Me With Handsome Butches And Preety Femmes

headcannons or a story with Vi and Jinx having a younger sister that has little space or who’s autistic?

Vi and Jinx having an autistic sibling

Vi is your protector and biggest advocate

She makes sure people respect your boundaries and understand your needs

Jinx is chaotic but surprisingly considerate

She might be unpredictable, but she always takes note of what makes you comfortable

They both learn your routines and help you stick to them

Vi is more structured, while Jinx turns it into a fun game

Vi is patient with your communication style

Whether you prefer direct conversations, struggle with eye contact, or need time to process, she never rushes you

Vi keeps noise levels in check

She makes sure loud situations don’t overwhelm you or helps you escape them if they do

Jinx is naturally high-energy but dials it down for you

If she notices you getting overstimulated, she’ll be quieter (or at least try)

They both help with sensory overload in their own ways

Vi is grounding and calming, while Jinx distracts you with something engaging

Vi has a weighted blanket for you

She doesn’t use it, but she got it just for you because she heard it might help

Vi helps you navigate social situations

She’ll gently guide you if you’re unsure how to respond to something

Jinx doesn’t care about social ‘norms’ anyway

So she never makes you feel bad if you don’t fit them

Vi teaches you self-defense

Not just physically, but also how to stand up for yourself if people don’t respect you

Jinx hates when people treat you differently

If someone talks down to you, she will start a scene

They never force you into conversations

If you don’t want to talk, they’re fine with just sitting in comfortable silence

Jinx will hyperfixate with you

If you have an intense interest, she’ll dive into it just so you can share it together

Vi encourages your passions

Even if she doesn’t fully understand them, she loves seeing you happy

Neither of them judge if you repeat things a lot

Whether it’s watching the same show, repeating a phrase, or wearing the same outfit, they don’t mind

Vi is protective but lets you be independent

She won’t coddle you but will always step in if you need her

Jinx will (lovingly) terrorize anyone who upsets you

Not really… but kind of

They both support you unconditionally

No matter what, they love you exactly as you are

Vi is your safe space

If the world gets too much, she’s always there to ground you

Jinx reminds you that being different is awesome

A slutty little waist is amazing but have you considered love handles? They are perfect and comfortable to hold and rest your hand on.....Just saying→⁠_⁠→

barges through the wall like the kool-aid man

Buy Sevika flowers.

Please. Please she probably never received a beautiful bouquet before and I desperately yearn for soft hours with Sevika

SHE SO DESERVES FLOWERS I AGREE I AGREE

i will take good care of you

content warning(s): none

"and all the quiet nights you bear seal them up with care no one needs to know they're there for i will hold them for you."

~~~

** set post canon, Councilor!Sevika x reader. because oh my god i cannot accept that she’s all alone in there **

~~~

You stand in the doorway. Sevika hasn’t seen you yet. 

She is at her desk, the way she is every night. The desk of rich Noxian wood, inlaid with swirling patterns of gold. The desk came with the apartment, which came with the seat at the Council, which came with a new kind of fight that you had to watch Sevika go through day after day. 

The battles were won, the losses counted, the blood spilled and cities destroyed and rebuilt. Ambessa was dead. Hextech destroyed. The sister cities were forced to reconcile in the face of the realization that they had come very, very close to the end of the world. 

Piltover is quiet at night. Nothing like the undercity, where you would hear fights breaking out on the streets every hour of the day, drunks wailing from filthy doorsteps, dogs howling in the alleyways. No; Piltover was like a slumbering golden beast. 

And your Sevika, the new leader of the underdogs, the voice of the city the two of you had grown up in—the city that never slept. If Piltover was the idle lion, Zaun was the hungry wolf. You see the hunger still in your wife’s eyes. You see how she charges into every debate, every argument at the Council Table the same way she charged into battle years ago. Every reform, every proposal she makes, is met with a near unanimous opposition. A mandate that would have taken half a day to pass from a Piltover Counselor took weeks when it came from the Zaunite Counselor. 

Sevika has hung up the arm Jinx had made for her on the wall behind her desk, and it gleams in the lamplight like a trophy. Still she hasn’t noticed you—she is poring over the files on her desk, the endless paperwork awaiting her every night seeming to have no end. 

You want to take her in your hands tenderly, you want to crush the burdens she carries into an insignificant ball. You want to tell her to rest. But you've learned Sevika didn't like words that have no meaning: she cannot rest, and you and Sevika both know this. 

