hy6erion

[hy6erion]

hi i loved your recent work with Vi Mel and Caitlyn 💕 i was wondering if you could write something similar with Sevika and Greyson?

sweet violence — sevika, grayson (separately)

synopsis: two filthy makeouts with the deadliest women in piltover and zaun

cw: fem! reader, explicit/ suggestive, slight thigh grinding (sevika), mention of bratty! reader (sevika), looots of wet kissing

part 1

Sevika .𖥔 ݁ ˖

It starts like it always does with Sevika — fast, rough, no warning.

One second you’re mouthing off, smirking like you want her to snap and the next you’re being shoved into a corner of the bar’s backroom with her mouth crashing into yours like a punch to the gut.

She grabs your wrists, slams them against the wall above your head and pins them there with one hand — metal pressing tight, unrelenting — while the other palms the inside of your thigh, dragging your leg up to hook over her hip like you’re something easy to open.

“You talk a lot of shit” she mutters against your mouth, her voice all gravel and heat. “But look at you now.”

Her kiss is mean. Tongue deep, lips parted, like she’s trying to shut you up from the inside out. Spit slicks your chin as she takes her time with it — not sweet, not gentle — all tongue and breath and the filthy sounds of mouths working over each other.

You moan, just a little, hips grinding helplessly against her thigh. She doesn’t stop kissing you. Doesn’t stop holding you down. If anything, she leans harder into it, tongue curling into your mouth like she’s testing how far she can get before you beg.

“Keep your hands where I put them” she growls when you twitch, teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to make you gasp. “You wanna be good, don’t you?”

You nod.

She kisses you again — slow now, but deeper. Devouring. Like she could kiss you until your knees give out.

Honestly? She probably will.

Grayson .𖥔 ݁ ˖

You’re standing in her office, saying something — you don’t even remember what, because Grayson steps in close, takes the pen from your hand, sets it gently on her desk like she’s about to ruin you, and says:

“You came in here to be kissed, didn’t you?”

And she’s right.

Her hand cradles the back of your neck, thumb brushing up behind your ear as she tilts your face toward hers — not rushed, not rough, just deliberate. Controlled. Like she’s making a point. Then her lips brush against yours, slow and firm, and your whole body pulls tight at the contact.

It’s only a kiss, but it wrecks you.

Grayson kisses with weight. With precision. Every slide of her tongue is perfectly timed, the pressure just right, her lips parting over yours like she knows your mouth better than you do. Her hand stays at your neck, grounding you, and when she deepens it — tongue sliding past your lips with that low, satisfied hum in her chest — it makes your stomach drop.

She sucks your tongue into her mouth like she wants you messy, like she’s trying to see how long she can keep you on the edge of breaking without letting you fall.

“You always get like this when I touch you” she breathes between kisses. “Can feel it. You go quiet.”

You nod, dazed, mouth already kiss-swollen and slick from how thoroughly she’s worked it. She kisses you again, slower now, tongue dragging against yours in lazy, wet strokes.

Grayson’s kiss is quiet power. Unshakable. Intentional.

And you’d let her devour you like this until your name’s long forgotten.

[hy6erion]

WISH I could filter my inbox by words or smth 🫩🫩

[hy6erion]

Your Doué fics are so good I genuinely crave them 😭

STOPP 😭😭 this is the highest compliment ever omg — thank you thank you thank you!!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying the Doué fics. I love when I get stuff like that in my inbox 😣

[hy6erion]

The one Rule — Part 1

Désiré Doué x Reader

synopsis: you’re in Ibiza with your brother Achraf and his teammates—one of them being the one man you’ve been told to stay away from. you pretend you don’t care but the tension builds fast. teasing touches, stolen glances, filthy nights that leave you breathless. you don’t even like him… right? still, he’s everywhere. And he’s not playing fair

cw: fem! reader, explicit, fingering, oral (m receiving)

< prologue part 1 part 2 >

Ibiza, Day 2

The villa in Ibiza is too big for its own good.

White stone walls, sun-bleached terraces, glass doors that open straight into a view of the sea so blue it almost looks fake. There are twelve of you here, give or take a few stragglers—footballers, friends, girls with half-zipped dresses and unbothered sunglasses, and of course, your brother. Achraf rented the whole place for the week.

He told you it was a chance to unwind, to enjoy “a real summer” before you went back to school. You weren’t dumb. You knew he also wanted to keep you under his eye.

You knew what—or more specifically, who—he was trying to keep you away from.

You can feel the heat in your teeth.

It’s the kind of sun that melts the inside of your bones, wrapping your skin in gold and salt, and dragging the hours out until you lose track of time. The pool glitters like a spilled jewel in the center of the private villa, blinding under the midday sun. Your brother went all in—beachfront, a rooftop hot tub, a private chef who makes fresh smoothies and eggs in the morning like this is some sanitized, rich-kid version of Eden.

You’re lounging at the far end of the pool, sunglasses down, bikini damp, book open across your stomach but unread. The music is low and thumping from someone’s speaker. Glass clinks. Someone laughs.

He’s in the water.

You don’t mean to look. You really don’t. But your eyes find him anyway.

Désiré.

Half-submerged. Leaning against the wall of the pool with one arm stretched across the edge, like he owns the place. Water beads on his chest, gliding slow down the dark line of muscle that disappears beneath the waistband of his swim shorts. His mouth curls up at something one of the other guys says, and he grins—white teeth, warm eyes, dimple flashing. Like this is easy. Like he doesn’t see the tension wrapped tight around your throat like piano wire.

He hasn’t spoken to you since Paris.

Not really.

Not unless you count the way his gaze drops when you pass him in those tiny sundresses. Or the way his shoulder brushes yours just a little too deliberately when you squeeze past each other in the hallway. Or the way he never, ever looks away first.

You swallow and sit up.

The sun slides over your shoulders. You reach for your towel, slowly—aware of the way your wet bikini hugs your curves, aware of the silence that always seems to follow when he’s watching you, even from across the pool.

You glance up.

Sure enough, his eyes are on you.

Direct. Dark. Focused like a threat.

He doesn’t smile this time.

Just watches.

And it makes your stomach twist.

⸻

Later.

It’s dark by the time the dinner plates are cleared, and the night air smells like sea salt and citrus. Everyone’s a little sun-drunk, a little tipsy, lounging on cushions out by the terrace with beers and half-lit joints and music that fades in and out of someone’s Bluetooth speaker. Achraf is talking animatedly with one of his teammates about something that happened last season. You’re perched on the low edge of a lounger, nursing a spritz, trying to pretend you’re not hyperaware of the weight of Désiré’s stare from across the firepit.

You feel it. Like gravity pulling sideways.

When you stand to go inside—just for more ice, nothing dramatic—you hear footsteps behind you.

The kitchen’s quiet. Cooler. The hum of the fridge is the only sound.

You open the freezer, reach for the ice tray, and then—

The door clicks shut behind you.

You don’t turn around. You already know who it is.

