#heavy-hextech

[chaos-and-sparkles]

Okay but can we PLEASE talk about how no hextech au Powder has a lock of her hair dyed pink, Vi's pink, a tribute to her sister to keep her close?? Because it made me physically sick and I haven't been okay since -

[spatialwave]

𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

pairing: jayvik x fem!reader word count: 1k tags: mdni! semi-nsfw, fluffy, poly relationship, reader has a chronic illness, no use of y/n, not beta’d. notes: no summary bc it’s very short n sweet and mostly just some fluff!! will probably write a part 2 to this or use this fic as a base for future one shots hehe. reminder that my ask box is open! 🩵 credits: art by @/shuploc & divider by @/cafekitsune on tumblr!

part 2. ->

“No, no, this doesn’t make sense.”

The flickering flame of several candles lit up the darkened apartment as Jayce sat over a scattering of papers. His back hunched, eyes tired, stubble unshaved and fingers tracing over the writings on the parchments. Forever studying and analyzing ways to work with the hextech, to improve upon it and use it to help others. To help you, and Viktor.

“Sleep is good for the brain.” A tired voice spoke from behind him.

There was a quiet groan that erupted from deep within his chest, a reprieve from the chaos in his mind, as he rested back against the wooden chair that creaked beneath his weight. Your hand, a delicate touch, trailed over his bare shoulders as he worked late in only his nice pair of trousers that were gifted by the Kiramman family.

He hadn’t taken a single moment of rest since a meeting with Viktor and Heimerdinger earlier that day to go over progress of the hextech research. They had hit a roadblock, having advanced so far, yet still struggling to find ways for it to help the people, rather than just Piltover.

Hextech was more than a tool to better run the city and improve upon its trades within Runeterra. If only he could find a way to stabilize the crystal.

“You’re overworking yourself, Jayce,” you continued, arms now wrapping around his shoulders. Your chest pressed against the back of his head, hands palming against his muscled chest.

“I’m this close to a breakthrough,” the man sighed, finding comfort in your touch as he leaned back and let his eyes flutter closed, sleep heavy in his head, “Progress Day is three months away, and what do we have to show for it? An unstabilized crystal?”

Jayce was worked up like this more often than not, the work with hextech had taken the forefront for years now. Recently it had begun to consume him, but you were the recipe to keeping him sane. 

You were his rock, as he said.

“Hexgates, airships, robots,” your posh accent chimed as your body moved and you’d managed to sneak your way onto Jayce’s lap — ultimately severing the line between him and his work. 

Your chests pressed together, faces only a few inches apart as you stared into those honey-coloured eyes.

“Why do you always get so down on yourself?” 

Jayce stared at you, strong calloused hands settling on your hips as you straddled him. He had no ambition to answer, knowing very well that he was his own worst critic and you were his biggest supporter. 

“You’ll get there,” you continued, head ducking as your lips pressed to his jaw. The roughage of his stubble prickly against your lips as you kissed, trailing from under his chin to underneath his ear, “now, I haven’t had a chance to have you in over a week. I think I’m rather deserving.”

That roused a chuckle from him, a toothy grin on his lips as he allowed himself to relax under your touch. 

“I want to do this for you,” he murmured, head lulling back as you kissed down his neck, “something to help.”

“I know,” you soothed, one hand palmed at his chest as you pulled back, a finger touching his chin and tilting his face back to you, “I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?”

Jayce’s eyes opened, and it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. Beautiful and glowing.

Your sickness was well-hidden, a struggle you dealt with behind closed doors. Pain that erupted through your veins, left your muscles weak and skin burning. It came in flares — aches so painful it left you bedridden for weeks.

Once an Academy all-star, now confined to your apartment. You were thankful for Jayce and Viktor, the two most important individuals in your life.

“Now come to bed. I can’t remember the last time you’d managed to stay up later than Viktor,” you smiled, shifting off of his lap. Two quick breaths blew out the candles, and you’d managed to pull Jayce along behind you like a lovesick puppy.

You dropped the robe that had covered your body, revealing your half-naked body save for the underwear that hugged the curves of your hips. The mattress dipped under your weight as you crawled in next to a sleeping Viktor, who had retired to bed with you a few hours earlier.

He rolled onto his side toward you, a slender arm wrapped over your waist and bony fingers pressing into the skin of your hip. You pressed yourself against his frail chest, face buried as you inhaled his scent and Jayce slipped under the blankets on the other side of him.

“Finally wrangled him?” Viktor hummed, half-asleep, as both yours and Jayce’s warmth kept him tired.

“You’ve let him beat you again. You’re losing your drive for all-nighters full of bright ideas,” you murmured, nuzzling against him.

“I’ve long lost that spark,” Viktor mumbled, burying his face in your hair and sighing as he felt Jayce’s hands slide along his bare skin, “I’m a tired old man now. I can live with that.”

Jayce snorted, “I do it for the both of us then,” he murmured into his lover’s ear, breath warm and tickling his skin. A shaky breath trembled out from Viktor’s lips, tensing his arms around you.

You were quick to join in on the fun, lips attached to the base of Viktor’s throat as you left a trail of feather light kisses along his skin. One hand reaching down between his legs and into the briefs he wore.

“Can’t a man get rest?” he breathed out, squirming between you two. 

“No,” Jayce huffed, lips pressed to Viktor’s shoulders as he assaulted him with a flurry of open-mouthed kisses to his skin, teeth and lips dragging against him.

“Sorry, love,” you whispered, licking a line on his neck before suckling on the skin, “I may have riled him up in the kitchen.”

“How awful,” he sighed, though, there was nothing Viktor enjoyed more than having two lips and two pairs of hands traversing his body. 

He melted into the touch as the three of you consumed each other. Hands traveling over skin, lips connected, tongues lapping at each other and clothes ripped from bodies.

The three of you were the embodiment of love. On the worst days, there were no thoughts of giving up. You were each other’s ambition.

[grugruel]

Can you do that for me?

Pairings: ruined!Jayce x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: Formerly partners, you've started a new business in Zaun after Jayce's disappearance. One day, after hearing whispers of Victor's apparent evolution, Jayce shows up unannounced.

Wordcount: 4.2 k

Warnings: Some canon stuff (beware spoilers), pinv sex, angst, fluff, fingering, slight handjob, choking, biting, creampie, doggy, missionary, cowgirl (a lot of positions), sub/dom/switch!Jayce, power struggle, fight for dominance, praise (f and m recieving), spanking, overstimulation, "I love you", difficult feelings, hot depraved Jayce.

AN: Not proofread, I intend to make a few changes to it later but wanted to get it out. Might be spelling mistakes. I tried to fit a bit of everything into this. ENJOY GIRLIES🎀

Having pulled the curtains aside, a vigilant man inspects the dark streets below. "He's almost here, ma'am," the man says, eyes following the subject. There's a slight stiffnes to his stance, as if he's readying himself for a fight. "What do you want us to do?"

"Let him in," she smiles at him faintly, attempting to reassure the large man before returning to her paperwork. "Dont give him trouble, there's nothing to fear."

The guard nods slowly and crosses the room to leave, he knows she's right. Yet, he stays in the doorway, shoulders slumped and arms crossed.

Warm light creeps in through the entryway, contrasting the faint light that Zauns streetlights provide for her otherwise gloomy office.

Noticing how the strong wash of light remains, she looks up at her guard to find another question lingering on his lips. "I've know you long enough to tell when something ails you." She leans back in her chair.

He catches her gaze reluctantly, facing away before he speaks. The man clears his throat, he knows he's crossing a line. "He's trouble, if you ask me. The boys and I-"

The woman pulls her glasses of and sighs, done with her work for the evening. "Im a big girl, I can handle myself."

The guard leans against the doorway and shrugs in reluctant recognition. "We're worried for you, ma'am-" but catching himself on his words, his hands gesture to remedy his meaning. "Respectfully, of course," he ads quickly, aversed to insult his employer.

The woman stands slowly, walking around her crammed desk to casually prop herself next to him. "I know," she reassures, placing a soft hand on his chest. "But I'll be fine, send him in."

The large man huffs. "We'll be outside then," he begins, but as the next words begin to form on his tongue, he decides against it, solely out of trust for his employer. If he could, he would've added 'when you need us'.

She doesnt doubt it, nor does she take offence. They're a tight knit family down here, she cares for them as much as they do her. But this would be an interaction no family member should hear. "That won't be necessary, keep to the foyer . . . Now go," she hurries him, careful to keep an understanding smile on her lips lest he changes his mind.

With a heavy breath and one last glance, the guard reluctantly closes the door and heavy footsteps recede.

She sighs, moving to brace her hands against the desktop and preparing herself for whats to come, for what she suspects.

She lights the lantern on her desk and waits. Only a moment later the same warm light creeps into the room. She twitches, unprepared for his arrival inspite of her efforts as the squeaking door slices through the eerily silent space.

In her peripheral, a fallen man stands. He's tired and dirty. Cut up and run down. There's a moment of contemplation between her and the newcomer, she does not move and neither does he. It's been a long time.

Squeak, thump, click . . . Pause. He's locked the door. A heavy thud between metal and wood sounds next, there's a faint sound of coarse skin sliding along fine metal before the familiar vibrations of hextech dies out.

All that exists between them now is heavy breathing in two parts, laboring against their own minds and bodies.

The floorboards begin to creek, irregularly, as if the weight placed upon them has not yet decided it's course of action. She grips the desktop harder, fingernails burrying into fine wood. She can only guess why he has come. "It's Viktor, isn't it?" She breathes, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

She gets no response, the only answer she recieves is the creeking of floorboards as the uncertain weight shifts back and forth. But that is all the answer she needs.

Having seamingly made up his mind, determined footsteps approach her in a sudden haste. Srong arms wrap around her body, pulling her toward a hard chest in a tight, tight embrace. His head collides with her shoulderblade as he burries his face in her scent. Muffled by her body, strained breaths blow welcome warmth onto her skin.

"What's happened?" She whispers, not entirely sure she wants the answer for she can smell him now. Metal and gunpowder. But it's not the type raw metal used for smithing or creating, it's not the metal she's used to. No, this is pungent, corporeal. It's blood. "Jayce, please . . . " She begins, 'talk to me' her lips shape, but no sound comes out. Unable to muster the strength.

"Cant- I cant . . . talk about it. Not now, not yet," he manages, voice rough as if he has fought and damp breath raising goosebumps on her neck. "I just . . . Needed you. I need you."

A strong hand slides higher, knuckles intently brushing the underside of her breast. "Can't think anymore."

And inspite of her better judgement. "Ok," she agrees, whispering, as if her consience wouldnt be able to hear. She's missed him, worried for him. So, her body betrays her.

Laying her hand on top of his, she guides him over the hill of her breast.

His breath hitches while his other hand move downward, tracing her ribs, down her waist, stopping on her thigh and squeezing tenderly. Soft flesh dimpling beneath the force of strong fingers. "I've been lost, " his voice breaks. "Missed you." His hands slide further down to slither under the slit in her dress.

"No feelings right now, Jayce . . . Please, just-"

Two fingers slip inside of her and she gasps. "No feelings," he assures, placing a gentle kiss on her neck.

"Good, good . . . " she moans.

While massaging her breast his thumb finds her clit and tongue her neck, gently nipping and sucking on the crook of her neck. Her body grows to weak to hold itself upright so she puts her weight on her arms. Noticing, he holds her tighter and pushes her weight against the desk. "Already?" He whispers, dragging his teeth along the shell of her ear as his fingers steadily thrusts in and out of her. "You're making it too easy for me."

A breathless chuckle leaves her, crammed between heavy groans. "You work with your hands . . . Mmmh, unfair advantage."

He bites her earlobe, tugging, teasing. "So do you, if I remember correctly." A grin twists her lips as her hand reaches between them and palms his enlarged bulge. He hisses as she begins to stroke it, heat immedietly surfacing as the friction between fabric and skin grows. "Mhhg, that's what I thought," he groans. "Good girl."

He pushes a third finger inside off her, curling them at just the right angle.

"Fuck!" Her free hand curls into a fist, joints having nothing better to do than occupy themselves in anyway they can. He puts more focus on her clit, rubbing dutyful circles into and and finally pushes her over the edge. "Mhh, shit-"

His fingers slow down as she hits her high, gently leading her through it as he supports her weight. "Just breathe, that's right . . . "

Her breathing has become a mixture of moans and wheezes, the pleasure stimulating every nerve in her body. "Did you . . . ?" She asks, suddenly remember her hand on his clothed member.

"No," he whispers and kisses her temple. "Theres time." He tries to turn her around. But fear grips her. "No-" she stops him, gripping the edge of the desk to keep herself in place. Seeing the changes up close would make them real, would make whatever he has come from, real. "I can't look at you . . . not yet." She reaches over her shoulder to cup his jaw, and just like that, their bubble of reminiscence bursts. They arent colleagues anymore and havent been for a long time. Nor is their third party longer there to rationalise with them. A shrap jab strikes her heart. "Give me time, and just," her other hand reaches behind her, grabbing the fabric on his hip to pull him closer, pressing his erection against the curve of her ass. "Like this for now, Jayce. Please . . ."

His head lulls against her back, pushing his forehead firmly into her spine whilst releasing a big, shaky breath. She can feel him bare his teeth, silently working through the consequences of his actions.

He doesn't answer, he only obeys.

It goes silent for a short moment, until the warmth on her hips disappear and the metal clanging of a belt buckle sounds behind her.

Quickly, one hand returns to her thigh to pull her dress over her ass.

"Dont hold back," she says.

There's a pause in his movements. "Are you certain?"

She nods and he wastes no time. Pushing himself against her, his knees spread her legs efficiently, just liked they've practiced many times before. With mo further warning, he sinks into her. One hand crossing over her waist as the other grabs her shoulder, then sets a ruthless pace.

Somehow she knows he needs to get this out of him, the pent of fury and need. But she doesnt complain, he always knew what he was doing.

The sound of slapping fills her office, while the lewd squelching from her previous orgasm further spurs them on. He bends over her, changing his grip. Fingers snaking around her throat as his knee and free hand work together to fish one of her legs onto the desk, hitting her deeper, harder. His thrusts are no longer about speed, but of that one special little spot.

He puts pressure on her throat, almost painstakingly so. But it feels heavenly and she wouldn't have it any other way.

With each rut, his members perfectly fills her. His face is next to hers and he kisses had bites around her neck and ear, making sure she knows how good he makes her fell by grunting and moaning right into her ear. It makes that pulsing in her core worse, and he seems to notice.

"Yeah, you like that?" He groans, kissing her soft skin right behind the ear.

"Mmmhmm," she hums, voice vibrating with the bumping of their bodies. Doing her best to keep silent, afraid that one of her guards suddenly decides to check up on her.

"Let me hear you, use your words," he breathes, flexing the fingers around her throat and biting her shoulder.

"Fuck-" her knuckles and nails take turns in destroying her desk, scratching and denting the expensive wood grain. "I like making you, mmh . . . feel good." She manages, words stuttering between thrusts.

He gently pulls on her ear with his teeth. "Good," he whispers, then releases her throat and places his hand on the back of her neck, pushing her against the desktop.

Slap. His hands comes down on her ass, then gripping the plump flesh hard to lessen some of the stinging. A jolt of electricity shoots through her and her insides clench arouns him.

Jayce whimpers from the sudden, godlike pleasure. "Wanna hear you, honey, don't be shy." His hand comes down again, harder this time.

She squeezes around him, nerves on fire as she feels her second climax building up inside her. She moans as tears run down her face, happy pleasurable tears only Jayce has been able to produce.

"That's it . . ." He slaps her ass a third time, and the wall inside her core crumbles. With a whimper, she comes. "You did so good, lovely, im almost there," he assures her. Tears stream down her face as his thrusts grow irregular, but continues to pleasure her body. "Fuck," she cries, squirming from the drawl iut orgasm. One hand holds her steady at the hip while the other slides up her back, rubbing her tender body until he brushes away stray hair from her profile.

"Hold on a little longer, just breathe, baby," he comforts her, such a stark contrast to the rough thrusts he's been dealing her body. Her fingers are jittery from the overstimulation, they aached to touch him, pull his hair, anything. But she cannot reach, so she presses her palms against the table to keep them occupied.

As he sees her tear streaked face, one last blow lands on her ass and he too, comes. He collapses on top of her, they attempt to regain their strength as their sweaty bodies lie flush against eachother.

After a few moments of breathing heavily together, Jayce wraps an arm around her torso and splays his hand over her rips, pulling her with him as he straightens out.

Taking a deep breath, she closes her eyes and turns around. Hands finding his face, guiding her lips to his.

"Please look at me, my beautiful girl. Look at me," he pleads, murmuring the words against her lips.

She opens her eyes and his breath hitches. Yellow, brown irises meet her won. They're the exact same ones she knew not too long ago. Except . . . Haunted.

His fingers brush along her cheek, jaw and down her throat. She winces at the soft touch and his brows furrow in confusion.

Capturing her chin, he tilts her head back.

"It's fine, I'm fine," she whispers, assuring him as she sees his expression. Pure shock animates them.

"I don't-" his fingers trace the red marks running around her throat and tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. "Im so sorry." He falls to his knees, hands resting against her chins as he hides his face between them. "I don't know-" he chokes and kisses her legs with remorse. He pecks her delicately, trailing his lips over her knees and up her thighs, hands following behind, tracing the outside of her legs until they reach her waist and encircle her. He hugs her tightly, knees sore against the hard wood. "Im not right," he breathes, head lulling into her lap. She can feel wetness coating her skin, running between her thighs.

She exhales heavily and slides down the desk until the hard wooden floor welcomes her thighs.

They stay like this for a good long while, she's in no rush and neither is he. Over and over again, her fingers comb through his overgrown and unpreened hair while the sensation of his seed drips out of her. Sharp nails gently scratch at the nape of his neck, they trace his bonestructure and play with its halls and valleys. The back of her fingers caress the length of his nose and sharpness of his cheekbone.

All the while Jayce lays wordless, occasionally squeezing her thighs, her hips. Occasionally trailing featherlight touches along her legs, watching with wonder how goosebumps rise and fall.

She chuckles beneath her breath. It's the same expression he used to get when making progress in the lap, just like when they first cracked the hextech runes. "Jayce," she says, attempting to grab his attention.

Crouching beneath her, he looks up from her lap, chin resting on the softness of her flesh. His face glistens and eyes plead. He looks at her with fatigue, wordlessly asking for her forgiveness.

"What happened?" She asks, her voice soft but words demanding. She's not getting dersuled this time, she needs answers.

He shakes his head, reluctantly drawing his lips into a thin line as he breaks away from her gaze.

Her eyebrows twist together. "What have you done?" She asks, anger laces her tone now. But he closes his eyes, the corners of his eyes gleaming again. The fingers burried in his hair curl into a fist and she pulls his head back, forcing him look at her. "What. Have. You. Done?"

His eyes shift between hers, uncertain, unwilling. "He's gone . . . " He begins. "I had to, I had to–the hexcore, it was poisoning him, spreading like a disease." His voice is coarse. "I had to stop him, there was no other choice."

Her eyes grow. Viktor . . . Gone? She could only assume when Jayce suddenly pays her a visit, but never dared believe.

"I never ment to leave you," he says, hand reaching out to grab her waist. "You have to believe me." He rouches the fabric at the waist, white knuckling it out of desperation for an ounce of u derstanding. "Hextech isnt what we thought it was, not anymore. Viktor couldnt see it, he was infecting the undercity, it would've spread to Piltover, the rest of the world if I didn't stop him."

She shakes her head in disbelief. "But he was saving them, freeing them of shimmer."

"No . . . they weren't themselves anymore. I've been away, lost. I've seen–" She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. "The hexcore mutates them, changes them. I had to stop him. It, the core."

Her eyes drift the Jayce's hammer posted by the door. "Like your hammer?" She studies the now misshapen weapon, once crafted with obsessive precision. Her eyes drift lower along the neck and over its face, blood splatter.

She looks away, closing her eyes to recollect herself. Remembering to strongly the smell of blood Jayce had arrived with.

"Yes," he says. "Like I did." His hand reaches up to loosely cup her face. She notices how the crystal from his old bracelet has fused with his skin. Her fingers run along his arm and slides along the crystal, feeling it, inspecting it. "I didn't chose this," he murmurs. "I didn't chose to leave you . . . I love you." His hand falls back to his side.

She's taken aback. Its not something they've said before, not while still partners, not before all of, this . . . But despite herself, she believes him. They were colleagues for a long time and affection had always kept them together. He wouldn't hurt Viktor without reason.

