hexpecterrors

[hexpecterrors]

Shadow Play

Pairing: LeBlanc (League of Legends) x Female!Reader

Summary: The others are outside laughing by the fire. You’re curled up in bed, drained and quiet—until she finds you. Teasing at first, commanding as always. But something inside you shifts. Snaps. You flip the script. You take your time. And when LeBlanc breaks for you, trembling and gasping against the mattress, it’s not just about control anymore. It’s about the way she lets you.

Word Count: 6.5k+

Warnings: dom!reader, sub!LeBlanc, powerplay, strap-on sex, possessiveness, overstimulation, grinding, thigh riding, orgasm control, praise & degradation, soft dom aftercare, fingering, neck kissing, thigh worship, mildly public risk, light bondage (pinning, holding), LeBlanc whimpering, emotional intensity disguised as feral sex

A/N: This fic possessed me. I wanted to write “blanket-burrito reader accidentally doms her hot scary girlfriend” and instead ended up with LeBlanc biting her lip to keep from screaming and getting absolutely wrecked by someone who loves her too much to go easy. I am not sorry. If you're into cold women unraveling, power reversals, worship disguised as ruin, and lesbians making each other beg in hushed tones, you might need a glass of water after this one. Reblogs feed the demon. Comments keep me feral.

The day has mellowed. Most of your friends are out by the fire pit, laughing over drinks and games, warm twilight spilling through the trees.

You, though?

You’re curled in the corner of the guest bed, still wrapped in that same blanket, face tucked against the pillow that smells like her. The social battery is gone. Drained. You didn’t even say anything—you just looked at her once from across the living room, and LeBlanc knew.

So she followed.

Now she stands at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you with that familiar amused glint.

“You know,” she says, voice smooth, “you were very well-behaved this morning. I was impressed.”

You peek up from your cocoon.

“…I bit someone.”

LeBlanc laughs softly. “Yes, but not me. And you even let me touch you in front of others. That’s progress.”

You turn your face into the pillow, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Wasn’t for them.”

“No?” she says, moving closer, the bed dipping beneath her weight. “Then who was it for, shadow-girl?”

You glance at her, eyes hooded but wanting. She’s in one of those loose sweaters, and her hair’s pulled up carelessly, which only makes her look more… dangerous. Intimate. Yours.

You don’t answer.

So she leans in and whispers against your ear:

“Because if it was for me… I should reward you.”

You shiver.

Her hand slips under your blanket. Warm fingers against your thigh, your waist, the small of your back. She moves with that frustrating, teasing control—never rushing. Just brushing over every sensitive place until your breath hitches.

"You like hearing that, don’t you?" she murmurs. "That you're my good girl."

You close your eyes, helpless to the heat that floods you.

"Mhm," you manage, almost too soft.

"And the way you clung to me today," she continues, mouth brushing your jaw now. "Everyone saw. Everyone knows you're mine. Do you know that?"

You nod—fast, desperate.

But that’s not enough for her.

"Say it."

You try.

“Yours.”

“Good girl.”

Her praise—those two words—shoots straight through you. You arch under the blanket without thinking, and she catches your reaction instantly, wicked smile forming.

“Oh? So that’s the button,” she whispers, pressing a kiss just below your ear.

You whimper.

“Sensitive, needy, and obedient?” she hums. “What am I going to do with you?”

Whatever she wants.

She knows it. And you know she knows it.

But before it gets any further—before either of you cross that unspoken line—she simply slides in beside you, curling her body around yours like she’s sealing a spell. The heat is still there. But so is the safety.

She pulls the blanket tighter around both of you.

“Next time,” she promises softly, pressing a slow kiss to your neck, “I’ll make you beg for it.”

You melt into her.

And for now—just for now—it’s enough.

She’s still murmuring soft promises into your skin—next time, she says, I’ll make you beg.

That smug little lilt in her voice curls under your skin.

And something inside you clicks.

Not today.

Before she can even breathe in for her next teasing remark, you shift—fast. You push her back against the mattress, your body rolling over hers with purpose. Her surprise is instant, gasping as her back hits the bed. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

You straddle one of her thighs—that thigh—and oh, you feel her body seize just slightly beneath you. A twitch. A tension.

“Oh?” you echo, tilting your head. “You were saying?”

LeBlanc’s lips part. Nothing witty escapes them.

You lean down, placing your hands beside her shoulders, hovering just close enough to let your breath fan across her jaw. Your voice is low now. Warm.

