imaginesleeping

[imaginesleeping]

butch cowboy sevika my beloved...

nsfw version on patreon! <3 save a horse ride a cowboy etc etc

[imaginesleeping]

HAPPY "👴🏻 these queers are takin over the world" MONTH!!!

[imaginesleeping]

this is amazing but I must admit I was NOT expecting any animation and thought I was losing my mind for a moment

Sevika having a nightmare, on the plus side, at least she's asleep deeply enough to be dreaming I guess.

Still below the cut.

[imaginesleeping]

hey guys, horrible news…all of my requests are gone!!with that being said, if you requested something and I haven’t answered it it’s probably because it was one of the ones that I lost. feel free to send them again! if that’s not you but you still wanna request, you are also fully welcome to <3

[imaginesleeping]

Silvia

word count: 1.3k

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day in my country, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about your first Mother’s Day as Sevika’s wife. The smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wakes you before your daughter’s cries do, which is unusual. The little one has had a set routine since she was born: she wakes up early for you to feed her, then goes back to sleep until she’s hungry again. You blink slowly, your body heavy with the accumulated exhaustion of interrupted nights, and reach out to the side of the bed where Sevika sleeps, only to find her gone, which makes you frown, though the aroma in the air tells you exactly where she is.

When you finally sit up in bed, you see her coming into the room with a tray in her hands. This time, her expression isn’t tough at all; it’s a strange mix of pride and shyness. Her steps are heavy but careful, her breathing deep and controlled, trying to be as quiet as possible so she doesn’t wake you. She’s so focused on not making a sound that she doesn’t notice your eyes are already open, watching her with a sweet smile.

“Good morning, beautiful,” she says when she finally looks up, her voice low and husky, as if she’s afraid to break the moment. “Happy first Mother’s Day.”

On the tray: golden toast, perfectly scrambled eggs, hot coffee, and a small plate of fruit. Next to it, a little black velvet box.

“Sevika…” you whisper, with a smile you didn’t even know you could make so early in the morning.

She sets the tray on your lap, sits at the edge of the bed, and opens the little box for you. Inside, there’s a silver necklace. On the pendant, a tiny inscription:

“The best of me, I share with you.”

You open the locket and see a tiny photo: you, Sevika, and Silvie, your daughter, on the couch. It was taken a few months ago, days after you were discharged from the hospital after giving birth. In the photo, the baby is resting in Sevika’s arms. She’s looking at the camera with a shy smile, as if she’s learning how to smile again after so long and, in a way, she is.

“I love you,” is all you can manage in that moment, you don’t know how to say more with so few words. “Happy first Mother’s Day to you too, love. Watching you be a mother is one of the greatest privileges of my life.”

Sevika, uncomfortable with so much affection all at once, clears her throat and leans in to kiss your forehead. Her hands reach for your face, holding it gently, caressing your cheeks as her lips travel slowly over your forehead, nose, chin, and finally end with a soft kiss on your lips. She doesn’t respond to your congratulations. Ever since you decided to have Silvie, Sevika has insisted that you’re the mother, after all, you carried her for nine months, you breastfeed her, and so on. You keep disagreeing, the girl has Sevika’s face, her gray eyes, thick black hair, and even though she’s only five months old, she already makes the same grumpy face as your wife. As she pulls away, Sevika hands you the coffee, as if that balances out the emotion of the moment.

“I have to go,” she murmurs, stroking your hair, trying to comb it gently with her fingers. “Get some rest, okay? I already fed the little one, so she won’t wake up for a while.”

Before you can answer, she keeps talking: “I know your mom is coming for lunch this afternoon, so relax. Breakfast is already done, and I doubt my lovely mother-in-law will let you cook. We both know she still thinks you’re too weak from giving birth, even though Silvie’s teeth are already starting to come in.”

You smile at her words and can’t help but sigh as you watch her leave for work, not without first giving the baby sleeping in the crib beside your bed a gentle kiss on the head. In the afternoon, the house is filled with Silvie’s laughter as she plays on your mother’s lap. Silvie babbles sweetly, responding to whatever her grandmother says as if she truly understands. You, on the other hand, are sitting in front of them, absent-mindedly playing with your fingers without even realizing it.

“Is something wrong, honey?” your mother asks, her eyes on you, and you recognize that look that cuts through silences.

You look up, your eyes shining.

“It’s Mother’s Day and I…” you pause. “I feel like I’m celebrating it alone.”

