How do you think arcane characters would react to burn scars? I have them on the back of my thighs and thought I can't see them everyone who can says they cover most of my thighs and there dark
Your burn marks are a symbol of strength, not flaws. They tell a story of resilience, and that makes you uniquely beautiful. <3 please never feel otherwise.
Burn scars.
⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧
♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, ekko
☆ ◞ summary: arcane characters reacting to your burn scars
△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. A lot of sensitive topics like, burn marks , insecurities, self doubt, the way the reader got the scars are not mentioned, if anyone is uncomfortable in reading about scars or is triggered I suggest to please not read this
Jayce Talis.
The evening was warm, the kind of night where the city hummed with quiet life outside the lab’s tall windows. Jayce sat on the floor of his apartment, leaning against the couch, his arms stretched out behind him as he watched you.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs stretched in front of you, absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh.
The moment your fingers brushed over a particular spot, you flinched.
Jayce noticed immediately.
"You okay?" His voice was soft, careful. Not his usual booming confidence, but something gentler.
You hesitated. "Yeah, just..." Your fingers ghosted over the area again before you sighed. "Old scars."
His brows furrowed, eyes dropping to your legs. And that’s when he saw them.
Burn scars.
uneven marks stretching across the back of your thigh, the kind that told a story—one you clearly weren’t eager to share.
You shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of his silence. "They’re not a big deal," you said quickly, a half-hearted attempt to brush it off. "I don’t even think about them most of the time."
Jayce didn’t look convinced.
"Can I?" He gestured slightly, not reaching out but offering the space for you to decide.
You hesitated.
Most people pretended not to notice them. Others stared without thinking, their curiosity poorly disguised. But Jayce... he was just waiting.
After a long moment, you nodded.
Carefully, he reached out, his fingers brushing over your skin—warm and deliberate. He didn’t recoil, didn’t wince, didn’t try to mask any reaction.
He just held you.
His thumb traced the edges of the scars with something close to reverence, his touch featherlight but grounding. "You know..." His voice was quieter now. "Scars aren’t something to hide."
You scoffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have—"
"I don’t," he admitted. "Not like these. But I know what it’s like to carry something from the past. And I know it doesn’t make you any less..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "You."*
Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone.
Slowly, his hand slipped down, intertwining his fingers with yours. "You don’t have to pretend they don’t exist," he murmured. "And you sure as hell don’t have to pretend they don’t bother you."
The knot in your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say—if you even could say anything. So instead, you squeezed his hand, letting the weight of his words settle between you.
Jayce squeezed back.
And in that moment, the scars didn’t feel quite as heavy.
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Mel Medarda.
The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the silk-draped walls of Mel’s quarters, casting long shadows across the ornate furniture. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of Piltover’s nightlife.
You sat curled up on the velvet chaise lounge, legs draped over the side, basking in the rare quiet moment. Mel was beside you, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along your arm as she studied a painting she had been working on earlier.
"You’ve been quiet tonight," she observed, her voice smooth but laced with curiosity.
You hesitated before shrugging. "Just tired."
She hummed softly, setting aside her brush before shifting to face you fully. Her golden eyes roamed over you, perceptive as always, until they landed on where your pants had shifted slightly—just enough to expose the back of your thigh.
Her fingers stilled.
"Come here," she murmured, voice softer now.
You hesitated for a beat before sitting up, allowing her to gently tug you closer. With a delicate touch, she brushed the fabric further up, revealing the burn scars beneath.
You watched her expression carefully, waiting for the usual flicker of pity, the well-meaning reassurances you’d heard a hundred times before.
But Mel Medarda did not deal in empty sentiments.
Her eyes traced the scars slowly, as if committing every detail to memory. "These..." she started, her fingers ghosting lightly over the uneven skin. "They remind me of gold leafing."*
You blinked. "Gold leafing?"
"Mhm." She tilted her head, her braids shifting over her shoulder. "In my homeland, when something is broken, it is often mended with gold—highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them. It is meant to show resilience. Beauty in imperfection."
Your throat tightened slightly. "I don’t think most people would call these beautiful."*
Mel’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your gaze to hers. "Most people lack vision."
The weight of her words settled between you, unspoken but understood.