The sound of his voice is low, almost amused. “You keep running away from me.”

You laugh under your breath and drop a handful of ice into your glass. “You keep following me.”

“I never said I wasn’t curious.”

Now you turn. Lean back against the counter, sip your drink. “About what?”

He’s close. A few feet away. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up, chain glittering at his collarbone. His eyes flick from your mouth to your neck to the edge of skin showing beneath your loose beach cover-up.

“You.”

There’s a pause.

You don’t say anything.

He takes a step closer.

“You really think I’m the worst guy here?” he asks, voice low.

You tilt your head. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“I think you know you’re the worst guy here,” you say. “And you like it.”

His jaw flexes. Just a little.

“I think” you add, slow, “you’ve never had someone tell you no.”

You set your drink down and move past him—close enough that your bare shoulder brushes his chest.

And just like that, he snaps.

He grabs your wrist.

You turn, startled, and he’s already there, already pressing you back against the fridge, hand sliding around your waist like he’s waited weeks to touch you.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak.

Hot. Rough. Messy in a way that makes your pulse crash into your throat.

You make a noise—something between a gasp and a moan—and he swallows it, hand tightening on your hip, pulling you flush against him. He’s hard already. You can feel it. The press of him against your stomach, thick and urgent, and you don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

He kisses like he fucks—like he knows.

Then his hand slides down.

And down.

Your breath stutters.

He hooks two fingers beneath your bikini bottoms and watches your face. Waiting for you to stop him.

You don’t.

He sinks them in—slow and deliberate, letting you feel everything.

Your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the fridge. A gasp leaves your lips, broken and breathless, as he curls them just right. He moves slow. Cruel, almost. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out.

“God, you’re wet for someone who hates me” he whispers.

You dig your nails into his shoulder.

“Shut up.”

But your hips roll down against his hand. Seeking friction. Desperate.

He kisses your neck, breath hot against your skin.

You come quietly. Shaking. Clenching around his fingers with a soft, wrecked sound that leaves you completely undone.

He pulls his fingers out and watches the way your body twitches.

Then he brings them to his mouth.

Sucks them clean.

Doesn’t break eye contact once.

“Still think I’m the worst?”

You grab his jaw. Pull him down. Kiss him like he’s the last mistake you’ll ever let yourself make.

⸻

Two days later. Ibiza, Day 4

You find him alone, at the edge of the rooftop deck just after sunset. Everyone else is downstairs watching some fight. The sky is purple and orange and bleeding slowly into darkness. You sit beside him on a cushioned bench, legs bare, breath tight.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

Then you shift. Reach over. Let your hand drift onto his thigh.

He glances at you.

You don’t look at him.

You sink to your knees in front of him instead. Payback.

“Wait” he says, voice tight. “Are you—?”

But you already have your hands on his waistband.

And when you pull his shorts down, he makes a sound you’ve never heard before—something low and ragged and utterly wrecked.

You don’t tease.

You don’t flirt.

You wrap your mouth around him and take.

The taste of him—salty, skin-warm, slightly bitter at the tip—is addictive. You hollow your cheeks, hands gripping his thighs for balance as he breathes sharp through his nose.

He tries not to move at first.

But soon his hips twitch.

His hand slides into your hair.

He doesn’t force you—but the weight of it lingers, like he needs the anchor.

You keep going. Let spit drip, let your jaw ache, let him fuck your mouth at his own pace.

When he comes, it’s with a guttural groan, head thrown back, muscles locking.

You swallow everything. Then sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

He’s staring at you like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“Still think I’m just some idiot striker?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You shrug.

“Guess I’ll need a few more nights to be sure.”

And you leave him there—pants half down, breathing like he’s been sprinting for 90 minutes, heart still racing.

[hy6erion]

can we get some nsfw with cult leader viktor? maybe we are one of his followers and want some more private healing 🤍🤪

sanctum — viktor x reader

synopsis: in the shadowed sanctuary of zaun, you seek out viktor—the revered, transformed leader of the glorious evolution—for a more private kind of healing. drawn to him by faith and burning need, you offer yourself fully

cw: fem! reader, explicit, power dynamics (leader x follower), mild restraint, oral (f receiving), unprotected penetrative sex

The first time you laid eyes on him, he looked like something half-alive, half-holy.

Viktor walked barefoot through the core hall of the commune with his head bowed and arms slightly raised, palms open. Sunlight slashed through the crumbling glass roof, catching the polished sheen of the exposed Hexcore grafts climbing up his spine like divine roots. The dark robes he wore were open at the chest, revealing the split of purple skin.

No one spoke in his presence. You didn’t dare. The room—once a gutted Zaunite observatory—was thick with silence and shimmer incense, warm on the tongue and tinged with sweat and hope.

He was everything they whispered: messiah, martyr, machine. Something new. Something holy.

And he had touched you once.

When you entered the circle that first night, trembling from detox and pain, he pressed his forehead to yours. His breath had been shallow, his skin cool and almost soft. “You do not need to be fixed” he whispered. “You only need to shed.”

You cried. He didn’t flinch.

Now you would do anything to be near him again. Anything.

⸻

You waited until the candles burned low. Until the others had fallen into their floor mats and silks. His inner sanctum was not guarded—he refused it. If they wish to see me, they will. And yet none dared.

Your bare feet were silent against the tiled floor. You padded past shrines of dismantled shimmer devices, old clocks and teeth and copper hearts, offerings laid like relics to the Evolution. Past the low chanting of a sleepless acolyte.

You reached the inner chamber.

The door was ajar.

He stood at the center of the room, bathed in pale blue light from the floating Hexcore, suspended like a heart above him. His robes were loose, his bare chest aglow in the dimness. Runes traced up his side like veins. He did not turn to face you. His voice came low.

“You should not be here this late.”

Your voice trembled “I need healing.”

“You have already been healed.”

“Not the kind you gave earlier.”

That made him pause.

You took a step forward, the silk wrap of your commune garment sliding off one shoulder. “Please, Viktor. I want… more.”

Finally, he turned. The look in his eyes—deep amber, backlit with cold fire—wasn’t surprise. It was understanding. Slow. Gentle. Hungered.

“You seek communion.”

You nodded, breath trembling. “Yes. Yours.”

He approached you soundlessly. You reached for him instinctively and he caught your wrist—not to stop you, but to guide you. His fingers curled around your pulse.

“So fast” he murmured, pressing the pad of his thumb over your wrist. “You are afraid.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.”

Your lips parted, but the words died when his hand moved—trailing down your arm, your waist, until his palm was splayed over your lower belly, heat radiating through the thin wrap you wore. His other hand came to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your lips.

“I will give you what you seek. But you must surrender.”

“I already have.”

A beat of silence “Good girl.”

He undressed you like he was peeling away old skin.

The fabric slipped from your shoulders and pooled at your feet, leaving you bare before him in the blue light. Viktor stepped closer, eyes dragging over your body with the kind of reverence that made your throat go tight.

