hi!! could u do jinx x reader but reader is a pillow princess and is nervous telling her about it due to past experiences? thanks lovely!! <333
Hiiiii!!!! Thank you so much for your request! I am SO SORRY for taking so long to write this! Life has just been to much 😭 this came out quite fluffy so I really hope you’ll enjoy!!! Take care XOXO
Pillow princess
Jinx x reader! Who confesses that she’s a pillow princess
Fluff
You’d been thinking about telling her for days.
Not because it was some dramatic secret, but because the last few times you’d tried explaining it to someone else… it hadn’t gone well. Confusion, teasing, the occasional impatient laugh. One person had even called you “lazy,” like intimacy was a chore you were refusing to do.
Jinx had never made you feel like that. But still. The thought sat heavy in your chest. She was stretched out across the couch beside you, tinkering with some half finished gadget balanced against her knee. Small tools clinked together in quick little bursts of noise, the occasional spark flashing blue when something clicked into place.
You were supposed to be watching a movie. Instead, you were watching her. Your fingers twisted nervously in the fabric of your sleeve.
Jinx noticed eventually. Of course she did. She always noticed. Her hands stilled mid adjustment, screwdriver hovering in the air as her bright eyes flicked sideways toward you.
“…Why are you looking at me like you’re about to confess a crime?” she asked.
Your stomach flipped.
“I’m not.”
“Uh huh.” She tilted her head, braids sliding over her shoulder. “That’s the exact face people make before they confess crimes.”
You huffed nervously, looking down at your hands.
“I just… wanted to tell you something.”
Jinx set the tool down slowly, interest replacing the playful teasing in her expression. She turned sideways on the couch, one leg tucked beneath her as she faced you fully.
“Okay.”
That was it. Just okay. No pressure. But your heart was still racing.
“It’s… kind of a weird thing,” you admitted.
“Weird is my entire brand,” she replied immediately. “Try me.”
You hesitated. Then forced the words out before you could overthink them.
“I’m a pillow princess.”
The silence that followed was not the kind you feared. It wasn’t judgmental. Nor was it awkward. It was… processing. Jinx blinked once.
“…A what?”
You rubbed the back of your neck, suddenly wishing you could sink into the couch cushions.
“It just means I… I don’t usually—” you gestured vaguely, flustered, “—like doing things back the same way. I like being… taken care of, I guess.”
Your voice got quieter toward the end.
“I know it sounds selfish.”
Jinx stared at you for another moment. Then she burst out laughing. Not mean laughter. Not mocking. Just pure surprise.
“You’re telling me,” she said between quiet giggles, “that you like being spoiled?”
You blinked.
“…That’s not how people usually react.”
“Well those people sound boring.”
She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees as she studied your face more closely. The humor softened into curiosity.
“Wait, is that why you look like someone just asked you to defuse a bomb?”
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Some people get weird about it.”
“Weird how?”
You hesitated again, but her expression was open enough that the words slipped out.
“They say it’s unfair. Or that it means I don’t care about them enough. One person said it was ‘too much work.’”
The admission sat between you like something fragile. Jinx’s smile disappeared immediately.
“Too much work?” she repeated flatly.
You nodded slightly, eyes fixed on the floor. For a moment she didn’t speak. Then she leaned closer and gently nudged your knee with hers.
“Hey.”
You looked up. Her expression was softer now.
“You know people like different things, right?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“And you told me what you like.”
“…Yeah.”
She tilted her head thoughtfully.
“Seems pretty helpful actually.”
You blinked in surprise.
“Helpful?”
“Well yeah,” she said, spreading her hands like it was obvious. “Now I know exactly how to make you happy.”
Your brain stalled.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
Jinx snorted.
“Why would it?”
“I don’t know. Most people expect things to be… balanced.”
She leaned back against the couch cushions again, crossing her arms loosely as she considered you.
“Balanced doesn’t mean identical,” she said after a moment. The casual certainty in her voice made your chest tighten a little.
“If you like being taken care of,” she continued, “then I get to take care of you.”
You stared at her.
“…You’re really okay with that.”
She shrugged.
“Sounds kinda fun actually.”
Your shoulders relaxed slightly, tension you hadn’t even realized you were holding slowly draining away.
“But what if you get bored?” you asked quietly.
Jinx’s eyebrows shot up.
“Have you met me?”
“…Fair.”
She leaned closer again, resting her chin in her hand while looking at you with open curiosity.
“So wait,” she said, eyes glinting playfully, “you just get to relax while I make you feel good?”
You turned red instantly.
“That’s— a very blunt way to say it.”
Her grin returned.
“I like blunt.”
Then, more softly, she added, “And I like you.”
Your heart did that stupid little jump again. Jinx reached over and lightly bumped her shoulder against yours.
“You don’t have to be nervous telling me stuff,” she said.
“I know.”
“You say that, but you were sweating.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
You laughed quietly, feeling lighter than you had in days.
Jinx watched you for a second longer before reaching out and gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“You know what I like?” she said thoughtfully.
“What?”
“When you relax.”
Her voice had gone quieter, almost thoughtful.
“You’re always thinking too hard about stuff. When you stop doing that, you look… peaceful.”
Your cheeks warmed again.
“You’re weirdly sweet sometimes.”
“Don’t spread that around,” she replied immediately.
You leaned your head against her shoulder, the earlier anxiety now replaced with a soft, comfortable warmth.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Jinx nudged you lightly.
“So,” she said casually, “if I’m the one doing all the work…”
You groaned. “Jinx—”
“I’m just saying,” she continued with a mischievous grin, “you better be really good at looking pretty.”
You shoved her shoulder. She laughed, bright and genuine. And the knot of worry that had been sitting in your chest finally unraveled completely.
Because for the first time, the thing you’d been nervous about saying out loud didn’t feel like a flaw. It just felt like part of you.
And Jinx had accepted it without hesitation. For a little while after that, the apartment is quiet again.
The movie you’d started earlier continues playing on the television, though neither of you is paying attention anymore. The light from the screen flickers across the walls in soft blue pulses, matching the glow of a few half-finished gadgets scattered around the room.
Your head is still resting against Jinx’s shoulder.
She doesn’t move away.
In fact, after a moment, she shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable, her arm coming up to rest loosely around your shoulders.
But the warmth of it makes something soften in your chest.
“You’re still thinking,” she mutters after a while.
You blink. “What?”
She tilts her head, bumping yours lightly. “I can hear it.”
“You can’t hear thinking.”
“I totally can,” she says confidently. “Your brain is like—” she makes a buzzing noise, waving her fingers dramatically in the air. “Bzzzz.”
You laugh quietly despite yourself.
“I’m just… adjusting.”
“To what?”
“To someone not making it a problem.”
Jinx goes very still for a moment at that.
Then she shifts, turning sideways on the couch so she’s facing you more directly.
The room is dim, the only real light coming from the television, but you can still see the slight crease in her brow as she studies you.
“You really thought I’d be weird about it,” she says.
It isn’t accusatory. Just curious. You shrug a little.
“People usually are.”
She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees now.
“Well,” she says after a moment, “those people sound kinda stupid.”
You snort softly.
“Very insightful.”
“I’m serious,” she insists, nudging your knee with hers. “Why would I want you to do stuff you don’t actually like?”
You open your mouth to answer, then pause.
Because the honest answer is something you’ve never really been able to explain.
A lot of people think intimacy is supposed to look one specific way. If someone gives something, the other person is supposed to give it back in the same way.
But that’s never been how it feels for you.
You like closeness. You like being held, being touched, being taken care of.
You just don’t always like… performing.
Jinx watches the thoughts move across your face.
Then she leans forward suddenly, resting her chin on her hand.
“So,” she says, eyes glinting with curiosity, “what actually helps you relax?”
Your brain stalls.
“…What?”
