#trying hard to move on from Arcane | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

limerlove · 7 months ago

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KNUCKLE VELVET, TORN ON MY TEETH

❝ VI!ONE SHOT ❞

pairing. pitfighter!vi x bartender!reader

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: arcane season two spoilers, soft angst, smut, bartender!reader, crashout!vi mends her cold heart, inexperienced!vi, switch!reader + vi, fem coded reader, coded alcohol addiction, slight spit kink, strap use.

KNUCKLE VELVET TORN ON MY TEETH, there's something charming about the pitfighter who doesn't stop drinking until she reaches the bottom of the barrel and the bartender who keeps walking her home.

wc. 7k+

rayray yaps. popping my vi!oneshot cherry, hehe, and i'm happy to do so. the vi brainrot has been real as fuck lately. i fear it's not going away anytime soon. but i wanted to give a special shoutout to @hypnagogics for proofreading this fic, means sm to me ily + my sweet bubba, @absfawn for the title name, i could kiss you until my lips fall off. the best people ever, i love them so much. okay, now i have yapped enough! happy reading, hope you enjoy.

Trapped in the abyss, just when everything had been taken from her life seems to sacrifice another offering on a silver platter. Something else that she thought could be hers, but wasn’t. In the end, all of it was the same. Life is the same. She takes three steps forward, circumstances out of her control take her apart like enforcers imposing their will on Zaun, and she’s forced to move five steps back. It’s all she feels, powerless.

Wanting nothing more than to drown her sorrows, forget all that she's lost. For everything that’s been taken, Vi feels an overpowering loss, threatening to take over everything she’s trying to build. But Vi thinks of none of it now, she can’t afford to think of one more thing. So, she doesn’t. All of her mind forgets. She forces herself to.

Zaun, Piltover, Jinx, Vander, Silco, and Cait.

She drowns in blood, sweat, and liquor for nights to come. She forgets everything and you are just the cherry top on this one shitty sundae. Anytime she’s here, Vi manages to get herself into a fight. Each time. Every time she tries to apologize or hold an ounce of guilt in her eyes, you see right through her crystal blues. From the very first night, you called her bullshit. Even if Vi didn’t give in, it was hard to hide her small smirk.

She lets herself think it’s because you’re a bartender. You practically get paid to read people, listen to them vent about shit you probably don’t give two shits about and break up the fights that erupt every thirty minutes. Overinflated egos and drunken assholes weren’t a great mix. The jury was still out if you though Vi was one. She could have both, she didn’t really talk much. Vi fought, drank until she couldn’t see straight, and you helped her up to her small apartment right across the street and up the steps into her said apartment.

No matter how hard she tries, it always ends the same. Vi looking like an imbecile and you, the pretty bartender who shuts down every advance she throws your way. Vi wonders who had a stronger shell, what you’re hiding in order to protect yourself.

Maybe she is just an asshole.

“You don’t have to walk me up here. I-I can make it just fine on my own.”

As soon as your fingertips let go of her fragile frame, Vi’s inebriated body collapses on the concrete steps, grabbing onto the metal framing as if her life depends on it.

“Really? Now you wanna prove a point?”

“For your information, I’m always in it to prove a point.”

Even if your words are harsh, with a soft smile and a hand open, Vi takes it as you let her lean on your weight as you assist her up the steps. There’s little shame to be had once the two of you make it in. It isn’t like the first time and when she noticed the scrunch of your nose in taking the smell, tequila and grease. Vi thought it was cute but she halts any further thought.

Quickly, Vi disposed of her leather jacket and pants she’s left in boxers and the wrap protecting her chest. The part of her life that seems to be kept together. She doesn’t really mind it though, you. Seeing her like this. Even more so, she enjoys it. You’re always so dismissive at the bar, hardly holding eye contact, turning down any flirting she hurls your way. Just like the vomit Vi had nearly thrown up on your shoes but made a quick diversion for the bush to the right of her instead.

This is truly the only time she knows you want her. Not so subtly, your eyes trace her like each pinpoint of your gaze is painting her on a clean canvas, one Vi wonders if she’ll like or not. When she’s been around you, she’s been wondering about a lot of things — thoughts she quite literally can’t afford.

It’s her, nothing ever ends well when her feelings can get crushed on the other side.

Everything she touches burns to ash before she can even hold it for a moment, a second of symphony retaliates with years of misery. How could you be any different? She wishes you would burn her underneath your gaze, put her out of the misery she feels growing every day, but you don’t. You’re always pulling her out of trouble when you truly don’t have to. It’s not your job to take care of her or hell, even look after her.

But you do and she can’t seem to figure out why.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me help you. Not everyone has a motive. Some people just like to help when someone is so clearly struggling.”

“I’m not—”

You give her a glare that seems to shut her up. You draw a bath for her. It’s easy to find her towels in the only cabinet. It’s an acute studio apartment. More so of a small room with a stove stop, minimal counter space, and one bathroom enough to bathe and brush her teeth in. There isn’t much left of it but it’s hers. Grabbing the first aid kit, you kneel between her legs, the mattress sits on the floor, her legs spread and stretching out in front of you.

“Let me help you. Alright?” Vi grumbles, a incoherent complaint, but she lets you tend to her wounds.

It’s mainly just cleaning off her dry blood as she still complains in the process, but there’s a few cuts on her face and her cheeks are already beginning to bruise. It’s not a secret, she bruises like a peach but she always makes sure her opponent is leaving a lot more with just a few cuts and a bruise the size of a plum.

It’s then, when you’re concentrating on the cuts on her face, the busted lip she’s sporting; she looks at you. Maybe it’s the first time she has, but without even realizing it, she gets lost. Not in the way Vi doesn’t know who she is, that she’s completely lost on, but Vi sees you.

Bright-eyed, optimistic, helpful, kind — all attributes she couldn’t claim but wears like a badge of honor. As if helping others instills you with a sense of purpose, something that’s always been a lost cause to her. Fight until the next fight, and the next, and the next. That’s what she’s done, she's always been a fighter. She’s fallen back on it when needed. It’s clear to her. Like a vision she could see, crystal clear through some stupid ball, it’s always been about survival.

But how much longer does she want to fight and how much more does she have in her?

“Thanks.” Vi speaks softly.

Not knowing where to place her palms, she settles for her thigh. Silent as she watches, nearly analyzing every moment, every glance, every little thing you’re doing. It’s sobering to say the least. You don’t need to be delicate but you are. It’s more kindness than she deserves, nearly leaving a bitter taste on her tongue but when you offer a small smile and a soft whisper, you’re welcome.

It’s the sweetest thing Vi has ever seen.

There’s something different in the way you look at her. The soft omission exposes how sweet on Vi you may be. Definitely more than you’d let on, which was well…none. Up until tonight, she thought you hated her. With each word uttered in your direction, Vi assumed you’d rather swallow bile than stomach her slurred, flirty speech.

“Why do you want to help? It’s not like I’ve exactly been—”

“Kind?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

This time Vi lets the smile reach her eyes and your smile gets even sweeter. She can practically feel the sweetness rotting her teeth as she speaks. It’s the first time she feels something new, something as bright as the light radiating through your eyes.

“You just seem different. Even if you do try to hide it.”

With a flush of crimson coating the apple of her cheeks, she’s never been quite as exposed as this. The next few weeks are spent with less drinking, but Vi frequents the bar just as much as she did before. She orders a few pints just to talk to you. She’s learning more about you, slowly but surely, you’re opening up more. Divulging information you wouldn’t have before, trust is earned. It’s something you told her the first night you met and to this day, Vi still remembers it.

Regardless of how drunk she’d been when you said it.

It’s a typical night. Vi flirted with you but you aren’t being dismissive tonight but you’re careful enough to not let her know exactly how you feel. Everything you say is guarded enough you keep her on her toes, for a moment she thinks she might have to become a ballerina. It’s a slow night, Wednesday. Go figure Vi thinks. There was a woman who’d also been flirting with you all night. Vi thought she was beautiful, sweet, funny…certainly was making you laugh all night.

Part of Vi wanted to feel jealous but it feels too good hearing you laugh, she says nothing. Maybe you just don’t like women. Vi was known for reading into things too much, thinking everyone thought with their heart first just like she did, and assuming every hot and attractive woman was into other women — just like she is.

But the brunette left before closing, leaving Vi and a few other regulars paying their tab as they stumbled home with a belly full of liquor of their choosing.

“Alright Vi, don’t you have somewhere to be? Maybe getting some sleep for the night?”

“I don’t sleep much, it’s better if I don’t.”

“Keeps the nightmares away.”

All Vi does is nod.

“Story of the century.” You take Vi’s empty pint before washing it dispersing in the sink before cleaning up the remainder of the bar top. “Everyone’s got one around here and the new one is usually even more depressing than the last.”

“What about yours?”

“If you wanna hear that, I’ll have to be the one doing the drinking.” You smile but it’s the first one Vi recognizes as insincere.

“Yeah, seems to be the stone cold requirement for a heart to heart.”

Vi’s silent as you vent to her about the customer who refused to pay up tonight until you threatened to kick his ass and that wasn't enough, you threatened Letty on him. Vi found herself only slightly entranced as you spoke with such color, your animated voice doing impressions of the stubborn patreon, moving your hands as you speak, eyebrows furrowed as you finished the story.

You’re done cleaning and are ready to close by the time you finish, locking the door as Vi stuffs her hands in her pockets, “Can I ask you something?”

You cling to your bag like a lifeline. Vi notices how tight your grip is on the strap, almost as if you’re afraid. Of what? She has a craving to find out. “Why’d you turn her away? She seemed plenty interested. Not your type?”

You take a step forward, just as close as the last time you were in her apartment, tending to wounds she wouldn’t have really cared about but still she let you clean them.

You didn’t have to know that. Not yet, anyway.

“No, not really. I like my women a little rough around the edges, stumbling out of bars so wasted they can’t even walk home by themselves.” You smirk, grabbing the lapel of her leather jacket as you tug her closer to you. “Or is that what you want me to say?”

“Is it true?”

You both know the hope in her eyes is dangerous.

Hope.

A foreign concept in Zaun. If you get too close to the flame, you’ll get burned, dusting into ash as if you never existed. It’s what shimmer did to people, wipe them off the map until they reformed into a shell of what they used to be. You didn’t just get out of a place like this, not without some help. Vi could barely even help herself.

The both of you know it’s a bad idea. A terrible, god awful idea, but you still move in closer to her. Vi notices and she wipes the smirk off her face, your warm hands finding purchase on her exposed hips, drawing soft circles on her hip bones. She likes it, even when her heart feels torn from being blown to bits by a certain blue-eyed beauty.

Vi likes you.

“Your skin is softer than I thought it would be, smooth like pure silk. Not that I’ve ever touched it before but I’ve got to believe it would feel a lot like this.”

Vi feels a tingle up her spin, your touch is overwhelming, more than she bargained for really. A stumbling, messy kiss is all she really expected if anything. Not this. Clearly, you knew what to do. Leaving Vi a little clueless in that department, she’s knocked off her feet once again but this time in a way she wants to be. But actually bringing something this special to anything more than a few flirty quips? It never seems to be her strong suit.

So, she puts her best foot forward. Her big stupid mouth, one she can never quite fully silence. “I can guarantee my lips feel a lot softer.”

“Vi—” You speak her name like a warning, an unspoken law you’re breaking by entertaining your feelings and the bubbling sentiments you hold for her close to your heart. You know better than to keep it so close, but the halo in her eyes blinds you to reason and you let it.

“It’s Violet but you can call me whatever you want, sweets.”

You chuckle at the pet name.

“Just one night. That’s it. Just to get it out of our system.”

“One night, sweets. It’s all I need.”

—

It’s how you ended up here, the third night in a row since the first, trapped under the web of Vi and her eager mouth. Slender, perfectly sculpted fingers feel like a hex to your cunt, every moment causing you to fall further into her spell. To say she has a certain talent would be considered an understatement. It’s clear Vi’s enjoying herself, fuck, damn near suffocates herself in your weeping cunt. Last night wasn’t nearly enough, she needs to have you, again. Not that you were complaining.

As much as you hate to admit it, there has been no one as generous as her. As good as her, as sweet, as kind, and she did whatever the hell you asked for. Nothing has beaten the first night, her thumping clit nudging against your as she hiked one of your legs over her toned shoulders.

It’s not a secret how built she is, far from it, but it’s another thing entirely to watch her flexed bicep ripple with every grind of her hips. Each movement seems to be calculated with precision, focused on doing more than just making herself feel good. With pure determination, glazed over crystal blue eyes, and a pouty scarred lip, she makes sure you’re enjoying this as much as her. With each moan you let slip, her confidence only grows until she’s commanded full control over you. She takes what she wants from you and in return you’re seeing stars behind your eyes, constellations created in the shape of her name as you come.

“That’s it pretty girl, just for me, yeah?” Vi talks you through as she works you through your orgasm with her strong hips, not stopping even after you’ve cum. She wants more and Vi pulls three more orgasms out of you before she’s done for the night. You expected her to be good. There was no shocker there but you didn’t expect her to be so sweet afterwards. Vi is a drunk, an addict, whether she wants to accept it or not. You could be just another object she’s addicted to. Somehow, you convince yourself it’s just a one time thing. It doesn’t mean anything, it won’t.

Truthfully it feels much more than just a one night stand, more than an itch being scratched — the blossoming ache in your soul feels tethered to your heart every time Vi makes you feel an ounce of love — even when she tries to hide it behind a wall. Whether you’re aware, the wall can’t seem to stop crumbling. Brick by brick, it’s coming undone just as you have. Weak-willed and with purpose, you fall into her.

There isn’t an inch of your body Vi didn’t kiss. Her lips tattooing every inch of your skin with marked affection, almost as if she’s mending your skin with the burn of her lips. When she claims your soft lips, haunting you with the salvation of perfection as her velvet tongue invades your mouth, the taste of you melting from her tongue to yours. The silent declaration you didn’t ask for but craved, the carnal moan leaving her mouth as she chuckles when your hips pathetically grind into hers.

Vi enjoys your company, that much is clear, but this time you bring her to your place. It’s more or less the same. Both of you coming down from the highest of highs, you feel sticky, dirty, and damn right heavenly. Vi disappears into your bathroom, grabbing a wash rag before dampening the material underneath a warm faucet. Carefully, she kneels by your hips, legs twitching softly as her skilled fingers find your slit before Vi’s sucking the digit in your mouth.

“I just wanted one last taste before I clean you up.”

As she has before, Vi makes good on her promise and cleans you up. She enjoys when the pad of her thumb grazes against your clit, terribly overstimulated, your stomach twitches. All Vi can do is chuckle.

“I’m just a little—”

“Sensitive?” Vi smirks as you hide your face in the palm of her hands, the pad of her thumb gently caressing your skin.

It’s the lightest she’s felt in weeks. Almost as if she’s floating on a cloud, she wants to stay up there in the cloudiest of nines. Just you and her and an aging mattress as she offers you everything she can give. Albeit, it isn’t much but she’ll still freely give.

Like a dog with a bone, Vi corners you on the third night when it’s just you and her in the bar. Closing time has long since arrived and vanished into the crisp air of the night but Vi has you bent over the bar, desperation clawing at the weathered countertop of the bar as Vi’s fingers fucks your pretty little hole while her tongue laps at the slick that’s dripping out of you. Your pretty little skirt pushed up, your panties pushed to the side as she laps and sucks at your juices. She can feel you dripping onto her chin and it only makes her that much more eager to swallow every bit you have to offer.

“We shouldn’t be doing this—” Fuck. Vi starts doing tricks with her tongue, sliding in another finger, pushing against the soft spot buried deep as she toys with you in the way knows best. “We, um, Vi we said just one night.”

“Shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl. Or did you forget?” Vi moans into your cunt, the vibrations causing your thighs to shake under her mouth. “It’s not like you were complaining last night.”

Vi silences you as her pace picks up, her fingers fucking you at such a pretty pace, feeling the build grow in the pit of your stomach edging to come to a full bloom.

All of you begging for it to be released. Vi uses her free hand to slap your ass, sending you moaning and lurching forward. You push yourself back grinding against her tongue, before she removes her divine mouth as she kisses up your spine, her fingers stuffed inside you not faltering for a moment.

Vi continues to kiss up your spine until she reaches the nape of your neck, her breath kissing your skin, your body shivers into her touch. Full lips ghost over your ear before whispering quietly, “Are you sure you want me to stop? I will if you want me to. I just thought you might wanna, you know, take my cock tonight. Give it a good ride.”

The moan you let out would put Aphrodite’s to shame, needy and choked sobs escape you as her fingers thrust inside you faster than they have before.

“Oh? Do you like the sound of that, babygirl? Want to show me how good you can be for me?” Vi doubled down on her efforts, enjoying how much you arched into her body, your hips pushing back as you grind into quick fingers. She’s fucking you better than well…anyone.

“Vi, please.” Your voice catches in your throat, hoarse and full of need. An insatiable craving; one you fear only she can provide. A few mindless days and careless flirting to land in her sheets, her in yours, the details didn’t truly matter. A vampire out for blood, almost more venomous than precious canines breaking the skin, you yearned to suck on every last drop. But she didn’t seem to be in a mind frame to relinquish control.

“Please what? I’m not sure if I understand you.”

All of it, so tantalizing, so fucking infuriating. Three fingers inside you, effectively making you silent, shutting you up as she brings you closer to the edge. That’s the thing, truthfully, Vi has you right where she wants. Only a few thrusts away until you come undone around her. The black haired succubus increases the pace, thumb playing with your clit, her calloused fingers increasing your high as she applies more pressure on the thousands of nerve endings on your precious pearl.

“Shit. You’re gonna pay for this.”

“What? For making you come? I hardly constitute that as a crime.”

Your hands reach for the counter top, you’re not sure what exactly you want, but Vi makes you come for the first time that night. It’s a game, the push and pull. Dangerous. Intoxicating. Some disposition falling far from your fingertips, a game to her and a downward hill spiral for you. Addiction festering next to an open wound and the only antidote can be found on her tongue. Tasting the devil’s mouth is one thing but swallowing the sensation of the woman you’re beginning to love is something else entirely.

Vi, despite her best efforts not to, makes you fall over the edge. It’s more than her eager tongue and expectant mouth slurping at the vindication of your taste. The craving builds like an exposed vein. Her confidence irrevocably soars like a raven through the midnight sky. Even if Vi acts like she’s done this before, you could pull the curiosity intertwined with naivety a mile away. Violet has never done this before, not with a woman at least, you’re sure of it. She’s a fast learner and such a great accomplishment should replenish such a reward.

With the energy you have left, you push your skirt down first, as Vi puts your underwear back in place. She doesn’t stop touching you. She can’t. There isn’t much she feels she has control over, this arrangement being one of them. She’s good at this and Vi enjoys it. Every other part of her life, failure surrounds her, her ability not to please anyone in her life.

In a constant loop, she finds herself caught in the crossfire. Tugged between sister and lover, family and righteousness. Her enemy becomes her lover and lover becomes enemy — all of it poisons her blood and cures her core — and all of it makes her hear a voice she doesn’t recognize but it’s just as true as the four walls surrounding her.

Oil and water.

Collecting like scars on her porcelain skin, Vi feels herself sink like an obliterating star. There’s a wonder settled in her chest, it feels heavy and weak, two incapable fists unable to surround her heart with anything but loss, betrayal even. She can’t punch her way out of this one.

All of it wakes a fire in her chest, a dagger being punctured in her heart by the one Vi thought she could trust the most. She doesn’t want to admit it so she doesn’t.

But this? It feels easy.

She needs easy, light, even good. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it.

Vi definitely doesn’t, the sentence flows like a never-ending stream of waterfall continuously drowning her. The blood on her hands stains her perception of all things pure, she wonders how she even sees you at all. How you see her more vividly than anyone, possibly even Cait. There’s no judgment, no snarky remark of where she comes from. Even if she thought there had once been love, Vi questions it now.

When you come, it feels like a breath of fresh air, a golden wave washing over her sinful hands. Each stroke of gold, your grit and blind hopefulness soaks Vi’s entity. This is what she wants. There’s nothing more than this, someone she could love, who loves her. It’s uncomplicated but the feeling flees as you come to it. Vi can’t help but feel regretful as you cover your ass, it’s such a pretty sight. She can’t stop that she’s greedy, you’ve fed her for the first time in her life and now Vi feels full but she’s only human.

A sinner always craves more.

She lets her touch linger on the gold between your thighs, pushing the white substance back into you before Vi lets you feel how wet you are, the dripping slick feels uncomfortable caged into cotton underwear and she wants you to feel it. The breath Vi hears are still heavy, impossibly heavy, and there’s pride in hearing you center yourself, back pressed against her chest as Vi keeps you in place.

The pleasure within your body begins to slither away as you come back into the angel you are and not the sexual deviant bent over the woman who never pulls her punches.

“Felt good, yeah?” Vi says. Her angelic, sweeter than the cotton candy stick in your teeth, voice penetrates through. You like it too much. It shouldn’t make you feel as good as it does. Desperately, you want to keep this casual but you’re even losing your footing.

You pride yourself on the lack of attachment; you don’t need it. Never really had. But then with her it seems to change even faster than the seasons, your wall breaks somehow in between from spring to summer. With intent, you move around, her bright eyes have darken a bit but the fading light looks brighter than you’ve ever seen it.

Fuck, Vi is making this difficult.

“You could say that.” You speak softly, a tremble in your voice occurs but Vi says nothing but she does smirk. “Can I ask you something?”

You turn around and suddenly Vi is staring at your exposed cleavage, the one you use to draw in patreons and to fill your pockets with as many tips as one can muster. Vi had been one, a faithful one trying to drink her away to the bottom of every bottle until she found something else for her. Something that didn’t leave a burn in her throat.

“What is it?”

“Was it your first time? The first night?”

Sheepishly, Vi blushes. For a second, she contemplates lying but you’d see right through it. Right through her. It would only take one look in her blues and you would know.

“That obvious?” Vi struggles with her words next but she manages to murmur a lame excuse. “Stillwater didn’t leave much time for this.”

“And after?” You tease but the sincerity in your eyes soothes her.

“There could have been but there wasn’t. Some things just don’t fit.” Oil and water is what she wants to say but she bites her tongue.

“You should have told me. I wouldn’t have been so, I don’t know, selfish?”

“There’s nothing selfish about it. I wanted to make you feel good. Did you enjoy yourself?” This time she makes your skin feel hot. Fuck.

“Yeah, I did enjoy myself,” you pressed against her as your arms loop around Vi’s necks to bring her closer “but I think it’s officially my turn to offer my services. Don’t you think so?”

It’s how Vi ends up here, in your place, in your bed — soaked.

If there was one thing you knew, it was how to please someone. You managed to pull whimpers out of her she didn’t even know existed. The desperate plea coming from her shivering body as she spilled in your mouth the first time sent a shiver down her spine, the band in her stomach snapping as you sloppily spit on her cunt, constant circles of pressure on her clit seeing nothing but your eyes look up at her.

Not letting a single drop go to waste, you fucked Vi through it, swallowing her completely. Vi shed the wrap covering her chest next. Her body bruised from the pit fights but you couldn’t think of anyone more beautiful than her. You paid attention to her collarbones, neck, and her tits. Sucking on her nipples as Vi tries to come down from the high you placed her on, she doesn’t think she ever will.

She tries not to think that she wanted these things with Caitlyn. Cait. Cupcake.

Vi only allows herself to think of her when she’s dreaming, visions of what that could have been, what she used to be. All of it so trivial, so senseless when she thinks of you. How you make her feel is different and she tries not to think of what it all means.

One night.

Then two.

Now three.

In another life, maybe she was stronger, and didn't need to be wanted. Hell, even needed. She could wait for someone who she thought loves her but the other part of her doesn’t want to think, she wants to feel. Vi likes feeling the softness of your skin, the light in your laughter, the swell of your exposed chest, the way your greedy eyes take in her abs, your soft lips kissing every part of her skin. The smooth, the scarred, the unworthy — you take it all in such stride.

“Do you want to stop? I think I lost you for a second.” You inquire to the pretty girl beneath you, her hands find your waist, creating makeshift circles on your hip bones.

“No, that’s the last thing I want.” Vi brings you to her lips, capturing your bottom lip, tongue invading your mouth. She tastes herself as your tongue melts with hers and the rest of her worries melt away. It’s just you and her. “I want to keep going.”

“Then tell me what you want, baby. I’ll do whatever you want. It’s yours if you want it.”

It’s spoken as a reminder. All of this is her decision. Vi decides when she wants this, how she wants it, and you’re letting her take all of it in the way she needs. Vi tried not to think the first couple times, she never wanted her first time to be a big deal. Maybe with Caitlyn it could have been, but then she changed.

Vi thought maybe she could too. So, she did.

“Can you—” Vi stutters. Yet again her attention gets pulled to your tits, the softness of your stomach, she can’t stop looking at you. As if she’s trying to remember everything about you. She’s committed to it. Vi wants to remember the soft curves of your hips, the way you moan when she comes on your tongue.