“Funny how quiet you get when I’m the one in control.”

You shift slightly—just enough for your thigh to press between hers.

She exhales sharply, lashes fluttering.

Gods, she’s so beautiful like this. Her cheeks flushed, lips parted, the sharpness of her always-perfect posture reduced to something softer, something real.

You trail your fingers down her side, deliberately slow, until you reach her thigh.

And then you grip it.

Firm. Possessive.

Her breath catches.

“Problem?” you ask, mock-innocent, squeezing a little tighter, dragging your hand down the smooth skin she usually hides under layers of silk and command.

Her response is a soft, involuntary whimper.

LeBlanc, whimpering. For you.

You smirk.

“Oh,” you murmur, “so this is the spot.”

Her hands fist the sheets now, her usual composed mask nowhere in sight.

You lower yourself a little more, lips brushing her ear.

“I love your thighs,” you admit, barely a whisper. “Could spend hours right here. Feeling you squirm.”

“Y/N—” she tries.

But the name dissolves into another breathy sound as you trail kisses down her neck, slow and maddening. You pull back just enough to watch the way her pupils have blown wide.

She looks at you like you’ve undone every last spell she’s ever cast.

“You like that?” you whisper, brushing your hand higher again, fingers firm against the softest part of her.

She nods mutely.

And you grin.

“You’re mine,” you remind her softly.

She doesn’t argue. Can’t.

Not when she’s pinned. Not when she’s trembling.

And definitely not when you lean in and kiss her like you’re the only one who gets to see her fall apart.

The kiss breaks only when her lungs demand it—when hers stutter in your mouth, when you feel the tremble in her chest through the thin barrier of silk between you. Her hands, those famously lethal hands, now clutch helplessly at your back like they’ve forgotten what they’re meant for.

You draw back just enough to speak, lips still grazing hers.

“There are people outside, LeBlanc.”

She blinks, dazed. You watch the gears in her mind struggle to turn. Calculation falters when her breath’s coming too fast.

You shift your hand, just slightly—just enough to make her hips jerk against your thigh. That thigh. Again.

Her head falls back, a muffled sound caught in her throat.

Your grin deepens.

“You think you can keep quiet?”

Her mouth opens, then shuts. Her brows knit like she wants to say something clever—some cutting tease, some sharp-tongued retort—but her body betrays her. Trembles under you. Her breath comes too shallow.

You arch a brow, all slow challenge.

“No spells,” you murmur, drawing your fingers down her inner thigh now, brushing just barely where she’s aching. “No illusions. Just you.”

She swears under her breath—something guttural, broken, very unlike her usual poised tongue.

You hum approval, letting your magic trickle through your fingertips—just enough to spark heat along her skin. Just enough to draw another helpless noise from her lips.

“Shhh,” you whisper, licking a line up her throat. “They’re just outside.”

And LeBlanc—proud, unshakeable, maddeningly composed LeBlanc—bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

You drag your fingers higher, slow and torturous. Her hips lift before she can stop herself, chasing the pressure, the friction, the gods-damned relief you keep just out of reach.

“You’re squirming,” you observe softly.

“I—” Her voice catches, frays like silk torn too fast. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

You don’t. Not with your mouth pressed against her pulse, not with your fingers working methodically, reverently, mercilessly.

“Then be quiet.”

It’s not a suggestion.

She groans—tries to muffle it against the back of her hand. You let your power bloom against her then, a searing rush beneath your palm, all precision and intent.

And she shakes.

Her legs tense around your thigh. Her fingers curl into your shoulders, seeking anchor, seeking you.

“Stars, look at you,” you breathe. “So desperate. So loud.”

She bucks once—twice—and you catch her with both hands, one on her hip, the other flat to her stomach, pinning her to the mattress with nothing but will.

“You can’t even pretend anymore, can you?”

Her only answer is a cry—half-swallowed, wrecked.

You smile against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her breast.

“That’s all right,” you murmur. “Let them wonder who’s making the great LeBlanc scream.”

She tries. Truly, she does.

To hold it in. To cling to whatever scraps of composure she has left. But you feel the way her body betrays her—every twitch, every stifled gasp, every delicious tremble radiating through her spine and into your hands.

And gods, your hands are everywhere.

Gliding over silk and skin, fingers tracing sacred lines down the valley of her thighs, mapping pressure points like a sorcerer reading ancient runes.