Then, her lips brushed against the scarred skin—slow, deliberate, reverent.
A shiver ran through you at the intimacy of it, the way her breath warmed your skin, the way her fingers trailed up your thigh with featherlight precision. She placed another kiss, then another, until the tension in your shoulders melted under her touch.
"You are art," she whispered against your skin. "Even in the places you try to hide."
A shaky breath left your lips, but for once, you didn’t pull away.
For once, you let yourself believe her.
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Viktor.
The lab was quiet except for the steady scratching of Viktor’s pen against paper and the occasional hum of machinery. You were seated on the workbench across from him, stretching your legs out absentmindedly after a long day.
It had been a particularly warm evening, and in the comfort of the empty lab, you had rolled up your pants slightly to cool off. You hadn’t even realized that in doing so, you had exposed a part of your thigh—until Viktor’s gaze flickered over, and he stilled.
His pen halted mid-word. His golden eyes lingered, brows furrowing slightly.
"You are injured?" His voice was quiet, yet laced with something unreadable.
You blinked, following his line of sight before quickly tugging your pant leg back down. "No, it’s just... scars," you muttered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of his stare. "Old ones."
Viktor didn’t look away. "May I see?"
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because most people either avoided acknowledging the scars altogether or gave you the same well-meaning but rehearsed reassurances.
But Viktor wasn’t most people.
With a quiet breath, you slowly rolled the fabric back up, revealing the uneven burn scars across the back of your thigh. You didn’t look at him—didn’t want to see whatever expression he might be wearing.
Seconds passed in silence.
Then, the gentle scrape of his chair as he moved closer.
Viktor didn’t reach out immediately. Instead, he observed them carefully, like he was reading something important—tracing the pattern with his eyes as if piecing together a puzzle only he could solve.
"Scars are... interesting things," he murmured, voice softer now. "They are proof of endurance. Evidence that pain was felt, yet you remained."
You swallowed thickly. "That’s one way to put it."
His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time, you caught something in his expression—understanding.
Slowly, Viktor shifted, rolling up the fabric over his own leg. The scars along his knee and shin were different—ones born of overuse, surgeries, the toll of time—but they were scars nonetheless.
"People see these and assume they know my story," he said, tilting his leg slightly. "They assume pity is required. That weakness is present." His golden eyes flickered back to you. "But we are not weak, are we?"
Something tightened in your chest. "No," you said softly. "We’re not."
Viktor studied you for a moment longer before, carefully, he reached out. His fingers hovered over your thigh—giving you space to pull away.
You didn’t.
His touch was light, barely there, but warm nonetheless. "Your scars do not lessen you," he murmured. "They do not take away from who you are. They are merely a part of your story. And if anyone tells you otherwise..." He huffed a small breath, a ghost of amusement in his voice. "Well, they are simply not as intelligent as I am."
A small, breathy laugh left your lips despite yourself. "Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?*"
Viktor smirked faintly, withdrawing his hand only to tap lightly at his temple. "Genius, remember?"
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingered.
And for the first time in a long time, the scars didn’t feel like something to hide.
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Caitlyn kiramman.
It had been a long day of patrolling the streets, and Caitlyn had returned to her estate looking exhausted. The moment she stepped through the door, she was greeted by the warmth of the fireplace and the soft hum of the house’s familiar sounds. It felt like a reprieve from the intensity of the day.
You were already curled up on the couch, a book in your hands, though your mind was elsewhere. Caitlyn’s presence always brought a sense of calm, but today, there was an unease you couldn’t shake.
As Caitlyn removed her coat and began to relax, she noticed you glancing at your legs, the slight fidgeting of your hand around the hem of your pants. She’d learned to read you like a book, noticing the smallest shifts in your behavior. Something was off, but she wasn’t sure what.
She walked over to you, gently resting a hand on your shoulder, her voice calm but insistent. "What’s going on, darling?"
You hesitated for a moment before you replied, your voice quieter than usual. "It's nothing, just... been thinking."
Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she perched herself on the armrest, her gaze never leaving yours. "About what?"
You sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze press on you. It was a warmth that made it hard to hide things from her. Slowly, you moved to pull your pants up slightly, revealing the scars on your thigh—old, deep burn marks that you had long since grown used to but never really let anyone see.