With hooded eyes and parted lips, he studies her, waiting for her judgement.

"You had to," she nods, seamingly decided.

Relief and disappointment floods his face all at once. He'd expected an 'I love you' back.

She leans in, kissing him for the first time since he disappeared. Finally reunited. "We'll get through this, ok?" her voice is uncertain, what's happened has not been fully processed.

"Ok," he agrees and straightens his back, carefully placing small kisses along her abdomen as he does so, afraid he'll scare her away. "I've missed you so damn much." He levels his head with hers, meeting her gaze head on.

"I've missed you too," she responds. "But I need you now, Jayce. Can you do that for me?" She places a soft kiss on his lips.

"Certainly," he murmurs against them.

She stands, slinding his hand into hers and leads him to the bed. With his back to the bed, she places her hands on his chest and pushes him into sitting at the edge of the bed.

One leg over the other, she straddles him, standing on her knees so he has to look up at her. His she brushes the hair away from his eyes and lowers her lips to ghost over his. Their scared and quivering, needy to be on hers.

His hands slide up her sides and curves around her back, coming to rest in the arch above her ass. Gently, he massages circles into her skin, tickling her intentionaly.

She squirms beneath his touch, luring a satisfied grin from him. "You look good like this." Her fingers run through his beard, tracing his new scars. "Dangerous." Reaching down between them and into his pants, she pulls Jayce's member free and lowers herself just enough to tease his tip.

With a hiss, he locks his thumb over her hipbones and wanting to guide her onto him.

She shakes her head, a smirk playing in the corner of her lips. "My turn," she whispers and pull the straps of her dress down, letting it gather at her hips. Jayce's eyes immeidetly fall as his hands slide up her ribs with a specific destination in mind. "Dont touch," she warns. "Now look at me, Jayce." Her chest is inches from his face, but unallowed to look and unable to touch, his eyes appear like that of a wounded stag.

Her nimble fingers work on the buttons of his shirt and quickly slides it off of his shoulders. "Ive missed this," she purs, dragging a finger down his torso, her nail leaving a white scratched up mark behind it. "But this is new," she refers to the chest hair she's never seen before. "I like that, too." Her lips meet his jaw as she leaves kisses all the way down to his collarbone and shoulder. Her continues down his abdomen and below his v-line, then there's a sharp intake of breath as she stokes his member, circling the leaking pre-cum around his tip.

"Devil woman," he groans, but there's a twisted smile to his lips.

She returns it and takes a step back, letting the dress fall completely as if wanting to prove his point and oh, how she revels in the desperation on his face.

Her gaze fixes on his hands, clenching and unclencing in his lap, knuckles white from the strain. She bites her lip. "You look good like this," she repeats. "All, fallen apart . . . " She steps closer, placing herself between his legs. "Bloody and broken."

Never has he taken his eyes off of hers, and as she lowers herself onto his lap once more, she finds his member and lines him up. And finally, she sinks onto his thick inches. Still, he does not touch her. There is only a desperate whimper leaving his lips at the much needed pressure. Obedient, or respcetful? Either way, he deserves his praise. "Good boy. Now, touch me," she whispers and topple them over.

He twitches inside her at the words, but before she can react he's upon her. Fitting one breast into his mouth and the other in his hand, he licks and spits and squeezes. Sucking the entierty of her tender, plush flesh into his mouth.

"Ooh," she braces herself, strings of pleasure and heavy breaths return to them. "You liked that didn't you, pretty boy?" All she gets in response is humming between the lewd, obscene slurping.

Alright, then. Putting a hand on his chest for support, she begins to move, rocking back and forth just watching his expression of pleased torture.

Moving his hands to her hips, lips tear free from her breast for some much needed air, only to replace them upon her lips and kiss her with fervour.

She sits up, getting a better vantage and he follows not long thereafter. Unable to sit by and let her do the work. Leaning back on one hand and wrapping the other around her back, he helps her rut against him while he can't softly thrust up to meet her. "Fuck me- Jayce . . . " She gasps, hardly able to get enough air to moan.

He grins against her lips, sharing their breaths. "You liked that didn't you, pretty girl?" He mocks her.

She laughs breathlessly and digs her nails into his biceps. "Naughty," she murmurs and bites his lip, drawing blood. Again, she feels his member twitch amidst all the rocking between them. Their eyes meet and share a knowing glance. She cocks an eyebrow, he blushes. "That's what I thought," she smirks. It's her win, for now.

Unable to let it slide, Jayce takes the reigns. Flipping them over, he pins her beneath him without missing a single thrust. Amidst the confusion, he interlocks their fingers and pulls her arms above her head, stretching her out and limiting her movement.

She squirms against his restrains, testing the limits but he's rock solid. With her legs around his waist, he thrust perfectly into her and she cant help but roll her hips. She can feel the knot tightening in her core and she furrows her brows with displeasure. Missionary always did her in, he'll win. "Unfair," she moans, throwing her head back as waves of pleasure wash over her with every movement of his hips.

He moves one pair of their locked hands down so ha can stroke her throat with his thumb, placing soft kisses on the damage he caused.

His tenderness alone could cause her to crumble. "Put your back into it at least," she whines, realising she only had her pettiness left. Being beneath him, in his control feels way better than any win she could earn.

A breathless chuckle leaves him. "Yes, ma'am," he grunts, releases her and pulls out before he hooks her legs over his shoulders and thrusts back in. Hands finally free, she cups his face and pulls him in for a kiss concealing the cries bubbling up in her throat. For as it stands, he moves expertly and he's deeper–better than any man ever has been. "Fuck me-"

He smirks. "Tell me I'm good, again . . . " Shes uncertain if this is his ego talking or- "Please, please tell me im good," he whimpers, kissing her inbetween every word.

Without warning her third orgasm washes over her, back arching and nails digging into Jayce's cheeks. "You're so good to me," she sobs. "Such a good boy."

His thrusts falter and then he too, comes. Filling her with his seed, once again.

With shaking limbs he falls to her side, one arm draped over her chest. Both breathing heavily as they regain their senses.

"You win," ge admits and kisses her temple.

Yes she does. "I love you, too," she smiles, heart and teeth achingly sweet.

[redr0sewrites]

not possible - Viktor x reader

🥀A/n: this was originally a request but it strayed wayyy too far off course... the writing had a mind of its own and im not sorry. but i AM sorry for not posting in a while.... ive been super hyperfixated on DC sorry

🥀Cw: fluff, non-sexual nudity, bathing, exhaustion/overworking

🥀Word Count: 1.2k words

🥀Synopsis: Viktor is overworking yet again, yet upon your insistence, finally takes a break.

Viktor was well aware that the candle at his side had long since burnt out, yet he was unwilling to find a replacement. the moon was bright tonight, and, combined with the soft blue glow emitting from the hextech he was working on, Viktor could make out the tools in front of him without any assistance.

he knew that working in the dim light was not a good idea, considering how straining ones' eyes could lead to faulty vision, but he couldn't bring himself to care. the ache in his bones ran deep, and his fingers shook with each breath. of course Viktor knew he should turn in for the night, but he found himself stuck in his chair, mindlessly fiddling with his most recent hextech project.

he was so engrossed in his work, he barely noticed your approach until you were practically on top of him. familiar hands find purchase on his shoulders and he jumps, only to melt back into your touch.

"ah, it's you," Viktor murmurs, turning around to face you. "may i ask, what are you doing up so late?"

"collecting you," you murmur, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "it's already two in the morning. you've been here long enough."

Viktor sighs, and allows you to press a few more kisses to his face. the bags beneath his eyes were heavy, he was stiff and sore, and above all, he was exhausted.

joining you back home was certainly enticing, and hextech could always wait until tomorrow. and yet, the troublesome, burning itch beneath his skin wouldn't dissipate. he needed to complete just one more ruin combination, just finish this one little task, and then he'd let himself rest. at least, that's what he'd been telling himself for the past three hours.

"i can tell your overworking yourself again," you whisper, and Viktor huffs indignantly.

"overworking is, eh, a strong word. i am perfectly capable-" you cut him off by cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

"Viktor, i am in no way denying your capabilities. however, you still need sleep. so, come back with me, and you can continue working tomorrow after a full nights rest. does that work?"

Viktor heaves another weary sigh, but agrees. you silently watch as he stands and steadies himself with his cane, not wanting to appear too overbearing but still concerned about his exhaustion. you wish you could alleviate some of the stress and burden that he carries, even though he relentlessly assured you that loving him was enough.

meanwhile, Viktor wordlessly packs up for the night. he knew you were trying to mask it for his own dignity, but the concern on your face was evident in the slightest furrow of your brow and pinch of your lips. he found it hopelessly endearing how you worried over him, and only wished that you would stop for your own sake.

after all, he was doing this for you. for the chance to live happily with you someday, after saving the lives of so many others. hextech consumed so much of his time, yet Viktor intended to make it up to you tenfold when you two would grow old together.

"you ready to head home?" your voice slices through his thoughts like a knife through warm butter, and he finds himself unable to do anything but nod. you did not hesitate to take his hand as you two walk back towards your shared abode, nor did you complain when he had to pause and catch his breath after some particularly bad pain in his leg. by the time you both arrived at your home, Viktor felt even more exhausted.

"i know it's late, but do you want to take a bath before going to bed?" your question lingers in the air for a few seconds before Viktor nods, and you begin setting up. you both know the warm water would only soothe his aching joints, and provide momentary relief from the pain he suffers from.

🥀

its not long before you and Viktor are curled against eachother in your large bathtub after washing off. he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder as he absentmindedly washed your back, and you let out a relaxed sigh. you were both night-owls, but Viktor was much more accustomed to fighting off exhaustion.

you bite down on your bottom lip as more worries begin to seep into your mind. you feel almost selfish for missing him when he works so hard, and yet you want nothing more than to take all of his stress away. Viktor is quick to notice as you slip deeper in thought, between your tense muscles and quickened breathing, he can read you like a book.

"what are you thinking about, darling?"

another weary sigh escapes you.

"its just... you've been so stressed lately, i just wish i could alleviate some of the burdens you carry.. i know what you do is important, but i still wish i could be around you more often and help you.. y'know?" you let out another sigh. "i just.. miss you sometimes. and i worry. you know i worry.." Viktor chuckles at your words before turning you around to face him, the warm water around you both sloshing gently against the edge of the bath.

"you do more than enough already. believe me, everything i do, i do for you. for us. i love you," he murmurs, and presses a kiss to your forehead, "and nothing will change that. i can't guarantee that i'll always be around... but i will try to stop staying in the lab so late." Viktor's lips crinkle into a soft smile, and you can't help but kiss him in response.

Viktor always feels as though he's floating when you kiss. your soft lips against his, the contrast of his nimble, calloused hands against your smooth skin, your scent, your taste, it was all gloriously intoxicating. you hum against his lips before slowly pulling away, lashes fluttering against his cheek from your proximity.

Viktor leans in to whisper in your ear, his lips just ghosting your temple.

"i think it's high time we went to bed, dear. the waters getting cold, and i wouldn't want my beautiful darling to be exhausted tomorrow, hm?" you sigh at his flattery, yet agree regardless. as Viktor leans against the tub to stand up, you suddenly remember something and grab his hand to get his attention.

"hm?"

"by the way, about what you said earlier.... i love you more."

"that is not possible, my dearest."

GRRR SO HAPPY THIS IS DONE LMAO- sorry i havent been super active ive been on a huge DC kick (specifically the batfam/dick grayson) and suffering from writers block BUT HERE I AM AGAIN!!!!!!!!! ANYWAYS HOPE U ENJOYEDDDD PLS FEEL FREE TO SEND IN REQUESTS (esp dc... HEHE)

[weltraum-vaquero]

Swan song

Professor Viktor x TA Reader

[PART 1]｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆[PART 2] ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[PART 3]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆[AO3 link] ⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡

Summary: You’re a bright phD student who won’t shy away from a challenge. Getting the most notorious professor at the University of Piltover to hire you as his assistant is one of them.

Tags: Modern AU, SFW (for now…), DILF professor Viktor, who delights in being a bit of a dick, and becomes even more mean on bad pain days, and who is constantly insufferably rightfully smug, Smart & competent reader being reduced to a wolf with heart eyes going AWOOOGA when they lay eyes on Viktor.

Word count: 7.8k

Notice: This fic is written with a transmasculine reader in mind, but that won’t come into play at all until the final third chapter of this mini-series.

Notes: 1. Shoutout to my beloved buddies for helping me with this fic, AND the banner. You guys know who you are. 2. I hope you enjoy this very self indulgent piece about my take on Viktor as a professor in a modern AU. Keep in mind that this work is entirely spoiler free. Although it will be posted over the upcoming three weeks as arcane season two drops, I had no information about any of the leaks whatsoever as I wrote this, and did my utmost to avoid them. This iteration of Viktor was written with his season one character traits as a base in mind. 3. The science Viktor and reader talk about in depth in this fic is entirely made up and definitely falls apart under scrutiny. Don’t look too hard. Yes, I made up an entire hextech based scientific field specifically so I could carnally have this old man.

You know exactly what to expect from someone like Professor Viktor Sidorov-Svoboda. 

You’ve done your homework on the man: interviewed colleagues who’d taken his lectures as undergrads (scary — but great at his job had been the general consensus), and checked his ratemyprofessor profile. Which, by the way, had been a terrific read. 

Dr Sidorov-Svoboda is a very polarizing man, it seems. Reviews were either raving about his cogency, or saying they’d drive to his lecture without wearing a seatbelt in the hopes that death would take them before Sidorov did. There seemed to be no in-between, other than one review calling him a total DILF and rating him five out of five for that alone.

You digress. All sources had gotten across more than enough for you to understand what you were going to face once you’d step into his office: brilliant, tenured, independent, a no-nonsense attitude, and with a spotless track record of turning down TAs. 

Which you’re here to change — the last part, that is.

It’s not exactly a guilt-free affair. Dr Heimerdinger — the dean himself — had personally reached out to you, and requested you try to convince Sidorov-Svoboda to accept you as his TA. Should you succeed, you would be offered a generous wage.

That, along with the fact that Sidorov’s name is going to pretty up your CV something fierce if you somehow land this job, is reason enough to make you at the very least give it a go.

With a fortifying breath, you rap your knuckles on the oakwood of his office door.

“Yes?” A heavy accent makes itself known on the y.

You wait to see if he’ll open — five seconds pass — he doesn’t. 

Rude.

You take that as your cue to push the door open yourself.

Nothing could have prepared you for the man whose cat-like eyes pierce you from above rectangular silver reading glasses. He hadn’t even bothered lifting his head from what he’d been reading through; and when he finally does grant you the gift of being looked at, wholly, it feels the same way as having a painting stare back at you. In the back of your mind, you swear you can hear the horns of an orchestra blaring into a crescendo.

His gaze pierces you, in a way that borders on literal. It’s undressing — less erotic, and more terrifying, as a consequence of nakedness, of being read. Professor Sidorov-Svoboda looks at you with a kind of disinterest that screams I have you figured out, and it’s punching your heart down into your stomach in a lovely, terrible way.

The lines of his face are lovingly crafted. Dark shadows under hollow cheeks, golden eyes under strong brows, there’s something intrinsically statuesque about his face. You’d expect to look at something akin to Sidorov-Svoboda in a museum, carved in marble, not in one of the dusty offices at your university.

He cocks his head, exposing a long, swan-like neck dotted with beauty marks, as he waits for you to regain your wits. Which you do, before any of this crosses the threshold between awkward and downright embarrassing.

“Hello, doctor,” you finally manage. “My name is (y/n) (l/n), theoretical arcanism department, phD student. I was… hoping we could discuss a position as your TA.”

He cocks a brow, thoroughly unimpressed, before he slides his glasses off his face. He even takes a sip of his lukewarm coffee, deliberately slow in swallowing it, before he finally speaks.

“I believe you should already be familiar with the fact that I do not take assistants.” Sidorov leans forward in his chair a fraction, still poring over his book, and there is a marked pop in one of his joints that sounds nothing short of painful. He seems hardly bothered by it. 

“I am,” you reply. “Which is why I am here in the hopes of changing your mind.”

That finally makes him look at you properly again. It’s a delight. You wish you could savor it, instead of desperately trying to keep your wits about you.

“And why would you want to do that?”

The answer to that question has changed substantially since you’d first stepped foot into his office.

But you’re fortunately not stupid enough to tell him that.

“Your name is worth gold in the community, doctor. I would like it on my resume.”

He picks up his pen, squinting as he scribbles something in his book, before he hums with disinterest.

“Mm. I heard doctor Pididdly takes more kindly to flattery.” He brushes a grey strand of hair from his face, clicking his pen as he simply lets you stew in your own embarrassment and focuses on whatever he’s reading. When he speaks again, he does not award you the honor of feigning the smallest hint of interest. “And you can send doctor Heimerdinger my regards. Let him know I am still not looking for an assistant.”

He has you figured out, and it’s making you feel dumber than any advanced class has ever had the honor of doing.

“The dean? I haven’t spoken to him since—“

“Since last year, when you took his theoretical arcane force fields class? Or was it since he explicitly asked you to come to my office with this proposition?”

You’re not the only one who’s done their research on the other. Though it’s painfully clear that he was much more thorough in his pursuit.

“I’m… sorry.”

“For wasting both our time? You should be.” He does dignify you with one glance, and even sets his pen down, as he bids you goodbye.

—

You’re fortunately not a sore loser. The money and resume addition would have been nice, yes, but you suppose they still would not have made up for working with someone as sharp and cutting as Svoboda.

You’ll gladly take the loss. And you are.

He’s long gone from the front of your mind, though something about him — his gaze, his face, his voice — lingers and shrouds the back of your brain with a tempting distraction from your thesis.

The last thing you expect as you’re burning your retinas staring at the blue light of your laptop screen leafing through the countless open tabs on your laptop is a notification. It startles you out of your skin, the red dot next to the university portal app’s icon. 

Still, more curious than nervous about who could be messaging you at 11pm on a Saturday, you click.

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

Good evening. Please come see me in my office on Monday. I would like to discuss the arrangements of your future employment as my assistant. Let me know what time would work best for you, within the limitations of my office hours.

11:32

…What?

You wonder what swayed his mind in your ultimate favor after you’d embarrassed yourself quite so thoroughly this week. But you're not about to complain — you more than certainly need the money, and his name on your resume.

Whatever turned the odds in your favor, you’re ever-grateful. And as much as you hate to admit it, you do double-check the message to make sure it’s actually real.

Me

Thank you for this opportunity, professor. I’m looking forward to working as your assistant, as well as broadening my knowledge and skills. Would 1 PM work for you?

11:34

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

Yes. That should be fine.

11:34

You think you should leave it at that. You know you should. But… you’re curious. You really hope this doesn’t cost you the job offer you’ve just received.

Me

May I ask what swayed your decision?

11:37

Dr. Prof. Viktor Sidorov-Svboda

You may not. Good night.

11:37

So much for that.

—

You knock, but this time you don’t wait after being greeted with a yes? from behind his imposing office door.

“Hello, Professor Sidorov-Svoboda.”

You’re greeted with the distinctive smell of chicken stock and vegetables wafting from his office as you step in — a sore reminder of the fact that you’ve yet to procure lunch. Whatever he’s been eating, it smells tremendous.

His thermos squeaks as he screws it shut and sets it on the corner of his desk, gesturing for you to have a seat.

“Hello.” The faux velvet seat creaks awkwardly below you. “Thank you for your punctuality. I won’t take up too much of your time — we’ll discuss any questions you might have in further detail, but, to, eh… save us time, I’ve compiled a list of your responsibilities, and some personal preferences regarding grading papers I expect you to take into consideration when you do so.”

As he explains, you take a moment to take in his office. You certainly hadn’t gotten to it last time.

It’s mainly tidy, save for his large desk, which is littered with papers, a sudoku magazine, a disposable coffee cup from the campus cafe (though the cup is tall, roughly fit for a latte, if you had to guess… hm) and his dark blue, slightly beat-up thermos. Upon closer inspection, there’s a sticker on the cap.

It’s a small thing, worn like the rest of it, but the colours are unmistakable. Baby blue, pink, white — five stripes. 

As a million questions and half a million answers start flashing through your head, the rustle of paper snaps you out of your thoughts. 

There’s something analytical and vaguely, barely amused about how he looks at you when he slides the list across the table to you.

Contrary to what you expect, it’s not long. His main demand is grading papers, which isn’t your preferred kind of labor, but labor you will chew through, no less. 