You drag your nails lightly—just lightly—over the seam where muscle gives way to heat. And she whimpers, sharp and bitten off, like it escapes her throat without permission.

“Oh, darling,” you purr, feigning pity. “That was loud.”

LeBlanc’s eyes flutter open, glassy and wide, her jaw tight. You see her bite back a reply—but her body clenches around your hand as you press in again, magic humming beneath your skin, and her breath stutters too hard for defiance.

Her hips roll, involuntary, seeking more. Always more. You give it to her slowly. Cruelly. Circling, pressing, pulling her open with nothing but fingers and will and want.

“You’ll be the death of me,” she rasps, voice thick with need.

You chuckle against her breast, lips brushing the hard line of her nipple through her ruined blouse. “Death by pleasure,” you murmur, “what a legacy.”

And then—because you want to watch her shatter—you shift your hand just right. Curl your fingers the way she needs, the way you know will undo her.

Her reaction is instant. Violent.

Her back arches like she’s being summoned by divine force, a sound tearing from her throat that borders on a sob.

You clamp a hand over her mouth fast—stilling her, silencing her, owning her.

“Quiet,” you hiss in her ear. “Or do you want them to know how good I make you feel?”

Her eyes fly open, locked on yours, burning.

Her whole body quivers beneath you, held in place only by your weight and your will.

You move again—slower now, more precise. Every flick, every stroke designed to keep her on the edge and just out of reach. She keens into your palm, hips jerking helplessly.

“Stars, look at you,” you whisper, voice thick with reverence. “All that power. All that pride. Gone.”

She moans against your hand—raw, needy, begging.

You grin, feral.

“That’s it,” you coax, your other hand gripping her thigh hard, anchoring her. “Fall for me. Come apart for me.”

And when she does—because of course she does—it’s breathtaking.

She breaks open like a storm, muffled screams vibrating into your palm, her body convulsing under yours. You hold her through it, through every aftershock, every gasp, every tremble.

And when she’s spent—when she lies there flushed, panting, undone—you finally move your hand from her mouth and press a kiss to her temple.

Her voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Next time,” she croaks, “you’re not getting the last word.”

You smirk, already trailing lazy circles into her thigh with your fingertips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you murmur. “That wasn’t a word. That was a promise.”

She hasn’t even caught her breath.

Still trembling, lashes wet, legs slack around your waist—and yet she follows the movement of your body with dazed, hungry eyes as you rise from the bed.

You don’t rush. No need.

You let her watch as you cross the room, the deliberate sway of your hips, the glint of anticipation already sharpening behind your gaze. She watches you with parted lips, her chest still rising and falling like she’s drowning in something she doesn’t want to escape.

You open the drawer. Unbuckle the harness slow, letting the leather stretch between your fingers. Let her see it.

LeBlanc shifts, her thighs pressing together—but not to hide anything. She’s too far gone for shame. It’s need now. Pure, molten need.

“You said next time, you’d make me beg,” you murmur, buckling it tight around your hips as you turn.

She swallows, hard. Her hands fist the sheets again.

You tilt your head. “You still think this is your game?”

She shakes her head, slow. Silent.

“No,” you say gently. “It’s mine.”

When you climb back onto the bed, she tries to rise to meet you—but her strength falters halfway. Her body’s still wrecked, overstimulated and raw. You settle between her thighs and guide her slowly into your lap, fingers firm beneath her thighs, coaxing her closer, easing her into place.

The head of the strap brushes against her, and gods—she moans. Soft, desperate, almost tearful.

“I know, baby,” you whisper, hands stroking down her hips. “I know it’s a lot.”

She whimpers, head dropping to your shoulder.

“But you can take it.”

A shudder courses through her. You lift her gently, just enough to line up. She tenses, instinctive, and you hush her—fingers rubbing small, slow circles into her lower back.

“Look at you,” you murmur. “So brave. So beautiful like this.”

When you push in, she gasps—a raw, open sound that slices right through you. Her nails dig into your shoulders, legs shaking around your waist.

You don’t move yet. You just hold her there, full, trembling, breath hitching like she might break.

But she doesn’t.

She rocks.

Tentative at first. Barely moving. But then again—deeper. Sinking onto you with a moan that turns to a cry.

“That’s it,” you whisper, threading your fingers through her hair, grounding her. “Just like that, LeBlanc.”

She clutches at you, body taut, breath shaking as she moves—slow and desperate, her hips rolling in ragged circles.

“I—it’s too much—” she whimpers.

