#sevika's my world

[digital-slvt]

i just had to share this W of mine🤣🤣🤣🤣🫀🫀🫀

she luv me

[guiiay]

yeah... yeah

[venomvalley]

PILLOW PRINCESS — PART III

A PARTY AT HOUSE CAZEA ↬ councilor!sevika x fem!piltie!reader // 5k words

SUMMARY: Your mother suggests that you host a welcome party for Sevika. The problem? Too many to count.

TAGS: 18+ only! evil mothers, toxic yuri, smut, infidelity

NOTES: this chapter has everything yaaaayyyy

-> READ ON AO3 | PILLOW PRINCESS MASTERLIST

That evening, your parents stroll through the doors of your home shortly after you finish your bath, your mother joining you in the bathroom as your father's booming laughter echoes up to the second floor.

“I am very disappointed in you, dear.”

“What did I do this time, Mother?” you ask with a sigh, leaning over the sink to apply your night cream.

“You never told me that there was a Zaunite in our midst. I had to hear it from Abigail's aunt—who, by the way, is looking dreadful nowadays.”

You meet her gaze in the mirror, rubbing the excess cream over the back of your hands. “What's your point?”

This time of night, you've been drained of the energy needed to both entertain her dramatics and feign interest. Can barely manage both on a good day.

“My point is that we must be the first House to host her. This is a historic time we're living in, dear girl, and unless you want our name to wither away into obscurity, you need to plan ahead. Think of your children, and their children, and—”

“Mother.” You turn around to grasp her by the arms, shocking her out of her building monologue. “I understand your concerns, but my responsibilities are a bit short-sighted at the moment.”

She sniffs, raises her chin to look down her nose at you. “As soon as you see her, extend the invitation to your home. Unless you want me to do it.”

You would rather slowly impale yourself on the iron fence in the gardens.

“It’ll be done.”

Her insistence that your home hosts the party is unsurprising. No better power play to display your inheritance of wealth and influence to all of Piltover’s affluent.

Her painted lips curl into a tight smile, bracelets jingling as she pats you on the cheek. “That’s my girl.”

Your mother’s orders prove more difficult than you originally thought. Sevika has turned into a ghost over the last three days, and you hoped to spot her in the halls, or the pavilion, or the garden in the backyard, but the blasted woman has vanished.

Thus leaves only one desperate option: her office. The thought of seeing her again makes your lungs twist inside your chest, but the lingering anger from your argument doesn't sway the need to protect her from your witch of a mother for as long as possible. She's dealing with enough. No need to add to it.

Luckily for you, she stands in front of her office with a book tucked tight between her thighs just as you step out of yours.

“Councilor. Just the person I wanted to see.”

She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, struggling with the lock on the door. “I’m busy.”

You ignore her. “My mother extends an invitation to meet at my home. A welcome party, of sorts. If you value the future of Zaun, I suggest you come dressed in your best clothes.”

After a moment, the lock opens with an audible click, and she grabs the book to tuck it beneath her arm. “I'm not some dog you can order around.”

“You can decline if you wish, but given the nature of your goals and our previous agreement, I assumed that meeting the most influential family in the city would interest you.” You shrug. “Perhaps I was wrong.”

Speaking with her so formally, the same way you speak to everyone else in Piltover, hurts you in a way you can't explain. But perhaps it's for the best. Keeping your distance to focus on more important things than your odd infatuation.

Like building a family. You haven't forgotten about that whole ordeal. Gods, if only you could.

“I don't even know where you live,” she says, low and resigned.

Above everything, you hate this for her.

“I'll give you an invitation tomorrow. It should have everything you need.”

With a sigh, she nods her head, and you stroll back into your office.

.

.

.

Sevika steps into the grand foyer and the entire party grinds to a halt. Fifteen minutes late, soaked by the rain, looking almost regal in her brown and gold outfit. Even switched out the piercing below her bottom lip to match the gold of her jacket buttons.

The throng of people part for both you and Tristan as you descend the steps and approach her. You plaster on your best smile for the crowd, twirling your wedding ring around its finger.

“Councilor, I would like to formally introduce you to our home.” You rest a hand on Tristan's shoulder, and he steps forward.

He gives her his name, offering a hand for her to shake. “It's very nice to finally meet you, ma’am.”

She looks down at his hand, then at you, then back at his hand, and the next time your gazes meet, you widen your eyes and give a slight jut of your chin in his direction. She shakes it after a breath-holding moment, greeting him with a sharp nod.

“Might we interest you in some refreshments?” he asks, taking a step back to loop an arm around your waist. Her eyes dart to the movement as he waves a hand, beckoning her to follow.

The crowd parts once again as you lead her to the kitchen, whispers and stares cloaking you like a second skin as your ever-curious family indulges in the new wave of gossip.

