#arcane x gn!reader

[whoreforsexymen]

Guess who just finished acrane and is writing this with actual tears on my face!!! I need some Vander fluff- i think i will emplode- it doesnt even have to be anything specific i just need comfort after that shit storm 😭

Yes my child. Mommy will make good on your request.

And don’t even get me started on S2. I can’t bring myself to watch it yet. I’m still not even over S1 and I KNOW for a fact it’s not even as sad as I’ve learned S2 is.

But shhhhh, Mommy’s got you. Here’s the fluff you asked for.

Piltover’s Got Nothin’ On You | Vander Fluff Flash 🍺🤎

(GIF cred: me <3)

Pairings: Vander x GN!Reader

Pronouns: No pronouns used.

Rating: Slight NSFW because Reader and Vander are presumably half naked in bed, so 18+!! MDNI !! You WILL be blocked

Word Count: 524

Summary: Vander is enjoying a nice cozy morning with you, and reminds you exactly how he feels.

Tags: A little spicy, just because it’s a little maturely themed if you whip out a magnifying glass, Fluff, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Domesticity W/ Vander, OoeyGooeyRomance

Notes: None, just enjoy. Take a breather. 🤍

“Would I lie to you?” The question hung in the air, light yet loaded with meaning. It was enough to send a familiar flutter through your stomach, a soft, nervous twinge that made your heart skip. The sensation was strangely uncomfortable, yet in the most endearing way—like a gentle reminder of how much he could still make you feel, even in the simplest of moments.

You lay atop the man you were speaking to, both of you bare-chested, the warmth of your skin pressing together in an effortlessly comforting way. The coolness of the morning air was a distant contrast to the heat between you, a calm presence that made the moment feel serene to say the least. His steady breathing beneath you gave the moment a gentle rhythm, and for a while, there was nothing but the simple unspoken connection between you both before you responded.

“Maybe. Depends.” You tease, your words playful but laced with a hint of mischief.

His response is immediate—his large hand slipping into yours with a quiet sense of contentment, the warmth of his grip grounding you. There’s a comfort in the way he holds you, as if, in this moment, the world outside doesn’t matter. His touch speaks volumes, the unspoken understanding between you both more powerful than anything words could convey.

“Someone clearly thinks highly of me,” he teases back, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Before you can answer, he leans down and places a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead, his touch tender and full of quiet affection. The sweetness of the gesture catches you off guard, a simple act that somehow feels like the most genuine expression of his feelings—a quiet reminder of how deeply he cares.

You smile, a soft laugh slipping from your lips.

“All I was saying is that, as much as Piltover has its minor flaws—“ you begin, your voice light with amusement as you’re stopped short.

“Appalling flaws, really. Humongous, towering flaws,” he interrupts playfully, his tone teasing as he presses a gentle kiss to the back of your hand, still held firmly in his.

You can’t help but laugh at his wit.

“Yes, huge, appalling flaws. But despite all that, Topside is stunning at night. The lights here are beautiful, too, but nothing compares to the glow of Piltover.” You add, trying to make your point clear: a city’s beauty can stand on its own, no matter what darkness might lurk behind the scenes.

He regards you for a long while, his gaze lingering on your face with an amusement that never quite fades. The seconds stretch on, almost too long—what might seem like a few moments in the world’s rhythm becomes an eternity in his eyes. Each shift in your expression, each subtle change in your posture, draws him in, holding his attention as if time itself has slowed. And yet, even as eternity unfolds, it’s still not enough. To him, no amount of time could ever truly capture all he wants to see.

“That may be true,” he says, his voice steady, the smirk never quite leaving his face.

“But Piltover’s got nothin’ on you.”

[motthe]

If there requests are still open <3 could you maybe do something with a isekai/Lumen au? I thought of how different would be The reactions towards The different technology or behaviors! Any character is fine! (But if it's possible Viktor) Any gender is fine too!

Only if you're comfortable with it! Your writing is amazing 💖💖💖

oh man this was fun to play around with. thanks for requesting!!!

“Construction will be delayed.” Viktor hated to say it, but the storm had done too much damage to the Hexgate and there was no telling what that lightning strike had done to the core far below ground. “We must pray everything is intact at the base.”

“Elevator’s running. That’s good, right?” Jayce tried to find the silver lining as they stepped in, doors closing behind them.

Viktor grabbed your lumen before gravity shifted. The first time in an elevator had sent you into the ground and you’d yet to learn despite the many times he had used the academy elevator.

It was a common thing amongst lumens. They merely floated so how could they expect the ceiling to suddenly come racing down.

You brightened at his touch as did Jayce’s when he grabbed his own companion. It was second nature for the both of them to keep you close with all the dangers going on around inventors.

“Surely the lightning wouldn’t travel all the way to the core,” Jayce murmured over the whir of gears moving. “It’s miles below surface.”

“All witnesses reported a pulse of energy,” Viktor reminded him, lithe fingers rubbing against the soft outline of you against the crook of his neck. Your warmth was blocked with the long raincoat covering him. “Perhaps a boost of sorts would be best case scenario. An excess.”

“It’s not powering anything yet,” Jayce said.

“That’s why we must investigate, yes?”

As the metal box slowed to a stop, Viktor dropped his hand. You remained pressed against him.

A loud rattling filled the space as the doors creaked open before quickly coming to a halt. The opening was slim.

“Oh, great,” sighed Jayce, pushing forward and attempting to get them open. He grunted, arms straining as his lumen fluttered above his head. “Yeah, no.” He stepped back huffing. “That’s not budging.”

Viktor eyed the opening. “I think I may fit.”

“You wanna go in there alone?” Jayce’s judgmental tone had him rolling his eyes.

“It would make the most of our time.”

“If you get in trouble, I won’t be able to help.”

Viktor gave him a gentle grin, raising a hand to pat his shoulder. “I will be quick, yes?”

His business partner shrugged, shaking his head as he moved aside to let Viktor through.

Grabbing the seam of the door with one hand, he wedged himself through, cane first. The hall was dark, the only light came from inside elevator and your small form as you eased through.

“Stay close, my star,” he whispered, knuckles nudging you as he began the walk to the core room. The hit of his cane against the floor echoed an eerie song, shadows closed in tight against your brilliance.

Reaching the door posed a problem seeing as there wasn’t any power on this hall. But Viktor was prepared.

Moving his raincoat aside and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the small pen light and master key and got to work. It was a heavy door but perhaps with some inertia, he’d get it open enough to slip in and check the core.

“You all right?” Jayce’s voice echoed from behind.

“The power is out,” returned Viktor, “I must open the door manually.”

“I’ll see if there’s a control box in here and work on getting these doors open.”

You loomed above, doing a better job of lighting up the lock. He thanked you, finishing up the various interlocking mechanisms before turning his attention to the door.

Taking a breath, he position his bad side against the frame, pushing off with his good leg. It took time, but soon the metal obstacle inched open bringing with it a cold breeze and the glow of the hextech within.

“The cooling system is still active,” he called to Jayce.

A curse sounded as well as an electric zap.

Rolling his eyes, Viktor pushed onwards, slipping through as soon as there was enough space.

His breath clouded in front of him as you hovered near his shoulder, the quiet hum of the core paired with the chill sending goosebumps across his skin.

The fact the core was still active was a good sign and the pack debris on the floor showed nothing had exploded, at least.

Taking a turn around the piece, he squinted as a warm light seeped through the cool, blue glow.

He jumped as the lights overhead flickered to life, the door behind him opening fully as gears turned and Jayce’s “A-ha!” rang out.

Blinking through the sudden blindness, Viktor sighed and rubbed his eyes clear before searching for the light he’d seen.

Instead he saw a hand peaking out from around the core.

“Uh!” he choked, the tip of his cane thumping hard as he moved quickly.

The hand extended to an arm, then a shoulder. A body laid bare just a foot or two from the fore, stomach down and face covered by their hair.

“Jayce!” Viktor yelled, kneeling so fast his cane slid across the floor. His hands hovered over the back, before he took a breath and grabbed their shoulder, attempting to flip them over.

He nearly jumped back as a lumen floated up, a deep, tawny brown. Viktor didn’t pay it much mine, too concerned with trying to get the person on their back and praying they were breathing—

But then your lumen was circling it, the two dancing around one another.

He paused, chest aching as the two brushed and another light blinded him.

You, he thought, breath quickening as he peered down, straining to flip you over. It’s you.

Moving your hair from your face, he took the slope of your nose, the shape of your jaw. You were in a deep slumber, all but dead to the world as clouds slipped from you parted lips.