The sight of you looking down at her makes she lose every rational thought, she wants to commit to memory forever. It won’t be something she easily forgets.

“Gotta speak up, babygirl. Especially if you want me to keep my attention focused on this pretty cunt of yours.”

You sit between her legs, tilting your head, you look at her glistening pussy, the way it shines with her cum and your sloppy spit. It would look even more exquisite with a little more. Taking a beat as you take your time, you gather enough in your mouth before spitting slowly, Vi whimpering as your spit makes contact with her lower pair of lips. She couldn’t stop it, it slips and you’re grinning, hips desperately bucking to feel more of it.

“F-Fuck, need your cock. Please? I need it more than anything.” Vi confesses. There’s no need for dignity, especially if she keeps it and you won’t give her what she’s itching for.

“Yeah? Are you sure about it? Don’t want you backing out just in case you can’t be a good girl and take it.”

She can take it but she can’t take the countless teasing, trapped underneath the images drowning in her mind. This is what she wants, someone to dissolve into her, make her forget everything that has happened, just a pretty girl with some pretty tits who knows how to fuck. Right? That’s all this is. It’s all it can be tonight. Her lip is busted from the fight tonight, knuckles bloodied and bruised, but you don’t seem to mind all that much. It’s all the same to you. Vi is all the same, that’s been clear from the start.

Then, she decides to let her mind get shut off, let herself fall into you. You did know how to take care of her and tonight she would let you.

“Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”

“I promise.”

Once the harness is on, you wedge yourself in between her thighs, tattooed and toned, brave and brawny but she transforms into someone else entirely once you’re sinking inside her warm walls. You think about what it would feel like to feel her. Is she clenching around your cock? Would you feel the throbbing heartbreak of her clit? What you can hear is the whimper, uncontrollable and breathtaking, you slip further into her as you make home in her beautiful cunt.

She’s made it yours to take. You’d do anything and everything for her, the thought alone scares so you do what you do best, you grind your hips slowly. Not wanting to overwhelm her too quickly, it’s the first time she’s taking penetration and you want it to be good for her.

“You’re so perfect. Doing so good for me, taking my cock like a fucking champ.” You whisper out, taking too much enjoyment in her getting lost in your soft thrusts. Vi’s chest starts to heave as her hips roll into yours. Vi never even imagined wanting this, or that she could really have it with someone else. It’s not like she’s experienced, she has nothing to compare it to, but it feels incredibly intimate.

She likes how you’re being with her. Soft, gentle, delicate. Vi thought she’d never want to feel that way, but maybe it’s just under the right circumstance in the right light.

“Shit, shit, shit” Vi chants as your hand grabs the headboard, giving her one particular powerful thrust. Perky tits spring to life, jolting against the sudden movement, her moan so fucking load, as you continue your movements. This time not as hard, but you pick up your pace, wanting to see if she would have any arguments against it but Vi doesn’t. Profanities and whimpers leave her mouth as you split her on your cock. Face half-smashed into the pillow, trying to muffle her moans and you offer this one mercy.

She’s still shy.

Now is a good time as any to fuck it out of her.

“Do you want more Vi? Want me to go…faster?” Placing a hand on her abdomen, the abs defined and clenching as you halt your thrust for a moment. “Do you wanna feel me in your stomach, baby?”

“Can you even do that? I’m not so sure you’re even capable. Looks like the rookie knows more moves than the veteran.” Vi bites back. But it doesn’t last for long. Vi thinks she must have said the wrong thing, pushed you too far, you slipped off her but only to move her body to the edge of the bed, placing her on all fours right in front of a very convenient mirror.

“Fine. Thought I’d be sweet but that isn’t what you really want. If you want to get treated like a whore, I’ll fuck you like one.” You take a beat to appreciate her wonderfully sculpted back, the artwork is truly exquisite. It feels so much like her but the foolish girl is smirking at you through the mirror.

You know you’ve been caught ogling at her body, checking out every inch of her exposed body, you slap her ass in retaliation but she just grinds her ass back onto you.

“I’m waiting.” Teasingly, Vi arches her spine more. “Where’s the whore fucking you’re muling about?”

In one move, you’re inside her, fucking her beautiful face into the mattress. Never in her life has she felt so full, so good, so sweet. You grab her by the meat of her hips, bringing you back on her repeatedly. Vi wonders what she would give to have this, have you, and the thought scares her just as badly. She instead focused on you.

Tits bouncing as you thrust into her at a punishing pace. Divinely and so perfectly you, making her see stars, she feels trapped. Not in a punishing way, but in a way that has her never wanting to leave the entrapments of your coaxing cock. At this moment, this is where she’s meant to be, just a toy for you to use.

But it’s more than what meets the eye. If Vi was just a toy, you’d be done after the first night. Tonight, you weren’t using her for your own pleasure. You seemed perfectly content to give. The shine in her eyes gave you something only she could, edging you even further, a constant wave hitting Vi like a tidal wave making home on the shore.

“God, you’re just too perfect. Fuck, just like that, take what’s yours.” Bouncing back on the strap, the words fall from her lips before she can’t stop them. Overflowing like a water fountain, it’s before she really even realizes what she’s saying, it just feels right.

“Mommy, please.”

Vi has had those words on the tip of her tongue but not that you’re fucking her into a different dimension, she lets the aching plea slip from sinful lips. It’s only once but it’s enough to set you off. You pull Vi up, her gorgeous back pressed against your chest, sitting on your thighs as you fuck up into her. Brutally, she takes everything you have to give.

Sweat glistening across her body, accentuating her chest as she tries to compose herself but you don’t give her the option. No. It would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

“I want you to watch, Violet. Watch yourself when you cum, be a good girl and show me how pretty you look, hm? Wouldn’t wanna disappoint, Mommy, now would you?”

Vi sucks on your middle digit, tongues swirling as she feels the tight band in her stomach, threatening to snap. She’s close. When the sensationally soft pad of your thumb applies pressure on her clit, Vi’s done for.

“Shit, oh my fucking god, baby baby babbyyyyy.” Incoherent murmurs and moans come in abundance as Vi bounces herself your cock, falling right apart as you toy with her clit, fucking her through the impending high. Your other arm tweaks around and up, fingers squeezing her tits, over stimulating her as she slumps against you.

It’s the easiest task ever done. Submit to you, your skilled fingers, the power of your sinfully sensational thrusts, she comes all over you. The powerful demeanor weakens before your very eyes. When you gently move her back on the bed, slipping out of her, Vi’s eyes begin to water from the loss.

The first time getting strapped down is always a lot to handle, you’d still taken it easier on her, too afraid you would push her too far but by the blissed out eyes, she’d enjoyed herself. She had enjoyed herself and you couldn’t really ask for much more.

When the both of you are cleaned up, Vi cuddles into your frame and you let her. Even if your first instinct is to push her away, saying something you know that’ll hurt her, none of it finds any merit on your tongue. For the first time, you find it difficult to turn away a pretty girl, her lips kissing your collarbones, up your neck until she finds home on your own lips, sloppily invading your mouth with your tongue.

Hitting you where it hurts, she moans your name in her mouth, unable to contain the neediness she feels around you. It’s worse than Cait. This is pure addiction entangled with something carnal. Vi knows if she doesn’t get to fuck you again, you fucking her cunt again, she might as well give up on life now.

“I could go again.”

You chuckle. Of course she could.

“Don’t know rookie, that might be all you can handle for the night.”

It’s a challenge and you know she’ll bite the bait.

With ease she gets on top of you, and just as if she’s done it a hundred times, Vi sinks on your cock, “I think I can handle another ride, don’t you?”

#m'actually kinda proud of this one #(ᝰ.ᐟ) arcane works.#i hope y'all like it :')#lmk what you think <3 #vi #vi arcane #arcane league of legends #league of legends #vi smut #vi x reader #vi x you #vi arcane x reader #wlw post #wlw fanfiction #lesbian #violet arcane x reader #vi x fem reader #arcane x you #violet arcane

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superduperkas · 7 months ago

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Arcane is a masterclass in body language and how to properly use it in storytelling to get your message to your audience without thunking them over the head/spoon feeding it them.

Caitlyn's relationship to Vi vs her relationship to others is a great example.

Caitlyn is almost always trying to create less distance between Vi and her or "fill the gap" between them:

Cait steps over the red line in Stillwater to show Vi the evidence

After Vi ditches Cait in the brothel to jump Sevika, Cait seeks her out and saves her from Sevika

When she gives Vi the medicine for stab wound, they're breathing each other's air

She reaches across the space between them on her bed to caress Vi's face

She chases after Vi following the Council meeting not going their way

Fairly certain, she was going to go look for Vi after her shower if Jinx hadn't kidnapped her

She seeks out Vi after her dad, more or less, says he doesn't want Vi in their house. Not to kick her out but to find some comfort in being close to her (i think this is why she pushed so hard for her to be an enforcer, to keep her close)

Cait also does a fair share of looking at Vi's lips, slightly leaning in, and second guessing herself all within a span of a blink

Vi asks Cait not to change (she already has), so she closes the gap between them, and they share their first kiss as a form of reassurance

She takes down Vi mongoose style and again starts closing the gap between them by betraying Ambessa and helping Vander

Cait slightly/momentarily leans towards Vi's lips when she's pulling the bag over her head

Vi spits in her face and wipes it TOWARDS HER MOUTH and not away

After Jayce shoots Viktor and Ambessa attacks, Caitlyn has ample opportunity to go after Jinx, but she focuses on Vi and covering her back until she gets sliced across the abdomen and then she runs to her to help her to her feet

Now let's look at how Caitlyn creates gaps and space with Maddie even tho they're sleeping together:

Beginning of episode 4, while they're sitting in bed, Maddie tries to close the gap and create some intimacy. Caitlyn, in turn, leans away from her, creating space between them

Maddie is also the one trying to initiate/create emotional intimacy, and Caitlyn swerves her each time

Maddie kisses/nuzzles Caitlyn's neck, and in response, Caitlyn has the quickest expression of "eugh" before fixing her face and moving away from Maddie

Instead of leaning into the intimacy Maddie is trying to give her, Caitlyn gets up to work on something and says she'll come to bed soon

Caitlyn lets Ambessa dismiss Maddie from the room after (more than likely) overhearing the discussion about restarting the council (I really think if this were Vi, Caitlyn would've pulled rank and told her to stay)

Maddie is also very absent from the rest of s2p2, and given how we've seen Caitlyn actively seek out Vi in her absence, she honestly doesn't seem to care where Maddie is or how she's doing

And none of this is explicitly told to the audience thru dialog. All thru body language. And i just think that's really neat

#thanks for reading if you made it all the way thru #arcane #arcane brainrot #body language #body language in storytelling #caitlyn x vi #caitvi #vi x caitlyn #caitlyn kiramman #vi arcane #lesbian #sapphic #i can't stop laughing at how much Cait doesn’t want Maddie #maddie arcane #arcane spoilers

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all-purpose-dish-soap · 3 months ago

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72 / 2.6k / final part of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

nsfw; dubcon, group sex, toxic polyamory, predator/prey dynamics, degradation, manhandling, sex while on substances, kidnapping. also monsterfucking and sex pollen if you squint.

mentions of violence, dismemberment, and death (to minor characters) in the epilogue.

...

You pull at the restraints around your wrists to no avail. Your rational brain moves your lips over fragments of incantations, searching for one that will bring them back under your control. You've lost your home and the few precious possessions you had tonight. You must have control. If you don't, you have nothing left. But your animal brain wants more. Wants to fuck until your legs collapse.

Ghost's rough hands drag your hips to the altar’s edge. The stone leeches warmth from your back as Price's shadow eclipses yours. His belt hits the ground with a heavy thud.

He steps between your legs and traces the hollow of your knee with his battle-scarred knuckles. His other hand drifts higher. He presses your clit with his thumb and begins circling it with unhurried precision. Your hips writhe despite yourself. Price smiles. "That's it. Use us. Feed us. Make us serve you."

That’s not what this feels like. Consumed by agonizing need, you try to press your hips further into his thumb. Your empty pussy throbs. It wants him inside.

Price grabs your thigh. "Open"

It's not a request. When you don't do as he says, he drags his hand higher and grips a handful of your inner thigh.

"Wider."

Then his cock presses against you. Breaches you. Your back arches off the forest floor as he slowly sheathes himself to the hilt. The second thrust steals your breath.

"Feed," he growls. “Make her come apart.”

Gaz's mouth seals over your nipple. Ghost's calloused fingers press against your lips. Soap runs his tongue up your neck and behind your ear, lapping up sweat. Their arcane aura drapes over you like a burial shroud. Suffocates you. Binds you tighter. No, not just them--something older and heavier that clings to these ruins.

"Come," Price murmurs. "Bare your weakness."

The henbane's fever grips your spine. You climax with a shattered cry, vision whiting out as he fucks you through it. He fucks like he fights: efficient, precise, no movement wasted. Then he pulls out abruptly, leaving you clenching around nothing. He flips you onto your knees and elbows. "Again," he orders. "Arch."

He pushes into you from behind. You curve back into it, distantly aware of the gluttonous stares and catcalls your obvious need elicits from the others. You come again. Violently. Shamefully. Price's pace quickens.

"Again," he growls.

...

They take turns fucking you all night.

The empty eyes of the chapel's dead saints bear witness. Until the friction exhausts you, until the spiritual well from which you draw to cast and summon runs well and truly dry. Until your body is nothing but a hollow vessel, empty to your very pores, and that arcane shroud settled over you begins to seep under your skin. It molds to your raw need and fills you anew as if you’ve been offered as a sacrifice and then reborn in some ancient cult’s ceremony. It binds to you. Climbing vines and clusters of midnight purple hellebore blooms begin flowering to life, pushing through the ruined tile at the base of the altar.

Gaz’s fingers tangle in your hair to keep your head pulled back. The altar's marble digs into your knees. Then Soap is on his back beneath you, grinning as he guides your hips onto his cock. He rubs torturous circles into your clit as he fucks up into you. Then Ghost bends you over the altar and sinks his teeth into your shoulder as he takes you there, hard; the straining of the shackles rubs your wrists raw until Ghost tires of your pained huffs and rips the chains away from the walls altogether.

He grips the chains dangling from your still-shackled wrists with one hand and weaves the other into your hair. He cranes your head back to make you see Price observing it all from the pews.

"That's it, darling," Gaz purrs to you as Ghost's thrusts stutter, his cock pulsing. "Take every drop. Saints know you've earned it."

He drags you upright by your shackled wrists once Ghost finishes, and he presses your back to his chest. His fingers trace the sigil behind your ear--their claim as much as yours--as he pushes up into you from below.

Once Gaz finishes inside you again--you've lost count of how many loads you’ve taken--Price rises from the pews. He rests your trembling legs over his shoulders, your back flat against marble. His cock splits you deeper than before. He drives into you further and further until your exhausted voice cracks with another moan.

"Come," he growls.

"I can’t," you groan out. You're too exhausted to give him what he wants. "Nothing left."

Price's thrusts slow but don't stop. His hand wraps around your throat not to squeeze, but to feel the vibration of your strained whimpers. "Can't?" He leans down. "You bound demons to your body and starved them, witch. You don't get to abandon our covenant." His hips snap forward. He sheathes himself to the hilt again. Your walls flutter weakly around him. "You leashed our lives to yours. You asked for our protection. This" --he drags his thumb across your eyelid and through your wet lashes-- "is the mercy of that choice." Then he presses his palm on your sternum and splays his fingers wide between your breasts as if to capture your heart. "This belongs to us."

The others gather to watch. Ghost's fingers dig into your arms and holds them over your head as Price fucks you past the point of oversensitivity into a dazed, shuddering haze. When he finally spills inside you, he snarls your name like a curse against your throat. Soap weaves a hand into your hair and tilts your head forward to make you watch Price pull his cock out of you. It glistens with your excessive arousal.

Price rests his forearms against the marble on either side of you. He leans his forehead against your trembling stomach, takes a deep breath in, and lets it out with a rumble.

"Next time you run," he murmurs against your navel, "wear bells. We like to chase you."

Soap tosses a ratty fur over your shivering body. His calloused palm lingers on your thigh. Ghost's claw traces the shackle marks on your wrist. Then he tugs the fur higher to cover your breasts. Gaz chuckles at your utter collapse. "Imagine how tired she'll be when we assess her more comprehensively."

Dawn bleeds through shattered stained glass. You've never felt such exhaustion in your life--physically, mentally, spiritually. Yet you drift off without fear. Your body is light and your mind is unencumbered by habitual worry. You fall asleep in moments, scarcely noticing what they're saying as they begin to discuss what to do with you.

Price buttons his coat. His gaze lingers on the vines strangling the altar--latent magic channeled through your worn body. What once clung to the walls now resides in you, whether you know it or not.

Price watches your chest rise and fall shallowly under the moth-eaten pelt. "We've made our point," he says. "Now let's discuss the lesson."

Soap drapes himself over the back of the frontmost pew with the ease of a supremely sated man. "Lesson's simple, Cap. Witch learned her place."

"Which is?"

"Beneath us. Always."

Price's thumb brushes your swollen lip. "Wrong." He stands and pulls a knife from his belt. "Her place is alive. Protected. Fruitful." The blade flashes as he cuts a lock of your hair. "You lot forget--she's not livestock. She's our wellspring."

Ghost rumbles. "She poisoned us."

"And we’ve punished her for it." Price tucks the hair into his pocket and tosses the knife aside. "But we don't ruin the well because we're thirsty. We renew it."

Ghost harrumphs. "She'll need a new nest," he mutters. He picks up the knife and begins honing it on the altar's edge. "Somewhere defensible."

"Aye, with thicker walls. And a bigger bed." Soap’s grin flashes red in the sunrise. "More efficient that way."

Gaz crouches beside you and examines the leaves unfurling near the crown of your head. "Won't matter. She'll bolt again. We need to break her proper next time. Chain her to the bed. Fuck the fight out day and night."

Vines curl up the altar near your feet. New buds swell rosy black in the dawn light.

Price plucks one and examines it. "Not so. Restrain the magic, not the witch, and she'll learn to crave the leash." Price crushes the small bloom in his palm. "Gaz, carry her. Ghost, scorch the trail. Soap--stop grinning and scout ahead. North."

"North, sir?"

"Old fort past the marshes. Walls steeped in old blood. The land's... sympathetic to us.” Price lifts you. Your head lolls against his shoulder. Your breath catches--a trapped sound, even in sleep.

Gaz inhales deeply. New arousal. "She's dreaming of us."

"Course she is." Soap licks the corner of his mouth like he wants to lick your cunt up and down again instead. "Gettin' used to her new life already."

…

You never return to the rubble where your house once stood. The villagers never see you again. But they hear whispers--fearful talk of a devil in the tempting shape of a woman, a nymph who weaves through the shadows of the deep woods, rarely seen. They tell tales of the curse that follows any man who watches her too closely and falls victim to her thrall--the way they disappear, swallowed whole by the forest. They tell tales of the beasts who haunt those woods. Crows. Hounds. Wildcats. Screech owls. Black hares.

Mothers hush their children with tales of the witch who walks with wolves, her shadow stretching long even at noon. Men whisper in taverns, ale sloshing as they lean close. Saw her by the blackthorn grove, skin glowing like a will-o'-the-wisp. Followed her 'til the crows' laughter drove me mad.

You tell those who draw close enough not to follow you. You tell them to turn back and leave those cursed woods. But the men stubborn enough to pursue a witch are men too stubborn to listen. They think they can save you.

So you don't hide.

You let them glimpse you bathing in moonlit streams, your scars silvered by starlight. You let them hear your voice carried on the wind--come closer and lose your life, fool--as you braid hemlock into your hair. They never listen.

Ghost takes the first hunter. Drags him screaming into the bracken, bones crunching like kindling.

Soap claims the priest--peels him apart verse by verse, psalmbook pages stuffed down his throat.

Gaz plays with the lord's son for three days. He returns the boy's signet ring to his father's doorstep, severed finger inside still warm.

Price surveys the forest from your fortress’s highest tower. You stand still against his chest. His hands map the web of delicate silver chains that drape your bare hips. "They'll never stop coming," he tells you. His voice is low, soft, and callously teasing. "Not with the lure of such noble suffering."

The old fort's bones stand like teeth. Ivy blooms black under the moonlight and chokes its crumbling walls. You've learned its corridors--the way damp stone whispers of sieges long past, the drafty chambers where moss devours tapestries, the courtyard where Ghost weeds and burns your strange flora every new moon, lest it choke the forest’s natural growth.

They let you wander the battlements. Not alone, of course. Gaz shadows you as a lynx, dark eyes tracking your every step. Soap perches in crow form on the rusted portcullis, cawing taunts when you linger too near your prison’s gate. At night, Price presses your palm to the fort’s cold stones and makes you feel the old blood in its mortar--the violence sewn into its foundations, hungry for fresh sacrifice.

Your chambers smell of sex, henbane, and hellebore. The bed is a nest of furs and ancient grimoire pages. You kneel to relight the hearth and copper incense burner with a snap of your fingers. Soon enough, one of your familiars will collapse into your bed, boots propped up on your pillow to watch you until he’s ready to drag you into the furs and take you again.

Shackles hang from the canopy. They’re decorative now. Your familiars don't require them to keep you here. This--the bond, the feral devotion and the promises that underscore it--is stronger than iron.

Ghost fucks you against the armory wall, your legs hooked over his hips as he rams into you. He growls deep and low--no longer the tense, violent snarl of a starving beast, but a sound of possessive self-satisfaction.

Soap takes you on the battlements, your hands bound with his belt as he bends you over the parapet. "Scream loud, rabbit. Let the woods hear who owns you."

Gaz's favorite game is the chase. He chases you through the halls and to the very threshold of the fortress, portcullis raised just enough to taunt you with room to escape, before dragging you back inside by the ankle, your scant robes dowsed with mud. "Almost had it that time, love. Maybe next century."

Price is different. He fucks you slowly in the war room, maps scattering as he bends you over the strategy table. His fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands as he whispers the same words you once used to bind them when you were still a trembling novice with a dagger to his throat.

The longer you stay, the more ivy drapes the crumbling stone. Your magic pulses in the walls. Ghost and Price watch you.

"She's getting stronger," Ghost says.

Price lights his pipe. "Aye. Best pray she stays tame."

Later, he watches you press your palm to the fort's oldest wall. The stones hum. Winter roses--false roses, lovely and toxic--turn their petals up to listen.

Price watches. "Still trying to domesticate us? Or survive us?"

You hum. The brambles curl toward his voice. "Same thing."

Carcasses of would-be heroes decorate the gates. Hellebore blooms from their eye sockets in warning. One midsummer night, a knight arrives. The holy symbols etched into his armor and sword are the same ones worn by the stone saints in that abandoned church where you once fled in a vain bid for sanctuary. That well of magic inside you recognizes the ancient blessing singing in his blood. He could help you. You could warn him, you realize as you meet him at the tree line. But you don't.

"Demon bride," he spits, blade raised. "The only freedom left for you is death."

Gaz's wildcat form takes him at the knees. Soap's raven plucks out an eye. Ghost's hound teeth rip out his Achilles tendon.

Price lets the man live.

You kneel beside his twitching body. You tilt his chin up with a bloodied hand. "Rest."

Hemlock sprouts between his teeth. The vines drag him underground. Your familiars watch from the shadows with dissatisfaction gleaming in their eyes.

Soap scoffs. "Again? Boring. You never keep our gifts."

You rise and absently wipe your bloody fingertips off on your robes. "Next time."

You return to your bedchambers. The furs on your bed pile higher and higher, soft and inviting. The shackles gather dust.

You dream of running.

You always wake up caged.

...

end <3

...

← part 4 / [part 5]

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

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coralaze · 2 months ago

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—ARCANE WOMAN HCS, YOU GRINDING ON THEIR ABS

Vi—

Vi lives for physical tension. One moment you’re straddling her lap after a sparring match, catching your breath—and the next you’re shifting just a little too slowly, grinding down against her abs, pretending it's unintentional.

She smirks immediately, that low rasp in her voice making your stomach flip. “That feel good, sweetheart?" Her hands settle on your hips like second nature.

Her abs tense under you, and you feel every movement as she flexes slightly, just to tease. She's letting you have control—until she doesn’t.

Vi’s not shy. If you keep going, she’ll grip your thighs tighter and lean in, her breath against your neck “If you want something, say it.”

Jinx—

With Jinx, it’s a game. Everything’s play. You might start grinding on her abs during one of her manic energy bursts, and she just laughs—until she realizes you’re serious.

Her whole body goes still, her eyes widening a little before she grins that wicked grin. “Oh? Getting bold now, huh?” She’s impressed.

Her core is deceptively strong from all the climbing and chaos she does—your slow grind makes her breath hitch, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

She giggles through her blush, arms behind her head. “Keep going… let’s see how long I can stay still.”