When the three of you step inside, the kitchen bustles with cooks and servants and guests alike. A grand space made to fit thirty people at once, stocked with the best appliances and gleaming, marble countertops. Stunning chandeliers on each side of the room, flower-filled vases recently watered, candelabras casting a warm glow about the space.

She takes the glass of champagne you offer with a curious furrow to her brow, bringing it to her nose for a sniff.

“Don’t worry, it’s very good. My love’s favorite, actually,” Tristan says with a bright smile, pulling you into his side.

He looks down at you just as she raises a brow, and you meet his loving gaze with a shy smile of your own. The stress of the night threatens to cave your chest in, to stop the flow of your heart. A secret you share with the past, one-night lover stood across from you, and the husband who knows nothing about your sexual… proclivities—an unbelievably awkward situation to be in. A plot fit for a forbidden romance book.

No. Perhaps a thriller, instead. At the end, the princess is stripped of all titles and exiled from her land for bringing shame upon her family.

“Right,” she says, tone deadpan before she downs her champagne in two gulps and sets the glass back on the table sprawling with food and drink.

In that moment, your mother strolls in with the too-strong smell of jasmine perfume, destroying any semblance of a good mood you might have managed to recover.

“My dear girl.” She kisses you hard on the cheek, breath stinking of the harder liquor you keep hidden in your personal stash. “Oh, this party is simply wonderful. You’ve outdone yourself for our new guest.”

With a sway to her step, she walks over to Sevika, barely skirting the hand you grab her arm with. You curse inwardly, shooting the Councilor a pitying look before turning toward the presence of your father just over your shoulder.

“I warned her against the liquor, dear,” he mutters, head lowered to your ear. “But you know how the blasted woman is. Stubborn on her best day.”

Your mother wheels a bewildered Sevika away from the kitchen with an arm notched in her elbow, speaking in a rush. “I simply must introduce you to my sisters. They’ve been so excited to finally meet someone from the Undercity. Oh, but it’s Zaun now, isn’t it? Did you know that my daughter was one of the only Councilors appealing for your city’s recognition, and by the gods, she actually did it! I admit, I had my doubts, but—“

Her voice trails off as the bustling crowd swallows them up, and you heave a sorrowful sigh. Gods bless her.

Tristan leads you around the room to mingle, catching up with third cousins twice removed, meeting the grandchildren of your great aunts and uncles, cooing at the babies born of your distant in-laws. It all happens in a rush of questions and suggestions and applauding of your achievements. Everyone asks when you’ll be having children, if you’re pregnant, why you aren't pregnant yet—all questions you expected given the size of your family tree, but no less invasive and uncomfortable. At one point, Tristan looks like he might vomit, and you excuse him on your behalf to the bathroom.

Take a breath, you whisper, hand squeezing at his bicep. It’s alright.

Your mother talks Sevika’s head off for the better part of an hour, and the next time you circle back around to spot them, Sevika looks ready to take a flying leap off the second floor balcony. You approach the pair with a smile, the neck of your most recent glass of champagne squeezed tight between your fingers.

“Why, hello. I see you’re still talking, Mother.”

She gives you a smile in return, but her eyes harden to stone. “Yes, well, there is much to talk about. As you’ve told me before, our differences are what bring us together, yes?”

You’re used to this game: the invisible tug-of-war that your mother plays so well. A war of wills, won by only the most stubborn of psyches. A good thing, then, that you’re your mother’s daughter.

“I’m sure other people would like to speak with her, Mother. To learn about their… differences.”

She must see something in your face, or doesn’t want to make a scene in front of the crowd, because she relents surprisingly fast. Turns to Sevika with a tight-lipped smile and says, “Perhaps my daughter is right.” Turns back to you. “Why don’t you take our guest on a tour of your home? Show her all that Piltover has to offer.”

More like flaunting your wealth, but she’s already given you more grace than she holds in her whole body, so you refuse to press the issue. Instead, you wave your guest along then bow to your mother upon your retreat.

You lead her through the crowd and into one of the winding hallways inside your home, heaving a breath once the last person is out of sight. “So. You met my mother.”

“Quite the character.” She leans against the wall, eyes trailing over the intricate pattern of your mother’s hand-picked wallpaper. “She talked about your husband the whole time.”

“Yes, she tends to do that.” You take a sip of your drink, mouth suddenly dry, the champagne bitter on your tongue. “I'm the failure of the family, and I ruined her chances of having more children, so she's always resented me.”

“Why?”

“Half the people you see out there are related to me in some way.” With a tired sigh, you fluff out the layered skirt of your dress and take a seat on the floor. The shoes your maid chose for the evening already threaten blisters on your heels and toes. “To put it simply: we have large families because we believe that more children means more of an opportunity to do something noteworthy for our House, and my birth seems to have cursed us. Tristan's impotence just solidifies the theory.”

She stands in silence for a long while, brows tugged together in confusion, before finally saying, “I will never understand this shit.”

You laugh for the first time tonight, chest lighter than it’s felt in weeks. “Trust me, I wish I didn't.”