“You’re freezing,” he whispered, quickly ridding himself of his raincoat and covering your nude form. “Jayce!”

Finally, those heavy footsteps came racing around, nearly slipping from the water trailed on.

“What is it?! Did the core—“ Jayce stood, dumbstruck as he stared down at your body in Viktor’s arms. “How…?”

“Help me,” Viktor gasped. “They’re my fated. Help me!”

“What?” he hissed, eyes moving to the two lumens circling in each other. “Why are they down here?!”

“I don’t know but they’re freezing to death as we speak. They need medical attention.”

Shaking his head, Jayce left the question for later as he lowered to take you from Viktor, carefully keeping you wrapped in the raincoat.

“Go, I will follow,” Viktor ordered. Jayce nodded and took off the way he came towards the elevator. That tawny lumen flew after them as yours returned to Viktor, rubbing against his cheek.

“Please, he all right,” he murmured, cupping you against his neck as he scrambled for his cane. “For my sake.”

.

The crack of lightning and thunder resounded in your head. You bolted upright, gasping.

Something tumbled into your lap, bright against the dark room. You thought maybe you’d knocked a lamp over or a flashlight—but as you get your breath back you find there wasn’t much weight to it.

You scrambled back as it floated up, shrieking.

“What the fuck?!”

Movement across the room had you scrambling for a weapon, the best you get was the pillow behind you as you hold it between you and the weird floating light thing.

“You’re awake.”

The accent was foreign against your ears. You squinted as light flickered on above, taking in a blurry outline on a couch. Rubbing your eyes, you remained tense a man pushed up onto a cane. He stood with a hunched form, shoulders long but dragging down. Wild brown hair framed tired eyes and a narrow face.

“Who are you?” you said, voice cracking from a dry throat. You held the pillow up higher as the light drifted closer. “What is that? Some kind of bug?”

Whatever it was, another one popped up over the man’s shoulder, perching there as if it belonged nowhere else. The man cradled it, brow furrowing.

“You do not know of lumens?”

“What? No,” you huffed, glancing around the room. The white curtains and beds hinted at a hospital or maybe a mental institute. Were you going insane? “Where am I?”

“The infirmary at the academy. It was the closest,” he answered.

“Academy? Which one?”

He tilted his head. “The only one. There are no other academies in Piltover.”

“Piltover?” you whispered. “I don’t know where that is.“

“Are you from another region?” You murmured the name of your country. “Is that in Runeterra?”

“You’re not making any sense,” you huffed, squealing when you spotted the ball of light creeping over the pillow. You panicked, thwacking it away. The man flinched.

“Please don’t,” he said, “it won’t hurt you.”

You eyed the creature before looking to the man.

“You’re connected,” you said.

“Lumens are the embodiment of our souls or so the legends say,” he explained, holding the one on his shoulder out and nudging it towards you. “This one is yours.”

“Mine?” You stared as it hovered, easing back towards the man.

“Go on,” he murmured to it, pushing it back your way. The thing—lumen—refused, sweeping up under his chin as he sighed. “You’re frightened.”

“I don’t know where I am or who you are,” you said flatly. “Of course, I am.”

“Viktor,” he limped forward to the end of your bed, offering a slender hand. “My name is Viktor.”

You took a breath, wincing as the tawny lumen brushed your arm. It was soft and warm, taking a moment before nudging you again.

“Uh, hi,” you whispered to it, raising your eyes to Viktor. “Or, hi to you, I guess?”

His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile.

You pushed your fear down and reached forward to take his hand, introducing yourself.

.

When Viktor left the infirmary to grab you food, Jayce was waiting in the hall. He pushed off the wall as soon as the door closed.

“How are they?”

“Fine,” Viktor said, frowning. “They are lost. They don’t seem to know anything about, well, anything.”

Jayce’s face twisted. “Uh, what?”

“They have never seen or heard about lumens,” he explained, “nor have they heard about Piltover or even Runterra. The names they speak are foreign to me.”

“Well, you’re speaking the same language,” he noted.

“That is one blessing,” he sighed.

Jayce frowned, noticing the new weight in Viktor’s stance. “They don’t know they’re your fated?”

He shook his head.

“Did you tell them?”

“They are overwhelmed, Jayce. I think it best to explain it at a later time.”

“But—”

“I do not wish to scare them even more than they already are,” Viktor stated, words sharp.

Jayce’s eyes lowered to your lumen, shaking against the crook of his neck.

“Right. Okay, yeah,” he whispered. The two stood in silence for a moment before he dared to ask, “Do you think…the Hexgate?”

“Perhaps,” Viktor breathed. “We shall find out, but first things first.” He started off down the hall. “I have my fated to take care of, whether they know it or not.”

[nausicaaandhermouth]

Multitasking

a/n: been sick, hit w pmdd, and feeling the side effects of being medicated all. at. once. yet all brain can do is think about writing smut. here's a short one i wrote mid fever yesterday 🗣️🗣️

"And?" your arms, on Viktor's shoulders, become ropes, pulling him nearer and nearer.

He's leaning forward as his mouth moulds onto yours, one arm a snake around your waist, tightening as each kiss deepens. "We're… hm, we're closer t—" he buries his face at the crook of your neck. You smile and pull him back in front of you. "To stabilising the gem. For mh—mass—use—"

Each ride downwards burns in your thighs, muscles flexing and unflexing, labouring breath fanning his face. His hands must be carving bruises on your skin, blood-flow be damned now that he's having you, now that you're taking him. Then out again with a rise, an inhale, where he unfills the slick space within you—and back in again with a heavy exhale, sinking to the hilt with the swell of him.

You hum, unraveling your arms to wrap your fingers loosely around his neck. "Sounds like a productive day," you squeeze your muscles, earning a whine and sigh from him.

"Miláč—hmng," he furrows, "We can talk about work some other time,"

"But you've been so busy lately," you trail your fingers upwards, hands cupping his jaw. "We want to be economical with our time," you lean downwards, pressing a kiss to the mole above his mouth. "And you're so very good at multitasking," then a kiss on his cheek mole.

You lean back and take a good look at him again. A beauty so catastrophic you wonder how you'd found him at all.

He shudders, fingers tightening on your thighs.

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ "You Can Have My Last Name" — Zaunites x GN Reader ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

A/N: I'm pretty sure this idea is like. Everywhere by now. But people from Zaun/the Undercity don't really have surnames so plot is basically what if Reader offered up theirs. Simple and cute type stuff idk I wanted some fluff

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

Viktor

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Mentioned the nature of his lack of a surname rather casually, while venting about how Piltover kept trying to say his paperwork was 'invalid' for lacking one. He explained to you that it was common for anyone in the Undercity, and that most from there didn't have one at all

ᯓᡣ𐭩 More confused than anything when you offer yours, or he at least pretends to be. The truth is the idea flustered him coming from you so casually, so to cope he acted like he didn't know what you were implying

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Thinks about it for several weeks afterwards, subconsciously mulls over how your name would sound paired with his in his mind. He writes it down a few times too, just to test it out. Finds out pretty quickly that he likes the sound of it

Vi

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Doesn't miss the implications a bit, as a matter of fact she IMMEDIATELY flirts back by asking if you'd really give your precious name to any pretty face you come across

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Teases you about the idea relentlessly any time the subject of names is brought up, or in any way she can really. Often makes jokes that she's gonna make a fool out of the name

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Secretly actually very honored that you'd offer it up to her but she doesn't feel like admitting that yet, you're gonna have to deal with jokey teasing for a good while first

Jinx

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Snarkily says she wouldn't be a good fit for your name to hide the fact that she really doesn't think she deserves to be considered a part of your life

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Ohh, you might be crazy too if you're gonna give it to someone like me"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Feels kinda bad that she wouldn't have anything like that to offer you in return. She loves the idea of having a family to belong to again, but her own self doubt gets in the way of admitting that to herself

Ekko

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Oh- uh- what??"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Genuinely very caught off guard. Not at all in a bad way, he just doesn't know how to respond to such a sudden and blatant flirt. Quickly tries to think of something to say as you're chuckling and reassuring him it's okay

ᯓᡣ𐭩 He ends up telling you through his fluster that it's not really gonna bring you any good to proudly announce a Zaunite as part of your family name. But in the end, he gives you a soft smile and says it's a nice thought he isn't against

Sevika

ᯓᡣ𐭩 "Is that so?"

