathy for you when she notices a singular tear gliding out of the corner of your eye, but it is gone as quickly as it came, so maybe she merely imagined it.

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” she winks, licking her lips.

Opening your eyes, you furrow your brows, confused by her words. What does she mean in a few hours? You’re not planning on prolonging this whole thing longer than necessary. She is supposed to let you go now. After all, she had her fun with you now. Slowly, it dawns on you what she’s trying to say. You open your mouth to object, but she beats you to it.

“Carefully what you wish for, princess.”

You've been lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and counting how many nails were used to keep the beams upright for what feels like hours. There is no clock and there is no sun, and if you had to guess, that's exactly why she decided to keep you in here. It's mental warfare, Noxus does it too with war prisoners. They keep them locked in dark rooms and wait until they beg to be let out, but you won't break, not from something as trivial as time and boredom.

Just as you start taking a particular interest in the cobwebs that are lining the ceiling, the door behind you creaks open. It's a slow and eerie sound, like nails over a chalkboard. Twisting your head, you stare at the shadow that falls in a long line on the ground, the artificial light from the outside almost blinding you.

The woman's boots are heavy on the ground as she struts across the room, head held high with either arrogance or actual power. You still don't know what role she's playing down here, but by the way she's carrying herself, she must have some sort of say.

"Hope you had a good time down here?" she asks, bottom lip jutted forward mockingly.

If your hands were untied, you'd show her your middle finger, a crude and childish gesture, yes, but what else is there for you to do? Exactly, not much. Instead, you opt to keep your mouth shut. If this woman really has any rank in Zaun, it might do you some good to get on her good side.

"I see cat got our tongue again, huh?" Her voice is deep, more so than before. It sounds like she's tired, so maybe it's later than you originally assumed?

She halts just in front of you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet her gaze. She's carrying a bundle of cloth in her hand, and for a brief second, you worry that she's going to put some sort of sack over your head.

"I brought you some clothes," she mutters, pressing the tip of her boot on the very corner of your chair's leg, causing it to angle slightly upwards with the change of weight.

She grabs onto the back and pulls you up the rest of the way, and you pretend that the proximity to her doesn't bother you. With one forceful tug on the front of the knot, she unties you from the chair, allowing the rope to pool at the bottom of your feet.

Your eyes dart to the door. If you're quick enough, you can reach it within seven or eight big steps, but she can’t be that stupid, right? From your experience this morning, she is pretty quick and strong too, so maybe she's aware that you cannot possibly outrun her, and even if you were to reach the door before her, where would you go? You don't know where she took you after tossing you over her shoulder like a sack of rice.

“Don’t even think about it. There are two of my men waiting just outside this door, waiting for you to try something stupid.“

You exhale sharply, shoulders slumping before you turn your attention back to the woman in front of you. Great, even if you were in all the gods' good graces, there is no way you could take down her and her bootlickers. Disappointment nestles heavily on your shoulder, but you quickly shake the feeling before it festers into self-pity. You need a clear mind to focus and wallowing will only cloud your judgment.

You extend your palm face up, lips pressed into a thin line. Might as well get out of this dress while you can. It is surprisingly nice of her to think about a change of clothes for you. On your brief excursion through the streets of the Undercity, you noticed how people were burning holes in the back of your head. Some gazes were definitely less pleasant than others and the last thing you want to do down here is draw more attention to yourself than necessary. Perhaps that is something you should've considered before coming down here, but there wasn't much time for planning.

The woman's hand doesn't touch yours as she drops the clothes in your hand, and you swallow the curiosity that rises within you. Yes, she is a handsome woman, but there is no need for you to get overly friendly with her. You have more important matters to deal with than your dissatisfied libido.

Unfolding the clothes, you take the pants first and hold them to your waist. They might be a little short, but they should fit you just fine around the hips. However, when you unfold the shirt, your jaw hits the floor. This might as well not be even called a shirt, it's a whisper of nothing.

“Whose closet did you raid? A ten-year-old’s?” you grumble, pressing the short black top against your chest and trying to figure out if you can stretch more fabric out of it.

She rolls her eyes. “Only girl’s closet whose size might match yours. What do they feed you up there anyway? Sunlight and dewdrops?”

You tilt your head back and stare at the ceiling for a second, exhaling in and out, in and out. Okay, there is no way you will present your stomach for everyone to see, so what other option do you have? Keeping your dress on?

The ridge between your eyebrows speaks volumes. “Well, give me your shirt then.”

She smiles roguishly, crossing her arms over her rips. “Princess, if you want to see my tits that badly, you just have to ask for it.”

You blush, eyes darting to her chest. The faint outlines of her nipples are showcased by the tightly fitted fabric of her top, which you hadn't noticed before because of her red cape. Your eyes dip a little lower, studying the outline of the exposed skin of her stomach. Would it really be so bad to make her undress in front of you? Dislodging the bolder in the back of your throat, your eyes dart back up to her face.

“Never mind, I will make this work just fine, thank you.”

She hums, eyes still gleaming playfully while she shifts her weight to her other leg. "Hurry up, then. I still have other business to take care of."

You stare at her expectantly, but when she doesn't turn to give you any privacy, you wave your free hand around. “Do you mind?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” You glare at her, a sight that could make hell freeze over, and for a second the woman wonders if you would punch for her comment. She would like to see you try, but decides to not test your patience, not now anyway.