Despite your previous spat, talking with her is… easy, and you wish it wasn’t. Emotional distance would benefit you greatly, but she’s seen more of your soul than every guest in your home put together—even your parents and your dear, sweet, loving husband. Her presence brings a comfort that you haven’t experienced ever in your life, so removed from all the political intrigue and House infighting that you can drop your carefully-curated act and simply be yourself.

The want to be close to her is a dangerous thing. An exhilarating, terrifying, taboo one. Your mother would lock you away to a life of solitude if she knew the inner turmoil of your thoughts.

“About last week…” she begins, shuffling in place, eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I still stand by most of it, but…”

“Wow. How kind of you,” you say, tone a tinge too bitter than you meant to portray.

“Look, I’m trying. Give me a break.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time? I understand that things have been horrible for you, and while I don’t hold what you said against you, it still hurt. Gods, did it hurt.”

At least she has the decency to look ashamed. “It was a low blow. I can admit that.”

“If you wish to insult me, there are many things I’m guilty of being. Just—please, don’t use the only night of happiness I’ve ever experienced to mock me.”

You rise to your feet with a shake of your head, stumbling as you regain your footing against the ache in your feet. You know not to look at her right now. Too fearful that she’ll witness the build-up of tears blurring your vision. If your mother can’t make you cry, then you refuse to let her, especially over something so inconsequential.

(The most important night of your life.)

You walk down the hallway, uncaring if she follows or not, but her presence lurks a little ways behind you, boots a steady thud against the floor. Giving you much-needed space. A kindness you rarely, if ever, experience.

“So. I still need a mentor.”

Her voice stops you in your tracks. Almost teasing, her attempt at fixing your sour mood. Little does she know, your night was ruined hours ago.

“I’ll petition the Assembly to hire Shoola on Monday.”

“I don’t want Shoola. And from what I’ve read from those books you gave me, the Assembly doesn’t like to change their mind.”

Damn it. She’s right. Both of you know it.

You turn to glare at her, hands placed on your hips. “And you say I’m convincing.”

She’s closer than you originally assumed, and in three steps, she stands before you, craning her head down to look you in the eye. Such a mirror to your first meeting that you back away on instinct—right into the wall with her following behind.

“I’m learning. That’s what you wanted. Right?”

Your breathing quickens, heart a drumming beat inside your ribcage. Heat pools in the pit of your belly when rough fingers rise to adjust the sleeve of your dress, her touch inciting a buzz just beneath your skin. The trail of her knuckles across your shoulder and up the pulse of your neck threatens to buckle your knees.

When was the last time you felt such arousal? Not out of need while locked away in your bathroom with a hand beneath your night dress, but visceral want at the touch of another?

Three years. You know when. Remember it vividly, dream about it, fantasize about the touch of her hand and the slick heat of her tongue as you lay beneath your husband.

He could never compare.

She leans down, lips ghosting against the curve of your ear. “For what it’s worth, I like it when you’re on your back.”

She mouths at the delicate skin just below your ear, and you shudder, hands rising to the curve of her waist, the fabric of her coat soft beneath your touch.

“My… my bedroom is just down the hall, if you—“

She exhales a laugh, teeth teasing along your pulse. “Do you invite all your new guests to your bedroom, princess?”

“Only the ones I like.”

“Short list?”

“You have no idea, Councilor.”

She lets you whisk her down the empty hall to the double doors of your bedroom. Once inside, she walks around, inspecting the only lived-in space in the entire house. The beauty products on your vanity, two stacks of sleep clothes on the end of the bed, a childhood stuffed animal you brought from your parents' home sat in the armchair near the balcony.

She chooses the small, one-eyed bunny to pick up. Turns it over in her hand, thumbs at its matted fur.

“I would’ve killed for one of these when I was a kid, but my old man couldn't afford it.” Her lips stretch into a sad, almost bitter smile. “My aunt made one for my birthday out of this old jacket she couldn't wear. I fucking loved that thing.” She sets the bunny back down, trailing her fingers over a floppy ear. “Don't know what happened to it. Probably in a box somewhere.”

You're unsure why she tells you this. Many reasons, you suppose. Highlighting the different lives you've lived, sharing a personal anecdote, or maybe she just misses her family.

Regardless, “I'm sorry.”

She looks up at you, grey eyes stormy and shimmering. “I didn't tell you for pity.”

“I'm not pitying you. I'm just… sorry.” You curl yourself around the nearest bedpost, fingers tracing the intricate carvings in the wood. “After I left the brothel, I saw this mother and child sitting in the street, starving to death. I gave them all the gold I had, but I wanted to do more. I wanted to ensure that nobody would ever have to live like that.”

You push away from the bed then walk over to her. “You asked me what my dream was for Zaun? It's that nobody starves in the street, and parents can afford to buy their children toys.”

She shakes her head as you step up beside her. “And if it’s not possible?”