“You said you get nervous telling people,” she explains. “Which means you probably also get nervous during stuff sometimes.”
Your ears feel warm.
“Sometimes.”
Jinx nods thoughtfully.
“Okay.”
You feel the couch dip slightly under her weight as she moves, her knee sliding between yours as she turns to face you completely.
Your heartbeat picks up again.
“You’re thinking too much,” she says quietly.
“I always think too much.”
“Yeah,” she agrees.
Then, gently, she reaches out and cups your cheek.
The movement is so soft it surprises you. Jinx isn’t always gentle. She’s quick, energetic, chaotic. But right now she’s moving carefully, like she’s figuring something out.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
Your eyes meet hers.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
The words land deep. For a second you just stare at her.
“I know,” you say quietly.
“But your shoulders are still all tight.”
Before you can respond, she shifts again, tugging you slightly closer until you’re leaning back against the couch cushions.
“You’re doing the brain buzz thing again,” she says.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Then she presses a quick kiss to your temple. Your body immediately reacts, shoulders loosening slightly, breath catching. Jinx notices. Her eyebrows lift with interest.
“Oh,” she says.
“Oh what?”
“That worked.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” she protests, though she’s clearly delighted by the discovery.
She gently pulls your hands away from your face.
“Look at me.”
You hesitate, then do. Her grin softens a little when she sees the lingering nervousness in your expression.
“You’re allowed to relax, you know,” she says.
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
Then, quieter “And I’m gonna help.”
She leans forward again. This time the kiss lands on your lips. It isn’t rushed. It isn’t intense. Just warm.
Her hand remains against your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw as she kisses you slowly, deliberately, giving you time to react instead of overwhelming you.
For a moment your body stays tense. Then something melts. Your shoulders soften. Your hands drift up to lightly grip the fabric of her shirt.
You lean into her without thinking. Jinx hums softly against your mouth. When she finally pulls back, she looks very pleased.
“See?” she murmurs.
You’re a little breathless.
“…See what?”
“You’re really good at relaxing when you stop overthinking.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head.
“You’re insufferable.”
“Correct.”
But instead of moving away, she settles beside you again, this time pulling you closer so your head rests against her chest.
Her arm wraps around you loosely. After a minute, you feel her fingers idly playing with the sleeve of your shirt.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I kinda like this arrangement.”
You glance up.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
She shrugs slightly.
“Because you trust me enough to tell me what you want.”
Then she nudges your shoulder gently.
“And because you look really cute when you finally stop stressing.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
The movie continues playing in the background, the blue light flickering softly across the room.
And this time, when you settle against her again, you actually relax.
Could I please make request for Silco and his wife-reader (I love your fics about Silco!)
Hi! Thank you so much for your support!! It really means a lot 🥹 And thank you for your request! This might be a little short but I hope you’ll enjoy!
No One Touches My Wife
Silco x wife! Reader
Summary: A chembaron thinks it’s harmless to brush against Silco’s wife during a meeting. Silco disagrees. Because in Zaun, some lines should never be crossed.
The air in Silco’s office always carried the same scent after long meetings, smoke, old wood, and the faint chemical bitterness that seemed permanently embedded in the bones of Zaun. Tonight it lingered even heavier than usual, settling thickly into the dimly lit room as the last hour of negotiations dragged on.
You sat beside Silco at the far end of the table, listening to the low murmur of voices circling the room like cautious predators. The chembarons had gathered to discuss territory lines, shipments, and the delicate balance of power that kept the Undercity functioning without collapsing into open war. It was the kind of conversation that sounded civil on the surface but carried the weight of a dozen unspoken threats beneath every word.
Silco said very little. He rarely needed to.
While the others spoke, arguing over percentages and routes and leverage, Silco remained seated in his chair at the head of the table, posture relaxed, one hand resting loosely against the armrest while the other tapped a slow, thoughtful rhythm against the polished wood.
To anyone who didn’t know him well, he might have looked bored. You knew better.
That quiet stillness meant he was thinking, measuring every word in the room against three or four possible outcomes. Silco listened the way other men hunted.
Across the table, the chembarons shifted uneasily under that silence.
Most of them had learned long ago that speaking too boldly in Silco’s presence was a mistake.
Most of them. The man seated halfway down the table seemed determined to test that lesson.
“You’re tightening your grip too much,” he muttered at last, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated stretch. His tone carried the faint irritation of someone who had already decided he was the smartest person in the room. “Control over shimmer distribution, transport routes, now pricing… you expect the rest of us to simply fall in line.”
Silco didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he finished the note he had been writing, placed the pen down beside the paper with quiet precision, and only then lifted his gaze.
“Fall in line,” he repeated softly.
The words held a faint, almost amused echo. The man spread his hands.
“We’re supposed to be partners, Silco. Zaun isn’t yours alone.”
A few of the other chembarons glanced nervously between them. Silco tilted his head slightly, studying the man as if examining a flaw in an otherwise interesting design.
“Partners,” he said after a moment. “An appealing word.”
His voice remained calm, measured.
“And yet,” he continued, “I find that men who invoke the idea of partnership are often the same men who contribute the least to it.”
A quiet ripple of tension passed through the room.
The man scoffed, though the sound came out a little sharper than he likely intended.
“You speak as though you built this city alone.”
Silco leaned back in his chair.
“No,” he said quietly. “But I am the one ensuring it survives.”
The conversation continued after that, though the balance of the room had shifted. Words were chosen more carefully. Voices lowered slightly. Even the most outspoken chembarons seemed less eager to challenge Silco directly.
You watched the exchange quietly, your hands folded in your lap as the discussion slowly wound toward its inevitable conclusion.
Meetings like this were rarely about agreement.
They were about reminding everyone who truly held the power to enforce the outcome.
Eventually chairs began to scrape softly across the floor as the chembarons rose one by one, gathering coats and exchanging stiff acknowledgments before making their way toward the door.
Most left quickly. One did not.
The man who had challenged Silco lingered near the center of the room, adjusting the cuffs of his coat with casual arrogance. His gaze drifted briefly toward you, then away again.
At first you assumed nothing of it.
But as the others filtered out of the room, his attention returned.
Longer this time.
Silco was standing beside the desk now, organizing the documents scattered across its surface, the quiet rustle of paper filling the room.
You rose as well, preparing to leave the office with him now that the meeting had ended. That was when the man stepped forward. Not toward Silco. Toward you.
It happened quickly enough that the movement barely registered before he had closed the distance, placing himself directly in your path.
“You should talk to your husband,” he said casually, his voice low enough that the words felt almost conspiratorial. You frowned slightly.
“I’m sure he’d appreciate your advice,” you replied politely, attempting to step around him.
But the man didn’t move. Instead his hand lifted. And brushed lightly along your arm. The contact lasted no more than a second. But it was deliberate.
Silco’s voice cut through the room before you could even react.
“Remove your hand.”
The command was quiet. So quiet it took the man a moment to realize he had heard it correctly. He glanced over his shoulder with a faint smile.
“It was only a gesture—”
“I was not suggesting.”
The calmness in Silco’s tone carried a weight that made the room feel suddenly smaller.
Slowly, the man lowered his hand. Silco rose from behind the desk.
The chair scraped softly against the floor as he stepped forward, the lamplight catching the sharp lines of his expression as he crossed the room.
“You have mistaken my patience,” Silco said evenly, “for tolerance.”
The man gave a dismissive shrug.
“No one here fears you.”
Silco stopped a few steps away from him. His expression remained unchanged.
“I do not require fear,” he said softly.
“I require respect.”
For a moment the silence stretched so tight it seemed the entire room had stopped breathing.
Then the man scoffed and turned toward the door.
“Enjoy your evening, Silco.”
The door shut behind him with a heavy thud. The office fell silent.
For several seconds Silco remained where he stood, his gaze fixed on the closed door. Then he turned toward you.