“No,” you breathe against her throat, kissing the sweat-slick skin there. “It’s exactly what you need.”

You guide her pace with hands on her hips, helping her grind down harder. Her inner walls clench around the strap like she’s trying to pull it deeper, take every inch.

“You’re doing so well,” you whisper. “Taking me so good.”

Her eyes flutter closed, mouth falling open in a silent cry as she bounces in your lap—wet, wrecked, willing.

“Let them hear you,” you murmur. “Let them know who you belong to.”

And she does.

She rides you—like she’s made for this, for you. Her rhythm falters, then rebuilds, driven by nothing but praise and possession.

“Good girl,” you growl, voice low and reverent as your hands slide up her back. “My good, perfect girl.”

She shudders hard, head falling to your shoulder again. You feel her fall apart—again—shaking, gasping, her entire body clenched around the toy as she comes with a whimper that borders on a sob.

You hold her close, still grinding up into her, slow now. Soothing. Letting her ride the waves until she’s soft and spent and melting in your arms.

Her voice is a ghost against your skin.

“…you ruined me.”

You smile, dragging a hand through her sweat-damp hair.

“No, sweetheart,” you whisper. “I worshipped you.”

[hexpecterrors]

Cinnamon & Teeth

Pairing: LeBlanc (League of Legends) x Female!Reader

Summary: Morning is a battlefield, and your bed is a fortress—until LeBlanc decides she wants you up and wrapped around her instead. The cinnamon roll may be the prize, but for her, it's always been about coaxing you out of your blanket cocoon with kisses, murmured promises, and the kind of soft dominance that makes your defenses crumble. You're growly, half-feral, and not remotely a morning person—but she knows exactly how to handle that.

Word Count: 3.9k+

Warnings: fluff, possessive affection, morning cuddles, reluctant wakeups, soft dom vibes, nonverbal!reader (lightly implied neurodivergence), touch starvation, playful threats, kisses as coercion, teasing, mild biting, mutual pining with mutual knowing

A/N: I wrote this entirely because I imagined LeBlanc stealing a cinnamon roll via psychological warfare and gentle kisses. If you’re into morning softness, blanket monsters, and hot women whispering “please, pretty girl” until you melt, this one’s for you. Reblogs fuel me, comments make me giggle, and I hope this gives your serotonin a little breakfast of its own.

The sun filters in through half-closed curtains. You groan and roll away from it, burrowing deeper into the nest of pillows and blankets like it might actually protect you from the cruelty of morning.

Someone's laughing softly in the kitchen. Mugs clink. Footsteps creak against old wooden floorboards.

You smell coffee.

But none of it is enough.

You are not getting up.

And everyone knows it.

You hear her voice—cool, amused—from the other room.

“I’ll make you a bet,” LeBlanc says smoothly to your gathered friends. “Whoever can get her out of bed in the next ten minutes gets the last cinnamon roll.”

“Oh, that’s not fair,” one of them whines.

“She nearly bit my hand last time I tried to poke her awake,” another mutters.

There’s a beat of silence. Then—“Challenge accepted.”

You feel it before you hear it.

A presence at your side.

“Y/N…”

A hand gently shakes your shoulder.

“Come on, time to—”

Your head emerges slowly from the blanket cocoon, one eye squinting open like a dragon awakened from its slumber. Your voice is low, growly.

“Touch me again and I’ll break your fingers.”

A pause. Then the brave soul backs away with a muttered “Yeah nope,” and the sound of a retreating mug.

You flop back down.

Peace.

Or so you think.

Because the mattress shifts behind you, and you immediately recognize the weight of her.

Her hands are warm when they slide beneath the blanket, wrapping around your waist. Her lips are even warmer as they find the shell of your ear.

“Morning, shadow-girl,” LeBlanc whispers.

You groan. “No.”

“You’re going to make me come in there after you?”

“You’re already here,” you mutter into the pillow, voice muffled. “Now leave.”

But she doesn’t.

She presses against you instead, her voice low, velvet-sweet.

“You’re making such a scene,” she purrs. “Growling at my friends. They’re all terrified of you now.”

“Good.”

She laughs, and then—kisses your neck.

Soft. Repeated. A trail of affection down to your shoulder.

Your entire body shudders.

“Stop that,” you mutter, suddenly far less threatening.

“Oh?” Her smile presses against your skin. “I think it’s working.”