“I expect fairness when you grade,” he clarifies. “Contrary to what some students like to say, I grade papers with utmost integrity. I am not lenient, yes, but I am not absurd, either. You will find further guidelines on how to strike that, eh… balance yourself on the list I’ve made. And don’t hesitate to ask, should any uncertainties arise when you grade.”

“Fortunately, it’s applied arcanism,” you reply. “Not much room for… uncertainties, I’d expect.”

“You would be surprised.”

Viktor gives a knowing smile. Something about the placement of his mole right above the corner of his mouth, where his chapped, pale lips thin out, has your vision tunneling. You damn near startle when he starts talking again — good god, you need to get your act together.

“I will direct students’ questions to you, from now on. Should you not have an answer, you are welcome to contact me — but keep it to a minimum. Especially since applied arcanism is, as you seem to think, such an easy topic. As for lectures, you may attend, but it isn’t something I’ll be expecting from you. You teaching said lectures does not come into question. I have standards — high ones. If anyone is to take over, it will be someone whom I am certain is qualified for the job, not a phD student.”

“I am still prepared to,” you say. “Should the opportunity… present itself.”

“It most likely won’t.” With that, he straightens his back out in his seat, cracking the knuckle of his right thumb as he leans back in thought, going over his mental list. “Do you have any questions for me?” 

His little smirk is magnetic, crows feet near his eyes creasing ever so slightly deeper as the corners of his lips rise. One of his dark brows lifts gently in a display of smugness that leaves you braindead enough to nearly miss the entirety of his next sentence. “Other than the one from Saturday night?”

Oh, damn him. Damn him.

And, as a matter of fact, you have about ten more. But none of them are even close to appropriate to ask — not now, or ever.

“No,” you lie. It somehow feels like he can see right through it.

“Very well. Thank you for your time.”

You thank him too. You’re not sure what for — his sudden generosity to offer you this position, or simply for the fact that he looked so pretty while he talked.

—

You, by now, know what optional really means in academia. Above all else, it’s meant to be an abstract line that separates two distinct groups: those who put in the extra effort, and slackers.

You don’t want Sidorov-Svoboda to know you as the latter.

Which is why you get a hold of his lecture schedule from Heimerdinger on the very same Monday afternoon, and plan on attending every single one of them that doesn’t overlap with something else in your schedule. Until he either outright tells you to stop, or until your contract as his assistant ends.

Much to your surprise, most of his lectures, save for Wednesdays and one on Fridays, do fit into your schedule as well.

On Tuesday, you are thirty minutes early waiting outside his office door.

And, as much as it shouldn’t be, it is a little funny how he startles when he groggily wobbles out of his office, keys in hand, and a cane in the other.

It’s a gorgeously designed thing; so much so it has you (stupidly) guessing it’s strictly in use for aesthetics the moment you first see it. It’s made of sturdy wood, with a dark finish and golden details down the length of it. The wood on the handle has gone light and matte with use.

But judging by how he leans on it as he numbly turns to lock the door of his office behind himself while he greets you leads to a different conclusion. And the stagger in his stride as he approaches you only confirms that he does, in fact, need it.

“Good morning, doctor Si—“

He raises his free hand slowly, like it’s heavy with fatigue. It’s enough to shut you up.

“Viktor,” he says. “Please. Just call me Viktor, from now on.” He pauses, looking you up and down with a fatigued sort of near-jealousy, before he shakes his head. “Why… are you here at seven thirty in the morning?”

“I want to attend your lectures.”

He sighs.

“And you picked the one at this hour?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” You can’t quite tell if he’s displeased or if he’s just really tired.

“Rough morning?” You ask.

“Aren’t they all…” 

It certainly isn’t your intention to let it become a habit — you’re his assistant, not his secretary, but you’ve learned that sucking up does get you forward in academia more often than not, so you offer: “Would you like me to get you some coffee?”

“I am getting myself coffee.” He attempts to stifle a yawn, but does not succeed. “But I would like you to accompany me.”

Your heart flutters. You tell yourself it’s because you’re getting coffee with one of the fathers of applied arcanism.

—

“A french vanilla latte, please. Under the name “A french vanilla latte, please. Under the name Viktor.”

Before you get to mentally clap yourself on the back and imagine a round of applause for your keen eye, you have to focus on not making a fool of yourself when you say your own order. The professor thankfully takes mercy on you, and leaves to take a seat at one of the tables — though probably for his own sake, rather than to spare you any embarrassment.

You decide the polite thing would be to keep him company as you wait for your orders. Reluctantly, you approach the table he’s picked, and, after a moment’s hesitation, pull out a chair for yourself.

“Professor Heimerdinger spoke quite highly of you.” 

It startles you, the sound of his voice interrupting the lull of the clanking of dishes and hissing of steam and hum of the espresso machines.

“Oh. I appreciate that he did.” 

“Hm.” For how blasé he’d acted until this very moment, it seems like you’ve said something that’s piqued his interest utterly. He hunches forward a hint, entwining his long, bony fingers over the top of the cane between his thin thighs. “You don’t seem very surprised.”

Uh oh.

“I’m sorry if it seemed that way, really, it’s not that I’m not flattered, professor—“

“Viktor,” he interrupts. “And you needn’t be. I do not care for, ah… false humility.”

Oh?

“False humility?” You question. 

“A mark of someone either too self-conscious to accept a well deserved compliment, or desperate for one.” He pauses, looking for… something in your expression. You can’t tell if he finds it, but you know his gaze feels cold, like being prodded at with a nitrile glove. “I prefer working with people who are capable of appreciating their own effort. It’s good to know you are one of them.”

There’s warmth that seeps through the metaphorical glove, sterile as it is. It feels good to be acknowledged by the likes of him, who’d been so ruthless to figuratively knock your feet out from below you just days ago. He must have done his research on you, must have asked around, read around, figured out — just like you had done to him.

Curiosity eats at you.

“Well… what else do you know, pr— Viktor?”

His eyes rest on you like you’re a particularly tricky equation. One he knows will yield a pretty result. Being looked at by him is electric, like squeezing an unstabilized hexgem in your fist so the current courses through you, tingling. 

“Don’t get cocky.” He smiles, he actually smiles, and it frays the space-time continuum just how much it youthens him. Salt and pepper hair and crow’s feet and frown lines be damned; as you watch the tip of his snaggle canine poke out from beneath his top lip, it becomes evidently clear that you are standing face to face with the man who stole illegal equipment to prove a point, the man who worked with highly explosive material for years to birth the very foundation of his scientific domain. “It is most certainly a good look on you, but it won’t bring you too far. You can ask Doctor Talis, I believe he should have a doctorate in arrogance by now.”

Is he…?

“French vanilla latte for Viktor!”

—

Listening to him teach might as well count as hypnosis. 

When Viktor steps into the room, silence ensues gently, gradually. He’s not feared by any means, but he is respected. By the time he reaches the teacher’s desk and pulls out the chair from under it, the class has gone fully silent.

He sets it by the blackboard, then, slowly, bracing himself on both his cane and the backrest of it, takes a seat.

“Good morning.” He positions his cane between his thighs, clearing his throat with… perhaps almost a hint of awkwardness. “Alright. Before we begin today’s lecture, there has been a small change that everyone should be made aware of. This is my new assistant, (y/n) (l/n), and they will be joining us today. You will be addressing all questions you encounter outside of my lectures to them, from now on.”

Whispers spread across the amphitheater like wildfire.

“Now,” just like that, when his voice sounds out again, most of the chatter dies out, “today we’ll be discussing Holloran’s equation, and its applications in arcanistic techmaturgy.”

It’s magical, the command he has over the room. Viktor is a meager man, especially with the backdrop of such an imposing room. The high ceiling dwarfs him, and yet, there doesn’t seem to be a single atom in the room that doesn’t move the way he wants it to.

You’d known Viktor to be an eloquent man — you’d experienced it at your own detriment — but this beats your expectations. His explanations are enticing, he uses his words like breadcrumbs, leaves them tactfully, just enough to guide you to the conclusions he wants you to draw.

You’d never found so much satisfaction in simply listening. In spite of knowing full well the intricacies of what he is discussing, you let his voice envelop you, you follow him where he takes you.

“Now that we’ve established how Holloran’s equation exponentially heightens the energy output of Hexcrystals without disrupting the LHC — the laminal hexeon cascade — as I’m sure some of you may be wondering, how do the basic principles play into it? Any guesses?”

The class falls silent. You would give anything to be among the students right now, raising your hand to enounce the right answer. To have him looking at you like you’re bright.

You await with bated breath to see who in the crowd of focused frowns and scribbling pencils will dare speak first.

“Wouldn’t the caveat be that Talis’ fourth principle states that 30% of the energy output is converted into heat?” A young woman in the audience attempts. “Holloran’s equation operates based on the notion that the crystal is at a constant temperature.”

“Precisely. Very good,” Viktor praises. Excited, he turns to the blackboard. “Right here…” he underlines the equation, “is where Morichi’s constant comes into play…”

But you’ve long lost him.

The words twist in your head, turning into something sultry and intimate.

Precisely.

Very good.

Right here.

You find yourself staring at the groove of his pale neck, where it swoops into the line of his shoulder, hidden beneath the collar of a dress shirt and a brown wool vest.

You wonder what it’d smell like, to tuck your face in there. To have the pulse of his neck thrumming on your lips, to mouth at the mole on his jaw when he tilts his head for you, willing. 

You wonder how many more are below the collar of his shirt. Dotted line on a treasure map, to guide your touch, your kiss, your tongue. Use them where he needs them, use them where his skin begs you to. Use them until his tired spine bows, use them until tattered joins are oiled with pleasure—

What is wrong with you? 

—

Viktor disappears after his lecture. You hope he’d grace you with another conversation, another smile, something, but he is gone surprisingly fast. He bids you goodbye once his lecture is over, telling you he has matters to attend to, and that is that.

Overall, it’s an uneventful day otherwise. A few students end up messaging you, most with questions on what Viktor had taught that day. Others nitpicking what would and would not be a part of the upcoming midterm (whom you simply dryly referred to the syllabus). Two people, however, did message you to ask you how you’d landed the job.

You’d ignored them.

On Wednesday, you see none of him. You drop by his office after class, but there is no response to your knock, and the door is locked. He must have gone home.

On Thursday, you wait for him outside his office thirty minutes early for his 3PM lecture, but he doesn’t show. So you decide to go straight to the amphitheater, and do find him there.

He looks worn. No less graceful than the last time you’d seen him, but his cane has been ditched in the favor of a crutch that’s tucked under his arm. The creases in his checkered dress shirt and face seem deeper now, the pale indigo under his eyes is richer, darker.

He gives you nothing more than a curt greeting before class commences.

And yet, he never blunders. Never loses himself, his diction is as concise as the day you’d first met him, carrying himself with the grace of a swan as he talks and his chalk glides over the board. But his numbers slant, the loops on his letters are looser, the rows on the blackboard curve downwards to the right; just barely at first, but as the lecture advances, it becomes more obvious.

He cuts the class shorter by fifteen minutes. 

The students know better than to linger. Nobody comes to address any questions, and they leave the room surprisingly quick.

Once the amphitheater is empty enough that even the thump of his crutch reverberates on the wooden floor as he makes his way to the desk, you finally dare speak.

“Is… everything alright?” 

“Don’t start,” he cuts back, resting his crutch against the desk before bracing himself with both hands on the flat surface. He sighs, and does a futile attempt of relieving some of the tension in his spine by rolling his shoulders.

His joints crack, and you can see his sharp shoulder blades moving under his shirt, wings on a flightless bird.

And you’re not sure what to say.

“Sorry,” he finally adds, the harshness of his reply catching up to him. “Not… a good day.”

“Got off on the wrong side of the bed?” You attempt weakly, and, much to your utter surprise, he does actually smile.

“Mm. That might explain the past two decades or so.” He does finally look at you from below droopy eyelids, and though there’s not a doubt about him being tired still, there is more gentleness to it. As though woken out of a dream. He takes pity on the confused look on your face, and adds: “My bed is in a corner.”

Ah. 

“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything I can get you?”

“A new spine,” he jokes, hunching forward to crack his back, before he does his best to stand up straight once more. When he speaks again, his playful lilt is sorely missing. “Why are you here?”

“I want to attend your lectures — as many of them as I can, at least.”

Viktor shakes his head, mutters something both a little desperate and a little bitter in a foreign tongue. 

“You don’t need to do that. From now on, you can simply tell Cecil you were here. And I will confirm it, should he ask. But I do not need… a babysitter. I’m sure you have better things to do as well.”

What? Why would he think that?

“I…” you falter, “Heimerdinger didn’t put me up to this.”

He scoffs, not particularly at you, but it’s surprisingly hurtful nonetheless.

“I thought we had moved past the stage where you felt the need to lie.” He sighs. “I know he worries. There is nothing to worry about. In the unlikely event he does find out you haven’t been following me around as he asked, I will take full responsibility.”

That alone makes you worry. Had Heimerdinger neglected to tell you the full picture? What was there that warranted the dean himself worrying?

”I came to your lectures because I wanted to see you teach.” The last word is more of a lie than anything you’ve said thus far. “I admire your cogency. I want to absorb as much of it as I can.”

Viktor looks thoroughly unimpressed. “We also discussed how I feel about flattery, did we not?”

“It’s not flattery,” you argue. “I came here of my own volition because I think that there’s a lot I can learn from you, professor. Now, if you don’t want me here, you can simply give me the word, and I will act accordingly.”

He mulls it over for a long second while he shuts his leather briefcase. 

“Perhaps that would be best,” he finally decides. “For now, continue with your assigned duties. I will let you know if there is anything else I need from you.”

He practically scans you for a reaction, lays you out paper-thin on a glass slide, and slides you under his most potent microscope lens.

You don’t know if he finds what he’s looking for, because he doesn’t look long. He slings the strap of his briefcase over his shoulder, and turns toward the exit with renewed, but undoubtedly spiteful vigor.

“Have a good day.”

“You too, professor.”

—

“Oh, if it isn’t one of my favorite phD students!” 

The dean’s mustache curls almost comically with the over-the-top, but somehow still sincere smile he gives you.

“Hello, doctor Heimerdinger,” you greet, letting the smell of laquered wood and floors wash over you as you step into the pristine, impressive office. As opposed to Viktor's, the ceiling is higher, the windows bigger, and there are only sterile messes to be found in the room. A stack of books that is not as neat as the rest, a cactus that doesn’t look all too swell on the windowsill, and documents that are scattered over his workspace in a way that’s still neat.

“What can I do for you? I hope the first week of your collaboration with doctor Sidorov-Svoboda has gone smoothly.”

“That… is actually why I’m here.” You clear your throat awkwardly, and take a seat on the plush chair that faces his desk. Whatever it’s stuffed with, it’s comfortable, it has you sinking.

“I see. I know he can be… a tad, well, peppery at times,” Heimerdinger giggles at his own choice of words. “Give him some time. Once the two of you manage to find some common ground, I can assure you he is wonderful company, and an incredibly bright mind.”

“I don’t doubt any of those things.” You start kneading your hands in your lap, digging for the right words. God, social chess was never your forte. “I’m actually here because there has been a bit of a misunderstanding between the two of us that I was hoping you could clear up.”

“Oh.” His smile drops. “I’m listening.”

“You see, when… well, when I attended his lecture today — the second one I’ve attended — he seemed… very displeased with my presence.”

“Ah…” Heimerdinger falls silent for a long moment, gears turning in his bald head. “That… well,” he laughs awkwardly, “I’m afraid that might have been because he might wrongly assume I told you to do so.”

You nod curtly. “I know. He told me as much.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding. I will try speaking to him, but—“

“Actually, doctor, that isn’t why I came to you,” you cut in, “he told me more than just that. He said you’d put me up to this because you were… worried about him.”

At that, the smile on Heimerdinger’s face is entirely gone.

“Naturally, that also got me… quite worried. I came to you because I wanted to know the full picture of this… arrangement I’ve gotten into.”

“I see,” Heimerdinger sinks in his seat, folding his hands in front of his blond mustache as he picks his words carefully. “Well, since you have been made aware of this fact, I suppose there is no harm in admitting that I do, in fact, worry about Viktor. Him and I have history, so to speak. I’ve known him for many years, and, though he has remained the same bold, ambitious young man within, I sometimes fear old age may be catching up to him. But! That is not something you need to concern yourself with. The sole purpose of hiring you was to create a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your resume will certainly benefit from his name, and as for him, I wanted to simply… lighten his workload. But that is all I expect of you.”

“I understand.” And you do, to some degree — but Heimerdinger’s whole speech has done nothing but raise more questions than provide any real answers.

“Would you still like me to speak to him on this matter?” He asks.

“No.” With renewed courage and curiosity, you rise from the comfortable chair. “Thank you, professor. For this, and for putting in a good word for me with professor Sidorov-Svoboda.”

“Of course,” he smiles — genuinely, this time. “Though it might sound quite absurd to you now, considering the current circumstances… the two of you are more alike than you may believe.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, either. So you just smile back.

—

On Friday night, as you’re poring over your thesis with a warm mug of tea as a panacea for your racing thoughts and lack of inspiration, you receive an email.

Apologies

From: v.sidorovsvoboda@uofp.edu

To: me

Good evening.

I wanted to formally apologize for what happened on Wednesday. Accusing you of something you hadn’t done was unjustified and unprofessional of me. You are always welcome to my lectures, should you still wish to attend. 

I was also hoping to speak to you in person on Monday. Would 1 PM still work for you? Let me know.

Thank you.

VSS

It comes as a surprise, to have someone in his position apologize so… willingly. You wonder if Heimerdinger had talked to him after all, and if so, what he might have said to turn the odds so terribly in your favor. Again.

You write a fast reply: you thank him too, above all else. You consider saying you hadn’t expected and apology, but you fear that might come off wrong, so you ultimately ditch that part.

And you tell him yes. 1 PM would work for you.

—

You attend his 10AM lecture on Monday, but this time, you don’t wait for him at his office. Though eager and enthusiastic, you fear your initial approach of waiting for him thirty minutes early might have been too stifling.

So you wait outside the lecture hall. He shows up ten minutes early, crutch under one arm, coffee in his other.

There is just a hint of foam on his upper lip, where grey-brown stubble shows. He licks the milk away before he even sees you, and you’re thankful for it — being caught staring at the pink of his smart tongue darting over the curve of his top lip considering the current circumstances would not have been a good look.

“Good morning,” he greets. Though he’s still using the crutch, he seems to be in an improved mood as opposed to the last time you saw him. “I must admit… I did not expect you here already.”

“If you’ll have me, I want to come,” you say. 

Something about that catches him off-guard, the swell of his Adam's apple bobs and his eyes widen just a hint. But he’s fast, always is, and he straightens up and clears his throat before you get to analyze him the way you wish you could.

“Ahem. Well. I’m happy to hear that.” He gestures to the door as if he’d almost forgotten he was holding a coffee, because it sloshes just a hint too loud. Fortunately, there are no victims to the small droplet that spills from the plastic cover. Viktor frowns, most likely with frustration at himself, before he turns to you. “Alright. After you.”

You step into the lecture hall first, per his request. The room begins to quiet when the students see you, but as you turn around to hold the door open to him, it gets worse.

You do not care for the curious, gossip-hungry glances that rest on you.

—

“I appreciate your openness regarding the discussion of this matter,” Viktor begins, shutting his office door behind himself. “Coffee?”

He dips his hand behind an old but trusty looking coffee machine that sits on the table next to the door. You hadn’t noticed it the first time you were here.

The hint of a frown as his fingers roam the space between the back of the machine and the wall is doing… something to you.

“Yes, please.”

“I must warn you,” his voice lilts again in that pleasant, playful way, like a cat twirling figure eights between one’s legs, “it is significantly less… fun than the ones at the cafe. I only have sugar.”

He finds the switch on its back, finally, and there’s a little pop as he flips it, before he retreats his hand.

“Works for me,” you assure. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Mainly, I wanted to eh… extend my apologies to you in person.” His glasses ride further up his nose as he pinches the bridge of it, rolling his shoulders, as if to draw courage. “And to put my… reaction into some context, should you be willing to hear it.”

You hope it’s not outwardly visible that your heart starts vibrating. 

He has been on your mind much more than you would like to admit, tangled in questions, in guesses. You unfortunately have the mark of a true scientist — nothing scratches an itch in your soul quite like having your questions answered.

“I would.”