So you show it through actions. 

You walk up to her, standing behind her. She glances up briefly. 

“How was the academy today?” 

“Fine,” you say. “The pupils learn fast.”

“Hm.” She is preoccupied with the paperwork. You rest your hands on her shoulders and find them tight with tension. Your fingers knead her muscles, their strength making her groan involuntarily. 

“You work too hard.” 

She laughs dryly. Her prosthetic arm is off—the new one she bought from the Piltover mechanic, a simple and elegant arm of light gold, no weaponry assets. She’s still wearing the formal cape, and from where you’re standing she looks smaller and wearier than you remember. 

“Come to bed,” you say, massaging the tension out of her neck. You feel her relax at your touch, the muscles softening beneath her warm skin. 

“In a minute.” 

“Not in a minute. Now.” 

“You go ahead, baby.” She sighs. “I have to get this done.” 

You never feel so helpless as in moments like these, when she seemed to be trapped between one duty and another, when it felt like the world expected your wife to be everywhere at once, doing everything at the same time. 

You don’t know how to ease her load. There just seemed to be no end to it. You try to think of the last time you saw her smile, really smile, and find you can’t remember. 

You look around her office. The walls are plain, devoid of paintings. Besides Jinx’s mechanical arm on the wall, there isn’t much to relieve the somber atmosphere. 

“Sevika,” you say suddenly, “what are your favorite flowers?”

“Flowers?” she repeats in an absent tone, looking over a text on trade policy. “I don’t know. I don’t think much about flowers.” 

A pause, and she looks up at you, as if surprised to see your question was serious. 

“I remember picking moonflowers when I was small,” she says. 

“Moonflowers?”

“Yeah, the pale blue ones that grew near the mines. The only things that could survive in that air. More weeds than anything.” She shrugs. “I remember picking one a day to give to my mom when she came back from work. She never threw them away, even after they wilted. Then one day she didn’t come home at all.”

You squeeze her shoulder. Her mother had died in a cave-in at the mines when she was young. You had lost your own parents to the same kind of accident. 

Sevika looks at you, amusement in her eyes. “I don’t remember the last time we ever talked about something like flowers.” 

~~~

The next day you ask your academy supervisor permission to take off work early. Since you have no afternoon classes anyway, the permission is granted. You walk briskly down to the marketplace and go into the florist’s shop. 

When you ask the leopard vastaya man at the counter for a bouquet of moonflowers, he shakes his head. “Those are just weeds from the undercity. I don’t sell them in bouquets. You can buy a full bouquet including them as decoration.” 

“I want only the moonflowers. You can take them out of every bouquet and gather them together, I’ll pay however much it costs.”

He looks at you as if you’re crazy, but he sets to work. You leave the shop fifteen minutes later with a bunch of moonflowers in gleaming wax paper tied with a ribbon. They are beautiful with notes of gray, and in flashes they hold the same color as Sevika’s eyes. They look like hope. They look like Zaun. 

When Sevika comes home that night you present them to her with a tentative smile. All day you’ve angled them this way and that in her office, changing the vase twice to try to find the right look. You’re not sure if she would even like the gift, or if she would find it painful. 

Sevika stares at you. “What’s this?” 

“Moonflowers,” you say dumbly. Both of you can clearly see that. You can’t read her expression, and you start to feel nervous. “I just wanted…I wanted to make you feel lighter.” 

Lighter. Happier. You want to give her the world. You want to give her the moon, the stars, the warmth of your very soul. You want to show her she is not alone in this fight. 

Sevika takes the flowers and buries her nose in them, eyes closed. Then she looks up at you. “They’re beautiful,” she says, her voice husky.

Sevika sees her childhood in their petals. She sees the hope in the heart of the little girl inside her. She sees the wrinkles of her mother’s tired smile. She sees the bright eyes of young Zaunite children. 

“Sevika,” you say, worried, “Sevika, are you crying?” 

She wipes roughly at her eyes, giving you a smile as genuine as sunlight. “No, darling. Thank you.”

~~~

note: ah...this was meant to be fluff but it turned out angstier than i intended... i can still call it fluff if it involves flowers right...?

thank you @demothers-empty-blog for the req :)

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.

Could I perhaps request headcanons for sevika of what it'd be like being friends with her? As difficult as she is I think I'd be awesome to have her watch your back I mean we've all seen how loyal she is

Being besties with Sevika!