You sigh, torn between burrowing deeper and surrendering completely. Then her fingers trace a circle on your stomach through the shirt you're wearing—her shirt—and she leans in closer, whispering:

“Get up with me, and I’ll make you pancakes. With syrup. And strawberries.”

You try to resist.

You really do.

But she knows your weak spots. Her voice, soft and close, settles in your bones. Her kisses trail just low enough to make your toes curl.

And then she says it—just under her breath:

“Please, pretty girl.”

You groan, defeated, dragging the blanket over both of your heads in a silent truce.

“…I hate you.”

She giggles, triumphant.

“No you don’t.”

And as she curls up beside you, still peppering your neck with teasing affection, you decide… fine.

Maybe morning isn’t that bad.

Not if she’s in it.

You shuffle into the kitchen wrapped in a massive fleece blanket like a vengeful ghost, only your eyes and the very top of your head poking out. Your socks make a soft sliding sound on the hardwood floor. Behind you, LeBlanc strolls in with far more elegance, brushing your lower back gently with her hand to guide you forward.

She’s smiling.

No—smirking.

“Morning,” one of your friends says carefully, like you’re a bear that might be startled into violence.

You growl.

They flinch.

“Still feral, I see,” someone mumbles, pouring coffee.

Another hand reaches toward the blanket cocoon—either to tug it down or to offer you a mug, you’re not sure—but you snap, nipping at their wrist like a dog defending her favorite toy.

They recoil instantly. “She bit me!”

“I warned you,” LeBlanc says smoothly, practically glowing with delight. “She doesn’t like being touched in the morning unless it's me.”

You make a soft grumble of agreement and scoot closer to her side, the blanket still wrapped tight, your arm slipping under hers so you can stay glued to her.

She chuckles.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” she murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss just behind your ear. “All that snarling and biting, but you’re just a little cuddle-dragon, aren’t you?”

You burrow deeper into her, refusing to meet her eyes, heart hammering.

You want to ask for more. For kisses. For touch. For her hand on your back again. But the words don’t come. So instead, you cling to her arm, eyes narrowed at the others like you might hiss if provoked.

Someone tries again—gods bless their bravery.

“You okay under there, Y/N?”

You growl. Again.

“She’s fine,” LeBlanc says breezily, reaching over to snag a piece of toast and pass it to you under your blanket. “Just nonverbal before breakfast. Like a raccoon but cuter.”

“I heard that,” you mumble.

“Oh, now you talk.”

She lifts your blanket just enough to sneak another kiss to your cheek. You don’t stop her. You lean into it, in fact. Just slightly. Just enough to let her know you want more without saying it.

She notices.

Of course she does.

LeBlanc’s fingers find your hand under the blanket, linking her pinky with yours in a quiet, gentle promise. She doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t call attention to the way you’re silently begging for comfort.

Instead, she murmurs only for you to hear: “You can tell me what you need.”

You hesitate.

Then: “You.”

Her eyes soften instantly. She leans down, lips brushing your temple. “Then stay with me.”

You nod quickly, grateful that she gets it without making you explain.

And for the rest of the morning, she keeps one hand on you—your shoulder, your waist, the curve of your back—and gives you all the quiet little touches and kisses you don’t have the words for yet.

And whenever someone gets too close—

You growl again.

She laughs.

You’re hers.

And everyone knows better now than to try and steal a blanket monster from her arms.

[hexpecterrors]

chatgpt written

ChatGPT only fixed the grammar. Otherwise, it’s intimidated by my writing abilities.

[hexpecterrors]

Me too, bro... me too.

[hexpecterrors]

Vi’s over here with those arms, those tattoos, that voice that sounds like sex and violence, and Caitlyn’s got the audacity to look her up and down like she’s trying to memorize the shape of her sins. Give me that sandwich: tough muscle mommy on one side, poised sharpshooter on the other, and me, caught in the middle, utterly undone.

[hexpecterrors]

I used to say fucking fantastic with sarcasm thick enough to choke on.

Now, I’m stuck saying fucking phenomenal because if things were truly fucking fantastic, I’d be flat on my back with a red-haired muscle mommy kneeling between my thighs with abs sharp enough to leave marks, biceps flexing like she bench-presses my bad decisions for fun, voice low and filthy as sin.

She’d be looking up at me with that predator grin, eating like she’s starving, like she missed breakfast, lunch, and her last parole hearing, and I’m the last meal before lockdown.

But no. I’m here. Reheating leftovers and trying not to cry.

[hexpecterrors]

Like. No shame. Zero self-control.