Caitlyn’s breath hitched, and her hand instinctively reached for yours, her thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. "You’ve never mentioned these before..."
You swallowed, not wanting to look at her, but you couldn’t help it. "They’re just scars, Cait. They don’t mean anything."
She tilted her head, clearly not convinced. "I don’t believe that for a second." Her voice softened, and she slowly knelt down beside you, her fingers brushing the skin around the scars with tenderness, her touch barely grazing you as if you were something fragile. "Scars tell stories, but they don’t define you. Not to me."
You felt your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t the first time Caitlyn had said something so reassuring, but it was the first time it felt like she truly meant it. The quiet compassion in her voice was enough to make you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t prepared for.
"You don’t have to hide them," Caitlyn continued, her gaze meeting yours with gentle intensity. "You don’t have to hide anything from me, ever."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem weak. But Caitlyn, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in you. With a soft sigh, she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.
"You don’t have to carry the weight of this alone," she murmured against your hair. "I’m here, always."
You allowed yourself to lean into her, the warmth of her embrace easing the tension in your chest. The touch of her fingers against the scars felt like a promise, a silent vow that no matter what had happened before, no matter how you felt about those marks on your skin, Caitlyn would always see you for who you were—not for the pain you’d been through, but for the person you had become.
"I’ll always be here," Caitlyn whispered again, her voice low and steady. "And I love you, scars and all."
You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you let yourself melt into her arms, the comfort of her presence washing over you. For the first time in a long while, the scars on your body didn’t feel like something to be hidden. With Caitlyn, they simply became another part of the story, and it was a story you were no longer afraid to share.
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Vi.
The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the smell of damp concrete and rust in the air. Vi kicked off her boots as she stepped into your shared apartment, shaking the water from her hair with a tired groan.
"That was a hell of a patrol," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck before flashing you a lopsided grin. "Miss me?"
You looked up from the couch, giving her a small smile. "Always."
Vi plopped down beside you, tossing an arm over your shoulder with easy affection. "What’s up, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet."
You hesitated, shifting slightly, but Vi felt the tension immediately. She leaned back, studying your face, and her playful grin softened.
"Talk to me," she coaxed, voice dipping into something more gentle. "Something’s on your mind."
You sighed, glancing away. "It’s stupid."
Vi gave you a pointed look. "Babe, you know I don’t do ‘stupid’ when it comes to you. Spill it."
You hesitated before slowly rolling up the hem of your shorts, exposing the burn scars on the back of your thigh. You felt Vi go still beside you. Her usual warmth, her teasing nature, all of it quieted in an instant.
You braced yourself for some kind of pitying response, for words you didn’t want to hear. Instead, Vi’s fingers brushed over your skin—rough, calloused hands moving with the gentlest touch.
"How long have you had these?" she asked, her voice unreadable.
"For a while," you admitted. "I just… don’t really show them to people."
Vi was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edges of the scars, slow and deliberate. You could feel her exhale against your shoulder before she finally spoke.
"You know," she murmured, "scars tell me more about a person than their words ever could."
You huffed out a dry laugh. "Yeah? And what do these tell you?"
Vi smirked, but there was something softer behind it, something careful. "That you’re tough as hell. That you’ve been through shit and still came out standing."
You swallowed hard, something twisting deep in your chest. "I don’t always feel tough."
Vi shifted closer, pressing her forehead lightly against yours. "That’s ‘cause you don’t see yourself the way I do." Her hand curled around your thigh, grounding, steady. "But I see you. Every single part of you."*
Your breath hitched when she leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss over one of the scars. Then another. And another.
Your fingers curled into her shirt as she whispered, "You’re beautiful, scars and all."
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Jinx.
Jinx was never good at staying still. Even now, as she lay sprawled across your lap, she fidgeted—twirling a wrench in one hand while her other absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm.
"You’re awfully quiet today, sugar," she mused, tilting her head up to peer at you. "Not planning to ditch me for some boring, normal life, are ya?"
You gave her a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Nah, just thinking."
Jinx flipped onto her stomach, resting her chin against your thigh. "Ugh, thinking’s overrated. What’s got you so—" Her words trailed off as her gaze flickered lower, landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.