“Did he hurt you?”
The question came out so suddenly you blinked.
“No,” you said quickly. “It was just my arm—”
“Did he touch you.”
The way he said the word made it sound like something vile.
“He brushed my sleeve,” you admitted.
Silco inhaled slowly. For a moment he said nothing. Then he reached for his coat.
“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly.
“For a moment.”
“Silco—”
He paused beside the door and looked back at you.
The sharp edge in his expression softened slightly when his eyes met yours.
“No one touches my wife,” he said quietly.
The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.
Then he stepped out into the hallway. The door closed behind him.
You remained in the office, the distant sounds of the building below drifting faintly through the floorboards. Voices murmured somewhere downstairs. Glass clinked. Footsteps crossed the wooden walkway outside.
Minutes passed. Then the door opened again. Silco stepped back inside.
His coat was still perfectly in place. His posture unchanged.
Only the faint smear of blood across one knuckle hinted that anything had happened at all.
He closed the door quietly. Then crossed the room toward you.
His hand lifted slowly, brushing lightly along your sleeve where the man had touched you earlier.
The gesture was careful. Almost reverent.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Yes.”
Something in his shoulders finally relaxed.
Silco exhaled quietly before drawing you closer, one arm wrapping around your waist as he pulled you gently against him.
For the rest of Zaun, Silco was ruthless. But here, in the quiet of the room with your head resting against his shoulder, the tension slowly drained from his posture.
And somewhere out in the streets below, one man had just learned a lesson. No one touches what belongs to Silco. Not without consequences.
IF you are willing to. Could you write something we're Ambessa/Sevika comfort reader after an sa? Only if you're comfortable. I've been sa'ed and their my comfort characters and sometimes I feel like they would have defended their s/o of something like that happened.
Hi! Thank you for your request and for trusting me with it. Since this is a serious topic, I’ll do my best to handle it respectfully and with care. 💕
You’re Safe Here
Sevika/Ambessa comforting reader after sa
Comfort
TW! Mention of SA! If you’re not comfortable with this topic please don’t read🫶 take care of yourself and remember you’re not alone 💕
Sevika
The first thing Sevika notices is the silence. Normally when you come through the door, you bring noise with you, your voice, your footsteps, the casual way you greet her before tossing your jacket somewhere and settling into the room like you belong there.
Tonight there is none of that.
The door opens quietly. Closes quietly. Your footsteps are slow and uncertain, as if you’re not entirely sure you should be here. Sevika looks up immediately.
She had been sitting at the small table near the window, one boot hooked under the chair across from her while a half-finished drink rested loosely in her hand. The low amber lighting of the room softened the hard edges of the space, the distant hum of Zaun drifting up from the streets below.
Usually when you enter, you smile at her. Tonight you don’t even look in her direction.
You just step inside, shut the door behind you a little too quickly, and stand there like you’ve forgotten what you were planning to do next.
Sevika watches you carefully. She’s spent years surviving in places where noticing small changes means the difference between walking away and not.
She knows the way people carry themselves when something is wrong. The stiffness in your shoulders. The way your arms are folded tightly around yourself. The way your eyes keep flicking toward the door as if you expect someone to follow you through it.
Her hand lowers slowly from the glass.
“What happened?”
Her voice is calm, but direct. Sevika has never been the type to circle around a problem. You freeze.
It’s subtle, but she sees it, the way your body locks for half a second before you turn slightly away from her.
“Nothing,” you say automatically.
The word comes out too quickly. Sevika exhales through her nose. She sets the glass down.
“Don’t lie to me.”
There’s no anger in her tone, but the firmness of it makes you glance up. And when Sevika finally sees your face clearly, something in her expression shifts.
You look shaken. Sevika pushes the chair back and stands, the metal joints in her arm giving a faint mechanical hum as she straightens. She doesn’t rush toward you. Instead she walks forward slowly, deliberately, stopping a few steps away so she doesn’t crowd you.
Up close, the tension in your posture is even clearer. Your hands are clenched in the fabric of your sleeves, your breathing shallow like you’re trying very hard to keep yourself together.
“Talk,” she says quietly.
For a moment you just stare at the floor. Your throat moves as you swallow, and Sevika can see the words forming and collapsing again before they ever reach your mouth.
“I—” your voice falters. “Someone earlier…”
The rest of the sentence refuses to come out. But it doesn’t need to. Sevika understands. Her entire body goes still. The air in the room seems to sharpen.
A flicker of something dangerous moves through her expression, anger, immediate and instinctive, but she forces it down before it reaches her voice.
Right now that anger doesn’t help you. Instead she asks the only question that matters.
“Did they hurt you?”
You shake your head quickly.
“No. I got away.”
The relief that moves through Sevika is quiet but real. Her jaw tightens slightly, though, because those words still mean someone tried.
And the thought of that settles somewhere dark in her chest. She gestures toward the couch.
“Sit.”
The word comes out like an instruction rather than a suggestion, but there’s no harshness in it. It’s grounding. Something solid to focus on.
You hesitate for a second before moving toward the couch and lowering yourself onto it. Your hands are still trembling slightly, though you try to hide it by curling them into your sleeves again.
Sevika pulls the chair closer before sitting down across from you. For a few moments she simply watches you.
Your eyes keep drifting toward the door. Your shoulders remain tense, like your body hasn’t quite accepted that you’re somewhere safe yet.
“They’re not here,” she says quietly.
You nod, though the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease right away.
After a moment Sevika leans forward slightly, resting her forearms against her knees.
“What happened,” she says slowly, choosing each word with more care than usual, “is not your fault.”
You look up at her like the idea surprises you. Sevika holds your gaze steadily.
“I mean it.”
Something in your expression wavers then, the fragile composure you’ve been holding onto beginning to crack at the edges. For a moment neither of you say anything.
Then Sevika asks, more quietly this time, “Do you want to talk about it… or do you just want someone here?”
Your voice is barely above a whisper.
“Just… stay.”
That answer softens her expression immediately.
“Alright.”
She shifts on the couch, moving closer until her shoulder rests lightly against yours.
She doesn’t pull you in. Doesn’t overwhelm you with touch. Sevika has never been particularly gentle in most aspects of life, but she understands something important in moments like this, comfort works best when it’s offered, not forced.
So she simply stays there beside you. The quiet stretches for several minutes.
Outside, the distant sounds of Zaun continue, the rumble of machinery, muffled voices somewhere in the streets below, but inside the room the silence is calmer now.
Your breathing gradually begins to slow.
“You’re shaking,” Sevika murmurs eventually.
You hadn’t noticed until she said it. Your hands are trembling slightly in your lap.
Sevika glances down at them, then lifts her organic hand slowly.
She pauses just before touching you.
“Can I?”
You nod. Her hand closes gently around yours.
Her grip is warm and steady, firm without being restrictive. The kind of grip that says she’s not letting go unless you ask her to.
“You’re safe here,” she says.
The words are simple.
But the certainty behind them settles somewhere deep in your chest.
Without really thinking about it, you lean slightly toward her. Sevika lets you.
Her metal arm shifts carefully around your shoulders, resting there in a protective weight. Not pulling you close, just making it clear she’s there.
After a moment your head lowers, resting lightly against her shoulder. Sevika doesn’t move.
Her thumb traces slow circles over the back of your hand while the tension in your body gradually starts to fade.
“What if they come back?” you whisper after a while.
Sevika’s eyes flick toward the door. Then back to you.
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
Her voice drops slightly.
“Because if they try,” she says evenly, “they’ll regret it.”
You glance up at her. Sevika doesn’t say it like a threat. She says it like a fact. And somehow that makes it easier to believe. Your shoulders relax another inch. Minutes pass. Maybe longer.
