kifuqe ( ´ཀ` ) @kifuqe - Tumblr Blog

BABY FEVER

sevika x fem!reader | 5k words

SUMMARY: Sevika uses the wonderful magic from a hexstrap to get you pregnant. Janna bless technology.

TAGS: 18+ only! canon divergence (hextech exists post-s2), pregnancy/breeding kink, strap-ons, strap sucking, porn with a LOT of feelings, dirty talk, wet and messy, wives in love

NOTES: this got so away from me it’s insane. also i spent way too long considering the logistics of a magical strap someone stop me

-> READ ON AO3 | SEVIKA MASTERLIST

You want a baby.

Wait, no. Big correction: you want a child.

It's a thought that you've sat on for a while. Weighed the pros and cons, philosophized about the future, carefully dissected Sevika's reactions when you teased the topic. You aren't getting any younger, and your heart craves at the sight of children playing in the street, and mothers soothing their babies, and toddlers waddling around in their cute little clothes.

At the beginning of your relationship, both of you decided that, given the current political climate (and the danger of the Undercity, and Sevika's volatile job), having kids was impossible. Frankly, neither of you were ready to be parents. But somewhere along the way, things changed. Whether it was the official creation of Zaun, or Sevika’s new position as Councilor, or your new home in the safest part of town, something just… clicked. You woke up one day, and everywhere you looked, a baby sat. Chubby cheeks and gummy smiles and wind chime laughter occupied your mind.

Your biology plays a part, yes, but this want is also a means to solidify your relationship. Specifically, the love you have for your wife. A few months ago, you began to dream about a toddler following Sevika around your home, sharing the grey of her eyes and the curve of her lips and the grumpy furrow of her brow. Many times, you woke up with tears in your eyes and an ache in your heart. A longing that refuses to leave.

So yes, you want a child.

Getting her to agree is your mountain to climb. She’s shared the past troubles with her parents, bared her heart about her fear of such a lifelong responsibility. You would never pressure her into it, but your heart might shatter if she says no.

Which is how you find yourself here, once again gazing at a woman across the street, rocking a baby in her arms. Your sweetbread and tea have long since gone cold as the two of you share a date at some uppity cafe in Piltover. Sevika spends her days at work fighting off the judgments of the city’s finest, but she thankfully spends her weekends with you making up for such long absences.

“What are you looking at?”

The sound of her voice snaps you out of your staring, and you look over at her with a heavy blink. “Uh, nothing?”

“Sure doesn’t seem like nothing.” She nods to the woman, with her big smile and crinkled eyes, and the laughing baby held in her arms. “Why them?”

You look at the wrapped sweetbread in your hands and begin pulling pieces off to squish between your fingers. Your fidgeting results in one big pile of mush that you shove into your mouth. “No particular reason.”

She glares at you—the same scathing look every time she knows that you’re lying. A tangible weight that grabs you by the back of the neck. “Is that right?”

You wash down your bread with a hearty gulp of tea and wince at the bitter, cold taste. “Yep.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Didn’t say you were, honey.”

“You implied it by lying.”

“I’m not lying, I just—“ with a heaving sigh, you sag against the table, “I don’t wanna force you into anything.”

“I’m a big girl. If I don’t like something, I’ll say no.”

You ready yourself with a long inhale, forearms braced atop the table. “Okay then. What are your thoughts, now that everything is… better, about having a kid? With me?”

“Who else would I have one with?”

Your eyes roll into the back of your head. “This is serious.”

“So you want me to be honest?”

“Always.”

She adjusts her weight in the chair, brows tugging together. “It still scares the shit out of me, but not as much as it used to.”

You nod, reaching for her hand across the table to lay your fingers over the scarred hills of her knuckles. “Can you at least just… think about it? That’s all I’m asking.”

After a breath-holding moment, she meets your gaze, lips twitching at the corners. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

Over the next few weeks, you give her the space to think. To weigh the pros and cons, to philosophize about the future, to dissect the feelings and issues and traumas that might influence her decision. But you notice a gradual change in her, too. Her eyes linger a bit too long on pregnant bellies, and her lips quirk at the sound of wind chime laughter, and she pauses in the street to watch the children play.

