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kikiiswashere · 2 days

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Children of Zaun Sneak Peek - Chapter 25

Vander gets protective. Just like a loyal dog would.

In the days following, it really seemed like the whole thing would blow over. That this mild wrinkle within the Children’s ranks had already been ironed out. Until a small group of three older teen boys approached Vander in the early hours of The Last Drop being open.

Their timing was purposeful; only a small handful of beleaguered and elderly Zaunites were peppered around the tavern. Men and women who didn’t want to be talked with or entertained. They only wanted the momentary peace a rocks glass or tankard could offer before they had to get home, go to bed, and live another day. It was a time during working hours Vander was more available. It was a time there were fewer witnesses.

“We need to talk,” one had said. His upper lip quivered as he took in the man-mountain before him.

Vander’s eyes narrowed, and he peered over the group. His customers appeared at ease, so he jerked his head, instructing the young men to follow him. His instincts fizzed as they trailed behind. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up, his muscles coiled and braced.

Vander slid into one side of a shadowed booth. The others toddled in awkwardly with all the grace of new whumplings fighting for space in the nest, shoulders bumping and legs twisting together.

“What’dya need?” he asked once they were settled across from him.

His eyes cut from one face to the next. He recognized them as part of the gaggle that had orbited around Kells, but knew none by name.

“You heard about what happened in the mines a couple days ago,” the one on the right said. He was wiry with curly brown hair and pale skin. Dark green eyes blinked up at Vander under thick lashes.

Had his instincts not been priming his mind and body for some kind of fight, Vander would’ve thought him pretty.

“Aye. I have.”

“Well, what’re you gonna do about it?” The middle one asked.

Vander’s nostrils lifted. This one had limp dark blond hair, a pug nose, and too-round cheeks that were splotched angry-red.

“I wasn’ aware there was something to be done about it.”

“Silco killed Kells!” the one on the left hissed, his dark brown skin radiating vengeful heat. Black-brown eyes blistered beneath his thick, ebony hair.

Vander’s eyes flashed quick-silver. “He didn’.”

“He was going to if the medic he’s been eyeballin’ hadn’t’ve jumped in!” the middle one said, pig-nose flaring. “They probably planned it together.”

Vander shot up from his seat, knuckles hitting the table with a crack! as he braced his arms and loomed menacingly. The three young men collectively jumped, and hunkered back into the booth. The vinyl at their backs crackled as if in warning. Gone were their indignant expressions, replaced by utter shock and fear as they beheld the behemoth lording over them. Vander’s body and wrath blocked out the little light that reached into the booth’s alcove.

“Listen up,” he hissed, his voice all growl and warning grit. He bared his teeth at them and loomed closer. They shrank further. “Kells died ‘cause he made a stupid, evil decision” – it wasn’t his place to speak about Katya’s assault, so he kept it firmly tucked down his throat – “n’ he got what he deserved, frankly speakin’.” He leaned closer, broad shoulders hunching up threateningly like a crest, “This conversation is over. ‘N if I catch a whiff of any of ya tryin’ to rustle up more problems, you’ll be the first bodies I test my gauntlets on. Savvy?”

After a beat, all three reluctantly nodded and crawled out of the booth, scampering for the door.

Vander stalked back behind the bar rubbing his temples, mind spinning like a top.

It was one thing to fight with Topside. It was another for it to happen amongst the Children. This burgeoning rebellion wouldn’t withstand in-fighting. Zaun would bleed out, wouldn’t make it past its infancy, and be buried by Piltover again. The Children of Zaun needed to stick together, Brothers and Sisters arm-in-arm; an impenetrable wall of scrap metal, zeal, and will.

Then the threat he’d delivered to those three yellow-bellied malcontents . . .

“‘N if I catch a whiff of any of ya . . . .”

A wince creased Vander’s face. He didn’t suppose threatening Brothers and Sisters did anything for morale or loyalty. There was the chance that he had just made things worse. He shouldn’t have done that. He needed to keep his temper in check.

That was difficult when his Brother was concerned. Vander was protective of Silco, loyal to him – perhaps even more so than he was to Zaun. Although, Vander felt they were often one in the same. Yes, they had dreamed up the idea together, small and squatted behind minecarts, but Silco latched onto the idea like it was air. Cleaner and purer than anything in Piltover. He had always led the charge from there on out. And Vander would be at his side.

“Yer as loyal as a dog to ‘im, Van,” Benzo had said one night, long before the Children of Zaun.