Eventually the exhaustion of the evening begins to catch up with you, the adrenaline fading until all that remains is a heavy tiredness.
Your breathing slows. Your grip on her hand loosens. Sevika glances down. Your eyes are closed. You’ve fallen asleep.
For a long moment she simply watches you, making sure the tension has finally left your face. Then she exhales quietly.
Her gaze drifts toward the door again, the earlier anger returning now that you’re resting.
Someone out there thought they could scare you. Thought they could take advantage of you.
Sevika’s jaw tightens slightly. If she ever finds out who it was, they won’t make that mistake again. But that can wait.
For now she stays exactly where she is, one arm around your shoulders and your hand still held gently in hers. Keeping watch.
Because the only thing that matters in this moment, is that you’re safe.
Ambessa
When Ambessa notices something, she does not miss it.
Years of commanding armies and surviving court politics have sharpened her instincts to something almost surgical. She reads rooms the way generals read battlefields, every movement, every hesitation, every change in someone’s posture revealing something deeper beneath the surface.
So when you step into the sitting room that evening and pause just inside the doorway, Ambessa notices immediately.
It’s a small thing. Anyone else might have overlooked it. Just a moment too long before the door closes behind you, your hand lingering against the handle as though part of you is unsure whether to stay or leave again.
But Ambessa sees the hesitation.
She is seated near the fire when you enter, a half-read document resting loosely in one hand while the other holds a glass of dark wine. The flames behind her cast warm, shifting light across the room, illuminating polished wood, heavy velvet curtains, and the quiet luxury of the Medarda estate.
Normally when you come into a room like this, you greet her.
You cross the space easily, settling beside her or leaning against the back of her chair while you talk.
Tonight you do none of that.
Instead you stand there, arms folded tightly around yourself, eyes fixed somewhere on the floor as if you’re trying to disappear into the silence.
Ambessa lowers the document slowly. Her gaze sharpens.
“Come here.”
The command is not loud, but it carries the same quiet authority that has made seasoned soldiers straighten their backs without thinking. You hesitate only briefly before obeying.
The door closes behind you with a soft click as you step forward, your movements careful and uncertain in a way Ambessa has never seen from you before. You stop a few feet away from her.
Up close, the tension in your body is impossible to ignore. Your shoulders are drawn tight, your hands gripping the fabric of your sleeves as though you’re trying to keep yourself from shaking.
Ambessa sets the wine glass aside.
“What happened?”
The question is simple, but direct. You look away immediately.
“Nothing.”
The answer comes too quickly. Ambessa studies your face in silence for several seconds before she rises to her feet.
The movement is slow and deliberate. She is taller than you when she stands, her presence filling the room with a kind of quiet gravity that makes the air feel heavier.
She steps closer. Not aggressively. Or attempting to crowd you in.
Just close enough to see the way your breathing isn’t steady, the way your gaze keeps flicking toward the door as though you expect someone to follow you through it.
“You forget something,” Ambessa says calmly.
Your eyes lift toward her.
“I have commanded men in battle,” she continues. “I know the look of someone who has been shaken.”
The certainty in her voice breaks through the fragile composure you’ve been holding onto. Your throat tightens.
“I—” Your voice falters, the words catching halfway out. “Someone earlier…”
You stop there. But you don’t need to say more. Ambessa understands. For a moment she becomes perfectly still.
The warmth of the fire continues to flicker across the room, but something colder settles behind her eyes. Anger, sharp and immediate, flashes through her expression before she reins it back with practiced control.
Right now that anger is not what you need. Instead she asks quietly, “Did they harm you?”
You shake your head quickly.
“No. I got away.”
The relief that moves through Ambessa is brief but unmistakable. Her shoulders ease slightly, though the anger does not fully disappear. Someone tried. That alone is enough.
“Good,” she says softly.
Then she gestures toward the couch beside the fire.
“Sit.”
The word carries the same commanding tone as before, but now there is something steadier beneath it. A quiet reassurance that leaves little room for argument.
You sit.
Ambessa lowers herself beside you a moment later, though she angles her body slightly so she can see your face clearly. For a while she says nothing.
The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the distant hum of the city outside.
Your shoulders remain tense. Your eyes drift toward the door again, then the window, then back to the floor. Ambessa notices every movement.
“They will not come here,” she says quietly.
You glance toward her.
“How do you know?”
Ambessa’s voice drops slightly.
“Because anyone foolish enough to attempt it would not leave again.”
The certainty in her tone is absolute. Ambessa does not make threats. She makes promises.
Something in your chest loosens slightly at the sound of it.
Ambessa leans forward, resting her forearms against her knees as she studies you more carefully.
“What happened,” she says slowly, “was not your fault.”
You look at her in surprise. She meets your gaze steadily.
“Do not allow anyone to convince you otherwise.”
Your composure wavers then. The tight control you’ve been holding onto begins to crack around the edges. Ambessa sees it.
Without another word, she reaches out and places one hand gently against your shoulder. The touch is deliberate and steady, her palm warm through the fabric of your sleeve.
“Breathe,” she murmurs.
You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until that moment.
Your lungs finally expand again, drawing in a shaky inhale that leaves your chest trembling. Ambessa’s hand remains exactly where it is.
“You are safe here,” she says.
The words are simple. But when Ambessa speaks them with that level of certainty, they feel less like reassurance and more like truth.
Your body leans toward her without conscious thought. Ambessa shifts slightly, allowing it.
Her arm moves around your shoulders in a protective weight, pulling you just close enough that your head can rest against her side.
For someone who commands battlefields and political empires, her presence now is remarkably calm.
“What if they come back?” you whisper after a while.
Ambessa’s gaze drifts toward the door. Then the window. Then back to you.
“They will not.”
“And if they try?”
Her arm tightens slightly around your shoulders.
“Then they will learn,” she says quietly, “why my enemies fear me.”
You glance up at her. Her expression is calm. The tension in your chest loosens another inch.
Minutes pass slowly after that. The warmth of the fire spreads through the room, the gentle glow of the flames reflecting softly against the polished floors. Gradually your breathing begins to slow.
Your head grows heavier against her shoulder. The exhaustion of the evening begins to settle in now that the fear has finally begun to fade.
Ambessa notices the exact moment your grip on her sleeve loosens. Your breathing deepens. You’ve fallen asleep. She glances down at you.
The tension has finally left your face. For a long moment she simply watches you rest, her expression softening in a way very few people ever see.
Then her gaze lifts slowly toward the door. The anger she pushed aside earlier returns now, colder and far more controlled. Someone out there believed they could frighten you.
Believed they could take advantage of you. Ambessa’s jaw tightens slightly. If she ever learns who it was, they will regret it. But that can wait.
For now she remains exactly where she is, one arm around your shoulders while the firelight flickers softly across the room. A quiet sentinel.
Because tonight, more than anything else, you are under her protection. And Ambessa does not fail to protect what is hers.
Can we get more Sevika x saiyan!reader…i feel like that makes for some interesting arguments/ play fights
Hiii! Thank you for your request! I’m glad you enjoy my Saiyan fics 🥹🫶 Personally I love the theme! I hope you’ll like this one!
You Call That a Punch?
Sevika x Saiyan! Reader
Summary: A Saiyan warrior and Sevika quickly discover they have something in common: neither of them backs down from a fight. Unfortunately for the rest of Zaun, Saiyans bond through combat.
The first time you punch Sevika, it’s not meant as an insult. It’s simply instinct. Saiyans solve most disagreements that way.
The argument had started like most of your arguments did, with Sevika leaning against the bar in the Last Drop, one metal arm resting casually on the counter while she watched you pace the room like a restless animal. You had only been in Zaun a short time, but already your presence had become… noticeable. Loud, confident, constantly itching for action.
Sevika found it irritating. Entertaining too, though she would never admit that part.
“You talk big for someone who just got here,” she muttered finally, her voice low and unimpressed as she watched you circle the room.