And then that change hones in on you. More often than not, her hands find the curve of your lower belly, when you’re washing dishes or cuddling in bed or simply standing around. She plays with your tits more often during sex, weighs them in her palms when you straddle her hips, traces her thumbs around your nipples. Fucks you rougher than usual, as if she might actually get you pregnant if she tries hard enough.

Her way of considering. Thinking about the future using the circumstances of your current reality. Picturing the slow swell of your belly, the full weight of your tits, coming inside you until it takes.

The idea further evolves into a mutual fantasy during sex. Tangible proof of her intrigue.

It begins after she comes home one evening a bit more prickly than normal. You chalk her frustration up to a worse-than-usual meeting, or the chill of the weather grating old injuries. You expect the palm she smooths over your belly, and the kiss she presses to the pulse of your neck, but you don’t expect her to drag you away from chopping vegetables in the kitchen to the bedroom.

She fucks you with a frantic kind of passion. Shoves your face into the bed and hikes up your hips and grinds her fake cock into you until your eyes blur with tears. She’s never been particularly vocal during sex, but that night, she talks. Babbles in that breathless voice that drives you insane.

Gonna knock you up. That’s what you want, isn’t it?

I’ll fuck this pussy every day ‘til it takes.

You’ll be such a good mama.

We’ll get you a baby, I swear. I’m gonna make it happen.

Her enthusiasm opens up a locked box that collected dust long ago. One filled with secrets, fantasies you repressed during this whole ordeal because you never thought she would reciprocate. You give as good you get. Beg her to cum inside you, ramble about how cute you'd look with your belly swelling with her baby, whine again and again about what a good parent she’ll be.

The best sex you’ve ever had as a couple. No doubt about it.

You have a very long talk after that about the blurred line between fantasy and reality, and she finally admits that the idea of a child has grown on her. Enough that she thinks about it over paperwork, and during meetings, and on the walk home. It haunts her the same way it does you.

“Only ever want a kid with you, though,” she says, with her cheek on your chest and your hand in her hair.

“I feel the same way.”

“Good to know.” A kiss pressed to the valley between your tits.

This dynamic continues for the next few months, and your longing only grows. Your pre-sleep ritual stretches to fit shared whispers of the future: the kind of parents you’ll be, wishes for your child as they grow up, the fears that still stick at the back of your brain. Sevika is terrified of becoming her father, of instilling his individualistic, paranoid ideals into your kid. You're terrified of being too lenient, of projecting the wants of your own inner child onto them.

But you talk about it, and ensure that you'll keep each other in check. That no, you won't traumatize your kid beyond saving, and yes, you've learned from your parents’ mistakes. You're in this together after all.

Finally, everything culminates into one big climax.

She strolls into the bedroom one evening—after being gone a worrying length of time past her usual hour—with a package wrapped in paper, and tosses it onto the bed with a smug grin. “Found a solution to our problem.”

You shoot up off the pillow with a start, immediately pawing for the box. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, I'm serious.”

You rip off the paper and toss it aside, and there it is. The box doesn't reveal much. A collection of numbers at the corner, PROTOTYPE in big letters—

DNA delivery apparatus designed for female anatomy written across the center.

She did it. She actually fucking did it.

“Where the hell did you get this?” you ask, awe weaving into the words as you grasp the box between your hands.

“An inventor.”

“How did you get this?”

Her weight sags the mattress as she sits down behind you, hooking her chin over your shoulder, hand curling around your belly. “Councilor privileges.”

Your chin dimples with a wave of incoming tears, and you sniffle, fingers tracing each letter on the box. “This is amazing.”

“It better be. I had to buy a hextech commission.”

You cough out a surprised laugh, wiping at your wet eyes. “Oh, don't be a baby. You'll live.”

She grumbles under her breath, presses a wet kiss to your bare shoulder. A silent I love you tattooed in the lingering warmth of her lips.

The toy is different than you’re used to. Separated into two parts: a thick plug for her, covered with strange sigils, and the fake cock for you, a shimmery blue pearl slotted at the base (the same color as the scars on her face, you realize). You find a hollow tube at the head that travels the entire length of it.