Lifting her hands defensively, she spins around on her heels and stares outside the window. “Fine, whatever.”

You mumble something under your breath, but it's too quiet to reach her properly. Surely, it is some sort of insult that would make her laugh again.

The movement of your reflection catches her attention. She watches as you slide the zipper down your side at a teasingly slow pace. You are beautiful, not just your face, all of you look like you were blessed by the gods personally. She simply can't convince herself to look away, even though she knows better. After all, she does inhabit manners, despite many believing otherwise.

Her heart begins to race when the fabric glides all the way to the floor, revealing light pink panties and no bra. Sadly, the reflection is too blurry to tell whether or not your underwear is made from lace or silk, not that she's interested in knowing that little detail.

Although she teased you earlier, she would never lay hands on a Piltie. She prefers not to mingle with people of your likes, even if they look as appetising as you do. But that doesn't mean that she can't be attracted to you, which she very clearly is. Lucky for her, there are a bunch of beautiful girls down at Babette's who would love to take care of her troubles.

“There was a gold bracelet on my wrist before you manhandled and kidnapped me – where is it?”

Taking your question as a sign that you're fully dressed, she peers over her shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your features darken and you step closer to her, but she easily towers over you, making her much more intimidating than you.

“You said I had jewels on me a few hours ago,” you snap. “Where are they?”

At first, she groans, the annoyance clear as day on her face, but then, she wipes all emotions off. Her face becomes a clean slate and she merely shrugs, like the topic is more boring than anything to her. “Sold them.”

Wincing, you stumble over your next words. "You did what?”

She doesn’t miss the change in your voice and the subtle crack at the end of the sentence. Something akin to sympathy nags on her heart and for a fleeting moment, she feels bad for what she did, but the truth is that if it hadn't been her, someone else would've robbed you of your riches. Money like this can feed a family for a whole month down here.

"Come on, let's go," she says, walking past you and deliberately ignoring the wounded puppy look on your face.

You shake your head slowly and your heart clenches painfully with her revelation. You tense your jaw, the muscles stiff with the effort to hold back the tears that threaten to rise. You suck in a sharp breath, forcing your eyes to stay dry. It's just a bracelet. It didn't even have gemstones or anything like that, so there is really no reason to shed a tear over it. She probably didn't even get as much money for it as she wanted. You try to push past the biting sensation in your throat, but it tightens painfully with each breath, nearly impossible to ignore. You didn't realise how much sentimental value could hurt. Getting rid of it is better, you know it. It would've only reminded you of a life you can no longer return to.

You shake your hands and rock on the balls of your feet. Your hands shake involuntarily, an uncomfortable tension building in your chest. You can’t stay rooted like this. If you don’t start moving, she’ll see, and you can’t let her see. Mourning is better done behind closed doors, which is the preferred way for most emotions, according to your mother. A simple sentiment that has been drilled into you since birth. Other people need to see you as strong, a force to be reckoned with, not as a scared girl that ran away from home when things got too difficult.

You inhale deeply and slowly release the breath. If you want to become invisible, get lost in a crowd, you must liberate yourself from everything that ties you to Piltover. You repeat these words of affirmation over and over until you spin around and march across the room to follow your captor.

She holds the door open for you, and as you step past the threshold, it hits you: there are no men. Not a single one. Your heart lurches in your chest, and you freeze mid-step. You screw your eyes shut in embarrassment, cursing yourself for not thinking of this sooner. You're an idiot.

“Rookie mistake, princess,” she teases over your shoulder, her breath hot against the shell of your ear. “But you’ll learn.”

You shove your shoulder back trying to get her to give you some space, but she doesn't budge. Your little stunned leaves her entirely unaffected. Unlike you, who can't even seem to regulate the rush of heat flooding her chest. Rookie mistake, indeed. Her presence is lingering, suffocating you with a strange mix of frustration and something far more confusing.

She wraps her hand around your upper arm, dragging you along and onto the streets of Zaun. The city is nothing like you imagined. Of course, you had heard stories but seeing it with your own eyes is something entirely different. You didn't have much time to look around before you were captured, so you find yourself slowing your steps, eyes darting from one strange building to the next. The twisted metal and jagged edges are unlike anything you have seen in Piltover. Piltover is clean and golden, full of warm lights and live. Although your location should worry you with its stark contrast, you find something oddly mesmerising about it.

Thick, choking smog lingers, staining the skyline with a dull, perpetual haze that doesn't seem to lift. The air smells sharp and acidy, a biting scent that remains stuck in your nose. Yet, there is also a strange sweetness to it that coats the back of your throat.

Narrow passageways twist through tightly packed buildings, turning the streets into a large labyrinth. It turned out to be a major issue when you first arrived in the city without a plan, leading you straight into the arms of the woman who's currently squeezing your flesh and tugging at your arm, signalling for you to keep walking.

She pushes you into a small alleyway, and you whine when you step into a puddle that appears to be a mixture of oil and water, splashing a good amount of it onto your shoes and the hem of your new pants. It's not the first time the streets of Zaun leave their mark on you, but you would've preferred to stay dry. She only chuckles, amused by the pout on your pretty lips.

