#buhru

[felinae-felidae]

Done with this 🧡☀️✨

[aystay]

revenge for @felinae-felidae !! his super cute arcane ocs :3

[inamindfarfaraway]

I have never played League of Legends or Legends of Runeterra. But I've been watching a lot of TB Skyen's character, lore and short film breakdown videos and gone down a rabbit hole about the world and inhabitants of Runeterra. So I went and made an OC.

She has the magic power to change the colour of things, which is a lot more awesome than it sounds, and is essentially trying to be Bilgewater's Batman... except there's no law in Bilgewater.

She’s meant to be a heroic foil to Pyke: both have a tragic backstory, present or past grudge against the selfish and corrupt people of Bilgewater, fishing theme, strong association with a notable aquatic animal (sharks and cuttlefish) and are armed with a sharp weapon on a cord; Pyke’s list and very memory of his death, his perception of who he needs to get revenge on, is constantly shifting as the jaull-fish manipulates him, while Kamea alters the perception of others to manipulate them.

Update: there's another one, inspired by TB Skyen’s The Mageseeker playthrough! He's a young mage in the Demacian story with red ice magic, arrythmia and so much trauma.

@tbposting

[teeto-peteto]

In a magical perfect setting where we can perhaps stop thinking for a straight second that Abigail is going to die eventually on the timeline actually imagining Sarah/Illaoi/Pyke friendship trio being just kids/teenagers saying a bunch of cusswords, teasing each other and getting into silly mess around the town is funny.

In some way imagine both Illaoi and Pyke being able to enjoy time outside the buhru with Sarah getting onto messes they must not be but still, Illaoi has her fun and her time to shine like a teenager/kid pretty on the sunlight and Pyke gets some of actual personality out. Illaoi and Sarah having that untold fling between them and staring at each other in silence and smiling for no reason while Pyke rolls his eyes because 'they both are dumbasses', him talking about it with Illaoi like 'Well, if you guys end up together then im either out of the group or im the thirdwheel and i dont know wich one is the worst option' to wich Illaoi just laughs and pats his back a little too rough and tells him its not a big deal and that he'll be alright.

Be damned if he perhaps has a little crush on someone cause if Sarah notices/is told about it she will tease the shit out of him. They're both constantly at each others throats. The times Illaoi had to get between them to separate them because things were getting a litte out of hand, but still they're good friends. I hope.

[yunalai]

qiyana will be so insufferable when she learns about other regions in runeterra and their religions cuz she will show interest but also be like "your fake gods are so intricate"

[teeto-peteto]

literally the answer

Tough question imo. But, considering the whole traumatic experience, and the shambly politics in Bilgewater and that almost all the champions in the city kill people in a regular basis. Do you think Pyke is a good or a bad person? Is his path of vengance justified or unjustified?

His path of vengeance, killing captains, from a certain point of view, is justified. They mistreat their crew, kill the beasts of the water. A dead captain can't hurt their crew. But it's not just captains, is it? It's everyone on the list, shipmen, quartermasters, boatswain, Powder monkeys (Yes, that's a crew name.), even people who weren't sailors for years according to RK.

It's messy, but should you blame the captains who earned their fates? The creature who swallowed Pyke? The captain who cut Pyke's line? Gangplank for making Bilgewater into such a dangerous place? Who can say who is at fault?

And like you say, he's hardly the only killer in the city. I hope this answer makes sense instead of just wannabe poetic language?

Answer: It's complicated.

[collidescopeeyes]

Random Relationship Headcanons: Pyke

- Whittles in his free time. Always has a piece of wood and a carving knife on him, his pockets always have sawdust shavings in them. Likes working with bone too, but that's less portable. Forgot about it for a while after he died, but he tries to keep it up after the Deep loosens it's hold on him, it helps keep him occupied. Works more with bone after though; knives are somehow just a bit sharper in his hands. He always gives you the nicest ones, but he's very particular about which ones turned out good enough

- Pre-Deep, wakes up at the crack of dawn. Can be convinced to come back to bed for exactly as long as it takes you to fall asleep again. Post-Deep doesn't need to sleep, but still sticks around as long as it takes you to fall sleep before slipping away.

- Likes salty and spicy flavours, but is also used to eating whatever's convenient for sustenence. He has a few dishes he learned from his mom that he can make really well, but that's from years of practice: he needs to be given Very Specific Instructions for anything else or he's hopeless. Makes a god tier chili but it's so hot you WILL cry and he WILL laugh at you

- Post-Deep, he still needs to eat, but left to his own devices he just eats raw fish like some kind of extremely budget sashimi chef. He came back with sharper teeth, and he can't exactly get sick anymore.

- Speaking of post-Deep changes, doesn't need to breathe, and doesn't have a heartbeat anymore. He can see in the dark and in water incredibly well, but he's actually a bit blind during the day.

- His sense of smell is fucked from years of exposure to chemicals and offal on the slaughter docks, hence why he likes food with strong flavours; aromatics are wasted on him. VERY strict with personal hygiene bc of that, he knows he can't tell if he smells like blood and death and he doesn't want to gross you out. Steals your soap though, if he notices he smells like lavender he doesn't care.

- Forgets to act like a human being sometimes. Pre-Deep that was just peak bachelor behavior like eating a tomato like it's an apple cuz it's food and it's fast. Post-Deep he's just Weird, like stands in one spot looming and not blinking not breathing for an hour weird. Tries not to do it in front of you, but you're the only person he cares about not freaking out.

- Always smells like the sea, has calloused hands but is always very gentle with you (unless in some very specific situations where you don't want him to be wink wonk). His tattoos go up his arms and down his back. Feels kind of uncomfortable when he's out and around other people without his bandana up, he's just so used to it.

- His mother was Buhru serpent caller and his father a Freljordian who joined up with with the Noxian Navy during one of their northern campaigns. Father died young, mother when he was 18. Pretty much been on his own since then, never really had anyone especially important to him in that time and is used to taking care of himself. Pretty much never treats himself to nice things so the task has to fall to you. Consequentially, has zero immunity to you doing nice things for him just because; pack him a lunch with a sweet note and he’s Gone that's It, Pyke.exe has Stopped Responding

- Resting murder face that gets worse when he's embarrassed. His levels of flustered are directly proportionate to how much he looks like he's about to stab someone. His ears get red though, it's cute.

- Punctual and has an excellent memory, if you ask him to do something he'll do it no questions asked. If you tell him to meet you in a random alleyway at 10:05am with a grocery list of 16 things, he's there on the dot and to the letter.

- Fantastic whistler, great singing voice, you'll literally never catch him doing it. If you're sick or something he might be persuaded to hum you a lullaby.