ᯓᡣ𐭩 More keen on the idea than you'd might think- tells you it wouldn't be such a bad idea, but you'd have to prove it's a name worth adopting first, teasingly daring you to make it a name you'd both be proud to wear

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Tells you to reconsider once or twice, but mostly because she loves seeing how determined you get when defending her right to bear your name

Silco

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Doesn't pick up on what you're implying at first at all, simply tells you that isn't how that works and you're talking nonsense

ᯓᡣ𐭩 You have to prod into the implications a little more to get him to finally register what you're actually trying to say. It takes him a moment, but when he catches on he falls silent for a while

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Ends up mildly tripping over his words while telling you he's not really someone to give such an important thing to, and that you should get a better head on your shoulders and keep focused (largely to hide the fact that the offer genuinely caught him off guard. He's never gonna stop thinking about it)

Vander

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Actually not against the idea. Seems to chuckle it off at first, but once he realizes you're being serious he fondly mulls over the idea with you while cleaning up for the night

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Recognizes the idea might not be very feasible, but hey, what's wrong with having hope? Everyone's allowed to have dreams to chase, right? No harm in chasing this one together, then

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Promises that once things are settled down enough that he'll try to make it happen with you. As long as the kids he takes in are all alright with you, of course

[prettybouquets]

𝓖eneral 𝓓ating 𝓗cs ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . 𝓟.2

this part includes; jayce, viktor, mel and sevika

part one is here -> 𝓟.1

𝓙ayce;

𖦹 Flexes when he lifts something heavy in front of you, just to make you laugh and even asks you to see him for 'important reasons' so you could see him shirtless and sweaty at the forge. (it works) 𖦹 Loves hearing your ideas, even if they're completely wild, because a majority of his are too. (naive twins <3) 𖦹 Leaves little encouraging notes in your workspace when he notices you're stressed. Or he writes little sticky-notes by your bedside table when he lets you sleep-in like 'I cleaned the dishes and booked dinner at the Bistro tonight, love jayce ˙���˙ ᡣ𐭩' 𖦹 His laugh is loud and contagious, especially when you guys are being silly. He tries to make jokes just to her your little laugh (though he relies more on you for the comedy).

𝓥iktor;

𖦹 Gets so focused on work that you have to remind him to eat, and he always thanks you sweetly. 𖦹 Writes your name or little phrases you tend to say on the edges of his blueprints when he’s lost in thought. 𖦹 Holds your hand absentmindedly when he’s explaining something. 𖦹 His smiles are rare but light up the room when you’re the reason for them. (he cherishes you sm)

𝓜el;

𖦹 Sends you thoughtful gifts—each one chosen with impeccable care, and packaging. (she believes you deserve no less) 𖦹 Loves sharing quiet moments, especially at sunrise or sunset. 𖦹 Compliments you in such a way that it feels like you’re royalty. "When I look at you, I see someone who deserves every ounce of admiration the world can give." 𖦹 Lightly touches your arm or shoulder whenever she wants your attention, her smile soft and warm.

𝓢evika;

𖦹 Teases you constantly but gets defensive when anyone else does. It's a privilege on she alone gets. 𖦹 Keeps a watchful eye over you in public, even if you can handle yourself. She would hate herself if anything happened to you on her watch. 𖦹 Her laugh is deep and warm, especially when you’re being sassy back at her. 𖦹 Will always stand between you and danger, no questions asked.

© prettybouquets 2024. all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, or repost any work as your own.

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder. 

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back. 

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling. 

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness. 

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember? 

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears. 

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you. 

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace. 

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene. 

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man. 

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief. 

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy. 

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering. 

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes. 

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again. 

You don’t. 

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?” 

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions. 

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling. 

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.” 

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal. 

“Unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms. 

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him. 

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.” 

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.” 

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.” 

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.” 

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so. 

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum. 

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.” 

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation. 

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.” 

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial. 

He’s right. He always is. 

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple. 

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand. 

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say. 

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.” 

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd  a bid as that is. 

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you. 

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath. 

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing. 

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry. 

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch. 

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him. 

 “Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat. 

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you. 

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.” 

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise. 

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?” 

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions. 

— 

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side. 

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity. 

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it? 

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case. 

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum. 

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is. 

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone. 

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders. 

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.  

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral. 

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts. 

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.” 

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning. 

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought. 

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march. 

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words. 

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?” 

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions. 

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

[stillnotyourmusebitch]

Late night thoughts....

Imagine finding younger pictures of Silco and him trying to puck the photo from your hands but you just say.

"Damn so it is true."

He grabs the photo to lock it away. But asks what you meant.

You walk over to him lifting his chin to look at you.

"Men do get finer with age."

Then you lean down and kiss his goofy lil smile.

(The things I would do to this man are unreal. Get that boy moaning like a wanton whore)

[huntfeld]

A Jealous Heart in The Neon Glow

Pairing: Jinx x Reader

Summary: In the neon-lit chaos of Zaun, Jinx grapples with her growing jealousy as the reader's bond with Ekko stirs possessive feelings she can no longer suppress.

———

The dim glow of Zaun's neon lights filtered into the small hideout, casting the room in a flickering array of pinks and blues. You sat cross-legged on the couch, a makeshift workbench cluttered with mechanical scraps sprawled out before you. Jinx was perched on the armrest, twirling a wrench in her fingers like a baton. Her signature manic grin was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a peculiar tension that made the air feel heavier than usual.

"So," Jinx began, her voice lilting like a razor sliding across silk. "You and Ekko seem real chummy these days."

You froze mid-tweak on the contraption in your lap, the question catching you off guard. "Uh, yeah. I guess. We've been working together on that glider project for a while now."

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the wrench stopping mid-spin. "Oh, glider project. Sounds riveting. Is he, like, your new bestie now or something?"

You set the tool down and glanced at her. The playful edge to her voice was thinly veiled, barely masking something rawer, sharper. You knew Jinx well enough to recognize it: jealousy. It clung to her words like oil to water, a dangerous undercurrent you couldn't ignore.

"Come on, Jinx," you said carefully. "You know it's not like that."

She leaned closer, her face now inches from yours. Her cerulean hair framed her features, the usual mischief in her eyes replaced with something more vulnerable—though she was trying hard to hide it behind a cocky smirk.

"Not like what, exactly?" she asked, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "'Cause from where I’m sitting, looks like you’re getting all buddy-buddy with him, leaving little ol’ me out in the cold."

Before you could respond, a knock at the door interrupted the moment. You glanced over, recognizing Ekko’s voice calling out from the other side. You stood, feeling Jinx’s eyes burning holes into your back as you opened the door.

"Hey," Ekko greeted with a grin, holding a toolbox. "Thought I’d swing by and drop these off for the project."

"Thanks," you said, stepping aside to let him in. The tension in the room shifted palpably as Jinx remained on the armrest, now glaring daggers at Ekko. She didn’t bother hiding her displeasure, the wrench in her hand tapping rhythmically against the leather.

"Hey, Jinx," Ekko said with an easy smile. "What’s up?"

"Oh, y'know," she replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Just watching my best friend here get all cozy with someone else. Super fun."

Ekko raised an eyebrow, his gaze darting between the two of you. "Uh, okay? Didn’t mean to intrude."

"You’re not," you said quickly, shooting Jinx a warning look. "Ignore her. She’s just being… Jinx."

Jinx scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, ignore me. That’s what everyone does anyway, right?"

You sighed, turning back to Ekko. "So, about that glider prototype—"

Before you could finish your sentence, Jinx was suddenly in front of you. Her hands grabbed your collar, yanking you down just enough for her lips to crash against yours. The kiss was anything but delicate—it was desperate, raw, and filled with an intensity that made your knees weak. The world seemed to blur around you, the only thing grounding you being the warmth of her mouth and the tight grip she had on your shirt.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes locked with yours, burning with a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "There. Now you know," she said breathlessly. "You’re mine. Got it?"

You blinked, your heart pounding as you tried to process what had just happened. Unable to help yourself, you smirked and replied, "Yes, ma’am."

Ekko let out an awkward cough from behind you, clearly unsure of where to look.

"Uh, I… should probably go," he mumbled, quickly retreating to the door. "Catch you later."

The door closed, leaving you and Jinx alone in the electrified silence. You stared at her, still feeling the lingering heat of her kiss.

"Jinx," you started, your voice shaky, "what was that?"

She crossed her arms, her bravado faltering as she glanced away. "What do you think it was? I… I can’t stand watching you with him. It’s like… it’s like my chest is gonna explode or something. I hate it."

Your heart ached at the raw honesty in her words. You stepped closer, gently placing a hand on her arm. "Jinx, you don’t have to feel like that. There’s no one else. Just you."

Her eyes snapped back to yours, wide and searching. "You mean that?"