Caitlyn—

Caitlyn is not used to being teased physically like this, so the moment you straddle her—pretending it’s innocent—and start moving against her toned stomach? She's shook.

Her cheeks flare pink almost immediately, but she doesn’t stop you. Her hands hover at your hips like she doesn’t know if she should push you back or pull you closer.

“You’re being very… bold today, darling.” she says, voice a bit shaky but eyes locked to yours, trying to maintain composure.

Once she regains control, though? She lets her hands drop to your thighs, steadying you. “Is this what you needed?” Her voice lowers—cool and breathy.

Ambessa—

Grinding against Ambessa Medarda is like pressing into a statue of war—pure, unrelenting power. Her body doesn’t move unless she lets it.

You shift in her lap, slow and deliberate, feeling every hard ridge of her core, her arm casually thrown across the back of the couch like she’s entirely unaffected… but her eyes burn.

“Keep going,” she says coolly, voice like smoke. “Let’s see how much you can handle before you beg me to touch you.”

She watches you with a hawk’s intensity—savoring the way your breath stutters and your thighs tighten. She won't move. She doesn't need to move—she owns the room, and soon, she’ll own you too.

Sevika—

You’re sitting on her lap, straddling her, just messing around… until you shift your hips a little too slow. You feel it immediately—how solid and unyielding her core is beneath you. Her metal arm rests lazily on the back of the chair, and her living hand curls around your thigh.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’, princess?” Her tone is low, rough—half warning, half interested. She doesn’t stop you, though. Not ehen close.

You grind a little harder—slow and deliberate—and you feel her abs tighten under you. She’s letting it happen, testing you, eyes locked on yours like a predator watching its prey. A smirk starts curling on her lips.

"You think you’re in control?” she rasps, letting her thumb trace the inside of your thigh. “Keep goin’. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

The grind becomes a power play—you trying to push her, and her just taking it, unmoved and unshaken until she finally growls and grabs your hips, slamming you down harder. “Alright, sweetheart,” she murmurs against your ear, “you asked for it."

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clockwayswrites · 3 months ago

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The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 2, Part 1

masterpost - this is just a first draft, please no editing or concrit! I have had a migraine for over a week now (。﹏。)

“Are you even sure that they’re here with us now?” Mina asked as she shuffled her tarot cards almost absentmindedly.

Mina was taking Danny’s request apparently very seriously. They had moved from the cozy kitchen into the appropriately mysterious reading room. Mina sat in her navy blue, wingback chair. Danny stood next to the more demure guest chair at the table. The candles were even lit.

He picked up on of the coins scratched with odd symbols and turned it over in his fingers. He knew that Mina would use them as oracle coins with her cards, a way to add more depth to what was being told, but they were basically a complete mystery to him.

Danny set the coin back down. “They’re here. I think they feel bad for the seizure so they’ve been sticking close. There’s this… you know old monitors and screens? The big chunky ones. If you got close to them you could basically feel the static electricity coming off of them? That’s what their presence feels like to me.”

“Oh, huh. The cards can sometimes feel that way to me when I’m picking them,” Mina said. Her head was tilted thoughtfully, her eyes just slightly absent. “I wonder if they’re less ghost and more magic. Or if they were magic when they were alive? Magic of course being used loosely here for a variety of otherwordly and arcane forces.”

“Maybe,” Danny agreed with a helpless little shrug. “Like I’ve said, they don’t feel like a normal ghost, but if they’re not a ghost I don’t know why they came to me. Someone like you would be better at helping them if they’re magic and not dead.”

“On the surface, sure, but like, you don’t feel like a ‘normal’—” Mina made airquotes with her fingers around the word normal. “—human yourself.”

“Say what now?”

“Well you don’t!” Mina finally set the cards down so that she could motion freely as she talked. “It’s not something that the average person is going to pick up on, but to an adapt like me you also feel like you’re an adapt or something. Heck, I bet that you’ve met some people that you just weird out for no real reason you can tell. That’s the otherness.”

Well, she was right, he had freaked people out before, but he had always thought that was just a bad day and his ghostliness was bleeding through a little or something. He wasn’t magic.

“Now sit down,” Mina said.

Danny blinked. “I’m not who you’re reading.”

“No, but I can’t read them, so I’ll have to read them through you,” Mina explained like it was the most obviously thing.

It was best just to trust Mina, Danny figured, and took the seat across from her. Immediately, Hubris jumped up in Danny’s lap and nudged at his fingers for a pet. Mina stacked the deck straight and slid it over.

“Shuffle these for me. Don’t try to focus inside or on a question or anything, just focus on them.”

“Them as in them and not them as in the cards, right?”

Mina rolled her eyes. “Yes, Danny.”

“Look, I’m just making sure! I don’t do magic,” Danny said as he started to shuffle. It was a little hard to do so, what with Hubris trying to bat the cards away, but Danny did his very best to focus on the ghost. He thought about how it felt to interact with them. What they looked like. What the echo of their nearly there voice sounded like.

The tags on Hubris’ collar zapped Danny with a sudden zap of static electricity and Danny put down the deck to shake his hand out. Mina snapped them up as soon as he did. He guessed he was done shuffling.

“Ghost friend,” Mina called out. (Danny thought the ‘friend’ bit was generous.) “If you can hear me, focus on what got you in this mess.”

Danny leaned forward to try, as always, to see if he could sense something from Mina as she cut the cards, fanned out several on the table in front of her, and ran her fingers along them. As always, he didn’t see a damn thing about what made her pick the card she did.

Mina gave the sort of sucked in breath that pulled her bottom lip into her teeth as she flipped over the first card. It was the Tower. The bricks detailed by gold foil outlines that paled in comparison to the large lightning bolt striking it.

“Not good?” Danny asked.

“Very not good. You know how Death isn’t actually a card to fear?”

Danny nodded.

Mina tapped the card. “This is the card to fear.”

“Huh. Damn.”

#dp x dc #danny/dick/wally #rocket fuel #thodf

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nyxs2 · 7 months ago

Text

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 2/?)

Do you know what the main problem with addiction is? It's that it always demands more. And unfortunately for you, Silco was an addicted man.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 5,2K

Warnings: smut, resolved sexual tension, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, orgasm edging, overstimulation, you work in the brothel, Silco POV (when to start smut), Silco being the little control freak that he is. Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 1

Okay, I didn't expect the previous chapter to be so successful, so thank you to everyone who read it. Just a few warnings: Silco's actions can be quite controversial (you'll understand at the end), he's an antagonistic character and we have to recognize that he's not a saint. If you came here expecting something like "love at first sight", I'm sorry to tell you that there's going to be a long road to that. Remember, there's a fine line between love and obsession.

The month had flown by too quickly, and you barely noticed Silco's absence from the brothel. Since that night, he seemed to have vanished, and the days resumed their usual rhythm. With the generous bonus he had left, you managed to cut back on your workload, bringing a sliver of relief to your otherwise exhausting routine. Today was one of those calmer days. Your last session hadn't been physical; your regular client, Kate, a young woman with stunning green eyes, just wanted to talk.

You spent the time discussing her recent achievements. She had been clean from shimmer for three months and, with visible excitement, shared her plans to become a designer. She had even landed an internship at a boutique in Piltover. Despite being a paying client, your relationship with her felt closer to a friendship. You genuinely cared about her progress and rooted for her, even though you knew the harsh world of Piltover could extinguish the dreams of Zaunites as easily as a gust of wind snuffing out a candle.

The brothel had this misunderstood duality. It wasn't just a place of pleasure and debauchery, as many thought, but also a refuge for the lonely, even if those moments were as rare as fresh air in Zaun.

After the session, you sat at the vanity in the dressing room, touching up your makeup. It was a moment of pause, preparing to finally leave for the night. That's when hurried, hesitant footsteps reached your ears. Through the mirror, you saw Babette enter, her yordle face pale as if she'd seen a ghost.

"What's wrong, Babette?" you asked, frowning.

"He's back," she said in a hurried whisper, and you froze. There was no need to specify who. His name hung like a curse that no one dared to utter. "And he asked for you... in the same room."

A sigh escaped your lips as you nodded, trying to mask the storm brewing inside you. Your body moved automatically, brushing past a Babette who looked almost regretful on your behalf.

The conflicting sensations within you were hard to define—a mix of nerves and something akin to excitement. Part of you was eager to see him again, while another feared what this meeting might bring. It was a wave that swung between the warmth of reunion and the chill of apprehension. It was impossible to predict Silco's intentions with you.

Yet, despite the uncertainty, a part of you relished the idea of facing him again.

The curtains parted just as they had during your first meeting, and you stepped into the room with hesitant steps—but firm enough to mask the storm raging within you. There he was, Silco, seated on the sofa like he owned the world—or at least your little corner of chaos. This time, a cigar rested between his fingers, its smoke spiraling lazily toward the ceiling. A bottle of amber liquor and two glasses were set before him on the table.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you regarded him, trying to keep your expression impassive. "Miss me?" The provocation slipped out in an almost sweet tone, but the mockery woven into the edges of your words was there for anyone sharp enough to catch. And, of course, he did.

His eyes lifted to meet yours, and the smile that formed on his lips was... unsettling. A slow, predatory smile that made your entire body tense, unsure whether to prepare for a fight or flight. But running from Silco was never really an option, was it?

"Miss you?" he repeated, his voice low, almost a dangerous purr, as he brought the cigar to his lips and took a long drag. The smoke escaped in a deliberate exhale as he leaned back even further into the sofa. "I've been rather busy, dove. Running a city isn't exactly a part-time job."

His voice carried an intensity that seemed to cut through your skin and lodge itself directly in your nerves. His eyes were a weapon all their own, assessing you with clinical precision as though he could decode every emotion you tried to hide. Frustration? Undoubtedly. Curiosity? Perhaps. And something else... something you refused to name but which made your stomach churn and your breath quicken.

"Ah, of course... I forgot you rule Zaun. I thought it was just a hobby of yours." The words left your mouth dripping with sarcasm, a smirk tugging at your lips. You knew exactly how to provoke him, even if it meant walking a tightrope with Silco.

But he laughed. Not a short or biting laugh, but a rich, full chuckle that echoed through the cramped walls of the room. His reaction was almost disconcerting, as if he were genuinely amused by your defiance.

"I prefer to think of it as a calling. Someone has to keep these streets in line, after all," Silco retorted, bringing the cigar back to his lips and taking a deep drag. "Drink with me." He gestured casually toward the empty glass beside his with a flick of his hand, as if this were the most normal thing in the world—as if he hadn't disappeared for an entire month and was now acting as though nothing had happened.

You blinked once, twice, frowning at his offer. Surprised was an understatement. Even so, your feet carried you to the sofa, where you sat down beside Silco. Your gaze drifted to the glass placed in front of you, but you made no move to pick it up.

"Drink something from you? I thought I'd made it clear I'm not naive." Your voice was sharp, cutting, and you made no effort to hide what you thought. The accusation lingered in the air, but Silco seemed unfazed. On the contrary, the smile on his lips deepened, as though your suspicion was yet another point in his favor.

"Relax, dove." He set the cigar in the ashtray and leaned forward slightly, his eyes fixed on yours. "I may be many things, but I'm not the type to drug my... companions. I prefer them fully aware of what's happening."

Before you could respond, you felt his hand rest on your thigh, his fingers drawing lazy circles over the fabric of your skirt. The touch was too light to be casual but confident enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Besides," he continued, leaning in a little closer, "I don't need tricks. You came to me willingly last time, remember? And I'm certain you'll do the same again."

You held your breath for a moment—not out of fear but from the tension building in the air. It had been mere minutes, and already you were spiraling into this dangerous, sexual dance. When he reached for the bottle and poured two glasses, the sound of the amber liquid filling the glass seemed to fill the charged space between you. He slid one of the glasses in your direction, his fingers brushing against yours briefly, and that fleeting touch was like a surge of heat, reigniting memories you'd rather not dwell on now.

The cold glass against your fingers was solid, tangible, but the same couldn't be said for Silco's intentions. Swirling the liquid in the glass, you watched its viscosity under the light, searching for any sign of hidden betrayal. You brought the glass to your nose, inhaling deeply. Nothing unusual. No suspicious scent. Just the strong, familiar aroma of an expensive drink.

"Now, don't be rude. It's a rare vintage, and I insist," he said, his voice dropping a few tones, more of a command than an invitation. "Or are you afraid you can't handle me after a drink?"

He raised his own glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, taking a long sip and savoring the warmth the liquor seemed to bring. He was testing you, and you knew it.

"Oh... I can handle more than you think." You let the double meaning linger in the air, noting how quickly Silco caught on from the faint curl at the corner of his mouth. Then, your gaze shifted back to the drink in your hands.

A sigh escaped internally. Damn it. Against all your instincts, you decided to trust him—at least this once. Bringing the glass to your lips, you took a small sip.

The flavor was unexpected, complex. First, a gentle warmth spread across your tongue and slid down your throat, followed by a hint of sweetness that balanced the burn. You licked your lips, savoring the woody notes mingling with a subtle touch of caramel. It was... different. Something you'd never tasted before.

You almost let out a surprised sigh but managed to hold it back. However, you knew your expression had betrayed you. Worse still, you were certain Silco had noticed. His sharp gaze seemed to miss nothing, and he'd been watching you the entire time. Quickly recovering, you masked your face with indifference, though the effort felt pointless. Pretending nothing affected you had always been one of your sharpest weapons for surviving life in Zaun, but it seemed to fail irritatingly often when it came to him.

"So, tell me..." Silco resumed the conversation, his tone adopting a casual air, as if you were merely chatting. "What have you been up to while I've been away? I hope you haven't been entertaining any other clients in my absence."

"Well," you began, leaning back on the sofa, mimicking his casual tone while swirling the glass in your fingers, watching the liquid sway with the motion. "As far as I know, we're not exclusive."

You let your words hang in the air for a moment before taking another sip of your drink. This time, you kept your eyes fixed on the glass, pretending Silco's presence was just a shadow at the edge of your awareness. "So yes, I've been with other clients."

When you finally lifted your gaze, you met his eyes. They glimmered with something between amusement and danger, and the smile you offered Silco was anything but innocent. You knew you were playing with fire by provoking him so openly without any idea how he might react, but as the damned gambler you were, you could never resist a risky game—even if it meant losing your winning hand.

"Why?" you asked, your voice dripping with audacity as you calmly placed your now-empty glass on the table. "Are you jealous?"

"Jealous? No, I wouldn't say that." He paused, taking a slow, deliberate sip from his drink. "More like... protective. You see, dove, once I set my sights on something, I have a hard time sharing."

He set his glass down on the table with a faint but deliberate thud of glass against wood. You had pressed his buttons, that much was clear, but he didn't seem annoyed by your bratty attitude.

Silco settled back into the sofa, mirroring your posture, but with an air of authority that seemed to dominate the room. He leaned back slightly, his legs spreading just enough to make a point, the motion causing his coat to fall open. The glimpse of what looked like a holster at his hip seemed accidental—perhaps he didn't even remember carrying it. It was as natural to him as breathing.

He turned to you, his hand moving to your chin, tilting your face so your eyes would meet his. "But I'm a reasonable man," he continued, his tone soft, almost comforting, yet carrying an intensity that made your skin prickle. "I understand the nature of our... arrangement. You're a courtesan, and I'm merely a client. Nothing more, nothing less."

His thumb brushed against your lower lip, the touch as light as a feather, teasing. "Which is why I think it's time we renegotiate the terms, don't you?" His voice dropped a few tones lower. "I'm willing to pay for your exclusive services."

You couldn't deny the tension rippling through your body as Silco leaned in further, narrowing the space between you until his presence felt like the only thing that existed in your world. His touch on your chin was firm but not rough, a silent reminder of the absolute control he maintained over himself—and, in some ways, over you.

You allowed him to guide your face upward, a silent concession that you were willing to play along—at least within the rules that suited you.

His eyes were both an invitation and a threat, a contrast that should have been intimidating. But, to your surprise, you felt something else entirely.

It wasn't fear.

It was pride.

There was an unexpected, almost visceral pride within you, knowing that he wanted you—and made no effort to hide it. It was both unsettling and... perversely satisfying.

When Silco moved again toward you, the motion caused his coat to fall open further, fully revealing the holster strapped to his hip. The metallic gleam of the pistol's barrel caught the dim light, and your eyes lingered on it for a moment. The sight evoked a disconcerting mix of emotions: fear and excitement, battling for dominance within you.

You knew the gun wasn't there merely for protection. It was a silent statement, a symbol of power—and also of control. Silco didn't make empty threats, and the presence of that weapon made it abundantly clear. So classic, so predictable, you thought, though you couldn't deny there was something undeniably alluring about the image: danger so blatant yet so meticulously restrained.

That contrast was almost suffocating. The implicit threat of the weapon combined with the soft, almost intimate tone of his voice stirred something deep within you. It was a brutal reminder of the risks of being this close to him, but also irrefutable proof of the kind of power he wielded—not just physical but psychological.

This is not good, you told yourself, suppressing a shiver that could have been apprehension—or excitement. You knew how dangerous it would be to let Silco see you as his. The words you had spoken the last time you met applied to him perfectly, and to your misfortune, Silco was possessive by nature, his ambition only amplifying that trait.

But it was too late to turn back. You had already captured his attention once, and here he was again, returning to your arms like an addict seeking his next fix. And it was clear he wouldn't stop until he had you entirely.

"This negotiation..." you began, your voice lower, tinged with something that could have been scorn or desire, even you couldn't tell. "Isn't open."

The silence that followed was heavy, every word hanging in the air like a scale about to tip. There was refusal in your voice, but despite your efforts, there was also a trace of something else... something that could easily be mistaken for lust. And his gaze caught every nuance of it.

Slowly, your eyes drifted from his to his lips, but not before letting him see the small detour they took back to the pistol. As though you were weighing your options, calculating the risks, even though you knew all of them ended with him.

It was like walking a tightrope over an abyss, and both ends led directly to Silco. Two different fates, equally perilous.

"But," you continued, and your voice was almost a whisper now, deliberately laden with heat. Your mind screamed at you to stop, but the words had already taken shape. "You can try to convince me." It was a dangerous strategy, and Silco was toxic in every sense. But just like an addict depended on their drug, perhaps you could turn that dependence into an advantage for yourself.

Silco's eyes darkened, a fierce hunger burning within them as your defiant words left your lips. A low growl reverberated in his chest, heavy with intensity. He noticed the way your gaze roamed over him, like a flame consuming everything in its path. He also noticed—with dangerous satisfaction—the subtle quickening of your pulse, visible in the delicate line of your neck.

You were playing with fire, and Silco was more than willing to let you burn.

Before you could react, he moved with the swiftness of a serpent, pinning you against the couch. In one fluid motion, he seized control, trapping you beneath the weight of his body. His hands captured your wrists with firm precision, raising them above your head as he positioned himself between your thighs.

His hips pressed against yours, a slow and deliberate motion laden with intent. Your body acted before your mind could comprehend, arching to meet the contact.

"Oh, dove..." he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word caressing your skin like silk. His lips hovered near your throat, and you felt the warmth of his breath against the exposed skin. "I intend to convince you, and I think you'll find I'm quite... persuasive."

His lips found the curve of your neck, skimming over your skin with a dangerous blend of gentleness and possessiveness. When his teeth grazed your flesh, they didn't break the surface, but the implicit promise in every touch made your heart race. You knew he could, and you also knew you wouldn't fight him.

The control he exerted over you was intoxicating, but it wasn't just physical. There was something about the way he read you, how every sigh, every tremor of your body seemed to fuel him.

When his fingers released your wrists, you didn't move your hands from where he had placed them, as if the freedom he had given you was an illusion. Instead, you closed your eyes, feeling his hands glide down your body, his fingers tracing an almost lazy path that ignited every nerve in your skin.

His fingers reached the curve of your waist, pausing just long enough to apply a slight squeeze—a possessive touch that sent a shiver down your spine. He followed the contour of your hips, his movements as subtle as they were provocative. Then, with a deliberate motion, he tugged the hem of your skirt upward, revealing your skin inch by inch, as if each bit was a gift to be uncovered. The air grew heavier, each second stretching into eternity.

"You have no idea what you make me feel," he murmured, his voice a mix of confession and temptation, perhaps more to himself than to you. "The things I want to do to you..."

His breathing grew uneven, heavier, and before you realized it, your thighs tightened around his hips, as if to hold him there, in that exact place where the world seemed to have stopped.

"Then do them," you murmured, your voice hoarse, barely a whisper. This moment was his. And somehow, it didn't feel wrong, even though part of you knew you might regret it later.

But right now, in this instant, regret was the furthest thing from your mind.

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━━

"Careful what you wish for, dove..."

Silco's eyes darkened with lust as he watched her writhe beneath him, her body arching into his touch as if she were starving for it. He could feel the heat of her core pressing against his cock, even through the layers of clothing that separated them, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to rip them off and bury himself inside her right then and there. To feel that warm feeling that had been trapped in his mind for that damn month of being away from her. But he held himself back, it wasn't about him this time, as he would have other opportunities. He wanted to savor every moment of her surrender, to engrave the memory of it in his mind for years to come.

Slowly, teasingly, he trailed his lips down the column of her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin before sucking on her pulse point, leaving a mark. Relishing the way she gasped and writhed beneath him, her hands finally moved to tangle in his hair.

He leaned back, standing erect with his gaze fixed on that which he now coveted. He hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of her panties and pulled them down her legs, exposing her to his hungry gaze. This was something he had wanted to do since their first meeting.

Silco settled between her thighs, his breath ghosting over her slick folds. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes glittering with dark promise. "Look at you, dove. So wet for me already... Such a needy little thing." he murmured before dipping his head and pressing a kiss to her clit.

He started slowly, his tongue lapping at her slit, savoring the taste of her arousal. He traced the seam of her lips, teasing her entrance before flicking his tongue over her clit, again and again, until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisting in his hair.

He slid a finger inside her, then two, pumping them in and out of her tight heat, at first slowly. He curled them just so, searching for that special spot that would make her see stars. Silco felt her inner walls contract and vibrate around his fingers. He could tell she was getting close to her peak. Leaning down, he sealed his lips around her throbbing clit and sucked hard, flicking the sensitive nub quickly with the tip of his tongue.

At the same time, he pumped his fingers faster, rubbing mercilessly against that specific spot. Her thighs trembled and tensed on either side of his head as he took her right to the edge... then pulled back a little, wanting to prolong her torment a little longer before finally pushing her over the edge of blissful oblivion. He heard her whimper his name, her voice sounding tearful and frustrated. Then her little fingers tried to pull his face back into place between her thighs: "Easy, dove." He let his fingertip slide over her clit, circular motions that drove her to the edge, but weren't enough to give her what she wanted. "Silco..." her voice escaped in a hoarse moan, filled with a mixture of need and desperation. Sounding like a melody for Silco. "Say 'please' and I might let you cum." Silco's voice left no room for reply and this only made her even more frustrated. Her back arched and she tried again to pull Silco towards her. Her attempts failed. Silco then sped up the movement of her finger, noticing how easy it was to bring her to the edge again... and just as easy to slow down.

The second denied orgasm drew a reaction from her. "Please! Fuck.. I beg you... please!

He smirked as she begged so sweetly, the word "please" falling from her lips like a prayer. Oh, how he adored when she got like this - pride and poise cast aside in favor of raw, aching need. Silco was more than happy to oblige her, diving back in with renewed fervor. He savored the taste, groaning low in his throat as he feasted on her like a starving man, his fingers pumped steadily, curling just to brush that spot inside her. He felt her thighs clamp down around his head, heard her screaming his name as she came undone, her release flooding his mouth.

But Silco didn't stop. He kept going, riding her through her orgasm and straight into another, his tongue lashing at her sensitive flesh, his fingers pumping in and out of her clenching heat. He could feel her fighting it, her body tensing, trying to pull away from the too-much sensation, but he held her in place, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from her.

He felt her come again, harder this time, her body convulsing beneath him, her hands fisting in his hair so tightly it bordered on pain. He swallowed every drop of her release, groaning at the taste of her, the feel of her coming apart for him.

Only when she went limp beneath him, her body spent and trembling, did Silco finally relent. He pulled back, licking his lips as he admired his handiwork - His sweet dove sprawled on the couch, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. She looked utterly debauched, and fuck if it wasn't the hottest thing he'd ever seen. A sight that had to be for his eyes only.

"Perfect." He whispered to the void as you seemed to be passed out. Nothing could take away his sense of pride in having reduced you to a limp body lying on the couch, although a part—the one deep inside him—was irritated by the mere idea that someone else could do the same to you. "We can't let that happen, don't you think?"

A rhetorical question to which he already had an answer.

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━━

You blacked out for a second. You'd like to say you lasted longer after the first, but that would be a blatant lie. With Silco consuming you completely—in presence, touch, scent, and the rough sound of his voice—it was impossible to resist. He pushed you to the edge once more, and when you finally fell, the orgasm that crashed over you was even more devastating than the first.