- Thinks actions count more than words, and that being reliable and showing up is way more important than any grand gesture. If you're having a bad day he'll bring you coffee or a snack you like, chores are done so there's nothing for you to worry about when you get home, anything he can do to make your day less stressful. Doesn't mention it either, it's just natural to him, like obviously he's gonna do whatever he can to help. Likewise, it doesn't take much to keep him happy, just as long as he knows he can rely on you.

- Appreciates physical closeness but doesn't usually initiate it. Not really used to recognizing when he wants something, just kinda goes from mysteriously being unhappy to internally having a little :) thought bubble above his head when you sit down next to him (still looks pissed tho but that's just his face don't worry about it). Doesn't need to talk or anything, just likes being close to you.

- Great listener, you might worry he's not paying attention because he tends not to say much, but he'll remember every word. Will happily listen to you talk about literally anything that interests you, if it's important to you it's important to him.

- If there's a problem you need to work out just tell him. He'll notice if something is up but he trusts you'll come to him when you're ready to talk. Great at listening and trying to understand where you're coming from but isn't great at recognizing or articulating his own feelings, so he needs time to think about how to respond. Please be patient with him, he's trying his best.

- Not really jealous or possessive but has a natural ‘don’t fuck with me’ aura that means no one even thinks of getting too friendly with you, even before he became the Blood Harbor Ripper. Ngl, he enjoys it, means he gets to monopolize you–anyone who knows you well know he's harmless (to them).

- Post-Deep, gets more protective and…not really clingy but he Hovers. You're the most important thing in the world to him, you're his reprieve from the voices and the only good thing he has left in a world that's fucked him over and he's shit scared of losing you. Even when he can't actively be beside you, he still prefers to keep tabs on you from the shadows when he can. The Ripper thing gets in the way less than you'd think; no one really lives to say what he looks like and what does get passed on is very exaggerated, and freaky glowing eyes are more common than you'd think in Runeterra--plus, the Ripper's not just gonna be walking around, psh. He hates crowds now though and worries he won't be able to control his reactions, so if you're running errands at a market or something don't expect company. Gets antsy if he hasn't seen you in a while, so don't be surprised if he's disproportionately relieved to see you.

- Post-Deep, has a much harder time relaxing, his memory is a lot hazier, and he gets confused when things don't line up with what he has in his head. The voices are distracting and he's not always sure what's real and what's not. The Deep fucked him up and he's still sort of figuring how to deal with it–its pretty unclear how much of what's going on with him is actual literal magic and how much is a man with severe PTSD struggling to make sense of his new reality

- Anyway I finished playing the Ruined King game and my epilogue hc is the part in that where Illaoi offers to help break his curse and he goes to teach the Buhru about sea monsters. His list becomes his list, not about what the Deep wants but about protecting people who can't protect themselves. He finds connection with an estranged heritage and purpose in helping protect Bilgewater, either through helping the serpent callers or through putting fear into Bilgewaters scummiest.

NSFW (under cut)

- His job keeps him away from you for long stretches of time and by God is he gonna make up for that

- High libido but is used to managing that on his own, jerking off twice a day just was just kinda part of his daily routine; if you're in the mood he much much prefers coming to you instead

- Definitely a dom, likes being a bit rough with you. Gets immense satisfaction out of making a mess out of you, hand in your hair whispering filthy things in your ear while pounding you within an inch of your life. Loves hearing you beg and whimper. Act up if you want a spanking, you're not getting out of here without cumming at LEAST three times anyway

- Loves it when you're loud, it's his personal goal to extract as many noises from you as he can and he doesn't give a fuck who hears. Dirty talk aside, he's not very vocal himself, but God does he sound good when you do get a moan out of him

- Can and will manhandle you. Holds your wrists in one hand or pulls your head back with a firm grasp on your hair, holds your throat so he can feel your pulse pounding, flips you over or pushes you down so he can fuck you better. If you're getting home and he's in a mood you're getting picked up and fucked against the front door, neighbors who?? He wrestles sea monsters for a living, you basically weigh nothing to him, and he loves how cute and pliant you get when he's fucking your brains out ❤️

- Big fan of oral, giving and receiving. Eats pussy like he doesn't need to breath, he thinks you taste great and he loves making you squirm--be warned, this will work him up and you will be getting railed after, how many times you already came on his tongue is really irrelevant. Likewise, he thinks you're so pretty on your knees struggling to fit his cock in your mouth, and he makes sure he tells you that and what a good job you're doing ❤️

- He has thick fingers and by God does he know how to use them, can reduce you to a puddle with one hand up your skirt. If you're feeling bold enough to tease him in public you will inevitably find yourself in some dark corner with one leg hiked up to his hip while he makes you see stars. There are a lot of areas where he's a patient man, and this is not one of them--you fuck around you WILL be finding out.

- If you wear lingerie it's not coming out intact, sorry. Something about it just makes him want to wreck you, prettier the better. That being said, he can't decide whether you look better with his cum dripping out of you or off of you--help him decide, will you?

- Will happily let you take charge, he likes seeing you chasing your own pleasure. If you want to do any kind of edge play on him though he will need to be physically restrained, and he will get so growly about it. At his most desperate he doesn't even sound human anymore.

- Occasionally, just wants something slow and intimate, you in his lap with your arms around his neck, just taking the time to enjoy each other. He's a softy at heart, he doesn't know how to ask for it but sometimes he just craves a bit of romance.

- After, cleans you up and holds you until you fall asleep, occasionally presses a kiss to your hair. Actually gets super sulky if you don't have time to cuddle properly. He's not great with words, so it's an important way for him to show how deeply he cares about you.

[valiantthearts]

◈　LEGAL   NAME　 ⋯ 　Caitlyn Lavender Mizuki of House Kiramman ◈　MOST   KNOWN   AS　 ⋯ 　Caitlyn ◈　NICKNAME(S)　 ⋯ 　Cait, Cupcake (Vi), Caity, Kitten (Cassandra/Tobias), Sheriff Sharlaten (unwanted/Jinx)

◈　DATE   OF   BIRTH　 ⋯ 　December 22th ◈　SEX　 ⋯ 　cis-female / femme ( she / her / hers ) ◈　PLACE   OF   BIRTH　 ⋯ 　High Piltover, Gardener Street Estate Home ◈　CURRENTLY   LIVING　 ⋯ 　Piltover; including the Kiramman Estate or Vi’s Flat　.