You nodded, your thumb brushing over her wrist. "Yeah. I care about you. A lot. More than anyone."

For a moment, she looked like she might cry, but then her signature grin slowly crept back onto her face. "Well, duh," she said, though her voice cracked slightly. "I mean, who wouldn’t fall for this?"

You laughed softly, pulling her into a hug. She stiffened at first, then melted into your embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around your waist. The faint smell of gunpowder and oil clung to her, mixing with something uniquely hers.

"You’re not getting rid of me now, y’know," she mumbled into your shoulder. "I’ll blow up anyone who tries to take you away."

You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes, your hand brushing a strand of blue hair from her face. "I wouldn’t want it any other way."

The two of you stayed like that for a while, the neon glow painting your world in shades of pink and blue. For once, the chaos of Zaun felt far away, and all that mattered was the girl in your arms and the unspoken promise of what lay ahead.

———

[musouie]

art by ohto.begone ノ divider by @/adornedwithlight

⟢ précis: vi seeks your comfort after reuniting with powder ꒱ inspired by s1 ep6

⟢ contents: hurt/comfort, angst, gn!reader, references to s1 ep 3 + e6, wc: 0.9k

Vi comes to you early in the morning.

She slinks in with the rising sun, tiptoeing across your floors, narrowly missing the floorboards that often creak with an ease that can only be learned — and then, she sits. 

Quietly, on the edge of your bed, stifling her pained groans from throbbing wounds through clenched teeth and blueblack lips — taking the brunt of it as she’s always done …

... alone.

She tries to fight it — the intrusion, the remembrance — but she’s never been good at forgetting, at smothering all the misshapen fragments of her memories until they were soot in her skull —

(Fire, heady and ashen on her tongue; the explosion, the beast Vander had become — and then all that came after. The poison of her words, the gravel of her voice, the tremble of Powder’s bottom lip as she harshly gripped her jaw)

— they haunted, they haunted, they haunted.

Her own lip begins to tremble, and quickly, she begins to undo her bandages, minding the shallow dip of your mattress as she shifts to a better position. (Perhaps the pain would distract her, one sting to outdo another of a different kind?) She unwinds it once, twice — and immediately her nose scrunches at the foul odour it emits: of blood and grime and sweat and —

“Vi?”

Her head snaps up; you’re staring at her blearily — vision blurry and cottoned around the edges as you fight your heavy eyelids.

You blink twice and she nods, slowly turning her muscled back to you as you pull yourself into a seated position, legs still tucked beneath your blanket. “What are you doing here?” Her shoulders tense; you try again. “...When did you get in?”

“Not too long ago,” she mutters, gathering the last of her bandage in her scraped palm. “Snuck in through the window.”

You rub at your eyes. “You know I hate when you do that. There’s a key beneath the welcome-mat, you can just come through the front like normal.” 

She says nothing to that, but her shoulders do that curl. The one that tells you she’s annoyed, that another wall has been drawn up between you. You think it’s because you used the word ‘normal’ – your error. I’m far from normal, she’d whisper on starless nights, the things that happen to me don’t happen to normal people. 

She’d groan when you’d whisper back, And what is it that happens to you?

(What followed was predictable — routine. The crow’s feet by her eyes eased, and her lips hardened into a line — one that you knew not to cross, not to touch…not to kiss in lieu of all the ‘I’m sorry’’s and ‘Please forgive me’’s that neither of you would appreciate the outcome of.)

So you wait for her shoulders to straighten themselves, for the sun to peek through your window, one shy ray behind the other — and for the breath she’d been holding to release itself in one large huff.

“I–” she turns, and it’s then you glimpse the extent of her state, of her lips — indigo and swollen; berries crushed beneath a careless fist, one bruise atop another that has yet to heal. “Can I just lay beside you?”

“Your lips—”

“—They’ll heal.”

“But—”

“I said they’ll heal,” she bites.

And there it is again — the wall.

The wall.

(How many times had you tried to climb over it, to scale the bricks and mortar and find a way inside? How many times had you slipped and fallen, the jagged edges of its foundation cutting deep into the skin of your palms, your knees, the soles of your feet?

How many times had you bled, and bled, and bled, and bled, and asked no more questions?)

“Alright,” you murmur, lifting your blanket to invite her in.

(It was a small mercy, you supposed. To have a part of her, even if it was just a fraction, a piece, a fragment.

To have her close, and not so far away.) “Come.”

And so, she does. Wincing, groaning, hissing — she does.

You hold your arms out and she falls into them, her face burrowing into the crook of your neck. Her fingers, her nails, her hands — they grip the fabric of your shirt, bunching the cloth and pulling it tight.

(If you were to look down, you would see her knuckles, white, and the veins of her wrist, pronounced and raised. Most of all, you would see the tremor, the shake, the quiver, the shiver, the tremble of her entire being.

A leaf, battered and broken, blown and thrown by the wind.

A bird, with its wings torn and clipped, left to bleed and rot in the dirt.)

“I-I saw her.”

The admission is uttered so weakly, muffled by the fabric of your shirt, that you nearly miss it.

Your chest rises. “Who?”

“Powder. I–” Your shirt is drawn tighter. “It was so foggy… I-I didn’t even recognise her at first.”

“Vi…”

“I should’ve. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen her, I should’ve stayed with her, I should’ve—”

“Vi.”

“I should’ve—”

“Violet.” 

Her body shudders, her shoulders quake. “S-She was just a child.”

You pull her closer, until the two of you are flush and her body heat seeps through her clothes and your thin sleepwear, to your flesh. You cradle her, and carefully, you run your fingers through the jagged, pink strands of her hair — as though she’d skitter off at any moment.

“As were you.”

She doesn’t respond.

So you cradle her, until her breaths are yours and hers.

Until the blood on her lips are yours and hers.

Until her heartbeats are yours and hers.

Until her scars are yours and hers.

(And yours, hers.)

masterlist <3

[strawberrykidneystone]

unexpected protection

sevika x gender neutral reader

summary: this was not how the mission was supposed to go, but with sevika curling herself around you, it was hard to complain

a/n: i’m such a sap for sevika this is embarrassing

tags: fluff, canon violence, explosions mentioned, kissing

thank you for the request anon!!

ao3 version

you were supposed to keep an eye on isha while sevika and jinx fought with cait and vi. somehow, the little shit slipped down the balcony while you were busy watching the fight while trying not to bite your nails in worry and was now she was holding a gun to vi’s forehead.

you cursed under your breath and quickly vaulted down the wall with your gloved hand trailing down the concrete to slightly slow you down. sevika was definitely going to give you an earful after this. you landed close to the switch where the main explosive that the four of you had set up earlier was waiting to be flipped, and now seemed as good of a time as any.

yet no one moved a muscle, no one wanted this kid to shoot that gun. well of course until cait had shot the gun out of the poor kid’s hand. jinx had already decided to sacrifice herself and made you promise to take care of the kid, you were not going to break that promise.

as you turned your head to set the explosive off, sevika beat you to it and flipped the switch, quickly followed by a deep boom. jinx yelled out something that was quickly lost to the wind, a strong enough gust followed the blast that it was close to knocking you off of your feet. you watched as vi and cait were sent flying back, looking around desperately for your own anchor. the only reason you weren’t sent flying was because of your position behind a huge concrete block in front of you blocking the air from taking you away.

suddenly, you felt an arm around you that pushed you forward against the block. you recognized sevika immediately as she curled herself around you, pushing her body against yours while she clung to the wall with her mechanical arm. her flesh arm was wrapped firmly around you shoulders to the front of your chest. you hands came up and clung to her arm, shaking with the intensity of the wind trying to blow the two of you away. your heart was beating so loud that you could hear it in your ears and you hoped she couldn’t feel it hammering against her arm. you stole a glance at her face, needing to ensure that she was alright. she had her eyes closed tightly and was muttering to herself, it almost looked like she was praying.

shit, she was praying.

you took a deep breath and leaned your forehead against her arm, reassuringly squeezing your hands around her bicep. she dropped her head down to meet the crown of your scalp, you could feel her lips pressing against your hair and her warm breath puffing through her nose. it felt like she was burying her nose in your hair, but you just chalked that up to the strength of the wind jerking the two of you around.

you had never been this physically close to her before, only exchanging playful shoulder checks or nudges at best. now though, this felt oddly personal, very odd for sevika as she usually treated you with indifference most of the time. being this close to her felt so natural, her warmth enveloping you as it effortlessly radiated off her. you couldn’t tell if it was her natural body heat or if her mechanical arm was overheating, but you savored it regardless. sevika just felt… safe. she was always a rock you could count on, even after silco died, she let you hang around the last drop, trusting you enough to let you attempt to fix her broken arm. fine, you’d admit it, you had a huge crush on her. how could you not???