Viktor retrieves a stack of single-use cardboard cups from one of his drawers, sliding out two, which he positions under the coffee machine. He presses the same button twice, then gestures to the chair that faces his desk.

“Have a seat.”

You do.

He lingers beside the coffee machine, resting the backs of his thighs against the edge of the table it’s on as he starts to think.

Just now, it strikes you that maybe social chess isn’t always his forte, either.

“People tend to… underestimate me,” he begins. The coffee machine whirrs, clicks, whirrs again — and then coffee starts to trickle. He tucks his free hand into the pocket of his slacks in what attempts to be dejection, but clearly isn’t. “And while that is an advantage in a competitive environment, it’s not something I appreciate coming from my colleagues.”

“I wasn’t…”

“I know that. Now.” He clears his throat, then, with a show of surprising dexterity, slides his hand from his pocket and grabs both cups with one hand — one tucked between his index and middle finger, the other tucked between his middle and ring finger. You reach out to offer your help, but he sets down both cups on his desk, then hobbles around it, and finally takes his rightful seat on the opposing side. “I unfortunately can’t say the same for Cecil. He does try, and more often than not, he is tactful about these matters, but there is the occasional… slip-up. I try to understand; him and I… have history, as he likes to say.”

You would love to know the exact implications of said history. From what you’d heard, there was the consensus that Viktor had been something of a protege to Heimerdinger, twenty or so years ago, before he’d made it big and co-created the field of applied arcanism. 

“I’ve taken up some new responsibilities lately,” Viktor adds, “and Cecil, though worried as ever, has… overstepped some boundaries of mine. You were caught in the crossfire of that, which is hardly fair to you. I’m sorry.”

“Was he the one who convinced you to hire me?”

Viktor shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “Eeeh… partially.” 

“I think I understand your issue with his… overstepping. To some degree.” You take the cardboard cup, blowing the steam away, before you take a sip. “I would also have preferred to be hired by you because you wanted it, not because you'd been talked into it, but… well, I’m glad it ultimately still happened, I suppose.”

“Rest assured that the decision was still mine alone,” Viktor replies. Smart eyes watch you over the rim of the cup as he takes a sip himself.

Silence settles. A telltale sign you should get going — but you don’t want to.

“You mentioned some extra responsibilities,” you attempt. He’d shut down your curiosity before, but you’ll be damned if that’s going to deter you from trying again. “Within the university, or… personal?”

“Within the university.” Viktor sets the cup down, sharp joints jutting out as he intertwines his fingers around the circumference of it, hands resting on the table. There is a mole on his left ring finger, right under the knucklebone. “I have been trying my hand at independent research.”

You only notice the fact that you’d leaned in closer with interest when a tiny smug smile ghosts over his face. 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but that is just about all I should be telling you.”

Oh, come on.

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

His brows raise with surprise, and for the very first time since you’d known him, Viktor seems genuinely stumped.

“Your… research,” you clarify. “And I could show you what I have for my thesis so far.”

“Oh. Alright, I will, eh… bite.” Taking his paper cup with him, Viktor leans back in his seat, and watches you like a cat watches birds. Not necessarily on the prowl — but with great interest. “Tell me.”

“Me first?”

“You suggested it,” he smirks. “It seems only fair, does it not?”

Uncertainty halts you. You have to wonder if Viktor Sidorov-Sviboda is the kind of man that would steal an idea.

You’ve heard he’d gotten the short end of the stick in his partnership with Jayce Talis — though he’d contributed greatly, his name was sorely amiss from all the terms, laws, anything Talis had coined in their domain.

He must know what it’s like to be cheated out of well-deserved credit.

You suppose he wouldn’t propagate the cycle — but in the off case he does, you have a handful of professors who could vouch for your idea being yours, on account of having vaguely, barely, helped with your thesis. None had been too keen on such a touchy subject as the one you were breaching, and were resistant to offering their opinion.

You hope Viktor won’t fall into that same category.

Part of you already knows he doesn’t.

“Alright.” Though you’re not exactly excited to have your own strategy used against you, you can only hope he’ll hold up his end of the bargain. “My thesis is on the hexionic model. Within and outside the context of a matrix.”

Viktor scoffs with amusement, rather than plain mockery. But there is a taste of it in there, somewhere, in the curve of his lip. “You theorists and your hexionic models. Any attempt at a new hypothesis is no less flawed than the last.”

And it’s thrilling. To be challenged, instead of praised, or dismissed. It makes something in you catch fire, every word itches behind your teeth, like you need to tell him.

“That’s exactly why I’m proposing an entirely different hexion model in my paper.“

His pupils widen so much his eyes go dark. Like a cat about to pounce. 

“Oh? Tell me.”

“If we accept that the very core of a hexion’s energy release is based on entropy, on the desire for disarray, and we apply that to a hexion’s very structure… I believe there’s something to be made of the whole mess we are currently facing.”

Viktor had been holding his breath. You notice, because it sounds just a tad sharper when he finally draws a reluctant inhale, and, gears in that mind of his turning fast, sharp, steady, he finds another way to refute your point. 

“Like Pididdly’s hexion model?”

“No,” you say. “Though I bet Pididdly will wish he could come up with what I have. Can I have a pen and some paper?”

You have him now. 

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Viktor tugs the drawer of his desk open so hard it thunks, digging for a scrap of paper and a pen. When you take it, holding the paper between the two of you, he leans in, too, enough for you to be able to smell his aftershave — the aquatic spice softened by flowery vanilla.

It’s intoxicating enough to have the storm of ideas in your mind going quiet, buzzing. You manage to untangle them before you make a fool of yourself.

“My model is proposing disordered order, so to speak. The hexion is split up into different parts as Torek suggested in his hypothesis. But I think she was too small minded in her approach. For my model, I use the concept of something I’m calling areals. Different areals for different component particles. I believe particles will never be in a fixed, certain place.” You draw the centrion — though hypothetically an ochtahemiocyahedron — as a sphere for simplicity’s sake, surrounded by three vaguely defined layers. Viktor rests both elbows on his desk, sharp chin on intertwined fingers, watching with a tilt of his head. Your mouth’s gone dry. “These areals are… spaces where, if you were to look, at any given moment, the likelihood of you finding a specific hexion particle in its assigned areal is high — but never 100%. They are constantly moving, oscillating, vibrating —  within their areal. Like I said: disordered order. And this theory also holds up in the context of matrices — for the most part. There are some kinks I need to iron out, but… this is the gist of it.”

At that, he lights up. 

“Extraordinary,” Viktor mutters. It’s music to your ears, rolls down your spine in a wave of dopamine, tingles all over. He taps his finger to the schematic  diagram, then stares into your eyes so thoroughly you wonder if he can see into the depths of your amygdala. There is maybe a palm’s length between your faces, a gap you itch to breach. He says the next thing like a solemn secret. “This could be beyond revolutionary.”

“Thank you.”

Viktor doesn’t miss a beat when he says: “I would like to help you with your thesis. Should you require it.” 

Now that knocks your knees out from under you. You’re lucky you’re sitting.

One of the founding fathers of applied arcanism wants to read your thesis? Wants to help you?

“I…” You can’t remember to breathe, your mouth’s gone thick and cottony and swallowing is a distant dream and he is looking right at you, young and hungry and alive underneath the barely composed shell of himself. “I’d be thrilled.”

He grins, the top of his lip a mere thin line over his teeth. 

“I already am,” he lilts. You watch the way his mouth moves — the curl of his tongue against the back of his teeth as he rolls his heavy, thick r, the plush purse of them on the m.

And when you remember to look into his eyes again, you catch him red handed.

He’d been staring at your lips, too.

Startled with the reality, the puzzle-piece-click of knowing, the both of you retreat into your seats. With a shaky hand, you pick your cup back up, and take a sip from your coffee. It’s gone lukewarm.

“I’d like to ask you to print it, if possible.” His voice is bridled again, steady, certain. Normal. He tugs on another drawer, and retrieves something shiny, metallic. A key. He lays it on the table, sliding it towards you. “You can use the printer in my office, if need be.”

“I can print what I have so far this evening, and leave it for you here. Would that work for you?”

”Yes.” 

You look at the clock on his wall — it’s entirely later than it should be. You have a lab you should be getting to. 

“Could you spare some time on your lunch break tomorrow?” Viktor asks, clearly having read your mind again, somehow. “I think I should have it read through by then.”

“Absolutely, but… you don’t even know how much there is to read through.”

He smiles. “If you write with the same enthusiasm you talk, rest assured I will tear through it.”

[sweettoothy]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐃

╰ SHOW ﹕ ARCANE !

︵ WARNING(S) ﹕╰ swearing ⸝ violence ﹕ sex

︵ relationship ﹕ Vi x fem!fragile!reader x Caitlyn

— pt.2 : watch it all burn.

⟣・S2・HEAVY IS THE CROWN︰

THE SOUND OF screaming could be heard when you had awoken from being on the ground, your hair in a messy style as you couldn’t see your surroundings. was Jayce and viktor okay? was everyone alright? mel..? of course you wouldn’t know, everything in your body hurt, it felt like some sort of piece of metal lodged in your side.

Being a well trained solider had its many perks but you weren’t prepared for this. Of course you weren’t. like they say, the most unexpected things come.

For you though it felt a little far fetched whenever your mom would tell you the stories about the ghost and salem. Where the witch would be haunted down and hunted but towards the end they found her having did no wrong doing.

Sad tale it was. really.

Everything on your body hurt like hell, the only voice you could hear was Jayce’s. was he carrying you and viktor? probably.

That dude had some incredible strength.

JAYCE SITS IN a chair with his head in his hand, looking over at viktor who lays inside the hextech. seeing you and viktor in this condition was tearing him limb from limb, not in a gruesome way but a much more sadder way.

He had hated not being able to protect the both of you, it felt like hell. But you know, some things just come and go…you lay there on a bed with a bunch of iv’s attached to your arms and lower half, your hair was in a messy bun since Jayce had tried thing it himself.

Mel walks inside his office as she takes a look around, her eyes landing on Jayce. “How are they?” She questioned.

“Same as before. They’re both breathing.” Jayce answers in reply, a distressed look on his face. “Their pluses are consistent. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mines.”

Mel walks over to viktor, her eyes landing on the hextech as she starts reaching her hand out with curiosity. When she goes to touch it, it reacts differently with her making her gasp and step back.

“What’s it doing to him?” Mel questions.

“The hexcore has been evolving.” Jayce explains, “shifting through runic patters faster than I can keep up. All I know for certain is that it’s keeping him and her alive.”

Jayce eyes land on where you laid, his heart aching with devastation as he sees you reacting differently to the hextech aside from viktor, your body was rejecting it but also accepting it at the same time.

If it was the only thing keeping you alive he wasn’t gonna mess with it.

“It should be me up there instead of him. I should be laying in that bed instead of her,” Jayce grumbled, gesturing to an unconscious you on the bed barely breathing. “Vi and cait are gonna lose it.”

“Don’t say that.” Mel placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “They’ll both come back to us.”

“I still don’t understand.” Jayce replies. “They were both right next to me. How does the explosion do that to them, and I just…? I just walk out without a scratch? [name] almost lost a hand, my god.”

Mel sighs. “There’s no sense to these things, Jayce.”

The male was quiet for a while before speaking again, “how’d it go with the council?” he asks.

Mel scoffs. “My mother’s entered the game. She’s already gotten her hooks into salo. Using his grief to make a play for hextech.”

“Mel, I promised viktor, never again.” Jayce tells the woman.

Mel places her hand over his. “It’s all right. I handled it. I won’t let them corrupt your dream.”

Jayce looks over at an unconscious you again, before laying his head on mel’s thighs, tears threaten to fall down his eyes but he holds them back.

He just wanted you and viktor back, that’s all.

You were very important to caitlyn and vi after all.

“I should get going now.” Mel says, “you might want to spend some alone time with them.”

With that, she stood up and patted his shoulder one last time before walking out the door. The door slams shut behind her by itself, making Jayce flinch a little.

He feels you stir, his head perks up immediately.

When it does, he saw you already staring at him, a confused look on your gaze.

“What was that about?” You questioned, sitting up with your back pressed against the pillows. It was a little hard to breathe but it was manageable with the breathing machine.

“I don’t even care-- i just-- you’re--?” Jayce launches forward and pulls you into a huge, a huge so tight you had gasped. He wasn’t hugging you too tight as though you couldn’t breathe— he just hugged you with desperation and worry.

“Woah! hey, hey, it’s okay.” You reassured, patting his back. “I’m okay.”

He was so happy to hear your voice.

“ONE OF THE MANY PRIVILEGES OF SERVING AS YOUR COUNCILOR IS HAVING THE OCCASION NOW AND AGAIN TO STAND BEHIND THIS PODIUM TO BEHOLD SO MANY JOINED TOGETHER NOT BY BIRTH OR DICTUM BUT BY ALL THAT WE SHARE.” MEL SPOKE as you stood by the other guards to keep watch, your back was leaned against the wall as the wound with the patch on your side was being healed. Your biceps flexing under the light as your toned abs still hurting from the explosion, but the wounds would heal, you were sure.

You glanced down at the tattoo on your hip and let your thumb graze over it, remembering when it was given.

You see one of the enforcers walk past you, you look them up and down by their attire before your brows furrowed— something felt wrong.

Heading into the crowd you lock gazes with vi, the both of you nodding towards one another before following the enforcer. But another person caught your attention as well, making you turn around and face the other way.

“The hell..?” You whisper lowly.

You push past the crowd of civilians as your hips sway when walking, and you walked with a purpose.

To figure out who the hell these people were.

Walking over to the other enforcers you climbed over the railing, your thighs still hurting but of course you forgot to bring your crutches for support. But it’s whatever.

“Wait, wait, ma’am you can’t--“

“Excuse me, I’m an enforcer too.” You say firmly as your eyes narrowed at the man. “So I can get pass, just like the rest of you.”

“We can’t even go in, so we can’t let you in either.”one of the enforcers replies. “Plus, you’re still injured from the attack so…”

Your piercing (e/c) eyes looked into the man’s brown ones, making his eyes widen a little— least to say, he was intimidated.

“Move, please,” you pleaded this time. “I feel like something is very wrong.”

Caitlyn looks over her shoulder and noticed the panicked look on your face— you would never randomly fuss about anything.

She knew something was wrong.

“Awful, isn’t it?”

Jayce looks over his shoulder when he hears a woman’s voice.

“Losing a loved one.”

When Jayce slowly turns around, the woman slips off her mask as she grabs her chainsaw, swining it at Jayce who barely dodged out of the way quickly.

Everyone starts screaming and shouting, rushing off to find somewhere safe.

“Get all the civilians to safety.” You told the enforcers before turning around to go and find Jayce, your leg still hurting from the explosion. you couldn’t walk around with a weak and injured leg but you thought against it.

“Jayce!” You shouted, searching for him. “Where are you? Jayce?!”

Someone suddenly slams you into a wall, making you hit the solid platform hard. A weak cry of pain escapes past your lips as you slid down the wall, clutching your arm.

Staggering to your knees, you rushed to get away from whatever was chasing you.

Get away, get away, get away

That was just going through your mind.

Something slashes in your back through your coat, “ah!” You shriek as you collapsed to your knees and hit the ground. Back arched as you tried crawling away from whatever had attacked you.

They grab onto your hair, arm wrapping around your neck once they finally got the chance to turn you around, the air in your lungs seemed to have collapsed the second they tighten their large hand around your throat.

You kick and flail your legs around as you gasped for air, eyes heavy and face turning blue as you choked— the breath you were now trying to breathe was very toxic seeping into your nostrils and throat.

You use your fists to hit at the man’s hands, he watched with a sadistic grin on his lips as the life in your eyes were starting to fade.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as the life in your eyes seemed to have been fading.

“Get the fuck away from her!” Vi shouted as she rushed towards the much bigger man and knocked him in the face with her knee.

You collapsed to the ground, gasping for air as you clutched at your own throat.

Vi rushed over to you with concern, cupping your cheek as she leaned over you. “Are you okay? does anything hurt?”

“Vi?” You croaked weakly, grasping at her wrist.

Vi presses your hand against her fast beating chest, concern wiping her features. “It’s me. It’s me. you’re okay.”

She helps you up, “I’ll be right back. go and try to find cait, okay?”

You nodded before rushing off to find caitlyn.

“Cait!” You called out.

You couldn’t even get as far before you hit the ground, passing out.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

[seratopia]

vi x reader - get up

→ she/her pronouns!

vi thinks of you during the fight with sevika **note: you both loved eachother, back in the lanes. vi thinks you're dead. the last time she saw you was when you were both 17.

The slightest bit of dread starts to fill Vi's stomach when she sees Sevika's bubbling-hot blade pierce through the rickety pool table. The red from the blade is angry, glowing with melted residue dripping off of it. Vi quickly backs away from the table, throwing up her hands as to guard herself from the violent slashes of the sword.

Sevika slices through the table with ease, chopping up a triangle-shaped opening through the wood. As Sevika emerges from the burning-hot opening, she lazily throws her arm at Vi, sending a streak of hot light through the air.

Vi raises her gloves up, ducking her head down. With a smirk, Sevika mercilessly throws fiery slashes towards Vi, each of them growing larger by the second. Sevika marches straight into Vi, slamming down the scarlet blade down directly onto Vi's mech gloves. The gloves falter under the pressure, sending Vi's skin to bubble and blister from the heat.

Vi shrieks from the searing pain of the burn, just before Sevika pulls the knife away and throws a harsh punch to her face. With her vision slightly delayed from the blow, Vi throws a punch to Sevika. The woman sinks her metal fingers into Vi's arm, activating her blade to pierce straight through the mech glove.

Sparking and sputtering with HexTech electricity, the glove deactivates, thumping to the ground and bringing Vi with it. With Vi's hand still stuck in the heavy glove, Sevika takes the chance to hurl a hard punch to her face. Vi practically stumbles on the tips of her feet, the heaviness of the glove sending her face-first into the other side of the bar.

Sevika's arm conveniently starts to falter from so much heat, the bright purple glow beginning to flicker as she takes a few heavy breaths. Vi slumps to the ground, her face smushed into a mixture of bar floor and her own blood. Her brain is almost cloudy, where she could only hear the sound of her light breathing as she tries to refocus her vision.

There's the faintest flicker of you, a ghost of your glowing-white silhouette as her heavy eyelids begin to fall.

Almost, just almost, does Vi flutter her eyes closed, ready to give up.

"That was a real one." She hears you mutter, with a giggle at the end. Vi lets out a ghost of a chuckle.

A gentle, kind warmth fills her to her toes, drifting in blurred memories of you. Ones that are faded, altered, and distant. She's almost forgotten your face over the years, the sound of your cackle, how your skin feels against hers.

Vi hears the airy chuckle that she used to adore, picturing the way you used to laugh when she'd tease you back in the lanes. Your sweet, sugary voice practically pulls her mind awake, cracking open her eyes just the tiniest bit.

You're sat up top the counter, lightly swinging your legs up and down as you peer down at Vi with a tiny smile. She doesn't see you, but feels you nearby.

"I wish I could be there too, y'know?" You start, pausing your leg-swinging. "I'm sorry, Vi. I know it's hard." You almost whisper.

Vi sighs in response, tempted to twist her neck up in forbidden ways just to catch of glimpse of you. Are you really there? Did you come back from the dead? Did you miss her like she misses you?

You then step down from your seat at the counter, making no sound as you lightly kneel closer to her, placing your hands on the floor. She sees a hint of your hand at most, glowing pure white, unreal. You tenderly swipe away a lock of her pink hair away from her bloodied face, laying your cheek against your knee as you peer down at Vi.

For a moment, she forgets all about Sevika, basking in the warmth of your touch.

"She needs you... We need you. So, how about it, hm?" You say, bending down further so she can hear your quiet voice.

A light ignites in her silver eyes, slowly feeling her strength return to her. With a sigh, Vi squeezes her eyes shut. Despite all the pain, the deep ache in her arms, the gravity pulling her down to the floor, Vi pushes herself up with a groan. She spits out a gummy molar from her mouth, letting thick red blood drip from her nose.

Straining her arms to push herself up, Vi slowly raises her head, her eyes traveling from your knees, all the way up to your face. It doesn't seem real for a moment, seeing your smiling self as clear as day. Vi gazes into your eyes with an awed expression, her brows softened and her lips slightly parted.

You're beautiful, as young as the day she lost you.

With your eyes half-lidded, you slowly press your body forward, taking Vi's chin in your hand and pressing a tender kiss to her lips. Vi savors the feeling of your lips against hers; she forgets to move. Her eyes almost flutter shut again.