“Alone? But Silvie is with you, and Sevika too, right?”

“Yes, but Sevika doesn’t consider herself a mom,” you reply, lowering your gaze. “She says that since she didn’t carry her, since she didn’t give birth it’s not the same. That she just supported me. But… I see her with Silvie, she takes care of her, sings to her, changes her diaper and still, she doesn’t feel like she’s part of this.”

Your mother stays silent for a few seconds. Then she leans in and strokes your hand. “Do you know what your grandmother used to do when I didn’t feel like I fit in as a mother? She reminded me that being a mother isn’t just about giving birth. It’s about staying when things are hard, about loving unconditionally. Maybe your wife just needs someone to tell her that. For you to tell her.”

You purse your lips, thoughtful. “And what if she doesn’t believe me?”

“Then don’t just tell her. Make her feel it. Write her a letter, or give her something that carries the weight of what she means to you and to her daughter. Sometimes, what doesn’t go in through the ears goes straight to the heart.”

When Sevika comes home that night, she’s tired, her mechanical arm moving slower than usual. But when she walks in and sees the table decorated with flowers, a homemade dinner, and you holding Silvie in your arms, the tension in her shoulders melts away. After your conversation with your mother, you decided to do everything you could to make your wife understand how important she is to you and to your little girl. After making dinner, you dressed Silvie in a blue dress and did her hair in two little pigtails, which took forever, since she doesn’t like having her hair done. When you finished with her, you found a sundress in your closet that matched your daughter’s, putting in the effort to look nice for your wife.

“What’s all this?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“My Mother’s Day gift for you,” you reply, showing her a sheet of paper folded in thirds: a handwritten letter from you, with a tiny handprint from Silvie at the end. Sevika takes it, but doesn’t pay much attention for now. Her eyes are fixed on you, on your nervous smile, unsure how she’ll react to the surprise, on the way the dress highlights every part of your body she knows by heart. Without saying a word, she comes closer, her hands finding your hips and caressing them with a mix of tenderness and possessiveness, squeezing them lightly as she speaks:

“You look beautiful, love. I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

You smile and lean in for a quick kiss on the lips. As you try to pull away, Sevika pulls you back and traps you in a more passionate kiss, her lips moving against yours with such need that you forget everything around you, until Silvie, seeing her moms sharing all the love between them, complains, whining and reaching out for Sevika to pick her up.

“Mama,” she demands, opening and closing her hands to get her other mom’s attention.

Sevika smiles and takes her from your arms, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. “Hey, princess, did you miss me?”

Silvie just smiles, her little hands reaching for Sevika’s face, touching her scar as if it’s a special game just for her. You let her catch up with her baby, but impatience eats at you.

“Open the letter,” you insist with a smile, unable to hold back any longer.

Sevika chuckles, finding your restlessness amusing. Then, with Silvie in her arms, she opens the letter, trying not to crumple it. She reads it in silence, says nothing for long seconds, but you see a small tear escape, betraying her. She wipes it away quickly. Then she lowers the letter and looks at you, her eyes shining, jaw tight as if holding herself together is her way of loving.

“Love,” she starts, but her voice breaks. She sighs, searching for a way to organize her feelings. “Are you too tired? I want to introduce you to someone very important to me. Let’s go see her, come with me.” Her words come out in a rush, almost unintelligible. You blink several times, trying to process what she just said.

“Go where?”

“To see her. My mother.”

Zaun’s cemetery rests hidden among smoking factories and poisoned canals. There are no flowers or prayers, just scraps of metal marking anonymous graves. It’s a chilling place, where the dead don’t rest, they simply stop getting in the way. But none of that bothers you, you’re focused on what’s happening right now: it’s the first time Sevika has ever spoken to you about her mother. The grave is simple, marked by a plaque worn down by time.

Sevika kneels. You stay close. Silvie rests in Sevika’s arms, and the baby seems to understand her mother’s pain, her sadness, because since Sevika picked her up at home, she hasn’t wanted to let go, lying on her shoulder, sucking her pacifier, eyes wide open, staring at the grave.

“She… was strong. Much stronger than me,” the words come out broken. “Mama.” Her voice cracks. Looking at her, you don’t see Sevika, the woman everyone fears, you see a little girl, defenseless, alone. “I never said goodbye. But if you can see me now, I know you’d understand why I’m fighting.”

She pauses for a long time, stroking the edge of the grave with her metal fingers, as if afraid to break it.