He had said it with a certain amount of distaste that had Vander’s brow curling questioningly.

“He’s my best mate. ‘Course I am.”

Vander’s heart and shoulders softened at the memory. But immediately tensed again when he recalled what the blond teen had said.

“He was going to if the medic he’s eyeballin’ hadn’t’ve jumped in!”

Vander’s hand dropped heavy onto the bar top, gathering empty glasses and crumpled napkins. The comment had been innocuous, and utterly meaningless. The shithead had only meant to implicate Katya. But that little throw-away barb had slid under Vander’s ribs as if expertly laced.

“Oi! Vander!”

A customer in need of a refill pulled the barkeep from his spinning thoughts. Landed him right back into the moment like someone dropping a melon off Old Hungry. Grateful for the distraction, Vander went back to work.

#children of zaun #coz #coz sneak peek #arcane #arcane fanfic #vander #young vander

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kikiiswashere · 3 days

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kikiiswashere · 3 days

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kikiiswashere · 5 days

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15 break up sex?

Like You Still Love Me - Silco Smut

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: office/desk sex, gender neutral anatomy with the exception of "cunt", no pronouns for reader, silco pov, p in v/a sex, porn with a little bit of plot, cheating

no beta !

Silco is not one prone to “bad decisions”, but it should be obvious that a relationship with his employee was a terrible idea.

The breakup was messy and problematic, sending an array of tense situations his way. Between awkward meetings to discuss finance and import status and the occasional glare, the most apt description was uncomfortable.

However, the current situation is far from uncomfortable–physically that is. Buried deep inside your cunt? Pulling you back into his every thrust? Definitely not as uncomfortable as it could be.

Despite your compromising position, you still find it in you to glare at Silco over your shoulder as he fucks you from behind, poorly masking your impending climax.

“Couldn’t get off without me?” he taunts, watching the rage on your face slowly crank up. “You always did wonders for my ego.”

You grit your teeth. “Don’t let it get to your head, you aren’t the only dick I’ve had this week.”

“Come again?”

Without his knowledge, Silco’s fingers tighten their grip on your waist, hips snapping harder into you. If the “o” of your mouth is anything to go off of, he would say you almost did come again.

“I. Fucked. Someone. Else.”

“Who?”

As if it wasn’t already, Silco’s blood pressure is spiking at your spiteful silence, watching you grin to yourself.

“Who did you fuck?” Silco grits out, taking hold of your hair and pulling hard. When did ‘splitting up’ mean fucking someone else within days.

You look over your shoulder, making a show of how exposed your throat is with the way Silco pulls your hair back.

“The lovely sheriff of Piltover.”

Red, all Silco sees is red. Red and the brutal, carnal need to dominate–to take back what’s his. Silco abandons his hold on your hair to grab both wrists and pin them behind your back, forcing your front against the hard surface of the desk with a dull thunk. Your low moan is not the sound Silco wants to hear but it spurs him on nonetheless as he drills into your backside with relentless fervor.

“Mmmnnn he has a big dick too,” you groan, boots scrambling on the floor as you try to find purchase, “I think you– ah!– have competition, Sil.”

You’re getting close to your release, clenching tight around him in frequent throbs, stuttered cries of his name tumbling from your lips alongside your cruel story telling.

“And he came inside.”

Silco’s hand comes down hard on your ass and you cry out again.

“You think you can get rid of my claim on you that easily?” he hisses, slowing his pace to settle on something harder and more brutal that has your climax fading away. Your hedonistic whine confirms this. “I’m not a man you can just forget.”

“I know!” You yelp, squirming against his hold on you, walls still clamping down on Silco’s cock as you adapt to his changes and get close again.

“If you know then why did you do it?” Silco’s voice is ragged, your tightness becoming too much to handle as you tumble off the peak of your orgasm, going rigid in the throes of your pleasure. Silco is not far behind, finding it hard to even thrust into you with how fiercely your body takes him, not wanting to let go as he throbs out his release inside of you.

Bated breaths fill the thick office air, the smell of sweat and sex an odor Silco will have to remedy with a few smokes.

“Why did you do it?” he asks again, throat dry and hoarse with the visceral groans he had bitten back whilst filling you up.

When he releases your hands they fall limpishly to your sides and you make no attempt to get up or even look at Silco. The shame is evident in your shaky voice.

“So you would fuck me like you still loved me.”

#silco #silco smut #mdni #good soup medic!