The kiss ends as soon as it starts, before you step back up to your full height. Vi peers up at you, and you give her a small nod, gesturing with a flick of your hand.

Her legs shake, her arms twitch, but Vi rises, pulling the heavy weight of the gloves with her. With a roll of her right shoulder, Vi stands back to her full height. She savors your appearance in front of her, wondering how long it'll be before you're gone again. She doesn't want you to go, whether you're real or not.

Giving you one last faithful look, you salute to her a goodbye. She slowly turns back towards Sevika.

Vi drops the broken glove onto the ground with a loud thud. Sevika's face twists into shock when she sees Vi, who spits out onto the floor and returns to her guard position.

"Go get 'em, Vi."

© 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒂.

[trappolia]

── NO GRAVE CAN HOLD MY BODY DOWN

(minor spoilers for season 2!) sevika. near what feels like death, sevika has a revelation and a confession.

Sevika thinks two things when the Hexcore's static passes through her scar and seizes her bloodstream.

One: she can't believe that she's writhing on the floor in agony, beaten by Vi's little Piltie girlfriend in her ridiculous beret.

Two: she might actually die today.

It's ridiculous, she thinks, how everyone has gone to absolute shit. There's a new sort of madness glinting in Jinx's no-longer-baby-blues (the odd magenta shimmer of her eyes sends a shiver down her spine) and not to mention that little shit that has tagged along in this operation, with Jinx doing little to dissuade the runt besides some sarcastic melodramatic warning and a few finger guns. And now they're here, beaten and clawing at each other's faces wildly like fucking children (she can see Jinx in her peripheral, has never seen her fight so sloppily with her little hands; she understands now why Silco had insisted her skills laid in engineering and inventions, rather than the fists that her sister wielded so boldly) and Sevika doesn't know where the fuck Isha is nor does she know what the fuck is going on with their weapons. Her new arm is fine, albeit heavy with extra weight and throbbing with phantom pain— but something had gone wrong

She's going to die. She's going to fucking die, and because of some fucking magic trick gone wrong.

Sevika doesn't fear death. Hell, she's lasted a lot longer than what her own mother thought. Life down here in the Undercity is nothing like the wealth and opulence and light of Piltover's Topside. To some, death may have been a blessing. Some days, Sevika thinks that it's better than cleaning up after Jinx's messes and running Silco's errands.

But Silco is dead, and the one thing he loved more than their city is off the fucking rails. Sevika can't die now. Not with these fucking blue bellies gassing her home with the fucking Grey again, not when there's so much left to be done.

And maybe there's a third thing in the mix too. Caught between rage and pure, genuine terror, Sevika twitches and grunts and claws at her skin, thinking: Fuck. Fuck. She's going to die like a wimp whimpering on the cold stone, and she's never going to see you again.

Sevika is not the romantic sort. Before you, she'd found simple pleasures in the smoky rooms of Margo's brothels, or pretty doe-eyed lasses she met at the bar. But now she finally finds it in herself to admit that for fucking once, she might have wanted to take you to a candlelit dinner. Seen you giggle and shit about her poor attempts at romance— not the malicious sort of giggle, no, but fond. Endlessly fond, in the way Sevika never deserved.

The thing — magic, engineering, Hextech or whatever the fuck it's called — crackles across her veins and bones, setting fire to her blood and the viscera that sits contained under her skin. Her body gives another involuntary jerk. It's certainly not her first time having the misfortune of being caught at the wrong place at the wrong time— hell, that blue explosion all those years ago is the reason she has to rely on a metal arm now. But this is different, wrong. It sinks deep into her bones, claws at the essence of her being with its arcane

Sevika tries to scream, but she can't.

In the ringing between her ears, Sevika can only think of where she could be— anywhere but here, either dying or something far, far worse. She wants to sit by your bar after a long day's work while listening to you re-tell the odd and frankly ridiculous narratives your patrons tell you when they're neck deep in drink and tab. She wants to wake up in the middle of the night when you roll over and instinctively press yourself to her side for warmth in your sleep. And maybe, more than anything, she wants to go back in time and cradle your face when you beg her not to leave, kiss you and tell you that she'll be home in time for dinner.

(She'd dismissed you then, told you that a spoiled Piltie couldn't beat her ass hard enough to keep her down.

She was wrong. So fucking wrong.)

Sevika thinks of you now, waiting at home. Anxious; oh, so anxious, because Silco is dead and Jinx has been haywire and who is level-headed enough to at least attempt to clean everything up, but she's only one woman and the Chembarons are fucking deranged and she's just— just—

"Just come home safe, Vika."

Fuck. Fuck.

From her periphery, she registers Cait — Vi's little girlfriend, that prestigious bitch — stumbling to her feet, fumbling for her glitching (why the fuck is it glitching?) rifle. Sevika moans in pain, trying to will some strength into her muscles to get up, fucking get up! Cait can't be a better shot than Jinx. No one is. But Jinx is out of weapons, having been clawing at Vi with her bare hands and pink-blue nails for what might have been just a minute or hours, Sevika's brain is too muddled to tell. But she knows Jinx, knows that she's nearly damn useless when it comes to rationality without her sanity and her trinkets, and when she's squabbling with Vi so blindly, so violently, Sevika knows Cait will have a clear shot.

And she does.

Sevika hears a cry. Pained, almost child-like. She thinks its Jinx, at first— and for a split moment, it is. Jinx, blue-haired, glossy-eyed, a finger shot straight off its knuckle. Electricity crackles over the palm of her gloved hands, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly with each breath she takes.

But then the pain overtakes Sevika again, and she clutches at her rib, her leg— everything. She wants it out, but she doesn't know where it even is.

When her eyes clear again and she can breathe semi-properly, it's Isha now. That little runt with her mop of messy brown hair and that stupid helmet that's toppled to the floor. Vi is straddling her sister-- or was, before that stupid kid ran from where she was hiding in the rafters (when had she gotten down, and how did she do it so quickly?), shoved herself between the pink-haired turncoat and Jinx.

There's two holding a gun now.

Words being spoken. Isha wails, clinging onto Jinx fiercely even when Jinx tries to shove her off, equal parts frustrated and confused by the younger girl's behaviour. Sevika thinks of you, just as quick to shove yourself between Sevika and danger when the two of you had been barely strangers.

"Come back to me."

A groan rips itself from her throat, silent but pained. Sevika pulls herself to her feet, the goddamned Devil's lightning still crackling around her limbs like some fancy magic trick gone horribly wrong (She hopes it doesn't ruin her new arm. She literally just got it this week, goddammit.) Cait's back is turned to her, the Enforcer's hands gripping her rifle like a lifeline— but too stupid, too caught up in playing hero for her fucked little kingdom to notice the heavy footfalls behind her.

She stumbles to the wall, wracks her brain for somethng. She's missing it. Sevika blames it on that damn Jinx, the way she yaps like an overexcited puppy when she's explaining her plans; and the way she never actually elaborates on them, because "Sevika is too dumb, Sevika won't get it." Stupid kid. Sevika needs to get her out of here.

"Sevika. Please, don't do this," your pretty face, your teary little eyes. You're a tough little cookie, Sevika knows, like a stubborn weed growing in their nasty streets, but you're always so quick to tears when you think Sevika's staking her bets too high.

Maybe she did. But she can't lose the game. Not now.

One more bet.

Her human arm fumbles clumsily over the flat stone wall— not one of those pillars that Jinx and Vi had so recklessly ruined in their squabble. She feels along the ridges, remembers the flares and bombs that Jinx had planted all around Topside.

There's a click.

"Don't go."

Oh, she's not going. She's got another day yet.

[zerun0]

"Happy Progress Day" — Viktor x Y/N (Female)

English is not my first language. Feel free to comment on any of my mistakes and i will update the post. — ! WARNING NSFW(+18): ! — Sexual themes, Sex, Flirting, Making out, Teasing, Oral sex, Vaginal, Dom!Viktor. — Word count: — 5.1k (Full uncut version on AO3)

The night sky over Piltover shimmered with anticipation, the crackling energy of Progress Day coursing through the streets. The air was electric, filled with the hum of invention and the promise of a brighter future. People bustled about, eager for the celebrations to begin, but amid the revelry, you found yourself in the secluded heights of Viktor’s lab, perched above the chaotic world below, filled with luxury and rich laughs and children running around with sparklers in their tiny hands.

You stood by the wide, arched window, your gaze drawn to the cityscape illuminated by the twinkling lights of lanterns. The view was spectacular, the spires of Piltover looming beneath the darkened sky. However, your attention kept drifting back to Viktor, who sat at his desk, eyes locked on blueprints, working tirelessly even as the world outside prepared for celebration.

"Viktor," you called softly, stepping closer. "You’ve been at that all day. Don’t you think it’s time to take a break? Even for Progress Day?"

He looked up, his golden eyes reflecting the flicker of nearby lamplight. He smiled, that rare, genuine curve of his lips that always made your heart skip. "Actual progress doesn’t stop... for fireworks," he teased lightly, though there was warmth in his voice.

You chuckled, closing the distance between you until you stood beside him, your hand brushing against his. "Maybe not, but even the brightest minds deserve a moment to enjoy life."

Viktor’s gaze softened, the intensity of his work giving way to something else, something more personal. His fingers lingered over yours, a tentative, intimate gesture. "Perhaps," he murmured, glancing back to the window, where the first crackle of fireworks was starting to light up the sky. "But I prefer my celebrations... in quieter company."

You felt the warmth rise in your cheeks at his words, your pulse quickening as he intertwined his fingers with yours. "I can think of a way we could celebrate," you whispered, the suggestion heavy in your voice as you leaned closer to him.

Viktor’s breath caught, his eyes narrowing slightly, not in disapproval but in curiosity. "Oh?" His tone was low, intrigued. "And what would you suggest?"

Your other hand rested on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his shirt. You could feel the slight tension in his body as you moved closer, pressing your lips gently to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. His sharp intake of breath made your heart race, emboldening you.

"I can think of a few things," you whispered against his skin, your fingers tracing delicate patterns along his chest. "Something that doesn’t require blueprints or hextech."

Viktor turned toward you fully now, his focus shifting entirely. His hand, still wrapped around yours, tightened just a fraction, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. "You’ve captured my attention," he murmured, his voice low and rough in a way that sent heat pooling in your stomach. "But I warn you...I may not be so easily distracted."

The challenge in his words spurred you on, your lips grazing his jawline as your hands slipped to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. "Then I’ll just have to try harder," you whispered.

Viktor’s eyes darkened, the golden hue of them gleaming in the dim light of the lab. He pulled you closer, his body leaning into yours until you were pressed against his desk, your hands gripping the edge for balance. The intensity between you built as he dipped his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow, deliberate, and entirely Viktor—controlled, thoughtful, yet filled with a hunger that sent a shudder through your entire body.

The fireworks outside exploded in vibrant colors, but the world around you faded as you focused on him—on the way his hands moved to your waist, steady but eager. His fingers teased the hem of your shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to brush against your skin, and the contact sent a wave of heat through you.

He broke the kiss for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he took a breath, eyes half-lidded and filled with desire. "You’re a dangerous distraction," he whispered, the corner of his lips lifting in that crooked smile of his.

"Maybe that’s exactly what you need," you replied, your voice breathless.

With a quiet chuckle, he leaned in again, capturing your lips once more, this time with more urgency. His hands roamed your body, deft and skillful, like he was discovering something new with every touch. The sensation was intoxicating, pulling you deeper into the moment as your body responded to his every movement.

As the fireworks outside turned into a riot of color and sound, you found yourself lost in Viktor’s touch. His lips left a trail of fire down your neck, and your breath hitched as he whispered your name against your skin. His hands, no longer restrained by hesitation, explored every curve of your body, as though memorizing you by feel alone.

With a soft groan, Viktor pulled you closer, his body flush against yours. He lifted you effortlessly onto the desk, his hands spreading your legs to fit against him. His breath was warm against your collarbone as he kissed his way down, and when his lips met the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped you.

As his hips pressed against yours, there was feeling of a gentle, but growing erection.

He paused, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, eyes dark with desire. "Is this what you had in mind for our celebration?" he asked, voice thick with need.

You smirked, your fingers curling into his hair, tugging gently. "It’s a good start," you teased, your voice low and sultry.

Viktor growled softly, his lips crashing into yours again with renewed fervor. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling the heat and the growing erection of his intimacy against yours. His hands roamed under your shirt, pushing the fabric up until it was discarded somewhere on the floor. He paused, his gaze sweeping over your bare skin, admiration flickering in his eyes as his stared shamelessly into your chest.

"You are...remarkable," he murmured, his fingers tracing the line of your collarbone before dipping lower, following the curve of your body.

You gasped as his touch sent waves of pleasure through you, and when he dipped his head to press open-mouthed kisses along the valley of your chest, you could barely contain the moan that escaped your lips. He grinned against your skin, clearly enjoying the effect he had on you.

"Viktor..." you breathed, your voice a desperate plea for more.

He met your gaze, his golden eyes burning with intensity. "Then let me show you how we’ll celebrate," he whispered.

His hands were firm but gentle as they urged your legs apart, moving your skirt up, as he gently played around with his fingers against your panties... You were lucky, you had picked your cutest set of lingerie today, and he definitely had noticed it. Viktor's gaze flicking up to meet yours, eyes smoldering with intent. You could feel his breath, warm and teasing, against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each exhale sending a wave of anticipation coursing through you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his kisses grew more intimate, more possessive.

“Viktor...” you whispered, voice barely audible over the distant rumble of fireworks outside. Your body tensed with expectation, every nerve alight as his mouth hovered just above your most sensitive area, his lips ghosting over your skin, teasing but not quite giving you what you craved...yet.

He paused, eyes locking with yours, the intensity in his gaze making your breath hitch. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice rough, edged with desire. His fingers brushed lightly over the juncture of your thighs, sending another shiver through you, the sensation maddeningly close yet still just out of reach.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the ache between your legs growing unbearable as you tugged at his hair, a silent plea for more. “You... I want you” you breathed, the words tumbling out, thick and it wasn't the only thing dripping with desire.

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips at your admission, and without further hesitation, Viktor lowered his head, his mouth finally meeting where you needed him most. The first brush of his tongue against your clit sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your back arching off the desk as a moan escaped your lips.

For someone you judged ... so innocent, hard working, and even for a week, you swore he was entirely uninterested in sex.

His movements were deliberate, precise, as if he were studying you, learning the way your body responded to his touch. His tongue flicked over your clit, drawing circles of pleasure, while his fingers slid along your slick folds, finding a way in gently, you were wet enough to make it extremely easy, parting you gently as he explored further. The combination of sensations was overwhelming, each stroke, each flick of his tongue driving you higher, your hands clutching the edge of the desk as your body tensed with pleasure.

He was so focused, so intent on your pleasure, and it was driving you wild. The way he worked you, alternating between slow, torturous strokes and faster, more insistent movements, had you teetering on the brink of release, your body aching for more, for release.

“Vikto-or, please...” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, your body thrumming with need — "That's so go-ood.."

He hummed softly against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your body. His fingers pressed deeper, curling inside you just right, while his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking gently in perfect rhythm. It was too much, too good.

Viktor’s breath was hot against your skin as his kisses traveled lower, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your body. Each brush of his mouth sent shivers through you, your pulse racing as his fingers deftly unfastened your pants, peeling away the remaining barriers between your bare skin and the cool air of the lab. The sensation was electric, a contrast to the heat building inside you as Viktor's lips followed the same journey, kissing along your hips with agonizing patience.

His hands were firm but gentle as they urged your legs apart, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, eyes smoldering with intent. You could feel his breath, warm and teasing, against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, each exhale sending a wave of anticipation coursing through you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his kisses grew more intimate, more possessive.

“Viktor...” you whispered, voice barely audible over the distant rumble of fireworks outside. Your body tensed with expectation, every nerve alight as his mouth hovered just above your most sensitive area, his lips ghosting over your skin, teasing but not quite giving you what you craved.

He paused, eyes locking with yours, the intensity in his gaze making your breath hitch. “Remind me... what do you want,” he murmured, his voice rough, edged with desire. His fingers brushed lightly over the juncture of your thighs, sending another shiver through you, the sensation maddeningly close yet still just out of reach.

Your heart pounded in your chest, the ache between your legs growing unbearable as you tugged at his hair, a silent plea for more. “You... I need you,” you breathed, the words tumbling out, thick with want.

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips at your admission, and without further hesitation, Viktor lowered his head, his mouth finally meeting where you needed him most. The first brush of his tongue against your core sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your back arching off the desk as a moan escaped your lips.

His movements were deliberate, precise, as if he were studying you, learning the way your body responded to his touch. His tongue flicked over your sensitive bud, drawing circles of pleasure, while his fingers slid along your slick folds, parting you gently as he explored further. The combination of sensations was overwhelming, each stroke, each flick of his tongue driving you higher, your hands clutching the edge of the desk as your body tensed with pleasure.

Viktor’s name fell from your lips like a prayer, his pace relentless yet controlled, sending waves of heat crashing through you. Every flick of his tongue and every gentle thrust of his fingers seemed to push you closer to the edge, your body trembling with the building tension. His free hand slid up your thigh, gripping you firmly, grounding you even as your mind spun.

He was so focused, so intent on your pleasure, and it was driving you wild. The way he worked you, alternating between slow, torturous strokes and faster, more insistent movements, had you teetering on the brink of release, your body aching for more, for release.

“Viktor, please...” you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, your body thrumming with need.

He hummed softly against you, the vibration sending another shockwave through your body. His fingers pressed deeper, curling inside you just right, while his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking gently in perfect rhythm. It was too much, too good.

With one last stroke of his tongue, the tension in your body snapped, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. You cried out his name, your legs trembling around his shoulders as pleasure surged through you, your body tightening and then releasing in a series of powerful waves. Viktor didn’t stop, continuing his ministrations, his tongue drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until you were gasping, trembling beneath him.

Finally, when the last tremors of your climax subsided, he pulled back, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he looked up at you. You were breathless, your body still buzzing with the aftershocks of your release, and yet, when his gaze met yours, a fresh wave of desire sparked between you.

He stared as if he was proud of himself, like you were a experiment that had gone ... just right.

Viktor stood, leaning over you, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest at your hips. He kissed you again, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was slow, unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this moment, with you, was the only thing that mattered.

As he pulled back, he smirked, that rare mischievous glint in his eyes. “A rather... successful celebration, wouldn’t you say?”

Your breath caught in your throat, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “We’re not done yet ,” you whispered, pulling him down for another kiss, eager to give him as much pleasure as he had given you.

Viktor's lips were still on yours, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of your recent climax. Your body tingled, still humming with aftershocks, but the heat between you hadn’t dissipated. If anything, it was only intensifying, the look in his eyes igniting something deeper within you. The passion, the hunger—it was mutual, and now, you were determined to make him feel as overwhelmed as he’d made you.

Without breaking the kiss, you let your hands slide down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed lower, over the waistband of his pants. You smiled against his lips, feeling the tension in his body as you began to undo the button, teasingly slow.

"Your turn," you whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to murmur the words against his mouth.

His erection strained against his underwear, the evidence of his desire pressing hot and hard against you as you knelt in front of him, the sight of him towering above you making your pulse quicken. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his composure barely intact as you slid your fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down.

When you finally revealed him fully, Viktor let out a soft, almost tortured groan, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk for balance. His cock stood hard and proud, and you couldn't help but admire him for a moment—the way his body trembled with anticipation, the way his breath came in shallow, needy pants. The power you had over him in this moment was intoxicating.

Slowly, deliberately, you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, giving him a firm stroke. Viktor’s reaction was immediate—his head fell back slightly, and a deep, guttural sound escaped his throat. The sound alone sent a thrill through you, your desire to please him growing with every ragged breath he took.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the tip of his cock, soft and teasing, your breath warm against his sensitive skin. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk, his body tensing as he looked down at you, eyes burning with lust.

"Y/N..." he breathed, his voice rough, strained.

You didn't hesitate any longer, letting your tongue flick out to trace the head of his cock, tasting him. Viktor's reaction was immediate, a deep, throaty moan spilling from his lips as you swirled your tongue around him, savoring every sound he made. Your hand continued to stroke his length as you slowly took him into your mouth, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently.

His breathing became erratic, his hips shifting as though he was trying to hold himself back, trying not to lose control too quickly. You could feel his restraint, the way he trembled, his usual calm and calculated demeanor crumbling as you worked him over with your mouth. The knowledge that you could undo him like this only fueled your movements, your desire to push him further, to make him lose himself completely.