For once, Jinx went completely still. No jokes, no teasing—just silence. You knew she’d seen them before in flashes, but you had never sat down and talked about them. And Jinx? She never pried.
Until now.
"Where’d ya get these?" Her voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t playful. Just quiet.
You shrugged, trying to pull your leg away, but she caught your knee, holding you in place. "They don’t matter."
Jinx’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Kinda seem like they do, since you never let me see ‘em."*
You exhaled sharply, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "I just… don’t like how they look. It’s not a big deal, Jinx."*
"Uh, yeah it is."
She sat up abruptly, straddling your lap, and before you could react, she reached for a marker off the table. With an impish grin, she clicked it open and began doodling over your scars.
"What are you doing?" you asked, baffled.
"Making ‘em cooler," she replied, sticking her tongue out in concentration. "I mean, these could totally be lightning bolts—oh! Or flames. Hell, we could even add little skulls, make it look all badass, like, ‘yeah, I survived a hellstorm, what of it?’"
Despite yourself, you laughed. "Jinx—"
"Shh, shh, artistic genius at work," she interrupted, tapping your nose with the marker.
You shook your head, but you didn’t stop her. Her focus shifted as she ran a gloved hand down your thigh, fingertips barely grazing over the scarred skin.
Then, softer, she murmured, "Does it still hurt?"
Your chest tightened. "Not physically."
Jinx hummed, twirling the marker between her fingers. "Yeah… I get that."
For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the city outside. Then Jinx leaned down and pressed a kiss to one of the scars, quick but sincere.
"There. Now it’s magic. You’re stuck with me forever."
You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter. "Is that how magic works?"
"Duh." She kissed another one, then another, grinning against your skin. "You’re mine, and I’m yours. No stupid scars change that."
You reached up, brushing her cheek. "You’re a menace, you know that?"
Jinx beamed. "And you love it."
And yeah. You did.
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Ekko.
The Firelights’ hideout was quieter than usual tonight. Most of the crew had already turned in, leaving just you and Ekko sitting on the worn-out couch, the soft hum of old music crackling from a beat-up radio.
Ekko had his legs stretched out, arms draped behind his head, watching you with that easygoing gaze of his. "You’ve been weird today," he finally said. "What’s up?"
You hesitated, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts. "It’s nothing."
Ekko arched a brow. "Right. And I’m Councilor Jayce Talis."
You huffed a laugh, but it quickly faded as you shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep your legs tucked beneath you. Unfortunately, Ekko was too damn observant for his own good. His eyes flickered downward, catching the movement—then landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.
His expression faltered. "Yo... what happened?"
"It’s nothing," you said quickly, shifting to pull your legs away, but Ekko reached out, stopping you with a hand on your knee.
"Nah. Don’t do that." His voice was gentle but firm. "You always let me ramble about my scars. What makes yours different?"
You swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "Because they’re ugly."
Ekko frowned. "Ugly?"
"Yeah." You exhaled sharply. "People stare. Whisper. It just… reminds me of shit I don’t wanna think about."
Ekko was quiet for a moment. Then, without warning, he shifted, adjusting his weight until he was kneeling in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your legs.
"Look at me," he said softly.
You hesitated before finally meeting his gaze. His eyes weren’t filled with pity. No forced reassurances. Just raw, quiet understanding.
"You know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured. "Somebody strong enough to still be here. Somebody who’s been through hell and didn’t let it break ‘em."
His fingers traced feather-light over the scars—not afraid to touch, but careful, like he was memorizing them. "You think these make you ugly? Nah. They just prove that you survived something meant to take you out. That’s powerful."
Your throat tightened. "I don’t always feel powerful."
Ekko huffed out a small smile, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against one of the scars. "Then let me remind you."
Another kiss. And another. His lips were warm, grounding, a silent promise in every touch. You closed your eyes, exhaling as you let yourself lean into his presence.
"You’re still you," he murmured against your skin. "Scars don’t change that. They never will."
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I must apologize to all of you because of such a delay I have been dealing with alot lately and also last year of highschool so much Happening BUT PUSHING THROUGH please send requests tho! I LOVEEE em!