“So. How does this thing work?”

“You use it to have sex.”

You turn to glare at her, scooting closer to the middle of the bed. “Obviously, smartass. I meant the magic.”

Her only response is a half-hearted shrug, hand reaching for the hem of your sleep shorts. You help her slip both them and your underwear down your legs.

Your question is quickly forgotten when she dives between your thighs, tongue hot and slick as she trails a languid lick between your labia to spread you open. Her forearm next to your hip balances her weight atop the mattress as she pulls her knees under her. She's an expert at working around the limitations of only having one arm, but sometimes sex can get a bit difficult, especially when she's too tired to hold herself up for long. It doesn’t help that she’s stubborn, and refrains from asking for help unless no other option presents itself.

(She's fallen asleep with her mouth on your pussy more times than she'd ever admit because she loves eating you out and hates confessing to her exhaustion.)

Which is why you adjust your thigh for her to lean her shoulder against, combing a hand through the silk of her hair. “Baby time?”

Her lips detach from your clit with a slick pop and a twitch of your hips, and she turns her head to nip at your inner thigh. “Baby time.”

Warmth blooms in your chest when her gaze meets yours, lips pressing to the curve of your lower belly. It's excitement and anxiety and joy and fear rolled all into one. You're going to have a child with the love of your life. Your wife. The person you cherish most in the world.

Her cheek squishes against the fat of your thigh as you blink back tears, overwhelm tightening up your throat, and you couldn't explain your headspace to her if you tried. Everything lined up perfectly to get to this moment, even down to the correct stage of your cycle.

“Why are you crying?” she asks, voice tender with concern.

“I’m just happy.” You wipe your eyes with each palm, giving a big sniff as you attempt to compose yourself. “Sorry. I feel like I'm ruining the mood.”

She hums, a wavering tone that mimics laughter. “Maybe a little.”

“Oh, fuck o—” Your voice dies out in your throat when she laves her tongue over your clit, adjusting herself once again to slide a long, thick finger into your pussy.

Sevika's good at this. Distraction. Leading you by the leash-libido away from whatever topic she'd rather you not linger on. Your brain has a habit of lingering.

She forgoes her usual teasing for the night to make quick work of your first orgasm—a record, you think. Loves building you up to a shuddering, begging mess, thighs tense against her ears and hips seeking stimulation, but her current state of anticipation holds a tangible weight. Sparks electricity on the back of your tongue.

You collapse against the bed once the aftershocks end, eyes closed, chest heaving for breath. The drawer on the nightstand slides open then shuts a moment later, her weight shifting atop the mattress. Already, you’ve been wrung like a wet cloth, slick between the thighs, limbs heavy, satiation soaking down to your marrow.

Your skin prickles at her proximity, and you open your eyes to find her now-naked form reaching for the toy—apparatus, as the inventor called it. She drops it on your stomach then picks up a bottle of half-empty lube. Holds it out for you to take.

“Here. You do the honors.”

But that can wait. You have to check something first.

With a wide grin, you slide two fingers between her legs to meet soft, plush heat, hole clenching around the pad of your middle finger, and you exhale a giddy laugh when they come away dripping. “Shit. I'm flattered, Sev.”

“I can’t help it. You’re too pretty.”

An echo of golden light from the bedside lamp displays the sheen on her lips and chin, the sweat that sticks strands of dark hair to her temples, the glass of cloud-grey eyes. Half of her bathed in shadow, a chiaroscuro of soft curves and taut muscle. She belongs on a canvas in some extravagant throne room, a museum, above your bed.

Maybe you should try your hand at painting.

You grab the toy and sit up, fingers once again finding the slick of her cunt, and she steadies herself with her hand on your shoulder, forehead tacky against the curve of your neck. Her chest rumbles with a bitten-out groan when you sink two fingers into her, arm curling around your back to tug you close. She's warm against you, smells of floral smoke from the candle that constantly burns in her office. Scorching hot between the legs, silk-smooth, so wet your fingers produce a squelch on each knuckle-deep thrust.