You took him deeper, your hand working in rhythm with your mouth as you bobbed your head, your tongue sliding along the underside of his cock with every movement. Viktor’s groans grew louder, more desperate, his fingers threading through your hair, not pulling but guiding, encouraging.

"Fuck..." he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, the rare profanity slipping from his lips making your pulse race. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, his hips bucking just the tiniest bit as his control slipped. "Y/N, I—"

You didn’t stop, didn’t give him the chance to finish. Instead, you quickened your pace, your hand stroking the base of his shaft while your mouth worked the rest of him, taking him as deep as you could. His moans became more ragged, more broken, his composure unraveling with each passing second.

You could feel his cock twitch in your mouth, a sign that he was getting close. His breath came in harsh gasps, his fingers tightening in your hair as his hips jerked involuntarily, thrusting deeper into your mouth.

Viktor's lips were still on yours, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of your recent climax. Your body tingled, still humming with aftershocks, but the heat between you hadn’t dissipated. If anything, it was only intensifying, the look in his eyes igniting something deeper within you. The passion, the hunger—it was mutual, and now, you were determined to make him feel as overwhelmed as he’d made you.

Without breaking the kiss, you let your hands slide down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt. His breath hitched when your fingers brushed lower, over the waistband of his pants. You smiled against his lips, feeling the tension in his body as you began to undo the button, teasingly slow.

"Your turn," you whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to murmur the words against his mouth.

Viktor's eyes darkened, his expression shifting into one of anticipation as he stood there, watching your every move. He looked as if he was about to say something—some clever retort—but his words were cut short by a sharp intake of breath when you pushed his pants down, freeing him from the fabric that had grown tight with his arousal.

His erection strained against his underwear, the evidence of his desire pressing hot and hard against you as you knelt in front of him, the sight of him towering above you making your pulse quicken. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his composure barely intact as you slid your fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs and tugged them down.

When you finally revealed him fully, Viktor let out a soft, almost tortured groan, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk for balance. His cock stood hard and proud, and you couldn't help but admire him for a moment—the way his body trembled with anticipation, the way his breath came in shallow, needy pants. The power you had over him in this moment was intoxicating.

Slowly, deliberately, you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft, giving him a firm stroke. Viktor’s reaction was immediate—his head fell back slightly, and a deep, guttural sound escaped his throat. The sound alone sent a thrill through you, your desire to please him growing with every ragged breath he took.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against the tip of his cock, soft and teasing, your breath warm against his sensitive skin. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk, his body tensing as he looked down at you, eyes burning with lust.

"Y/N..." he breathed, his voice rough, strained.

You didn't hesitate any longer, letting your tongue flick out to trace the head of his cock, tasting him. Viktor's reaction was immediate, a deep, throaty moan spilling from his lips as you swirled your tongue around him, savoring every sound he made. Your hand continued to stroke his length as you slowly took him into your mouth, inch by inch, your lips wrapping around him as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently.

His breathing became erratic, his hips shifting as though he was trying to hold himself back, trying not to lose control too quickly. You could feel his restraint, the way he trembled, his usual calm and calculated demeanor crumbling as you worked him over with your mouth. The knowledge that you could undo him like this only fueled your movements, your desire to push him further, to make him lose himself completely.

You took him deeper, your hand working in rhythm with your mouth as you bobbed your head, your tongue sliding along the underside of his cock with every movement. Viktor’s groans grew louder, more desperate, his fingers threading through your hair, not pulling but guiding, encouraging.

"Fuck..." he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper, the rare profanity slipping from his lips making your pulse race. His grip on your hair tightened slightly, his hips bucking just the tiniest bit as his control slipped.

You didn’t stop, didn’t give him the chance to finish. Instead, you quickened your pace, your hand stroking the base of his shaft while your mouth worked the rest of him, taking him as deep as you could. His moans became more ragged, more broken, his composure unraveling with each passing second.

You could feel his cock twitch in your mouth, a sign that he was getting close. His breath came in harsh gasps, his fingers tightening in your hair as his hips jerked involuntarily, thrusting deeper into your mouth.

"Y/N... I’m—" Viktor's voice broke as he tried to warn you, but you didn’t stop. You wanted to taste him, to feel him come undone under your touch

With a strained groan, Viktor’s entire body tensed, and you felt the hot pulse of his release spill into your mouth. His moans were low and guttural, almost pained with how intense his orgasm hit him. You swallowed eagerly, your tongue teasing the sensitive tip as his body shuddered with the aftershocks of his climax.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was his labored breathing, his grip on your hair loosening as his body slumped against the desk, utterly spent. You pulled back slowly, pressing a final kiss to the head of his softening cock before standing. Viktor's golden eyes followed you, still dark with the remnants of lust, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried to catch his breath.

"You..." Viktor began, his voice soft but filled with awe, "...you continue to surprise me."

You smiled, leaning into his touch, your lips brushing against his fingers. "I’m not done surprising you yet," you whispered, your voice teasing as you leaned in to capture his lips once more.

As you both now had a ... Salty taste to your mouths.

The heat between you was palpable, growing by the second as his hands roamed your body, this time with less hesitation, more hunger. You could feel his arousal stirring again, his body responding to the closeness, to the way your fingers traced the edges of his jaw and neck. When your lips left his, trailing down his throat, pressing kisses along his collarbone, Viktor’s breath hitched, and you felt the shift in his demeanor—the moment his restraint snapped.

Suddenly, his hands were firm on your hips, lifting you onto the desk again. His body followed, pressing against yours with a new urgency, and you could feel the hardness of his cock already growing between your legs. The sensation sent a thrill through you, your own body responding eagerly to the closeness, the friction of him against your sensitive core.

"Y/N," Viktor whispered, his voice rough with need, "I—"

But you silenced him with another kiss, this one more urgent, more demanding. You didn’t need words; you both knew what you wanted—what you needed. And as his hands slid down your thighs, pushing them apart, positioning himself between your legs, you felt the heat of him pressing the tip against your entrance, teasing you, driving you mad with anticipation.

Your nails scraped lightly against his back as you pulled him closer, desperate to feel him inside you. "Oh.. I want that so bad..." you whispered, your voice breathy, filled with longing.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

With one smooth thrust, Viktor pushed into you, filling you completely, and both of you gasped at the sensation. The stretch of him inside you was exquisite, the way he fit perfectly against your body as though he’d been made for this—for you. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he stilled for a moment, letting you adjust to the feel of him.

But you didn’t want to wait. The ache inside you was too strong, the need to move, to feel him deeper, overwhelming. You rolled your hips, urging him on, and Viktor groaned in response, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to move.

Viktor’s hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, his control slipping with every gasp, every moan that escaped your lips. His mouth found your neck, kissing, biting softly as he drove into you harder, faster, your bodies moving in sync, chasing the same desperate high. The desk beneath you creaked with the force of your movements, but neither of you cared—all that mattered was the way he felt inside you, the way your body responded to every deep thrust.

Your nails raked down his back, your own pleasure building rapidly, every thrust pushing you closer to the edge. You could hear Viktor’s ragged breathing in your ear, his moans mingling with yours, and the sound of him, the way he completely unraveled with you, only drove your desire higher.

"Y/N..." he groaned, his voice hoarse as his pace quickened, his hips slamming into yours with a desperate intensity. "I... I can’t—"

"Don’t stop," you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pulled him even closer. "Don’t—ah—stop."

Viktor's thrusts became erratic, his control fraying as he pounded into you, the raw passion between you both overtaking everything else. His lips crashed against yours in a messy, heated kiss, his body pressing you back against the desk as he drove deeper, harder, your cries filling the room as your climax built higher and higher.

Your body tensed, that familiar coil tightening in your core, and you knew you were close—so close. Viktor must have sensed it too because his hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit and circling it in perfect rhythm with his thrusts.

With a cry of his name, your orgasm ripped through you, your entire body convulsing with the intensity of it. Your walls clenched around him, and Viktor groaned deep in his throat, his thrusts becoming sloppier as he chased his own release. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his cock twitched inside you as he slammed into you one final time, spilling his warmth deep inside you with a low, guttural moan.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined, trembling with the aftershocks of your shared climax. Viktor's forehead rested against yours, his breathing still labored, his hands gentling their grip on your waist as he held you close. The heat between you began to subside, replaced by a deep, lingering satisfaction, the air around you thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

When Viktor finally lifted his head to look at you, his golden eyes were soft, the fire in them dimmed but not extinguished. He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch tender, his lips quirking into a tired, but genuine smile.

"That was..." He paused, searching for the right words, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "Quite the celebration."

You laughed softly, your own body still buzzing from the intensity of what had just happened. "I think we might have outdone the fireworks," you teased, your voice light but filled with affection.

As he pulled back, his eyes lingered on yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. This wasn’t just lust or a fleeting moment of pleasure—it was something more, something deeper. And as the night settled around you, the world outside slowly coming back into focus, you knew that whatever came next, you and Viktor would face it together, with the same passion, intensity, and connection that had just brought you both to your knees.

"Happy Progress Day," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with meaning, his hand still cradling your face as he looked at you like you were the most important invention he'd ever created

You smiled, leaning into his touch, your heart full. "Happy Progress Day, Viktor."

[katyawooga]

sevika week – day two, to fix you

sevika's been battered and bruised before, but not like this.

just for some extra money between the two of you living in the undercity together, you took up a simple bartending and waitressing job at the last drop. earlier tonight, a pink-haired girl with what looked like oversized hextech gloves walked into the bar, glaring at sevika. she ordered everyone out, including you. especially you.

hours had passed and she hadn't come home. to say the very least, you were worried. you anxiously looked out the window of your shared apartment, and you could've sworn that you saw silco's daughter dragging the now-unconscious pink-haired girl out of the bar an hour ago, but no sevika.

the only places she hung around was your apartment, the bar, or silco's office. that's the only other place she could be.

upon entering, doing everything you could not to be seen, you opened the door to the infamous office and saw sevika struggling to light her cigar while sitting in the corner of the couch.

"vika?" you murmured, padding your way into the musty space and getting a better look at your lover. sevika had scrapes and bruises already starting to form on her human arm and face, and the absence of her mechanical arm was what caught your attention.

"oh my god..." you covered your mouth, eyes widening at the torn wires, the scraped metal, and the bright purple shimmer dripping from the tubing and staining the couch and her clothes. you sat down on the coffee table in front of her and placed a hand on her knee. it made you tear up how she flinched from your gentle touch.

"what happened to you?"

her silence, apart from the quiet grunts of shifting on the couch and the clicking of her lighter sparking and failing, was heavy.

"what's there to say?" she mumbled, her soft-spoken side coming through in this vulnerable moment. "you can see what happened."

you knew you shouldn't the one shedding tears, sevika was the one that got her arm ripped clean off, not you. but you just couldn't help but feel everything for your lover.

"we don't have to talk about i–"

"yeah, an' we won't."

she finally got her cigar lit after her grand efforts and she dropped her lighter on the wooden floor with a thud. you looked down at the scarred metal zippo before looking back up to meet her eyes.

"can you at least lemme help you? i'm sure i can fix something."

you were no tech wiz, you were far from it, but because of sevika's habits, you had gotten pretty good with a needle and thread, disinfectant, and some hello kitty bandaids.

despite her shitty mood and terribly low morale, she gave a curt nod and groaned to sit up a little straighter. she gestured with her human arm to where the first aid was in the office, and you were surprised there was any first aid at all.

"where's the worst damage?" you sat back down on the coffee table between her legs, leaning forward while dabbing some gauze with alcohol. "besides the, uh... y'know."

sevika almost laughed, a slight smile gracing her full, dark lips for a moment.

"the gash on my good arm," she husked out, taking a lengthy drag from her cigar before setting it down so you could work your mediocre medical magic.

your lover hissed and swore and whispered many a profanity under her breath every single time something stung or pricked or bled. she was tough, but not immune to pain.

"you're about as fixed as i can get you," you murmured with a gentle smile after tending to sevika's every need, even the wounds she didn't want to bother you with. "what'll you do about the arm, though?"

she scoffed a quick laugh, your heart melting at the genuine smile from her. you'd never tell her how much you loved that teensy little tooth gap of hers.

"what are the chances i get silco's kid to tinker somethin' up for me?" she asked, moving over on the couch to make room for you. she slung her human arm around your shoulder and tucked you in close, pressing the smallest kiss to your temple.

"you're persuasive, mamí. i'm sure she'd cooperate."

@sevikaweek

[pleaktale]

Hi good evening or morning! I hope you are having a wonderful week so far and all you desire like the queen you are! I have two ideas for request for Ekko, but of course, pick whichevee suits your fancy! You do not have to do both. ❤

1. An Ekko x reader where the reader is a mage and can manipulate arcane magic without Hextech like the rest?

Or

2. An Ekko x reader where she gives him a self-care day? My man deserves to be spoiled 👑

Thank you for taking the time to read this! You are a truly talented writer and I wish nothing, but the best for you! Bye-Bye! 💜

I'll be completely honest this took a life of it's own BAHAHA sorry for the long wait <3 I had a little help from @the-kr8tor for this one, it also was intended to be just fluff with the second idea but turned out hurt/comfort (how did I do that) ... ANYWAY thank you so much for the request! Your kind words mean so much <3 Word count: 1.5k Warnings: hurt/comfort, tw food mention, cw suggestive ending Tags: Ekko x fem!Reader, stablished relationship, no mentions of Y/N, no description of reader, both are adults, shared home Enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و

The sound of the door opening pulled you back from the book in your hands, heavy boots making their way towards the living space. Just by the way the boots dragged themselves on the hardwood floor you could tell Ekko was tired.

“You came earlier,” placing your book on the coffee table, you walk your way towards him, a smile after checking for injuries and finding none. A smile tugging at his lips as he notices your eyes roaming over him.

“Came to eat something, gotta go back for the evening.” His hands held onto yours that gingerly cradled his face, leaning into your palm with a small smile. You frown, not keen to the idea of him having to double patrol when he’s already tired like that.

“But why? Isn’t Scar gonna take the evening patrol?” You ask with furrowed eyebrows, hands trailing down his face to his sides, walking with him back to the kitchen to prepare something. Ekko sighs softly, following like your shadow, body asking for your warmth again.

“He is,” Ekko replied, taking a seat while watching you with weary eyes, “but I have to go as well, you know how things are with Silco lately.” With a heavy sigh from you, he knew you didn’t like this not for a bit, and he was right.

Placing the bowl of food in front of him, you take the other seat in the small table you two had in your tree house, watching him start to eat after a small ‘thank you’ falling from his lips. You watched him with glances, noticing the way he seemed tired, not just physically but mentally too.

Your mind started to wander, fear wrapping around your heart like a hug you didn’t ask for. Will he come back if he goes out again? Are your prayers enough to keep him safe? Is luck by your side and his? You take a sharp breath in, getting his attention.

He knew you, and you knew him. So, mouth still occupied with food, Ekko held your hand in his, a silent way to bring you back to your senses. A small smile comes back to your lips, heart snaking away from the hug of fear, your hand squeezing his back in a silent thank you.

“Why don’t you take a bath after finishing?” You propose, looking at his lidded eyes as he finished the food. “You seem like you’re gonna go out cold if you lean on something.”

Ekko could only let out a tired chuckle, you were completely right, but he still had in his mind he’d come back to patrol soon. “If I do that, then it’s certain I’ll be falling asleep like a rock if I sit down anywhere.”

Rolling your eyes playfully, a light frustration crashing over, you turn in your seat to better face him. “Ekko please,” you grab his hand with both of yours, “it’s sunday, Scar can take care of patrol for tonight. Just.. stay this once.” ‘I miss you’, but that didn’t come out of your lips.

Ekko sighed, not completely defeated, but the look in your eyes almost tore his heart apart. He brought your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently before gazing back at you. “I’ll take that bath, ‘kay?” You close your eyes but nod, looking back at him with longing.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After instructing him to use your bath herbs to ease his muscles and trying to talk him out of patrolling once more – which wasn’t really a successful attempt but not a failure either, you wait for Ekko by the bed, book in hands once again and your oils and ointments in the nightstand. Even not injured, he always had some scratches here and there, and maybe a massage would lure him to stay.

The sound of the bathroom door cracking open and the fresh scent of herbs filled the small room, Ekko coming out of it with foggy skin and new clothes, but still his patrol clothes. You smile at him despite the wish to frown, opening your arms for him as he slumps towards the bed, plopping himself atop of you, careful not to hurt.

Your laugh fills his senses, a smile tugging at his lips. “Feel any better?” your voice sounds almost dreamlike to him. “You bet,” Ekko replies, shifting a little to better accommodate himself into your arms, head resting against your chest and feeling your heartbeat. Such common noise to others but a relief to him.

“Sit up, let me give you a massage,” you offer, hand caressing his back and noticing the tension in his muscles. Sometimes you wish life was easier on both of you, or that you could carry his stress on your shoulders. Ekko thinks the same.

“Love, I know what you’re tryna do,” he mumbles, lifting himself from your embrace to look at your face properly, a smirk tugging at his lips. You give a frown once again, just staring at his eyes for a moment, almost committing his warm gaze to memory. Ekko chuckles, leaning over snatch away that frown, parting quickly because of the weird position. “And for my demise it’s damn working.”

The way your face lit up made Ekko’s heart thump louder inside his chest, your smile growing bigger, your eyes only half moons. “Really?” you ask, to be sure of it, hand cradling his face gently. “Yeah, really,” he replies, being pulled into a tight hug from you that couldn't stop the giggles, hugging your form tighter with both arms, rolling in bed until both places are inverted.

Your eyes meet, sparkles shining into your irises and his amber ones bringing that warmth to your heart. His hand crawls up to caress your face, instinctively leaning onto his palm. “Can’t let my woman be all alone on a sunday night, can I?” he murmurs, smiling softly. Oh, the things you’d do for this boy.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After a proper massage, Ekko has you leaning onto him, both cuddled up into the couch as you carefully apply the cucumber mask to his face, outlining his features and chuckling at his reactions to the cold, watery gel you just made. “You’re gonna end up eating it!” you playfully scold, shifting closer once he pulls you by the thighs. “But it tickles!”

You chortle, finishing up his forehead, placing the brush and the bowl down in the makeshift coffee table made out of a tree stomp. “Done, you ticklish thing,” you poke his side with a teasy smile, making Ekko jump slightly on the couch which pulled a laugh from you. “Hey you-!” he’s quicker than your senses, holding you by the waist in place while poking your sides, the kick he got on his side was worth your laugh.

“Oh my- I’m sorry, love!” Ekko can only laugh while playfully holding onto his side, your hands gingerly holding his arm, cooing apologies while still trying to control your laugh from the tickles. “It’s okay.. I’ve had worse…” he mocks, feigning a strained voice and limping above you, arms wrapping around him as you laugh the air out of your lungs.

“You should be an actor, you know,” you enter his banter while trying to fix his mask that was probably all over your clothes now. You keep your eyes focused on the task at hand while Ekko has his eyes on you, soft and warm, relishing in the moment with you, your gentle fingers working their way around his face.

Of course you notice, how can you not when he’s this close to you? Breath fanning your face and warmth seeping through, sharing temperature and unspoken words. “You’re staring, love,” you say, giddily smiling at him who just closes his eyes, enjoying your touch. “Thank you for staying,” your whispered words make him shift back to reality, not the love bubble you always draw him in.

Ekko would go for a forehead kiss, but he’s not so keen on the idea of tasting your cucumber mask, so he wents for a kiss on your palm. “I’ll be here, always,” he reassures, knowing your nature of worry. Your heart feels at ease by his words, sometimes going far on the thought of keeping him all for yourself, but you know he has others to look for.

“Promise?” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with the dim light of the space.

Ekko joins his pinky with yours, bringing them to his lips, sealing the promise. “Promise.”

You smile at the gesture, heart swelling with love and peace. You do the same, kissing his pinky tied to yours. “I love you,” the words roll out of your tongue, Ekko takes a breath in, inhaling your words to keep it secure inside his mind. “I love you more,” he gingerly says it back, stealing yet another quick kiss.