You collapsed onto your side, utterly boneless, as though every bone in your body had dissolved. The exhaustion was so overwhelming that the line between consciousness and unconsciousness blurred with each passing moment. Every muscle in your body screamed in surrender, yet you still found enough energy to let out a soft whimper as you adjusted your legs, trying to ease the discomfort.

Your body was in a state of hyperawareness. You could feel every little detail: the slow but persistent throbbing between your legs, the sensitive, swollen ache of your clit, both painful and pleasurable as the pressure of your thighs shifted.

The heavy silence of the room was broken only by the sound of your ragged, uneven breathing. Each breath felt like an effort, but you began to relax, letting your muscles go slack against the couch. And then you felt it.

His gaze.

Even with your eyes closed, you knew Silco was watching. It was impossible to ignore. Those eyes had the power to strip you bare, as though he could see beyond flesh, directly into what you tried to hide—vulnerability, desire, surrender.

Opening your eyes slowly, you blinked a few times, dislodging the tears that clung stubbornly to your lashes. Your lips curled into a trembling, tired but genuine smile as your gaze found his face. Silco didn't look away. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—dangerous and tender all at once—that made you shift uncomfortably, even in your exhaustion.

"That was the first time..." you began, your voice breathless, your chest still rising and falling rapidly as you tried to catch your breath. "By Janna... twice in a row... How is that even possible?"

The words came out in an almost incredulous tone, with a hint of exhausted laughter. You didn't know how he did it, but it seemed Silco knew exactly what to do with your body. Where to touch, what to say, which buttons to press... absolutely everything.

"Give me a minute," you continued, your voice strained with fatigue. "I don't think I can do anything else right now. My body has officially shut down, and it's your fault."

Despite the exhaustion, there was a note of humor in your voice, something you knew he'd pick up on. But it was the truth. Every fiber of your being felt like it had been pushed to its limit, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you had no urge to fight it.

Silco leaned over you, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face with a surprisingly gentle, almost reverent gesture. The touch was a stark contrast to the roughness of his calloused fingers. "Don't worry about me, dove," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, like a whispered melody in the darkness. "I'm more than satisfied with how the night turned out."

He then pressed a light kiss to the corner of your mouth. The fleeting touch was almost contradictory, an unspoken promise hidden behind the faint, teasing smile that played on his lips. "Now, catch your breath. Compose yourself."

He moved away with his usual natural elegance. As he adjusted his clothes, straightening his suit with meticulous care, smoothing out his trousers; taking more careful care of this part for obvious reasons, and running his fingers through his slightly disheveled hair, you watched him silently. He seemed lost in his own world as he tidied himself.

Silco then turned his attention back to you, extending a steady hand to help you sit properly on the couch. With surprising care, he adjusted your skirt, a gesture that felt almost chivalrous coming from the same man who had undone it in the first place. But what truly caught your attention was the way he picked up the garment he had removed from you earlier—your underwear—and slipped it into his trouser pocket without even attempting to hide the act.

You opened your mouth, perhaps to protest, but before you could utter a word, he had already shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of the expensive fabric pressed against your skin, warm from his body heat, carrying his unmistakable scent: lingering tobacco, worn leather, and a metallic note that reminded you of burnt gunpowder or rust. It wasn't necessary—you knew that—but he seemed to relish the idea of covering you, marking the moment with a gesture that was as possessive as it was protective.

"In any case," he said, his voice taking on a teasing tone as his hand rested firmly on your shoulder, the touch deliberate, "You can return the favor next time."

"So that's your excuse to come back to this brothel?" you replied, your tone laced with sarcasm as one eyebrow arched slightly. A sly smile curved your lips as you looked at him. "How predictable, Silco..."

"Oh, I assure you, dove," he murmured, his voice laden with a dangerous softness that made every word sound like a promise. "It's not the only reason I'll return. But, I must admit... it's a rather tempting incentive."

Yet, as he spoke those words, something shifted inside him. A dark and familiar shadow rose, staking its claim on his mind. Suddenly, Silco pulled back. His face, previously brimming with desire and mischief, turned into a mask of indifference.

"I need to go," he said abruptly, the tone of someone ending a conversation with no room for argument. "There's something I need to take care of."

And with that, without another word, he was gone.

Leaving you behind, confused, and his jacket.

[...]

The days following Silco's visit were a series of unsettling events. The changes came slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, but you had a knack for picking up on nuances. You were a survivor, and survival meant knowing when something was wrong before it became a bigger problem.

First, there were the furtive glances. Your colleagues at the brothel seemed to watch you with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. There were hushed whispers and abruptly interrupted conversations whenever you walked by. That wasn't new—gossip was as common as the smell of cheap perfume in that place. But this felt different now. Heavier. As if they knew something you didn't.

Then came the anonymous donation. A substantial amount of money, accompanied by a short and direct note, unsigned. Just three words: "For your comfort."

You found yourself staring at the note longer than you should have, the paper trembling slightly in your hands. The tone of the words seemed polite, even kind, but in context... there was no comfort in them. Only confirmation that someone was meddling in your life.

Finally—and perhaps most disturbingly—was the sudden drop in the number of clients. At first, you thought it was a coincidence, something seasonal. The brothel's clientele had its ups and downs, after all. But as the days went by, the reality became unmistakably clear.

The few men who still requested your company exhibited strange behaviors. Gone were the hungry gazes, the invasive touches. They were stiff, as if walking on eggshells, and most seemed incapable of relaxing in your presence. They didn't want closeness, avoided more intimate advances. Instead, they merely asked for your company, remained in an awkward silence while sitting far from you, and left far more money than necessary.

It was disconcerting. The break from routine, the absence of the predictable... it was almost worse than dealing with the unwanted touches you'd learned to ignore.

And then came the confirmation you didn't want. It arrived through a conversation you weren't invited to but overheard from the other side of a door: the men who had been appearing and specifically requesting you, were none other than subordinates of a certain chemical baron.

Silco. Part 3

#silco x reader #silco x you #reader insert #minors dni #arcane fanfic #arcane silco #smut #no beta we die like silco #arcane

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teastyun · 1 year ago

Text

༺ paid undone

arcane sevika x female reader (nsfw)

working as an owner of a mechanics shop at day and prostitute at night at Zaun's most famous brothel, you expect a quiet night shift after a hard day of work. your expectations go avail and you miserably fail at keeping your identity hidden from Sevika, who has just earlier visited you at your shop that day.

a/n: instead of listening to my lecture on English diachronic history I wrote this in my notes app and dear god pls let me ride her until my legs fall off

masterlist

putting your makeup pouch back into your personal small closet, you wonder who's today's clients will be. on your way to work, you've noticed how empty and calm the streets are recently. no fights, no big groups lingering in each corner eyeing anyone that's passing by, only a few drunkards at their usual shit.

words were spread about an ex-prison mate duelling her way through the ring in the center of Zaun after a fatal crisis in the upper world. interestingly enough, the brothel's business wasn't booming since her entry in Zaun, equalling a calm shift for you. lucky for you, you're paid per hour instead of per client, so you expect a good rest after your long shift at your mechanics shop.

as your usual routine, you put your mask on and wrap a robe around your lightly clothed body, before you take a quick trip to visit the madam and owner of the brothel.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ

entering the long dark hallway, you keep your head low and walk steady towards the madam's room.

on your way you pass several rooms with slightly open doors, revealing the sounds of huffing, moaning, but also laughing. despite the empty streets, the brothel seems to be lively today, nonetheless.

you take a deep breath and close your eyes, as your fingers touched the doorknob of the room. your boss is a lovely old lady, but sometimes intimidates the shit out of you, despite the years you've already worked at her institution.

"there you are, y/n." she looks up from her papers with a cigarette in between her long wrinkled fingers decorated with heavy rings and long painted nails. you are one of her longest and most reliable workers, and she makes sure to treat you accordingly.

"s'bit a teeny quiet, ain't it?" she looks up at you with her long, cat eye-ish lashes and heavy purple eyeshadow accentuating her wrinkles around them. in response you lightly nod, not sure why she's suddenly talking about anything but your upcoming client.

you look at her as you wait for her to continue.

her fingernails tap like a melody against her cigarette trinklet, making you nervous with each taping sound.

"m'love, i've got a rather... special client waiting for you today. are you aware of Silco's... mates?"

while deep in your thoughts you first nod, but quickly shake your head after.

earlier, you've seen a slender girl with long blue braids at your shop, a tall and intimidatingly buff woman with a heavy red cloak covering half her body, following her close behind without exchanging a single word with either the girl, nor you. but, where they really from Silco?

the madam watches every single move of yours. her head tilts mischievously at your response. "very well. tonight, i assigned a special lady of Silco's to you. she's waiting for you in room xii."

your already tense nerves aren't pleased to hear about today's responsibility you're taking, but you silently thank her by lightly bowing your torso before you make your way to the assigned room.

her voice stops you as you open the heavily decorated door. "and y/n, make sure to please her with every single pretty ounce of yours."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ

you were already fucked before you even entered the room.

you expected a calm, restful shift with easy clients. instead, you have one of the most powerful and influential people of Zaun in your rooms, waiting for you to finally enter.

not looking up as you close the door behind you, you take off your robe while trying to maintain your breathing. as it falls to the floor, you take a quick glance at her.

there she is, the same woman you were eyeing up and down today at the mechanics shop. will she recognise you?

hoping that won't be the case in sake of your privacy and reputation, you slowly walk to the backless stool in front of her as you take a seat.

on your way, you carefully observe her. she even has the same clothes on as earlier. the grey and red tones in her clothing accentuate her toned body underneath. looking closely, she even seems to be hiding something underneath her mysterious cloak.

without further thought, you greet her by bowing your head lightly in respect, waiting for her to make the next move.

you notice her shifting in her seat, as she leans towards you while resting her free arm on her knee.

confused by her behaviour, you look up and notice her brown eyes piercing yours. she is incredibly intimidating and you can't help the furrow that sneaks between your eyebrows in confusion beneath your mask. you've never had a client look at you for minutes without a single sound nor move.

normally, your client has a certain thought wanting to be practiced with you as soon as possible, since time is money, especially in this brothel, where clients pay per minute. Zaun isn't necessarily known for its strong economy, so clients sometimes visit on the occasion for only a handful of minutes before they need leave.

but this, this was different. her piercing eyes where warm, but somehow so cold at the same time as she slowly eyes your appearance.

you're wearing a beautiful set of lingerie in your best colours with white lace accentuating your finest features. elegant body chains and dangling jewelry make sounds as you move your body. unlike your other lingerie sets, this one is extremely revealing around your chest, showing no fabric on the front of your breasts and leaving them on full display to see. your bottoms is attached to your stockings matching your set with clips on the front and back of each thigh.

her eyes stopped at the sight of your thighs pressing against the band of your stockings before continuing down your legs. as they move back up, you try accentuate your breasts by taking a deep breath, while looking at her through your mask with expecting eyes.

a smirk appears on her lips. "are you nervous?"

her rough voice creates goosebumps on your skin, but the question agitates you. why would the first thing she says to you be such assumption?

you tilt your head in response, not sure of how to react to such thing. she is still only a few centimetres away from you, making the distance between you incredibly tense.

she copies the tilt in your head and looks deeply into your eyes, searching for something specific in them.

"I'm Sevika," she whispers a mere distance away from you as she holds out her hand.

you take another deep breath and touch her hand in a handshake, making the situation feel so ridiculous. what was she trying to get out of you?

her hand feels incredibly big. and fuck, you wish you could feel that rough skin between your folds. just the mere thought made you clench around nothing as your cunt is soaking in your lingerie. before your thoughts could continue, you slipped your hand back. your eyes never left hers.

she leans back and rests against the cushions behind her, as she eyes you once more. this time, her eyes won't leave your chest.

your nipples are perky from the cool air in the room despite the lack of ventilation. or maybe you really are nervous?

"you're not much of a talker huh?" she continues, "show me yourself."

you reach back to unclasp your bra, but she stops you, "no, show me what you usually do here."

her eyes roam the heavily decorated room and your thoughts are spiralling. at her request, you stand up and receive a box of toys each room has available on the side of the lounging area.

in it, you look for a dildo and bottle of lube. what were you doing with most of your clients? this woman made you ask yourself questions you've never considered being asked.

all of your clients are normally males, which are in heavy need of a relief by pushing their dicks into your hole and calling it a day. you didn't mind, since it's the routine of your income at the end of the day.

but right here and now, you were supposed to fuck yourself with a dildo in front of this woman, who watches every single move of yours with piercing eyes. and fuck, you felt small.

leaning back on your stool, you fully removed your soaking thong, hoping she wouldn't notice your wetness literally stringing to your cunt as you remove it.

to your disadvantage, she notices everything. her eyes follow the soaked thong falling to the ground, before they move up to look into your eyes again. fuck, this feels so much more intimate than any sex you've ever had and you continue dripping from your cunt at her dark gaze.

you spread your legs apart, hoping to drag her gaze down there. your eyes finally break the eye contact and follow the movement of your hands as you squirt some lubricant on the side of the dildo. it is veiny and big, a difference to the ones of your average clients.

with one arm resting on another stool behind you, you glide the sides of the dildo through your folds, making your chest jump at the feeling of the cold lube. you spread the lubricant across the dildo by dragging and shifting it through your folds, bumping your sensitive clit.

you look back into her eyes, questioning if you should really do this by hesitating with your next move.

she finally looks down at your dripping pussy coated with lubricant. on cue, you push the dildo completely aside in one go.

you want to see her reaction, but a moan escapes your lips as you try to stay quiet. this woman was onto something, but there's no way she can identify you from earlier.

nervous to look at her, you drag your eyes back to hers while slowly fucking yourself with the dildo. she seems to become restless, too.

it was her turn to look at you with furrowed brows as you began to fuck yourself harder, while trying to maintain your breath as you're biting your lower lip in pleasure.

fucking yourself faster and harder, trying to chase the warmth in your lower belly without success, you throw your head back hoping not a single sound escapes your lips.

your arm begins to hurt and you can feel the sweat building up on your forehead and cheekbones from exhaustion.

fuck, you really are about to sob. you look so pathetic trying to chase your own high while failing miserably, knowing acting one out won't go through with her.

"you can't come, beautiful?" she asks teasingly and grins at your miserable state. upset with her comment you look at her and you finally see it.

"here," she tells you, petting her lap her one hand, where she somehow managed to attach a harness on when you were in your own element.

you stopped your movements immediately and slipped the dildo out without any thought, wincing at the uncomfortable feeling inside of you before attaching it to her harness and climbing into her lap.

as you attach it through her harness, your thighs rest on her firm lap. and god, this woman was incredibly handsome. her strong facial features look even sharper with her heavy dark eyes piercing yours.

you really weren't sure what she was getting out of this. any other client would've been already chasing their orgasm inside you. Sevika hasn't touched you once. she hasn't even taken off any of her clothing yet.

as the wet dildo rests against your folds, you eye her cloak. before realising her bionic arm, she already has it moved to press a cold hand on your back to push you closer. she looks up for a reaction, but you grasp her shoulders to steady yourself without a sound.

her bionic arm cups your ass, making you gasp at the cold feeling on your skin, and her other hand pushes the dildo easily into you again, making your head throw back in pleasure of feeling full again in her presence.

adjusting once again at the feeling of being full, you look at her with heavy eyelids.

"can i touch you?" she asks quietly, her eyes never leaving yours.

you nod and push your chest towards her face as a cue. she grins at your boldness and presses a wet kiss on your breast, as her hand grips your hips, making them roll against her strap. her mouth sucks and bites your skin around your nipples, occasionally licking your perky nipple, making you see stars behind that mask.

as she sucks harder and harder, you beginn to slowly grind into her. your job has never felt this intimate with any client before.

her bionic arm holds you steady against her as her hips grind to meet yours. your breath was incredibly unsteady, trying to deal with the pleasure that builds up inside your core. her mouth travelled up to your exposed ear, nibbling at your dangling piercings and licking your earlobe. "you're in control, beautiful. do whatever you like," she whispers.

you stop in your tracks to look at her almost in shock. spiralling in your head, you don't know what to do. did you ever have control over your clients? trembling, you reached for a vibrator and pressed it into her hand.

"hold this against my clit as i ride you," you tell her quietly. hearing your voice, a smile sneaks onto her lips. "gladly," she responds and turns it on.

she kisses your breast before pressing the vibrator softly against your clit. you loudly moan from the sudden stimulation, beginning to ride her strap like there's no tomorrow. she sucks and bites your nipple, making you see more stars than before. your sighs and gasps turn into moans, not caring about hiding your voice from her anymore.

the dildo presses perfectly against your sweet spot inside of you as the vibrator teases your clit and you can't get enough of it. fuck, you're becoming greedy of this woman. you've never achieved such pleasure inside of you with anyone nor alone.

feeling your the warmth slowly building up in your lower belly, you whisper breathlessly "i-i'm close, Sevika," through your mask, not sure if she could even decipher your words. she reacts by biting down on your skin and cupping your ass with her bionic hand, almost making you scream as you grind restlessly on her strap as the vibrator bumps your wet clit.

and there it is, the sudden white spots clouding your vision as come hard on her strap. you reach for her hand to turn of the vibrator, scared of overstimulating yourself after coming for the first time in such a long time.

too blissed out from the feeling, your head falls onto her shoulder and she presses a soft kiss on on your neck.

"you did great, beautiful," she tells you and you feel her warm breath against your damp skin.

your mask shifts and the realisation hits you.

you slip it back into its place, slip off her strap with a wince and stumble back onto the stool, trying to compose yourself.

Sevika detaches the strap and there you see the bionic arm for the first time. it looked heavy with its several mechanics surrounding it, but then you notice the shimmer going through it like veins. fuck, did you almost get fucked with fucking shimmer inside of it?

she stands up and rearranges her clothing, seeming to take a leave as she hands you a stack of cash from her pouch.

"what about you?" you ask confused. she says nothing but presses the cash into your hand.

"madam won't allow me to take it," you say, looking up at her from the cash in your hands.

her hand softly cups your cheek and strokes your cheekbone with her thumb. "invest it in your shop, beautiful."

stunned by her comment, you sit there completely moveless.

she presses the doorknob as she is about to leave, but she stops mid-tracks before finally leaving the room.

"good to see you again."

masterlist ; pt. 2

#➶ jules' anthology #arcane sevika #sevika #arcane league of legends #sevika x you #arcane s2 #arcane season 2 #sevika x reader #sevika smut #sevika arcane #arcane x reader #arcane #queer #lesbian #sapphic #wlw

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aspenmissing · 5 months ago

Note

Hello hello!

I've been thoroughly enjoying your Arcane works and thought I'd pop by with a request!

Quite specifically Jayce, Viktor, and Vander and their reactions to accidental pregnancy (by them, no infidelity here) and reader is very nervous to tell them.

ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

9822 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ (ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʙᴇ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ!), ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙᴏʀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ (ᴅᴜʜ), ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ɪɴꜰᴇʀᴛɪʟᴇ, ꜰᴇᴀʀ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ/ʙɪʀᴛʜ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ ʏᴀʀɴ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ꜱᴇᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴏɴ ᴍʏ ɴᴏᴛɪꜰɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ʙɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ!! ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʜᴀᴘᴘʏ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴍ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏᴍᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

It had been a week since that passionate night where logic had given way to raw emotion. Jayce and Y/N had always been cautious, understanding the weight of their work, their ambitions, their lives. But that night... it had been just the two of them—no barriers, no interruptions, no thought of consequences. Now, as Y/N splashed cold water on her face after another wave of nausea, the memory felt heavier.

Jayce stood close by, his brows knit in worry, his arms folded across his broad chest like he was trying to hold himself together. “Are you sure you’re alright? That’s the third time today.” His voice was soft, but his tone betrayed his concern.

Y/N braced herself against the counter, her skin pale, her hair slightly damp from the water she had run over her face. “I don’t know, Jayce. I might’ve caught something. Or... it could just be stress.” Her voice wavered on that last word, and she avoided his eyes.

Jayce stepped closer, his large, warm hand finding her shoulder. “You’ve been overworking yourself,” he said gently. “Maybe you should take the day off tomorrow. Rest.” His thumb brushed lightly over her shoulder in a small, soothing gesture.

Her stomach churned again, but this time it wasn’t nausea—it was a gnawing sense of unease. What if...? The thought clawed its way to the forefront of her mind. She hadn’t voiced it yet, but it lingered, heavy and insistent.

All day, the possibility loomed over her. By the time the sun had set, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. They were sitting together in the workshop, Jayce distractedly fiddling with a new design, his brow furrowed in concentration. She looked at him, her heart racing.

“Jayce,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I think... I need to take a test.”

Jayce looked up, confused. “A test?” He set down his tools, his full attention now on her. “What kind of—”

She hesitated, her cheeks flushing. “A pregnancy test.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Jayce stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in. Slowly, he stood, nearly knocking over his stool. “Oh. Oh.” His eyes widened, and his expression shifted from shock to something softer, something unreadable. “You think...?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N admitted, wrapping her arms around herself. Her voice cracked as she continued. “But I need to know.”

Jayce was already reaching for his coat. “I’ll go get one.”

“No,” Y/N said quickly, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I need the air. I need to clear my head.” Before he could protest, she grabbed her bag and slipped out the door, leaving him standing there, concern etched into his features.

When Y/N returned, the flat felt oppressively quiet. Jayce had been pacing back and forth in the living room, his brow furrowed in deep worry. The moment he heard the door open, he stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. She stepped inside, clutching the small pharmacy bag in both hands, her knuckles white from how tightly she held it.

“Did you—?” Jayce began, his voice tentative, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

She held up the bag, swallowing hard. “Not yet.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. Then, wordlessly, Jayce stepped forward, his concern softening into a quiet determination. He trailed behind her as she walked to the bathroom, his footsteps heavier than usual. When she reached the door, she hesitated.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Jayce murmured, his voice low and steady, like an anchor in her storm of nerves. “I’ll be right here.”

She gave him a small nod, her throat too tight to speak. Closing the door behind her, Y/N unwrapped the test with shaky hands. Each crinkle of the plastic felt deafening in the silence of the flat. Finally, after doing what needed to be done, she placed the test carefully on the sink and washed her hands, her fingers trembling under the stream of water.

When Y/N stepped out of the bathroom, the test sat on the sink behind her, the weight of it feeling heavier than it had any right to. She closed the door quietly, her movements slow and deliberate, as if making too much noise would shatter her fragile composure.

Jayce was sitting on the floor just outside the bathroom, his back against the wall, his head resting against it as he stared up at the ceiling. His broad shoulders seemed tense, his hands resting loosely on his thighs, but when he heard her approach, he turned his head towards her. His eyes softened the moment they met hers, filled with concern and unwavering support.

Without a word, Y/N slid down the wall beside him, her back pressing against the cool plaster. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she let out a shaky breath. Her head dipped forward slightly, her hair falling into her face as she tried to hold herself together.

Jayce shifted closer, his knee brushing hers. “Hey,” he murmured gently, his voice like a balm to her frayed nerves. “You alright?”

She let out a bitter laugh, though it was choked with emotion. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I feel like... like I can’t breathe. Like I’m trying to hold it all in, but it’s too much.” Her arms tightened around her knees as her voice cracked. “I’m scared, Jayce.”

Jayce turned to face her fully, his expression softening even further. “It’s okay to be scared,” he said quietly, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “I’m scared too.”

That admission made her look up, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “You are?”

“Of course I am,” he said with a small, rueful smile. “This... this wasn’t exactly in the plans, was it?” He paused, letting out a soft exhale. “But, Y/N, I know one thing for sure—whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

She sniffled, her head tilting to rest against the wall as a tear slipped down her cheek. “What if we’re not ready? What if it’s positive and... and everything changes? What if we mess this up?”

Jayce reached over, his large hand covering hers, gently prying it away from where she clutched at her knees. He held her hand between both of his, warm and steady. “Y/N, we’ve been through so much already—together. We’ve faced challenges, taken risks, made sacrifices. And we’ve come out stronger every time.” His thumbs brushed over her knuckles as he continued, his voice unwavering. “This? If it’s positive... we’ll figure it out. We’ll make it work. And if it’s not, then we keep moving forward, just like we always have.”

Tears spilled freely now, but her lips quirked into a small, trembling smile. “You always know what to say.”

“Not always,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “But I know how I feel about you, and that’s enough for me. I love you, Y/N. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She turned her head, pressing her face into her knees for a moment as a soft sob escaped her. Then, she lifted her head and looked at him, her voice unsteady but determined. “I love you too.”

Jayce smiled at her, his hand still holding hers. “Then that’s all we need.”

The timer on her phone buzzed from inside the bathroom, its sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet. They both froze, their eyes locking for a moment. Y/N’s heart thudded painfully in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat.

“Do you want to check it?” Jayce asked softly, his voice free of any pressure.

“No,” she whispered, but then stopped herself, glancing at him. “Actually... can we look together?”

Jayce nodded, helping her to her feet. Their fingers laced together as they stepped back into the bathroom. The small plastic test sat on the edge of the sink, waiting like some harbinger of their future.