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kikiiswashere · 5 days

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@nestaarcheronweek Day 3 - Self Care

Self care is calling your sister's bluff and moving away from the Night Court instead of to the House of Wind.

Listen, I fully believe if Nesta and Tamlin got to compare notes on how the NC treats them they could have bonded. And it would be hilarious.

Bonus twitchy Tamlin reaction picture free to use.

Second one too. I'm generous like that.

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kikiiswashere · 6 days

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“but AI art lets me create my OCs!” YOU WILL USE PICREW AS GOD INTENDED

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kikiiswashere · 8 days

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*minces onion and garlic for you with romantic intentions*

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kikiiswashere · 8 days

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ATTENTION EVERYONE!!!!!

The person who reblogged this from me needs a hug. Reblog to hug the previous person. 💕

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kikiiswashere · 9 days

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Children of Zaun - Chapter 24

Pairing: Silco/Fem!OC

Rating: Explicit

Story Warnings: Canon typical violence, drug use/dealing, dark themes, smut

Chapter Summary: Rynweaver pays Heimerdinger a visit. Grayson and Bone have a talk.

Previous Chapter

Word Count: 3.2K

Heimerdinger knew it was coming. He could only stave off this meeting with Rynweaver for so long.

It had been three weeks since the Children of Zaun had made themselves known. Three weeks since security measures had gone into effect. Three weeks since the investigation started. Three weeks – and there were no new developments or leads. And Enforcers were no nearer to tracking down the stolen money.

Rynweaver and the other families who had been stolen from were growing restless and agitated. Heimerdinger couldn’t say that he didn’t entirely understand. While money held little interest for him, he understood the frustration of having one’s belongings snatched away. Sometimes scientific research fell that way, too. Sometimes what you thought was safe, thought was yours, was suddenly slipped out from beneath you.

Money was one thing. Ideas were another.

Heimerdinger shook his head, ears flopping from side to side, and returned his attention to the paperwork on his desk. The new budget reorganization lay before him, and it turned his stomach more than he wished it would. A sidelong glance went to his fireplace, where not long ago the chair Katya Slostov had thrown into the hearth had lain, broken and splintered.

He didn’t know if she had told Viktor about the tuition increase, if he knew that his place at the Academy hung in the balance. He didn’t think so. Viktor had been carrying on like usual: pensive, studious, and dedicated. He gave no sign that he was aware that anything was afoot. Heimerdinger did not approve of keeping the boy in the dark, but Viktor was not his ward. As much as he disagreed with Katya’s decisions, he had no right to trample on them.

Instead, he focused on supporting the boy where it was in his power: in the classroom.

He praised Viktor openly for the initial sketches he had done for the boat he was planning on building in next term’s robotics curriculum. The ingenuity of its shape and proposed motor mechanism caused the yordle’s chest to puff with pride.

Viktor was leaps and bounds ahead of his classmates; even some of the older students. It would be a tragedy for him to cross the Bridge and never come back. To have his burgeoning genius swallowed up and snuffed out by the maw of the Undercity.

The soft, warm buzz of the intercom on his desk pulled Heimerdinger from his thoughts. He stared at the blinking red light by his right hand, letting the signal drone for a beat longer than he normally would.

Finally, he answered. “Yes, Miss Banforth?”

“Professor Heimerdinger, Sir Thade Rynweaver is here to see you.”

Heimerdinger utilized the last moments of privacy for his face to crumple and warp into an expression of long-suffering annoyance.

“Yes, yes. Of course. Send him in, please.”

Heimerdinger gathered the budgeting materials on his desk and stowed them away in a drawer. The door to his office quietly clicked open, Ivy graciously at the knob, directing Rynweaver inside.

Thade was dressed in his usual preferred black ensemble: tailored trousers and waistcoat, and shoes with a lacquered shine. Today, he also wore a knee-length wool coat, silver thread and buttons glistening in the cold-season’s watery light that streamed in from the window behind the desk.

“May I fetch you anything?” Ivy asked.

“Nothing. Thank you,” Rynweaver answered.

Ivy pulled her lips between her teeth and looked to Heimerdinger. He looked kindly at her, mustache lifting at its tips. A gentle shake of his head excused her, and she bowed out, the door softly snicking shut.

“Blessed Snowdown, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And to you, Professor.”

Thade draped his coat over one of the chairs in front of the desk, and took the other for himself.

“Did Miss Banforth not offer to take your coat?”

Heimerdinger eyed the expensive article, its black so pitch that it sucked up light like a sponge.