◈　SPOKEN LANGUAGES　 ⋯ 　Piltovan/Zaunite (Common tongue, like English), Ionian, Va-Nox, Freljordian, Demacian, Shuriman, Buhru, Sign Language, and a little Vastayan　. ◈　EDUCATION　 ⋯ 　Aristocrat Schooling, High Diplomat education, Professional Hunter, Sniper Training, Enforcer Academy training, Noxian combat (weapon and hand-to-hand)

◈　HAIR   COLOR　 ⋯ 　Dark blue with Silver-Gray Streaking ◈　EYE   COLOR　 ⋯ 　Heterochromia, Ocean Blue ; A mix of Caribbean blue outer color mixed with tropical turqoise green inner color ◈　SCARS　 ⋯ 　Many, including a small x on her left cheek, a bit mark on her right neck, scars on her back (written out words of imposter, liar, sister stealer, and thief, jinx's monkey symbol on left shoulderblade, eye of zaun on her back neck, scars on her arms here and there, scars on her legs, several bullet holes (left shoulder, left leg, and a few others), hextech scar on left collarbone, and many many more ◈　HEIGHT　 ⋯ 　6' 2" / 190cm ◈　WEIGHT　 ⋯ 　163 lbs / 73.94kg

◈　RELATIONSHIP　 ⋯ 　

Cassandra Rose Jade of House Kiramman [ Mother / Deceased ]

Tobias Miran of House Kiramman [ Father ]

Vi [ lover / mate / girlfriend ]

Sett [ Brother Figure ]

Mel [ Confidante ]

◈　SEXUAL   ORIENTATION　 ⋯ 　Lesbian, High Libido ◈　RELATIONSHIP   STATUS　 ⋯ 　Mated to Vi

  ◈　LEGAL   NAME　 ⋯ 　Violet ◈　MOST   KNOWN   AS　 ⋯ 　Vi ◈　NICKNAME(S)　 ⋯ 　Vi, Vicious, Violent, Tigress, Pink

◈　DATE   OF   BIRTH　 ⋯ 　April 22th ◈　SEX　 ⋯ 　cis-female / butch ( she / her / hers ) ◈　PLACE   OF   BIRTH　 ⋯ 　Zaun ◈　CURRENTLY   LIVING　 ⋯ 　Piltover; at the Kiramman Estate

◈　SPOKEN LANGUAGES　 ⋯ 　Piltovan/Zaunite (Common tongue, like English), Vastayan and Non-verbal language between animals ◈　EDUCATION　 ⋯ 　None , Taught how to read but doesn't remember how to write ,

◈　HAIR   COLOR　 ⋯ 　Red that shifts into a pink hue at the tips ◈　EYE   COLOR　 ⋯ 　Heterochromia, Green eyes with flakes of copper ◈　SCARS　 ⋯ 　Many, scars along her neck, wrist, and ankles from shackles, many cuts against her back from whippings, random cuts along arms and legs from fights. Scars over her knuckles. Scar on her left eyebrow from a childhood fight, a cut against her lip from her first fight in stillwater, four claw stab  wound on right abdomen, large scar over abdomen from a Noxian blade. ◈　HEIGHT　 ⋯ 　5' 7.3'' / 171cm ◈　WEIGHT　 ⋯ 　154 lbs / 70kg

◈　RELATIONSHIP　 ⋯ 　

Felicia [ Mother / Deceased ]

Saber [ Father / Deceased ]

Powder / Jinx [ sister / Estranged / Complicated ]

Claggor & Mylo [ Younger Brothers / Deceased ]

Vander [ Adopted Father ]

Caitlyn Kiramman [ Mate / Lover / Girlfriend ]

Sevika [ Maternal Figure / Enemy / Complicated ]

◈　SEXUAL   ORIENTATION　 ⋯ 　Lesbian, High Libido ◈　RELATIONSHIP   STATUS　 ⋯ 　Mated to Caitlyn

Tagged by: @piltover-sharpshooter & @shimmerbeasts

Tagging: @sharransepulchre, @hexedevolution, @ruinouss, @steel-shadow

@restrainedhungr, @lvnarii, @jynxd, @fatedhxnt

@gaevaer, @melodyxriver, @nightmarefuele, @blackrosesmatron, @zaunseye

[fudgebuggyy]

✥ The Integral of Us ✥

Pairing: Jayce/ Viktor , Male!OC/Jayce/Viktor

Rating: Mature

Word count: 4k - 1/3 Chapters

Tags: No Hextech AU, Bilgewater lore, married Jayce/Viktor, bearded!Jayce, longhaired!Viktor, Original Character POV, dynamic: married couple adopts little shit

"If you want a threesome, that's triple the coin." "I'd consider doubling it if it's just you and him.” “You like to watch?” The man laughs again, and it’s almost as lovely as his accent. He feels it like a hand closing around his throat, feels dizzy from it. He wants to paw at him like a dog, wants to dot the mole above his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Something like that,” the man says.

✥ ✥ ✥

When two Piltovian toolmakers open up a workshop in Rat Town (of all places) named Coin & Crank (dreadfully), it gets slopped in fish guts and ransacked within a week. A Piltovian’s stubbornness should’ve come with little surprise, and when they rebuilt, the only reason it wasn’t burnt to the ground was thanks to word getting out that the last ransackers fled the Coin & Crank with permanent brain damage.

(Also, look, they're super fucking hot and all the local twinks are having an existential crisis.)

Novelty in Bilgewater warrants as much attention as a barnacle on a ship’s hull—the transit point of every crew cutting through the Guardian’s Sea; runaways, smugglers, merchants and vagabonds, bandits down on their luck. 

Naturally it’s a real fucking pit stain. 

So when two Piltovian toolmakers open a workshop in Rat Town (of all places) named Coin & Crank (dreadfully), it gets slopped in fish guts and ransacked within a week. A Piltovian’s stubbornness should’ve come with little surprise (they didn’t bother changing the name) and when they rebuilt near the outskirts of the Buhru temple, the only reason it wasn’t burnt to the ground was because word got out the last ransackers fled the Coin & Crank with permanent brain damage. 

Violence breeds respect in real fucking pit stains. 

“Nice, ey?” Fat Joe winks, waving his brand new mechanical arm at a swarm of seagulls trying to pick at the fish guts flooding the docks; the forceps in his hand awfully dull in comparison to the fine metalwork of those prosthetic fingers. 

Fat Joe is neither fat nor called Joe, and despite what he proclaims during drunken tales at the taverns, he didn’t lose his left arm to a month-long serpent hunt; he was just born without one. He was born without much of a frontal lobe either.

“Well, shit.” Isak can’t look away from the arm, watches as it tosses the forceps aside, watches as those metal fingers rip out another massive scallop-shaped scale from the chunk of serpent’s flesh flung over the chopping block. Joe drops the scale on a pile beside them.