after what felt like hours, the wind finally subsided. you heard sevika’s mechanical arm unlatch from the block with a satisfying crunch. you let go of her arm and she surprisingly stayed crouched down in front of you, keeping her flesh arm planted by your head.

you wiggled around and faced her, as soon as you met her eyes the rest of the world began to melt away. you reached up and cupped her cheeks, eyes darting briefly to her lips before locking eyes with her once again. she pushed herself forward and crashed her lips into yours with such passion and ferocity, it nearly knocked you on your ass. you swung your arms around her neck and met her passion tenfold, pressing your lips so hard into hers that you’re pretty sure you forgot how to breathe. her flesh hand wrapped around your waist and gripped you so hard that her nails were digging into your skin while her mechanical arm lay dormant to the side. in this moment, there were no enforcers, no top side threats, nothing could bring you down from having sevika sliding her lips against yours so perfectly, you’d swear your lips were made solely to kiss her.

you broke the kiss when you started to feel so lightheaded you thought you were going to faint, a dazed smile adoring your face as you looked up at her. she looked frazzled, which was very unlike sevika, and was panting just as hard as you. she rested her forehead against yours and caught her breath while your hands tangled in her hair, still sweaty from the fight.

“i didn’t know how much i wanted to do that until i almost lost you,” she whispered with an unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome tenderness laced in her voice.

you giggled and shook your head, kissing her nose, “better late than never i guess.”

a half-smirk crept onto her lips and she snorted, looking at you with nothing but adoration in her eyes. as she leaned in to kiss you again, a dramatic groan sounded from the other side of the building.

“can you two stop making out? we have to go before the enforcers come back!” jinx yelled out from a higher ledge, isha clinging onto her leg.

“yeah yeah one second brat,” sevika snapped, with no actual bite to her voice. she pressed one last soft kiss to your lips before standing up, offering her flesh hand down to you. taking her hand, you stood up and laced your fingers with hers, and gave a quick nod to jinx.

“let's get out of here.”

[solemnd]

Tease

Desperate!Vampire!Caitlyn Kiramman x gn!reader

summary: Caitlyn wants— needs to taste you. But you just won't let her.

warning: blood (not that much), suggestive stuff

A/N: apologies if this is... Messy... I haven't wrote in months 🙁

——

"Please," she barely whispered, her voice tinged with a soft, desperate whine. Caitlyn's face was buried in the crook of your neck, her breath warm and shivering against your skin. Goosebumps ran down your spine as you felt her inhale deeply, savoring your scent like it was the only thing keeping her going.

She sat comfortably on your lap, her slim frame trembling slightly as your hands wrapped possessively around her waist. You couldn’t help yourself—you loved teasing her. She was so beautiful when she was like this, her usual calm and confident demeanor unraveling into raw need.

You bit your lip as you felt her fangs graze your neck. The sensation was exciting, sending sparks of heat coursing through you. "Cait..." you murmured, feigning a stern tone, though your voice betrayed the slight tremble of excitement.

Caitlyn whimpered, nuzzling deeper into your neck like she was trying to hide her desperation. The corner of your lips tugged upward into a small, knowing smile. You both knew she wouldn’t bite without your permission, and yet you kept up the act, as if she wasn't allowed.

"Darling, please," her voice trembled, the desperation visible now. God, she sounded so gorgeous when she begged for you. "I-I've been good."

Your gaze dropped to meet hers, her light blue eyes shimmering with need. There was no mistaking the silent plea in them, the way they darted to your lips and back to your eyes. Her hips buck against you, pressing into your lower stomach, and you instinctively gripped her waist, pushing her down to keep her still.

A pleased hum escaped your lips as you felt the ghost of her lips brushing your neck. "Need you..." Caitlyn whispered, her voice soft, almost meek, between the kisses she left trailing across your skin. Her fingers dug into your shoulders.

"Do you?" you whispered low into her ear, your breath fanning across her skin. Her back arched slightly, responding to the subtle provocation.

"I do—" she was quick to reply, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. Her navy hair fell into her face, but it only showed how desperate she is for you. She sighed, and you reached up to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. "You know I do." Your smile only grows.

She leaned into your touch as your hand cupped her cheek, her skin cold but soft beneath your palm. The way she shifted her face, nuzzling into your hand, reminded you of a puppy craving affection. Those twinkling, pleading eyes and the slight pout on her lips were driving you crazy.

Caitlyn's fingers wrapped around your wrist as she turned her head to press a kiss to your palm. Your thumb brushed against her lips, teasing her. When you applied the smallest pressure, her lips opened obediently. You let your thumb trace the edge of her fang, and she whimpered, her chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Her lips closed around your thumb, her tongue brushing against it as she sucked lightly. A muffled moan escaped her, and it was clear she wasn’t trying to hide her desperation anymore. Her hunger for you, for the taste of you, was clear as day.

You licked your lips, noting how her brows furrowed, silently asking for permission. The moment you gave a small nod, she acted on pure instinct. Your poor girl just couldn't take it anymore, anyone could tell.

Your thumb slid free from her lips with a soft pop, and in an instant, Caitlyn’s head dipped back into the crook of your neck. A sharp gasp escaped you as her fangs finally sank into your skin.

Caitlyn moaned against you, her hand making its way to the side of your neck. her grip tightening on your neck as she drew deeply. Her hands trembled slightly, as though the taste of you was almost too much to bear. You groaned softly, your own hands moving to steady her, one on her waist, the other brushing through her hair.

"Fuck, Cait," you breathed, feeling her hum in satisfaction as she licked the wound she left behind, pressing tender kisses to the mark like an apology.

When she finally leaned back, the corner of her lips were painted with a trace of your blood, she licked it away slowly, her expression shifting to something sly, almost dangerous.

The mischievous smirk on her lips caught you off guard, her eyes darkened with lust as they locked onto yours. Before you could form a question, she silenced you with her lips crashing against yours.

You loved teasing Caitlyn Kiramman. 

[xx-reverie-xx]

🖤Sevika HCs🖤

just random sevika hcs. broken up into categories for general, romantic, and nsfw headcanons respectively.

i didn’t try very hard while writing this, so my writing is probably subpar here but…yolo.

im in love with sevika so i add to this like every day …

men dni. minors dni. men dni. minors dni.

safe for enby lesbians. ♥️

general

* raging butch lesbian 🧡🤍🩷.

* her place is messy but in an organized chaos sort of way.

* she smells like cigar smoke (in a good way), leather, peppery mahogany, and a hint of something sweet.

* collects bottle caps. i can’t explain it, i just have a feeling she would!!

* extremely interested in Zaun’s history. she wont go into a full rant about it but she’ll drop interesting facts about it occasionally.

* has very, very cool, gay aunt vibes!!!

* cat person. just imagine her carrying a sweet little kitty with a sweet little smile on her face.

* actually an excellent cook.

* snores… hacks in the morning like a dad.

* before she lost her dominant arm, her hand writing was neat, very bold, and she wrote exclusively in all caps. she’s relearning her penmanship now.

* very heavy handed.

* completely quit smoking after she got a spot in piltover’s council and hardly drinks anymore.

* her carabiner is on the left side. she keeps the basics on it, so just her keys and one or two old key chains she has.

* in a modern au she would be into classic cars and the process of restoring them. her dream car is a 1970 mustang boss.

* on the topic of vehicles i can see her as a biker too. like, imagine seeing her taking off that helmet … swoon! imagine being her backpack … SWOON AGAIN!!!

romantic

* i feel like she doesn’t do romance very often, if at all. so you are one lucky ducky!

* it’s a lot for her to get used to so things develop slowly. patience is key here. she isn’t used to having someone really care about her, let alone love her.

* she’s pretty standoffish and awkward in the beginning. some might say stilted. she never really saw herself having a partner.

* just be patient with her and let her come to you.

* loves hugging you from behind

* if you’re with her at the last drop, she has her arm around you constantly. if it’s not that, she’s having you sit on her lap.

* she isn’t the jealous type at all. she knows that if you’re with her, if she choses you, she has nothing to worry about. if your loyalty to her falters, you’ve got a big storm coming.

* while she isn’t jealous, oh, boy, is she possessive. very big difference between those two. she’s also fiercly protective.

* got a creep flirting with you at the bar? she lets it be known that you are taken very quickly. is at your side in a second flat, arm wrapping around you all while staring daggers at the perpetrator.

* this woman is a capital F Flirt. will talk you up one side and down the other like it’s nothing. if you’re just someone she happens to lock eyes with at the bar, you guys could go back and forth with flirting and banter.