“All we can do is try.” A forefinger catches on her pinky, pulling her hand to yours. “But I need your help. Nobody knows that place like you do.”

Your other hand rises to cup her face, thumb tracing the blue scars on her cheek. Back and forth and back and forth as she stares down at you, eyes searching your face for… something. You brush the hair out of her eyes, only for the strands to immediately fall back into place.

Her brows dip into a furrow. “Whatever you think is between us, it can't go anywhere.”

“Won’t or can’t?”

“Does it matter?”

“The difference lies in the degree of willingness: between those in the relationship, or that of an outside influence. So, which are we? Won’t or can’t?”

She thinks for a moment, glancing off to the side, before her eyes meet yours again.

“Both,” she mutters.

And then your lips meet in a desperate kiss, both of you surging forward at the same exact time. Her lone arm tugs you against her, so steadfast your lungs threaten to deflate as your hands curl over the nape of her neck to pull her closer. The kiss is hungry, angry—her, that she wants this; you, that you’ve gone so long without it. Her mouth is soft, and she tastes of champagne and berry cocktail, tongue hot and curling inside your mouth.

You’ve never experienced such raging desire. Had it projected onto you many a time, by the leering gazes of older men looking for a trophy wife, the young suitors with their tomcat libidos. But never like this: being desired and desiring in return.

She walks you back toward the bed, lips an overwhelming chaos against your own. Uses your body for her pain, her anger, her grief—jerks your dress off your shoulders, bites down hard on the skin covered by your sleeve, grabs you by the waist and lays you back on the bed. Beneath you, your dress crumples, and you briefly consider the fabric wrinkling (what that means for your put-together propriety) before she's kissing you again, and every thought pertaining to the people outside this room dissolves in whisps of smoke.

She buries her face in your neck, panting, shoulders tense beneath your palms. Hisses under her breath, “What the fuck am I doing?”

You lay frozen beneath her, legs spread to make room for her hips, snapped back to the present with a sweeping chill of recognition. Her question echoes in your own mind, over and over again, because what are you doing? Succumbing to lust beneath a woman in the very spot your husband sleeps in, while he and your parents and extended family chat a hallway away. You should hate yourself. Should stand up and tell her that this can’t continue, but you’ve never been known for your self-control, and the hand she slides up your inner thigh makes your hips twitch in anticipation.

"Shit—tell me to stop," she grits, sat on her haunches to peer down at you, hair a curtain around her eyes as she works your dress over your hips.

Why would you ever do such a thing? You've been dreaming about this for three years now. Yearning for her touch every time you lay down in this very bed.

"I don't want to," you say, voice little more than a whisper as you guide her hand to the gusset of your silk underwear, already–

She groans, tracing her thumb around your clit, the fabric sticking to the outline of your pussy. "So wet. All this for me?"

You nod, a desperate whimper trapped in your throat—the sound punched from your lungs when she slips a finger beneath the hem and feeds it into you. Thick and long as you remember, curling and twisting to make room for another. She knows exactly what to do. Massages all your sensitive spots, thumbs over your clit, brushes against your cervix when she thrusts in deep. A master of her craft, plays your body like an instrument.

Beneath her jacket, the muscles of her arm flex and shift deliciously, pretty eyes downcast to gaze between your legs, and you reach up to comb a hand through her hair so you can see her face. Still soft and thick, face equal parts handsome and beautiful. The most stunning woman you've ever seen.

You pull her in for a kiss by the back of her neck, and her weight topples over, chest heavy against yours. Gods, you forgot that her only arm is currently occupied.

"Sorry," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek and curling an arm around her shoulders.

"You could've warned me," she grumbles, rolling to the side to lay next to you.

You hook a knee over her hip, pussy blooming around the fingers still buried inside you. "I know. 'm sorry."

She nuzzles against your cheek, sinks her teeth into the curve of your jaw as her fingers quicken their pace. The slick squelch of your pussy makes your ears burn, and she begins to mock you:

Letting me fuck you with your ring on? What would your husband think?

Haven't been this wet in three years, I bet.

Does your husband know you're this easy?

Her words really shouldn't affect you the way they do. You should be angry at the mention of your husband, the reminder of your infidelity, but somehow, she knows exactly what you need. Knows that her humiliation sends you crashing into a breath-stealing orgasm.

(Nobody in Piltover would dare talk to you in such a way, and maybe that's the appeal. Her dragging you off your golden pedestal to remind you that you're still human.)

She coos into your ear, says, "There you go," as you clench hard around her fingers, head thrown back against the sheets. Your teeth threaten to break from how hard you clench your jaw, each moan dying in your throat.

You have to be quiet. Nobody can know.

The afterglow bathes you in guilt. Boneless, relieved, calm guilt. She stuffs her slick fingers in your mouth, and you suck them clean on instinct, meeting the heat of her gaze. Her eyes flicker over your face before settling on the pucker of your lips, their shade of grey dark and cloudy.