I absolutely love this ask, because she'd definitely be SUCH a good friend!!<3

Content: Platonic relationships, some angst?, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not proofread))

Sevika is a ride or die through and through. No matter how difficult things get with you or how chaotic things are, you can count on her to be right there for you every time. Trust and loyalty is hard to come by down in Zaun after all, and so her dedication to you is rare and appreciated by you gratefully. If you keep her back clear, then she'll keep yours clear, too.

Her stubbornness was, however, a difficulty that took you a while to learn how to deal with. If she thinks that she's right about something, then she absolutely is. No, if's or buts about it. Not a thing, you could say can change her mind unless it's profound enough to get through the thick wall in her head. This can lead to some strong disagreements between you two, maybe even a couple arguments. But those are resolved as quick as they come, mainly since she doesn't dwell on alot.

Sevika can be hot-headed and frustrating when it comes to your safety. You are the one good thing she still had left in this hell hole, and she'd be damned if something hurt you. She, therefore, can be very overprotective when it comes to your safety and doesn't let many people come close to you unless she trusts them too. Which are very few people as is.

With that said, though, you practically have scary dog privileges with the way she always looms behind you. No one will ever think of hurting or insulting you in her vicinity, that's for sure.

Whenever you're not feeling well, she'll try and help you out as much as she can. She may not be very good at all at comforting people, but she'll probably get (steal) you things that could make you feel better, whether it be medicine or a small gift. She never accepts anything in return, however, as she's content with caring for you only.

This doesn't mean that she doesn't appreciate the care and loyalty you give her every day deep down, though. She's aware of how painfully difficult she can be at times. And most people therefore avoid her, except for you. This means the world to her, even if she'd never admit it put loud to you.

i lost the anon ask for this, but here's an angst/fluff fic in which sevika comforts reader with insomnia <3

apocalypse

content warning(s): none, light angst and fluff :)

"kisses on the foreheads of the lovers wrapped in your arms you've been hiding them in hollowed-out pianos left in the dark got the music in you baby, tell me why got the music in you baby, tell me why you've been locked in there forever and you just can't say goodbye."

☆ ☆ ☆

context: reader and sevika are not yet in an established relationship

☆ ☆ ☆

“Commander,” Sevika snaps her fingers. “You in there?”

You give a start and look up. “Yes,” you say. “Sure.” Even you can tell how unconvincing your tone is, but it’s the best you can offer right now. 

Despite her brusque tone, Sevika is worried. She frowns down at you as she loads the Shimmer cartridges into her belt. This is the third time today you’ve spaced out and missed a chunk of briefings for the day’s shipment assignments. There are dark circles under your eyes and you walk as if you might fall over any second. You’re forgetting instructions you usually remember with ease. Just that morning Sevika had to stop you from pouring the scalding hot coffee for Silco directly onto your hand because you were seeing the cup double. 

Today it’s your turn to scout the air ships, not too big of a job. If you were in charge of steering, or even bargaining, Sevika might have been stricter. But today you’re with her, with Ran heading the other air ship entering Piltover. 

She peers down at you. “You look like hell,” she says. 

“Thanks. I just got back.” 

It wasn’t too far from the truth. For the past three days and nights, you had seen the sun set and rise like a relentless bitch on the skyline of a sleepless city without a wink of sleep yourself. 

Do you know what it is to be unable to sleep? No matter how your body demands it, begs for it, screams for it? No matter how your muscles ache and your limbs shake uncontrollably from fatigue? You swear sleep is harder to catch than an orgasm. 

Sevika wouldn’t know. Many a late night you found her snoring on the couch in Silco’s empty office with the documents scattered on the floor around her, her mechanical arm still on. She had trained her body to snatch what hours of sleep she could steal. You would gently detach the prosthetic so her limb wouldn’t stiffen, pull a blanket over her, and envy the blissful unconsciousness smoothing her features. 

Sevika shakes her head. “You’ll sit this one out, commander.” 

“No! I’m fine,” you snap. 

Another pleasant perk of sleep deprivation: the changes in temper, the raging mood swings. You want to crumple into a ball and weep one moment, you’re ready to tear someone apart limb from limb the next. 

Sevika only raises an eyebrow. “Right. You’re the damn poster child of stability.”

“Don’t test me,” you say. “I haven’t slept in three days.” You wave to Locke. “Start the loading in five.” 

But when you start to walk up the plank into the airship, Sevika grabs you by the arm and pulls you aside. To Locke she says, “get Jennes to scout the ship.” 