You stopped pacing long enough to glance at her, a crooked grin spreading across your face. Your tail flicked lazily behind you, the movement betraying a restless energy that had been building all evening.
“Back where I’m from,” you replied, stretching your shoulders, “we don’t talk much.”
Sevika raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You swung. There was no warning. No dramatic buildup. Just a fast, clean punch aimed straight for her jaw.
Sevika reacted instantly. Her organic hand shot up, catching your wrist before the blow could land, though the force of it still drove her half a step backward across the floor.
Boot scraping against wood. For a brief moment the entire bar went silent.
The nearby tables stopped their conversations. A few people slowly turned their heads. You blinked in mild surprise.
“…Huh.”
Sevika straightened slowly, rolling her shoulder once as if testing the impact that had traveled up her arm. Her gaze lifted to meet yours again, sharp and assessing.
“That,” she said calmly, “was actually decent.”
Your grin widened immediately.
“Oh good,” you replied, flexing your fingers. “I thought you might break.”
Sevika stared at you for a long moment. Then she smirked. And that’s where the problem began. Saiyans thrive on conflict.
It isn’t just instinct, it’s practically culture. Challenge creates strength, and strength is everything. Every argument is a test. Every fight an opportunity.
Sevika, on the other hand, thrives on control.
She doesn’t fight recklessly. She fights because it’s necessary. Violence is a tool, not a hobby.
Which means the two of you arguing is… inevitable.
“You’re reckless,” she snapped one evening, watching you casually shove another opponent aside during a sparring match behind the bar.
You scoffed, brushing dust from your shoulder like it was nothing.
“You’re boring.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Careful.”
Your grin sharpened.
“Make me.”
The room went quiet again.
People had started noticing a pattern by then.
Arguments between you and Sevika rarely stayed verbal for long.
The first real sparring match happened almost by accident.
You were halfway through another heated argument near the back of the bar, voices rising just enough to draw attention. Sevika leaned against the wall with that familiar unimpressed expression, arms crossed while you paced in front of her like a caged predator.
“You don’t hold back,” she said flatly.
You shrugged.
“You can’t handle it.”
Her eyebrow lifted slowly.
The movement was small, but the room seemed to tense. You barely saw her move. One second she was leaning against the wall.
The next she had stepped forward, grabbed your wrist, and twisted your momentum cleanly over her shoulder.
Your back hit the floor with a heavy thud. For a moment the room froze. Then you burst out laughing.
Sevika looked down at you, metal arm resting loosely at her side while she studied the grin spreading across your face.
“…You’re insane,” she muttered.
You propped yourself up on your elbows.
“Do it again.”
Sevika let out a short breath through her nose. But the corner of her mouth twitched. At first, she told herself sparring with you was practical.
You were strong. Too strong to ignore. Anyone who could nearly knock her across a room with a casual punch wasn’t someone she could afford to leave unchecked in Zaun.
If you were going to stick around, someone needed to know exactly how dangerous you were.
That was the excuse. The truth was simpler. You were the first person in years who could actually keep up with her.
You hit hard. Ridiculously hard. Hard enough that even her reinforced metal arm sometimes absorbed the impact with a dull vibration that traveled up to her shoulder.
But what interested her more was how you fought.
There was no hesitation. No fear of getting hit back. Every blow you threw carried the same wild enthusiasm, like every fight was the most exciting thing that had happened to you all week.
And every time Sevika knocked you down, you just laughed.
“You enjoy this,” she muttered one night after a particularly brutal exchange.
You wiped a small streak of blood from your lip and shrugged.
“Obviously.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“So are you.”
Sevika glanced down at her knuckles.
…Fair.
Saiyans fight emotionally. Sevika fights strategically. Which meant your sparring matches were chaotic.
You charged forward like a storm, throwing punches with enough force to crack stone. Sevika dodged, redirected, and used your momentum against you whenever possible, turning brute strength into opportunity.
But sometimes, sometimes you surprised her. Like the night you caught her guard half a second too slow.
You moved faster than she expected, grabbing her arm and driving her backward until her back hit the concrete wall behind the bar.
The impact echoed faintly through the room.
Your forearm braced against the wall beside her head, holding her there while both of you caught your breath.
For a moment neither of you moved.
Your chest rose and fell quickly from the fight, tail flicking behind you with restless energy.
Sevika looked up at you. Then she smirked.
“…You’re getting better.”
Your grin flashed instantly.
“Obviously.”
Before you could say anything else, she shoved you backward with surprising force.
You stumbled two steps before catching your balance, laughing again.
The real problem, Sevika eventually realized, was that Saiyans bond through combat.
Which meant every fight between the two of you only seemed to strengthen whatever strange connection had started forming between you.
You were impossible to intimidate. Impossible to exhaust. And every time you looked at her after a fight, there was this bright, excited expression like she’d just given you exactly what you wanted.
One evening after another long sparring session, the two of you ended up sitting on the floor behind the bar, backs resting against opposite sides of the same wall.
Both breathing hard. You were grinning again. Sevika was glaring.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she muttered.
“You started it.”
“You punched me first.”
“You blocked it.”
“That’s not the point.”
You stretched your arms above your head lazily.
“You’re the strongest person I’ve met on this planet,” you said casually.
Sevika froze slightly. You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like it mattered.
“…Careful,” she muttered.
“Why?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“Because Saiyans don’t fight people they don’t respect.”
Your grin returned slowly.
“Exactly.”
The silence that followed felt different somehow.
Not tense. Just… aware.
After a moment Sevika pushed herself to her feet, cracking her knuckles as she glanced down at you.
“Next time,” she said evenly, “I’m not going easy on you.”
You jumped to your feet immediately, tail swishing behind you with excitement.
“Good.”
Your smile widened.
“Because I wasn’t either.”
Sevika stared at you for a second.
Then she laughed quietly under her breath.
And somewhere in the back of the bar, someone muttered a quiet prayer for the building’s structural integrity.
Because if the two of you kept fighting like this, Zaun might not survive it.
Arcane milfs doing/being made to do the "seeing if she melts into my kiss" trend
Pls 🥹
Hiiii! Thank you for your request! I hope you will like this!
Arcane milfs x reader! Doing the “seeing if she melts into my kiss” trend
Fluff
Characters: Vi | Sevika | Ambessa
Vi
It starts as a joke. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed while Vi stands between your knees, hands resting casually at your hips. You’d been teasing her all evening, talking about some silly trend you’d heard of
“Apparently,” you say, voice playful, “you’re supposed to kiss someone and see if they melt into it.”
Vi snorts softly. “Melt?”
“Yeah. Like—” you lean forward slightly, eyes mischievous. “You’ll know.”
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark there. “Oh yeah? And who’s testing who?”
“You,” you answer immediately.
She laughs under her breath. “You’re bold tonight.”
Before you can respond, her hands slide from your hips to your jaw, thumbs brushing along your cheeks. Her expression shifts, less playful now, more focused.
“Alright,” she murmurs. “Let’s see.”
She kisses you slowly. Her lips are warm and deliberate, pressing against yours with enough firmness to ground you but not overwhelm you. For a split second, you try to stay composed. Try to hold your posture. Try not to react. It lasts maybe two seconds. Then your shoulders soften. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her shirt.
You lean forward unconsciously, breath catching as you deepen it without thinking. Vi feels it. And she grins against your mouth.
“Thought so,” she whispers when she pulls back slightly, forehead resting against yours. You’re absolutely melting. And she looks far too pleased about it.
Sevika
Sevika does not indulge trends. At least, not openly. You’re sitting beside her on the couch, one leg thrown over hers, lazily scrolling through nonsense on your phone.
“There’s this thing,” you start.
She hums, uninterested.
“You kiss someone and see if they melt.”