The advent of a thunderstorm.

When she pulls away, her fingers slick with saliva, you slide a hand over her hip, skin warm beneath her trousers.

"Can I return the favor?"

She exhales a humorless laugh. Says, "No need. I have people for that."

Jealousy has no place swirling around in your gut, considering where you met her in the first place. But you can't help it. What do these people have that you don't? Why are they good enough for her?

"Why not me?"

She sits up then moves to the edge of the bed. "I like my women to know what they're doing."

"I've never even—" Stop. There's no point. "Fine."

You aren't sure why you're even here anyway. Why she infatuates you so. Why you want so badly to prove yourself worthy, to please her. You come from completely different worlds. This will only end in tragedy.

Then why—why—do you insist on making the situation so difficult for yourself?

"Fix your lipstick," is the last thing she says before leaving the bedroom.

Once again, you're alone. For the first time in your life, after years of basking in the silence of an empty room, you wish it weren't true.

But you heed her advice. Straighten out your dress, fix the state of your makeup, flatten down your unruly strands of hair. By the end, you look fairly presentable again. Nobody should know that you just cheated on your husband.

You stroll back to the lively party with the ghostly stretch of her fingers between your thighs, each step leading you closer to the hum of music and a bustling crowd teetering on drunkenness.

Aunt Elise catches you at the final stretch of hallway, reaching out a hand for you to take. "My sweet girl. What a lovely party you've set up for us."

She pulls you into a one-armed hug, the other busy holding her drink, and you pray that your dousing of perfume covers up any… lingering scents.

"Nice to see you, Auntie."

She steps away then pins you with a sharp look over the rim of her glass. “So. Our new guest cuts a nice figure, doesn't she?”

You stiffen at the mention of Sevika, her warm hand and soft lips on you lingering fresh at the back of your mind. Her quick exit, too.

“I suppose.”

“Don't tell me you haven't noticed, dear girl. You took your sweet time on that house tour.”

Ah. Just like Aunt Elise to stick her nose in everything—especially where it doesn’t belong. A favorite pastime of hers.

“We had… matters to discuss. About Piltovan law.”

Her head tilts to the side, eyes thinning in confusion. “Is that why your sleeve is ripped?”

You jolt to attention, pulling your arm to your face to inspect the fabric.

And then she laughs, half-collapsing against the wall. “Oh, I just knew it! I knew it! You weren't as subtle as you thought, you know.”

Your heart drops like a heavy stone in the pit of your stomach as the last of her giggles fade. You might be sick, right here on the floor, and she steadies you with wide eyes and a hand on your elbow.

“No, my dear, it's alright. I've known for a very long time." A soothing hand rubs over your arm. "This changes nothing.”

You fall into the hug she offers, chin perched atop her shoulder. She smells like lavender and lemongrass, clean and earthy. “Please don't tell anybody. I'm begging you, Auntie.”

“Your secret is safe with me. It has been for years, alright?”

At least you have two people now that know. Two people that you trust to keep your world-ending secret. Aunt Elise is your favorite family member for a reason. She’s always treated you like a person, always gave you the reprieve of freedom at her home when your mother’s incessant hovering drove you half-mad. As a child, she let you dirty your skirt in her garden and carry bugs in your pockets and climb the fruit trees in her backyard and never once yelled at you about propriety or femininity or the price of girlhood.

Maybe the six children she gave birth to, the last two—a set of twins—that she raised as a grieving widow, helped shape her worldview into something more delicate than your mother and the rest of her sisters.

“My poor, sweet girl. I don't envy you one bit.”

“How did you know?”

She hums, the vibration passing through to your chest. “There were signs. You never much looked at the boys like you did the girls, and don't get me started on you running off every suitor your mother lined up for you.”

So, you truly weren't as subtle as you thought.

“And Mother doesn't know?”

“She used to suspect, but you know how she is. As long as she gets what she wants, nothing else matters.”

Mother knowing your preferences and ignoring them for her benefit makes your situation even worse because it isn't surprising in the slightest. Self-serving witch. Can't have a daughter who prefers women. No, that won't do. How else will she continue the precious family bloodline?

A cold hand cups your chin, and you meet your aunt's severe gaze.

"Don't let anybody rule your life. You only have one to live."

With those words, she turns and enters the ballroom.

[alymango]

"Oh Sevika is the antagonist that is an intimidating apathetic unfeeling woman that is loyal to what she stands, to Zaun and cares nothing but to get things over with–"

LOOK. LOOK AT HER IN THE EYES. LOOK AT HERRRR. THAT'S HER GAZE, HER LOOK WHEN SHE SAW JINX IS HALLUCINATING. LOOK AT ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME IF THAT'S THE SAME UNFEELING WOMAN YOU DESCRIBE. (Maybe a character development idk)

is no one going to talk about the lingering weight of emotions in her face, her eyes?? And that huff??