He touched you like you were sacred.

One hand trailed up the curve of your thigh, slow and warm and deliberate, thumb brushing the crease where leg met hip. The other grazed over your chest, palm open, like he was blessing you. When his fingers finally closed over your breast, your knees almost gave out.

“So soft” he murmured, more to himself. “So warm. I forget.”

You whimpered when his thumb flicked your nipple—gently, then again, harder. He watched it stiffen with fascination, then leaned in. His mouth was hot and wet around it, tongue circling, suckling slowly until your back arched.

Viktor held you in place, arms around your waist, mouth sealed to your skin like he was drinking from you. And when he pulled away, your nipple wet and glistening in the glow, his voice was thick.

“You taste like longing.”

⸻

You were on the ground before you realized he’d lowered you there—his knees beside your thighs, his hand spreading them open, baring you to the cool air.

The breath left your lungs.

Viktor stared. Not with lust—at least not just that. There was awe in his face, hunger and disbelief.

You reached for him, wanting him to touch you there, to fill you. But he only caught your hands and held them to your sides, pinning you gently to the floor.

“Not yet.”

“But—”

“You asked for healing” he said, voice velvet-smooth. “And I will give it to you.”

Then he kissed down your stomach. Slowly. Carefully. His stubble scratched lightly against your skin, sending tingles over your ribs, your hips, your trembling thighs.

When his mouth finally reached the soft, wet heat between your legs, he groaned—genuine, low and needy.

You could only gasp when his tongue licked one slow, deep stripe up your slit. The sound was obscene—wet, greedy. Your thighs shook when he did it again, then again, slower each time, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue before plunging back down.

Your hands flexed against his hold. He didn’t let go.

“You will come from my mouth” he said against you. “And then I will give you the rest”

Viktor’s tongue was relentless.

He licked you slowly, like he had all the time in the world—and maybe he did. His mouth was reverent, almost prayerful, sliding over your folds with deliberate worship. When his tongue found your clit, he sucked softly at first, just the barest kiss of pressure—

“Ah—!”

Your hips bucked, but he tightened his grip on your wrists, holding you down. The tips of his fingers trembled slightly, the only betrayal of how hard he was holding back.

“Stay” he said simply, and dragged his tongue in one long, curling motion over you again.

You felt everything.

The rasp of his breath when it ghosted over your soaked cunt. The slight tremor in his jaw as he shifted, burying his face deeper. The wet, sticky sounds of your arousal as his mouth worked you open.

It was sinful. It was salvation.

You moaned his name—soft at first, then again, louder, when he slipped the flat of his tongue over your clit and began to move it in slow, tight circles.

“Viktor—!”

He groaned into you, the vibration shooting through your core like a surge of voltage.

Your back arched. Your legs locked around his head. And still he held you down, your wrists pinned beside you in one trembling hand, while the other snuck between your thighs and slid a single finger inside you.

It was slow. So slow.

Thick. Deep. Curled just right.

You nearly sobbed.

,,So greedy. Is this what you wanted?” he murmured, lips brushing your folds.

You nodded frantically. “Yes—please, don’t stop—”

“You will come now” he said simply. “You will cry my name”

Your body shattered.

Your thighs clenched around his face. Your arms trembled. And your voice broke into a desperate, high cry as your orgasm ripped through you—wet and violent and holy.

He didn’t stop. He kept licking, working you through it with slow, luxurious pressure, as if your pleasure was his communion. He only pulled away once your thighs trembled with overstimulation, and even then—he kissed the inside of your thigh like a benediction.

“You are ready” he said softly.

⸻

You watched as he rose to his knees—taller now, almost imposing in the flickering blue light. His chest heaved. His eyes burned.

He untied his robe.

It fell open.

You gasped.

The grafts along his hips shimmered faintly, a delicate blend of gold and purple, trailing down to where his cock stood hard and flushed—a striking contrast, glinting, metallic veins running up his lower belly.

He was thick, long, almost painfully beautiful—tip glistening, heavy and twitching as he stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked on your still-trembling cunt.

“Look what you’ve done to me” he said softly. “I am supposed to be above this.”

You reached for him—wordless, desperate.

He climbed over you, his body hot and shuddering with restraint and braced himself on one forearm as he lined up his cock with your entrance.

“I will not be gentle, he whispered.

He pushed in slowly, with one long, devastating stroke.

You whimpered—his cock was thick, stretching you open in ways you hadn’t felt in years. Your hands gripped his back, fingers digging into the scarred skin between cybernetic seams. Viktor moaned low in your ear, his hips stuttering as he sank deeper.

“You feel like heaven—”

Your walls fluttered around him, sucking him in.

“Viktor—!”

“Say it again.”

“Viktor—please—!”

The slap of skin-on-skin echoed in the quiet room as he began to fuck you—deep, rhythmic, unrelenting. Every thrust dragged a moan from your throat. Every movement sent shockwaves up your spine.

He fucked like a man possessed.

Like he needed it—needed you.

Your name spilled from his lips in a string of curses, half in English, half in Zaunite dialects, some too old to translate.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him deeper.

Until he bottomed out—grinding his hips against yours with a groan that made your skin ignite.

“I’m going to come” you gasped.

He reached between your bodies, fingers finding your clit again—pressing hard, circling fast—and your vision white’d out.

You came with a cry that tore from your chest, soaking his cock, your cunt clenching violently around him. He followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a raw groan, spilling into you with hips jerking, mouth open, eyes dazed.

He collapsed over you, panting.

You laid together in the silence, your bodies tangled in heat and wetness. Viktor’s hand brushed sweat-damp hair from your face. His lips found your temple, soft and reverent.

“You are no longer just a follower” he whispered.

You blinked, dazed. “What am I?”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Mine.”

And you knew then—this was not just communion. This was ascension.

[hy6erion]

hihihii i have a request ‼️

would u be able to do jayce x fem!reader in an acting au which ended up falling in love with eachother on set?

it can be mainly fluff and angst hut if u wanna add smut, go for it 😻

no retakes — jayce talis x reader

synopsis: two actors. one on-screen romance. off camera, the lines blur — and pretending stops feeling like acting

cw: fem! reader, explicit (only one scene), modern au / actor au, slight angst

The studio lights were too bright for ten in the morning. You squinted as you stepped onto the mock set: a sparsely furnished loft apartment designed for the chemistry test. Your heels clicked sharply on the faux hardwood floor, a sound swallowed quickly by the vastness of the soundstage.

Your palms were damp despite the temperature-controlled room. Not from the lights. From the fact that somewhere in this massive studio, Jayce Talis was waiting.

You hadn’t met him yet—at least not properly. Sure, you’d seen him on magazine covers, watched him in interviews where he flashed that disarming grin and ran a hand through his hair like he didn’t know what he was doing to the viewers. You’d watched all of his movies —the films that had launched him into near-untouchable stardom.

You were the newcomer. “Fresh face,” they called you. Your agent had gotten you this audition with gritted teeth and a warning: “Don’t screw this up.”