[hexpecterrors]

Blind Faith

Pairing: Vi (Arcane) x Female!Reader

Summary: It’s supposed to be just another reckless night—her at your door, soaked and starved for touch. But somewhere between the blindfold, the bruises, and the way she whispers your name like a secret, you realize this isn’t just about lust. Not anymore. And when you flip her over and she lets you, everything changes.

Word Count: 4.8k+

Warnings: blindfolds, dom/sub powerplay (switching), oral (f receiving), fingering, clit play, hair pulling, marking, choking (light), begging, teasing, breast/nipple play, rough sex with soft moments, emotional vulnerability, soft dom reader, filthy-mouthed Vi

A/N: Oh my god. This fic cooked me alive. This was supposed to be a short blurb of Vi being hot and unhinged, and instead it turned into an emotional crisis with blindfolds. Sorry?? Not sorry. Honestly, I love writing Vi a little feral but also absolutely wrecked with feelings. If you like switch dynamics, desperate lesbians, and intimacy disguised as rough sex, this one’s for you. As always, reblogs are love, comments are life, and I hope you feel as unhinged reading it as I did writing it.

You don’t even hear the door shut before her hands are on you.

It slams behind her like a punctuation mark—like she couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t waste time with hello. Vi doesn’t say anything at first. She just moves.

You’re against the wall, breath caught in your throat as her mouth brushes your jaw, her thigh sliding between yours with that reckless kind of hunger only she has. Her hands—rough, calloused, trembling just slightly—land hard on your hips.

“Been thinkin’ about this all week,” she mutters, and her voice is wrecked. Like smoke and gravel. Like violence undone.

Your breath stutters. “Yeah? That why you kicked my door in?”

She grins against your throat. “Didn’t kick it. I knocked. You just didn’t answer fast enough.”

You had heard her—boots on metal stairs, the low knock—but you’d been debating. About what this was. What you were.

She doesn’t give you time to think now.

“You gonna keep talking,” she growls, “or finally let me shut you up properly?”

Her fingers hook into your waistband, the heat of her body pressing in like a threat. Or a promise.

You grab her wrist. Not to stop her. Just to feel her. To ground yourself in the reality of her—hot, flushed, hair damp from the rain, eyes blown wide and desperate.

“Vi,” you whisper.

She stiffens slightly. Not at the sound of her name, but at how you say it. Soft. Like prayer. Like surrender.

Her forehead presses to yours. You can feel her breathing, shaky and hard. She’s always been tough—grit and fist, swagger and snarl—but right now she feels raw.

“Tell me to stop,” she says. She’s not grinning anymore.

You could.

You could tell her this is too much, too fast, too everything.

You could tell her you’re scared—of how she makes you feel, of what it means to need someone who burns through every place she walks into like a fire that won’t die.

But instead—

“I don’t want you to.”

And it’s all she needs.

Her lips crash against yours like she’s trying to make up for every second she missed while locked behind Shimmer-stained walls. You kiss her back just as hard, just as desperate. Her hands are everywhere now—under your shirt, in your hair, dragging your hips against hers like she’s trying to melt you into her.

Your fingers find the hem of her jacket and shove it off her shoulders. She shrugs it off without breaking the kiss, without even breathing.

When she lifts you up and carries you to the bed like you weigh nothing, you realize—this isn't just lust. It’s years of longing. Buried emotion. Fear dressed up as bravado and fists.

And when she touches you—slow, reverent, eyes locked to yours like you’re the only real thing she’s ever seen—you know it.

She’s not just trying to have you.

She’s trying to stay.

She doesn’t toss you on the bed like some rough alley fight. No—Vi lays you down, slow and deliberate, like she’s already memorizing what you look like under her.

She kisses you again—slower this time, deeper—and her hands start to wander like she has all night to learn you.

Then she stops. Just for a second.

You open your eyes, chest heaving. “What?”

She smirks, but there’s a flicker of something quieter under it. Something careful.

“Trust me?”

It’s not a question she asks lightly. Not after where she’s been. What she’s seen.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Vi reaches back, grabs something from her belt—dark cloth, the same crimson she wraps her knuckles in before a fight. She twirls it in her fingers once before holding it out.

“Can I?”

Your breath catches. There’s no teasing in her voice now. No bluff or banter. Just Vi—waiting, holding that silk between two bruised hands, asking if she can strip you of sight and give you nothing but touch in return.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

The blindfold slips over your eyes. The world goes dark.