"I can walk by myself," you say, twisting your arm in her vice like grip and surprising yourself when you actually free yourself. A small yet nonetheless satisfying triumph. "I won't try anything stupid."

The distant hum of machinery, blending with the clatter of metal and the occasional hiss of pressurised steam are the only noise accompanying you on your walk to god knows where. All of your questions remain unanswered, no matter how often you ask them. She is quiet, not making a sound, even when people walk past the two of you and greeting her in acknowledgment. At least now you know that she is of some sort of importance.

After what feels like hours of climbing up and down staircases, always ending up in places that look too much like the last, you finally reach a large main street. The closer you get to the heart of the Undercity, the louder it becomes. The constant buzz of metal and machines fades, swallowed by the rise of voices. Around every corner there is something new to discover: from tattoo parlours with darkened interiors to sketchy street food stands sending wafts of grease and sizzling spices into the air. Your head is starting to spin from all the different sights and contrasting smells.

While you're completely lost, stumbling and staggering to keep up, the woman in front of you walks through the whirlwind of people like they don't even exist to her. She is determined and certain with each of her steps and you can't help admire drive.

"Hello, beautiful girl," a sweet voice calls, stirring your attention from the woman's back to her. "Would you like to know your future?"

A girl with cat ears and seductive eyes sits in a small parlour just a few steps away from you. A colourful canopy with fairy lights covers her little sitting area made from pillows and blankets. She tilts her head and the jewellery on her ears move along. A champagne flute with glimmering pink liquid illuminates the cattish traits of her face, and you feel naturally drawn to her. An invisible string pulling you closer to her.

"How curious", you mumble, all of the sudden forgetting why you were here in the first place.

Your captor notices your hesitation and spins around, searching for you in the crowd. When she can't spot you immediately, she retraces her steps, eyes narrowing as she scans every alley and corner for where you’ve slipped away. Finally, she finds you, already poised to sit down on one of the comfy pillows.

"Uh-uh, absolutely not," she snaps, grabbing you by the elbow before you can fall victim to the girl's scam.

"Hey," you yell, yanking against her grip like a fish out of water. "I was trying to have a conversation."

"Yeah?" she asks, her tone laced with sarcasm, only loosening her grip on your arm when you're back on the main street. "And with what money were you planning to fund her little scam?"

You roll your eyes and shrug off her jab, still glancing over your shoulder at the psychic’s stand. "Did you see her drink? What was that?"

She shakes her head, eyes following your gaze, though she can already imagine what you’re talking about. A shadow crosses her face, darkening her expression. "Stay away from shops like that. And from people like her."

You huff and cross your arms, feeling like a petulant child, but reluctantly follow her without saying another word.

She leads you to a building where a long line of people wait outside, their faces brightened by the blinding neon lights flashing above the entrance. You squint as you try to focus on the sign, but it’s no use. The lights are too intense. Unlike the others, she walks past the line, heading straight to two men stationed on either side of the door. One is tall with broad shoulders and the other willowy with calculating eyes.

As soon as they spot her, both straighten, their conversation abruptly dying. It's like a switch flipped, the air shifts entirely with her presence. You glance at the woman from the corner of your eye, studying her as she strides toward the door without a pause. If she notices the shift in behaviour, she either doesn’t care or isn’t surprised. Who is she?

"What did you catch for Silco this time?" One of them asks, leering down at you through yellow eyes.

Before he can get a closer look at you, she steps in front of you, a smooth and deliberate motion. Your heart stutters as her fingers brush over your wrist. You become hyper aware of your racing pulse. She can feel it too, you're sure of it.

"None of your damn business." Her shoulder brushes against his as she forces her way past them.

It's a bar. Or maybe a club. It's hard to tell with the flashing lights hurting your eyes. The loud music courses through your body and it feels like your bones are vibrating along the fast-paced bass. You cover your ears instinctively. Your gaze darts from one corner of the room to the next. People are dancing, screaming, drinking and inhaling different kinds of potions. Everyone is completely lost in their hedonistic desires.

The woman doesn't give you time to take it all in. She turns to you, now a little more aware of not leaving you to your own devices, and pulls you along through the sea of people. Her grip is firm, guiding you through the crowd with ease. Dancing people brush against you, causing you to stumble here and there. She leads you up a dark hidden staircase. She pushes you through a door at the top, using so much force that you almost lose your balance, barely managing to catch yourself.

Glaring at her over your shoulder, you grumble a string of impolite phrases. She lounges in a nearby armchair in a cloud of indifference, eyes focused on a small liquor cabinet. To her, you're little more than an annoying distraction.

You clench your jaw, frustration hot on your skin, but you hold back from demanding her attention. You take a moment to rub the sore spot on your upper arm, finally able to soothe the bruise left by her touch.

"So you are the headache that she's been complaining about?" A deep, raspy voice calls from behind you, and you quickly turn around, eyes widening in surprise. "Doesn't seem like much of a threat to me."

There's a man sitting in a chair just below a large circular window. His posture is casual, yet he radiates an underlying sense of authority. He wears a jacket with deep maroon lapels and golden edges, the fabric rich and expensive. His face is sharp and marred by scars, but there is no denying that he was handsome in another life.

But it's his eye that commands your attention. The glowing red eye that is so unlike his other one, catches the dim light and looks back at you with an unnerving intensity. You swear you have seen his face before. At least, some version of it, in a picture or somewhere in passing.