The door opened and your breath stalled.

Jayce Talis walked in like he belonged in every room he entered. Tall, broad-shouldered, that dark caramel hair a little messier than it looked on billboards. His eyes scanned the space, then landed on you—and something in his expression shifted, just a flicker. Interest? Appraisal?

“Hey” he said, with a half-smile. “You must be…” He trailed off, waiting.

You gave your name and to your surprise, he repeated it softly, like he was tasting it.

“I’m Jayce” he added unnecessarily, sticking out a hand.

You hesitated just a beat before taking it. His grip was warm, firm. You felt the calluses on his fingers—he did his own stunt training, you’d read.

“Ready to fake fall in love?” he teased lightly, but you caught the note beneath it. Tiredness, maybe. A touch of weariness that only those who lived too long in the public eye wore like perfume.

“I’m better at the falling part than the fake” you replied before you could stop yourself.

Jayce blinked. Then laughed—a short, surprised sound that seemed to echo inside your chest.

You were in trouble.

⸻

Two months into filming, your days were defined by repetition and your nights by insomnia.

Jayce was kind. Infuriatingly so. Thoughtful. Smart. Always offering you his jacket between takes when it got cold, or pulling your chair into the shade during outdoor shoots. He made you laugh, which was unfair, because you’d made a strict rule not to fall for him.

It wasn’t just the fact that he was beautiful—he was, painfully so—but he was complicated. There was a wall behind his charm, behind that dimpled smile. And you were starting to catch glimpses of what laid beneath it.

You learned how he liked his coffee (two sugars, oat milk, one shot of espresso), how he hated small talk and adored old movies. He knew you hummed when you read scripts and that you curled your fingers into your palm when you were nervous. Neither of you talked about what that meant.

One night, after a particularly emotional scene, you found him outside the trailers, alone, something was clawing at him from the inside out.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look at you. “Sometimes I forget who I’m supposed to be. The character. The guy in the interview. The real me. It’s… exhausting.”

You didn’t speak. Just walked over and sat beside him.

That night, you didn’t go back to your trailer until three a.m.

Nothing happened. And yet, everything did.

⸻

The script called for a kiss.

You’d rehearsed it. Talked through it. Joked about it.

But when the cameras rolled and Jayce stepped closer, your pulse thundered in your ears. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin and your breath caught as his lips hovered over yours, just for a second.

It wasn’t acting.

You could feel it.

So could he.

The kiss was soft. Lingering. The kind of thing people wrote songs about. And when the director yelled “Cut!” no one moved for several seconds.

Jayce’s eyes stayed locked on yours, his hand still cupping your cheek like he’d forgotten it was for the scene.

Your heart was doing backflips. And your brain was screaming warnings.

⸻

Things got weird after that.

Jayce pulled back.

He still smiled, still joked, but there was a carefulness to it now. A retreat. And you hated that it hurt.

One night, you knocked on his trailer door. He opened it, shirtless, towel around his neck from a shower, hair damp.

Bad idea.

“Talk to me” you said.

“There’s nothing to talk about” he replied, too quickly.

You stepped inside anyway. Shut the door behind you.

“I felt something. You did too.”

Jayce looked at you for a long, loaded second. Then he muttered, “You don’t want to feel anything for someone like me.”

You took a breath. “Let me decide that.”

His jaw clenched.

Then, before either of you could second-guess it, he crossed the space between you and kissed you. Hard. Desperate.

Clothes didn’t fly. It wasn’t that kind of moment. His hands were on your face like you were something precious. Your fingers tangled in his damp hair. There was heat, yes, but more than that, there was longing. Like two people drowning and the only air was each other.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’m scared” he admitted. “I’ve never felt like this.”

⸻

The kiss didn’t fix things.

The next day on set, you could feel the difference in the air — an almost unbearable tension. Not the kind that made scenes better, more electric, but the kind that made you overthink every glance, every moment you weren’t touching him.

Jayce avoided you.

Not obviously. He was too professional for that. But the little things — standing a few feet too far away, not holding eye contact quite as long — you noticed. And it made your chest ache.

You cornered him one night in the hallway of the studio, the sound of rolling dollies and shouting crew echoing behind you.

“Are you pretending last night didn’t happen?” you asked.

Jayce didn’t look at you, jaw tight. “I’m not pretending. I’m trying not to fuck up the only thing that’s felt good in a long time.”

That silenced you.

He ran a hand through his hair, voice softer now. “I want you. I do. But the moment this gets out, they’ll twist it. They’ll make it about PR, about headlines, about the movie. I don’t want you to be my ‘rumored co-star’ or my ‘off-screen love interest.’ I want you to be real.”

“And what if I already am?”

His head turned. Finally, his eyes found yours — and they were raw. Wounded. Hopeful.

“Then I’m already in deeper than I meant to be.”

You stepped closer. “Good. Because I don’t want safe, Jayce. I don’t want fake. I want you. The messy, exhausted, guarded version. I want the man who watches ‘Casablanca’ like it’s a religion. I want the one who kissed me like he forgot we were pretending.”

The space between you collapsed in an instant.

⸻

His hotel room was a quiet kind of intimate. Dim light spilled across the bed, the city humming just beyond the windows. Jayce kissed you like he was trying to memorize you — slow, reverent, with both hands on your face like he was grounding himself.

Clothes came off in pieces, in pauses — fingers brushing skin, whispered curses, the kind of trembling touches that spoke more than words could. His mouth found your collarbone, your jaw, your throat. Every kiss was a confession: I need you, I want you, I’m terrified of this.

He undressed you like he was unwrapping something precious.

You pulled him down with you onto the sheets, your nails dragging down his back as he hovered above, breathless.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was slow and aching and filled with stolen glances, whispered names. His hands didn’t just hold you — they worshipped you. When he finally slid into you, the breath he let out was ragged, a moan you swallowed with your mouth.

He didn’t speak much — just your name, over and over again, like it was the only thing anchoring him.

And when it was over, he held you against his chest like he was afraid you’d vanish.

You stayed like that until morning.

⸻

The movie dropped six months later.

Red carpets. Flashing lights. Your hand in his.

By then, the press had guessed everything — and you didn’t care anymore.

Jayce leaned down during a reporter’s question and whispered into your ear, “Still better at the falling part?”

You turned to him with a grin. “Better at the staying.”

[hy6erion]

sugar baby jayce. that’s all.

[hy6erion]

hi, I wanted to ask what stuff do you have planned for posting? Only if you want to share ofc. How many requests do you have currently? Do you have a lot of followers? I love your work!

Soo in terms of what I’ve got planned—right now I’m mainly working on some older requests that have been sitting in my inbox for a bit (I haven’t forgotten them, I promise!!) but I’m also dabbling with a few newer ones when inspiration strikes. I kind of bounce between things depending on the mood and the vibe tbh

There’s also a bunch of stuff that I’ve already finished but just need to go over again with fresh eyes before I post—so it’s like… they’re sitting in draft purgatory, waiting for their moment lol. I’m trying to be a little more disciplined about finishing those off lately!