He does it with the kind of obnoxious flourish that goads all the dockworkers into one collective leer: fuck this guy. 

“Weren’t you the one who called them trinket-tappers?” 

“Still are.”Joe bobbles his head. “But, I’ll be damned, those Tinkers make a good arm.” He spreads the fingers wide, twisting the wrist, that soft mechanical whirr. It’s too clean of a thing in a place where everything is welded together, crooked and hack-jobbed, uncared for, hasty, horrid. Here, in the carving bay where the docks are cobbled together with driftwood and guts, the powdery copper of rusted iron. Out here, where you make do with whatever cargo strays into the bay. 

Isak stares at the intricate detail of that arm. It’s so pretty and so charming and so painfully Piltovian, down to the screws.  

“How much did you pay for it?“

“All of last catch’s coin.”

Isak spits a laugh. “Well, god-fucking-speed. I’ll give it a week.” He’s too preoccupied with using his own forceps to bat away the seagulls eyeing the scale-less serpent’s flesh that he doesn’t catch Joe fast enough. The arm whirrs down, the bite of cold metal around Isak’s throat. 

Joe drags him into the air. Boots skim the blood on the planks below. The arm hums now, hums wildly as Isak bats at it, trying to claw into the gaps in the metal.  

Joe cocks a brow. “Still giving it a week, sweeting?”

Vision splotchy, Isak grins.“Call me that again, and I’ll just ask you to squeeze harder—” 

“Oi! You can kill the kid when we’re done!” A voice like a Triton’s trumpet snaps all their heads up. 

Danni is dwarfed beneath the serpent dangling from iron chains and covered in platforms and pulleys, where workers hack at it for parts, crawling into and out of it like roaches. Its exposed belly, innards steaming. 

Joe tosses Isak onto the docks. Something about Danni makes men uneasy. (She likes to say it’s the age-old magic of a giant bosom.)

Wheezing, Isak aims his foot at Joe’s crotch but the oaf sidesteps him fast enough. Turning towards Danni, Joe flips her off excitedly with his new asset. “You seen this shit yet?”

“Congratulations! You can wipe your ass with both hands now!” She shouts, all Triton-trumpet-y, and she tosses him one of her brilliant smiles. Paired with her magical bosom, it distracts Joe long enough for Isak to aim for his crotch. This time he doesn’t miss. 

✥ ✥ ✥

Fat Joe doesn’t shut up about his new arm. 

Especially once everyone’s flooding the bar counter of the Wailing Lady, blasting their freshly earned coin on the taverns of Rat Town. The catch from that day was a gold rush. Whatever is left of the carcass dangles down in the docks. From the tavern’s terrace, Isak can make out the mangled shape of it. Even from all the way up here, it’s a colossus, swinging back and forth like a hanged god. 

“Nice, ey?” Isak overhears Joe slur for the hundredth time today. He doesn’t have to look to know the guy is wiggling his perfect prosthetics into any face willing to gift him attention. 

The arm has mostly been met with caution, a couple of nasty jokes about Piltover—their gold lapels, their shiny shoes, their oblivious postering—but most shut up once Joe started picking up chairs and tables, hoisting the giggling bar maiden up onto his shoulder. 

He’s a whole one-man show. He should start a circus. 

It’s annoying enough to even force Danni out onto the terrace for a smoke. Rolling her eyes, she hands Isak her cigarette to share. 

“Think he’s gonna try and jerk off with it?” Isak takes a long drag, closing his eyes and angling his head like that’ll give him a better visual. 

Danni groans. “Why must you ruin everything?”

“We might get lucky and he accidentally rips off his ballsack.” 

She snatches the cigarette out of his fingers. “You had some time to think about it?”

“His ballsack? Honestly? He’s not that bad-looking,” Isak looks over his shoulder, “if you close your eyes—”

“No, I meant you covering my shift at the Canary, you little freak.” 

“The Canary. Right.” 

Isak’s gaze sweeps over Bilgewater, opening up before them like a cavity, blackened and sprayed with flecks of light beneath the ancient stone overpass that arches over the bay. And higher, higher, up the stacked shacks and shops and roped bridges lobbed along the cliffs like thatches of moss growing on rock, up, up, crowned with buildings made of old ship prows, their curlicue balconies jutting into the night sky. Up there where the Canary lays tucked between dice houses and theaters, where the laughter is more drunken and delicious than anywhere else.  

“You can take a decent bath up there.” Danni uses that pretty-pretty-please tone of hers, probably the kind she uses to coax patrons into the rooms in the back.

Granted, the idea of a warm soak in place of dunking his head in a greywater tank makes his stomach loop a little. 

Isak sucks in a breath. “Who’s going to take care of Guppy while I’m gone?”

“You can take her with you. The girls would adore her.” Danni hands him the cigarette. “Come on…Please? You’re hot, buttercup.” She jabs her elbow into his side. “It’s easy coin, double the amount you make at the docks.”

“Mh-hmm…To think you’d suck up to me just to fuck a Noxian soldier.”

“Ex-soldier,” she points out. “And yes, so I can fuck a Noxian. Have you seen him? It’s our anniversary.”

This time, Isak rolls his eyes. “You met a week ago.”

“Exactly,” she sighs, stretching her head back. She smiles. “He wants to take me to some fancy dice house. He’s never been. Guy was basically a monk his whole life. A very hot, very horse-cocked monk—”

“Don’t—” Isak sputters a laugh. He shakes his head. “Don’t put those words together like that.”

Danni twists and looks down into the bay.

“Think about it…Good ale. A bath. They’ll proper feed you, promise. Plus, you can even keep your trousers on.” He snorts at that. “And who knows, maybe you’ll make enough to get those Tinkers to build you some sweet little fingers.” She grabs his left hand, presses into the stumps where his pinkie and ring finger used to be. He lets her, and only her. 

By now Danni knows him well enough. They’re the alley cats scrounging up food wherever they can, hopping from odd-job to odd-job, from the carving bay of the slaughter docks, to snatch-and-grabs around the canals below. They’ve been dishwashers, barbacks, danced on tables, woven fishing nets, shuffled card decks. They’ve pedaled moonshine and baggies of brinepowder, vials of daggerroot stuffed under their belts. Spent days on hunting ships, drunk and high, entertaining the crews that brought back serpents the size of mountains. 

Isak’s capacity for shame abandoned him a long time ago. Covering a shift at a brothel might be a step-up. 

“The shit I do for you,” he finally sighs. 

Danni shuffles with her feet the way she does when she knows she’s won. It’s her tell at poker; she’s terrible at poker. 

“You love me.” She pops her cigarette into his mouth and kisses his cheek, that goofy smooch of hers. He bats her off. 