“This is my wife, Mom. She’s my family now,” she continues, pointing at you. “And this,” she adds, looking at Silvie, “is the beginning of something better.” Sevika smiles sadly. “She has your name, Mom—Silvia. But we call her Silvie, because she’s so little.”

You kneel beside her., taking her hand. You feel her tremble.

“Thank you for bringing me,” you whisper.

“Thank you for making me a mom,” Sevika replies, without looking at you. But she squeezes your hand as if she’ll never let go.

That night, under Zaun’s polluted sky, Sevika cries. You hold her. And Silvie, after spending the whole day with her mothers and grandmothers, sleeps. In that scarred corner of the world, something new is born. Something strong.

Something Sevika only knows from women like her mother. Like you.

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

[imaginesleeping]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 𖤝 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

tags: modern setting, fluff, too much fluff.

𖤝| sevika won’t let you leave angry. not the room, not the house, not even her side. if you try, she just blocks the door with her body, calm, unmoving. “we’re not done,” she says, but there’s no threat in it. just finality. she doesn’t shout. she doesn’t argue. she waits you out like a storm, and you always break first.

𖤝| the first time you went full cuteness aggression and pinned her down kissing her face like an attack, she let you. quietly. didn’t say a word. but when you stopped she flipped you. suddenly she’s the one kissing you over and over like she snapped. teeth grazing your lip. eyes half lidded. voice low “no tapping out now.”

𖤝| sevika has exactly one hoodie she lets you steal. you wore it once and she never took it back because she saw how soft you looked in it and it made her weak. now, when you’re in it, she stares a little too long. if you try to give it back, she just grunts and walks away. you’re never giving it back.

𖤝| you keep climbing her in quiet moments. sitting on her lap while she’s reading. hugging her from behind when she’s washing something. she acts unbothered, but at a certain point, she just slams the book down, hauls you over her shoulder, and says “you want attention? you got it.” and disappears into the bedroom with you over her shoulder.

𖤝| she’s careful with her strength around you. too careful. like she’s scared of cracking you open. she opens jars before you even reach for them. carries things before you even ask. when you say you can do it yourself, she nods.. but doesn’t move. just stands there, watching. waiting. and eventually, you let her.

𖤝| you kiss her bicep every time she flexes. doesn’t matter if it’s on purpose or not. she lifts a box? kiss. stretches her arms? kiss. scratches her head? “wow, so pretty.” another kiss. she pretends to act casual about it. secretly flexes more.

𖤝| sevika never tells you when she’s angry at someone else. but you notice the way she tightens her grip when she brushes your hair that night. how the strokes lose rhythm. how her breathing changes. she’s careful not to take it out on you, but it leaks through anyway. and you learn to ask less questions on those nights. to be still. to give her space.

𖤝| she has the nerve to look this good when she sleeps. shirt riding up, one arm behind her head, mouth slightly open. so of course, you crawl on top of her at 3am, kiss her ten times in a row, then whisper “you’re killing me.” she stirs. half opens one eye. “good.”

𖤝| sevika doesn’t like when you dream of other people. not lovers—anyone. when you wake up and tell her you saw your mother, your old friend, a teacher from childhood.. her gaze sharpens. she asks what they said. how they made you feel. and the next night, she holds you tighter. harder. like she’s trying to squeeze the memory out of you before it sticks.

𖤝| sevika never tells you she’s angry. she just stops touching you. not cruelly, not obviously—she’s still there, still present, still herself—but her hands don’t find you in passing. she doesn’t tuck your hair behind your ear, doesn’t brush crumbs off your chin. you feel it immediately. the absence. and it hurts more than yelling ever could.

𖤝| sevika keeps your baby picture in her wallet. you didn’t give it to her. she found it somewhere.. old, worn, tucked into a book you forgot. she didn’t ask. just slipped it into the fold behind her mints. now it’s always with her. when you noticed it, it made your heart flutter.

𖤝| she now accepts that she is your personal body pillow. you spoon her. you lie across her. you lie on top of her. she’ll just be flipping through the pages of her book while you’re starfished across her torso. sometimes she lifts your arm so she can read under it.

𖤝| you’re constantly climbing on her lap, even mid-conversation. she’ll be talking to you about something or someone and you just quietly sit in her lap like a cat. she doesn’t stop talking. doesn’t react. just rests a hand on your thigh like this is perfectly normal.