[your-senpaaaai]

silco and jinx headcanons because i miss this weird family 🥹🥹 part 2 and part 3

– growing up jinx got really attached to silco’s presence so she would just randomly pop in his office and silently mind her own business: draw, read, craft sth or just sit beside silco while he was busy doing his idk criminal-mafia-mob things

– (adding to previous take) no questions were ever asked from silco because he knew how hard it was to stay by yourself sometimes and never wanted jinx to feel lonely

– had like a little book club just between them: jinx would read books from silco’s collection and then yap yap yap about them asking his opinion on every plot twist

– jinx would definitely make silco learn how to do some hairstyles for her other than braids, at first he didn’t really like to do it but then found something therapeutic in the process

– silco would stay beside jinx’s bed whenever she had nightmares and tell her silly stories from when he was a teenager

– every i mean EVERY drawing or handicraft jinx ever gifted to silco is kept, treasured and absolutely adored by him

– when jinx told him about her bombs never working silco found someone who specialised on constructing weapons so they could teach jinx basics

– (adding to previous one) silco would do all he could so jinx could learn and get a better education than most of zaunites: probably made markus get him books from piltover or sth like this

– every time when sevika complained to silco about jinx pulling a prank on her he would wait until she got out of his office to crack a smile about it

that’s all for now thank you for coming on my ted talk 🤞😔

[kivishipps]

x OC fics ≠ x reader fics

Okay guys, I’ve given the gentle reminder as many times as I can without seeming passive aggressive, as a result this is your not-so gentle reminder. Stop tagging your x OC works as x reader for the love of all that is divine. This isn’t a threat, it’s not some long article about how you’re a deadbeat or whatever; The simple fact of the matter is the tagging system was created to help readers find EXACTLY what they are looking for with [relative]ease, and that can’t be if YOU are making them sift through content that has fuck all to do with what they are looking for.

Now there are a couple of assumptions I’ve made seeing some of you guys’ posts. Most of them fall under the writer being insecure and thinking their work will not be seen if they don’t use the x reader tag and I am here to tell you that is simply untrue. I know plenty of people who actively seek out x OC works, and while I am not among them as being called by the name of someone I am obviously not in fiction breaks the immersion for me, this should NOT discourage you from being transparent in your posting.

“It’s called block and move on.” No, it’s called be a good human being and stop evading responsibility for a messy system that doesn’t HAVE to be messy, and thus is so only because you’re making it that way. You are not a singular. There are other people JUST like you doing the same thing further perpetuating the convoluted channels.

Overlooking how self serving it is, it’s also very inconsiderate concerning people that simply struggle to find stories in some already dead or dying fandom. You have no reason to tag it as an x reader unless it is, an x reader.

It’s obnoxious, and frankly, rude.

Again, I’ve given a couple of gentle reminders already but some of you are failing to respond so allow me to put it in words geared more for… I don’t know, hardier audiences I suppose. As always thank you for your time and I hope you have an absolutely wonderful rest of your day[genuine].

[dykesevika]

It makes me really sad to think about Sevika being all alone :((

[mistynatruther]

GUYS i keep rewatching that whole scene in episode three and i just LOVE it so much about it

sevika, jinx, and isha’s WHOLEEEE dynamic. jinx covering isha, and sevika covering jinx. they’re so interesting to me. i love traumatized characters who cling to each other. isha clings to jinx and sevika, like it or not, is sort of clinging to jinx because she has nobody left. they are the only two people left who are grieving over silco, and they need each other for that. they’ve already lost so much, and now, it’s just them.

vi and jinx fighting but not really fighting because deep down, they never wanted to hurt each other, that was never the goal.

vi’s face when isha protects jinx. like she’s realizing that jinx has some piece of powder still in her, because if somebody as pure and innocent as isha could love her, then she can’t be gone.

jinx’s face when she sees that vi stopped caitlyn from shooting. idk it’s these small little details we’re getting of their relationship because everything is sooo screwed up and they haven’t even had a chance to really talk and they have so many unresolved feelings that they need to get out. it all shows on their faces. they don’t want to hurt each other, they both just want their sister back.

vi stopping caitlyn from shooting. it means so much to me. and i know it was “because of isha” but to me, in my head, it’s not just that. because it can’t be just that. there was hesitation. there was gears turning in her head. she knew, even when it finally came down to it, she couldn’t watch jinx be killed. she just couldn’t do it. even if isha hadn’t did what she did, i still believe that something else would’ve stopped the whole thing from happening. no matter how much vi says that jinx needs to die, we all know that her love for her sister is bigger than anything else. it’s the only thing that kept her going while in stillwater, and when she got out? it was her sister she wanted to find.

idkkkkk this episode just gave me some sort of hope for their relationship though i’m not gonna be TOOOOO hopeful bc i also have a feeling that it’s just going to hurt me and things will never be okay. but i like to think about the scenario in which things do become okay one day

[dykulaura]

hello Toca Boca sevika 😏

[halyasgirl]

Not gonna lie, teen mom Jinx platonically co-parenting with Sevika (and doing a decent job?) was not on my bingo card for Arcane season 2.