And of course, my new ongoing Doué series 🫡

As for requests—I’d say I currently have a good handful! Enough to keep me busy but not overwhelmed, which is the sweet spot :) And omg as of today, I’ve got 1,284 followers (???) which is actually wild to me, and I’m so so grateful for every single one of you. Truly. Y’all are the reason I keep creating <3

Thank you again for asking and for being so kind, seriously. I appreciate you so much 🫶💕

[hy6erion]

Do you know when you’ll release the next part of doue’s fic? Not trying to pressure you’re just the only one ive seen that writes for him and it’s great☺️

You’re in luck because the next part is basically done and I’m planning to publish it either this evening or tomorrow at the latest 😌

[hy6erion]

oh my god can we please get a part 2 of stolen and punished (viktor x lab assistant! reader) please i cannot stop thinking about it! also welcome back my favorite arcane fanfic writer!

i was thinking maybe reader started to avoid viktor after what happened in his office—avoiding eye contact and everything, being close to him makes her freeze and makes it difficult for her to concentrate on her job, but of course viktor notices everything about her, he just doesn’t say anything. he also realizes that she really did stop stealing his belongings and he kinda misses it and the thrill of it all!

one time in the lab, reader’s working but all of a sudden halted everything she’s doing and just stared at the window/wall looking so lost in thought or kinda like when you’re zoning out, and of course viktor! viktor! notices! he calls her once, twice… but she’s unresponsive so he calls her by her first name!!! for the first time!!! reader returning to reality, flinching at the sound of her name coming from viktor’s mouth because he’s only ever used honorifics (miss *surname*) with her until now.

viktor’s face is full of concern, truly real genuine concern!!! perhaps reader’s having problems with her personal or academic life??? OR MAYBE IT’S SUB DROP AFTER THE PHYSICAL AND EMOTIONAL EXPERIENCE SHE HAD IN HIS OFFICE!!! (please let it be sub drop)

her work is a disaster, and her emotions are affecting everything. she’s trying so so hard to avoid viktor because of her ever-growing feelings for him, which indeed, have only grown deeper and more intense after that time in his office :p (i love the filthy side of their dynamics so much!)

and so viktor calls her to his office again to speak—viktor asking her what’s wrong (he perfectly knew what’s wrong!!!) but he wants to hear her say it :p

reluctantly, reader tells him about her frustrations—viktor being so nonchalant and unaffected by what happened between them (or so she thought), of being denied, and her feelings for him?

viktor not uttering a single word, just listening, staring at her face, her mouth, and then grabbing her onto his lap again, TO RECREATE WHAT HAPPENED BEFORE, AND THIS TIME MAKING HER COME!!! praising her and everything, viktor telling her how good she is for not stealing his items anymore (even though in his heart he misses it, he miss his own scent radiating off of her…)

they eventually do the deed p in v action so intense and raw and filthy and everything in between, and after that maybe viktor confesses his feelings for her too? and then they cuddle! soft kisses soft touches soft and gentle everything, and then they do the deed again for hours on end :p

—

sorry if this is all jumbled i just woke up from a nap thinking about your writing again and i just feel the need to leave my thoughts here. thank you! 💌

OH. OH MY GOD.… I’m literally speechless rn. This ask is everything to me 😭💗

And don’t you worry because I am 10000% going to cook for this. Like the plot?? the angst?? the SUB DROP?? I’m frothing at the mouth. Reader avoiding Viktor and him being all quiet but watching her with that unreadable look?? him missing the scent of his own stolen things on her like the pervert he absolutely is 😵‍💫

I’m on the FLOOR.

Also the idea that her whole work ethic is deteriorating because of how much this man has her heart and mind all tangled up?? The way she’s trying to keep her distance but it’s only making things worse?? AND VIKTOR KNOWING THE WHOLE TIME BUT WANTING HER TO SAY IT FIRST?? (sick little man… I love him…)

You wrote all of this just waking up from a nap?? You’re actually a genius. A prophet. A gift.

I hear you. I love you. I’m writing this. Thank you SO much for this incredibly detailed ask, I’m genuinely so grateful that you took the time to send it <3 I’ll do everything in my power to do it justice!!! 😭🫶

[hy6erion]

I saw your jayce alphabet and fell in love, I was wondering if you had a viktor alphabet that I was too blind to see, or would plan on making a viktor alphabet? 👀

Aww thank you so much, i actually don’t have a Viktor one yet (you’re not blind lmao) BUT I would gladly write one for you 😌 he deserves his own alphabet and I’m very down to make it happen 👀

[hy6erion]

Hiiii I just want to say I love so much the aesthetic of your profile 🍒

I have a request but under no pressure of course besides I read your rules and I know you have some characters preferences so I wanted to ask if you were open to write a request Scar Arcane x Reader 🥹?

Hiiiii omg thank you so much 🍒

And yes!! I can totally write something for Scar! I’ll admit he’s not usually my go-to BUT I’m always down to try something new and give him the love he deserves 😌🫶 give me some request and i’ll cook smth up

[hy6erion]

Okay I know you already did this fic a while ago, but I was honestly hoping for a pt. 2 to "The Art of Tension" where reader FINALLY gets sandwiched between jayvik🙏😔

omg anon 😭🙏 YES i definitely will cook something up for you 😌🔥 consider part 2 in the works — you’re getting that Jayvik sandwich, stay tuned ily

[hy6erion]

Can I ask for Viktor x reader where reader thought Viktor died in the Explosion on start of s2 but then finds him in Zaun in his little community and their reunion turns into make out session which turns out into… you know, and Viktor is just whimpering mess, worried he might hurt the reader because he still isn’t sure what his body can do? Maybe top! Reader and sub! Viktor?👉👈🥺

What Remains — Viktor x Reader

synopsis: after believing viktor perished in the explosion you’re shattered — until you find him alive, hidden deep in Zaun, leading a small community of survivors. But he’s not the same. the man you loved is fragile, altered by hextech and haunted by fear of his own strength. In a reunion that erupts into desperate passion, you show him he’s still worthy of love, still human and that no part of him —gold-veined, trembling, or broken— could ever scare you away

cw: gn! reader, explicit, emotional hurt/ comfort, subby! viktor, body worship, sex with feelings, LOTS of feelings

You had seen him die.

That’s what you told yourself every time you woke up in a cold sweat. That’s what you whispered when you stood at the scorched edge of the lab, where glass had melted like wax and twisted steel beams jutted from the rubble like broken bones. You’d cried there. Screamed. Dug through the ashes with your bare hands until Jayce had to pull you away, bloodied and broken.

Viktor was gone. Everyone agreed. No body, but enough fire to make that fact irrelevant.