Now she looks at you. “Melt,” she repeats flatly.
“Yeah.”
She studies you for a long moment, eyes dragging slowly over your face.
“You think I’d melt?”
You grin. “I think I might.”
There’s a flicker of challenge in her gaze. She doesn’t warn you. She simply reaches up, metal hand steadying your jaw while her organic hand anchors at your waist, and kisses you.
You try to hold your composure, you really do. But the way she tilts her head slightly, the quiet control in the pressure of her mouth against yours, it does something to you.
Your breath stutters. Your spine curves subtly toward her. Your fingers tighten against her thigh. And before you even realize it, you’re leaning into her completely.
Sevika pulls back just enough to look at you. Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“…Melt,” she murmurs.
You glare weakly, which maker her smirks back at you.
Ambessa
You mention the trend in passing, expecting dismissal. Ambessa does not dismiss it. She actually considers it. You’re standing near the balcony, evening air cool against your skin, when she steps closer.
“You believe I would… melt?” she asks calmly.
“I think you might,” you tease lightly.
Her gaze sharpens. “Incorrect.”
Before you can reply, she places a hand at your waist and draws you closer. The kiss is slow. She does not rush. Does not press hard. She simply holds your face between her hands and kisses you with quiet authority.
And you, you don’t even try to resist. Your body softens immediately. Your shoulders relax. Your hands slide up her arms instinctively, clinging without thinking.
Ambessa feels the shift. When she pulls back, she doesn’t smile, only observes.
“You,” she says lowly, “melted.”
You blink, slightly breathless. She brushes her thumb across your cheek.
“I do not.”
But the faint warmth in her gaze suggests otherwise.
Note: I read something similar to this before, which is where I got my inspiration from! But I could not find the fic or arthor ;( please let me know if you find it!
Morning comes slowly in the wasteland.
Light creeps through the cracked blinds of the motel room in thin, dusty stripes, turning the walls gold and the air hazy with drifting particles. Outside, the wind pushes gently against the building, carrying the distant creak of rusted signs and the low murmur of early travelers on the road.
For once, nothing is urgent. No gunfire to be heard. No shouting drumming in your ear. No danger waiting just outside the door.
You wake slowly, still half wrapped in sleep, the warmth beside you grounding in a way the wasteland rarely allows. Cooper’s arm is draped around your waist, heavy and steady, his breathing slow against the back of your neck. For a moment you stay exactly where you are, letting the quiet stretch a little longer.
You look at him, a nearly peaceful expression resting on his face as his eyes remain closed. You had slept beside each other before, but this time felt different.
You would be lying if you said your relationship with Cooper hadn’t grown into something deeper than companions, perhaps even more than friends, over the past few months. It had started with small things, lingering glances, quiet smiles, subtle flirting that slowly turned into something far less subtle.
It had become its own kind of language between you.
And last night, you finally took it a step further. What began as a simple touch turned into a kiss… and before long, you were all over each other.
Now it’s the morning after, and the two of you lie half naked beside each other, quietly admiring the strange silence the wasteland can still produce.
Then you try to move. The world tilts.
It isn’t dramatic at first. Just a sudden wave of dizziness that makes your stomach tighten and your vision blur at the edges. You sit up too quickly, and the room sways hard enough that your hand shoots out to grab the edge of the mattress.
Your head throbs.
“Easy there, darlin’.”
Cooper’s voice is rough with sleep, low and close behind you. His arm tightens instinctively around your waist as he shifts awake.
“Where you rushin’ off to?”
“I’m not rushing,” you mutter, pressing two fingers against your temple. “Just—”
You stop. Your stomach lurches violently. You swallow hard, breathing through your nose as the nausea climbs higher in your throat.
“…not feeling great,” you finish weakly.
By now Cooper is fully awake.
You feel it in the way he moves, quick, alert, the lazy warmth of sleep gone in an instant. He sits up behind you, one hand coming to your shoulder to steady you as you swing your legs over the side of the bed.
The moment your feet touch the floor, the dizziness hits again. The room tilts sideways. You grab the bedframe before you can fall.
“Hold on,” he says quietly.
The tone in his voice makes you glance back. He’s watching you closely.
“You feelin’ sick?” he asks.
“A little.”
“How little?”
You shrug weakly. “Enough to complain about it.”
He doesn’t smile.bInstead his eyes move slowly over your face, lingering on the faint sheen of sweat along your temples, the way your hands tremble slightly where they grip the bedframe.
“You dizzy?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Head hurtin’?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once, thoughtful. Then you cough.
It happens suddenly, just a sharp reflex you can’t stop. You turn your head into your hand as the cough rattles through your chest.
The taste that follows makes your stomach drop. Metal.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and freeze when you see the faint smear of red against your skin.
“…well,” you say quietly. “That’s new.”
Cooper’s expression changes. It isn’t panic. It’s worse. Something tightens behind his eyes, something heavy settling in his posture as realization creeps in.
He exhales slowly and reaches toward the small table beside the bed where a worn radiation counter sits among scattered supplies. The device clicks to life with a flick of his thumb.
For a second, the room is silent. Then the soft ticking begins. Nothing loud but steady. You stare at it. Then at him.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
The counter continues its slow rhythm. Cooper watches the reading for a long moment before lifting his gaze back to you.
“…Yeah,” he says quietly.
Your stomach sinks. Radiation.
You lean back against the mattress slowly, the dizziness making the motion feel heavier than it should. Your mind starts running through the last few days automatically, collapsed buildings, ruined reactors, cracked waste barrels.
Nothing stands out.
“We didn’t go near anything hot,” you say.
“No.”
“No reactors.”
“No.”
“No rad pools.”
“No.”
The silence stretches. Then your eyes meet his. Understanding settles in slowly.
“Oh.”
Cooper’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah.”
You let out a small breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, and rub your hands over your face.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
You glance at the ticking counter again. Then back at him.
“So what you’re tellin’ me,” you say carefully, “is that last night literally made me radioactive.”
“That ain’t exactly how it works,” he mutters.
“Feels close enough.”
He’s already moving.
Quietly, efficiently, like he’s forcing his mind into problem solving instead of whatever thoughts are clearly weighing on him. He crosses the room and kneels beside your pack, digging through it until he finds the small medical kit buried near the bottom.
You watch him for a moment.
“You’re being awfully calm about this,” you say.
“Panickin’ wouldn’t help much.”
“No, but it would make me feel less like the only one who’s mildly concerned.”
That earns a faint huff of amusement from him, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He pulls out a RadAway pouch and returns to kneel in front of you.
“Drink this,” he says, holding it out.
You wrinkle your nose immediately. “That stuff tastes terrible.”
“You’ll live.”
“That’s optimistic.”
Despite the joke, you take it. The liquid is just as awful as you remember, bitter, chemical, leaving a sour burn down your throat. Your stomach protests violently, and you sway slightly as another wave of dizziness rolls through you.
Cooper’s hand is there instantly, steadying you by the arm.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
You lean back against the mattress, breathing slowly while the RadAway begins its slow work inside your system. The Geiger counter continues ticking softly on the table.
You glance at it again. Then at him.
“You knew this could happen,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His thumb moves slowly against your wrist as he checks your pulse.
“…Yeah,” he admits eventually.
You tilt your head slightly.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
His eyes lift to meet yours.
“Because,” he says carefully, “I didn’t think it would.”
“Why?”
A small pause.
“Because I was hopin’ it wouldn’t.”
“You were just horny.” You joke, not to his amusement. He huffs.
“Shut up”
For a moment neither of you speak. Then you squeeze his hand weakly.
“Well,” you say softly, “next time we schedule it around a RadAway dose.”
He stares at you for a second. Then he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling you a little closer so you don’t tip forward again, “you’re somethin’ else.”
You manage a faint smile.
“Radiant, apparently.”