* BUT if you and sev have been together for a bit flirting can get her flustered from time to time. you know *just* what to say to her to make her short circuit a little bit. no one can get under her skin the way you can. /pos

* calls you baby. if you’re a femme, she calls you her femme. also fond of calling you “pretty baby”.

* surprisingly soft lips.

* kissing her feels like a dream. slow and sweet and sensual. complete with a warm hand on the side of your face or settled on your hip.

* sevika prefers a partner who can take care of themselves. after all, she’s a busy woman and she can’t always come to your rescue.

* her giving love language is acts is service. need something fixed? in classic butch fashion, she’s absolutely got you covered. do you drink coffee or tea in the morning? she’s got a cup ready for you in the morning, *just* the way you like it. she’ll do anything for you when she’s got the time.

* her receiving love language? words of affirmation. she likes to know that you think she’s *good*. that she’s doing a good job and that you see that.

* loves having her hair played with and her scalp massaged. if you have long nails it’s like a dream for her.

* would be so fucking whipped for you. you’re on her mind all the time. smiles when little things make her think of you. memorizes every little detail about you every chance she gets.

* actions over words. don’t expect crazy love letters or monologues about how much you mean to her. she shows how much she loves and cares for you almost entirely through actions.

* most likely wakes up before you and sits there for a little bit just to memorize every tiny little feature about your face. she never wants to forget what you look like.

* she doesn’t have a type. like, at all.

nsfw

* stone top. there. i said it. no questions. no ifs, ands, or buts.

* nipple piercings 🙈.

* oh, she is eating that thang. this woman is a munch. she would know just how to lick or suck you to make you come before you know it. it’s a very personalized experience.

* she learns you inside and out. knows every. little. thing that makes you tick.

* vocal. like, as in, she talks. she’s dirty about it too. all “oh, yeah? you like that baby?”, “be good for me, i know you can take it”, “mmm, taste so fuckin’ good for me” or “i know what’s good for you, now fucking take it”. she talks you through it every time.

* kisses it after she eats it. :)

* weewooweewoo WE GOT A MAN HANDLER OVER HERE!!!! she will move you every which way, any way she needs you to be. if you’re flexible, she absolutely has fun with that.

* has a collection of straps. different strokes for different folks, am i right?

* will sex you with sensual r&b playing in the background.

* touching on one of her receiving love languages being words of affirmation …

* she loves to be praised.

* it’s something she would never explicitly ask you to do. it’s a subtle thing.

* it’s in the way she short circuits when you tell her how good she’s doing, how good she makes you feel. you can tell she likes that, knowing that she is good for you, in the way her hands tremble or her hips stutter or, if she’s going down on you, the way her eyes go soft.

* she will fuck you senseless and then be so, so sweet on you after. makes sure you’re taken care of, that there’s something for you to drink, has towels ready for you incase you don’t feel like showering for a while after you finish. seriously, it’s like two different people.

okay thats it. i am obsessed with this woman and just wanted to share some headcanons i had for her while i finish up a fic i’m trying to write🎠.

cant believe my first writing here was some random hcs but whatever!!!

requests currently open for multiple fandoms, including arcane :).

dividers by cafekitsune

[nausicaaandhermouth]

A Kiss For Loyalty

masterlist

young!silco x gn!reader [1.2k][AO3]

summary: You find him after the attack on the bridge, and you're left to figure out how to tread the fragile state of him.

tags: young silco, a few hours after vander tries to drown him, angst, established relationship, hurt silco, not betad

a/n: mid-lecture we were looking at photos of gash wounds and i couldn't help but think of young silco's face fresh after the drowning, so ofc i had to write a comfort fic for him. kinda comfort. it's mostly angst.

Vander couldn’t look you in the eye, couldn’t form a single word. And at first, worry was what overtook you—Silco hadn’t survived, lost in the fight. But the more you looked at the larger man who had returned, the more you recognised something else: the aftereffect when he’d had too much to drink, had raised his voice, had felt guilty. Regret.

You find Silco in your bedroom, curled up on the worn mattress that had held you both some countless nights. It had overheard the visions for your new nation, the sloppy passion of drunken evenings, the quiet rise and fall of breaths during winter. Now it’s witnessing something new.

You’ve never heard Silco cry. Your bedroom shrinks at the sound of it, as if the corners darken and round themselves to hold and hush him. It’s a sharp sting, an undeniably pained cry bleeding into his palm, cupped around his mouth.

When you approach, you’re silent—assessing, investigating, worrying if this isn’t something you can fix. He’s never been so evidently broken. You’re not sure whether it’s about Vander or at the failure of their uprising, both of which had taken a large portion of his heart.

“Silco?” you whisper, taking another step forward.

“Don’t,” he manages, his sobs becoming quieter, but affecting his breath, bubbling out of him in squeaks and chokes. “Please,”

You shake your head, keeping your ground but keeping your eyes on him. He’s refusing to remove his reddened hands from his face, his hair curtaining over his left side, black, wet strings.

“You’re hurt,” you furrow, focusing on the blood down his hand. You rush forward, chest attempting to wrangle in a frenzied heart. “Show me, hey, S—”

“Stop!” he inches away from you, a childlike recoil that makes you freeze.

It’s a foreign behaviour, a desperation he’s never worn, never come close to mimicking. As far as you’ve known him he’s been the opposite. Even in pain, he stitched together a composure so convincing it made others doubt he could ever truly feel the hurt he was raised around.

You suppose that it’s something he’s worked on, refined throughout the years after taking on the responsibility of becoming Zaun’s face, alongside Vander. His ideologies had spilled straight from his heart into your ear. You understood why he worked so hard to maintain a strong face.

That man was gone; he hadn't entered the room this time.

He’s hiding, you see, shielding his face from you. This, you understand, is something he thinks may spare you from even a fraction of the pain he must be feeling. He’s always been so. To hoard the suffering and smile.

“You don’t want me to see you?” you ask, kneeling by the bed and retracting your hands.

Silco doesn’t answer, the chokes of suppressed sobs the only sound from him.

“It’s alright,” with a shake of your head, you turn around, facing the other way and leaning against the bed. “I don’t have to see you. Just… just talk to me,”

You wait a beat, then another, waiting for his voice, willing his voice to regard you again. Anything with a meaning that you could warp into a sign of hope.

“Please,” you add. It’s unintentionally desperate, pleading, giving him the power of controlling where the conversation goes. Something he needs, you suppose, something he’s certain is still predictable.

You hear a sharp breath behind you, then the shuffle of your bedsheets. Your eyes slide the farthest they can without turning your head, attempting to see any glimpse of him.

Then his hand enters your periphery, pale skin against scarlet, fingers twitching and shaking as his forearm rests on your shoulder.

You take gentle hold of his hand, turning it this way and that in search for wounds. But nothing. “Who…” your breath escapes, “Is this your blood?”

“Yes,” he responds, a word that pricks at your lungs sharply.

You see the moment clearer now. A wound so deep that to reveal it is its own pain.

You recall Vander’s face. The shame that distorted his features, how ugly it becomes as you try to piece together the fragmented pieces. 

“Vander did something,” you surmise. Your breath quickens, a sneer creating brackets around your flared nostrils. “Did Vander do something?”

You feel Silco’s breath near the top of your head, but before you’re able to turn, a weight settles over you. Momentarily, you hold, letting the firmness of his muscles process on your body, around your shoulders, his other arm snaking over your bones and holding you backwards to him.

You hear his soft sniffs over your head and slightly to one side, the bone of his cheek pressing against your crown.

There it is again. It’s a spear through your body, the sound of him. It strikes a fissure along your lungs, each sudden inhale a crack veining in your airways, each tremoring breath he takes an earthquake on your skull. Vander, what have you done?

You take his hand and hold it to your cheek, the cool back of his hand against the warm apple of your face. You interlace your fingers, a familiar practice, just as fluid as the locking of legs in the night, or the pressing of palms for a prayer.

Next was the chaste kiss on his index knuckle, for loyalty. Then on the middle knuckle, for liberty. Another on the ring knuckle, for luck. And lastly, a kiss on the pinky knuckle, for love.

It was a silent conversation he and you had made, meeting mouth to bone always easier than devoting a voice to each word.

His other hand wrapped around your wrist, bringing your arm upwards and over your head, your own knuckles meeting his familiar lips. But they tremble.

He breathes a kiss, gentle, on your index knuckle, starting, then failing. His breath falls jagged on your skin.

For a moment he restarts, the warmth of his air hovering over your knuckle. But again he fails.