You told yourself you were moving on. You helped rebuild. You smiled when you had to. You laid awake at night, pretending the sheets beside you had never been warm with his body. That you didn’t still hear the faint shuffle of his cane in quiet corridors or smell iron and ozone and ink when you passed a chemist’s shop.

But months later, deep in Zaun on Council business, you followed a whisper. A rumor. A throwaway mention of a kind man who helped the orphans near the old refinery, who walked with a homemade cane and eyes like dying suns.

You found him in a crumbling brick workshop lit by glowmoss and copper coils, surrounded by Zaunite children and makeshift tools. Thin. Pale. Still beautiful in that haunted, sharp-boned way that had once made you forget how to speak.

You didn’t knock. You couldn’t.

“Viktor” you breathed.

He froze.

His back was to you, sleeves rolled to the elbows as he worked over a flickering power core. You watched his shoulders tense, watched his hand tremble as he set the tool down with aching care. He turned.

And he looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“…y/n?”

Your legs moved before your brain caught up. You crossed the room in seconds, fingers trembling, eyes blurring with tears you’d sworn you’d never cry again. You grabbed his face — gaunt and lined with grief, eyes wide — and kissed him.

You didn’t mean to. It wasn’t a plan. But you were drowning in it — the shock, the love, the fury that he hadn’t told you he was alive. That he let you grieve him.

His mouth opened under yours with a gasp. Warm and hesitant, like he didn’t quite believe it was happening. You felt his breath stutter. One hand gripped the front of your coat like he thought he might fall. The other… hovered in the air, shaking.

“You’re alive” you whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to say it, voice ragged.

“I… I didn’t want you to see what I became,” he rasped, voice hoarse with guilt. “I wasn’t sure I should be alive.”

You pressed your forehead to his, chest heaving.

“You left me.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“I didn’t want your protection, Viktor. I wanted you.”

His knees buckled a little.

You caught him, arms wrapping around his thin waist, feeling the shift of his body — the low hum under the skin, the faint warmth of a core beating where his heart used to race. His cane clattered to the floor.

“I’m not the man I was” he murmured, like it was a confession.

You lifted your head, cupped his jaw.

“Then show me who you are now.”

⸻

You didn’t make it to the bed.

The second kiss was hungrier. Slower. A build-up of all the longing that had hollowed you out over the months. You backed him against the wall beside the workbench, hands dragging down his sides, desperate to touch and confirm he was real — warm and solid and trembling in your grip.

He moaned softly into your mouth, fingers curling in your shirt like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I missed you” you whispered between kisses, your hands slipping under the hem of his thin shirt to splay against the sharp lines of his ribs. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Viktor gasped as you pressed your body flush to his, hips slotting together. His cheeks burned — red, high, and unfiltered.

“I… I don’t know if it’s safe” he whispered, breath hitching when your lips brushed his jaw, then his throat. “What I’ve become…”

“You think I’m afraid of you?”

“No—” he choked on the word. “I’m afraid of hurting you.”

Your heart clenched.

The trembling in his hands, the hesitancy in his kiss, the shallow way he was breathing — it wasn’t just lust or need. It was fear. Not of rejection. But of breaking something precious.

You slid your hand up to cradle the back of his neck, pulling him in close. Your voice dropped.

“Then don’t hold back because you’re afraid of you. I’m not fragile, Viktor.”

His head tipped back against the wall, a broken sound falling from his lips.

“I still feel it,” he whispered. “All the time. This… thrum under my skin. Like lightning waiting to strike. I—sometimes I wake up shaking.”

You kissed his collarbone.

“Then let me help you come back to yourself.”

You unbuttoned his shirt slowly.

He was panting by then, fingers tangled in your clothes like he needed to hold on to something. You eased the fabric off his shoulders, exposing the lines of his chest — the ridges of the tech laced into his sternum, veins glowing faintly gold. Your lips brushed the seam where skin met steel.

Viktor whimpered. Not a sharp sound — a soft, desperate one. His legs shook. He slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, eyes glassy, lips parted.

“I can’t— I need—” he stammered, voice broken and thick with emotion. “If I lose control—”

“You won’t” you whispered, kneeling between his legs. “You’re here. You’re with me. And you’re doing so good, baby…”

The pet name made his breath catch.

His pupils blew wide. His back arched slightly. His hips twitched like he wanted to grind up into you, but didn’t dare.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” you murmured, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “I’ll stop. I promise.”

He nodded shakily.

Then his hands slipped into your hair and pulled you down into another kiss — needier this time. Hungrier. Like he’d finally given himself permission.

Like he needed you more than air.

You had never seen him like this.

Not in the soft hush of those old nights in Piltover where he’d press kisses to your temple in the dark, murmuring theories as his hands mapped your body like stardust on a chart. Not in the hurried moments between experiments, where he’d push you up against lab counters and stifle moans into your shoulder, too shy to let them echo.

This Viktor — trembling on the floor beneath you, breath shallow, lips red and wet from too many kisses — was bare.

His shirt hung open around his ribs. His golden veins glowed faintly in the dark, pulses of light rising with each fast, ragged breath. You sat on your knees between his legs, watching his chest rise and fall. His eyes darted over you, hungry and terrified all at once.

“I want to touch you,” you said softly, voice low. “Can I?”

He nodded, almost frantically. But the hesitation was still there — in his fingers clenched tight into the fabric of his pants, in the small tremor in his thighs. His lips moved before the sound came.

“Please.”

That whisper undid you.

You leaned forward, kissed the hollow of his throat. He gasped — sharp and high — as your hands traveled slowly down his chest. You traced every glowing seam, every edge of scar tissue where steel met flesh. He arched slightly, breath catching on a broken moan.

“It doesn’t hurt?” you asked, breath ghosting against his skin.

“No,” he whispered. “It… reacts. When I feel too much, it… flares. I don’t always know how strong I am.”

You pressed a firmer kiss just below his jaw, hands braced on his sides.

“Then let me be the one to feel for you.”

When you slid your hands down, across the ridges of his stomach and lower still, he made a sound so helpless it shot straight to your core. You palmed him over his pants and he bucked up, face buried in your neck, moaning high and breathless.

“F-fuck— I, I—”

“You’re doing so good,” you whispered, lips brushing his temple as your hand worked slow, teasing strokes. “You’re not going to hurt me…”

He whimpered again — head tilting back to rest against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted.

“Do you know how long I’ve missed you like this?” you murmured against his lips. “How many nights I dreamed about hearing these little noises again?”

His hips stuttered against your touch.

The lines of his body — all lean muscle and sinew, too-thin from months of hiding — twisted in slow agony. The gold in his veins pulsed faster now. Your other hand slid around his jaw, grounding him, tilting his face up.

“You can fall apart,” you said. “I’ll hold you.”

A choked, shivering cry slipped out of him as you kissed him again — messier now, with teeth and heat. He kissed you back like he needed your breath to live. His hands clawed at your clothes, trembling, desperate for skin. You let him undress you, let him pull at your shirt like he thought it might disappear if he didn’t hold onto it hard enough.