“They better make me daggers for fingers,” he says once he’s had a full drag, flicking the stub of it over the railing.

“Tiny pistols,” Danni says, lifting his hand and aiming it over his shoulder, possibly at Fat Joe. 

“Extendable.”

“Hidden cutlery.”

“Storage space.”

“Music box.”

“Music box,” she hums in agreement. 

And then he laughs, and she laughs, and then they stop, and for a moment they listen to the huffing and clanging of this place as they gaze into the bay. 

This is his favorite moment of any night:

The hallowed grounds of the Buhru temple, misled into the cliffside like the figurehead of an ancient ship, overlook the blood-squalid slaughter docks, the canals running through Rat Town. The first ray of light crushes through the fog bank, a starting pistol for the ships in the bay setting out into the waves for the serpent hunt. He imagines the sailors toss their tithe into the depths—their payment for the gods, for Nagakabourus, the Great Kraken of the Serpent Isles—and the sun makes the water flash a deep, whimsy-blue.

And the priestesses ring the temple bells at first light, that skull-numbing gong humming through the streets, and for a moment, a real, real moment…Bilgewater isn’t so wretched.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Why you do think they came here?” Danni says, her head falling to his shoulder, his head falling to hers. 

“Who?”

“The Tinkers.”

He shrugs. 

“Same reason anyone else does.”

Was it she who told him this place is for the runways? For the leftovers?

It’s for everyone who was someone else before their ship, like an arrowhead to places unbelievable, shot into these waters, and the fog, finally—parted. 

✥ ✥ ✥

It turns out the Canary is heaven. 

Velvet-plush, nestled inside a repurposed merchant’s vessel on the highest cliffs of Bilgewater, filled only with angels and moonshine that’ll leave you blind in the morning. 

By the time Isak plops into his promised bath, he’s happier than a pig in shit. 

The girls, as Danni calls them, are sweet. They’re a mix of young men and women, Yordles, a Vastaya or two, flocking around him like cherubs, they file the dirt from his nails, untangle his curls, smooth his chapped lips with honey and sugar and, Oh, you have such lovely hair, Isak! Oh, Isak, how are your lashes so long? Isak, your eyes, oh, your eyes! 

He feels quite princely, stretched out in the wooden tub, soaking in milky water sprinkled with orange slices and herbs like a victory roast, guzzling moonshine with the vigor of man having returned from battle. (He chews on a few oranges, which the girls find very goofy and very concerning, so they bring him a plate of mash and beans, which, yes, he is allowed to eat in the tub, and yes, silly, there are seconds, and yes, even fourths, but are you sure?)

Guppy happily lays belly-up on the ground being cooed over. The heart on her furred stomach humming with delight. Poros anywhere outside of Freljord are a rarity, and if anyone loves attention more than Isak does, it’s his horned ball of cotton. 

Isak is dressed and oiled and painted and promised that, no, he won’t have to dance if he doesn’t want to, and yes, he may continue drinking as long as he makes sure the patrons are happy at all times. Isak can’t dance to save his life, but he’s got a nasty mouth, which has been the source of much happiness for quite a few men, a comment that earns him a raucous pile of laughter. 

Oh, you are so funny, Isak! one of them says, fixing his eyelashes. If Danni runs away with her Noxian, will you stay? They warble this, very heavenly, very cherub-like. It’s by then that Isak knows Danni must’ve ordered them to butter him up in hopes he’d be more willing to fill-in, so she can go about screwing that mute mountain of hers. 

She met him up here. Maybe Isak will snatch some rugged bounty hunter. Or a captain. Maybe a warlord. 

But Isak’s usual douse of luck runs low and attracts only toothless pirates who get confused about him having a cock.

He doesn’t mind it much though. He’s fed, he’s clean, he’s got a decent buzz going. He drinks and flirts, and flirts and drinks, and he doesn’t remember ever feeling so lovely, perched on laps of sailors who curl their hands over his thighs, and he only threatens one of them with with his pocket knife when a callous hand tries to wiggle into his trousers without payment. 

Maybe he can get used to attention like this, the thick and stiflingly unmistakable kind.

The drinks are getting to his head once the ale starts splashing across the bar counter. Whatever decorum Isak mustered up until that point, eviscerates. He’s wielding drunken stories like he’s at a pub in Rat Town, and the Madame of the place—an elegant Vastaya, with powdery-white ears, called Selis—threatens to toss him out early if he doesn’t settle down. 

“Swear to the gods and Nagakabouros,” he shouts, wiggling his left hand in the air, “those teeth sliced my fingers clean off! They’re this big! That’s what happens if you set sail without paying your tithe.”

“Bollocks.”

“Precisely, mine are huge—”

One of the sailors proclaims Isak would make a spectacular harlot, which is delightful news considering Isak wants stay here forever. 

The girls have gathered around him in a soft circle of oiled skin and silk, and he’s talking, talking all over himself, and they should pay him more for this, they should pay him to live here, to bathe in milk and orange slices and make up new stories about how he lost his fingers every night. 

The Canary is filled with melodies of a lute, soppy laughter rattling at the lanterns dangling from beams, their lovely spectral light swinging, swinging—

He sees him then. 

The man in the corner. 

He sits on a settee behind a film of pink gossamer. His robes are parted to reveal someone slender, courtly, the line of a fine-spined aristocrat. Men in Bilgewater don’t look like this. There’s always a tooth missing, or an eye. From afar, he seems too…intact. 

A newcomer, maybe. Too regal for a bounty hunter and too unassuming for a warlord. A merchant passing through? The son of a noble on the run?

Isak slinks away from the girls and the sailors once they break out into a discordant sea shanty.

The man watches him, eyes shadowed in the low lights. There’s something feline about it. Unsettling. 

Isak feels these things in his stomach curdle, feels suddenly so sloppy with liquors and spirits unknown, bumbling around the settees and tasseled pillows, the sheer fabrics draped low. He tries to saunter, fingers at the fabrics as he passes, scratches at dried candle wax on tables. All his common sense left scattered at the bar. One step, a stumble, his bare feet catching on the edge of a carpet. All knobby-limbed, he finally slumps onto the settee, his elbow knocking into the stranger’s. 

“Hey.”

Someone shove a harpoon into his eye. 

Hey?

“Hello,” the man says. It’s low and liquid, and Isak stares at the very particular way the colorful shards of light pool in the hollow of his cheek, the glorious shape of his nose, his Albatros brow. He’s an old oil painting, bounty from an abandoned ship ghosting into the harbor at night. 