“She did. But I trust you understand my hesitancy in handing my things over.”

Heimerdinger’s ears folded minutely.

“I understand how frustrating this is for you and the other families involved, Mr. Rynweaver.”

Thade reached into the inner pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a slim, silver cigar case. He pulled a matching lighter from his trouser pocket. He did not ask if he could smoke, pulling out a thick cigar and lighting it as if it were his own home.

Heimerdinger’s pink nose wrinkled, his eyes pricking at the intense smell of the smoke.

As Thade went to tuck the case away, he stopped and gestured it to his host, a thick eyebrow lifting.

“I don’t smoke. But thank you.”

“It is frustrating,” Thade sighed, settling into his seat. “And I know that LeDaird is doing everything within his power to right this wrong. To not only recover my funds, but to also put a stop to these terrorists. Stop them before they can do anything truly heinous.”

Heimerdinger nodded, but his mind whirred, wondering when Rynweaver was going to get to his reason for this appointment.

“How may I help you today, Mr. Rynweaver?”

A thick plume of sweet, eye-stinging smoke rose above their heads, refracting the sunlight streaming in through the window. The smoke slowly spun through the air, its tendrils leisurely unfurling and dissipating before the answer came.

It annoyed Heimerdinger, this power play.

“My grandfather told me stories about you, Cecil. From his father, who in turn heard them from his own. Stories about Piltover’s brilliant and dedicated founder. A Yordle – a being tied to spirit and magic, and yet you favor scientific progress and humanity’s growth. Foregoing your, arguably, natural inclinations to bear this great city-state.”

Rynweaver gestured his hand to the space above Heimerdinger’s head, signaling to the sprawling cityscape below the window.

As the man spoke, Heimerdinger’s plush coat hackled and puffed under his clothes. He kept his face open and neutral, but inside he was bristling. Mostly because of Rynweaver’s arrogance and, thus far, vague motives. It also irked him to be called his first name by someone who was not invited to do so. The generalized, vague, and misinformed commentary on his race’s cultural background made his blood hot.

“I am flattered your grandfather spoke so highly of me,” he decided to say. “He was a good man.”

Thade nodded in agreement. “He loved this city. As did my father. As do I, Cecil. As do you.”

He took a lengthy drag from his cigar. Heimerdinger’s ears twitched, sensing that this meeting’s point was about to be revealed.

“I understand that LeDaird is doing everything within his power right now. And yet, no results have been yielded. Not an inkling of information, much less the recovery of my and the other family’s money.” He rolled his cigar between his fingers, blue eyes following it carefully. Then, his voice darkened, “Honestly, I am not anticipating seeing my coin again. Those sump-snipes have probably spent it or sent it away to some secure location. They are most likely preparing a more serious strike.”

The heat in Heimerdinger’s blood chilled, leached out by how Rynweaver’s eyes seemed to go black.

“The Enforcers need more teeth. The Undercity needs to be made afraid. They know how to tolerate a squeeze, a slap on the wrist. These Children are unprecedented, and Piltover must be protected.”

“They are Piltovan citizens, Mr. Rynweaver.”

“And yet some percentage of those citizens committed a terrorist attack. The rest protect them with their silence.” Rynweaver looked at Heimerdinger, cold fire blistering in his gaze. “They do not love Piltover as you or I do. Surely you can see that. We need to protect our city of progress.”

Heimerdinger’s ears tucked back, his thick brow dropped. Lowly, he asked, “What would you have me do, Mr. Rynweaver?”

Thade crossed his long legs. “I am asking you to consider throwing your weight around more. You are Piltover’s founder and greatest champion. While the idea of Council is to ensure a system of checks and balances, and an equitable division of power, everyone knows that push come to shove, your word is law.

“Give LeDaird more leash and tighten up on Bone’s. Allow captains of industry – such as myself – who employ a large populace of the Undercity to use our influence to help flush out these traitors.”

“It is not that simple – “

“It could be though,” Rynweaver bit back. “This is your city, Cecil. And these Children are threatening it. Do not let them.”

With that, Thade lifted from his seat, cigar in hand. He paused and looked around the office before stepping over to the fireplace and crushing the ember end into the hearth’s wall. He tossed the remains into its ashy mouth and went for his coat.

Sliding his arms in their sleeves, he addressed Heimerdinger once more, “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

Heimerdinger’s pink nose twitched at the sudden use of one of his titles.