When you were finally bare above him, his eyes dragged over you with reverence and disbelief.

“I thought… I’d lost this,” he whispered. “That I wasn’t human enough anymore. That you wouldn’t…”

You reached down, cradled his jaw again, and guided him to look up at you.

“I don’t want the man you were,” you whispered, dragging his hand to your chest. “I want you. Like this.”

He moaned — soft and needy — and leaned forward to mouth gently at your skin, lips hot and reverent, breath fogging as he kissed lower. His hands cupped your thighs like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to squeeze. You straddled him fully, your clothed core pressing against the hard shape in his pants.

Sounds tore out of him — loud, raw, like he was too overwhelmed to hold it in anymore. His head dropped to your shoulder, panting.

“I can’t— I feel like I’ll explode—”

“You won’t,” you murmured, grinding against him slowly. “Let go for me. Let me take care of you.”

He shuddered so hard it rattled.

You undid his pants, slow and deliberate.

Every movement you made was careful. You watched him as you exposed him, as his hips twitched and his face flushed deep pink. His cock was already wet at the tip, flushed dark and thick against the hollow of his belly.

You stroked him once — slow, base to tip — and he cried out.

His hand slapped to the floor, bracing himself like he was trying not to come already. His face was contorted in something between pain and ecstasy, eyes screwed shut, teeth clenched.

“You’re so sensitive” you whispered, brushing your thumb under his tip.

“I c-can’t—” he gasped, body jerking. “You don’t… know what you’re doing to me—”

“Yes, I do.”

You kissed him again, hard, and guided him back onto the floor fully. He laid flat, panting, chest heaving under you. You hovered over him, bracing your arms on either side of his head, letting him feel the weight of you above him.

He reached for you like it was instinct — like not touching you would kill him.

When you slid your body down, lining yourself up with him, he froze.

“Wait— wait—” he gasped. “Are you—are you sure? I don’t—”

You cupped his cheek again, voice soft and breathless.

“I want to feel all of you.”

His lips trembled. His hips lifted slightly, and you sank down onto him in one slow, delicious stroke.

A beautiful, raw, broken sound escaped him. He writhed beneath you, arms flung back above his head, fingers digging into the floor. His spine arched, his head thrown back, teeth bared like it hurt to feel that good.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t— I’m—”

“You’re okay,” you murmured, starting to move. “Just breathe. Let me feel you. You’re so perfect like this…”

Viktor sobbed.

His hands clawed up your back, and you let him grab on, ride it out, let him buck up into you like he couldn’t help it. Every movement made his cock twitch inside you. Every squeeze of your muscles around him had him whimpering for mercy.

“I love you” he gasped — not planned, not clean — just spilled from his lips like everything else in him was unraveling.

“I love you too.”

And you meant it — every inch of him, gold-veined and shaking, his brilliant mind and broken body, the scientist and the man. You rode him slowly, sensually, pressing your forehead to his as he came apart beneath you.

He was crying by the end.

Not sobbing. Just quiet tears, streaking hot down his temples as he clung to you, gasping soft, half-formed apologies. You kissed them away. You stayed on him, skin to skin, until the shaking stopped.

Until the gold in his chest dimmed to a warm glow.

Until you felt him finally, finally let go of the guilt.

divider: @dxstoeskyvjbess

[hy6erion]

🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🤤🤤🤤

Pool Boy pt 2

Bbno$ (Alex Gumuchian) x reader

Female reader, fingering, unprotected sex, p in v sex

a/n: Part 2 of the Pool Boy series, enjoy <3

Alex's eyes never left yours as he stepped closer, the moonlight casting shadows that danced across his face. “You know I can't stay away.” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I missed you.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine, despite the warmth of the night. “Alex, we can't—”

He cut you off, his fingers gently tracing your jawline. “We can, and we will. Unless you tell me to stop.”

You didn't say a word, just stared into his eyes, feeling the heat between you build to a fever pitch. He took that as his cue, leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue exploring your mouth with a hunger that matched your own. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve, every line, like he was committing it to memory. You could feel his calloused fingers, a testament to his hard work, and it only turned you on more.

You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He tasted like the night, like freedom, like something you couldn't get enough of. His lips moved to your neck, kissing, sucking, marking you as his. You gasped, arching your back, pressing yourself against him, wanting more.

“Alex.” you whispered, your voice breathless. “Please.”

He didn't need to be told twice. His hands found the hem of your nightgown, slowly pulling it up, his fingers brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You lifted your arms, letting him pull the gown over your head, leaving you bare before him. His eyes roamed over your body, taking in every inch, and you could see the desire in his gaze.

“Fuck, you're beautiful.”he murmured, his voice hoarse with need. He reached out, cupping your breast, his thumb circling your nipple, making it harden under his touch. You moaned, your head falling back, giving him better access. He took advantage, his mouth replacing his thumb, sucking, biting, driving you wild. His other hand trailed down your stomach, dipping lower, lower, until his fingers found your center. You were wet, so wet, and he groaned against your skin, feeling it.

“Alex, please.” you begged again, your hips bucking against his hand.

He smiled against your skin, his fingers sliding inside you, curling, hitting that spot that made your toes curl. “Patienc—” he started, but you cut him off with a kiss, your body begging for more.

He obliged, his fingers moving faster, his thumb circling your clit, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. You broke the kiss, your head falling back, a moan escaping your lips as you came undone around his fingers. Your body shook with the force of your orgasm, and Alex held you, his fingers still inside you, drawing out every last shudder of pleasure.

But he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, and laid you down on the bed, his body covering yours. You could feel his hardness against you, and you bucked your hips, rubbing against him, making him groan.

“Tease.” he murmured, his lips capturing yours in a fierce kiss. His hands roamed your body, touching, exploring, memorizing. You reached down, your hand finding his length, stroking him through his shorts. He was hard, so hard, and you could feel the heat of him, the need.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Fuck, that feels good.” he said, his hips bucking into your hand.

You smiled, your hand moving faster, feeling him harden even more under your touch. “I want you inside me.” you said, your voice husky with desire.

He didn't need to be told twice. He quickly shed his shorts, his body pressing against yours, his length pressing against your entrance. He looked into your eyes, a question in his gaze, asking for your permission, your consent. You nodded, your legs wrapping around his waist, urging him on. He pushed in, slowly, inch by inch, filling you, stretching you, making you feel alive.

“Fuck, you feel good.” he groaned, his forehead resting against yours, his body stilling, letting you adjust to him. You could feel every inch of him, every vein, every pulse, and it was intoxicating.

You moved your hips, urging him on, and he took the hint, pulling out and pushing back in, slowly at first, then faster, harder, deeper. You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in sync, your breaths mingling, your hearts pounding as one. The room filled with the sounds of your pleasure, your moans, his groans, the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining. It was raw, it was real, it was everything you never knew you needed.

Alex's hands roamed your body, touching, squeezing, marking you as his. You scratched his back, your nails digging into his skin, urging him on, begging for more. “Harder.” you panted. “Faster.”