Your frown deepens. Even more so when he moves your hand and skips to your pinky knuckle, the only promise fulfilled.

“How bad is it?” your voice slightly muffles against his hand near your mouth.

He swallows, clearing his throat. “At the… we were at the river, he—” he grips your hand slightly tighter.

“It’s still hurting?”

His clothes shuffle. “Yeah,”

“Let me look?”

Silence.

You start to think he’ll reject you again, not yet prepared to face you in whatever shape Vander had left him. But he loosens his arm around your shoulders and moves away, his presence at your back fading.

Your other hand remains in his, the anchor, as you shift on the floor and turn.

You look up and your eyes meet. No. One eye meets yours.

You sense his panic by how the one remaining blue jumps between your eyes, tips of his mouth downwards. He brushes aside his wet hair.

The left side of his face had been marred, a trench of exposed muscle, skin, and blood bared at you. The blackened sclera is haunting, a flame moving in tandem with the watery blue of his other eye.

You’re more than certain there’s nothing but indignation gushing through your veins. Yet, Silco remains beautiful. You realised a long time ago it was difficult for him to not be, no matter the state of him. And still now, left eye diseased with the molten of betrayal, mouth frowned by grief, fear in his good eye.

“It’s not over,” he whispers, leaning forward as you reach up and cup the unmarred side of him. “We’ll take back Zaun,”

There he is. No man, no river, could ever kill him. “You’ll show them,” you press a kiss to his index knuckle.

[eatmyheartoutjpg]

𓇻 𝗢𝗛 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗧 ˢⁱˡᶜᵒ ˣ ᵍⁿ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

Continuation: Arm's Length

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 ;; Shortfic. Rom! Soulmates AU. Silco dreads the words on his skin, and he finally meets the one the cause of it. 𝘼/𝙉 ;; A cute, kinda silly idea I had in mind for a while. May write more for other characters if people want!! I'm up for the task ^^

12.07.24 Masterlist

Soulmates—a bond admired and revered across the world. The concept of finding the one person destined for you, a lifelong partner who complements your very soul, was a dream cherished by many. In this world, the bond was marked by a simple yet extraordinary phenomenon: words.

Every individual was born with a unique phrase etched onto their wrist, a constant reminder of their connection. These words were not random; they were the first words their soulmate would ever say to them. For some, the inscription was poetic, filled with promise and mystery. For others, it was mundane or even amusing, hinting at the unpredictability of love.

But the reality of finding one's soulmate was far less romantic than the ideal. The world was vast, with countless cities, continents, and cultures. With billions of people scattered across nations, the odds of meeting one's soulmate were slim to impossible.

And yet, that rarity made the soulmate bond even more precious.

But Silco never believed he’d meet his soulmate. The concept itself felt foreign to him, a naive dream to have in Zaun, where survival always overshadowed sentimentality. And truthfully, he was quite alright with that. His life revolved around the chaos Zaun had to offer—where enemies lurked in every shadow, sharpening their knives for his back. He thrived on it, embraced it, because weakness was a luxury he could not afford.

Since Vander's death, Silco had been the undisputed leader of Zaun, a position he had fought tooth and claw to secure. It wasn’t just power he gained but a purpose, a vision for Zaun that burned brighter than any fleeting idea of love or destiny.

Soulmates were a distraction he couldn’t entertain. His identity was forged in blood and betrayal, and he wore his scars proudly—symbols of his resilience and unshakable will.

Loneliness wasn’t a word in his vocabulary. He wasn’t lonely. How could he be, when Jinx was by his side? His daughter, in every way that mattered, was the anchor in his life. She was his legacy, his greatest creation. She didn’t fill a void but rather defined his world, giving him a sense of connection that no partner or companion ever could. He would protect her with every ounce of strength he had, just as he would protect the dream he’d built for Zaun.

For Silco, the idea of a soulmate wasn’t something he lacked. It was something he chose to disregard entirely. He didn’t need anyone to complete him, he was already whole.

And besides that, the words imprinted on his left wrist were… concerning, to say the least. No, they weren’t poetic or mysterious like many praise. They weren’t heartfelt or clever, the kind of words one might cherish. Instead, they were crude. Embarrassing.

“OH SHIT.”

The phrase was bold and glaring, stamped in stark lettering that left no room for misinterpretation. It stood out against his skin like an insult, as though mocking his carefully curated composure. A curse, literally and figuratively, branded on him for all eternity (or until he meets his soulmate, which will never happen.)

He sighed every time he glanced at it, the sight filling him with equal exasperation and dread. What kind of person greeted their soulmate like that? It was undignified, the equivalent of tripping over one’s own feet. Worse, it reflected poorly on him. People might think he deserved it—that he was some unrefined brute who matched such crude first words.

He grumbled about it often, muttering under his breath as he covered his wrist with a sleeve or a glove.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in soulmates. The idea had its appeal, though he was reluctant to admit it. It wasn’t even that he feared meeting the person fate had paired him with. No, he dreaded the why. Why had destiny chosen those words for him? What kind of chaotic, uncouth individual was waiting out there, ready to burst into his life with such gracelessness?

He fancied himself a man of sophistication, a leader who carried himself with poise. Yes, his methods could be ruthless, but they were calculated. He wasn’t the rabid dog some made him out to be. He was polished and deliberate. Surely his soulmate—his destined match—should reflect that.

Yet here he was, cursed with the least dignified introduction imaginable. He almost wished he could meet them just to rid himself of the embarrassment, to confront this vulgarity head-on and put it behind him.

Silco tugged at his sleeve irritably as he walked through the crowded streets of Zaun. The undercity was alive tonight—buzzing with life, tension, and danger. He thrived in it, as he always did, but his mind was elsewhere. A meeting with one of his chem-barons had gone south earlier, leaving him more on edge than usual.

The night was damp, the air thick with the stench of polluted waters and burning fumes. He passed a narrow alley, barely sparing a glance at the shadowy figures loitering there, when he heard the unmistakable sound of something toppling over.

Crash!

Instinctively, he turned, narrowing his sharp eyes. A figure stumbled out from behind a pile of crates, a hand pressed to their side as they cursed under their breath. He tensed, ready for an ambush, but the person didn’t seem to notice him right away.

Then their gaze snapped to his, and they froze. Wide eyes met his mismatched ones, a flicker of panic flashing across their face.

“Oh.. shit.” They blurted, the words spilling out before they could stop themselves.

Silco froze.

It was as if the world had gone still around him, the sounds of Zaun fading into an eerie quiet. Those words. Those exact words. He stared at them, his heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in years.

You noticed his sudden stillness, your own heart racing as you realized what you’d said. The man in front of you wasn’t just any Zaunite. He was Silco. The Eye of Zaun. Ruthless, calculated, and someone you absolutely did not want to cross paths with.

But something in the way he was looking at you gave you pause. His eyes—cold and unrelenting moments ago—were now fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You had no idea why he was staring at you like that, and part of you didn’t want to find out.

“I didn’t mean—” you started, raising your hands defensively, but Silco interrupted.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice low and sharp.

You froze, unsure whether to be more afraid of his reputation or the way your pulse was thrumming in your ears. He stepped closer, his boots clicking against the wet pavement, and you instinctively took a step back.

You really regretted being such a loudmouth. It wasn’t the first time your words had gotten you into trouble, but this? This was a whole new level of disaster. The phrase echoed in your mind like a taunt: "Oh shit." It was so casual, so thoughtless. And you said it to the worst person you could have.

You should have listened to your family when they told you—over and over again—to keep your crude mouth in check. They often joked about stuffing a rag in your mouth to save you from yourself, and honestly, you wished they had. Anything would have been better than blurting those words to Silco.

You glanced at him warily. The man before you—The Eye of Zaun, the kingpin of the undercity—was scrutinizing you with an expression you couldn’t read. His mismatched eyes seemed to pierce straight through you, and it took everything you had not to squirm under his gaze.

“What did you say?” he asked, his tone measured, but his eyes burned with something unspoken.

“I-I said ‘oh shit,’” you replied nervously, glancing toward the alley’s exit. Maybe you can run, maybe just hide for the rest of your life and hope your head won't be rolling before tomorrow. “Look, I didn’t mean to bother you, I’ll just—”

“No,” Silco cut in, his tall form approaching you, his voice firm as he stopped just a foot away from you. He tilted his head, studying you as if you were some kind of puzzle he didn’t want to solve. “Say it again.”

You blinked. You nervously swallowed. “What?”

“Say it,” he repeated, his patience clearly thinning.

“...Oh shit?” you offered hesitantly, feeling ridiculous. You thought he was going to pull out a gun right here and now. You could imagine the loud crack of a bullet hitting your skull already.