Thade strode for the office doors, and over his shoulder wished again, “Blessed Snowdown.”

The cold season was always hellish on Bone’s illness. The chill in the air froze the blight in his lungs and trachea into sharp, painful, icy stabs every time he ventured outside. Which made it difficult for him to put his ear to the ground and try and learn about these Children of Zaun.

He did his best, though.

In the days following the Council’s bulletin and subsequent decisions about movement and trade in the Undercity, he hobbled up and down the streets of the Promenade and upper Entresol attempting to glean information from anyone he could.

What hurt more than the pain in his lungs, were the looks of distrust he received from some of the Undercity citizens he approached. The ache sat low in his stomach and tugged down on his heart. He never thought something would stand between him and his people.

He lived for them, would die for them.

It was in those moments – when he was looked up and down, suspicion curling their lips, and doubt in their eyes – that Bone feared he had failed. That he had spent too much time across the river in Piltover’s mighty towers. That all the work he had attempted to do, and what little he had achieved, had gotten stuck in the blankets of kelp that stitched either bank of the Pilt together.

Had he lost that much touch with his constituents?

One afternoon, though, when the sun sat bright and heavy in the sky, he caught a small break.

He had shuffled into a small café that sat on the lip of the Promenade, near a conveyor car station. He’d spent a few hours canvassing the Skylight Commercia to no avail. Disheartened, and chest burning from the cold, he decided to stop and get something warm to drink before limping home.

The few patrons in the establishment looked up as he stepped in. Only a few nodded, the others kept to their drinks and thin sandwiches. Bone coughed into his scarf and approached the cash register. He ordered a mint tea and paid with two gold hexes. When the cashier blanched and sputtered, trying to explain that she did not have the change for such coin, he insisted she keep it regardless.

Bone perched himself on a stool seated in front of the large, greasy windows that looked out onto the conveyor car station. He watched all manner of people and creatures pile into, and traipse out of various cabs. The color and diversity of the Undercity always tugged at something prideful in him. Despite its setbacks, he loved that so many beings from Runeterra settled here, made the Undercity a veritable melting pot.

As the cashier brought him his tea, Bone watched as a conveyor car operator exited his vehicle and trot towards the café. He was a big man – wide, with skin the color of rust. The café’s door jingled merrily open as he pushed through, and a flurry of greetings were sent his way.

Bone’s stomach and heart dropped further. Was it jealousy?

“Tolder!” the cashier greeted. “Usual?”

“Yeah. ‘N can I get,” his gruff voice ground to a hum as he eyed the glass display case full of sweet breads and pre-made sandwiches. “Can I get one o’ the wharf rat tails? They’re muh boy’s favorite.”

“Sure thing.” She placed a steaming paper cup on the counter, and then whipped a paper bag open, reaching for a pastry drenched in glaze at the front of the case. “You gonna be at The Last Drop tonight?”

“Plannin’ on it. Hopefully there’s some idea o’ how to get these fuckin’ enforcers off our backs. Pigs.”

Bone’s ears perked at the man and woman’s exchange. He knew The Last Drop – what Trencher didn’t? – but it had been years since he’d last gone, back when it was under original ownership. He had heard through the grapevine that the previous owner had died in recent years and had passed the establishment to a longtime employee.

Something about what the pair said caused his heart to flutter in interest, his gut poking him with intuition. Bars, taverns, restaurants had long been places for Undercity citizens to meet and gripe about Piltover. But there was something more concrete in their tones, more bite. The word ‘idea’ felt weighty. Promising.

“Thanks fer the coffee and Rat Tail,” the man said, slapping a fistful of coins on the counter and heading for the door.

Bone watched the man stride back towards his conveyor car, and his mind whirred. He sipped at his tea, thinking. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched the woman behind the counter take a wet rag and wipe down the sides of the display case. He wondered if LeDaird or Grayson had, or were planning on investigating The Last Drop.

Draining his cup, Bone stood and limped to the counter, placing the small ceramic mug near the register.

“Thank you.”

The woman looked up from her dusting, and nodded, her lips a thin line.

As he opened the door, a gust of cold, salty wind blew past him. Hurriedly, he pulled his scarf up around his mouth and hacked into it, leaning heavily on his cane. Behind the wet fabric, he grimaced. His lungs burned and throbbed, and he felt light-headed. Indeed, it was time to head home for the day.