Y/N reached for it, her hand trembling, and Jayce covered her hand with his, steadying her. “Ready?” he asked gently. Her heart pounded so loudly she could barely think, and her vision blurred slightly from the tears she hadn’t realised were still falling. But she nods to him, and they both tilted the test to see the result.

Two clear lines.

“It’s positive,” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible. She looked up at Jayce, her wide eyes brimming with disbelief and overwhelming emotion. “We’re... I’m... we’re going to be parents.”

Jayce’s face broke into a grin so wide it was almost boyish, his eyes lighting up with pure joy. He let out a breathy laugh, pulling her into his arms. “We’re going to be parents,” he murmured against her hair, his voice thick with wonder and emotion. “Y/N, we’re really doing this.”

She clung to him, her tears flowing freely now as a laugh bubbled out of her, shaky but genuine. “We’re really doing this.”

Jayce pulled back just enough to cup her face in his large hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. His eyes searched hers, filled with so much love it made her heart ache. “I promise, Y/N, you’re not doing this alone. Every step, every moment, I’ll be right here with you.”

Y/N nodded, her lips curving into a smile even as more tears fell. “I know. And I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jayce said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “We’re going to be alright. All three of us.”

She let out a watery laugh, her heart feeling lighter for the first time all day. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she knew she wouldn’t face them alone, they would face it together—hand in hand, heart to heart.

VIKTOR

The streets of Piltover shimmered with the afterglow of celebration. The unveiling of Jayce and Viktor’s latest hextech invention had drawn everyone out in droves, and the air buzzed with the electric thrill of triumph. Viktor rarely indulged in such festivities, but Y/N had insisted, tugging him away from his desk and into the sea of light and laughter.

For once, Viktor had allowed himself to let go, sharing drinks and stolen moments with Y/N as the night stretched into early morning. The wine was sweeter than usual, their laughter softer, and the pull between them impossible to resist. When they stumbled back home together, all inhibitions faded into the haze of celebration, and what followed was a night of passion, their usual caution slipping away in the haze of their intoxicated bliss.

Weeks passed, and the memory of that night had become a fond, fleeting moment amidst their busy lives. But Y/N couldn't ignore the shift in her body. Mornings had turned unbearable—nausea clawed at her stomach, leaving her pale and unsteady on her feet. It wasn’t just one morning, but day after day of the same relentless sickness.

That morning had been the worst. She barely made it to the sink before she was retching, gripping the counter for support as she tried to catch her breath.

Viktor had already left for the workshop, sparing her the embarrassment of him seeing her like this. This has to stop, she thought, wiping her face with a damp cloth. But the nagging thought at the back of her mind wouldn’t go away.

What if…?

The idea sent her stomach into even tighter knots, and not from nausea. Y/N slipped out later that day to a chemist’s shop, her scarf pulled tightly around her face as she nervously purchased a pregnancy test. She didn’t want to worry Viktor. There was no need to, not yet. She told herself it was just a precaution.

The flat was silent when she returned, her heart pounding as she read the instructions and waited. Time seemed to stretch endlessly as she stared at the little test strip on the bathroom counter. When the result finally came through, she felt her knees buckle.

Negative.

The relief hit her like a wave. She exhaled deeply, leaning against the wall with a hand on her chest. “I’m just overthinking,” she whispered aloud. “It’s nothing.”

But the relief was fleeting. The nausea continued, her appetite vanished, and sharp, twisting pains began to plague her abdomen. At first, she tried to hide it, brushing off Viktor’s gentle questions and insistence that she rest. She smiled through the discomfort, telling herself it would pass.

Until one evening, when Viktor’s patience wore thin.

“Miláčku,” he said, setting down a delicate hextech component with more force than usual. His sharp gaze softened as he looked at her, concern etching lines into his face. “You’ve been unwell for days. This isn’t a simple illness. Please, let me take you to a doctor.” (Darling)

She opened her mouth to protest, but the sight of him—leaning heavily on his cane, his brow furrowed with worry—made her heart clench. He rarely took time away from his work, but here he was, prioritising her.

“Alright,” she relented quietly.

The clinic was eerily calm, the faint hum of machinery the only sound in the sterile room. Viktor sat beside Y/N, his golden-brown eyes locked onto hers, his hand resting gently atop hers. His touch was steady, even as his own concern simmered beneath the surface.

Y/N’s fingers curled tightly around his, her knuckles white. The anxiety she’d tried to keep at bay was now an overwhelming storm, twisting her stomach in knots. When the doctor suggested an ultrasound to investigate further, her heart skipped a beat. She nodded reluctantly, her voice caught in her throat.

“This will help us get a clearer picture of what’s causing your symptoms,” the doctor explained in a calm, measured tone, motioning for her to lie back.

The paper sheet crinkled beneath her as she settled onto the examination table. Viktor stood as close as his cane allowed, leaning forward slightly to remain within reach. The cold gel spread across her abdomen startled her, and she instinctively tensed, her free hand gripping Viktor’s tightly. He squeezed back, his thumb brushing soothing circles against her skin.

The doctor moved the ultrasound wand across her abdomen, his focus fixed on the screen. The room seemed to hold its breath, the quiet humming of the machine the only sound. Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, each second stretching into eternity.

Then the doctor paused. His brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face.

“What is it?” Viktor’s voice broke the silence, sharper than usual, his worry laced into every syllable.

The doctor hesitated briefly before turning the screen towards them, pointing to a small, flickering shape. “It appears you’re pregnant.”

Y/N blinked, her mind grinding to a halt as she tried to process the words. Her breath hitched, and she turned to Viktor, her wide eyes mirroring the disbelief etched across his face. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The world seemed to shrink to the size of the room, the tiny shape on the screen the only thing that mattered.

“Pregnant?” she finally whispered, her voice shaky and barely audible.

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed gently, glancing between them. “Based on the size, you’re about eight weeks along.”

Her gaze snapped back to the monitor, where the faint flicker of movement glowed on the screen. Her chest felt tight, her breaths shallow as her thoughts spiralled. Eight weeks? How? The night of the celebration surfaced in her memory, but she shoved it aside, still unable to grasp what she was seeing.

“That… that can’t be,” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I—I took a test. It said I wasn’t. It was negative.” (If you are taking a pregnancy test, please do more than one!)

The doctor offered her a patient smile, his tone calm and reassuring. “False negatives can happen, especially in the early stages of pregnancy. Hormone levels vary from person to person, and over-the-counter tests aren’t always accurate. An ultrasound or blood test is much more reliable.”

Y/N’s head spun as she tried to reconcile the doctor’s words with what she was feeling. She glanced at Viktor, her wide eyes searching his face for answers. His expression was one of quiet shock, but as his gaze shifted to the screen, a flicker of something softer—almost awe—crossed his features.

“Pregnant,” she whispered again, the word foreign and heavy on her tongue.

Y/N’s mind went blank, her thoughts dissolving into a hollow void as the weight of the revelation pressed down on her. The room around her seemed to blur, the doctor��s words fading into indistinct murmurs. Even Viktor’s voice, usually so grounding, felt distant and muffled, like she was underwater. She stared at the flickering shape on the screen, her chest tight, her breaths shallow. Her body felt disconnected, like she was floating somewhere far away from it all.

The walk back to their flat was quiet. Viktor stayed close to her, his hand brushing hers occasionally as though to remind her he was there. Y/N moved on autopilot, her legs carrying her forward while her mind lagged behind, still caught in the haze of the doctor’s office. The cool evening air did little to ground her.

When they reached the flat, Y/N dropped onto the couch, her body sinking into the cushions as though weighed down by the enormity of everything. Viktor sat beside her, leaning his cane against the armrest before turning his full attention to her.

For a long moment, there was only silence between them. Viktor didn’t rush her; he simply took her hand in his, his warm palm enveloping her cold fingers. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles over her skin.

“Miláčku,” he said softly, his voice breaking through the fog that clouded her mind.

She blinked, her gaze slowly refocusing as she looked at him. His expression was tender, his golden-brown eyes filled with a mixture of concern and patience. It was the way he said her name, like he was pulling her back from the edge of whatever abyss she was teetering on, that finally brought her back to herself.

“I...” she began, her voice faltering as she tried to find the words. She looked down at their joined hands, her chest tightening. “Viktor, I’m scared.”

He nodded, his brows furrowing slightly. “I know,” he said gently, his tone inviting her to continue.

Her lips trembled as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve always been scared of this—of pregnancy, of birth. The idea of... of something growing inside me, changing my body, the risks...” She trailed off, shaking her head. “It terrifies me. And now it’s real, Viktor. It’s happening, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

His grip on her hand tightened just slightly, steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to handle it alone,” he said, his voice firm yet kind. “We will face this together, no matter what you decide.”

She met his gaze, tears welling in her eyes. “But what if I can’t do it? What if I can’t go through with it? I don’t even know if I want this.”

Viktor’s expression softened further, and he reached up to brush a stray tear from her cheek. “You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, his voice calm and measured. “This is a decision we will make together, but ultimately, it’s yours to make. Whatever you choose, I will support you.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at his words, the kindness and understanding in his tone threatening to break the dam holding back her emotions. She inhaled shakily, her free hand coming to rest on her stomach as though the gesture might somehow provide clarity.

“What if I keep it?” she asked, her voice wavering. “What if I try? But what if I can’t handle it, Viktor? What if it’s too much?”

His eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his free hand resting gently over hers on her stomach. “If you want to keep it, we will find a way,” he said quietly. “I will be with you every step of the way. You are stronger than you think, Y/N. And if it becomes too much, we will ask for help. You will never face this alone.”

Her tears spilled over then, rolling down her cheeks as she let out a shaky breath. “And if I can’t?”

“Then we will make that decision together too,” Viktor said firmly. “There is no shame in choosing what is best for you. Your health—both physical and mental—is what matters most to me.”

Y/N bit her lip, her heart swelling with gratitude for him even as the weight of the decision loomed over her. “I’m scared, Viktor,” she admitted again, her voice barely audible.

“I know,” he said, squeezing her hand once more. “But no matter what, I will be here. We will figure this out. Together.”

For the first time since the doctor’s office, Y/N felt the faintest flicker of calm break through the storm inside her. She wasn’t ready to make a decision yet, but she knew one thing for certain—she didn’t have to face it alone.

VANDER

It was another usual evening at The Last Drop. The soft hum of the bar filled the air, a gentle mix of chatter, clinking glasses, and laughter. The kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—were bouncing around, as they often did, laughing and chasing each other between tables, sneaking sips of drinks from unsuspecting patrons or sneaking into the kitchen to steal leftovers. Vander was behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a rag, when the door to the bar swung open with an intensity that rattled the hinges and sent the door slamming against the wall.

A hush fell over the room. Everyone, from the rough-looking patrons to the kids, froze, their eyes darting to the entrance. There stood Y/N, storming in like a tempest, her expression fierce and determined. The sudden silence in the bar was thick, heavy with anticipation. Her sharp, purposeful steps echoed on the wooden floor as she marched straight toward Vander, her eyes locked on him with an intensity that left no room for escape.

“Vander!” she shouted, her voice booming across the room. The sound made every patron shrink back slightly, not out of fear, but the sheer authority in her tone. The entire bar fell into a stunned silence, and every eye followed her as she marched forward, her pace unrelenting.

Vander, who was used to the chaos of the bar and the antics of the kids, froze behind the counter as Y/N approached with alarming speed. His eyes widened slightly, but before he could even register what was happening, she reached him, grabbed him by the ear, and yanked him away from the bar. He let out a surprised yelp as he was pulled forward, causing the patrons to glance at each other, confused and mildly concerned.

“Ow! Ow! Ow! Love, watch the ear, ow!!” Vander blurted out, wincing as her grip on his ear tightened. The crowd looked from Vander to Y/N, unsure whether to laugh, panic, or simply stay out of it.

“Let’s go!” Y/N snapped, her voice low but forceful, her grip never loosening. Without another word, she dragged him through the back door, hauling him into the alley behind The Last Drop. As they stepped into the cool evening air, the sounds of the bar faded behind them, replaced by the quiet of the night.

Once outside, Y/N finally released his ear with a sharp tug, and Vander staggered back a step, rubbing the sore spot with a grimace. “What in Zaun’s name has gotten into you? You can’t just—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Y/N shoved something directly in his face, blocking his view of anything else. Vander blinked in confusion, his mind racing, trying to understand what was happening. His eyes fell on the small, white object she was holding—then it clicked. The familiar lines, the small window, the clear blue results.

It was a pregnancy test.

Vander’s jaw went slack, his mind stalling for a moment as he tried to process what he was seeing. His face drained of colour, and his mouth opened and closed as he tried to form words. “W-What’s this? Y/N, you… You didn’t—"

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her arms crossed over her chest, her posture unwavering. “Oh, I didn’t? Really? Because it sure looks like I did. I’m pregnant, Vander. Pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, and Vander’s eyes darted to the test again, then back to her, as if hoping it would somehow change. “But… But you said you couldn’t… I thought—”

Y/N’s face hardened, the frustration in her voice palpable. “Yeah, well, that’s what I thought too! But here we are, Vander. I’m pregnant. And to top it all off, we’ve been living in this little corner of Zaun like we’re invincible. But guess what? I’m not invincible, and neither are you. We can’t just rely on nothing to protect us forever, especially with all that muck down in the mines.”

Vander’s face morphed from confusion to concern, and he rubbed his face with both hands, as though trying to scrub away the reality of the situation. He’d spent so many years raising his “adoptive” kids—Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of having a biological child of his own. It was all so sudden, so unexpected.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” Y/N continued, her voice cutting through his thoughts. Her tone had softened slightly, but there was a sharp edge to it. “Do you know how much more work this is going to be? The kids are already the kids, Vander! And now, I’ve got this surprise to figure out. How are we even supposed to—”

Vander blinked, still processing, and then his face softened. A small, awkward smile appeared on his lips. “You’re telling me you’re going to have a baby? Our baby?”

Y/N’s eyes softened, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly as she gazed at him, trying to gauge his reaction. She had expected more panic, more shock, maybe even more anger, but there was something different about his response—tenderness. Maybe even acceptance.

“Well, it seems like it, yes,” she replied, her tone quieter now, though still tinged with frustration.

For a moment, there was a heavy silence between them, the weight of the news settling in. Vander let out a soft, nervous laugh, as if to ease the tension. “I guess we’ll need a bigger place then, huh? And maybe a bigger kitchen, too. You know how Powder gets when there’s food.”

Y/N stared at him for a long, exasperated moment, before letting out a slow, drawn-out sigh, shaking her head in disbelief. “That’s all you have to say? Not ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘I didn’t mean for this to happen,’ or something?”

Vander raised his hands in defence, looking apologetic. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Y/N. But I’ll do whatever it takes to make it work. I swear. We’ve handled worse, and we’ll handle this too. Together.”

Y/N’s expression softened, but she gave him a pointed look. “Yeah, we will. And you’re going to help me break the news to the kids.”

Vander’s face fell slightly, his eyes widening in trepidation. He ran a hand through his hair nervously. "I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet. You saw how they react when they get a surprise.”

“Oh, trust me,” Y/N grinned, the tension melting away as she saw his discomfort. “They’re going to love it. Vi will probably be the first to start throwing questions about what it’s going to be like. You just wait.”

Vander groaned, rubbing his forehead. “Why do I feel like I’m the one who’s about to get interrogated?”

As they stood there in the alley, the silence between them lingered for a moment, before Vander’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “I guess this is what happens when we stop worrying about protection.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Yeah, well, we’ll see if your sense of humour survives when I’m waddling around in nine months, complaining about everything.”

Vander smirked, his confidence returning as he placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll just make sure I’m there to help. After all, you’ve got me. We’ll handle this, Y/N. We always do.”

And despite the chaos of the situation, the two of them shared a quiet moment of understanding. Maybe they weren’t ready for this new chapter, maybe it was going to be more challenging than anything they had faced before—but they had always faced the unexpected together. And that, more than anything, gave them the strength to know that they would make it work, just like they always did.

The quiet of the alley seemed to stretch for an eternity before Vander and Y/N returned to the bustling warmth of The Last Drop. Vander’s nerves were still on edge, his mind spinning with the unexpected news he was about to deliver. Y/N, on the other hand, was a bit calmer—she had faced surprises and chaos all her life, but she couldn’t help but chuckle at the idea of telling the kids. They were practically family, but that didn’t mean this would be easy.

They made their way to the living space upstairs, a modest area furnished with mismatched chairs and tables, the place where the kids often gathered after their adventures. The moment they entered, the kids—all four of them—looked up from where they were sprawled out, playing cards, doing homework, or lounging around in their usual chaotic manner.

Vi was the first to notice their expressions. She looked between them with a raised eyebrow. "What’s going on? You two look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Y/N shot her a weary glance, then glanced over at Vander. He looked back at her with a slightly panicked expression, as if hoping she had some sort of divine inspiration on how to approach this. But after a long pause and a deep breath, Y/N knew it was time to face the music.

"Alright, kids," Y/N started, trying to sound as casual as possible, which, in reality, wasn’t very casual at all. She paced slightly, as if finding the words wasn’t an easy task. “We’ve got something to tell you. And, uh, it’s kind of... important.”

Claggor sat up from where he was leaning against the wall, a concerned look in his eyes. “What’s going on? You’re acting weird.”

Vander shuffled his feet nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the moment. “It’s just… well, we need to talk.”

Vi’s eyes narrowed, her gaze moving between Vander and Y/N with a knowing look. "What? Are you guys getting married or something?”

Y/N and Vander exchanged a quick glance, unsure whether they should just throw out the big reveal or ease into it. Vi had always been perceptive—far more than any of them sometimes.

Y/N shakes her head, "Uhm, well no. But - uhm, there’s no easy way to say this, so we’re just going to say it. Vander and I are… uh…" She trailed off, struggling to find the words. The kids looked at each other, curious but not entirely sure what was going on.

“We’re having a baby,” Vander finally blurted out, the words tumbling out much faster than he’d intended. He winced, as if waiting for an explosion of chaos. The room went completely silent for a moment. The kids blinked, exchanging confused looks.

Before anyone could respond, Powder, who had been sitting on the floor with a toy in her lap, piped up with the innocence only a child like her could muster. “You're having a baby?” she asked, her tone filled with pure curiosity.

The room fell silent, the air thick with shock. Powder's eyes were wide with genuine intrigue as she stared between Y/N and Vander. Her innocent face broke through the tension in the room, and she tilted her head. “How do babies get made, though?”

Claggor’s head jerked toward her, and his cheeks flushed bright red. "Powder, you—!" he started, but Powder cut him off with a confused look.

"Well, you said I should ask if I didn’t know, so how does it happen?" She then turned back to Y/N and Vander, waiting for an answer, completely unfazed.

Vander's face went the colour of a ripe tomato, and he looked like he wanted to vanish into the floor. Y/N, on the other hand, pressed a hand to her face, fighting back a laugh. “Powder... you—” She shook her head, still struggling to find the right words. She wasn’t prepared for that question today.

Vi, realising what was happening, started snickering, her face flushed with embarrassment as she tried to stifle her laughter. "Oh, Powder, that's..." She couldn't finish her sentence, instead burying her face in her hands, shaking with laughter.

Claggor, though still awkward about the whole thing, glanced at Mylo, who had yet to catch on. "Wait, are you... Are you serious? This is actually happening?" he said, eyes wide, still confused.

Mylo’s gaze flickered between them, then at Powder, then back to Y/N and Vander. He scratched his head. "So... what? You’re really having a baby? Like... a real one?"

Y/N nodded with a weary sigh, trying to keep her tone serious despite everything. “Yes, Mylo. A real one.”

Mylo blinked. “Wait, so that means... we’re getting a little sibling? How’s that going to work? Can we teach it how to fight like Vi does?”

Y/N snorted, her lips curling into a grin. "Yeah, I'm sure we can start baby combat training right away."

Powder, still completely innocent, leaned in, her eyes full of wonder. “Do we get to keep it? Can I play with it like a toy?”

Vi, now a bit more composed, raised an eyebrow. "Powder, you can't just play with a baby. They're fragile."

“But I could show it my toys, and I could give it all the best snacks,” Powder insisted, her voice full of excitement. “Maybe I can teach it to make explosions!”

Vander, who had been silently cringing, finally gave in and chuckled. “I think we might need to wait a little while before we get to the explosions part, Powder.”

At that moment, Mylo seemed to realise something. He stared at Y/N and Vander, wide-eyed. “Wait… so that’s why you two were acting so weird today? This whole time, I thought you were just arguing over something dumb." But you—” He pointed at Vander. “You’re going to be a dad again?”

Claggor looked between them with a raised brow. “So... you’re telling me we’re not just dealing with more trouble from you two... we’re dealing with a baby?”

Y/N nodded solemnly, her grin returning. “Yep. Trouble, but with a side of tiny socks and diapers.”

Powder, still processing, blinked slowly and then nodded sagely. “Well, okay then. I’ll just have to figure out how to teach it to make cookies. I bet it’ll be good at that.”

The entire room burst into laughter at Powder’s innocent musings. Even Vander, who had been anxious about this moment, couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well,” Y/N said, wiping a tear from her eye after laughing so much, “I guess that’s one way to look at it, Powder. But for now, let’s just figure out how to deal with the mess we’ve got right in front of us.”

Vander nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess we’ll need a bigger kitchen after all. And maybe some more seats around here.”

The kids were still laughing, though the tension had finally broken. Powder seemed content with her role as the unofficial "baby expert," and Mylo had come to terms with the fact that this was happening. Claggor, ever the pragmatic one, started planning how he could use his new “big sibling” status to boss everyone around.

Y/N and Vander exchanged a glance, feeling a sense of relief wash over them. The road ahead would be difficult—adjusting to the idea of a new addition, making room for the baby, and managing their already chaotic lives—but if there was one thing they knew, it was that they could do it together. And that, in the end, was enough.

The chaos and laughter of the children filled the air once again, and Vander, now with a chuckle in his voice, leaned over to Y/N. “We’ll figure this out, right?”

Y/N grinned. “Yeah. Together. We always do.”

BONUS: JAYVIK

It had been a few weeks since Y/N, Jayce, and Viktor had found their rhythm in their polyamorous relationship. The three of them shared a deep bond—both emotionally and physically. They balanced each other out, with Jayce’s impulsiveness, Viktor’s intellect, and Y/N’s warmth and intuition. However, there was one thing neither of them had anticipated: the whirlwind of consequences that followed the heat of the moment one fateful night.

Y/N had been feeling off for days, though she couldn't quite put her finger on it. At first, it was just a general fatigue, a strange feeling of nausea every morning. She figured it was probably just stress from work and the tension from the city, but the pale face and nausea kept coming back.

Viktor, on the other hand, noticed the signs immediately. His sharp eyes couldn’t ignore the subtle differences. Her usual glow had faded, and every morning when he heard the faint sound of her throwing up in the bathroom, it only deepened his concern. He’d gently approach her afterward, bringing her water or tea, and making sure she rested properly. There was no way he could let her push herself through something if something wasn’t right.

“Y/N, you’ve not been yourself lately. You’re pale, and you’re barely eating,” Viktor said softly, sitting beside her on the couch one evening. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

She hesitated, her thoughts swirling in her mind. She wasn’t sure how to even begin explaining the situation that had started to become more obvious with each passing day. But Viktor was relentless in his care, and she couldn't keep hiding it.

“I don’t know, Viktor…” she trailed off, her eyes averting to the floor. "I just feel... off."

Viktor’s concern deepened, but he held back from pushing further. He knew she needed time, but he wasn’t about to ignore it. His mind raced, but one thought kept returning—could she be…?

Days passed, and Viktor’s concern never waned. He could hear the faint sounds of Y/N being sick early in the mornings, the muffled sounds of her retching echoing from the bathroom. Each time she returned, she looked even more exhausted, trying to mask the weariness in her eyes with a forced smile. But Viktor knew better. He could see through the facade, and he couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. The constant nausea, the pale complexion that seemed to grow worse each day—it wasn’t just a passing illness. Something was wrong, and he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

Viktor’s mind raced with possibilities, but there was only one thing that could give him the clarity he needed: a test. He could no longer sit idly by, pretending to be uncertain. He had to know for sure.

As always, Jayce was absorbed in his work, lost in the complexities of his latest project. Viktor watched him for a moment before he quietly pulled him away from his notes. The words were hard to say, but they were necessary. “Jayce, something’s wrong with Y/N. I think... I think she might be pregnant.”

Jayce’s brow furrowed, his confusion evident. “Pregnant? But how would you know that? She seems fine.”

Viktor sighed, his frustration becoming palpable. He hadn’t intended to sound accusatory, but Jayce’s obliviousness only deepened his concern. “You’ve noticed her feeling unwell, haven’t you? Her pallor, the nausea in the mornings, the fatigue—how can you not see it?”