“She battered two of my men pretty badly.” The woman's voice is casual as she pours herself a generous glass of translucent brown liquid.

For the first time, you notice the rigidness in your right hand. You glance down, flexing your fingers. A sharp pain shoots up your arm, but oddly enough, you enjoy it. You don't remember punching anyone, but there was so much chaos and adrenaline that you can hardly remember anything at all.

“I would’ve beaten you up pretty badly too if you hadn’t had your unfair advantage," you retort, lifting your chin in defiance to mask the unease you're feeling

"Sure, princess," she scoffs, knocking back her drink in one swift motion. The faintest hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, as if your bravado amuses her.

Long blue braids suddenly obstruct your line of sight, and you tilt your head back, meeting the striking eyes of a young woman. She has delicate features, wide eyes and sharp eyebrows. There's something childlike in her expression, something unsettlingly innocent.

“Oh, I know you,” she squeals, hanging upside down from the ceiling. “You are that little singer that everyone talks about on the Topside!”

Your face loses all of its color, the blood draining from your cheeks. “No.”

“Yes, you are,” she exclaims, effortlessly dropping onto the man's desk with a thud. “Your face is plastered all over the place!”

“A musician, huh?” your captor grins. “I’m sure we could get a fine reward for you.”

Panic creeps up your neck, and your eyes widen. “I'm nothing, she has no idea what she's talking about, clearly!”

Her curiosity only sharpens as she studies you, her gaze flickering between the woman to you with speculations. But before she can open her mouth again, the man behind the desk rises from his chair, silencing the room.

“If she is determined to stay here, she shall do so,” he declares. “We do not turn away from those who seek refuge.”

The coil of nerves in the pit of your stomach begins to unravel and for a split second you almost let out a sigh of relief. He has given his approval, whatever that's worth, and now you can move on. Hooray!

“What if she’s a spy, Silco?” the woman insists, and in that moment, you want nothing more than to shove a rag into her mouth to stop her from arguing further.

“Well, I’d be a terrible spy if I let myself get caught by you, no?” You grit through your teeth, glaring at her with clenched fists.

“Perhaps this was exactly your plan," she challenged, stepping close enough that you could smell the whiskey on her breath.

“Yeah, sure, you got me there." You snort, contorting your face in mockery. "Am I free to leave now?"

Silco waves you off, already focusing on something different, and you don't need to be told twice to leave. You practically bolt for the door, ignoring the brooding woman and the endless pestering about your past from the other. Yanking the door open, you are ready to deal with whatever chaos awaits you on the other side.

But just as the door falls into the lock, the weight of your situation dawns on you. One would think that you had used your time chained up wisely, but apparently, that wasn't the case. Instead of finding your way around Zaun, pawning stuff off and trying to find a place to stay with the money you got from it, you're stuck here with nothing but the clothes on your back.

Glaring at the wooden panels beneath your shoes, you try to come up with a new plan, but a familiar voice halts your train of thought.

"I warned you, so don't call me when the streets are flooded by enforcers looking for their pretty little songbird."

The words hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine, looming over you, and you remain stuck at the reminder of how vulnerable you are. This isn't just about surviving anymore. It's about making sure you don’t get caught, and that’s a lot harder than it sounds when you’ve already become the target of more eyes than you’d care to count.

The sound of footsteps draws closer, but you don’t dare turn around. The door behind you opens, and you can feel a pair of grey eyes burning through the soft skin of your neck. You try to hide yourself further in the shadows, but there isn’t much space to do that. The dim light from the room behind you barely reaches the corner where you stand, and you press yourself against the cool walls as if their darkness can shield you.

The woman stands still, watching you with a strange mixture of annoyance and intrigue. She assumed you'd be over the hills by now. Finding you here, barely a few meters away, gives her an unexpected surge of satisfaction. She licks her bottom lip and bites down on it, stopping herself from laughing loudly. Despite her inner voice telling her to move on and ignore you, she finds her legs having a mind of their own.

"You have no idea where to go, do you?" she asks, casting a shadow over you.

You bite back a retort, clenching your fists to avoid giving her the reaction she craves. Instead, you stay silent, your heart racing as you wait for her next move. You don't want her to see how truly desperate you are. You can't bear the thought of allowing her to see you crumble.

You aren't the first person to stumble through Zaun's messes, desperately seeking something better or merely hoping to survive another day. But you are one of the few people from Piltover that try to take their chances down here without having fallen prey to Shimmer or their gambling addiction. You still have far too much fight left in you, as proven by the stubborn tilt of your chin.

She isn't sure what to make of you. You aren't part of the city. You don't have its rough edges and sharp corners. Everything about you screams pampered and soft. You don't belong here, and yet, here you are: stuck in a place that could chew you and spit you out without much of a second thought.

She's been watching you ever since you stepped off the elevator, all wide-eyed foolishness and Topside arrogance. At first, she dismissed your presence. You were just another soft little princess that had ended up in the wrong place because of her curiosity. But she quickly realised that that wasn't the case. There is something in the way you hold yourself, the edge of pride even in your vulnerability. You didn't end up here because of idiocy, you ended up here because you want to be here. You know about the dangers of Zaun and you are testing them, seeing if they can make you break.