He nods and walks away. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Now let me get this straight,” she says in a low voice. “You’re telling me you haven’t slept once in three days?”

You struggle to pull away. “I said I’m fine. Why would you do that? Why would you just change the assignment?” 

“Uh-uh. No. You’re going straight home and you’re going to get some sleep.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but something in her tone collides with your precarious mental state, like the strike of flint and stone against a brittle pile of tinder. She isn’t even angry, just concerned. Maybe disappointed. But in this state of mind, you’re convinced you have failed her, you’ve failed everyone, and that she despises you for your incompetence. You feel something break inside you. You violently wrench yourself away from her so she can’t see the tears streaming down your face. 

“Hey,” Sevika says in a gentler voice. Your outbreak evidently alarms her. “Hey. Come here.” 

You try to stifle the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know why—”

“It’s okay.” She reaches out and takes your chin in her hand, turning your face toward her. With her thumb she wipes away the tears from your cheek. “It’s okay,” she says again. “You’re tired.” 

A shock goes through you when she touches your face and you grow still. Her hand is rough and warm. 

She looks around briefly, as if to see if anyone is around to overhear her. No one else is at the harbor within earshot. She drops her voice to nearly a whisper. 

“I know you’ve been looking after me those nights in the office,” she tells you. “And covering for me just to let me get some more sleep. You think I’d let that slide without doing anything in return?”

“You don’t have to, it’s nothing.”

“Let me handle this,” she says. “Let me cover this one. Please.”

You meet her eyes, startled. The word ‘please’ coming out of Sevika’s mouth was about the second least likely thing you would ever imagine happening. It was like a shift in the laws of nature. 

“I can’t sleep,” you say quietly. “Not even if I tried.”

Her brows crease. “Have you taken anything for it?”

“What, pills?” You laugh wryly. “Can’t afford it.” 

You see her purse her lips, her jaw tighten, as if she’s thinking. Then she says, “just get home and lay down. You can do that, can’t you?”

“If that’s what you really want me to do.” 

“It’s an order, commander.” 

You sigh. But you turn and walk away. 

☆ ☆ ☆

You are working in the storage room of the Last Drop when Sevika walks in and hands you something small. You look down at the palm of your hand. 

“Is this asbestos?”

“You’re not funny,” she retorts. “It’s melatonin.”

“Where the hell did you get it?”

“Don’t ask questions,” she says. “And don’t thank me.”

She storms out of the room as if to avoid even risking hearing you thank her. 

As usual, you work late that night. The pill sits in the breast pocket of your shirt and you imagine it pulsing with your heart. You know it’s stupid to consider it a gift, but you’re reluctant to take it nonetheless. Sevika would never say so, but you’re certain she went out of her way to find an Undercity apothecary that sold it, and it couldn’t have been any small price either. 

But it is the fourth night, and your head feels close to exploding. You down the pill with a drink of stale beer. 

It’s already nearing four in the morning, and you decide it isn’t worth going back to your apartment only to return to the office by nine. You haven’t seen Sevika all day since she met you in the storage room—you wonder if she took off early, though you can’t imagine such a scenario.

Drowsiness fills your head as you lay down on the couch. It smells old, the mildew of ancient leather, but from the number of times you’ve seen Sevika passed out on it you imagine you can almost smell her scent on the cushions, too. 

You’re half asleep when Sevika comes into the office. She sees you and walks over. You keep your eyes closed. You feel her touch your forehead briefly, then she spreads her cloak over you. 

☆ ☆ ☆

note: pls get good sleep, stay hydrated, take care of yourself <3

divider by @enchanthings-a

“i can’t help it, you’re fun to mess with” modern Vi au ? 🩷

✮⋆˙𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 modern!vi x reader ✮⋆˙𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 none ✮⋆˙𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 hi so i had this little thing in my drafts and changed a few things to fit the request !! i hope you like it ♡︎ also - modern vi has a special place in my heart (i just know she'd be a smug bastard)

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

Vi was sprawled across the bed, shirtless, hair still damp from her shower, one arm lazily slung around your waist. You were both on your phones, legs tangled under the covers. Her thumb scrolled absently, while yours hovered over your latest post.

You tried to act casual, but Vi caught the smirk you were failing to hide.

“What did you do?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

You bit your lip, turning your phone so she could see the photo — a perfectly timed shot of her mid-workout, abs flexed, expression intense, the caption: “yes, she’s mine. no, you can’t have her.”