𖤝| she tries to act unaffected when you smother her with kisses. you kiss her cheek fourteen times in a row and she just blinks like nothing’s happening. but the second you stop? “that’s it?” she doesn’t even look at you when she says it. you kiss her fourteen more times.

𖤝| one day, you try to be normal. no biting. no climbing. just sitting beside her, hands folded, behaving. after ten minutes she grabs your wrist, pulls you into her lap, almost mad. “what’s wrong with you.” you say “i’m giving you a break.” she deadass looks offended. “i don’t want a fucking break.”

𖤝| sevika pretends she’s bothered when you hang off her like a backpack but her hands always find your thighs to hold you in place. you’re clinging to her back like “hi :)” while she’s trying to cook, and she just sighs and shakes her head, but always kisses you at the end of it.

𖤝| she can tell when you’re needy just by the way your toes curl while you stand in the kitchen, your long nightgown brushing the floor, sleeves too big, your fingers twisting in the fabric. you don’t say anything. you never do. you just look at her with those glossy eyes, lips parted, thighs pressed tight. and she’s on you in seconds. lifts you onto the counter and says, “c’mere, crybaby.“

𖤝| you cling when you’re upset, too, and she knows exactly what to do. no questions. just picks you up, sets you on the couch, pulls you into her chest. one hand rubbing your back, the other cradling your head. “i’ve got you,” she says, and you believe her. because when she says that, the whole world goes quiet, and your heart goes lighter for a moment.

𖤝| you say “babe” fifty times an hour and she answers every single time. sometimes with a grunt, sometimes with a flat “what now,” sometimes with a gentle “yes, sweetheart?” and sometimes, she just pulls you into her lap without answering at all because she knows you don’t really need anything. you just wanted her attention.

𖤝| she always tries to carry all the groceries herself. no matter how many. no matter how heavy. you offer to help, and she goes, “i got it.” ten seconds later she’s grunting under seventeen bags like a mule, refusing to make two trips. “don’t look at me,” she huffs.

𖤝| she takes the “eat the last bite of my food” thing as a personal challenge. you’ll leave one bite of cake on your plate, go to the bathroom, and come back to find her chewing suspiciously. “where’s the cake?” you ask. she shrugs. “gravity.”

𖤝| you’ve convinced her to watch trashy reality shows. she says she hates them. she complains the whole time. but if you talk over the drama for even a second, she pauses it like a schoolteacher and goes, “you’re gonna miss the good part.”

𖤝| one time, sevika came home after a long, brutal day.. she comes home late. later than usual. her back hurts, her shoulder’s stiff, and the joints in her prosthetic are clicking in that way that makes her feel ancient. her keys jangle, and she’s already halfway through a groan. except you happened-

standing dead center in the living room.

in your nightgown.

past your ankles.

sleeves draped over your hands like some sad little heirloom doll.

eyes puffy. hair wild. lips trembling.

you look like a haunted Victorian ghost who just crawled out of the floorboards.

sevika freezes.

and you say it.

you say it like you’ve been waiting centuries:

“are you cheating on me?”

she blinks. keys still dangling from her fingers.

“…the fuck?”

you take a step closer. the nightgown rustles. it sounds like a threat.

“you didn’t answer my texts,” you say, almost breathless. “or my other texts. and then you liked that girl’s picture.”

sevika just squints at you. “what girl?”

you shrug. desperate and grieved. “she had a neck.”

there’s a pause. a long one.

“…everyone has a neck.” her voice is so flat.. like she just woke up or something.

you blink. like that genuinely never occurred to you.

then your lip wobbles again like you might cry or perform a dark spell.

sevika sighs. long. Slow. the tired kind that comes from a full day of chaos only to come home to… more chaos. nightgown-wearing chaos. she lets the keys hit the floor with a dull clink and walks toward you.

“baby,” she mutters, eyes soft now. “you think i’m cheating on the girl who looks like a kicked bunny and accuses strangers of having necks?”

you blink again. then whisper, defiant

“…maybe.”

there’s a twitch at her lip. like she’s trying not to smile. like she wants to laugh and cry and throw you over her shoulder all at once.

“you want me to prove it?”

you nod. sniffly. bravely.

she just scoops you up.

no warning. no argument.

one arm under your knees, the other around your back. lifts you like it’s easy. like you’re made of clouds and dramatics.

you squeak—actually squeak—like a startled kitten.

“what are you doing?!”