And then everything else lights up.

The mattress shifts as she straddles your hips. Her calloused fingers ghost over your skin—your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your stomach—just barely there. You shiver. Every sound is louder now, every brush of breath sharper, more electric.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she murmurs, voice low and gravel-warm. “Laid out, waiting for me.”

You can feel her moving—her mouth near your ear, her lips brushing your neck. She nips your jaw gently, then soothes the spot with her tongue.

“You don’t know what it’s doing to me,” she growls. One hand holds your hip in place. The other trails down, slow as sin, stopping just at the waistband of your pants. Her thumb teases there. Not quite enough. Never quite enough.

She leans in, breath hot and wanting.

“I could ruin you,” she whispers. “And you’d thank me for it.”

You moan—quiet, desperate.

The blindfold tightens slightly as she pulls your arms above your head, pins your wrists to the bed with one hand while the other slips lower, and—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound jolts you both.

You flinch, startled. Vi’s body goes tense against yours, all heat and motion frozen.

Three sharp knocks.

Her grip loosens, just barely. She growls under her breath. “If that’s Caitlyn again, I swear to—”

You laugh, breathless and dizzy, still blindfolded and aching.

“Tell them to come back later,” you whisper.

Vi kisses you hard, messy and possessive. “They better.”

And when she turns back to you—blindfold still in place, breath still shallow, desire still burning—you know she’s nowhere near done with you yet.

The door stays shut. Whoever knocked has the good sense to walk away.

Vi watches it for one second longer than she needs to. Then she turns back to you, slow, predatory.

You’re still blindfolded, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, arms above your head like you’ve given her your whole body to claim—and gods, you have.

She settles over you again, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. Her hands find your wrists and hold them there, not tight, not forceful—just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“You okay?” she murmurs against your neck.

You nod. "Yes." Voice soft. Needy.

Vi hums low in her throat, pleased. “Color?”

"Green."

That word—agreed upon before this night ever began—makes something flicker inside her. You don’t see it, but you feel it in the way her mouth moves down your throat, in the way her fingers tug at your shirt and peel it off like she’s unwrapping a secret she’s been dying to know.

She slides down your body, kissing every inch she reveals—breastbone, stomach, hips. Her hands are reverent but rough in all the ways you crave, thumbs brushing your ribs while her mouth makes you tremble.

"You look even better when you can't see what I'm doing to you," she whispers, more to herself than you. “You’re so fucking responsive.”

You arch under her touch as she mouths along the edge of your waistband. She takes her time—pulling off your pants with almost unbearable patience. Her fingertips trail behind, following every inch of skin she exposes.

Then, nothing.

Just the sound of your own breathing. The creak of the bed as she shifts.

You flinch when her fingers brush your inner thigh.

“Sensitive?” she teases, voice low and wicked.

"Yes," you gasp, hips lifting instinctively.

Vi chuckles. “Good.”

And then she touches you.

One hand keeps your thighs spread. The other moves between them, fingers slick and confident. She doesn’t rush. She explores—testing how much pressure you like, what rhythm makes you squirm. It’s clinical in a way that makes your head spin: like she’s studying the way you fall apart so she can perfect it.

Your breath breaks when her mouth joins her fingers.

The first press of her tongue is slow, deliberate, and absolutely devastating. She groans against you when your hands twist in the sheets, your body jerking under her. The vibrations make you cry out.

“Oh my god—Vi—”

“Mmm.” She licks again, lazily. “You taste better than I imagined.”

You don’t have time to ask how often she has imagined it. Her pace quickens—tongue working in tight, practiced circles while two fingers press into you, curling up just right. You moan, high and ragged, thighs trembling.

"Vi—I'm close, I'm—"

“Come for me.”

Her voice is all grit and heat. That command tips you over the edge—blinded, trembling, whimpering her name like a prayer while she works you through it, never letting up until your body goes slack.

She doesn't stop right away. Slows down, coaxes every last tremor out of you, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh like she just did something sacred.

Then she climbs back up, straddles your hips again, peels the blindfold off with gentle fingers.

Your eyes blink open to find her above you—flushed, smug, and somehow still looking at you like you’re the most precious thing she’s ever touched.

“Well?” she asks, voice husky. “Still trust me?”

You nod, smiling through your afterglow. “With everything.”

Vi leans in and kisses you—slow and deep. Not for dominance. Not for show.

Just because she can.

And because this time, you’re not going anywhere.