That actually makes him laugh properly this time.
But even as he does, his arm stays firmly around you, steady and protective while the RadAway slowly begins to quiet the counter’s steady ticking.
And for the next hour, he doesn’t let you out of his sight.
For a while, the RadAway seems to help.
The ticking from the counter slows, each click spaced further apart than the last. The dizziness fades just enough that you can breathe without the room spinning. Cooper keeps a steady hand around your wrist, quietly counting your pulse while pretending he isn’t doing exactly that.
Outside the motel window, the town is waking up. Voices drift up from the street below, a brahmin lowing somewhere nearby, the distant clang of someone opening a metal storefront.
For a moment, things feel almost normal again. Then your stomach twists.
You inhale sharply as another wave of nausea slams into you, stronger than before. Your vision swims, and suddenly the light in the room feels too bright, stabbing behind your eyes.
“Cooper—”
Your voice comes out thin. He notices immediately.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
You try to answer, but another cough cuts you off. This one is worse. Your whole chest tightens, and the metallic taste floods your mouth again.
“Easy,” he murmurs quickly, guiding you forward so you don’t topple off the bed.
The radiation counter on the table begins ticking faster again.
You press a hand to your forehead, breathing unevenly. Your skin feels cold and hot at the same time.
“Why’s it worse?” you mutter weakly.
“Sometimes RadAway stirs it up before it clears it,” he says calmly. Too calmly. Your hands begin to shake.
“Cooper,” you say again, more urgently this time.
The door to the adjoining room suddenly swings open.
Lucy appears in the doorway, hair slightly messy, eyes wide with alarm.
“What is happening in here?!”
You barely manage to look up at her. Lucy takes one step into the room and freezes when she sees you hunched over, pale and shaking while Cooper steadies you.
“Oh my god,” she gasps.
“Relax,” Cooper says immediately.
Lucy does not relax.
“She’s dying!”
“I am not dying,” you mutter.
Lucy points frantically at you. “She’s coughing blood!”
“That happens sometimes,” Cooper replies casually.
Lucy turns to him in horror. “That should not happen sometimes!”
Another wave of dizziness hits you and you sway again. Cooper tightens his grip around your shoulders to keep you upright.
Lucy’s eyes grow even wider.
“This is exactly how radiation sickness starts,” she says, voice rising with panic. “You get dizzy and then the internal organs start failing and then—”
“Lucy.”
She stops mid spiral. Cooper’s voice is calm but firm.
“It’s rad poisoning,” he says.
Lucy blinks. “Radiation poisoning.”
“Same thing.”
“But… how?” she asks, completely baffled. “We didn’t go anywhere radioactive yesterday.”
You and Cooper both look at her. There’s a brief pause. The two of you exchange a glance. Is she serious?
Lucy notices the look immediately.
“What?” she demands.
“Nothing,” Cooper says quickly.
Lucy crosses her arms. “No. That was a look.”
“What look?”
“That look where two people know something I don’t know.”
You groan softly and lean your head back against Cooper’s shoulder.
“Lucy,” you mutter weakly, “can we have this conversation later?”
Lucy throws her hands in the air. “Later?! She’s literally irradiated!”
“She’s fine,” Cooper replies smoothly.
“I am not convinced!”
The counter ticks again. Lucy notices the sound and rushes over to the table, staring at the reading.
“See?!” she exclaims. “It’s still elevated!”
“It’s goin’ down,” Cooper says.
“Very slowly!”
“That’s how RadAway works.”
Lucy turns back toward the two of you, clearly trying to piece something together.
“But if we weren’t anywhere radioactive…”
She looks at you. Then at Cooper. Then back at you again. Her eyes narrow slightly.
“…wait.”
You close your eyes. Cringing at the situation you’re in. Lucy points at Cooper.
“You’re radioactive.”
“Technically,” he says.
Lucy’s jaw drops open.
“You irradiated her?!”
“I did no such thing.”
“You absolutely did!”
“It was accidental.”
Lucy makes a noise somewhere between outrage and disbelief.
“People can’t accidentally irradiate each other!”
You cough again weakly from the bed.
“Lucy,” you croak.
She spins back to you instantly. “Right. Sorry. Focus.”
Cooper presses another RadAway pouch into your hand.
“Drink,” he says.
You grimace. “Again?”
“Again.”
Lucy watches the whole thing with wide eyes as you force down the bitter liquid. Then she looks between the two of you again.
“…I feel like I walked into the middle of something I really didn’t need to know about.”
“Probably,” Cooper replies.
Lucy pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales slowly.
“I am never letting either of you near something radioactive again.”
“We didn’t go near anything radioactive,” you mutter.
Lucy points dramatically at Cooper again.
“He is the radioactive!”
That actually makes you laugh weakly. Cooper shakes his head with a quiet chuckle.
“Relax,” he says. “She’ll be alright.”
Lucy eyes him skeptically.
“You sound very confident for someone who just gave his partner radiation sickness.”
“Partner?” Cooper repeats.
Lucy freezes.
“…that’s not the part you should be focusing on.”
You sink back against the pillow, exhausted but smiling faintly despite the nausea. Cooper adjusts the blanket around you and rests a steady hand on your arm again.
Lucy watches the two of you for a moment. Then sighs dramatically.
“I am going to pretend I don’t understand how this happened.”
“Smart choice,” Cooper says.
Lucy shakes her head.
“Next time you two have… whatever this is,” she says carefully, “please warn me if radiation is involved.”
You groan. Cooper just tips his hat slightly. And the counter finally begins to slow again.
—————-
By late afternoon the RadAway has finally started winning.
The rad counter’s ticking has slowed to a lazy rhythm now, each click spaced far enough apart that Lucy checks it every few minutes like she’s waiting for it to betray her again.
You’re propped up against the headboard with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, still pale but no longer shaking. Cooper sits on the edge of the bed beside you, cleaning one of his revolvers with slow, absent movements. Every so often his eyes flick up to check on you.
Lucy, meanwhile, is pacing.
Back and forth across the small motel room like a very concerned scientist who has just encountered a confusing experiment.
“I still don’t understand how this happened,” she mutters for the fifth time.
You close your eyes briefly.
“Lucy…”
“No, because we were nowhere near a radioactive source,” she continues, gesturing dramatically with her hands. “The environmental radiation levels in this town are extremely low, and you both were perfectly fine yesterday.”
Cooper glances at you. You glance back. Here we go again. Lucy stops pacing and points at him.
“So the only explanation is prolonged exposure.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “That so?”
“Yes!” she says, clearly pleased with herself. “You must have slept extremely close together.”
You and Cooper both stare at her. Lucy nods confidently. “Radiation transfer through proximity. That has to be it.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Lucy,” you say slowly, “we always sleep close together.”
She blinks. “Well… maybe closer than usual.”
Cooper snorts quietly. Lucy keeps going, completely oblivious.
“Or maybe you were sharing blankets! Yes, that would increase the exposure rate. Or maybe—”
“We fucked, Lucy.”
The words come out flat. Matter of fact. The room goes completely silent.
Lucy freezes mid gesture. Her brain visibly short circuits.
“…you what.”
Cooper leans back slightly, clearly enjoying the moment.
“You heard her,” he says casually.
Lucy’s face turns bright red. Her mouth opens, then closes, and opens again.
“I— I didn’t— I mean I thought you were just—”
You sigh tiredly and sink deeper into the pillows.
“Yes, Lucy. That’s usually what people mean.”
Lucy covers her face with both hands.
“Oh my god.”
Cooper chuckles quietly beside you. Lucy turns away dramatically, still shielding her eyes.
“I did not need that level of detail!”
“You were makin’ charts,” Cooper says.
“I was trying to understand the radiation exposure!”
“Well,” you mutter weakly, “now you do.”
Lucy spins back around, still flustered.