“But now you come here,” Ekko purred into your lips, sweeping you off your place on the couch, straddling you over him. You laugh warmly, complaining about the mask being ruined but, truth be told, you don’t really care much about them right now.

our short king deserves the best life he can get (not like I'm fearing for my life while waiting the next season) thank you for reading, until next time <3

© pleaktale

divider credits goes to @/cafekitsune

[spatialwave]

Hi!! For the kiss prompts, I’d love to read something Reader x Viktor with the scenario ‘kisses meant to distract’ + the dialogue “i think i deserve a kiss” 🥹 thank you!!

tysm for sending this ask!!!! this was so cute to write and it healed me ahaha

➸ pairing: viktor x gender neutral!reader ➸ word count: 680 ➸ tags: mdni! fluffy, hurt/comfort, soft kissing, guilt, sweet ending, reader is in a long-term relationship w/ viktor, no use of y/n. ➸ notes: asked from this prompt list!!

Hextech was a blessing and a curse. It’s components to better society had been coming to fruition, but at the expense of Viktor’s sanity. Hexgates weren’t enough, all they had done was progress the city of Piltover. Nothing had been done to help anyone else. The people in Zaun—himself.

The pain in his body had become unbearable most days, his body frail and weakening with every passing moment.

He wondered why you stuck around all these years, staying at his side as his health deteriorated. You weren’t married, children weren’t on the agenda, and all he did was spend countless hours in his lab with Jayce and Sky.

It wasn’t fair to you.

Yet, you stayed.

Stopping by with a home cooked meal that he picked at, or offering your presence for a few hours while you silently read at the table in his lab while he studied the glowing hexcore.

There was a particular week when Viktor lost all hope. Jayce, now head of the council, had spent less time with the research–in favour of protecting Piltover. A drastic turn of events from their previous shared hopes and aspirations, a way to help rather than hurt.

He sat at one of the aqueducts that sent water from Piltover into the fissures, looking out at the skyline and holding his weight onto his cane. His eyes were tired and cold, souless.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said calmly, causing Viktor to jolt and glance in your direction from the sudden intrusion, “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” he cleared his throat, attempting to sit up straighter with his hands still holding tightly to the handle of his cane, “needed some time to, eh… think.”

Sitting next to him on the ledge, you rested your cheek against his shoulder and a hand curved over his slender thigh.

“...about us?” Your voice was hushed, eyes watching the water stream below you.

Viktor’s eyes widened, shaky as he stared at you. You were nuzzled against him, the look of a sad pout covering your face. He could sense the insecurity radiating from you.

“About the hexcore,” he answered honestly, sighing as he pressed his lips against the top of your head, resting there as a fragile hand held the small of your back, “about hextech… I can’t seem to figure it out. It’s been weeks of nothing. It’s… it’s…”

You lifted your head up, lips twitching as you pressed a finger to Viktor’s lips, shushing him. Your eyes flickered between his.

“It’s eating you alive,” you finished his sentence, but not in the way he had intended.

Your heart was heavy for him. Any insecurities of yourself were long gone, and you understood the pain that Viktor was experiencing. It was defeat, feeling unworthy—terrified of death.

You felt terrible for even thinking it had anything to do with you.

“Kiss me,” you mumbled, the finger placed against his lips replaced by your thumb as you grazed it along his bottom lip. Your intent to distract him from the thoughts that weighed him down.

Viktor bore a quizzical look, brows knotting together as he blinked at you.

“Come on,” you murmured, “I think I deserve one. I haven’t seen you in days.”

The corners of his lips twitched, for once, his mind not clouded by thoughts of the hexcore. Instead, fixated on you and the way you looked at him so lovingly with your big doe eyes. How was he so lucky to have someone like you?

He dipped forward, your thumb dropping as his lips pressed to yours. A soft kiss, one that bridged the gap that had begun to split you apart. They moved together fluidly, one of his hands cupping your jaw, as yours pressed against the front of his shoulders.

“I love you,” Viktor murmured, breaking the kiss as your lips brushed together, “thank you… for staying.” His thanks were genuine, you could see the way the guilt flickered in his golden eyes.

“Kiss me again, and I’ll forgive you,” you smiled, closing your eyes as Viktor obliged, smiling against your lips.

[moonstrider9904]

après la bataille

Steb x fem!Reader (Enforcer)

Summary: the battle for Piltover has past, and you help Steb find some much needed peace of mind.

Word count: 2.2k

Tags/warnings: Mature and SFW, (french) kissing and making out, brief implications of smut. Spoilers for the ending Arcane season 2. Enforcer!Reader, mentions of death and loss, hints of PTSD, processing difficult emotions, hurt/comfort, established relationship.

Prequel one-shot coming soon! | My Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Warm lights gleamed in the distance, and if one didn’t pay much attention, you would almost swear nothing had happened in Piltover for days. In the peaceful, quiet night, while the City of Progress’ lights twinkled and contrasted with the night sky, it was easy to forget the smoke and the unnatural violence, the blood that had been spilled, the war that, in what had felt like a blink of an eye, shook Piltover and Zaun only to leave things unnervingly quiet—those who had been in the head of it had a hard time believing, at times, that things were truly at peace now.

Steb watched the city with a heavy heart. Though victory had reigned, and Piltover and Zaun weren’t at odds with each other or the Noxian empire, it was inevitable to ponder on the cost. He had witnessed it first hand, from the moments he fought for his survival to having faced his own death in less time it would take him to exhale, mercifully saved by former councilor Medarda; he’d seen the price of the chain of events Hextech had brought forth in the form of light escaping the eyes of each of his fallen comrades.

Some of them had been his friends.

It had happened fast. The partner with whom Steb had gone from rescuing a stranded cat atop a tall tree to dismantling Shimmer, had died before his eyes at the hands of her own bullet—and the magic of the same mage who saved his life. He’d barely had time to process her betrayal and to question how the hell he hadn’t seen it coming before Maddie lay lifeless on the ground where she’d stood, about to take another life. If Steb mourned, he’d be mourning a traitor, but if he didn’t mourn, he wouldn’t be mourning his friend. A part deep within him hated such a dichotomy.

And then there was Loris. Not many words had been shared between the two—there was never any need for them. But Steb vividly remembered the attack on the memorial as the first real battle he’d been in, and Loris was the reason he’d come out of it alive. The vagabond he’d found lying hungover and nearly unconscious on the Piltovan sidewalk had mustered superhuman strength to shield him from a fatal blow, and now, Steb would never have a chance to return the favor. Just as he and the other survivors were emerging after the battle, it was the pianist turned soldier who went up to him and delivered Loris’ badge, and Steb knew it could only mean one thing. The feeling of his heart plummeting within him would be one he’d remember all his life. The loss of Loris, of Maddie, of the Zaunites he’d met at the bridge willing to take a stand.

The only thing that could console him after that was knowing you’d made it out alright. If he had another regret, it would be not being with you every second of it, but it would comfort him forever to know you were safe with him and you’d done your part in returning Piltover and Zaun to peace.

And as if his thoughts had invoked you, he soon heard your steps approaching. He remained facing the city as you entered the balcony, but his ears twitched in the direction of your footsteps, and a hint of a smile formed when he felt your arms wrap around him from behind, and your cheek resting up against the side of his arm.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Your sweet voice traveled to his ears and soothed every fiber within him. For once, Steb was able to relax, exhaling the tension from within his body, and his hand went to cover yours as it rested over his heart.

“They don’t matter,” he muttered.

You smiled softly, stifling a chuckle while you snuggled into his back before making your way towards his side, finally able to look up at him. “They do to me, love.”

Steb dismissed his laments and shifted to face you. He gazed down on you, thinking to himself how rare it had become to see you dressed in something other than your uniform, and for a moment he couldn’t fathom how beautiful you looked in your deep blue gown. It had discreet silver details and the right crop to compliment your silhouette in the best ways possible, and for a moment he was whole again, finding a brief respite from the memories that had tormented him those past few days.

“You look gorgeous,” Steb said softly with his deep, rich voice which you loved.

You smiled up at him, eyes sparkling, as you took his hands in yours. “You’re looking very handsome yourself.” Your eyes scanned the attire he was wearing—his suit resembled his uniform, but it was darker and far more elegant, and if you didn’t know better, you’d sooner mistake him for royalty than assume he was being promoted. You knew he was supposed to be wearing his black hat, but for the time being, he’d cast it aside, a fact you adored—you loved seeing as much of his features as you could, always finding it a whole new, beautiful experience to simply be able to look at Steb and gaze upon his every detail. You gave his hands a gentle squeeze and paced closer to him, taking one of your hands to rest on the crook of his neck and letting your thumb caress his skin gently.

“You’re going to make a fine commander,” you smiled gently at him.

Grateful as he was for your words, you noticed Steb carried the weight of the world in his eyes. He stifled a chuckle and, knowing he could be at ease with you, he briefly looked out at the peaceful Piltover, melancholy.

“Would it be too self-loathing to say I don’t think I deserve it?” He questioned.

“Yes,” you replied without a doubt. “It would also be a flat lie.”

Steb gave a quick exhale and some of the tension left his body, but the thoughts continued to weigh on him. “I could have done more.”

“You’ve done so much already,” you said gently, pausing as your gaze faltered before meeting his eyes again. “I know how you feel… I lost people too. And… not being with you during it was hell.”

“I know,” Steb said quietly.

You exhaled, and your voice fell to a whisper. “I really thought I was gonna lose you.”

He held the hand that rested on his neck and lifted it so that you could see him holding your hand from the corner of your eye.

“You couldn’t,” he said.

The dread left you entirely, and you managed to smile brightly at Steb, finding once again the will to achieve your sole objective of lifting his mood.

“And once you’re commander,” you continued, “you are not getting rid of me.”

Steb laughed smoothly. “Is that a promise?”

You nodded with a cheeky glint in your eye. “Darling, you can consider that a threat.”

His laughter came again, and you wrapped your arms around his upper back while he wrapped his around your waist. You stepped even closer to him, sealing the space between your bodies, and you were well aware of the way your chest pressed itself to his torso. Your eyes adopted an enticing gleam, and your lips curved into the smile Steb was never able to resist, and your voice was smooth when you talked to him, inviting him deeper into finding bliss with you.

“Is there anything I could do to make you feel better?” You asked him with a smirk.

You didn’t have to do more for Steb to understand, and he decided to play a little further with you.

“Hm,” he hummed. “I’m not sure.”

“Really?” You pressed yourself even more to him and perked up on your toes, letting your lips draw close up to his. “Nothing comes to mind? Not even, perhaps, something we could very easily do in the less than an hour we have before the ceremony? Gee, what ever could we do in that amount of time?”

Steb laughed fully and, with a firm grip, he picked you up and spun you around, now holding you as though he were to dance with you.

“You make it tempting,” Steb purred. “But I’d never dream of rushing things with you. Besides, I’m not going to risk ruining that pretty dress before the ceremony.”

“That,” you replied with a giggle, “was actually the correct answer.”

You both fell in silence, and you didn’t make an effort to fight the urge to brush your hand up to his cheek and let your thumb trace over the delicate frills around his eye. Steb leaned into the warmth of your palm—you knew he loved the tender contact of your skin on his frills—and without another moment’s hesitation, you took his lips in yours.

You could feel his body relax as his arms wrapped deeper around the curve of your back, as if he could pull you any closer, and though your eyes were closed as you kissed him, you knew by now his ears had slowly tilted downward and the frills around his eyes moved in slow, uniform waves, a testament to the peace and the joy brought upon him by your lips. The tenderness of the kiss gradually morphed into desire as you felt Steb pushing himself forward to you, adding strength to the movement of his lips and slowly slipping his tongue inside of you; the delicate friction of his tongue on yours filled your body with the sweetest sparks you’d ever be exposed you, and it prompted you to cling around his shoulders standing on your toes—a little more, and your feet would be off the ground.

You didn’t resist the urge to moan into his lips, and the airy quality of your voice made Steb smirk into the kiss. You wanted more of him, and just as you were cursing the fact that you both had to be at a ceremony in less than an hour, and that it would keep you from being entwined in bedsheets with him instead, you let your desires take over and you made your way kissing down Steb’s neck. You delighted in the moan that escaped him, delicious in his rich and deep voice, and as you kissed his neck, you let your lips linger in the same spot for just enough before moving to the next, crawling dangerously close to the collar of his shirt. You decided no harm would come in humoring your fantasies just one step further, and your fingers delicately undid that first button pushing the fabric to the sides, exposing but a fraction of his chest where your fingertips danced and caressed, hinting at the mischief and delicacy that could have been were it not for the honors he was about to receive.

“Darling…” Steb’s breath hitched and a smirk formed on his lips.

For a moment, he too wished you didn’t have other places to be, but if he had to settle for the moment, he’d make it worth it by grasping firmly at the backs of your thighs and lifting you up for you to wrap your legs around his waist as much as the skirt of your gown would allow. You gave a pleased giggle in response, now able to wrap your arms around him further, and you kissed his lips once more, brushing your tongue against his freely and with glee. One of your hands tugged softly at his hair, trying your best not to mess it up for him, and the other went to the back of his neck where your fingers rested on the crooks of the fins that went down his spine. You lost yourself in that kiss, hoping it would last forever, enjoying every second until Steb set you down on the ground again and sealed the moment with one last, tender kiss on your lips before rising up again.

You were dazed after such a session, and you were pleased to see that so was he. Steb grounded himself with a deep exhale, redoing the button of his shirt almost reluctantly, but you also noticed he had a little smile on his lips that hinted at satisfaction and even pride. You chuckled, glad that you could bring such emotions upon him. He then gazed at you, still smiling, and you grinned in anticipation of what the look on his face meant—he’d have his way with you after the ceremony.

But for the time being, you walked up to him one more time and hugged him gently, resting your head against his chest, able to hear the beating of his heart. You settled into the peace that came with the embrace, hoping dearly he felt better than before you’d arrived onto that balcony. You listened for any other sounds, but there was quiet all around you.

Yes, Piltover was at peace now, and when you felt Steb wrapping his arms around you once more, you knew things would be alright. Still in the embrace, you shifted to look up at him, your chin resting on his chest, able to gaze into his ocean eyes as he looked down at you. Tenderly, you smiled, and Steb smiled back as if he could read your thoughts, but he didn’t need to. The gleam in your eyes and softness of your smile told him everything, that you would stand with him through the honors he’d receive, and through everything else that followed.

Silently, you made that promise to him.

If you like this, please reblog too! Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @thegreatandlvable let me know if you want to be tagged in future Steb fics!

[therabbitthatpostthings]

I'm coping. No beta, we will unpack the emotions Arcane put me through over the last 24 hours. TW: brief sui ideation/attempt. I imagine the Reader (along with Sky) came to Piltover and thus is closer to Sky than Viktor and Jayce but still grew up with Viktor and Sky. (Masterlist)

When the council building was struck, you were at home, unaware Viktor was among the wreckage.

When Jayce's body gave out from exhaustion, you stayed by Viktor's side and studied the Hextech.

When Viktor left, you ran after him, promising Jayce you would watch over him. Viktor protested but you followed anyway.

You helped the Undercity people, your people.

When Jayce attacked Viktor, deep in your heart you already knew he was gone but that didn't stop the heartbreak as you and Jayce fled from Ambessa and her army.

When Jayce asked you to flee, you stood your ground to help the fight against Ambessa.

When all hope was lost, you truly believed Viktor wad still in there and you would all be together again.

What a lie that was.

The cold ocean breeze brushes against you as you stand on the Bridge of Progress. You felt awful for resigning the way you did, especially with a Zaunite like you on the council now. From the rumours you heard Sevika seemed like a capable leader. You don't remember much from your time in the Undercity, you left before Silco took over. You finished your work and left behind that grand hall.

Where Hextech was born.

Where the dreams of poor little kids like you, Viktor and Sky seemed to be feasible.

That was a long time ago.

So now here You are. On this awful bridge deciding if you should go back to your apartment and hope your familial home is accessible. Both were filled with memories you couldn't shake off. Of simpler times, running up and down the halls with new ideas buzzing around faster than any of you could keep up with. Of late night studying and innovations. Of those late summers of your childhood, playing in the streets. Watching the boats disappear from the harbour. Traversing the metal jungle of the Undercity.

There was always another option. You stared into the deep dark abyss of the water below you. The thought crossed your mind more and more these days. You knew deep down, Viktor and Sky were suited for this city. Once Jayce came along, you faded into the story, another nameless face, a background character in the tale of Hextech. But Hextech is gone. Jayce and Viktor and Sky are gone. What is the point of staying around? Not even important enough to be an afterthought. The only people around to miss you were gone.

Your hand gripped the metal bars. In one one motion you swung your leg over. You bag swung heavily with you and banged against your side as it slipped off your shoulder and into the water below. You cursed at yourself. Of course you would manage to lose your bag in an emotional fit.

Defeated and embarrassed you climbed back over the railing. About to walk away you hear a ticking noise. There in the water, leaving a trail of wet newspaper and tape was a little metal boat.

Viktor's metal boat.

It ticked for another second and then it started to move. With a newfound urgency you rushed to the edge of the bridge! You leaped over the fence and down the slippery beams to reached the harbour underneath. Feet pounding against the concrete to reach the unstoppable little boat. It can't leave! Not Viktor's boat! Not the thing that inspired you all those years ago. Viktor's boat can't leave, you can't lose anymore!

Cruelly, the boat continued on the water. Moving farther and farther from the harbour. You legs felt heavy. Kneed battered against the concrete as you couldn't push yourself to go any further. That little boat, unshaken sailed out farther form your view.

"N-No... please... come back..."

Why? Why did it leave? How did even start up?! You never turned the key! How could it start up?! How could it leave?! How did the boat leave?! Was there even anything you could have done to save them?!

Them...

And you couldn't hold it back anymore. You screamed and sobbed into the night, uncaring of who would hear you. Fist pounding on the concrete. The anger and pain had all boiled up to the surface. How could they leave you? How could they be consumed by the Arcane? Why are you the one who remains. The afterthought, the helper, the one who gets the coffee, the one who no one even remembers. Why must you remain when the you people you held dear have all died?! How is this fair? How is this right?

Why, when everyone has found the strength to move forward, You stay behind.

Your painful wails slowly hushed as another frigid breeze blew off the water. Something small, crawling and alive land by your enclosed fist. You jerked back in shock only to see, unbothered and unafraid was a butterfly. It's white wings gleamed with a perlerscent shimmer. The butterfly fluttered from your fist and to the guard rail ahead of you. Shakily you made your way to it.

Just past it was the boat, still wading in the water, as the sunset poked from behind the clouds. The beams danced across the water, as if inviting the little boat closer to it. And it did. It rode the sunlight off into the horizon and was gone.

As if on cue, the butterfly once again flew onto your tightened fist. You felt like you understood the little creature. "Is this what you wanted me to see?"

It flittered its wings, fully opening for you look at the looping patterns, spirals swirling inside themselves. "Right, I think I understand now. Thank you, Viktor."

The butterfly fluttered away, taking that sense of unease and dread away with it.

You'll grieve for tonight. Tomorrow is a new day.

I meant for this to be a ViktorxReader but it turned into "Reader has spent the last couple years along side Viktor and Jayce and considers them both great friends and is close friends and colleagues with Sky, considering them all to be very precious to them", in case your wondering why the Viktor part seems a little light in this. Lowkey kinda hate the borders they’ll do for now.

[captain039]

Heal your hurt

Viktor x reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, health issues, mental health issues, light swearing, chubby reader, intimacy, smut, friends to lovers, reader has chronic pain

I just need to take care of Viktor and for him to take care of me xD

It’s a quiet day, rain gently pattering on the window of your shared apartment. Viktor’s been your roommate for three years now, but you’ve known him since you were little. You’ve always loved Viktor, lately though it just seems different, you catch yourself staring at him, watching the way his eyes scan over journals, notes and blueprints, watch the way his jaw sometimes clench’s a little to harshly, or his high cheek bones. Watching him slowly grow tired while you read on the bed making sure he doesn’t fall asleep at the desk, or how he makes his tea in the morning, his hair a mess his eyes barely open. It makes your cheek heat and your thighs clench. You want to throw yourself out the window some days at how bad it gets, you can’t help but wonder, let your mind wander to thoughts you shouldn’t be thinking about him, you imagine straddling him, making sure he’s comfortable before slowing sinking-

The door opening makes you startle, your book falls to the floor and you stare blankly before you register.

“Welcome home” you call to Viktor who just hums and heads to his desk lying his things down. He looks tired today more so than usual, his limp is worse than normal and you can see the tense lines in his jaw and brow.

“How was your day?” You ask. You know better than to ask if he’s ok, always being brushed off.

“Good” he answers simply sitting down resting his cane against the table, it wouldn’t be a talking day then. You sigh softly picking up your book and lying it on the table head in hand, elbow resting on the table as you look out the window, watching the rain fall.