The man asks him for his name, and Isak is drunk. He must be. He gives the man all of it. He might as well have rolled onto his back and shown him his belly. “Isak. Isak Lovenskinn.” It’s a stupid name, stupid when said all at once, but the man hums it in repetition: “Lovenskinn.” His accent strange, rounding over vowels. “Freljordian?” 

“Half.” Isak nods. 

He doesn’t look like an Isak or a Lovenskinn. The thick blood of his Ionian mother embedded in the black of his hair, the shape of his eyes—blue as an ice hole.

He stays quiet and stares at the man in hopes it’ll squeeze out a compliment. His ego has inflated to the size of a planet, and at this point he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t keep getting fed. Go on, tell me I’m too sweet for a place like this. Tell me I shouldn’t be working here. Tell me you’ll take me away. Go on, tell me I’d make a spectacular harlot—

“You’re far away from home.”

“And you? How far are you away from home?”

“Is this your first time?”

Isak can’t help but snort. “‘ve sucked enough cock for the both of us, baby.” And there goes him trying to be sweet. 

The man doesn’t rattle easy. He tilts his head to the side, surveying him the way one might the change in weather pattern before a hunt. The graceful lines of his face impenetrable.

Isak loves a challenge. Isak is drunk and brazen. With a breath, he inches close, swings his leg over the man’s knees and bumbles into his lap. He’s lanky beneath him and surprisingly lean. He’s warm. 

Running his hands along the man’s narrow chest, Isak settles. This is familiar territory, this he knows, he’s good at this, he can do this. Leaning in close, Isak regards the pretty mole above the stranger’s mouth. There’s an obvious flutter of surprise on the man’s face. Isak wants to lap it up like kibble. 

“You can touch me, you know. Petting zoo policy,” Isak says, reaching for the man’s hands, but he stops once he realizes how the man pulls back. Stiff. Unsure. He hides it well. “Okay…” Isak softens, he can do this too. “If you want, we can take it slow, I can be real gentle. I make a great virgin.”

And that makes the man laugh. It’s as lovely and lilting as his accent. “My partner would like you.”

“Your what?”

The man’s hand disappears into his robes. For a second, Isak prepares to snatch his pocket knife, but he loosens when the man reveals a satchel, placing it carefully in Isak’s hand. The heaviness of it, the familiar clinking. 

If one thing makes Isak salivate more than a handsome face, it’s a fat satchel of gold. 

“Do you do house visits?” The man tilts his head, a strand of dark hair falling onto his brow. Isak stares at it, hypnotized. 

If he concentrates really, really hard, there’s a tiny voice in the back of his head that sounds an awful lot like Danni: Whatever you do, under no circumstances should you leave with anyone!!!

Isak’s not stupid. On occasion. 

The fact that he’s only lost two fingers has more to do with his minuscule douse of luck than intellect. And really, he likes this, likes this strange beautiful man, the way he looks at him, the way he feels beneath him. Something hot-liquid spills deliriously into his gut. A roll of his hips. The man’s breath hitches. Loud in their little bubble of gossamer, the sweet velvet fuzz of the settee. 

He makes a spectacular harlot. 

“If it’s a threesome, you’ll have to triple that,” Isak says.

“I’d consider doubling it if it’s just you and him.”

“Him, huh?” 

He tries to picture the type of man he lies with. Someone just as regal, just as collected?

“We have an arrangement of sorts.”

Isak smirks. “You like to watch?” 

The man laughs again, and it’s even lovelier than the last time. Isak feels it like a hand closing around his throat, feels dizzy from it. Everything twirling now. All the heat inside of him. He wants to paw at him like a dog, wants to dot the mole above his mouth with the tip of his tongue. 

“Something like that,” the man says. 

“What if I don’t do house visits? What if, what if you tell him to come here.”

Isak thinks he could ask for another shift if he promises not to turn the brothel into a Rat Town tavern again—

“He’s not the type to enter these kinds of…establishments.”

“He shy or something?”

“Principled.”

“I’m guessing you’re the fun one.”

This time, when he laughs there’s something naughty about it, touches his eyes, makes them flare alight like a crucible. “On occasion.”

Isak is so close to him now he reaches for that strand of stray hair, curls it behind an ear. An ear that is shaped so perfectly, carved alabaster. He realizes, horribly, that the man still hasn’t touched him. 

Behind them the sounds of the brothel are a swirl of drunken laughter and sweet-nothings, and the air so syrupy with incense Isak could choke on it, choke on the sweet pluckings of the lute. Here, Isak is a shameless thing. He wants to press his forehead against the man’s, wants to mumble all his filthy needing into that perfect ear, wants to say please. Something about him makes him want to plead until the spittle runs down his chin. He smells of crushed basil, honey. He smells like somewhere far away. He smells other. 

Something about it unsettles him so deeply it scrapes at the bottom of his stomach. A feeling he can’t put a finger on, but wants to, craves to, desperately, with all of himself. This feeling, this feeling. 

He’s so drunk, he’s so drunk, he’s so drunk. 

Isak doesn’t want him to leave, and he digs through his head for anything to say. “So…you wouldn’t describe yourself as a principled man?”

“My principles are a little more malleable.”

“Well,” Isak puffs his cheeks and exhales, “I’ve got none. So, how about I offer you a little show upstairs, free of charge. You can take me for a trial run, give me pointers, and then, and—” Isak clears his throat. “Then tell him to come. The rooms are nice upstairs. You’ll both like it, I promise. I—” He feels the man shift as if to stand. He surveys Isak in that disquieting way again, the heat of his attention searing from one side of his face to the other, then lower, until finally, the man touches him. Curls slender hands around Isak’s and closes them over the satchel of coins.

His fingers are so cold Isak wants to drag them to his mouth, thaw them with breath and tongue…

“Thank you, but I must decline that offer.” The man shifts a final time, and Isak, like a puppet made only of elbows and knees, falls to the settee as the man rises. “Keep it.” He gestures at the satchel. “Perhaps you will make up your mind.” 

“You’re leaving?”

Don’t leave.

He stands before him now, slouched to one side. Isak hadn’t noticed what the man kept hidden beneath his robes: a cane made of thick shining metal. 

Pretty.

Charming. 

“I hope to see you again, Isak Lovenskinn.”

Don’t leave.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Please. 

This feeling, this feeling—

“It’s Viktor.”

✥ ✥ ✥

With a sleeping Guppy tucked tight against his chest, Isak stumbles back down into the bay. Swaying along with all the drunkards leaving taverns and inlets, wading through the muck of last night slopped across the streets.  

When the first shard of sun cleaves through the fog, its light shining upon the carved stone of the Buhru temple, blue dome a knuckle digging into the sky, the gong chimes, and Isak imagines the acolytes, those chosen devoted few, spilling into its tombs for morning prayer. 