Jayce blinked, taken aback by the sharpness in Viktor’s voice. The weight of Viktor’s words finally sank in, and his gaze softened with understanding. “Wait... are you serious?” he asked, disbelief still clinging to his tone. “You think Y/N...?”

Viktor nodded, his hands clasped tightly in front of him as he spoke with quiet certainty. “I’m fairly certain. But we need to confirm it. We need a test.”

Jayce’s expression shifted, a mix of confusion and worry crossing his face. “Alright, if you say so. Let’s go.”

The two men made their way to the apothecary, where they quickly procured the necessary items. As they walked back to their shared home, the silence between them was thick with unspoken thoughts. Viktor couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to change, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

When they returned, the house felt unusually quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Y/N was sitting on the couch, arms crossed over her chest, an amused yet knowing expression on her face. Her eyebrow was arched, a hint of mischief in her gaze as she looked at them.

“Well, well,” she remarked with a playful smirk, “Took you long enough.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat as he realised she was looking directly at the pregnancy tests in their hands. A wave of realisation washed over him. Her knowing look, the twinkle in her eyes—she already knew. He felt a mix of awe and disbelief, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words.

Viktor sighed, both exasperated and relieved at the same time. “You knew?” he asked, shaking his head, his voice a mix of admiration and frustration. He didn’t know whether to be angry with her for not telling them sooner or grateful that she hadn’t let them spiral with worry.

Y/N shrugged, unbothered by their reactions. “I’m not blind, Viktor. I’ve been feeling off for a while now. The last thing I need is you two running around like headless chickens trying to figure it out. I wasn’t sure until now, but I’m guessing you’ve got it right. Yes, I’m pregnant.”

Viktor stepped closer to her, his eyes softening as he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. His voice was quiet, almost tender. “You’re sure?”

Y/N nodded slowly, her gaze shifting from Viktor to Jayce. “Yeah, I’m sure. I haven’t told you guys because… well, I didn’t know how to bring it up. But now I’m scared. I don’t know what this means for us.”

Jayce’s heart ached at the vulnerability in her voice. Without thinking, he dropped down beside her, his hand gently squeezing hers. “It means we’ll figure it out, Y/N. Together. You don’t have to do this alone. We’ll be with you, every step of the way.”

Viktor’s hand brushed a strand of hair from Y/N’s face, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. His voice was low, filled with the promise of unwavering support. “We’ll do everything we can, Y/N. This isn’t just your burden. It’s ours. We’ll face it together, whatever it may be.”

Y/N felt the weight of their words sink in, and for the first time in days, she allowed herself to relax. The tension in her shoulders eased, the fear that had gripped her heart lessened by their unwavering support. She had known, deep down, that they would stand by her, but hearing it from them, seeing their genuine concern, made all the difference.

The three of them sat there in silence for a few moments, the bond between them growing stronger with each passing second. The future was uncertain, yes, but one thing was clear: they were in this together. Whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them as a united front, and nothing could tear them apart.

Y/N finally let out a soft breath, her shoulders sagging in relief. “Alright then,” she said, her voice steadier now. “Let’s do this. Together.”

After a moment, Jayce broke the silence with a grin, his tone teasing. “So, if we’re doing this together, I guess we’ll have to figure out what the baby will look like, huh?”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, looking at him with a knowing smirk. “I imagine it will look like one of us. After all, it couldn’t possibly be a combination of both of us.”

Jayce laughed softly. “Right. Well, if it does end up looking like me, I hope it inherits my good looks. You know, sharp jawline, tall, and—”

Viktor interrupted, a playful glint in his eye. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. If the baby’s got my brain and your looks, we’ll have a truly perfect child.”

Y/N chuckled at their bickering, a hint of affection in her smile. “I think the baby will be just fine, no matter whose features it takes. It’s going to be ours—yours, mine, and ours. And that’s enough for me.”

Jayce’s face softened at her words, and Viktor’s expression turned thoughtful as he gazed at her. For the first time in a while, they were all on the same page, sharing this moment of laughter and uncertainty together. Whatever challenges awaited them, they would face them as one, united and stronger than ever.

(REQUESTED -@drunkmysticsquirrel)

SILCO

Zaun’s air was heavy tonight, a mix of smog, ash, and the faint metallic tang that seemed to linger everywhere. The hum of Shimmer production filtered through the narrow alleyways, mingling with the faint echoes of laughter, shouting, and the clang of metal being worked. Y/N had always found comfort in Zaun’s chaos, a city alive and unapologetically itself. Yet tonight, it felt suffocating—a reflection of the storm raging in her own mind.

Her fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of the worn countertop in her dimly lit apartment. The single light bulb above flickered intermittently, casting the room in sporadic shadow. On the table before her lay the letter from the clinic. It was a simple sheet of paper, but its weight was crushing, the bold lettering at the top staring up at her like an accusation.

Positive.

Pregnant. With Silco’s child.

She pressed her lips together, a sharp breath escaping through her nose as she tried to steady herself. This wasn’t supposed to happen. What she and Silco had… it wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a relationship. Just a series of fleeting nights where the weight of their respective lives became too much, and they found solace in each other. No strings, no promises, no expectations.

And yet here she was, standing at a crossroads she hadn’t planned for, a fragile string now tying her to a future she wasn’t prepared to face.

Y/N’s hands curled into fists, the letter crumpling slightly beneath her fingers. He won’t care. He won’t want this, she thought bitterly. Silco was a man consumed by ambition. His entire life revolved around one thing: Zaun’s independence. Every move he made, every word he spoke, was calculated with that goal in mind. And then there was Jinx—his volatile, unpredictable daughter who seemed to occupy whatever space his plans left in his heart.

The memory of Jinx flashed in Y/N’s mind—the way Silco spoke to her with surprising patience, the softness in his mismatched eyes when she needed reassurance. It was a stark contrast to the cold, calculating man who ruled Zaun with an iron will.

But he doesn’t feel that way about you, Y/N reminded herself.

She paced the small room, her thoughts a whirlwind of fear, doubt, and an unfamiliar ache she couldn’t quite name. Part of her wanted to keep the truth from him, to carry this burden alone. After all, what could he possibly say? Silco wasn’t the type to offer comfort, and she didn’t want to hear him dismiss her—or worse, the child.

But deep down, she knew she had to tell him.

It had been weeks since she’d learned the truth—weeks of carrying the weight alone, trapped between her own doubts and fears of what Silco might say. She had thought about telling him a dozen times, each attempt falling apart the moment she imagined his sharp, unreadable gaze.

Tonight wasn’t about confessions, though. It was about feeling something other than the crushing weight in her chest. She had stayed away from him long enough, her absence no doubt noticed, but the pull of his presence had grown too strong to ignore.

The night unfolded with a raw intensity that neither of them had planned, the barriers that had grown between them over the past weeks crumbling under the weight of unspoken emotions. Silco’s touch was both commanding and tender, a reminder of the strange, fragile connection they shared. For Y/N, it was a chance to lose herself, if only for a few fleeting hours, in something that felt steady amidst the chaos within her.

Afterwards, they lay in silence, the dim light casting soft shadows across the room. Silco's breathing was steady beside her, his arm draped across his chest as he stared at the ceiling, the faint scent of smoke and the warmth of their shared intimacy lingering in the air. Y/N turned her head slightly, watching him. For a moment, she let herself believe that everything could remain as it was—that she could keep her secret buried for just a little longer.

But the quiet of the room began to weigh on her, the emotions she had been suppressing threatening to claw their way to the surface. Slipping away as carefully as she could, Y/N padded across the cold floor to the adjoining washroom. The faint sound of running water filled the air as she leaned against the basin, staring at her reflection in the cracked mirror. Her fingers gripped the porcelain edge tightly, as though she could anchor herself to the moment.

She let out a shaky breath, splashing water on her face in an attempt to clear her thoughts. Just a little longer, she thought. I can carry this on my own. He doesn’t need to know yet.

Back in the main room, Silco lit another cigarette, the faint glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward as his mismatched eyes drifted lazily around the room. It was a habit of his, to notice every detail, every potential vulnerability in his space.

That’s when he saw it—a small paper bag tucked beneath the chair where Y/N’s belongings had been casually placed. It was partially hidden, the edge of it crumpled as though it had been hastily shoved aside.

Curiosity flickered in his gaze as he leaned forward, retrieving the bag with careful precision. His sharp fingers unfolded it, pulling out the contents inside. The faint crease of his brow deepened as he turned the object over in his hands.

Then he saw it.

Positive.

The word hit him like a silent blow, stark and unrelenting against the stark white of the test. Silco’s jaw tightened, his mismatched eyes narrowing as he stared at it, his mind working quickly to piece together the implications. He didn’t need confirmation; he knew. He could feel it in the way Y/N had been pulling away, in the tension that lingered in her every glance.

The faint sound of water in the adjoining washroom stopped, and he immediately slipped the test back into the bag, placing it exactly where he had found it. His expression remained unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, the cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers.

By the time Y/N emerged from the washroom, Silco’s features were as composed as ever, his mismatched gaze fixed on her as she crossed the room.

“You should rest,” he said, his voice low and smooth, betraying none of the revelation that now sat heavy in his chest.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her eyes searching his face, but she nodded, slipping back into the bed beside him. As she curled beneath the covers, Silco remained where he was, the glow of his cigarette the only light in the darkened room.

He didn’t sleep that night.

The following morning, Y/N woke to an empty bed, the space beside her already cold. It didn’t surprise her—Silco’s absence was as much a part of him as his sharp words and calculating mind. He wasn’t the type to linger, not when there was always something demanding his attention in the underbelly of Zaun.

Still, the faint scent of his cologne clung to the sheets, a reminder of the night before. She lay there for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling as her thoughts tumbled over each other. Her chest felt heavy, the weight of the secret she’d been carrying for weeks pressing harder now than ever.

Finally, she sat up, the dim light filtering through the grimy windows casting muted shadows across the room. Her gaze fell on the table nearby, where a neatly folded piece of paper caught her attention. The handwriting, sharp and precise, was unmistakable.

“Come to my office when you're sorted.”

The words were simple, scrawled in his sharp, precise handwriting, but they landed in her chest like a stone sinking in water. Silco wasn’t the kind of man to waste time on pleasantries or meaningless gestures. If he had left her a note, it wasn’t out of politeness—it was deliberate, purposeful. It meant he was waiting for her, and not just in passing.

Her fingers tightened around the note as unease flickered in the pit of her stomach. She tried to push it aside, convincing herself it was nothing more than his usual air of cool detachment, the aloofness she had grown used to.

After all, she knew him. She had learned his habits, read his moods, and become familiar with the fortress he built around himself. Walls she could sometimes breach but never truly dismantle.

And yet, this time felt different. A tension hung in the air, unspoken but impossible to ignore. She wasn’t sure if it was her own nerves twisting the moment or if something had shifted between them, but the weight of it pressed heavily on her.

One thing was certain: whatever awaited her in that office wouldn’t be simple.

Later that afternoon, Y/N found herself standing outside Silco’s office, her palms clammy despite her efforts to steady herself. She had known this conversation was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, stepping inside. The space, familiar and yet foreign, felt colder than usual.

Silco sat behind his desk, as composed and commanding as ever. His mismatched eyes flicked up to meet hers, and while his expression remained unreadable, the air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken words.

“Close the door,” he said, his voice calm but deliberate.

Y/N hesitated, her stomach twisting at the sharpness in his tone. She obeyed, the faint click of the latch feeling unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The distance between them seemed vast, even as she moved closer to his desk, her steps faltering.

“Y/N,” Silco began, his gaze unwavering. He gestured for her to approach. “We need to talk.”

Her heart thudded in her chest as she neared him. She froze when he opened a drawer and pulled out something small, placing it deliberately on the desk between them.

Her breath caught in her throat. The sight of it—the test—sent a jolt of panic through her, making her blood run cold. She had thought it hidden, had hoped she could put off this moment a little longer.

“I believe this belongs to you,” Silco said, his voice steady, but carrying an edge that made her pulse race.

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she gripped the back of the chair in front of her. “I—I was going to tell you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Silco raised an eyebrow, his calm composure unnervingly sharp. “When?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “After the child was born? Or perhaps never at all?”

“I didn’t know how,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to burden you with this—not when you have so much to deal with.”

He leaned forward, his sharp gaze locking onto hers. “You think I wouldn’t care?”

“I didn’t want to distract you,” she said, her voice trembling. “Zaun, Jinx, everything—your work... I thought it was all more important than me. More important than this.”

Silco’s expression hardened, but there was something more beneath the steel—something softer, something she hadn’t expected. “That was your first mistake,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “To assume I wouldn’t care. That I wouldn’t want to know.”

Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over. She had convinced herself for so long that she was alone in this, that Silco wouldn’t want to be burdened with a child—their child. But his words, his gaze, chipped away at those fears, piece by piece.

“I was scared,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I still am.”

Silco regarded her for a long moment, his mismatched eyes searching hers. Slowly, he rose from his chair, rounding the desk to stand before her. His hand reached out, gently tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You’ve faced worse than this, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice resolute. “And you didn’t run then. Don’t run now." He reached for her shoulder, his touch steady and grounding. “This changes things,” he said, his tone firm but not harsh. “But it doesn’t change my priorities. You and this child—our child—are part of my future now. Do you understand?”

Her breath hitched as she nodded, the full weight of his words settling over her. For weeks, she had carried this secret, this fear, but now, with him standing there before her, she felt as though the weight had lifted. Slowly, she allowed herself to believe it—she wasn’t alone in this.

“I should have told you sooner,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

Silco’s hand moved to rest lightly on her shoulder, his touch soft but resolute. “You should have,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “But I won’t hold it against you. From now on, Y/N, we face this together. No more secrets.”

The tension she had carried for so long finally began to ease, the walls she had built around herself cracking under the weight of his promise. Silco wasn’t perfect—far from it—but in that moment, she felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in far too long.

Hope.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce talis x reader #jayce x you #jayce x y/n #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor x y/n #vander x reader #vander x y/n #vander x you #jayvik x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #silco x reader #silco x you #silco x y/n

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meownotgood · 2 months ago

Text

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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madschiavelique · 6 months ago

Note

Could I request smut headcanons for astarion, gale, halsin, kar'niss, raphael, haarlep, rolan, and wyll being teased by his female s/o that he came in his pants/underwear please?

omg im so sorry this took so long but arcane has a grip on me that is just SO tight. also, i'm sorry but i couldn't think of a way to make this prompt work for kar'niss, thus he won't be present in this sorryyy

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ characters : astarion, gale, halsin, raphael, haarlep, rolan, wyll

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ content warning : smut, reader being a dom if you squint for some of the men in this, teasing, reader being a teasing shit, fem!reader, no use of y/n

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ words : 2,2k (~ 300 words per characters)

( not proofread, english is not my first language ☆)

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ astarion :

After a long day in camp, Astarion was on duty sewing up the few clothes that had been torn during the day. It was a relaxing activity that he didn't see as an inconvenience when it came to the tasks everyone had in the camp.

It was his turn on guard duty, his elven assets obviously allowing him to be awake for longer. And, as luck would have it, you were sharing this shift.

Sitting by the campfire for better light, he was concentrating on drawing and sticking his needle continuously.

"What a tear it was," you confirmed, coming to sit just behind him and lacing your hands around his waist.

He chuckled softly, the sensation of your warmth against him quite different from that of the flames facing him. "Should my mind wonder, I think you get your clothes torn on purpose." He said, his face turning away from his task to meet your eyes, a flash of mischief crossing them.

"Really?" You smiled, your eyes lowering gradually to his lips as one of your hands moved slowly down his stomach to brush against his crotch. "I think you'd prefer me with no clothes at all."

His eyes were half-closed, a sigh of relief expelled from his lungs as your fingers slipped past the thickness of his trousers to press against him.

"Do you like it when you see my clothes torn apart?" you whispered against the back of his neck as you placed a kiss on it, your hot breath sending shivers down the vampire's spine.

His head fell back against your shoulder, moans rising from his throat as the feel of your breasts, barely covered by your shirt, pressed against his back. The pleasure was building fast, the feel of your lips against his skin, your divine fingers pumping his length to perfection, and your words pushing him towards ecstasy.

"Would you want to tear them yourself?" you questioned as your wrist increased the pace, your teeth grazing his skin for a moment before you bit down gently.

It almost took his breath away, the knot of pleasure bursting as you gently kissed his skin in encouragement.

You pulled your hand out of his trousers, watching the spectacle in the firelight with a satisfied smile. His eyes returned to yours, and you could be sure that your shirt was going to be ripped to shreds in the next few seconds.

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ gale :

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose, trying as best he could to integrate the complex workings of a new spell he wanted to learn.

"You look tense," you remarked as you sat down beside him, placing your hand on his thigh in an attempt of reassuring him.

"Somehow these engravings are giving me quite a hard time," he replied, giving you a frustrated little smile as his eyes returned to the paper.

"Maybe..." Your hand slid to his crotch, his eyes drifting slowly from the parchment to yours. "You need to relax a bit to learn it better?"

His nose brushed yours gently, his lips grazing yours and inhaling heavily as your hands moved past the waistband of his trousers and onto his warm skin.

His lips sought yours relentlessly, but you always found a way to turn away and smile against his cheek when he twitched at your meticulous and delicious movements.

"Why don't you try and read it for me?" you purred.

He tried to return to his parchment, but your hand against him simply made him press his forehead against the spell lines as you brought him to climax.

With a gasp, he regained his composure and you kissed his jaw.

"Can you focus better on it now?" you suggested slyly.

How could he concentrate on anything after what you'd just put him through? He chuckled, almost throwing his parchment away as he grabbed your chin.

"My dear, I think it's time for me to practice some different spells on you."

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ halsin :

halsin was, as usual when he was staying at camp and the others had gone elsewhere for one reason or another, sitting by his tent carving a new wooden duck that he couldn't wait to add to his collection

You rested your head on his thigh, watching him as he gave you a gentle look, refocusing on his task.

What could be disturbing his serenity, his concentration and his control? When even was the last time you'd seen halsin flustered?

You placed your hand tentatively on his second thigh, letting your thumb caress his bulging muscle beneath the fabric of his trousers. He glanced at you for a moment, continuing his task more gently already, his attention gradually drifting to you as your finger ventured to his crotch, caressing it.

He inhaled harshly, his hands tightening on the knife and the piece of wood as his breath caught, his eyes now completely on you.

"My heart?" he asked, his breath catching as your hand cupped his cock.

"Just keep going," you said simply, not taking your eyes off him as your hand continued its little game.

You felt him harden under the caress of your fingers as, in your semi-innocence, he continued his task with some difficulty.

On several occasions, he smiled, a low laugh of air rising from his chest as your fingers touched a particularly sensitive spot or you stopped your movements to his surprise, saying, "If you don't continue carving, I will stop."

However, as time progressed, he forgot all about his sculpture, your fingers a delight on him as you picked up the pace until he relaxed completely with a few spasms under your hands, ruining his trousers.

Breathing hard, he watched you, cheek still resting on his thigh as you indicated as if nothing had happened "the next sculpture you make should be of me."

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ raphael :

It had been hours already since Raphael had been sitting at his desk, and boredom mixed with envy had led you to him.

It didn't take you long to settle into his lap, embracing him and resting your head on his shoulder.

"Do you miss me that much, my pearl?" he asked, a dark chuckle echoing in his chest.

"You've been doing this paperwork for hours already," you mumbled, your eyes facing the corner of his jaw.

"Be a bit more patient," he assured you as he continued reading yet another sheet. "It won't take me long."

But you had been patient enough already. Still, you sighed, simply resting your cheek on his shoulder.

Maybe there was a way for you to get him out of this boring situation with something more enticing.

You rolled your hips, a low hum coming from his throat. You repeated the movement, feeling his breath heavier already.

"You're up to something," he murmured, pressing his cheek to yours as his lips brushed your ear.

"Am I?" you questioned without waiting for an answer, your hips rolling against his as you felt him harden beneath you.

"You're being a distraction." His breath became heavier as his hands left the papers to rest on your hips.

"I'm your favourite distraction." you whispered in his ear, smiling playfully as you nibbled his lobe.

His hips reacted of their own accord, grinding against you as you kept up an ever-accelerating rhythm. His breath quickened as he whispered your name, your lips kissing and biting his neck until, with a groan, he came.

He rested his forehead on your shoulder, smiling against your skin as you straightened, leaving him with a stain in his trousers and looking surprised.

"Now you know the fun that you're missing." you say, moving away from the desk before he catches up with you, placing you on your shoulder and carrying you to the nearest bed.

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ haarlep :

catching haarlep off guard in terms of teasing is no easy feat, so you'd offered him a challenge.

"you want to make me cum without touching me, little dove?" he sneered, the idea probably seeming ridiculous and insane to him, but above all: impossible.

But you weren't going to be deterred, advancing towards him in the most beautiful lingerie you owned - his favourite. his eyes, burning with desire, roamed over your body as though they were starving.

"you truly think this is impossible for me to achieve this?" you asked, coming to sit right on top of him without your thighs touching his hips or any part of your skin coming into contact with him.

"you're making me reconsider my own words," Haarlep remarked, his eyes at the same level as your breasts.

you lowered yourself towards him, your hand barely brushing his already hard length as your lips parted near his ears, whispering words that would shock any paladin.

of their own accord, his hips began to move, finding friction against the fabric of his black underwear as your hand continued to move just above him, the distance driving him mad.

The friction intensified, his movements becoming more erratic and repetitive as your words lifted him beyond the clouds of hell.

"Come for me, Haarlep," you whispered as his breath hitched. "Come for me."

He came as if on command, his hips jerking against nothing as you laughed close to his ear before kissing him, pulling back to admire the sight of his half-closed eyelids.

He smiled, his canine teeth glistening in the light as he suddenly grabbed you and pulled you under him onto the bed, "I think it's my turn to achieve the impossible."

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ rolan :

Rolan, eternally busy in the library, was sincerely starting to make you wait.

You sat next to him, waiting tirelessly as he turned another page. There was no fun in sight for any of you if he continued like that for long.

You rested your head on your hand, watching him for a moment as an idea popped into your head.

"Read for me," you said, as he turned to you in surprise.

"You want me to read this to you?" he repeated, pointing to a book that seemed immeasurably boring.

"Mhm," you simply hummed, shrugging your shoulders as your hand came to rest on his thigh and you moved closer to him, pretending to be interested.

He cleared his throat, the simple sensation of your hand on his thigh making him all a-twit as he began his technical reading.

Gradually, though, your hand moved closer to his crotch, caressing his thigh with your thumb as you felt his voice tremble at times and his jaw tense.

When you placed your hand down on him, however, he couldn't help but let out a moan, turning to you.

"What are you-" he began, but you cut him off.

"Just keep reading," you said simply, a flash of slyness still in your eyes.

He breathed in, understanding your little game as he returned to his reading with some difficulty and you resumed your slow, precise movements.

Sometimes you felt his hips twitch, or enjoyed his sentences punctuated by sighs and moans as he stopped reading, unable to concentrate as you urged him to continue unless you'd stop.

"I'm..." his breath quickened, your hands doing the same as he couldn't even put two coherent words together under your touch.

"Mhm?" you hummed, your movements as precise and fast as ever.

"Fuck," he swore as he clamped his hand over his mouth and his hips bucked against your hand, the warm sensation of his release pressing against your palm.

You watched the result of your work, Rolan huffing and puffing and his head thrown back, covering the blush darkening his cheeks.

"You're never going to get me out of this library alive," he sighed, hiding his eyes as you laughed softly.

─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ wyll :

He was spending such a tremendous time making sure his sword was clean and efficient that you wondered if you'd end up envying rapiers and other sabres.

You came up behind him and wrapped your hands around his waist.

"You've sharpened it enough," you breathed, resting your chin on his shoulder as your own reflection watched you in his blade.

He raised it in front of him, straight into the sunlight. "What's a blade of frontier without a proper sword?"

He laid the blade on his knee again, running his file over the metal with precision, much to your frustration. He could have put that determination into something else, like you for example.

You sighed, your hands wandering mischievously to his groin. "Maybe the blade himself needs to loosen up a bit..."

A dull moan spread through his chest, vibrating against your own as you cupped him through his pants.

You massaged him gently, caressing him as his concentration on his sword weakened and he hardened.

"Do you prefer your sword to me?" you asked as you reached past the edge of his trousers and ran your hand down his shorts, a hiss escaping his lips as your hand came in contact with his skin.

His hips bucked messily against your palm, his breath getting heavier and heavier.

You pressed your mouth to his ear, whispering "Can your sword make you come like I do?"

Without further ado, he came against your hand with a long moan of pleasure, his head falling on your shoulder as he breathed softly, turning his head to look at you.

But you stood up, leaving him like that.

"Who will you choose tonight?" you said playfully, "your sword, or me?"