Silco exhaled sharply, his hand brushing against his sleeve as if to confirm something. He knew, of course. He didn’t need to look at the words burned into his wrist to be sure. But hearing you say it again—a crude, accidental greeting—cemented what he had avoided for years.

“Of all the cursed words,” he muttered, almost to himself, before his gaze snapped back to yours.

You frowned, your fear gradually giving way to confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Silco hesitated. For once, the master of Zaun seemed unsure, caught in the tangle of fate. He glanced at your wrist, the realization dawning on you in an instant.

“No way,” you whispered, pulling up your sleeve to reveal the small, delicate phrase etched onto your skin:

“Don’t move.”

The silence between you was heavy, laden with disbelief and the weight of inevitability.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you said finally, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. You think you just might have hit your head on that fall of yours.

Silco’s lips twitched into something resembling a grimace. “Believe me, I’m as thrilled as you are.”

It wasn’t exactly the romantic encounter most people dreamed of, but as you stood there in the damp alley, staring at the man fate had apparently chosen for you, you couldn’t help but think: Of course, it had to happen like this.

ˢᵉᵛᵉⁿ

[prettybouquets]

𝓖eneral 𝓓ating 𝓗cs ° ᡣ𐭩 . ° . 𝓟.1

this part includes; jinx, vi, caitlyn and ekko

part two is here -> 𝓟.2

𝓙inx;

𖦹 Loves tinkering and will surprise you with odd yet adorable inventions. 𖦹 Draws little doodles of you in her notebook, often with exaggerated silly expressions with insane poses. 𖦹 Randomly shows up at your door with "cool stuff" she found to share with you. 𖦹 Her hugs are always a bit too tight, but they're filled with genuine affection.

𝓥i;

𖦹 Playfully ruffles your hair and calls you cheesy nicknames: sweet pea, doll, cupcake, angel, etc. 𖦹 Will teach you self-defense but insists on sparring "gently" (she always wins). 𖦹 Buys you snacks she remembers you like, often saying, "It was on sale, don't read into it." 𖦹 Her favorite thing is holding your hand, no matter where you are. She loves being close to you, she'll take anything she can get.

𝓒aitlyn;

𖦹 Always insists on walking you home, even if it's out of her way. 𖦹 Loves telling you about her day, especially if she caught someone while on duty. 𖦹 Has a secret stash of your favorite tea at her place, just for you. (which means you're special ;) ) 𖦹 Smiles softly when you fall asleep on her shoulder after a long day. She loves listening to soft, little snores, knowing you find comfort resting on her.

𝓔kko;

𖦹 Invents little gadgets just to make your life easier (or as an excuse for a thank you kiss). 𖦹 Playfully challenges you to races across rooftops and purposefully lets you win sometimes. Or even races you on hoverboards. 𖦹 Lights up when talking about his dreams and always makes you feel included in them. 𖦹 Gives you trinkets he’s scavenged, saying they reminded him of you.

© prettybouquets 2024. all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, or repost any work as your own.

[visbacktatto]

viktor x assistant!reader

you were always too worried about viktor. you couldn't help it, not when he seemed so passionate about ruining himself for the sake of his research on hextech. someone had to take care of him, if not himself, you.

in the beginning it was difficult, when jayce brought you to the lab viktor gave you a studying look, sizing you up, deciding almost immediately they didn't need help, not yours, not from anyone.

but jayce had it known it was a non negotiable decision, he was getting more and more busy with the council work and viktor was surely exhausting himself with the research, he needed the help and you would be perfect for the part.

and you were, actually, slowly you proved your worth, being quite a genius on tech yourself, it wasn't hard to figure out the little instabilities with the hextech and help with the infinite calculations that came with the job.

and so, viktor started warming up to you, he started with asking for help in little things, like correcting an equation he couldn't seem to crack, checking some new invention that was malfunctioning every time he tried to start it, and every time he had to hide his surprised expression when you actually solved the problem.

so he started respecting you, and then, actually talking to you, letting you know a thing or two about him. how he liked his coffee, how organized he was with the notes on the notebook that he usually showed no one but now he's showing you, how passionate he actually was about giving people access to magic, about providing real change and comfort to the people in need and how far he was willing to go for it.

and you didn't even realize you were falling in love with him until one of those late, late nights in the laboratory, just the two of you working on some new tool together.

viktor was sleepy, clearly, you could see it in his tired eyes, but he was too stubborn to leave the work unfinished, leaned on a desk, being swallowed by the infinite papers with prototypes, he didn't even feel it when he fell asleep, his head resting on the cold surface above his notebook.

but you noticed.

it wasn't rare for him to sleep in the lab, he'd told you that before, you'd seen him early in the morning when you came to start working and he was already there. but it was the first time you saw it happening.

and he looked so beautiful, exhausted, the bags under his eyes profound, but undeniably beautiful. almost ethereal in that brief moment his body relaxed.

and you don't know why, but you reached his hair, your fingers featherlight when they brushed the brown strands, a surprisingly smooth sensation, his hair was soft.

and, yet unconsciously, he leaned into your hand, making you give into your sudden impulse and actually caress his scalp, gentle, caring.

later, when he woke up, he thought it was just a dream.

and from that day on you felt your heart beating fast almost whenever you were together. sitting side by side discussing something, his breath close to your face, his hand brushing yours when reaching for a pen, his knee touching yours under the desk when he was too focused on a new invention to move away, to keep his distant and cool demeanor, he was warmer now.

you continued doing little things for him, bringing him food when he forgot to eat and brushing it off as “i just bought too much for myself, do you want some?”, of course he knows you did it on purpose but he wouldn't point it. besides, he almost found it... endearing.

and on a particularly quiet night in the lab, the only sounds being of viktor's pen on paper and the soft hum of the machines surrounding you, you fell asleep there, for the first time.

the thing is, you were sat beside him, studying some pieces of a tool you've broken down to fix, and the moment you fell asleep your head was drooping to the side.

viktor thought it would give you a sore neck lately. of course it was the only reason he brought you closer to rest on his shoulder... it's not like he felt like he needed you close and couldn't resist seeing you so unapologetically adorable by his side... of course not.

he continued writing, but he was unfocused, the gentle weight of you resting on him occupying his thoughts. he didn't realize he was even moving before he brought you a little closer, his hand securing your waist, all in the name of making sure you were comfortable, he justified to himself.

you stirred, slowly waking up, your senses registering his scent before your eyes opened, he smelled good, like coffee, faint perfume and something indistinctly him. then you felt his hand resting on your waist, his warmth seeping through your clothes. and you could swear your face was warming up.

you opened your eyes, confirming your suspicion, you were resting on him, god you felt so embarrassed. “viktor? i'm sorry, i-” you mumbled sleepily, but he quickly brushed it off with a “no need to apologize, it's okay, you are tired”, his hand dropping from your waist out of surprise to see you awake, “maybe you should wrap it up for the day” he suggests.

you nod, slowly distancing your body from his, and he almost misses it. “maybe i should” you murmur, rubbing your eyes with your hand, trying to shake half of that sleepy haze away.

and you don't even notice that viktor is watching you. his eyes focused on your face, your cheeks looking a bit puffy, cute, even if he'd never mention it. his hand moved without his intent, holding your wrist, “you're feeling well?” he asked, sounding gentle, his accent thick, making your sleepiness almost dissipate by how fast he put your heart to race.

and he was feeling it, by holding your wrist he could feel your pulse picking up. not that he would mention.

“i'm fine i just... couldn't sleep tonight and i got a bit exhausted, i guess” you answered honestly, trying to not focus on his hold on your wrist.

he finally noticed he was holding your wrist so he dropped it. a little embarrassed himself by his actions. why was he acting like that? and before he could think it through he offered, “you can... continue, to sleep here... if it helps” what meant sleeping on him. but he didn't bring himself to say it out loud.

you looked at him a bit confused, and you were confused. what did he mean by that? sleeping in the lab? that was always uncomfortable, even if you couldn't seem to get some real sleep in your bedroom.

but before you could question further he gently pulled you closer, giving you the chance to put some distance between you again if you wanted to. he rested your head on his shoulder again, not saying anything about it, though.

you didn't know what to say either, your heart beating on your ears, loud, so loud that you could bet viktor was hearing it too.

and just when you thought you couldn't get more flustered, he searched for your wrist again, looking right at your eyes, searching for consent. that you understood the meaning. and you just nodded.

he entwined your fingers, a small, faint smile resting on his lips.

and you smiled too, and everything seemed right in the world in that stolen moment of peace.