There, he puts a finger on the feeling, and he listens to it sing. 

[ferinehuntressmoved]

[ B ] ASIC　INFORMATION　.

LEGAL   NAME:　Caitlyn Lavender Mizuki of House Kiramman　. MOST   KNOWN   AS:　Caitlyn　. NICKNAME(S):　Cait, Cupcake, Caity, Cit-Cat, Little Bird, Snowflake　. DATE   OF   BIRTH:　December 20th　. SEX:　cis-female ( she / her / hers )　. PLACE   OF   BIRTH:　High Piltover, Gardener Street Estate Home　. CURRENTLY   LIVING:　Piltover; including the Kiramman Estate or Vi's Flat　. SPOKEN LANGUAGES:　Piltovan/Zaunite (Common tongue, like English), Ionian, Va-Nox, Freljordian, Demacian, Shuriman, Buhru, Sign Language, and a little Vastayan EDUCATION:　Aristocrat Schooling, High Diplomat education　. HAIR   COLOR:　Dark blue with Silver-Gray Streaking　. EYE   COLOR:　Heterochromia, Ocean Blue -> A mix of Caribbean blue outer color mixed with tropical turqoise green inner color　. HEIGHT:　6'2" (6’ 4’’ with heels)　.

[ F ] AMILY　INFORMATION　.

SIBLING(S):　Jayce Talis [ @futureforged / Adopted Brother ]　;　Viktor [ @hexcoremagician / Adopted brother ]　;　Sett [ @goldenfists / Adopted Brother ]　. PARENT(S):　Cassandra Rose Jade of House Kiramman & Tobias Miran of House Kiramman (Before being married, was just Tobias Miran)　. CHILDREN:　none　. PET(S):　Selene - Black Sphynx Cat　;　Freyja - Black Tiger Protector　;　Duke, Bear, Lady, Storm, River, & Wolf - Six German Shepards hounds　.

[ R ] ELATIONSHIP　INFORMATION　.

SEXUAL   ORIENTATION:　Lesbian　. RELATIONSHIP   STATUS:　In a relationship with Vi　[ @shimmerbeasts,　@decidentia,　@gauntlets-shot,　@realmyths,　@undercity-prodigy,　@torntruth,　 ]　. SINCE   WHEN:　Dependent on verses ; typically after the events of the council hall explosion　.

➤ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 [ : ] stolen from old blog ➤ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 [ : ] @shimmerbeasts, @hexcoremagician, @futureforged, @goldenfists, @gauntlets-shot, @decidentia, @realmyths, @powdied, @jynxd, @blackrosesmatron, @heredis-sanguinis, @angelicxlly, @demacianhcart, @defyances, @knifvd, @piltover-sharpshooter

[felinae-felidae]

Cleaning this Modern Au Tek ref 💚🦇

[calchexxis]

The Difference Between Power & Strength

Chapter 1 of 3

With Illaoi's help, Lux tracks down her quarry in Bilgewater and must return to Demacia, although her heart and mind stay with the powerful Buhru woman. With the help of Illaoi and a certain sea captain, she's put in contact with a chemist in Zaun who can help her leave behind the name and face of Eluxar Crownguard forever. She finally stopped drowning, now she must learn to truly swim.

Some Trans Lux/Illaoi written for JWyverntamer on Twitter.

[mangaka-neko-chan]

Time to cross over the fandoms. If your Darktide characters lived in Runeterra, where would they live, and what would they be doing?

Thank you my friend, what a LOVELY question!

Harken - So at first I thought Harken could be from Demacia but their vibes don't really fit him. Harken appears basic but but deals with some serious issues of losing his home. SO BOOM, Icathian defender against the void. Either within Icathia, patrolling and holding back the void for Zilean and the others to find a solution in peace or a survivor of the tragedy of Icathia, wandering around Shurima to seek out and fight the Void while assuming that his home is long gone and thus he seeks to redeem himself by avenging the fallen.

Harald - Naturally, Harald HAS to be a Zaunite. There, he'd be even MORE punk. His father is some hot shot Piltoven influential who's deadset on getting Harald arrested. But unlike in 40k Harald would have a bit more freedom to quarrel with the status quo so you'd see him regularly spitting on the Enforcers and absolutely running his mouth in the most sassy way over Piltover. He'd seek out clubs and pubs where rebellion is spread. And wouldn't it be interesting if we kept him being a mage. A mage in Zaun, with no one to teach him but himself, teetering between using his powers to support the good and innocent like his mother wanted or to violently tear down the establishment in rage against his father.

Moggy - Moggy was a bit of a difficult one cause she comes from a place similarly city like and overcrowded like Harald's, so Zaun would be an option. But she's also an overzealous fighter, so Noxus could be good too. But then she's also very bound to her faith and especially spiritually strong. The recent LoR expansion gave me an idea. Moggy as a Zaunite, a cleaner of statues and tall buildings of the Zaun and Piltover buildings as she scales insane heights, one with the wind. Through the tragedy of Zauns environmental damage, she finds solace in faith to Janna. So she climbs up towers, parcouring and masering heights to spread the message between both cities with her painted murals of the wind goddess. Essentially she becomes a religious tagger lol. (And her and Harald can still meet and positively influence each other <3)

Tilly - At first I considered Tilly as a Buhru priestess, since they are all about their faith, moving forward and pretty great fighters but considering that a big part of Tilly's story is how misguided and actually stagnating she is, I'd say Solari would be better. Tilly wuld be a farmer, located lower to Targon, the community worshipping the sun as a provider for food and protection. Tilly would then be chosen as a promising member for the Solari, becoming a priestess and warrior, feared by the Lunari for her viciousness and faith in the divine power of the sun. Also she'd look really, really good in gold armour, let's be real.

Benn - It came to us as soon as you asked but I'll put it in for anyone else reading this. Benn is already based on Captain Farron, a character in Runeterra and one of my favourite cards in Legends of Runeterra. So Benn would just be Captain Farron lol.

[teeto-peteto]

Brief pause to say Bilgewater has the prettiest characters. Its not a debatable fact.

[sennamybeloved]

your wish is my command....3, 38, & 50 for illaoi ^___^

WHOA that's a lot!! tysm!! i often write WAY too much for my own good, so i'm gonna try my hand at some shorter drabbles here n try to fit these all in 1 (reasonably sized) post.

also, this ask is MONTHS old. i wrote these immediately after you sent the ask, but i never posted them for some reason? anyway, here they are now :(

3 - morning/wake up call

She's awoken by the sun in her eyes and the feeling of lips grazing her temple.

She squints, forever reluctant to rise from a comfortable slumber, but the presence of another--of Illaoi--convinces her that this day is worth greeting.