And then her hand grabs at your wrist, mouth rough against yours. A collision of teeth, each kiss wet and noisy, bruising in its intensity. She’s always made you feel wanted, worshipped—special. Her perfect woman since the night you two met, when she stumbled up to the bar and said some shitty one-liner that branded her name on your heart.

Falling for her was as easy as breathing, and as painful as yanking teeth.

She pulls away with a shuddering sigh, palm clammy as it follows the path of your spine. “You ready?”

You nod, slipping your fingers out of her to pop them in your mouth, sucking the salt-musk taste of her off your skin. “I've been ready.”

Once you lube up the plug side of the toy, she takes it from you and feeds it into her pussy. Shudders in time with the sudden gleam of the blue pearl, and your mouth waters at the sight of her—clit puffy and slicked-up, the coarse curls that frame her labia wet and sticky, the fake cock that hangs between her legs.

You must have been a fucking saint in your past life. Only reason for you to be so blessed in this one.

She sighs through her nose, lowers her head to look at the toy. “That's… weird.”

“Good weird or bad weird?”

With a furrowed brow, she takes a moment to consider, shifting from knee to knee. “Neither.”

“Well, it doesn't hurt or anything, right?”

She shakes her head. “Feels… prickly. Not painful, though.”

You brush a finger up its length, eyes brightening when the blue light of the pearl flickers. She sucks a breath through her teeth, hand jerking toward your wrist, but stops short of grabbing it.

“I felt that.”

Your lips curl into a smile as a wicked idea takes root, and she raises a brow at the look on your face. You fist a hand around the base of the fake cock to keep it steady, your other resting on her thick thigh, then you lean down to wrap your lips around the head. Her fingers squeeze at your shoulder, neither pushing you away nor pulling you close, as a moan bubbles up in her chest.

Yeah, you're absolutely using this thing again.

Her hand curls over the back of your head just before her hips rock forward, sinking the toy further into the wet heat of your mouth. She's got you trapped in place, right where she wants you as she fucks your face with increasing intensity. Her thrusts start out smooth and slow as she adjusts to the new sensation of pleasure, but she's always been quick to adapt, and before you know it the head of her cock teases at the back of your throat and you drool a wet spot into the sheets. She rewards you with her sighs and groans, with a tremble to her thighs when you hollow your cheeks.

The first spurt of something hot and thick on the back of your tongue makes you jolt like you've been electrocuted, and her fingers dig into the back of her head as her hips stutter and her breathing heavies and her shoulders curl toward her knees.

Inside your mouth, the toy heats, begins to almost vibrate as more of the liquid spills sticky over your tongue. She—

Oh. She's coming. One look at her pain-pleasure expression, the uptilt of her brows and twist of her mouth, clicks the pieces into place.

And then she heaves a sigh, releases your head to smooth an apologetic palm over your shoulder, huffing like she sprinted the entirety of the Lanes. You sit up and work your mouth, unsure of what to do with the… substance inside.

At your slap to her thigh, she blinks at you, the perfect picture of debauchery—low-lidded eyes and shiny cheeks and a heaving chest. You open your mouth and point inside, and her brows raise clear to her hairline. She swipes a finger over your tongue to collect the liquid, then pulls back and smears it with her thumb. Actual cum, a blue shimmer to it that resembles an oil slick. Unnatural. Magical.

You swallow it down with a wince (more about the texture than the taste), and then she's shoving her finger between your teeth, telling you to suck with a toothy, teasing grin. Then her thumb once you've cleaned the other off.

“Can't waste it, can we, honey?” she mutters, ghosts her lips over your tacky forehead, plucks at a pert nipple.

Fuck.

The pulse between your legs hammers to a heavy thump, belly tingling with the magic you just swallowed—a very odd realization, that. She just came (a mindfuck in and of itself) magic. The air sizzles with it, makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

You urge her onto her back with a hand between her tits, and she goes down without a fight. Exhales a relieved sigh when she sinks into the sheets.

“C'mere,” she says, holds out her hand for you to take. Ever-thoughtful as you straddle her hips then grab the toy to keep it still.