#bg3 #bg3 headcanons #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 x reader #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 gale #gale x reader #bg3 halsin #halsin x reader #bg3 raphael #raphael x reader #bg3 haarlep #haarlep x reader #bg3 rolan #rolan x reader #bg3 wyll #wyll x reader #bg3 smut

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ceeaann · 5 months ago

Text

Arcane Highschool!AU 2

characters - vi, caitlyn, jinx, sevika, ekko, jayce and viktor content - 6.1k words, part 1 here, established relationships except for vi's, Star athlete!vi x band!reader, Childhoodbestfriend!caitlyn, New kid!jinx x Class president!reader, Troublemaker!sevika x Tutor!reader, Artist!ekko x Muse!reader, Bestfriend!jayce, and Enemies to lovers!viktor

A/N - lmaoo.. sorry yall for not posting for like a really long time ;-; studied my azz off last week which was def worth it cuz i did so feaking well on that exam hehe. this was lowk rushed bcuz i rlly wanted to post. hope yall enjoy queens (> 3 <)

— Star Athlete!vi and Band!reader

The weeks following that unexpected late-night moment between you two felt different—charged with something new, something unspoken but lingering in the air. It wasn’t just the occasional brush of hands when walking side by side, or the way she’d glance at you across the cafeteria before looking away just a little too fast. It was the warmth in her voice when she teased you, the way she stuck around after practice just to sit beside you while you tuned your instrument.

She never said why she stayed. You never asked.

But you both knew.

It started with one call—past midnight, your phone buzzing against your nightstand.

“I can’t sleep,” she said when you answered, her voice rough with exhaustion.

You could hear the faint sound of cars passing outside, the rustle of her shifting under the covers.

“You’re calling me because you can’t sleep?” you murmured, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded at the thought of her thinking about you this late.

“Yeah,” she admitted. A pause. “Your voice is kinda nice.”

Heat rushed to your face. “Oh.”

“Don’t get a big head about it.”

You smiled, rolling onto your side.

From that night on, the calls became routine. Sometimes she ranted about her coach pushing her too hard. Sometimes you talked about your music, your fingers unconsciously tracing the melodies you’d played that day. Other times, you simply listened to each other breathe, neither willing to hang up first.

one day, she told you about a celebration party her teammates where hosting

She invited you.

“It won’t be the worst thing ever,” she had said, arms crossed as she leaned against your locker. “Just show up for a little bit.”

You’d raised an eyebrow. “Since when did you want me at parties?”

Her lips had twitched, almost like she was fighting back a smirk. “Since I realized you never leave that damn band room. It’s tragic, really.”

So here you were, awkwardly lingering near the kitchen, nursing a half-empty cup of soda while bodies moved and music pulsed around you.

And she? She was in the center of it all—laughing, drinking, surrounded by teammates who treated her like some kind of legend. She belonged here, in the chaos and the noise.

You? Not so much.

You should have left an hour ago, but something held you in place. Maybe it was the way she kept glancing at you between conversations, like she was making sure you were still there. Or maybe it was the warmth in her eyes whenever your gazes met.

Either way, you weren’t leaving just yet.

You had just decided to step outside for some air when you felt a strong hand wrap around your wrist.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You turned, blinking up at her. She was closer than expected, her usual cocky smirk in place—but there was something else in her expression, something tense.

“Just getting some air,” you replied. “It’s suffocating in here.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Come on.”

Before you could respond, she was leading you out the back door, weaving through the crowd with ease. The cool night air hit you instantly, a sharp contrast to the heat of the party.

You leaned against the railing of the back porch, inhaling deeply. “Finally.”

She chuckled beside you, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “Didn’t think you’d actually come tonight.”

You shot her a look. “You asked me to.”

She was quiet for a moment, staring out into the night. Then, in a voice softer than you’d ever heard from her, she said, “Yeah. I did.”

Something about the way she said it sent your heartbeat into a sprint.

You shifted, watching her carefully. “Why?”

She exhaled slowly, running a hand through her hair. “Because I wanted you here.”

Your breath caught.

She turned to face you fully now, her expression serious—no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark to deflect. Just raw honesty.

“I know I’m not the easiest person to be around,” she started, voice steady but laced with something vulnerable. “I’m stubborn, I’m hot-headed, and I probably piss you off at least twice a day.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “At least.”

Her lips quirked up slightly before she continued. “But you… you’re different. You challenge me. You don’t put up with my crap, and somehow, you still—” She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure she could hear it.

“I keep catching myself looking for you in a crowd,” she admitted, shifting her weight like she was forcing herself to stay still. “I wait outside your rehearsals, even when I could’ve left. I call you at night because your voice is the only thing that makes me feel like the world isn’t spinning too fast.”

She took a shaky breath.

“I like you.”

The words hung between you, thick with weight, with meaning.

“I don’t just like you, actually,” she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper now. “I—I think I’m falling for you.”

You stared at her, stunned, unable to form words.

Her fingers flexed at her sides, like she was bracing for rejection. “If that’s weird, or if you don’t feel the same, just—”

You stepped forward before she could finish, reaching for her hand.

She froze as your fingers slid between hers, as you squeezed lightly.

“You idiot,” you murmured, your chest aching with something overwhelming. “I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

Her eyes widened slightly, like she hadn’t fully considered that possibility.

Then, after a beat, she huffed out a laugh. “God, we’re dumb.”

You grinned. “Yeah. A little bit.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, she looked nervous. “Can I—?”

You didn’t let her finish. Instead, you pulled her down into a kiss.

It wasn’t perfect—she was clumsy, caught off guard, but warm and sure the moment she realized what was happening. One of her hands came up to cup your face, rough and calloused but impossibly gentle.

When you finally pulled away, she was breathless, eyes flickering between yours.

“So,” she murmured, voice lower now. “Does this mean I can start calling you my girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you like it.”

You sighed dramatically, pretending to think. “Unfortunately.”

She grinned, lacing your fingers together. “Good.”

And as she pulled you back inside—back into the noise and the chaos of the party—it didn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Not when she was right beside you.

Not when she was yours.

— Childhood Bestfriend!caitlyn

The days that followed felt like something out of a dream. The kind of dream you never wanted to wake up from.

She had been true to her word—she didn’t want to let you go again. Every morning, you’d wake up to a good morning text, and by the afternoon, she’d have already made plans for the two of you, whether it was a quiet café visit, a stroll through the city, or simply lounging in her estate’s massive library, reminiscing about the past between pages of old books.

She had slipped back into your life as if she had never left it.

And yet, there was something new about this—something deeper, sweeter

Like the way she’d always find an excuse to touch you, whether it was resting her head on your shoulder when she was tired, bumping her knee against yours under the table, or absentmindedly playing with your fingers when you sat next to each other.

Or the way she would wait for you. Even when she was drowning in responsibilities, she would insist on having lunch together, texting you just to tell you something random about her day.

Or the way she’d steal your snacks.

Without fail, if you had food, she would somehow find a way to take at least a bite. “Sharing is caring,” she’d say, plucking a fry from your plate before you could react. And if you tried to call her out on it? She’d just smirk, pop whatever she took into her mouth, and say, “You love me, so it doesn’t count as stealing.”

(And you couldn’t even argue. Because she was right.)

Then there were the nights.

Those were your favorite.

She was always busiest during the day, but at night? That was when she really let herself be soft with you.

Like when you’d both curl up on the couch, watching movies that neither of you paid attention to because she was too busy tracing lazy patterns against your arm, or playing with your fingers, or resting her head in your lap with the most peaceful look on her face.

Or the nights when she’d show up at your door unannounced, eyes heavy with exhaustion but still full of warmth as she mumbled, “Just needed to see you.”

You’d let her in without question, and she’d collapse onto your bed with a tired sigh, reaching for you without hesitation. “Come here,” she’d murmur, voice softer than usual, more vulnerable. And when you settled next to her, she’d just hold you, burying her face against your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping her steady.

Or—your personal favorite—the way she looked at you.

Soft. Fond. Like you were the most precious thing she had ever laid eyes on.

One evening, as you sat curled up on the couch in her study, she nudged you with her foot. “Hey.”

You looked up from your book. “Hmm?”

She grinned. “Let’s make cupcakes.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I want cupcakes,” she repeated matter-of-factly, already standing up and stretching. “And I want to make them with you.”

You laughed, setting your book aside. “Since when do you bake?”

“I don’t,” she admitted, offering a hand to pull you up. “But I’m a fast learner. Come on.”

You sighed but let her drag you to the kitchen. What followed was absolute chaos.

Flour on the counter, sugar accidentally spilled on the floor, a mess of ingredients neither of you fully measured properly. She kept getting distracted, flicking flour at you, grinning mischievously every time you yelped in protest.

At some point, she wrapped her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder as you mixed the batter. “I think we make a good team.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s because I’m doing all the work.”

She hummed, tightening her hold on you slightly. “And you do it so well.”

Your cheeks burned. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

You sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately.”

She laughed, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before pulling away. “Okay, okay, let’s get these in the oven before I distract you too much.”

Too late, you thought, but you didn’t say it aloud.

Instead, you watched as she carefully placed the tray in the oven, a proud gleam in her eyes despite the fact that neither of you had any idea if the cookies would even taste good.

It didn’t really matter.

Because moments like this—messy, chaotic, ridiculous moments with her—were worth more than any perfect, scripted day.

And when the cupcakes came out horribly burnt, she just laughed, tossed one to you, and said, “Guess we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

— New kid!jinx and Class president!reader

Loving her was like standing in the eye of a storm—unpredictable, consuming, and just a little dangerous.

But you never wanted to be anywhere else.

She was everything you weren’t. But in the same way that she crashed into your life like a hurricane, she had also settled into it, leaving pieces of herself in all the places she had touched.

And now, she was everywhere.

You didn’t even know when it happened, but somewhere between her dragging you into trouble and worming her way into your perfectly structured life, she had become a permanent fixture.

No, more than that.

She had become yours.

Your mornings were different now.

Instead of waking up to your alarm and immediately drowning in responsibilities, you woke up to her texts.

chaos incarnate: WAKE UP chaos incarnate: pres, you better not be ignoring me chaos incarnate: hello?? chaos incarnate: fine. i’m calling you.

And then, not even a second later, your phone would start ringing.

You groaned, answering it without opening your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

“Good morning to you too, babe.”

You sighed, rolling over. “It’s four a.m.”

“Yeah, well, I missed you.”

Your heart stuttered, heat rising to your cheeks.

You hated how easily she did that.

“…We saw each other yesterday.”

“And? That was a whole eight hours ago.”

You groaned again, but this time, you couldn’t fight the smile spreading across your lips.

The entire school knew about you two.

Not because you told anyone, but because she made it impossible not to know.

She’d sling an arm over your shoulder in the halls, leaning in obnoxiously close just to see you flustered.

She’d steal your lunch, even if she had her own, just to make you roll your eyes and huff at her—because, according to her, you looked cute when you were annoyed.

She’d sit in on student council meetings—uninvited—kicking her feet up on the table like she belonged there, just to watch you glare at her.

And if anyone so much as looked at you for too long?

She’d pull you closer, smirking as she draped herself over you and drawled, “Mine.”

You pretended to be exasperated by it all.

You weren’t.

One second, she was smirking at you from across the room, her gaze sharp, teasing, full of something wild you could never quite pin down. The next, she was leaning against your desk, spinning a pen between her fingers as she sighed dramatically about how boring the student council meetings were, just to get a reaction out of you.

And sometimes—when no one else was around—she’d be quiet. Soft. Like a storm that had momentarily calmed, if only for you.

It was confusing. It was frustrating.

But it was also thrilling.

You never knew what she’d do next, but somehow, you always ended up right there with her.

“We’re skipping.”

You blinked up at her from your pile of papers. “What?”

She grinned, already grabbing your wrist, tugging you out of your chair. “I said, we’re skipping. Come on.”

You pulled back instinctively. “I can’t. I have to finish—”

“Boring,” she cut in, rolling her eyes. “You work too much. If you spend one more hour staring at those papers, you’ll turn into one.”

You crossed your arms. “And you get into trouble too much.”

She smirked. “Yeah? And yet, here you are, still standing next to me.”

You sighed, but the fight was already slipping out of you. With her, it always did.

She took advantage of your hesitation, intertwining her fingers with yours, and your heart definitely didn’t just stutter in your chest.

“Come on,” she murmured, giving your hand a squeeze. “Just for a little while?”

And just like that, you were done for.

The two of you ended up on the rooftop, the one place where no one ever checked.

She sat on the ledge, legs swinging slightly, looking up at the sky like she had never seen it before.

For a moment, she was quiet. Contemplative.

Then, without looking at you, she spoke.

“You know, you’re the only person who’s ever stuck around.”

The words were soft, but something about them hit harder than anything she had ever said before.

You swallowed, watching her carefully. “You don’t make it easy.”

She laughed, a little breathless. “No. I don’t.”

Silence settled between you, comfortable in a way you never expected.

Then, before you could think too much about it, you reached out, gently brushing your fingers against hers where they rested on the ledge.

She went completely still.

You hesitated, pulling back slightly, but she caught your hand before you could.

Her grip was tight—like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

“You drive me crazy,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You’re stubborn, and you worry too much, and you never break the rules.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

She huffed, exasperated, before turning to face you fully.

And then—before you could react—she leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to your cheek.

Your brain short-circuited.

She pulled back, smirking at your stunned expression, but there was something warm in her eyes, something real.

“You’re mine now,” she declared, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You opened your mouth—probably to protest, maybe to demand an explanation—but she just squeezed your hand again, tilting her head at you.

“…Unless you don’t want to be.”

You swallowed, heartbeat hammering in your chest.

And then, slowly, you laced your fingers through hers properly, squeezing back.

“…I think I do.”

Her smirk softened into something almost gentle.

“Good,” she murmured.

— Troublemaker!sevika and Tutor!reader

You weren’t sure when this became normal.

When tutoring sessions turned into something more—into lingering glances across textbooks, into stolen moments between classes, into a relationship that neither of you ever really talked about, but both of you knew was real.

It had started with her grumbling about the stupid school system, about how she didn’t need to study when she had “better things to do.” But now? Now, she was here—on time, every time, sitting across from you with a scowl like she hadn’t just walked across campus grinning at you like an idiot when she thought no one was looking.

She had changed.

Or maybe she hadn’t, and you were just seeing her differently now.

Either way, she was yours.

And that was enough.

“You’re staring.”

You blinked, realizing that, yes, you were staring, and, yes, she was very much aware of it.

“I’m not,” you lied.

She smirked. “Yeah? Then why haven’t you flipped the page in five minutes?”

You opened your mouth, then shut it.

Damn it.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Didn’t take you for the distracted type, tutor.”

You sighed, closing the book. “Maybe if you actually studied, I wouldn’t have to get distracted.”

She scoffed, leaning back. “I do study.”

You gave her a look.

“Okay, fine,” she huffed. “I study when you make me.”

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Instead, she tilted her head, watching you in that way that always made your stomach do something weird.

“Why do you even put up with me?” she asked.

The question caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because she sounded genuinely curious.

Like she didn’t understand why you were still here.

Like she didn’t realize how easy it was to love her.

You frowned. “Because I want to.”

She stared at you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

Then, suddenly, she reached across the table, grabbing your hand.

It wasn’t gentle.

It never was with her.

But her grip was warm, steady, real.

“…Good,” she muttered, squeezing your fingers once before pulling away. “You’re stuck with me, anyway.”

You smiled. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dating her meant learning to navigate her world.

The world of bruised knuckles and reckless grins, of sharp words and sharper instincts, of someone who had spent so long fighting that she didn’t know how to stop.

You didn’t mind.

She never hurt you—not really.

But sometimes, she’d show up to your study sessions with a fresh cut on her cheek, or a bandage wrapped around her hand, or a bruise blooming on her jaw, and every time, you’d sigh, pulling out your first aid kit without saying a word.

She hated it.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

She huffed but didn’t pull away, letting you press a cotton pad to her cheek, wincing when the antiseptic stung.

“Idiot,” you muttered, brushing your thumb over her skin after you were done.

She smirked. “You love me.”

You didn’t argue.

Instead, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the uninjured side of her face.

She tensed for half a second before melting into it, her fingers curling around your wrist, holding you in place like she never wanted you to leave.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “I do.”

There were other parts of her world, too.

Parts that had nothing to do with fights or scraped knuckles.

Like how she always walked you home, no matter how many times you told her she didn’t need to.

Or how she’d steal your pens just to hear you complain about it, only to return them later with a smug grin.

Or how she’d grumble about studying, but when you fell asleep next to her, she’d pull a blanket over you without saying a word.

Or how she’d stay, even when she didn’t have to.

She wasn’t the best with words.

But she didn’t need to be.

Not when she loved you like this.

“Hey,” she called one day, leaning against your locker.

You raised a brow. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she shifted, suddenly looking a little… awkward.

Which was weird, because she was never awkward.

You frowned. “Are you—”

“I got you something,” she blurted out.

You blinked. “You what?”

She huffed, shoving something into your hands.

It was… a necklace. Simple, understated. Something you would actually wear.

You stared at it, then at her.

“…Why?”

She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Because I wanted to.”

You looked down at it again, running your fingers over the chain.

It was nice.

And it was from her.

Your heart did that weird thing again.

“…Put it on me?” you asked softly, handing it back.

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected that, before scoffing. “You really like making me do things, don’t you?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

She muttered something under her breath but moved behind you, fastening the clasp.

Her fingers brushed against your skin, and you shivered.

“…There,” she murmured.

You turned back to her, letting her see the way you were smiling. “Thank you.”

She shrugged, but her ears were red.

You grinned.

Then, impulsively, you reached up, cupping her face in your hands before pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.

She froze.

“…You absolute menace,” she muttered after a second, her voice half-choked.

You laughed. “You love me.”

She groaned. “I hate you.”

But the way she grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together as she pulled you down the hall?

That told a very different story.

— Artist!ekko and Muse!reader

The world felt different when he painted you.

Maybe it was the way his eyes softened as they traced your features, the way his lips quirked up ever so slightly in that absentminded, faraway smile. Or maybe it was the way he became so completely immersed in the moment, like nothing else existed except you, him, and the quiet hum of creation between you.

You weren’t sure when it had started—when you had become his muse, when his hands had memorized the slopes and curves of your expression more intimately than you ever could. But at some point, it became normal to sit in his studio, to let him paint you while the sun spilled golden light across the room.

At some point, it became home.

"Stay still," he murmured, his voice soft but firm.

You huffed but obeyed, shifting just slightly to get comfortable. “You know, I’m starting to think you just tell me that so I don’t walk away.”

He smirked without looking up. “Would it work?”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously.”

He chuckled, dipping his brush into a fresh stroke of color. "Then I don’t see the problem."

You watched him work, watched the way his fingers moved with practiced precision, his brow furrowing in deep focus.

It was so like him—to get completely lost in his art, in the way he captured emotions in strokes of paint. You weren’t even sure he realized how much he gave away when he worked. The quiet admiration, the unwavering patience, the unspoken tenderness in the way he committed you to canvas.

The thought made warmth curl in your chest.

He loved you.

Even in the moments when he didn’t say it outright, you felt it.

“…You’re staring,” he noted after a moment, amusement dancing in his tone.

You smirked. "So?"

"So," he mused, dabbing a final stroke onto the canvas before finally looking at you, "stay still."

You scoffed but didn’t argue.

His gaze lingered, studying you like he was committing every detail to memory.

Then, suddenly, he set the brush down, wiping his hands on a cloth before standing up and making his way toward you.

Your brows furrowed. "Are we done?"

He hummed, stopping right in front of you. "Almost."

Before you could question him, he reached out, gently swiping his thumb across your cheek.

You blinked.

“…Did you just wipe paint on me?”

His lips twitched. "Maybe."

Your jaw dropped. "You menace—"

He laughed, grabbing your hands before you could retaliate. "It’s barely anything!"

"You smudged me!"

"You’ll live."

You gasped dramatically. “I can feel it on my face—”

"Would you like me to fix it?"

You squinted at him, suspicious. "How?"

He smiled. "Like this."

And then, before you could react, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, right where the paint had been.

You froze.

Your heart stumbled over itself, warmth blooming beneath your skin.

"...That doesn’t count as fixing it," you mumbled, embarrassed by how breathless you sounded.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smile soft, fond.

"I disagree."

Loving him meant understanding the way he saw the world.

The way his hands itched to create, to turn fleeting emotions into something tangible.

The way he’d go silent for long stretches, caught up in his own thoughts, before suddenly dragging you into his latest project with that spark of inspiration in his eyes.

The way he loved you—not just with words, but in the way he painted you, over and over again, like he was trying to keep you forever.

And maybe, in his own way, he was.

One night, long after the city had gone quiet, you found yourself back in his studio, curled up on the couch while he worked.

You weren’t posing this time.

You were just there, watching as he sketched in his notebook, his focus unwavering even as the hours slipped by.

“…Do you ever get tired of painting me?” you asked suddenly.

He paused, looking up at you.

Then, without hesitation—"Never."

You stared at him. “You say that like it’s obvious.”

"It is obvious," he said simply, setting his notebook aside as he moved toward you.

You let him sit beside you, watching as he reached for your hand, tracing absentminded patterns along your fingers.

“…There are infinite things in the world to paint,” he murmured, his touch feather-light, reverent. “Landscapes, emotions, stories… But you?” He lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. "You are my favorite."

Your breath caught.

You weren’t used to this—to his quiet, devastating sincerity.

He didn’t always say how he felt outright. He spoke in colors, in soft touches, in lingering glances over paint-stained canvases.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

“…You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, feeling your face grow warm.

He smirked. “And you love me for it.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

Instead, you tugged him closer, resting your forehead against his.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just existed—wrapped in warmth, in paint-stained fingertips and whispered affections between the silence.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

— Bestfriend!jayce

There were moments where you still couldn’t believe this was real.

That after years of laughter, inside jokes, stolen hoodies, and whispered dreams of the future, you had ended up here—curled up next to him, his arm lazily draped around you, as if this had been inevitable from the very start.

In a way, maybe it was.

Loving him never felt like a sudden thing, never like some grand revelation that struck you out of nowhere. It had crept in slowly, weaving itself between every late-night conversation, every lingering glance, every touch that lasted just a little longer than it needed to.

And now? Now it was second nature.

He was yours.

And you were his.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

You blinked. “What thing?”

He smirked without looking up from his book. “The thing where you stare at me like I put the stars in the sky.”

You scoffed, shoving him playfully. “Get over yourself.”

He chuckled, finally turning his attention toward you. “Not denying it, though.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “Maybe I was just zoning out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or judging you.”

“Doubt it.”

You sighed, dramatic. “God, dating you is exhausting.”

“Right?” he teased. “Can’t believe you fell for me.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Can’t believe I did, either.”

His expression softened at that, his teasing smile melting into something fonder.

Then, suddenly, he reached out, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face before letting his fingers trail down, tracing the curve of your jaw.

“…Lucky me,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You just sat there, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin, your heart stumbling over itself at the way he was looking at you.

Like you were something rare.

Like he had been waiting his whole life for you.

“…You’re such a sap,” you whispered.

His lips twitched. “Only for you.”

The thing about dating your best friend was that nothing really changed.

Not in the way you expected, at least.

There were still late-night fast food runs, still study sessions that turned into existential conversations, still a constant presence at your side whenever you needed him (and even when you didn’t).

But there were differences, too.

Like how he held your hand without hesitation now, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Or how he hugged you longer, pressing his face into your shoulder like he needed to be close to you.

Or how he kissed your forehead absentmindedly whenever you did something that made him proud, as if he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Or how he whispered, "Love you," so casually, like he had always been saying it.

Like he always would.

“Okay, real talk,” he said one night, sprawled across your bed like he owned it.

You hummed, flipping a page in your book. “Mm?”

“If we weren’t dating, would you still have a crush on me?”

You blinked, giving him an unimpressed look. “What kind of question is that?”

“A valid one.”

You sighed, setting your book down. “We are dating.”

“But if we weren’t,” he pressed, propping himself up on his elbows. “Would you still be into me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What kind of answer are you looking for?”

“The truth.”

You stared at him, trying to figure out what he was really asking.

Then, with a smirk, you shrugged. “Dunno. You’re kinda annoying.”

He gasped. “Rude.”

“But,” you continued, reaching over to poke his cheek, “I’d probably be in love with you anyway.”

He grinned. “Knew it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Hopelessly in love.”

You groaned. “Why do I even like you?”

He laughed, grabbing your hand and lacing your fingers together.

“…Because we were always meant to end up here.”

Your breath hitched.

The words were simple, said so casually, but they settled deep in your chest, spreading warmth through your entire being.

Because he was right.

Every moment, every choice, every little thing that led to this—it had always been leading you here.

To him.

To this.

To something more than forever.

— Enemies to lovers!viktor and reader

It still surprised you sometimes—how things had changed.

How the cold rivalry that once existed between you had melted into something warm, something constant, something that made your chest tighten in the best way whenever you so much as thought about it.

About him.