“Did you have a good day?” Viktor’s voice comes and you look to him, he’s looking to you to which surprised you.

“It was boring” you shrug and he nods.

“Jayce says hello” he says and turns back to his desk.

“Tell him I say hi back” you say and he nods. You stand up deciding to take a shower instead of sitting, your hips protest and you swear you feel like someone just stabbed you in the tail bone. You want to curse but keep it in and awkwardly go to the bathroom. You run a bath, put in a few drops of oil and a scoop of bath salts, it’s your own damn fault for sitting in that chair too long. You want to slap yourself but don’t as you strip and struggle with your pants and socks. You sit on the toilet seat jaw clenching. Times like these you missed your mother, her helpful hand her warm words and caring touch, she made you feel less useless. You force your legs up and take off your socks one by one it takes you too long and you’re rushing to turn the taps off before you even get your pants off. You sigh shimmying your pants off before you settle in the bath with a small sigh of satisfaction. A temporary subdue of pain, you figured by now they’d invent something to stop this kind of thing, but no, we’re just inventing blimps and hextech. You sit in the bath eyes closed head resting on the small bath pillow that Viktor bought you. It’s… nice the small things he does, he’ll buy you a small gift you use every day like a new bookmark, a blanket or something you need, he’ll leave one of your jackets hanging by the door if it’s cold, he always knows how to make the best tea.

“Are you alive in there?” A gentle knock echos from the door and you open your eyes realising you were lost in thought.

“Yeah I’m alive” you call out hearing a soft rare chuckle from Viktor.

“Would you like a tea?” He asks and the thought of hot tea makes you smile.

“Yes please” you answer. Getting out the bath seems to harder than getting in, you feel ten times more heavy and drying your body feels like running a marathon. You struggle to your room, listen to the kettle boil as you take some pain meds and get dressed carefully. You leave your room and collapse on the couch ungracefully and sigh. You’ve never outright told Viktor of your problems, you figure he can see them even though you try to hide, sometimes it’s too much to hide, but you don’t want your burdens on him when he already has his own.

“Tea” Viktor says and hands you the cup. You thank him and sit up properly sipping the herbal drink with a small sigh.

“Viktor?” You ask as he sits at his desk and he hums back. You pause for a moment sighing and shaking your head.

“Sorry, don’t worry” you brush off picking up a book instead. You don’t see him falter and stop what he’s doing till you hear his voice.

“How is your book?” He asks.

“S, good” you hum.

“What’s it about?” He adds and you flick your eyes up seeing him writing something down.

“You don’t like my silly romance novels” you snort softly.

“Indulge me” he answers and something in your stomach flutters.

“I- ok. It’s about opposing kingdoms the Prince and the Princess must marry to form an alliance between each kingdom, they hate each other though and she’s been planning to murder him to get revenge for mother’s death. They’re forced to be together for appearance and she slowly finds out that it wasn’t in fact the prince that killed her mother but someone else, I think it was one of the kings assassins and the prince had no idea about it, anyway, she realised that the prince is not the evil master mind he appears to be, he’s a soft hearted gentlemen who cares for the people in secret and tries to save the kingdom from collapsing” you explain only half way through the book.

“Has either one confessed?” He asks.

“No, she’s still learning about her feelings but he’s head over heels just doesn’t want to push her” you shrug sipping your tea again and reading the page you were on.

“An enemies to lovers? Is that what you called it?” He comments and you smile to yourself.

“Yeah that’s what it’s called” you answer.

“With a slow…burn?” He tilts his head and your smile widens even if he can’t see it.

“Also correct” you let out a small giggle.

“I am slowly learning your… book language” you feel your stomach do a flip with butterflies at his words and you force yourself to stop smiling. You clear your throat and nod.

“Yeah, you’re doing good” you mumble focusing on finishing your tea and page.

[dustysalmon]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 2

Pairing: Silco x Reader Rating: Explicit Warnings/Tags: graphic depiction of violence; slow burn; enemies to lovers, enforcer!reader Word count: 3.6k

Summary: After a chain of unexpected events, Jinx is arrested, and you find yourself in possession of the gemstone. On top of it all, you are forced into a reluctant alliance with Silco. What else could possibly go wrong?

Takes up at the end of episode 7.

Read on ao3 ⎜ Previous chapter ⎜Next chapter

The last time you had been in the city council building was for your graduation at the enforcer academy, years ago. As you are now led to the hearing room, the place strikes you as immense and comically shallow—just like it did the first time.

Beautiful, no doubt, but empty and cold, devoid of personality and humanity. The archives are the exception. You’d barely gotten a glimpse of them back then, but you had wanted to go back ever since. The immense room was brimming with books, artefacts, and knowledge dating back centuries. Piltover had its share of problems, but it had always been a remarkable city. Hextech had only confirmed that. It transformed the lives of Piltovians for the better, improving transportation, the use of technologies, healthcare. One day, you think to yourself with a smile, you’ll find a way to sneak into that room again. But alas, for now, your current position doesn't allow for such privileges. Your smile fades a little as a large, heavy door opens before you, and you are reminded of why you’re here. 

The councillors are in the middle of a heated debate, apparently trying to determine just how tight to close their fist around the undercity’s throat. It has not escaped your notice that the citizens of Piltover were deeply shaken by yesterday’s events. The streets are empty, shipments are being delayed or even cancelled at an alarming rate, and some people have even started leaving the city. Not that you can blame them. The repeated clashes between Silco’s goons and the Firelights have gotten more frequent, just like the assassinations of enforcers. It may have been years, but no one up here or below has forgotten the riots. 

You balance yourself on your feet as you wait for the councillors to finish. They don’t seem to be in a hurry. At some point you even wonder if they have noticed your arrival. You gaze absently at the dome-shaped ceiling, calculating how many yous it would take to reach it. So high and out of reach, disconnected. After a long minute, and with swift apologies, Councillor Kiramman gracefully puts you out of your misery. Among the people present, you can safely admit that she is one of the more grounded—well, as grounded as Piltovians can be, but she’s not afraid to swim against the tide when the need arises. Show of proof, you wouldn’t be there otherwise. 

She introduces you to the other six members, states your rank, and your part in arresting Jinx. With minute details, you go over the events of the day before, the showdown between the Firelight leader and Jinx, the bombs, and the aftermath. The council has already heard from Caitlyn Kiramman this morning and you confirm Marcus’ betrayal. When councillor Salo inquires about the alleged deal between the late Sheriff and Silco brought forward by Caitlyn, you fail to suppress a light scoff, to the great displeasure of your interlocutor.

"Is there something amusing? Please, indulge us, officer, I do love a good joke in the midst of tragedy."

You clear your throat, arms crossed behind your back. "Respectfully, councillor, a blind man would have seen the connection." Salo fixes you with contempt, but leaves it at that.

"What about the gemstone?" He continues, "Officer Kiramman stated that it was the very reason she was meeting with Marcus, but there’s been no trace of it since then." You display your most convincing expression of surprise. 

"I was not privy to the details of that meeting. It was only after my medical check-up this morning that I was made aware of the stone." The councillors exchange disappointed looks across the circular table. It’s been days since Progress Day, when the Hextech technology was stolen. Until last night at least Piltover knew where to look. Now, the Gemstone is in the wind, just about anybody could put their hands on it. True, the chances of this person actually being able to use the Hextech technology are thin but that uncertainty is far from satisfactory to the Council. On top of it all, it represents a tremendous economic hit for Piltover due to the colossal amount of third party investments revolving around Hextech. The city would recover eventually, but its reputation would be tarnished for decades to come.

Council members Medarda and Shoola follow up with more general inquiries about the riots, the protesters, and the arrests. Meanwhile, Bolbok and Hoskel seem more interested in moving on to more economic and trade matters. Jayce Talis, the man of progress himself, has not uttered a single word since you walked in, but his brain is buzzing, and you can see the restlessness in his posture, and the way his jaw tightens each time the others drone on about policies and regulations. Clearly he’d rather be anywhere else, crafting the next jewel of Hextech, running numbers, and solving equations alongside that curious partner of his. He’s not a bureaucrat, and at that particular moment, he’d much rather do the work than simply talk about it. 

Councillor Kiramman asks you about the morale of the enforcers deployed. You can’t tell if the concern is genuine, or if this is all just political decorum. Either way, you gladly put in a word for more ample rations, surely that can’t be too much of a dent in the city’s budget. 

At last, the interrogatory comes to an end, and a discreet exhale of relief escapes you as each councillor thank you for your service and presence. You are in the middle of excusing yourself when Salo cuts you off. 

"One last question, if I may. Multiple witnesses confirm that Silco, the industrialist, was at the scene last night. Why not arrest him too?"

You frown, "On what grounds? The council itself concluded that he runs his…business by the book."

"True," he presses, tone unyielding. "However, after Marcus revealed himself as a traitor, one would think you would have reconsidered Silco’s true role in all this."

Normally, you don’t take kindly to being called dense, especially in front of an audience. But now isn’t the time to let pride get in the way. This testimony is far from routine; you need to tread carefully here. As far as Piltover is concerned, this entire operation is a no show. The city is on edge, its Sheriff exposed as a corrupt traitor, and the gemstone…well, that’s strictly need-to-know. The truth is, Piltover is not looking too sharp at the moment, and neither is the council. They are looking for a scapegoat. All things considered, you’d much rather appear naïve for a few seconds than be caught with the Gemstone in your back pocket.

"I’m an enforcer, not an investigator." You say with a slight shrug. "But I believe that Silco is more valuable to us down there than rotting in Stillwater."

Salo leans forward, curious to hear your input. "And why is that?"

"So far, save for a few dissidents, the people of the undercity have mostly kept to themselves. Enforcer presence at the border is only effective because the other side is not interested in making trouble. Yet. We’re not the ones keeping the undercity in check. And neither are you or your policies. Silco is." 

Salo sneers. "And what a marvellous job he’s doing!"

You hold your ground, trying to ignore the mocking laughs rising around the table. "Surely I don’t need to remind you what happens when the underground is really out of control. This is nothing."

"Watch your tone, officer. Don’t forget your place."

You muster every ounce of self-control, taking a deep breath as Councillor Kiramman calls for a bit of decorum. You give her a quick, appreciative nod before continuing, "I made a judgement call, if you wish to punish me for it, that’s entirely up to you. Our orders were to stand watch on the bridges, and make arrests. Nothing more, nothing less."

Salo looks ready to press further, but Councillor Medarda’s patience is running thin as well. "I’m sure there will be no punishments necessary." She offers a composed smile, folding her hands together. "Once again, thank you for your time." She pauses, then seems to remember something important, and her smile sharpens. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Some good news at least. It seems you’ve been promoted." You stare at her, mouth agape and completely thrown off. "My congratulations, Major. You’ll be sure to extend my sympathies to Warren as well."

Of all the things that you expected from this meeting, this wasn’t even part of the honourable mentions. "Warren, ma’am?"

"He will be the city’s new Sheriff, of course."

"Of course." You echo, the words slipping out reflexively as your mind is still reeling.  You nod absently, thank the council, and with a final glance around the room, you turn and make your way toward the large doors that the guards are pushing open for you. The corridor outside somehow feels even emptier than before, each step echoing as you replay her words in your mind. Major. You’d walked in here prepared to defend yourself—prepared for the occasional lecturing and patronising, maybe—but a promotion? That hadn’t even crossed your mind.

You decide to go all the way home on foot today—some fresh air might do you some good. So many events in so little time. You sigh. It’s not that you miss your old life—no, you wouldn’t go back for anything. But there was a rhythm to it, a familiarity. You did your part and did it well. Until the sickness made it unbearable. Here, everything feels out of reach, beyond your control. It’s not quite what you imagined. Not that you came to topside with the intent of sparking fundamental change or flipping the narrative. You would gladly call yourself an idealist, but you’re not delusional—something your mother would argue against. Maybe, somewhere deep down, you once thought you could make a difference, but that ship sailed long ago. 

Unsurprisingly, the locals have deserted the food market today, much to the traders’ dismay. They linger behind their stalls, looking miserable, surrounded by products that will likely go unsold. Another week of nearly nonexistent pay, and most of this food will end up wasted. Maybe you can profit from that.

You treat yourself to a cheese sandwich and pick up some fruits and fish for the next few days. You approach the bread stall with a tinkle in your eye. A bit of small talk here, a few shared laments about the dire economy there, and you walk away with five huge pieces of brown bread—free of charge. The uniform surely helped a little too.

Taking an enthusiastic bite of your sandwich, you start making your way out of midtown, when you hear someone calling your name in the distance. The smile that spreads across your face as your eyes lock on the massive Vastaya jogging towards you is one of pure joy and excitement.

"Dren! I thought that was you!" You barely have time to set your grocery bags on the floor before strong strong arms lift you off your feet and spin you around. When he finally puts you down, Dren towers over you by at least a foot. 

Like most Vastayas of his species, he boasts stunning purplish skin covered by a very thin layer of fur, thick jet-black hair, and vivid fluorescent green eyes—eyes you are convinced are twice as sharp as human ones, though he always denies it. Truth be told, you’re still a little salty about constantly losing shooting contests and training sessions to him. The two of you find the nearest bench and start catching up on everything that’s happened over the past four months or so, while Dren was in training. Eventually, the conversation shifts to the events of the bridge. You keep it brief, doubtful he wants to hear the gruesome details. 

"What about you?" You ask, steering the conversation away. After the testimony just minutes ago, you’ve had enough of this topic for the day.

"Well…it’s official." Dren discreetly pulls a shiny paramedic insignia from his satchel. "I was just on my way to headquarters to pick up all my gear." You watch him as he gazes at the small object resting in the palm of his large, clawed hand, his expression transfixed. 

"I’m so proud of you. I hope we’ll get to work together again, now that I—" You stop yourself mid-sentence, and Dren is too lost in his own thoughts to notice. This is his moment after all. Besides, the ceremony isn’t even planned yet—plenty of time to share the news.

"How’s Olenna these days?" The question jolts you out of your happy little trance. Dren is part of a very small circle of people who are aware that your relationship with your mother is complicated, to put it gracefully. He knows how painful it is for you to talk about her, but he always asks. He’s unapologetically direct and straightforward like that, which is one of the reasons you like being around him. He challenges you constantly, body and mind. 

"Not improving," you admit with a sigh. "Not getting worse, either. At least, I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell." Dren nods silently, his green eyes fixed on you with a disarming attentiveness that always makes you feel both seen and vulnerable. When you don’t elaborate, he pats his hands on his thighs, and rises from the bench.

"Well then, I’m sure a nice dinner will do her some good. Her and you." You chuckle at the remark. It has been an intense few days for sure, and you can physically feel the bags pulling at your eyes and your entire body screaming with fatigue. You part ways after a long hug, him striding towards the university district, you towards the undercity.

They’re still scraping up blood and body parts off the main bridge; you’ll have to make a small detour. The protests have died down significantly, and from experience, you wager it will remain that way for a couple more days. Hopefully, you’ll be able to rest properly for once. You cross the southeast bridge without a hitch, a group of demonstrators throw nasty looks in your direction, but they don’t make any trouble. 

As soon as you reach the other side, you smell it. The pungent, heavy atmosphere of the underground. A stench that gives every visitor, foreign or local, a clear picture of what to expect once they enter the undercity. The familiar tang of rust and oil invades your nostrils, and you automatically reach down into your collar to adjust the sensibility on your chemsurge. Here, the smells cling to everything—your clothes, your skin, your very breath. It takes a few showers to get rid of it; you’ve learnt that the hard when you started working in Piltover. All things considered, the promenade level is not so bad. At least the sun is still visible there, faint but persistent, piercing through the cloud of fog hovering menacingly above. But as you descend deeper into the city through endless flights of worn stairs, it gets darker and darker, until your surroundings turn a murky haze of green and brown. The only light comes from the old street lamps lining the path. Their glass casings are grimy and cracked, some sputter and pop as though they might burn out at any moment. 

The alleys of entresol are mostly empty at this hour, but they’ll come alive with chatter, the clinking of drinks, and the inevitable clash of street brawls as the evening sets in. The sounds here are already louder, more chaotic. Voices echo through the narrow alleys, overlapping to create an overwhelming cacophony. Your gaze drifts towards the walls that are covered in graffiti. Beautiful murals, meticulously painted to retrace the history and pay tribute to the notable figures of each neighbourhood. 

As you make your way through the industrial district, the faint hum of machinery fills the place, a blend of churning and groaning punctuated by the sporadic hiss of steam vents and the distant clatter of pipes. Workers pass by, their clothes stained in grease, sweat and coal. Their faces are weary, marked with exhaustion, yet there is an undeniable air of camaraderie among them. Cables and pipes crisscross above, dripping occasional beads of liquid onto your shoulders or the ground with a soft plink. The pavement beneath your feet is uneven, a patchwork of scavenged stone and scrap metal, slick with oily puddles that reflect the faint glow of the lights.

At last, the distinct reddish roof of your mother’s house comes into view. You step inside, slide your muddy boots off, and leave them on the small doormat right behind the door.

"Ma, I’m home." You announce yourself loudly as you set the groceries down in the kitchen. You put everything away, sliding the items in their proper drawers and cupboard. Your mom is very particular about that. You set two breads aside for yourself before grabbing a large container of water from under the sink. Pouring some into a clean glass, you set it on the wooden table.

Olenna emerges from the dimly lit corridor, her warm sleeping clothes hanging loosely on her frame and a book resting in her hand. "It’s barely noon," she says dryly, pulling herself a seat. 

"It was just a routine council meeting," you reply matter-of-factly, your hands reaching for the little compartment that holds her medicines. 

"Must be nice for those Pilties," she scoffs, before a heavy coughing fit overtakes her. "They sure don’t push themselves too hard, do they?…You would know."

You ignore her remark and ask, "Is fish porridge okay for today?"

"Oh, it’s okay," she replies, her voice dripping with passive aggression. "Just like it was okay yesterday, and the day before that." You know better than to engage, so you simply place two painkiller tablets in front of her. 

"Those things are killing me, you know."

"I’m sure they’re the least of your problems." Her face tightens, clearly offended, and she is about to argue, but you put your hand up.

"Just—" You are used to this ridiculous back and forth, it’s the same charade everyday. "Take the meds." You slide the glass of water across the table and wait. It takes the usual five or six seconds for your mom to give in. Finally, she grabs the pills, shoves them into her mouth, and  downs the glass like it’s a shot of fine whiskey. After a few very exaggerated heavy breaths, she stands up. "Okay, I’m ready."

The process is always the same. Olenna sits backwards on the chair, her arms crossed over the backrest while you transfer a small dose of tampered Shimmer in a syringe. The light purple liquid spreads slowly, almost hypnotically. You lift your mother’s shirt up and quickly find the spot along her spine where the needle needs to go. Her body becomes rigid as you empty the content of the syringe all the way through, but it’s very brief. Once you’re all done, you clean everything up and get to cooking. 

As usual, most of the dinner is spent in comfortable silence. Occasionally, you’ll try to make small talk. You get a word or two in return, a full sentence if you’re lucky. You smile quietly to yourself as Olenna puts her fork down. She can criticise your cooking all she wants, but she always finishes before you, leaving nothing but a clean plate behind. 

You drape your uniform jacket over your shoulders and grab the grocery bag with the bread, calling out from the hallway.

"Goodnight, Ma. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"If I haven’t kicked the bucket by then," she shouts back.

"Whatever you say, Ma." You throw one last glance behind you—Olenna is already lost in her book—and head out the door.

Your apartment is just across the street, close enough if anything happens. If your relationship was different, you’d be living with her, of course. But the way things are now, she probably would’ve strangled you to death already—or vice versa. It’s better this way. 

Once you’re alone in the quiet of your room, you pull out a small shoe box from under the bed. You open it to reveal the gemstone, nestled in a makeshift padding. Carefully, you take it between your thumb and index finger, rolling it slowly. It’s beautiful by all accounts, and you can’t help but wonder how such a tiny object could cause so much trouble. You’ve turned the problem over in your mind all day, and yet you still don’t know what the hell to do with it. Honestly, you don’t even fully grasp the kind of power you’re holding. You imagine that if Hextech can power up portals, then surely this thing could be used for much more dangerous purposes. But technology was never your strong suit. All you know is that there’s only two people in topside who know how to use Hextech safely—and that is not exactly reassuring.

You glance out the window, barely able to make out anything through the thick green fog in the distance. There are plenty of things about this whole mess that are bothering you, and you intend to get some answers. A little visit to the Last Drop is in order.

Thanks for reading !

Chapter 1 ⎜ Chapter 3