It irritates her, the way you seem to pull her in. That instinct that stirred deep within and kept her up at night to make sure you didn't get lost in the cracks of the city. You are too pretty to end up drugged up on Shimmer like so many others down here.

"Dammit," she mutters under her breath and pinching the bridge of her nose. She isn't the saviour type and she certainly doesn't want to get involved with Topsider, but letting you go is out of the question too.

Sighing, she whistles and beckons you to follow with a crook of her finger. She convinces herself that it's easier to keep tabs on you if you're within her reach, but the truth is something entirely different, something she's not even willing to admit.

“Do I look like a dog to you?” you growl, despite falling in step behind her.

Smirking, she eyes you up and down. “I don’t know, princess, why don’t you get on your knees for me, and we’ll check?”

"In your dreams."

Shaking her head, she laughs, already turning to continue to her next destination. You don't even care where she's taking you. You just don't want to be alone on the streets of Zaun. Without a clue about where to go or what to do next, it's easier to just follow her, especially because being with her right now, despite everything, feels like regaining some sort of control over your life.

Afraid of staying left behind, you push your legs harder, matching her pace with double the effort. The truth you're avoiding presses down on you with finality. You can't return to Piltover, not after everything. That place, those people, they will never let you breathe again. Zaun is your only option right now, and at least, you don't have to pretend here anymore.

She leads you into a backroom downstairs, where the music is still throbbing loudly through the thin walls, but at least it's muffled in here. The air reeks of smoke, booze and something foul. A handful of people are gathered around a smaller bar, their conversation a low hum in the background. Others are seated around scattered tables, some playing cards or other games, others immersed in their own conversations.

The woman slides into a chair in the far corner of the room, where a few men are hunched over a table, dealing with cards with grand gestures.

"Want to join in on the next round?" one of them asks, flashing a sly smirk, his eyes glinting with confidence. "Still gotta get my money back from the last game."

She pushes air through her teeth, her gaze unwavering as she leans back in her chair. "I'd like to see you try."

It's a challenge. You can see the faintest smile on her lips as she seizes the men up. Her posture is lazy, like she's done this million times before.

You stand nearby, one hand nervously clasped around your elbow. You sift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with yourself. Your eyes scan the bar, watching people drink and smoke way too much. None of this feels like a place you belong.

"Princess," she calls, her tone sharp and direct. Without thinking, you glance up. "Take this and get me something to drink."

Your jaw tightens. You consider protesting, but the words never come. You take the pouch of coins from her outstretched hand, your fingers brushing against hers, and feel the weight of it in your palm.

"I'm not a server," you mutter, but even as you say it, you're already turning toward the bar.

She raises an eyebrow at your quiet quip while her hands shuffle the cards with practiced ease. "Get yourself something too."

You hum, tossing the bag from one hand to the other, listening to the soft clinking of the coins inside. You could take this money and make a run for it. By the sheer size of the bag, there should be enough to keep you afloat for a little while. Zaun is a fucking maze. Even someone like her might not find you again if you act cleverly.

But the thought only lasts a moment. You know it wouldn't be that simple. She wouldn't just let you go. She'd make her personal cat and mouse game out of hunting you. You can feel her watching you even as she focuses on her game, and the instinct to flee fades quickly, replaced by the realisation that you're more trapped than free.

Defeated, you reach the bar and wait for the bartender to notice you. The noise of the bar is only a distant buzzing in the back of your mind. You're far too occupied with your own thoughts to focus on anything around you.

You feel like you should get something stronger for you too. The problem is, you have no idea what they're mixing here and you're not sure you want to find out. A small voice in the back of your head, one that you usually try to ignore, wonders what would happen if you let your guard down, just for one moment. What happens if you just let go?

A shiver runs down your spine. The thought of getting drunk here is terrifying. You're not used to anything stronger than a flute of sparkling wine. The streets would eat you right up, even if you doubt that the woman behind you would let anything happen to you. But better safe than sorry, right? So, instead of testing your personal limits, you settle for a glance behind the bar and tap your fingers against the counter impatiently.

Leaning against the counter, a man starts playing with your hair, twirling loose strands around his grimy fingers. His eyes sweep over your profile, lingering a little too long on your chest. His breath is thick with cheap liquor, and the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl.

“Sevika must have paid a pretty dime for you, huh?” he asks, his voice much higher than you expected, squeaking like a piglet.

Sevika. That's her name. She's been refusing to tell you all day, but now you have it. You must admit that it suits her quite well. You try to remember it, but the man's touch makes it hard to focus.

“Excuse me?” You try to keep your voice steady, although you know that giving him attention will only make things worse.

He doesn’t take the hint, leaning closer. “You don’t talk much, do you? I guess that means you know how to—”

Before he can finish, the bartender finally looks up, and you realise with a pang of dread that you don't know what Sevika likes to drink.

"Whatever she usually drinks," you mumble, blindly pointing a finger at the woman who's merrily gambling money away, money that could be useful to you.

“What would I have to pay you to get you to sit on my lap like that?” The piglet nudges his chin towards a woman who's sitting on another man's lap, her arms loosely wrapped around his neck. "I'm sure I could make it worth your time."

You bite your tongue to keep from snapping, but then his hand slides from your hair, down your shoulder and to your ass. He squeezes the flesh, his nails digging in too hard, a sleazy smirk on his lips.