He obliged, his hips moving in a frenzy, his body slamming into yours, the headboard knocking against the wall with each thrust. You could feel another orgasm building, coiling in your belly, ready to snap.

“Alex.” you moaned, your body tensing, your orgasm building, coiling, ready to snap. “I'm close.”

He looked into your eyes, his hips moving faster, harder, deeper. “Come for me.” he said, his voice a command. “Let me feel you come around me.”

And you did. Your body tensed, your back arching, your head falling back, a scream tearing from your lips as you came undone around him, your body milking his, urging him on. He groaned, his body tensing, his movements stuttering as he found his own release, your name on his lips, his body shaking with the force of it. You could feel him pulse inside you, feel the warmth of him, and it sent you into another wave of pleasure.

He collapsed on top of you, his body slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, feeling his heart pound against yours, your bodies still joined, still one. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder, his lips soft and gentle now, a stark contrast to the passion that had just consumed them.

“Fuck.” he murmured, his lips pressing against your neck. “That was... fuck.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing patterns on his back. “Yeah.” you agreed. “It was.”

He looked up at you, a soft smile on his lips. “I could get used to this.” he said, his voice quiet, almost shy. “To you.”

You cupped his face, your thumb brushing his cheek. “Me too.” you said, your voice just as soft.

He rolled off you but pulled you close, your back to his front, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight. You could feel him still semi-hard against your back, and you wiggled, rubbing against him, feeling him harden again.

He groaned, his teeth nipping at your shoulder. “Again?” he asked, his voice incredulous.

You smiled, your hand reaching back, squeezing his length. “Again.” you confirmed.

And so, the night went on, a symphony of pleasure, of discovery, of two people losing themselves in each other. The moon moved across the sky, casting its silver light on the two of you, witnesses to a night neither of you would ever forget.

[hy6erion]

The one Rule — Prologue

Désiré Doué x Reader

synopsis: spending the summer in paris with your brother, achraf hakimi, there’s only one rule—stay away from désiré doué. he’s a player in every sense. but when stolen glances turn into tension and rules start to blur, staying away becomes the hardest game to play

cw: fem! reader

a/n: this is the prologue to a multiple part story 😋 i’ll try to post a part or two once a week !!

part 1 >

The first time you meet Désiré Doué, he doesn’t even look at you.

Not really.

You catch a glimpse of him across the sprawling marble floor of your brother’s Paris apartment, surrounded by laughter, bottles and the low thrum of trap music pulsing from a portable speaker someone set on the kitchen island. He’s leaning against the window, half-silhouetted by the night city skyline, his chain catching the light every time he moves his head. His laughter is rough and unfiltered—like he doesn’t care in the slightest who hears it.

And you don’t look at him either. Not really. You notice him, but you don’t see him. Because that would mean something. And you already know what he is.

Hakimi warned you before you even stepped off the plane.

“Don’t talk to Doué” your brother said, waiting for your reaction like it was life or death. “I mean it. Don’t even look at him.”

You rolled your eyes, tired from the flight and not in the mood to play little sister.

“Why? Is he a serial killer?”

“Worse” Hakimi muttered darkly. “He’s a player with a God complex. He’s good. He knows he’s good. That kind of guy doesn’t care who he hurts, especially not some teammate’s little sister. He doesn’t even try to hide it.”

You’d laughed.

“Relax. I’m not looking to get passed around like an afterparty bottle of Casamigos.”

Hakimi didn’t laugh with you.

⸻

You didn’t expect to live in Paris this summer. But plans changed fast. School got out early and you needed a break from the tight circles, the parties, the exhausting weight of pretending to have it all figured out. Your brother offered his guest room before you could even ask. He missed you, he said. Plus, it’d be good for you to be around family.

You didn’t expect to meet Désiré either. Not like this.

Hakimi’s teammates came and went like extras in a music video—tall, confident, loud, expensive. But Désiré… He was quiet. At first. He’d arrive late to the post-match hangouts, say almost nothing for the first hour, then suddenly become the loudest person in the room once the tequila kicked in and someone passed him the AUX.

He didn’t look like trouble. Not the classic kind. No stupid tattoos on his face. No cheap designer overload. No muscle-flexing, gym-bro energy. He was casual about everything—too casual. Black hoodie. Track pants. Diamond earrings that glinted when he smiled. And he always smiled. Like he knew something you didn’t.

You hated that about him.

Because it worked.

⸻

The first time he actually sees you is at a rooftop party.

You didn’t even want to go. But Hakimi practically dragged you. “Just for an hour,” he promised. “Come say hi, then I’ll take you home.”

An hour turned into three.

You’re standing on the edge of the rooftop, drink in hand, wearing something you knew was a little too cute for a “casual” night out, but Paris was like that. A little too much, always. Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you ignore it. There’s no one you want to text back.

He sees you across the terrace. This time, he looks.

You feel it before you meet his eyes—like gravity tightening in the air. Like the silence between lightning and thunder.

And he walks over.

Not fast. Not desperate. He moves like he knows he’ll get to you eventually.

You don’t flinch. You don’t play dumb.

You stare right back.

“So you’re the sister.”

His voice is low. Smooth. Deeper than you expected.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re the one I’m supposed to stay away from.”

He laughs, slow and cocky. “Damn. He really gave you the speech, huh?”

“Word for word” you say, sipping your drink. “He says you think you’re untouchable.”

He tilts his head. That smile again—lazy, self-assured, dangerously pretty.

“I don’t think that. I know that.”

You give him a tight smile and look away before he can say anything else. He’s not used to that. You know it. You can feel the surprise flicker behind his eyes.

“Guess that means this conversation never happened” you say, turning on your heel.

You don’t wait for his reply.

⸻

After that night, he’s everywhere.

At practice drop-offs. At dinners. At private events that you swear were supposed to be family-only. But he finds a way in. And worst of all—he doesn’t flirt.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t send late-night texts or leave comments on your socials. He just looks. Lingers. Lets the air get heavy when he walks into the room. Like he’s waiting for you to break the rule first.

It starts to wear on you. The not-looking. The pretending.

The silence starts buzzing louder than the music.

[hy6erion]

Hi girly! Love your writing ❤️ have you ever gotten into the COD fandom? Usually, shooter games aren’t my forte… but the fictional characters from cod are YUMM… Ghost, Konig, Soap, etc.. I’m usually only interested in arcane’s Jayce x reader stories.. but idk! .. the cod x reader ones are great too… I thought I should ask?? also! we missed you! glad you’re back ❤️

i’ve actually played cod a lot —been obsessed since forever honestly, especially since modern warfare 2 dropped back in the day 😵‍💫 i totally get the hype… ghost?? könig?? they have me in a CHOKEHOLD. like. respectfully but also not. 😮‍💨

and omg i’m so honored you love my jayce x reader stuff too 🫶 might have to dip my toes into some cod writing now hehe 👀