Once upon a time, you and him had been at odds with each other, a battle of sharp words and stubborn ideals. He was relentless, fiercely determined, a mind constantly working ten steps ahead. And you—well, you were the opposite. Passionate, chaotic, diving headfirst into the unknown with little concern for anything but discovery.

But now?

Now he was yours.

And God, you loved him.

“Stop working,” you whined, dramatically flopping onto his desk.

He barely spared you a glance, eyes still locked onto the notebook in front of him. “Can’t.”

“You always say that,” you huffed, watching as he furiously jotted down another equation, his pen moving like it had a will of its own.

“Because it’s always true,” he shot back, voice carrying that familiar unwavering certainty.

You rolled your eyes. “Five-minute break.”

“No.”

“Two minutes?”

“No.”

You sighed, tilting your head at him. “What could possibly be so important that you can’t take two minutes to—” You peered at his notes and blinked. “Wait. Is this…” You trailed off, recognizing the layout of a physics equation, the bold scrawl of hypotheses scattered between calculations.

He finally glanced at you, the sharp glint of his focus not dulled in the slightest. “I had a thought earlier and needed to get it down.”

You stared at him. “You had a thought so urgent that you couldn’t even pause for two seconds?”

“Yes.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re crazy”

“And you’re distracting.”

“You love me, though.”

A flicker of something softened his expression. He didn’t answer immediately, just studied you with those impossibly sharp eyes, the ones that always seemed to be unraveling the mysteries of the universe—except, in that moment, they were solely on you.

“Yeah,” he murmured eventually, the intensity of it making your breath catch. “I do.”

It was rare, hearing it outright like that. He wasn’t one for grand proclamations, but when he did speak—when he let himself be honest—it always hit you like a tidal wave.

You swallowed, warmth pooling in your chest. “Then take a break.”

He sighed, exasperated but amused. Then, to your utter delight, he set his pen down.

“Two minutes,” he relented.

You grinned, holding out your arms. “Hug me.”

He stared. “…Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he was analyzing the request for its deeper meaning. Then, without another word, he leaned forward and pulled you against him.

You melted instantly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. His arms were strong, steady—the kind of embrace that felt unshakable, like he would hold the entire world together if it meant keeping you safe.

“…Better?” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “Much.”

His fingers lingered at your back, just the faintest trace of hesitation before he fully gave in, relaxing into the embrace.

And neither of you let go.

Dating him had been an adjustment.

He wasn’t the kind to wear his emotions on his sleeve. He was driven, always looking forward, always chasing after the next big thing. His brain never stopped, his heart never wavered, his ambition burning like an unstoppable fire.

Which meant he showed affection in his own way.

Like the way he never actually said I love you, but instead muttered things like, don’t forget to eat or stay inside, it’s cold.

Like the way he pretended to be annoyed when you interrupted his work, only to immediately pull you back when you tried to leave.

Like the way he sighed every time you teased him, only to let you lace your fingers with his under desks, his grip never faltering.

And the thing was?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

One evening, you were in the library together, him completely immersed in his research while you doodled aimlessly in your notebook.

The silence was comfortable, the kind that had become second nature between you.

Then, suddenly—

“…You make me reckless.”

You blinked. “Uh. Excuse me?”

He didn’t look up, his fingers tapping idly against the table. “You make me reckless,” he repeated, almost contemplative. “It’s irritating.”

You squinted at him. “Are you… saying you love me?”

He hummed. “Statistically, it would be hard to deny.”

Your heart stumbled over itself. “Oh my God.”

He finally looked up, arching a brow. “What?”

“You just confessed your love for me like it was a scientific fact.”

“…And?”

You let out a laugh, completely endeared. “You’re unbelievable.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t look annoyed. If anything, there was something fond in the way he regarded you, something soft in the way he reached out, tapping his fingers against your wrist.

“…You already knew,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

Because of course you knew.

You had known for a long time now.

But hearing it—even in his own, methodical way—still sent warmth flooding through your entire being.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered, reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “I did.”

And if he squeezed your hand just a little tighter?

Well.

You didn’t mention it.

#arcane x reader #arcane #viktor x reader #jayce x reader #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #ekko x reader #sevika x reader #lesbian #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane headcanon #arcane imagines #x reader #jinx x reader #wlw #🧸. ceann's works

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sunflowerwinds · 5 months ago

Text

sugar, sugar | v.a

summary: a week after isha’s birthday party, you tell vi it’s time to take the night on to make some blueberry cinnamon rolls. the two of you open up to one another in the midst of your baking session; your feelings for her somehow festering even more but maybe those feelings aren’t as one sided as you believe.

pairing: fem!reader x vi arcane

contains: modern!au, mila & jinx side-plot (that’s barely touched on), awkward and adorable tension, pining, fluff, talks of parental deaths on vi and reader’s end, possible incorrect depictions of baking (i love baking but im not an expert </3)

word count: 4.5K

a/n: i think i got one more part for you guys and i can’t wait for it :) i love love all of the overwhelming support for this little series; i cannot express it enough!! the reblogs & comments really help me keep going. i hope you guys enjoy this part!!

— THREE

“What are you doing?”

You hear from behind you as you were frantically wiping down the stone top island in the kitchen, making sure it was squeaky clean for Vi’s arrival.

After attending Isha’s birthday party, another week had flown by before you were able to have everything prepared. Okay, you had most of the materials at home already.

You felt you needed to mentally prepare to have Vi here in your childhood home; a place you go to for comfort at the end of a restless day. You had sent her messages with your address and what time she should make her way over to yours.

You hold back the eye-roll threatening your eyes at Mila’s judgemental tone. You were as ready as you could be, wearing a simple pair of striped sleeping pants and a dark gray sweatshirt that hung slightly off your shoulder with a back tank underneath. You were home so you wanted to be cozy yet cute. Your hair was up in a simple ponytail, a few flyaways escaping from your vigorous cleaning.

“Cleaning. What does it look like I’m doing?” You sarcastically respond to your sister, sucking in a deep breath as you move to another spot.

“I can see that but I mean, why are you scrubbing so damn hard? You’re going to carve the stone, dude.”

You close your eyes as you try not to snap at your sister. Your grandma had given you the day off so that you could spend as much time with Vi as you could. Even after insisting to her that it wasn’t necessary, she made sure you weren’t on the schedule and to not leave the house unless it was with Vi.

‘I need a daughter-in-law,’ were her words as she left the house to go to the bakery. She was very hopeful for you.

“I’m… a little anxious, okay?” You admit, ready to hear your sisters mocking.

She snorts at your words as she rounds the island to look at you. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Okay can you keep that to yourself, please? I-I don’t need this right now,” you wipe back some of the flyaways as you put the rag in the sink.

You wash your hands in silence, hearing your sister shifting behind you.

“Look, what I was going to say was that you are going to be fine. Clearly, she already likes you or else she wouldn’t have agreed to come over to help you,” Mila quietly tells you, tilting her head to try and find your eyes. “I know this doesn’t happen often for you but I don’t want you to screw it up.”

You take that in, ignoring the dig at your antisocial skills and lack of dating experience. You knew this was your sister's way of trying to comfort your scattered mind.

“Thanks�� I think,” you squint your eyes at her, drying off your hands.

You hear your phone ding on the countertop, leaning over to check to see who it was. To your demise, it was Vi telling you that she had arrived at your house. You mutter a curse as you turn to your sister getting ready to tell her to go somewhere that wasn’t here. You hadn’t even heard the car rolling up the dirt driveway.

“You’re welcome. Now, I’ll be doing you a favor and leaving so you can have the house to yourselves.”

Your brows furrow at her words, questioning your sister’s whereabouts.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Mila grins at you before shrugging one of her shoulders, seeming sheepish. “Hanging out with a friend. I’ll see you. Have fun with Violet.”

She drags out Vi’s full name to tease you as she throws her brown suede purse over her shoulder. You practically shove her out of the house as you peek out the window once she shuts the front door. You knew your sister didn’t have a car, and she was not using yours, so you wanted to see who the hell was picking her up. Your eyes squint to see a streak of light blue hair in the driver’s seat and Vi walking up to your front door.

Vi passes your sister and gives her a slight nod and wave, telling her something that you couldn’t quite hear due to the fact that she was outside still. It took you way too long to realize that the head in the driver's seat was Jinx. Mila and Jinx were friends? And she just forgot to tell you?

Absolutely shocked by this news, you tug open your front to reveal Vi with her hand raising to knock but eyes widening at your confused expression as you look behind her at the car reversing and leaving the dirt driveway.

“Hey, uh,” Vi shoved her hands into the pockets of her zip-up, tilting her head at you, “is everything okay?”

You blink as your attention switches to Vi’s awaiting expression. You shake your head, an embarrassed chuckle leaving your lips.

“I’m sorry. Hi, Vi,” you grin at her before opening the door wider for her to step in.

“You’re okay. It’s Jinx and Mila, right?” Vi questions, an amused smile forms on her lips.

You nod slowly as you allow her to step further in, asking her to take off her shoes before nodding with a shocked expression as you shut the door and lock it.

“Yeah. They’re… friends?” You press, wanting to know your sister's business.

Vi pries off her shoes near the door and places them next to the small line-up of you, your sisters and your grandmother’s shoes.

“Yeah, I guess Jinx went to the bakery on her own and your sister was there and they started talking after that,” she breathed out a laugh.

“That’s crazy. I love my sister but she is cranky as hell at work,” you chuckle.

Vi shrugs her shoulders, her laughter fading to a small grin. Vi’s bright eyes dart around the interior of your grandmother's home, curiously examining every inch of the house you grew up in. You linger behind her as you try to compose yourself over the fact that she was here. You fiddle with your rings in an attempt to ease your bouncing mind.

“It’s so… cozy here,” she voices her thoughts as she smiles at a photo of you, your sister and your grandma when you were younger that was sitting on a shelf underneath the living room TV.

Her light gray zip up was slightly falling off her shoulders to reveal the inch strap of her black wife pleaser underneath. The sight distracts you for a moment before you cringe at your younger portrait but Vi merely admires how much you’ve grown yet somehow look the same.

Beautiful, nonetheless.

“Everyone says that when they come over. My grandpa actually helped build this place with his friends when they were younger. He really loved my grandma.” You explain softly, looking at the back of Vi’s head.

Vi turned her head to look at you, nodding as she glanced around the room wondering how long it must’ve taken to do this.

“It’s really beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you accept the compliment on your grandmother and grandfather's behalf. “Oh, and I did make the dough last night because it needs to rise overnight so it can be all light and fluffy.”

Vi slowly nods at your words, furrowing her brows as she motioned towards the kitchen area that was adjacent to the living room.

“So what more do we have to do other than, you know, assembling them?” Vi questions as she waits for your response.

You hold your hands behind your back as you tilt your head towards the fridge, an eager smile spreading onto your face.

“Do you want to listen to music while we bake?” You question.

Vi’s eyes flicker to your elated gaze and she can’t help but smile at your question. When you look at her like that, she thinks she would do anything for you. She watches your movements as you scurry over to a side table that was next to the living room couch to undo the clasp of a vinyl player that was disguised as a leather brown suitcase.

You kneel down to tug out a crate that held around 50 records, humming to yourself as you pick up a record that satisfied you. Vi couldn’t see from where she was standing but was hesitant to move forward. You carefully remove the vinyl from its paper shell to place on the spindle, moving the tonearm to rest it on the song of your desire.

“This is just a bunch of different blues and R&B songs,” you inform Vi, your back still turned to her. “I thought it was fitting.”

Vi nods in understanding even though you weren’t able to see her. You stand back up to your feet once adjusting the volume, walking back over to Vi’s awaiting figure. You take her hand in yours and motion for her to follow you into the kitchen.

“Is this going to be messy?” Vi asks, distracting herself from how much she loved feeling your hand in hers.

“Mmm, I would be lying if I said no so you either roll up your sleeves or take off your jacket so you don’t get it covered in anything,” you suggest as you release her hand to tug open the fridge to retrieve what you needed for the filling.

Vi, to your wonderful surprise, zips down her jacket and lets the cotton roll over her toned shoulders. You stand frozen near the fridge for a moment at the sight of her back nearly covered in ink. You had to thank whatever or whoever sent her to your grandma’s shop because how the hell is she real?

Standing here in your kitchen looking like that?

Vi sets her jacket aside on one of the chairs that was pulled up to the island, her hands finding their place on her hips as she awaits further instruction.

“Okay so, what you’re going to do is sprinkle a bit of flour onto the island. Just all over it,” you motion to the bag of flour and use one of your to make a spreading motion to the lengthy surface.

Vi nods in understanding at your instruction, clearing her throat as she reaches carefully into the paper bag to grab a good handful as does exactly as instructed. You hold back your glee as you watch her lean over a bit to even out the flour. She glances at you through her peripheral to make sure you seemed satisfied with how that looks.

“How’s it look?” She hums, dusting off her hands over the spread.

“Perfect. Now, take the dough and just give it a few kneads to press out the air bubbles.” You point to the metal bowl full of dough, stepping to the side to move out of her way.

Following your words once again, Vi takes the malleable tan dough into her palms to plop it down onto the surface. You turn your head to cough at the gust of powdery air that blew upwards. She, too, waves a hand in front of her face to brush the puff away from her nostrils.

When Vi had said you only wanted her there so she could do all the kneading, you didn’t expect to actually be gawking over her doing it. She digs her palms and fingers into the dough, leaning her chest forward to press it into the flour. Her triceps tightened at the motion, readjusting the blob to spread the flour evenly throughout. You swore you heard a grunt of struggle leave her lips as the dough was a bit thicker than she was expecting.

You raise a hand to your mouth to push back the infatuated smile that was tickling your lips, just watching her knead the dough.

“Is this good?” Vi asks through another press into the surface, another light grunt leaving her mouth.

“Yeah,” you say without thinking, lost in your lust-driven daze.

Vi looks up at you from her kneading as she stops with her hands still buried into the dough, no longer sticking to it as it was covered in flour. You dart your gaze away from her as you shake your head, chuckling and muttering ‘right’ to yourself.

“I’ll get the, uh, rolling pin so you can flatten it out.”

You suck in a deep breath as you turn your back to her, shutting your eyes as you internally scold yourself to pull it together. Had she noticed your lingering almost creepy stare at her arms?

If she did, she hid it very well.

“Do I need to wash my hands?” Vi questions from behind your back as you kneel down to retrieve the rolling pin from the cabinet.

“No, not yet. After rolling them, you can. I’ll put the filling and roll them if you want,” you offer from over your shoulder as you grab the wooden object.

“Okay. You’re the boss,” Vi chuckles.

You stand back up on your feet, blinking harshly from the sudden rush to your head. Change the subject, you begged internally as you handed her the rolling pin. As you flicker on the stove and try to think of something else to talk about, you can hear Vi humming along to the song currently playing as she rolled the dough as instructed.

You smile to yourself as you begin to make the filling as quickly as possible.

“You know this song?” You question the red-haired woman, turning to her slightly as you watch the filling simmer in the small pot.

Vi seems to be caught off guard at the fact that you could hear her humming to herself along with the song's lyrics, pausing her movements for a second.

“Uh, yeah,” she clears her throat as she takes one glance at you before looking away flustered. “My… mom would sing it all the time. She was obsessed with it.”

“You know, you’ve never talked about your mom,” you state carefully. “Not that you have to. It just hit me.”

Vi shook her head, muttering a ‘no, it’s okay.’

“I guess I never really had a reason to but I don’t mind,” she reassures you to glance at you once again with a small smile.

You send her one back as you stir the filling slowly, watching the ingredients dissolve over the heat.

“What was she like?” You question.

“She was… loving. She, uh, passed when I was 11 and Jinx was 6. She gave us home hair cuts that were just so terrible,” Vi shook her head with a chuckle as she recollected on her childhood. “I mean, seriously. I mean, it looked like we had cut them ourselves but my dad claimed that we loved the look. I think it was because it was the fact that it was her cutting our hair instead of some stranger.”

You can’t help but smile at her words. Her voice had softened the second she had brought up her mom, signaling to you that her mom was a gentle soul. You could feel how much that transpired within Vi.

“Were her and your dad together for a while before they had you and Jinx?” You hum.

“They were never together. They were actually friends but my mom got knocked up by some random guy twice that they never knew about and my dad kind of took that position of being, well, a dad.”

Vi explains as she sucks in a deep breath, seeming as though she was composing herself. You furrow your brows as you are afraid that you’ve pushed it too far with the questions.

“Well, when did Isha come in?” You ask in hopes to distract her.

This Vi freezes at, releasing the rolling pin to turn to you with a soft sigh.

“She came out of nowhere. My dad told us one day coming home from school that someone had left a baby on our doorstep. We thought that kind of stuff only happened in the movies so we thought it was a joke,” she leaned her back up against the counter top, folding her muscular arms across her chest. “But then we came into the living room and there she was wrapped up in a little blanket in a bassinet. Jinx was more excited than I was because she got her own little sister.”

“You have a very loving family. It’s obvious, honestly. I can tell you have a good heart, Vi,” you tilt your head to make eye contact with her to show the sincerity behind your words.

Vi’s eyes hold contact with your own, pupils dilating to the point where the blue of her eyes was a mere ring. She exhales a soft breath as she just stares at you.

“What about your parents? Are they…?” Vi blinks and reroutes the attention to you now.

“Uh, no. My mom and dad died when I was 6 or 7 and Mila was just 1. They weren’t the best parents from what my grandma has told me. They tried but they were… angry and overworked,” you shook your head as you turn down the heat on the stove lower before looking at Vi with a shrug to your shoulders. “I guess they thought having kids would bring them closer but it only seemed to push them further apart. They had dropped Mila and I here one day and just never came back. My grandparents found out a week later that they had gotten into a car accident and died on the way to the hospital.”

You wince to yourself at the silence that had fallen over the two of you. The soft crackle of the record switching songs and the soft bubbling of the blueberry filling in the pot were the only sounds in the house.

“But I’m okay. My grandparents raised me and my sister and I can guarantee it was the better choice,” you attempt to make a joke but Vi simply looks at you with a genuine expression.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry too.”

You clear your throat, a strained chuckle leaving your lips as you clasp your hands together.

“Sorry, the filling’s ready. I didn’t mean to get all– Well, to bring that subject up.”

Vi shakes her head to reassure your frantic mind, reaching for your hand. You allow her to do so, heart leaping into your throat when her thumb wipes over the back of your hand.

“I said it was okay. I meant that,” she persists.

You look at her with a hesitant expression, opening your mouth about to apologize but she gives you a pointed look as if she was testing you to try it.

“Okay, okay, let’s roll these.”

Vi seems content with that and releases your hand to let you bring over the pot to the counter of rolled out dough. You ignore the bothersome want to grab her hand right back as carry it over and rest it on a crocheted pot holder so it wouldn’t burn the surface. You two stay in a comfortable silence as you take a wooden baking spoon to scoop it and carefully spread the blueberry-cinnamon filling across the flat dough. Once everything was properly rolled up and placed onto the baking sheet, you popped it in the oven for its designated time period.

About 20 minutes passed of sharing soft words to one another in the kitchen, the timer on your phone went off. With the rolls fresh out of the oven, you started to make the cream cheese frosting to wrap it all together. You could see Vi lingering over the delectable smelling pastries out of the corner of your eye, seeming to be examining them.

“You really do have a knack for this, cupcake. These look incredible,” Vi praises you as you plop the ingredients into the bowl.

You tuck a flyway piece of hair behind your ear as you bashfully smile in her direction.

“Well, you did all the kneading. They wouldn’t been made without your help,” you switch it around to the pink-haired girl.

“I knew you were staring,” she teased as she took a few steps forward so her shoulders were a few inches apart from your own.

The close proximity made your stomach flip but you simply continued to whisk in the bowl. You gradually add the milk, careful not to add too much or else it wouldn’t be thick enough.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie through your teeth. “I was making sure your technique was good. I’m the baker here.”

“If you say so,” Vi held her palms up in defense, that annoyingly attractive grin on her face.

You shake your head before vigorously whisking the frosting, watching it turn into the perfect texture. You sigh as you dip your finger into soft white glaze and hold it up to Vi’s mouth, wiping it on her bottom lip without thinking.

Your eyes widen as you realize what you’ve done, watching Vi’s eyes match yours. She licks her lips to taste the frosting regardless, raising her fingers to her lips when yours just was.

“I’m so sorry. I—When I bake at home with my grandma or my sister, we usually just do, well, that because we’re the only ones eating it,” you cover your mouth with both of your palms, shaking your head. “I’m sor-I’m so sorry.”

“No, no,” Vi raises her hand to wave you off, a weird chuckle leaving her lips. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

You sigh, the embarrassment still clinging to your skin as you replayed in your mind how easily you did that.

“It’s good, though,” Vi adds through the silence.

You can’t help but let out an amused laugh at the way she immediately tries to assure you that what you did was in fact very normal. You knew it wasn’t… by any means but she attempts to make you feel better regardless.

“What?” Vi asks through her own soft laughter.

You shake your head as you motion to the fresh cinnamon rolls.

“Can we frost these, please? I’m trying to save myself from embarrassment.”

Vi simply grins at you as she reaches two fingers into the glaze to gather a bit on her pointer and middle before sticking it in her mouth. You stare at her, unable to utter a word. What the hell is wrong with her?

“See? It’s good.”

Instead of humiliating yourself further, you shove her back with one arm as you scold: “Did you even wash your hands?”

“I did, actually.”

“Then get to it,” you point to the cinnamon rolls and hand her a spatula.

Vi glances down at the bowl of frosting and the wooden spatula with a soft blue rubber before taking it from her hands to do as you had asked. You watch her step around you to take a good scoop of the glaze to spread it over the warm treats. You spoke quietly to one another, asking her random questions to pick at her mind a bit more; to get to know her better.

“You think you could teach me how to kick box?” You question as you are now sitting in your living room.

Two small ceramic plates that were in the style of pool balls on the coffee table in front of you; Vi’s being the 6 green ball and yours being the 8. Cinnamon rolls sat on either one; yours being less eaten than Vi’s. She had mere crumbs left as she nodded into her last bite.

“Oh yeah. You can let me know and I’ll clear out some space for you.” Vi grins as she licks her lips to be rid of the cinnamon from her lips.

“I will definitely,” you chuckle as you take another bite.

“Hey, uh, speaking of that, I have this kickboxing tournament coming up in a few days. I… want you to be there,” Vi looks at you with an awaiting expression; hope glimmering over her eyes.

Your eyes meet hers as you chew your food, a hand hovering over your mouth so you don’t drop crumbs. I want you to be there, her voice rang through your mind.

“You’ll be competing?” You wonder.

“Yeah and a few of my older students,” she confirms.

You’d be an idiot to say no. A stupidly giddy smile spreads onto your face as you set the last quarter of your cinnamon roll back on the plate.

“I’d love to be there. I’ll cheer you on from a distance.”

Vi tilts her head from next to you, bumping her shoulder with yours.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I’ll embarrass you with a huge sign that says ‘Go Vi’ in rainbow glitter,” you lean closer to her face as you tease her.

Vi eyes flicker down to your lips for a split-second as you lean in. You notice the action but brush it off as the closer proximity.

“You’ll be my cheerleader?” She questions, a smirk forming.

“Always,” you whisper, sucking in a deep breath as you shift yourself so that your body is facing hers.

Your answer sends a shiver down Vi’s spine, her heart leaping into her throat. She lifts her hand to take one of yours before she opens her mouth to say something. A loud knock fills the house causing the both of you to jump.

You mutter a curse to yourself as you excuse yourself to Vi to walk over to the door to unlock it to see your sister and Jinx standing on the welcome mat. They both held cheeky, suspicious grins.

“Hey guys,” you furrow your brows at the two. “Back so early?”

“Early? It’s been three hours,” Mila states with raised brows, stepping into the house.

Vi must’ve heard Mila’s voice and appeared behind you at the door, cursing to herself as she did not realize how much time had passed. She checked her own phone before looking at her sister.

“Shit, I gotta go. I promised I would take Isha to the park before it gets too dark,” Vi runs to grab her zip-up, sadly shielding her toned arms once again. When she walks back over to you, Mila and Jinx, she wraps her arms around you to give you a warm hug. “I’ll text you all the details, I promise. Thank you for letting me come over. I had a good time.”

You hold onto her tightly, discreetly inhaling the cinnamon-blueberry scent that was clinging to her skin.

“Yeah, me too. Let me know everything, Vi,” you pull away to see your sister and Jinx giving each other weird looks.

Okay, their friendship was going to drive you up the wall.

“See you, cupcake. Bye, Mila,” Vi grins at you and waves at your sister.

“Bye, Vi. Bye Jinx. Text me!” Mila calls after Jinx as they both walk away to the running car.

Jinx turns her head to send your sister a knowing smile, calling back: “I will, Mils!”

You and your sister watch the two open their designated sides of the car, leaning against the door with a long sigh.

“God, could you act like you’re not in love with her?” Mila teases before walking over to the kitchen to probably devour the pastries you had baked.

You shake your head to yourself as you think that no, you really can’t.

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