A set of gasps fill the room when you sink down on its length, cunt tight and slick as you clench around it—her, you suppose. Her brows tug together, jaw loose as she pants and peers down to the place your bodies meet. You've taken all of her in one glide, skin-to-skin, the curls on her mound tickling your clit.

She grits her teeth when you roll your hips, bracing your palms on her thighs. “Shit, that's—”

“Good?” you ask, grinning at the lewd noise of your cunt as you bottom out again, grinding your clit against her.

Such a drastic change in power dynamic fogs up your thoughts, activates your hindbrain until the only need that plays on repeat is making a mess of her. Wonder how many times she can fill you up before she starts shooting blanks—and if there’s a limit, you hope to find it tonight. She's always the one going mad with power, but the introduction of your new toy leaves her pliant beneath you. Too overwhelmed by the fluttering silk of your pussy to focus on anything else, eyes glassy and glittering as they gaze up at you.

Your hips melt into a steady rhythm, a smooth rise and a rough downstroke, over and over again as heat starts its slow coil in the pit of your belly. The air thickens, heavy, almost humid on each inhale as the toy inside you buzzes to life once again.

“How's my pussy feel, Sev?”

“Fuck, don't—” she pants out a moan, hand pawing at your hip as her chin tilts back to expose the line of her neck, “gonna cum.”

“That good, huh?” You roughen up your thrusts until your ass slaps against her thighs, each movement of your hips accompanied by a loud squelch. “God, ‘m so wet. Needed this so bad.”

She whines, fingers tightening around your waist. “Shit, slow down.”

“Cum inside me. Please.”

Her grip disappears from your waist, choosing instead to fist the sheets so tight her knuckles creak, and you lean forward, steady yourself upright with a hand on each of your shoulders. Effective in pressing her down, keeping her still.

Not her hips, though. They meet you thrust-for-thrust, jarring you atop her, each stroke forcing the breath from your lungs.

“Gonna give me a baby?” you ask, voice weak and wavering as your rhythm grows sloppy.

Your thighs burn, and you’ll no doubt wake up sore as hell tomorrow, but the anticipation of her looming orgasm pushes you through the pain. She's back to her old self now, expression a scowl of concentration, one-track mind overriding her pleasure to focus on—

“I'll give you as many as you want. Gonna keep you filled up ‘til it takes.” Your hand shoots down to your clit as she babbles on about the fantasies you discussed months prior. You’re only slightly frustrated about how even her voice sounds compared to yours. “Might sneak you into my office, fuck you on my desk. I know you’d like that.”

You nod, fingers circling over your clit in a frantic blur as the coil in your belly threatens to snap, arms and legs twitching in preparation for something soul-rending. “Please, Sev, I'm so close. Please—”

She hits her peak first at the sound of your pleading, a rough hand on your hip pinning you down, fully seating you on her cock. Pants and groans beneath you as wave after wave of thick cum fills you up. Your brain whites out somewhere between the beginning and end of her orgasm as you crash into your own, almost folding in half from its intensity, insides clenching just shy of pain around the toy as your body instinctively tries to milk it.

In the aftermath, you collapse atop her, face seeking out the curve of her neck for post-sex comfort. A ritual of yours, something about her smell that slows your heartbeat and calms your breathing.

“That was…” you begin, adjusting your hips as the prickly feeling she mentioned earlier settles in the pit of your stomach, “wow.”

She sighs, fingers trailing down the center of your back. “Yeah.”

Correction: this was the best sex you've ever had as a couple. Baby-making aside, the new sensations and fantasies and forms of pleasure introduced a level of excitement you didn't even know intrigued you. Almost overwhelming in its unpredictability, but isn't that half the fun? Experimenting?

Yeah, you learned a lot of new things about yourself tonight.

The comfort of your cuddling is interrupted by the sticky spill of her cum around the toy, leaking out of you in slow rivulets. With a huff, you rise onto your knees, the fake cock bobbing between her legs. The tinged-blue liquid drips onto her stomach, and you reach down to plug yourself with two fingers.