Without thinking, you whip around and punch him square in the face. A pleasing crunch echoes through the room and his eyes widen in shock. Blood bursts from his nostrils, staining his lips and chin. Time stands still as everyone watches the scene unfold.

Sevika's head snaps towards you. You swear under your breath, a real curse this time, and cradle your hand. You scold yourself for throwing another punch too fast, too recklessly. You shake the pain in your knuckles away.

You reach for the finished drink that bartender slides toward you, thankful for the distraction.

Looking over your shoulder, you meet the man's bloodshot gaze. “I’m worth more than you could ever afford.”

You toss a few coins on the counter, not even looking at them as they hit the counter. The bartender doesn't bat an eye. He's seen ten times worse, probably.

"Fucking bitch," he hisses, blood dripping from his broken nose. "I will kill you."

You don't flinch. "You'll have to get in line for that."

People's eyes follow you as you walk back toward Sevika. Although you feel a shimmer of pride in your chest, it quickly morphs into regret. What are you doing here? You should be home, celebrating, not here in a bar with nowhere to go. What were you thinking? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not to mention all the attention you're drawing on yourself.

You slam Sevika's drink onto the table, the glass clinking harshly, and toss the coins into her lap with a little more force than necessary. A cigar dangles from the corner of her mouth and the sharp stench curls into smoke, making you scrunch your nose and pull back instinctively.

“Sit down,” she says brusquely, pushing her chair back just enough to make space on her lap for you.

“No," you bite back, refusing to play into her twisted little fantasies of turning you into her personal lapdog.

Her eyes narrow and she exhales wisps of smoke through her nose. “Don’t test my patience, princess.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and resting against the nearest wall. “Why don’t you make me, Sevika?”

You can feel her gaze on you, and it’s not just her usual cold stare anymore. It's something else, much darker and predatory. Of course, it wouldn't take long for you to figure out her name. She licks her lips and scratches her chin with the tip of her thumb. Sevika has heard her name being tossed around many times, but the way you say it with your posh little accent gets under her skin.

Tugging on one of your belt loops, she pulls you forward easily. The movement is smooth, almost too natural, and before you can protest, you sit frozen on her lap, unable to escape as she drapes her metal prosthetic over your thighs. The heat from her body radiates through you and every molecule between your bodies feels charged.

You barely allow yourself to breathe. The tension is palpable, and it becomes heavier with every second. Don't move, don't move...

The pressure of Sevika's fingers on your waist makes it hard to focus on anything but the overwhelming feeling of being held. Even if you try to hate, it's consuming, holding every nerve in your body captive at gunpoint. When was the last time you felt like this?

You need to do something to distract yourself from the proximity. You watch as tendrils of white smoke rise to the ceiling just out of the corner of your eye. Blindly, you reach behind you, plucking the cigarette from Sevika's lips and bringing it to your own. You've never smoked before and you didn't expect it to burn in your lungs the way it does. The muscles in your stomach contract under the force of your suppressed cough and your eyes well up with tears, but you refuse to show weakness. You wouldn't dare admit that taking that stupid cigar was a dumb idea. There is no turning back now, so might as well continue to pretend to be a badass.

“Hands on the table," she orders, her voice low and firm. You fight the urge to clench your thighs, the feeling of her chin brushing over your shoulder tugging at your nerves.

Reluctantly, you place your hands flat on the table in front of you. The surface is sticky from spilled drinks. Around you, the men continue to pretend to focus on their cards, all while their eyes occasionally flicker toward you. What? Never seen two women almost suffocate on the sexual tension between them?

You hiss as Sevika presses the bottom of her ice-cold glass against your knuckles, but it's nothing compared to the way her mechanical arm locks your hand in place when you try to pull away.

“You got a surprisingly nice punch,” she comments, her voice a quiet rasp.

You mumble around the cigar, keeping your face void of emotions. "How would you know? I missed when I tried to hit you."

"Seeing the damage you've caused is more than enough proof for me," she replies, the hint of a joke tugging at her lips. It's a subtle tease that catches you off guard.

Then, without warning, she lifts your hand to her lips, pressing a gentle, almost tender kiss to your knuckles. A spark of electricity jolts through you and a rush of emotions runs havoc in your body. Butterflies flutter their wings wildly in the pit of your stomach, and you exhale harshly, as though you could force them straight out of your body. What's going on with you? You try to push the thought away. Is this Stockholm syndrome?

Sevika places her glass back down on the table, her mechanical arm resting across your lap again as she reaches around to take the cigar from your lips. The prosthetic feels cold even through your pants, but the weight of it is grounding. She turns her focus back to her and as soon as her attention returns to her cards, the men around you start conversing again. You don't move at first. You're too caught up in the strange pull of this interaction.

You lean against her, suddenly exhausted, the weight of the last few days settling over you. You close your eyes, listening to the steady sound of her breathing, trying to convince yourself that you don't mind being close to her. The warmth of her body is soothing, even if you can't explain why you're allowing it to affect you in such ways.

"Gambling is bad for you, you know?" you say, cracking one eye open and glancing at the card in her hand. You've never seen a game like this, but you're too exhausted to try and understand the rules.

“It’s only bad for you if you lose," she replies smoothly, the corners of her mouth quirking up. "And I rarely lose."