“proving it.” she says it like it’s obvious. like it’s the only rational response to your witch trial.

you clutch at her jacket, all nightgown and flailing sleeves and messy hair. she carries you to the couch and sits with you in her lap like she’s bracing for war and your love is the weighted blanket holding her together.

her hand is splayed across your back, fingers warm through the fabric. the other supports your thighs. her face presses against your temple.

“mmhmm,” she mutters, low and sarcastic. “cheating on you. that’s why i’m holding my delusional little marshmallow like this.”

you pout. whine. nuzzle into her collar. “i’m not delusional.”

“baby,” she sighs, brushing your hair back and kissing your cheek. “you accused a stranger of having a neck.”

you glare up at her. absolutely betrayed. “and you liked it.”

sevika just looks at you. quiet. soft. half exhausted and half in love with whatever ridiculous gremlin fate bound her to. Her mouth twitches again. she leans down.

one kiss to your forehead. another to your nose.

then a longer, lingering kiss to your lips. she pulls back just a little. “next time you get dramatic,” she whispers, voice husky, “at least wait until I’m not about to drop dead.”

[imaginesleeping]

all this discourse in the arcane community between the girl kissers is absolutely ridiculous.

i understand people having preferences and not wanting to read certain things. i don’t read fics with he/him pronouns for women; that’s simply not my cup of tea.

you know what im not doing though? calling the people that do read those fics slurs and being derogatory.

transphobia in the LGBTQ+ community (heavy emphasis on the T) is actually insane and you need mental help. if you see something you don’t like it’s so much easier to simply scroll away - or even block the creator if that’s what you’re into - than to go to their page, open the request box, and type a whole thing being nasty and hateful.

so many people outside of this community already hate you and want you dead. the only place any of us are truly safe is within our own space. and you’re on here telling people to kill themselves like a degenerate twelve year old.

stop acting like a damn kid and grow the fuck up.

— 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘺𝘢

[imaginesleeping]

can we all just remember that we are writing about a FICTIONAL woman in (sometimes realistic) FICTIONAL scenarios…i don’t wanna add more fuel to the fire but i just think it’s crazy that people are trying to say what people can or can’t write/read when she is quite literally pixels on a screen. let people have fun and write whatever the fuck they please my god if you don’t agree with the take then SCROLL

also it’s not hard to not be a fucking terf…!

[imaginesleeping]

If you're transphobic/a terf, BLOCK ME.

This is a trans safe space, I don't want ANY hateful people interacting with me or my content!!!

Listen to Hatsune Miku

[imaginesleeping]

girl whats the link for this ao3 vika fic u speak of

My Baby and a Cigarette - https://archiveofourown.org/works/36055795

[imaginesleeping]

A lil' Sevika compilation in story chronological order.

Someone give her a break.

[imaginesleeping]

thinking about that one fic on ao3 where it’s summer and reader and vika are all sweaty laying in bed and they give each other head 😩

[imaginesleeping]

i took a lil break from tumblr but i’m back 😛

-⭐️

AYEEEE HI POOKA

[imaginesleeping]

Why do people write Sevika like THAT! -ft Ambessa blurb

I feel like bonkers, and I don’t know if this makes me that friend that’s too woke but idk. Sometimes it feels like people think Sevika isn’t capable of being written with softness as a woman? I know she can whoop some ass and loves a little hand to hand combat but she’s literally like not just that? She’s a really complex and deep character if you look at her. And especially during season 2 you start to see some of that aggressive front falter.

But in fics people write her like she’s stereotypical straight man or something 😭 ?? Like aggressive and abusive and it’s really weird. I always wonder if people would do this if she wasn’t a brown person? It feels like people leans into this violent nature with her too much. I always used to see that kind of stereotype written about black women so…it makes me wonder.

And while I’m here…Ambessa IS feminine!! Please stop acting like she’s such a masculine creature. I know you see how she acts, but she can be a warrior AND feminine at the same time like ?? Lock in !!

[imaginesleeping]

[Texting]

You: Hello my beautiful wife I was just wondering if you had possibly eaten the leftover curry in the fridge as I was so looking forward to eating it when I got home

Sevika: maybe

You: fucker

[imaginesleeping]

THESE ARE SO GOOD HELLOOOOO

my headcanon sevika eras i guess

assorted sevikas from last month that SUUUCK

[imaginesleeping]

wait this is actually devastating because if arcane was on hbo max it would’ve definitely had at least 4 seasons and i know for a fact we would’ve seen sevika’s titties at least once while she was at the brothel

i think if i saw a sliver of sevika areola i woulda fainted and died