As Bone approached the building his loft was in, he was surprised to see Captain Grayson standing in front of the building’s iron and glass door. She was dressed in her uniform and captain’s hat, but her breathing mask was slung around her neck. She remained still, hands behind her back, seemingly unperturbed by the way people walking by would give her a wide, wide berth.

Bone winced. He wished she wouldn’t meet him at his home. It was difficult enough to get his people to trust him; having the Captain of the Enforcers on his doorstep could only cause his constituents to pull away further.

But it had been challenging for he and she to touch base. The minute the Children of Zaun’s letter fell into LeDaird’s hands, Grayson’s time and priorities were automatically spoken for.

“Councilor Bone,” she greeted as he limped up.

“Captain Grayson,” he wheezed from behind his scarf. He glanced around and said, “Come upstairs. I don’t want us to talk here.”

He led her inside, and up the winding metal stairs to his front door. Grayson thought it odd that an old, sick man would be made to have to deal with stairs.

“Is there not a lift?”

Bone coughed and shook his head, wispy hair fluttering side to side.

They arrived at a large, ornately carved door and the Councilor used a key to let them both inside.

Grayson said a quiet thank you as she stepped through the threshold, her eyes habitually roaming over the new environment, taking notes. Small, with high ceilings. Large windows looked out over the river at Piltover, its skyline looming. The space was sparsely furnished and had no noticeable smell.

Behind her, Bone had begun coughing again as he removed his coat and scarf. He batted her away as she stepped over to help. He thumped his cane against the wood floor as the last gasps of the fit lurched from his throat.

“Follow me,” he wheezed, shuffling in the direction of a small, but neat kitchen.

With shaky hands, he filled a glass with water and took a careful sip. His throat burned and head throbbed.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” he finally said, turning. One hand held his cane, the other braced against the countertop.

Grayson watched him carefully. He looked worse than usual, and she was concerned she’d have to leap forward and hold him up.

She set her hands behind her back again, and said, “I am here to touch base.”

A small derisive huff shot from between Bone’s teeth. “Of your own volition? Or on orders from the Sheriff.”

“Both.”

The Councilor nodded and renewed the grip on his cane, standing as tall as his short stature would allow. There was a moment before she spoke where he took her in. Like the first time he’d met her, he sensed her goodness. Her reasonableness. He knew she was the tool he needed to get enforcer brutality in the Lanes under control.

“Sheriff LeDaird is wondering if you have heard anything.”

“Only LeDaird?”

Grayson’s lips thinned. “Admittedly, I am curious, too. There are terrorists in the Undercity, Councilor Bone. My focus right now has to be rooting out the Children of Zaun. You and I cannot do our work while they are free.”

Bone’s wooly brows dropped, knowing she was right. He couldn’t get what he wanted without her. He couldn’t have her time and resources while she and her team were investigating terrorists. The idea to tell her what he had overheard today in the café crossed his mind. But he kept it to himself. After the last several days of doing his own searching, and experiencing the unexpected withdraw of his community, he was nervous to give Captain Grayson anything. It was bad enough that people had seen her on his step.

What good was securing Grayson’s time if his own people didn’t trust him?

There had to be another way.

“I have not heard anything, Captain.”

Grayson looked disappointed as a sigh blew from her nose, arms dropping to her sides. Briefly, Bone felt badly about withholding information from her. But, if he could get to and disperse the Children before the Enforcers closed in, there would be minimal bloodshed, he would hopefully recement his people’s trust, and he and Grayson could carry on with his plans.

“I am sorry, Captain.”

She nodded ruefully. “Thank you. Let me know if you hear anything.”

She turned and began to head back toward the front door.

“Captain Grayson,” Bone called. She turned, eyes questioning. “When you need to seek me out, please do it at my office.”

The smallest embarrassed flush tinged the tops of her wide cheeks. “Yes, Councilor. Apologies.”

He waved the concern aside, and kindly said. “Blessed Snowdown, Captain.”

“Blessed Snowdown, Councilor.”

Notes: A quick lil' chappie. Comparatively speaking 😅. What do we think? Will Heimer cave to Rynweaver's pressure? Is Bone making a good decision leaving Grayson in the dark??

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear yout thoughts in the comments or reblogs ❤️

Coming Up Next: The Children celebrate Snowdown at The Last Drop. After weeks of avoiding him, Katya asks for a moment of Silco's time.

Taglist: @pinkrose1422 @dreamyonahill @sand-sea-and-fable @truthandadare @altered-delta

#reblog #next day reblog #time zone reblog #children of zaun #coz #arcane #arcane fanfic

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