You roll your eyes, but keep your comment about her arrogance to yourself. She's probably right, anyway.

Leaning your head to the side, you let your cheek rest against her shoulder. There is something oddly comforting about her smell: smoke and metal with a faint trace of something earthy, like leather. You like how she smells, not that you would ever admit that. And for some reason, you feel safe here. Too safe, Maybe you hit your head a little too hard earlier.

Seconds turn into minutes and minutes blur into hours. Exhaustion begins to weigh down on you. Somewhere in the haze, you find yourself muttering the one question that's been on your mind since you left Piltover: "Where will I stay tonight?"

Your words hang in the air, soft and uncertain, and you wonder if she even heard you. But then you notice that she's rooted to her spot, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around her cards. She glances at you from the corner of her eye, her expression unreadable.

You're staring at the ceiling, lost in your thoughts. You don't notice how her jaw tightens, a flicker of something, maybe sympathy, maybe irritation, maybe both, that crosses her face. That annoying feeling won't leave her alone, no matter how much she tries to shake it, and she hates it. Hates you a little too for stirring it in her in the first place.

"Rotten luck, boys," she says suddenly, tossing her cards on the table.

She reaches for the pile of gold coins, ignoring the groans and complaints from the other players.

"Eh, Sevika, come on, one more round," one of them protests, throwing his card down in frustration.

"Nah," she says, leaning back in her chair as she gathers her winnings "We gotta go."

You blink in surprise when she gently nudges you off her lap and rises to her feet.

She walks past you and out of the door before you can register that she's actually leaving. We? Does that mean you’re supposed to go with her? Perhaps she has made up her mind and will sell you to some brothel. You shiver and discard that thought quickly. If that was her plan, she would've done it already. Right?

You follow her, despite your hesitation. When you step into the hallway, you find her waiting just outside the door. She leans against the wall, arms crossed with her head slightly tilted as she watches you approach.

"Took you long enough," she teases, but there is a peculiar tenderness to her voice that makes your stomach twist.

Silence stretches between you as she turns and climbs the stairs. You trail behind, counting each creaking step and noting how the air grows colder and the music quieter the higher you go.

At the top, she stops at a door. The music from downstairs is barely audible now, just a dull buzzing you wouldn't notice unless you searched for it.

"What's in there?" you ask, curiously peeking past her but still unsure if you really want to know the answer.

Sevika doesn't respond, instead she rummages through her pockets. The sound of a key chain clinking fills the quiet hall before she slides one of them into the lock. With a push of her prosthetic arm, the door swings open, revealing a small apartment.

You tilt your head, surprised by the revelation of Sevika's apartment. A worn leather couch dominates the rectangular living room, and a low coffee table with a pack of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of something sits in front of it.

The room is small, much smaller than any room in your family's estate, but it makes it cozy. There are shelves lined with a few old books and records, little trinkets are discarded on every available surface and you find yourself absolutely enchanted by everything.

Sevika tosses her red cape onto the couch and kicks her boots off near the door. She disappears into an adjoined room, leaving you alone in the doorway.

"Are you going to stand there all day and let the cold air in, or what?" she calls from somewhere inside, her voice muffled and laced with impatience.

The smell of her hits you as you step inside. It clings to the air, to the furniture, probably even to the plain wallpaper. At this point, there is no doubt that this is her space.

You untie your shoes, placing them neatly next to Sevika's worn combat boots, and allow your fingers to drift over the spines of vinyl records that are lined up on a shelf. Most of the have worn sleeves with scratched covers, but there is definitely an organisation in how they've been arranged. There are little things lying around, little trinkets. A book with yellowed pages here and a fancy tool there. It seems chaotic at first but it actually gives the room a lived-in feeling. It's odd to think that Sevika is the kind of person to enjoy music and collecting little trinkets.

"I'm assuming you haven't eaten in quite a while?" Her voice cuts through your thoughts, making you jump. You withdraw your hand from a particularly interesting artefact, your cheeks turning pink.

You follow the sound of her voice into a cramped kitchen. She's leaning over a small sink, washing vegetables and cutting off the stems.

You linger on the carrot, of all things. Not to be a terrible person, but you somehow didn't think that people down here even knew that a carrot is.

She turns to look at you, a brow arched in amusement "What? Don't tell me you don't like vegetable stew."

You furrow your brows. "Why are you doing this?"

She rolls her eyes, mostly because she doesn't have a response for that either. "Would you rather stay on the streets?"

You swallow and shake your head. There is no point in pushing. You'd rather not annoy her too much. If she's willing to let you sleep here, who are you to judge? But the uncertainty does gnaw at your guts. Why is she doing this? What's in it for her?

She dries her hands on a kitchen towel and brushes past you without another word, disappearing into the other room. All you can do is stare at her sink with pursed lips. This has to be some sort of trick, right?

You hear drawers opening and closing. A moment later, she returns back to the kitchen with folded clothes and towels in her arms.

She shoves the bundle into your arms and you blink at the items with parted lips. "What–"

"The bathroom is through there," she interrupts, jerking her chin toward the door across the kitchen. "Take a shower, get changed, and then, we can talk about the rest."

You stare at her for a beat, trying to read her expression, but her face empty. Something unspoken lingers between the two of you, and you hate how much this uncertainty is bothering you.