“You're making a mess,” she mutters, eyes closed as if floating through a light doze. “And you're wasting it.”

You lean in close to her face, until you can count each individual lash that brushes over her cheek. “Are you falling asleep?”

“Resting my eyes.”

So, falling asleep. Got it.

“No, we gotta shower. Get up.”

She grunts, mouth curling into a pout when you yank at her arm.

Eventually, she gets up, and you waddle over to the bathroom with her trailing behind. The night ends with a lazy shower and a quick change of the bed sheets. By the time Sevika collapses onto the mattress, she's half-dead, barely able to pull the covers over herself before she's snoring into the pillow.

Well. There's always next time.

She stays true to her word, though. Fucks you every single day like clockwork, and passes out shortly after the first round every single time—an obvious effect of the magic on her body that burns your whole shooting blanks idea to ash. But oh, she milks that round for all it's worth. Makes you cum on her fingers and tongue until you're begging for her cock. Your new favorite position leaves you biting the sheets with your ass in the air, her hand heavy on your back to preserve the arch of your spine.

Instinct. Primal. Pure brain-stem urges.

Sometimes she makes you stay there after you're finished while she lights up a cigarette and feeds her cum back into your pussy.

I work hard making this stuff. Can't let it go to waste.

You might go crazy. Start salivating at the color blue after a month of nightly sessions. Can barely stroll through the streets of neon-light Zaun now without getting wet. It's ridiculous, but you're ruined. The lockbox has been opened and the contents spilled out and there's no forcing them back in.

But above all: you want your child already. More than the fun, kinky sex and the magic toys. You want another human running around your empty house, with their own thoughts and opinions and interests. Who would they act like, look like, think like most? You just hope they get Sevika's eyes.

“It'll happen,” she says, cuddling you in bed with her arm tight around your shoulders. “We have to give it time.”

Admittedly, you're being a bit dramatic, blubbering and crying against her. But the fear began to set in a few days ago after two months of trying with zero results.

“What if it doesn't work?”

“It will.”

If your sore tits and emotional instability and fatigue mean anything, then your period should start soon—another month wasted.

Except it doesn't.

By your own calculations, you're now four days out from its start and not a single speck of blood. You've developed nausea, though. Threw up after your last weekend date to the cafe you love so much.

Your body feels… off. The best way to describe it. An ill-fitting skin suit, maybe. Wrong and weird. At first, you chalk it up to wishful thinking, a placebo effect borne from your longing.

But Sevika notices. Of course she does.

Some of her new privileges pass onto you as a Councilor's wife, one of those being actual medical care. Doctors, hospital rooms, actual treatments aside from the wait it out mentality so common in Zaun.

So here you sit, in the exam room of some doctor's office Sevika dragged you to, jiggling your leg as you wait for the pregnancy test to come back. Her hand curls around yours, thumb soothing over the swell of your knuckles. A calming presence you desperately need right now.

The receptionist out front only gave you three scowling glares as you signed in, and the nurse that took your vitals was only a little rough as she removed the medical equipment from your arm. All in all, a less volatile experience than you expected, though you think the tall, muscular woman standing guard over your shoulder helped tamper bad attitudes. No need for these pompous people to add to your sky-high stress level.

You find it funny how differently the world sees Sevika. To you, she's composed of starry eyes and teasing smiles and soft touches. She smells like home, holds your heart in her hand and has yet to squash it in her fist. So different to the way everyone eyes her warily, scampers out of her path, whispers about her behind her back. Wherever she goes, the room holds it breath.

But she’s your wife, your love, your honey. The other mother to your future child.

For the love of Janna, please be pregnant.

The door opens with a faint click, and the doctor steps in with a small smile. Your fingers grip tight around Sevika's palm, spine straightening in your seat. A wave of nausea brews in your stomach, ribs a cage around the thumping rhythm of your heart.

You’re terrified. Told her this was a bad idea, that a test from the markets would be just as reliable, but she insisted.

Please. Please give us this.

The doctor takes a seat behind her desk then sets down your chart in front of her. “Congratulations, dear. You’re having a baby.”

And the whole world shifts.