[digital-slvt]

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

⊹₊⟡⋆ there's no one in this world like my sevika ₊˚⊹ᰔ

[local-enby]

New Attachments

Sevika x Original Non-Binary Character | Rating: Explicit | Words: 5.6k | Friends to Lovers

O/C Ashe (non-binary, transmasc, 30-something, tattooed) is a Firelight and engineer who is newly managing the reopened Last Drop. Sevika stops by after her first day on the council. The Firelights (Ashe & Ekko) work closely with Sevika to improve conditions in Zaun while Sevika and Ashe's partnership/friendship turns into something more.

Tattoo inspo from @___p_e_s_t_e___ on IG!

Full work on ao3. Sneak peak below the break!

Sevika pushed open the door to her old watering hole, The Last Drop. The room buzzed with its usual sounds: glasses clinking (occasional shattering), raised voices, and metal chairs sliding across the floor. To her surprise, the music was different – lighter. The ambiance of the place felt completely different than it had under Silco’s jurisdiction. Memories of the unity Vander brought to the undercity flooded her mind; it made her feel hopeful, something she desperately needed after the hopeless first day she’d had on the council. 

The day had been dreadful – the other councilors hadn’t remotely considered what she had to say about the needs of Zaun. All they cared about were the problems affecting Topside, a slap in the face after fighting alongside them to save the city. She needed a break before re-evaluating her strategy to advocate for the people of Zaun; her people. 

Some of the men she used to gamble with sat at the table in the corner, cards dealt and cigarellos burning. She was half-tempted to join them; to grant herself some reprieve from her newfound responsibility. But that wouldn’t be right. She knew turning back down that dark path would only make her pain worse. The pain of losing Jinx and Isha so quickly hung heavy on her heart. She’d hardly had time to process it before having to move forward. She was committed to starting over, for them. Becoming a better version of herself and making Zaun a better place. And damn, if it didn’t seem like The Last Drop was already stepping in the right direction. Who was running the place now anyway?

Sevika continued towards the bar, desperately needing a drink. Suddenly, her gaze locked with the bartender. They had wavy jet-black hair, overgrown into almost a mullet; vivid green eyes, and a sharp jawline. She expected them to look away or be intimidated by her presence as people typically were, but instead, their gaze traveled down her body before drifting back to her eyes once again. 

The person they were serving said something, pulling their attention away. Sevika sat down roughly on a stool near the other end of the bar. “Be right with you,” the bartender threw in her direction. She only nodded in response. 

Observation had always been Sevika’s strong suit; she was constantly studying people’s words and actions to ascertain their intentions. While the bartender finished talking to the patron, she allowed herself to check them out, the way they had her. They wore a black tank and baggy purple trousers. Though they were nowhere near as tall or muscular as she was, they were relatively built for their smaller, lean frame. Strong shoulders led into toned arms, hosting intricate tattoo sleeves, winding abstract designs wrapping around their form. The sleeves appeared to continue across their flat chest, hidden from view beneath their tank top. They had layered silver necklaces, rings on most fingers, and an array of piercings in both ears. If she had to guess, they were a bit over 30. 

Not wanting to get caught staring, she set her metal arm against the counter. She pulled a small screwdriver from her pocket and began messing aimlessly with a few of the bolts. The makeshift arm was a piece of shit, barely usable from her ill-fated conversion of the war machine Jinx had created. She didn’t think the monstrosity Jinx subbed for a hand would make the best first impression on the councilors. 

Soon, the green eyes were right in front of her. They had both hands on the bartop and a rag slung over their shoulder. 

“What can I get you?” they asked, their tone friendly.

“Whiskey, neat,” she responded, her voice coming out a bit more gruff than intended. 

It didn’t seem to bother the bartender though. With a nod, they grabbed a glass and bottle to pour her drink. 

The bartender slid the glass towards her, meeting her eyes once again. They opened their mouth, about to say something else, when a man shouted from over by the record machine,  “Ashe! What the fuck is this shit? Where are all the metal albums?!”

The bartender shouted back, “New management! If you don’t like it, you can fucking leave!” The man grumbled an incoherent response and went back to reviewing the options at the machine.

“Who’s running this joint now anyway?” Sevika asked casually as she took a large sip of whiskey.

Green eyes looked her over carefully, “Who’s asking?” 

Sevika’s brow furrowed. She’d been gone, what, a week? And suddenly, no one remembered who she was anymore? Her lip twitched as she readied to snap a reply.

“Woah, easy,” Ashe said with raised hands. “I’m only joking, Councillor. I think everyone knows who you are down here. The Firelights have been trying to get most of the businesses that closed down reopened to help with reformation efforts. I’m Ashe, the new manager,” they said, reaching out to offer a handshake. 