You lie there for a moment—breathing hard, skin flushed, body humming from the high she dragged out of you—but you’re not done.

Not even close.

Because the moment your eyes adjust, and you see her—Vi, flushed and wild-eyed, pupils blown wide, lips wet with you—you realize something:

She wants to give up control. Maybe needs to.

So you move.

You flip her fast, smooth, catching her by surprise. She lets you, breath catching as her back hits the mattress and your thighs slide over hers, pinning her down with delicious, intentional pressure.

“Oh?” she breathes, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Now look who’s feeling cocky.”

You grin, dragging your nails lightly down her chest, just over the hem of her tank. “Thought you liked it rough.”

Her mouth twitches. “I do.”

You lean in—mouth by her ear, your voice low and dangerous. “Then keep your hands exactly where they are.”

Vi obeys.

She could break out of this in a second—those gauntlet-trained arms of hers could throw you if she wanted to.

But she doesn’t.

Because the moment you kiss down her throat, slow and biting, her whole body goes still. Breath shaky. Thighs tense under yours.

You straddle her hips and lean back, watching her like a predator watches prey. “Take off your shirt.”

She does—obedient, hungry—and tosses it to the floor. Her abs tighten when your hand ghosts down them.

You find the blindfold she used on you earlier, still knotted and discarded nearby. You hold it up between two fingers.

Her breath catches.

“You trust me?”

Vi swallows. Her voice is barely audible. “Yeah.”

You smile. “Color?”

“Green.”

And that’s all you need.

You slip the cloth over her eyes, tying it snugly. Vi’s chest rises with each breath now—deeper, slower. Waiting.

“Hands over your head.”

She complies, arms stretched above, fingers curling into the sheets like she’s trying to anchor herself. You slide down her body, kissing and nipping as you go—over her ribs, across the sensitive line between hip and thigh. You mark her with your mouth. One, two, three bruises. She doesn’t stop you. She moans.

“Doing so good for me,” you whisper, right against her skin. “Letting me take care of you.”

Her response is a choked sound—somewhere between a whimper and a curse.

You tug her waistband down slowly, mouth trailing lower. The muscles in her stomach twitch when your tongue flicks along her hipbone.

And then you touch her.

She gasps—loud, filthy, head falling back against the pillow as your fingers slide between her thighs, slow and teasing. She's soaked. You hum with satisfaction.

“Oh, fuck,” she groans. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

“You want more?”

“Yes.”

"Beg."

Vi actually growls—but it breaks halfway through, turns into a needy little moan when you press your palm against her and don’t move.

“Please,” she breathes. “Please—need your mouth on me. Want to feel you.”

You reward her instantly.

You dive in—no teasing now—and she loses it.

You make her writhe. You make her shake. Her thighs clamp around your head but you don’t let up—you just pin her down harder, fingers bruising into her hips, tongue relentless.

She doesn’t last long. She's been holding back, trying to play tough, but under you? Blindfolded, helpless, yours?

She falls apart.

Cries your name like a secret. Comes with a hoarse, broken sob that sounds like something ripped from her chest—and when she does, you don’t stop. Not until she’s trembling beneath you, begging you to slow down.

You crawl back up, peel the blindfold from her eyes, and stare into them—dark and wet and wrecked.

Vi blinks up at you, dazed. Her voice cracks.

“Holy shit.”

You grin. “Still cocky?”

She laughs—low and shaky—and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you down into a slow, dirty kiss.

“You’re lucky I’m in love with you,” she mutters against your lips.

You pause. That word. Love.

It settles over the room like steam.

You smile, and this time it's soft.

“Lucky goes both ways.”

[hexpecterrors]

Welcome to Hexpect Errors, an Arcane-inspired fanfiction blog powered by hextech, unstable emotions, and way too much time spent thinking about morally complicated characters. Here you'll find original stories, lore-deep dives, and meta analysis—all set in or inspired by the twisted brilliance of Arcane: League of Legends. If you love corrupted geniuses, found-family trauma, or watching Zaun burn beautifully, you’re in the right place.

Got a request? A chaotic headcanon? This is the place to send your sparks. Whether it’s fic feedback, silly asks, or an idea that absolutely must be turned into a 3k one-shot—I want to hear it. Just yell into the void via my Tumblr ask box. No login required, just vibes. I check asks & messages regularly, so feel free to reach out with fic ideas, fandom brainworms, or just to say hi. Bonus points if your message contains chaos, memes, or Silco slander.