Vi blinked. “When did you even take that?”

“I have my ways.”

A beat of silence. Then her phone buzzed.

“Oh my god.” She stared at the flood of likes and comments. “‘Vi could ruin my life and I’d say thank you’? Damn.” She let out a low whistle. “These people are thirsty.”

You laughed. “Can you blame them? Look at you.”

Vi rolled onto her side, grinning. “You like showing me off, huh?”

You shrugged, smug. “You’re hot. I’m proud.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips against your neck, voice dropping. “Keep talking like that and I’ll give ‘em something new to thirst over.”

“Vi!” you squeaked, pushing at her chest as she laughed.

“You started it,” she said, scrolling again. “Wait—this one says ‘gym? I thought she carried hay bales on a ranch and threw people for fun.’”

You raised a brow. “Did they lie?”

Vi chuckled, clearly loving every second of it. “Nope. But now I feel like I should go shirtless more often.”

“Please don’t,” you deadpanned. “I don’t need a full-blown internet meltdown.”

She winked. “Too late. I am the meltdown.”

You groaned and buried your face in her chest. “Why are you like this?”

She kissed the top of your head. “Because you love me, i can’t help it, you’re fun to mess with”.”

You roll your eyes at her, smug idiot - unfortunately, you really, really did.

⋆·˚ ༘ *Horror story's comfort⋆·˚ ༘ *

You need to learn to rely on them... they have a solution for that OR arcane women scaring you with horror stories so they could see you clinging to them [absolutely fluff].

Ambessa

It's late. A storm rages outside the heavily fortified windows of medarda's estate, rattling the thick glass.You're laying beside her on a chaise lounge, your body stiff, pressing yourself not to her body but to the backrest, watching her twirling the wine in her glass. The relationship is still new enough that seeking comfort feels... abnormal, But ambessa, senses your slight unease with the storm, decides this is an opportunity. for comfort, and perhaps, for… demonstration.

"Storms like this," she begins, her voice calm, "remind me of the siege of Fae'lor. The sky wept for three days, and the wind carried the screams of dying right through the stone walls." She pauses, gauging your reaction. You edge slightly closer to her warmth. Good.

"The defenders," she continues, her voice dropping slightly, becoming more intense, "believed they were protected by ancient forest spirits. Superstitious fools." She takes a sip of her wine. "They performed nightly rituals, leaving offerings of blood and bone." Her eyes flick towards the shadows in the corner of the room. "Some say the spirits did answer. Not with protection, but with hunger."

You swallow hard, trying to appear unaffected, but the combination of the storm, the flickering firelight, and her chillingly matter-of-fact tone is getting to you. You subtly shift closer, your arm now brushing against hers.

"On the third night," Ambessa goes on,putting down her glass on the low table beside the lounge, her voice barely above a whisper now, compelling your attention, "our scouts reported… movement within the trees. Shapes that were not quite animal, not quite man, drawn by the scent of fear and desperation. They say those unlucky enough to be caught outside the inner walls..." She lets the sentence hang.

A particularly loud clap of thunder makes you jump, letting out a small gasp. You instinctively press close against her side,hiding your face in her chest, seeking solace from the storm outside and the one she’s conjuring inside. Success. Ambessa's arm comes around you immediately, pulling you firmly against her solid frame. Her earlier narrative coolness vanishes, replaced by warmth.

"Easy now," she murmurs, her tone shifting. "Just ancient history. Long dead ghosts." Her hand strokes your back reassuringly, though there’s a faint smile playing on her lips, hidden from your view. "And even if they weren't," she adds, her voice regaining its confident edge, "they wouldn't dare trespass on Medarda soil. Not with me here." She holds you tightly, enjoying the feel of you clinging to her, seeking her strength.

Sevika

You're huddled together in your small living space, than... power flickered out momentarily, plunging you into near darkness, the only light now coming from the burning tip of her cigarette. The relationship is still finding its footing, so even though you're scared, you can't exactly voice it. Sevika, sensing your nervousness in the dark, sees an opening.

"Dark like this," she begins, her voice low and gravelly, cutting through the silence, "reminds me of the stories they tell about the sump." You instinctively shift closer to her on the worn sofa. "Said sometimes... they'd pull things up from it that weren't fish, weren't junk." She takes a slow drag from her cigarette, the tip glowing brightly before fading. "Things that had too many limbs, or eyes that glowed green in the dark, hungry."