Sevika huffed in response, before firmly taking their hand. “Don’t call me that. It’s just Sevika.” 

“Touchy,” Ashe teased. 

Sevika rolled her eyes and knocked back the rest of her drink. Their sass was annoying and yet… familiar… comforting, somehow. 

Ashe refilled it without her asking, hoping it would suffice as a peace offering. “I was going to ask, before my music was so rudely slandered–”

“Ah, so that’s your doing then?” Sevika interrupted.

Ashe pursed their lips, “Did you have something to say about it?” they challenged.

Sevika met their gaze, her gray eyes sparkling devilishly before the side of her lip pressed up into a small smile, “I like it. Reminds me of the old days at The Last Drop.”

“THANK YOU! It was such a depressing shit hole in here, it desperately needed a change!” Ashe exclaimed. They leaned forward, resting both forearms against the bartop. “Anyway, I was going to ask, do you think you could talk to the council about funding repairs to the water turbines on the south side of Zaun? Ekko and I can manage the work ourselves, but the Firelights can’t afford the equipment itself.”

“You’re an engineer?” Sevika asked, her eyes widening slightly in surprise. Ah, they want to talk business.

Ashe shrugged, “I’m not Ekko, but I try to keep up.”

Sevika pondered the request; perhaps she’d approached her role on the council wrong today. Equity for Zaun wouldn’t be won overnight, and she’d be lying to say she actually believed she’d convinced the other councilors of anything at all today. Maybe, bringing specific issues to light for support was how she could impact change the most quickly. “Yeah, I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, taking a sip of her new drink.

Dimples appeared on both sides of Asbe’s grin, “Thank you! Let me go grab the plans from my office.” 

Sevika had noticed a tongue piercing when they spoke. Now, that is interesting. She wondered how much of their body was covered in the winding tattoos. Sevika finished her drink while she waited for them to return. 

Soon enough, Ashe was handing her a green file folder filled with details. “I really appreciate it, Sevika. We’ll be able to get the grid back up on the southside once the turbines are repaired,” Ashe explained.

“Kinda my job,” Sevika said as she stood up to take her leave.

“Hey… I’d be happy to take a look at that arm sometime if you’re interested,” Ashe offered a little less confidently, scared of offending her.

Sevika shrugged, attempting to feign indifference. “Maybe sometime. Thanks–” Fuck, their name was gone from her mind.

“Ashe,” the bar manager smirked.

Sevika nodded, turning away to hide her blush, and strode out of The Last Drop.

Keep reading on ao3!!!

[riotinthesheets]

Vika~

[am-i-interrupting]

You said something silco and something shimmer for ATR? (across the river) May I inquire more?

-🦇 (my dms are open to talk shop for story 😌)

I’m putting my answer beneath a readmore because it’s spoilers. I know some people don’t like spoilers. I don’t mind them.

So, right now we’re at the 6/7 month mark of Jinx knowing Jayce & Viktor. When we get around the 2 year mark is when things will start happening that are more in line with the show.

Namely, Viktor’s condition getting worse. Right now, I’d say he’s using his crutch properly but when we get to the 2 year mark is when he’s going to start leaning more body weight on it than he should which indicates that he probably should be using a wheelchair.

With his worsening condition will come the hexcore. I don’t have plans for Viktor to actually use the hexcore. Instead, he’ll realize it responds to organic matter and go to Singed like he does in the show.

Reader goes with him to Singed’s layer and there we will encounter Silco & Sevika. A fight may almost break out. We’re gonna get some flashbacks to all that really happened during the first couple episodes.

After things calm down, Reader is going to go to the side to talk to Silco while Viktor speaks with Singed. To put long story short, Viktor and Singed work together with Jinx (Jayce at this point will be on the council and trying to work out corruption) to try and figure out how to stabilize the hexcore. Silco, Sevika, and Reader are busy trying to figure out how to get the council to listen to them.

Viktor’s condition is worsening. He ends up passing out and still doing testing with the hexcore, Viktor gets Singed’s more well crafted shimmer injections (like the ones he gave to Jinx in the show).

Meanwhile, Jayce is starting to fall into that “us vs them” mindset as he sees more and more corruption. Jayce and Reader get into it. It ends with Reader, Silco, and Sevika sending a letter to the council demanding an audience.

[iminmywritersdungeon]

maybe this world isn’t perfect, but it’s ours

part six: claws around my throat, won’t let them dig

chapter two: braids of sorrow, woven through time

Aadhya looks down at the knife. She looks up at Sevika– no, past Sevika. Past Sevika to the place beside Vander, where Silco should be. Aadhya looks at his phantom, she looks at her sister, and she throws herself in Sevika’s arms.

They had been nervous to celebrate when they were so close to a great victory. They hadn’t wanted to jinx it.

Looking back, Sevika thinks they should have celebrated while they could. There wasn’t much to celebrate, after.

[basket-of-loquats]

HEY !! WHAT THE FUCK!!