So, she opens her eyes. Rays of sunshine pour through the curtains and sprawl across her face, singeing her retinas. With a soft groan, she rolls over onto her back, throwing up an arm to shield her gaze from the light.

She feels the bed shift under Illaoi's substantial weight as she moves closer to her. When her eyes squint open once more, Illaoi's face is mere inches from hers. Her features are wonderfully relaxed, her green eyes glistening like emeralds in the warm light. She gazes at Lalir with a gentle smile.

She looks like a painting, a true work of art; if Lalir could envision a human incarnation of the goddess, she would be sculpted in Illaoi's image.

"Good morning, ma’a taua."

Precious gem. Lalir smiles.

"Mhmm..." She brings a hand up to caress Illaoi's cheek. She watches her smile widen as she leans into the touch. "Good morning, darling."

She isn't sure who closes the distance first, but Lalir smiles into the first press of full lips against her own. Lalir's slender fingers card through Illaoi's curls. She clutches the back of her head, pulling her deeper, closer, as close as they can possibly be.

. . .

38 - reunited/’haven’t seen you in a while’

After a hundred-or-so years of living here, Lalir has grown to despise Bilgewater’s harbors.

They always smell of fish, sweat, and rot. The rudest of harpooners and wannabe swashbucklers shove their way through the crowds and glare daggers into whomever they bump into. And of course, if you don’t blend in well, which Lalir never has, you are bound to get robbed.

But despite all of this, Lalir finds herself standing on the docks, wringing her hands and twitching her tail as she anxiously awaits a very particular ship.

It feels like hours before she finally catches a glimpse of it pulling into the harbor. It’s the same one she watched Illaoi leave in, and is, hopefully, the one she will be arriving back in.

She watches it take anchor. She watches as people begin to flood off the ship. She’s nearly swept away by the crowd alongside everyone else on this dock.

Still, she waits and she watches, searching for Illaoi’s face amongst a hundred other faces. She stands on the very tips of her clawed toes, peering over the sea of people, hoping that she’ll spot her as the crowd dwindles out, but she doesn’t.

A pang of doubt pierces Lalir’s chest. What if this is the wrong ship? Then she’d look like a fool. What if Illaoi never made it to her ship? That would be terrible. What if, what if, what if…

“Lalir?”

The distinctive thick Buhru accent and commanding tone of voice fills Lalir’s ears like sweet music. She looks up, tufted ears drooping as locks eyes with Illaoi.

She grins, baring teeth. “Illaoi!”

Lalir bounds across the way, leaping right into Illaoi’s waiting arms. Illaoi squeezes her tight, so tight that it's almost painful, but she doesn't mind at all. She can barely fit her arms around the larger woman's body when she hugs her back She nuzzles her face into the center of her chest, breathes in her scent--sea salt and fresh jungle fruit--and her heart blossoms as she's brought back home.

They remain trapped in an embrace for a long, long time before they finally part, standing back just far enough to look each other in the eyes.

"I was starting to worry about you," Lalir says.

Illaoi laughs, warm and full. "Worry? About me? You must be mistaking me for someone else, itiiti!"

Lalir can't help but laugh as well. "No! I'm not! You know me, I just worry."

Illaoi hums a little. She brings a large hand up to caress Lalir's reddened face. She cradles her chin between a thumb and forefinger, lifting it to meet her gaze. Lalir smiles bashfully. They're both smiling.

Lalir stands up on the tips of her talons and Illaoi leans down to make their lips meet. They share a long, passionate kiss, and Lalir feels like the world is melting down to only them and the sea. When they're forced to break away for air, Lalir thinks she'd rather suffocate within Illaoi than ever breathe again.

. . .

50 - goodnight

Illaoi isn't a very quiet person. She's quiet when she's thinking, quiet when she's praying, but her love is never quiet.

It takes Lalir a moment to realize just how quiet things have become between the two of them. The entire room is blanketed in comfortable silence, the only sounds being that of a crackling fireplace and Illaoi's gentle breathing.

But the silence becomes uncomfortable when Lalir realizes how unusual it is.

She looks down at Illaoi, who's in the same position she was nearly half an hour ago- leaning against her shoulder, eyes shut and lips slightly parted.

She's asleep. Is she asleep? It's strange, but Lalir is typically the first one to fall asleep, as well as the last one to get up in the morning. She seldom sees Illaoi this relaxed, this vulnerable.

"Illaoi?" She mutters softly, and the woman's eyes flutter open. She glances up at her.

"Hm?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," Illaoi grumbles, rubbing her eyes.

Lalir huffs. "You sure? You looked pretty asleep to me."

“I was just… resting my eyes.” Illaoi sits up, cautiously propping herself up against the pillows. Her eyes are dark and droopy, her curls an unkempt mess in front of her tired face.

Lalir takes a pause to admire her. She is always awake and alert, and getting the chance to behold her in any other state is quite rare. Her exhaustion is uncharacteristic and oddly beautiful.

“If you wanna sleep, you can.” Lalir places a reassuring hand on Illaoi’s bicep. Illaoi looks down at her, face softening when their eyes meet. She hums.

Wordlessly, Illaoi sinks back down into the bed, worming her way under the knitted blankets. She curls up to Lalir’s side, large, strong arms wrapping around her torso. She holds her tight and close, like a teddy bear, nuzzling her cheek against her shoulder.

Ah. Lalir’s face burns a bright shade of crimson as she stares down at Illaoi. How adorable.

Carefully, Lalir leans down and presses a kiss atop the crown of Illaoi’s head. She feels her squeeze her just a little bit tighter.

“Goodnight, honey.”

[league-of-starlight]

Lets say the Ruined King gang gets drunk, what type of drunk person they are and how would they end up?

Good question:

Sarah: Rowdy. It takes some of the edge off. How it ends, someone took her back to her quarters. Her head is pounding and there's a new bruise somewhere.

Illaoi: Illaoi handles alcohol very well. A little reckless. Might start a fight. How it ends: Her walking back to the Buhru, wanting to do it again.

Braum: He doesn't take his alcohol well. He's a little clumsy, but he's still Braum. How it ends, good memories.

Pyke: Reckless drunk, his body and mind are going two completely different directions and sometimes he'll just say names from his list until someone stops him. He might leave and do something stupid. How it ends? Covered in blood and smelling like rum.

Yasuo: Sad drunk. Brooding more than usual, might fall asleep. How he ends up: Asleep in the corner of an alley somewhere.

Ahri: She's happy. She's giggling, floating around, letting her tails move freely. She can get a little sad sometimes, it depends. Affectionate. How they end up? Curled in a ball, sleeping comfortably.