Her voice is flat, matter-of-fact, which somehow makes the story more chilling.she puts her cigarette out, in the ashtray on the table beside the couch, before continuing "One crew vanished entirely. Found their dredger adrift weeks later, empty. Just... slime trails on the deck and this godawful clicking sound echoing from the empty cabins." She deliberately makes a soft clicking sound with her tongue.

You jump, letting out a small squeak, and grab onto her arm, hiding your face in her neck. Bingo. A faint smirk ghosts across Sevika’s lips in the darkness.

"Just stories," she says dismissively, like she didn't just try to scare you. her arm, the flesh-and-blood one, comes around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against her side.like she’s securing you. "Probably just chem-mutated eels or sump-crocs." Her hand gently caressing your skin, gentel and kind despite her nonchalant tune. "Still," she adds, her voice dropping again, "wouldn't want to meet one alone in the dark." She tease further but quickly comfort you with the next sentence, "Good thing you ain't alone, huh?" She enjoys the feeling of you pressed against her, seeking refuge, confirming her strength and your reliance on it. The scary story was just the bait; the real prize was feeling you instinctively turn to her for protection.

Grayson

It’s a dark, stormy night, perfect for staying in. You’re sitting together on Grayson’s comfortable sofa. Seeing you jump slightly at a loud clap of thunder, a playful, slightly mischievous glint appears in her eyes.

"You know," she begin casually, "this weather reminds me of an old case file I found in the cold archives. Never officially solved. They called it 'The Watcher on Widow's Walk'." She lowers her voice slightly, adopting a conspiratorial tone. "Supposedly, on stormy nights like this, people reported seeing a figure standing in the dark, watching the houses near the sump."

You try to look nonchalant, but you lean a little closer. Grayson notices, hiding a small smile. "The reports were always vague," she continues, "Shadowy figure, glowing eyes according to one witness... probably just reflections, of course. But then things started happening. Objects moved in locked rooms of the same houses that reported the figure. Whispers heard when no one was there." She pauses dramatically. "One family fled their house overnight, claimed the watcher had started appearing inside, tapping on their bedroom window..."

Another crash of thunder punctuates her story, and you can't help it ...you flinch hard, pressing close against her side, grabbing her arm. Mission complete. Grayson's arm immediately wraps securely around you, pulling you into a protective hug. "Hey, hey," she murmurs soothingly, her playful tone gone, replaced by warmth. "Just an old ghost story, sweetheart. Probably kids playing pranks, or subsidence causing strange noises." She holds you tightly, rubbing your back. "Besides," she adds, her voice dropping to a low, reassuring whisper near your ear, "even if there was a watcher, he wouldn't get near you. Not while I'm here." She enjoys the feeling of you clinging to her, finding comfort in her.

Naurrrrrr

I keep seeing Sevika with glasses

So here this

• Denial Is a River in Zaun, Sevika is 1000% convinced her eyes are fine. “I don’t need glasses, you’re just blurry,” she says while squinting directly at your forehead instead of your eyes.

• Hot Girl Nearsightedness, She tries to play it off like she’s intimidating when she’s really just trying to figure out if she’s glaring at Silco or a lamp. You once caught her threatening a coat rack.

• You teasingly call her “Granny Vika” every time she squints or holds something at arm’s length. She grumbles and grabs your ass in retaliation. “Still strong enough to put you over my knee, sweetheart.”

• She Hates the Exam, You finally drag her to an eye exam. She tries to flirt her way out of it. until you sit in her lap and whisper, “If you behave, I’ll let you keep them on while you wreck me later.”

• First Time With Glasses, She puts them on and blinks a few times. “Shit… is that what you look like?” now she won’t stop staring at you like you’re the Mona Lisa with thighs.

• She only wears them around the house, mostly shirtless, reading a book while lounging on the couch. “Ma’am… you can’t just look like someone’s sexy literature professor and expect me to focus.” You tell her. She adjusts glasses slowly “Then don’t.”

• You once walked in on her wearing her glasses, hair messy, tank top half-riding up, reading and you just melted.

• Glasses Stay On, First time you kissed her while she was wearing them, you fogged them up so bad she had to take them off. Now she keeps lens wipes by the bed. She calls it “battle prep.”

• Ultimate Weakness, You grab her glasses and wear nothing else. She stops whatever she’s doing—mid-sentence, mid-sip, mid-growl—and just stares. “…Goddamn. Come here. I can’t even be mad.”