Cradling the clothes against your chest, you nod and shuffle toward the bathroom. You have nothing to offer to her right now, so what does want? Certainly it can't be mere kindness that's forcing her to help you.

You go through the motions of showering with little awareness for your surroundings. The warm water washes over you, but it does little to ease your thoughts. A few hours ago, she wanted to toss you out and forget you existed. Now she’s giving you her clothes and cooking dinner. None of it adds up. Does she know who you are? Panic flares for a moment. The thought of her cashing in a bounty on you sends your mind spiralling. Or maybe you hit your head harder than you thought. Is this all just a concussion-induced hallucination?

You barely notice the steam rising behind you as you step out of your bathroom. Sevika's shorts hang low on your hips and the shirt she gave you feels oddly comfortable. When you look up, Sevika's eyes are on you, lingering and trailing over your legs.

Her lips are pressed into a thin line and something flickers across her face, but she looks away too quickly for you to tell which emotion it is exactly. Your hair is still dripping wet and leaves wet spots on your shirt. A lone strand sticks to your cheek and Sevika has to fight the urge to brush it behind your ear. She didn't expect you to look this good in her clothes, but it is too late for regrets now.

"I will take a quick shower too," she says abruptly, rising from the sofa. "If the timer dings, lower the heat on the stove."

You nod, all snarky comebacks suddenly forgotten. She doesn't wait for a reply before she disappears into the bathroom, and the sound of the water running fills the silence. You release a heavy breath, finally allowing yourself to let your guards down a little.

Left alone, your curiosity gets the better of you. You wander through the apartment, tracing over shelves with your fingertips. You study little snippets of Sevika's life and are surprised by how organised it seems to be. Everything has its place. Even the blanket on the sofa is draped with precision. The thought makes you smile. She's a control freak, no surprise there.

And then, your mind begins to wander too. Back to the way her fingers expertly tied you up. You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing those thoughts to stop. No, you really shouldn't go there. You don't want to think about her naked body and how she'd behave in bed. You swallow the saliva that's pooling in your mouth. There is no doubt in your mind that she likes to have the upper hand behind closed bedroom doors.

The shower turns off, and you quickly sit down on the sofa, folding your hands in your lap and pretending like you weren't just imagining your host in improper positions while snooping around her apartment. When Sevika emerges, her hair is damp an a towel slung over her shoulder, you forget how to breathe.

She's dressed in nothing but a sports bra and a low hanging pair of comfortable pants. Her toned stomach and broad shoulder are on full display, teasing you. Even though you already saw parts of her body, this is something else entirely. Your mouth goes dry and you have to remind yourself to blink.

A smirk spreads across Sevika's face while your eyes leave a hot trail over her skin. It's almost like she can hear your thoughts. The kitchen timer chimes. Even the kitchen appliances seem to have mercy on you, and you use the opportunity to escape the room.

Your fingers are shaking as you lower the heat. You should leave. You should say thank you and go, you think, gripping the kitchen counter for moral support. Every warning signal in your body screams for you to walk away, to go back to Piltover, to try and fix things before you dig yourself a deeper hole.

You nod to yourself, rehearsing the words you'll say. But when you turn, she's already there, leaning against the door frame with her arms crossed. Her biceps flex with the motion and you forget how to form proper sentences. You're not strong enough for this.

"You can stay here until you've figured things out."

You blink. "You want me to stay?"

"I wouldn't say want," she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching. "But I'm feeling rather generous today."

You swallow hard, touching your burning cheeks. She's enjoying this, isn't she? If she had known this was all it took to turn you into a sweet, flustered mess, she would've stripped hours ago.

"I don't want to be a burden," you say, trying to sound steady but failing miserably. "I already took up so much of your time. Gave you a headache–"

She closes the gap between your bodies, trapping you between her and the counter. "Just say thank you, birdie."

The back of your neck prickles and your chest tingles. Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip. This isn't the first woman you've been around. Quite frankly, you've been with your fair share of beautiful and charming women, but there is something about Sevika. The way she gets under your skin and doesn't stop until your blood pressure is through the roof.

"You should eat something," she murmurs, her lips dangerously close to your ear.

Oh, you can think of several things you'd like to sink your teeth in right now, and none of them include food.

You twist around, brushing against her in a way that makes your heart pound louder than the music downstairs. She shifts closer, pressing her pelvis against the curve of your ass. The heat between you is suffocating and you wish you could shed some layers. You can hear your heartbeat in every corner and crevices of your body and blood rushes through your body so fast it leaves you dizzy.

Her hand moves off the counter, but you grab her arm before she can touch your burning skin.

"You don't want me, Sevika" you say, voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a Topsider and I have more baggage than I can carry."

Her expression shifts from bewilderment to realisation. She mouths your words silently, tasting them on her tongue before a mask slips over her features.

The truth of who you are serves as a bucket of ice-cold water. A Piltie hiding in the trenches means trouble and you're already so much trouble. Of course, she doesn't want you. It's the stress of the day that clouded her judgment. She clears her throat and steps back.

"Right."

She grabs two plates from a cabinet, her movements stiff and distant. Her face is unreadable again, but the brief flicker of hurt in her eyes is burned into your mind.

You should feel relieved. After all, pushing her away was the right thing to do. But all you can feel is the bitter sting of disappointment.

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