“You can’t just say that so casually!”
“You asked.”
“I did not ask!”
“You kept guessing,” Cooper says calmly.
Lucy groans and drags her hands down her face.
“I am going to pretend this conversation never happened.”
“Smart,” Cooper replies.
Lucy points a finger at him.
“You are a walking health hazard.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that.”
“And you,” she says, pointing at you now, “should be resting.”
“I am resting.”
Lucy squints suspiciously. Then she glances between the two of you again.
“…I’m leaving.”
“Good plan,” Cooper says.
Lucy grabs her bag and heads for the door, still muttering under her breath.
“I can’t believe that was the explanation…”
She stops at the doorway and looks back one last time.
“And next time,” she says firmly, “please warn me before anyone gets irradiated from— from—”
She gestures helplessly.
“…activities.”
Then she disappears into the hallway. The door shuts. Silence settles over the room again. You let out a tired breath.
“Well,” you murmur, “that went well.”
Cooper chuckles softly and sets his revolver aside before leaning back slightly against the bed.
“Could’ve been worse.”
“How?”
“She might’ve asked follow up questions.”
You groan. He rests a steady hand over yours, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles.
The counter clicks once more. Then quiets again.
He glances at it, satisfied, before looking back at you.
“How you feelin’ now, sweetheart?”
“Less radioactive.”
“That’s a start.”
You tilt your head against his shoulder.
“Next time we schedule RadAway first.”
He huffs a quiet laugh.
“Next time we pick a less hazardous hobby.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
He looks down at you, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.
“You’re trouble.”
“Apparently radiant trouble.”
That makes him laugh properly. And this time, the radiation counter stays quiet.
Can we Sevika and Ambessa with a reader who causally has a pet tiger like jasmine from Aladdin.
And maybe she babies the tiger like it wouldn’t hurt a fly even though it obviously wouldn’t
Hi! Thank you for your request!!! I love this idea!!!! Hope you’ll enjoy!!!
Sevika/Ambessa x reader! Who has a tiger
Sevika
Not smoke. Not alcohol. Animal. Heavy. Musky. Wild.
Her hand instinctively flexes at her side, metal fingers adjusting slightly as her eyes scan the room. The place is quiet, dimly lit, deceptively calm.
Then she sees it. A tiger.
A full grown, massive, orange and black striped tiger sprawled across your living room floor like it owns the building. Its paws are the size of plates. Its tail flicks lazily against the wood. Its head lifts slowly when Sevika steps further inside.
The room goes very still. Sevika doesn’t jump. She doesn’t reach for a weapon. But her stance shifts.
And then, you walk in from the kitchen like nothing is wrong.
“Oh! You’re here,” you say brightly, carrying a bowl in one hand. “Don’t mind him.”
Him.
The tiger yawns. Sevika stares at you.
“…Don’t mind him.”
You step over the tiger’s tail casually, setting the bowl down on the table. “He’s just dramatic when new people come over.”
The tiger huffs softly and lowers its head again.Sevika looks between you and the animal.
“That,” she says slowly, “is not a house pet.”
You blink. “Of course he is.”
As if to prove your point, you crouch down beside the tiger and cup its massive face in your hands. Your fingers disappear slightly into thick fur as you press your cheek against its head.
“Hi, baby,” you murmur sweetly. “Are you being scary again?”
The tiger closes its eyes. Closes its eyes. Sevika watches this in absolute silence.
“You are aware,” she says evenly, “that it could kill me in under ten seconds.”
You glance over your shoulder. “Oh, he wouldn’t.”
The tiger opens one golden eye.Sevika raises an eyebrow.
“He’s just protective,” you add gently, scratching under the tiger’s chin. “Aren’t you?”
The animal makes a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through the floor. Sevika does not step back. But she does take you in more carefully.
“You trust it,” she says.
“Of course I do.”
“You’re not worried it’ll snap one day?”
You frown slightly at that. “He’s not a monster.”
There’s something in your tone, soft, certain, that makes Sevika soften.
You’re not naïve. You’re not stupid. You know what the tiger is capable of.
You just… choose to treat it with gentleness anyway. Sevika exhales slowly through her nose.
“You baby it.”
You grin. “He is a baby.”
The tiger is roughly the size of a couch.
Sevika watches as you lean fully against its side, fingers tracing slow circles through thick fur. The animal’s breathing steadies beneath your touch, enormous body relaxing visibly.
“You spoil him,” Sevika mutters.
“Yes.”
“Why.”
You look up at her, confused. “Because I can?”
That answer shouldn’t disarm her. But it does. Sevika has seen violence. Has dealt in it. Understands power as something to wield, to survive.
And here you are, sitting on the floor with something that could tear through steel, cooing at it like it’s fragile.
It’s absurd and it’s… strangely compelling.
The tiger shifts suddenly, lifting its massive head and resting it heavily in your lap. You laugh softly, adjusting your posture to accommodate the weight.
“See?” you say lightly. “He’s sweet.”
The tiger’s tail thumps once against the floor.
Sevika steps closer, cautiously. Not afraid, just respectful.The tiger’s eyes track her movement. There’s a silent exchange there. A quiet warning. Sevika meets the stare without flinching.
“I don’t like how it’s looking at me,” she says flatly.
You lean forward and gently tap the tiger’s nose. “Be nice.”
The tiger blinks. Then, slowly, it lowers its head again. Sevika huffs.
“You tell it to behave like it’s a dog.”
“It listens,” you reply simply.
There’s something about that, about you, that shifts the atmosphere.
You don’t command the tiger with fear. You don’t dominate it. You trust it. And it trusts you back.
Sevika studies you as you continue scratching behind the tiger’s ear, murmuring nonsense praise under your breath.
“You’d defend it,” she says quietly.
You look up immediately. “Of course.”
Even against her? You don’t hesitate.
“Yes.”
That answer hangs between you. Sevika’s lips twitch faintly.
“…Good.”
You tilt your head. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
She scoffs. “Of a tiger?”
You smile knowingly. She steps closer now, stopping just within the tiger’s reach. Her organic hand reaches out slowly, cautiously brushing along the animal’s shoulder. The tiger tenses. You rest your palm gently against its neck.
“It’s okay,” you whisper.
The tension melts. Sevika’s hand lingers in the fur, feeling the strength beneath it. The power. The coiled potential.
And then she glances down at you, soft hands buried in something lethal, expression peaceful.
“You treat dangerous things like they’re gentle,” she murmurs.
You smile faintly. “Sometimes they just need someone to.”
Sevika doesn’t respond immediately. But later, when you lean back against her instead of the tiger, she doesn’t push you away.
And when the tiger shifts, watching her carefully, she mutters under her breath, “I’m not competing with you.”
The tiger huffs. You laugh. And Sevika, despite herself, smirks.
Ambessa
When Ambessa enters a room, the room adjusts. People straighten. Voices lower. The air shifts around her presence like heat off steel.
She expects control. She expects dominance. She does not expect a tiger.
The first thing she notices is the silence. Not empty, heavy. Alert. Then she sees it stretched across the marble near the balcony doors, enormous and striped and very much alive.
It lifts its head slowly when she steps inside. Their eyes meet. Neither blinks.
Behind the tiger, seated comfortably on a velvet chaise, you glance up from your book and smile as if nothing in the room is remotely alarming.
“Oh, good. You’re here.”
Ambessa does not look at you immediately. Her gaze remains on the animal.
“That,” she says calmly, “is a tiger.”
“Yes.”
“You say that as though it requires no further explanation.”
You close your book and stand, walking toward the tiger without hesitation. The animal’s massive body shifts subtly, tail sweeping once across the floor before settling again.
“He’s been grumpy all afternoon,” you say lightly. “New people.”
Ambessa steps forward instead of back.
“New threats,” she corrects.
The tiger rises slowly to its feet. The movement is unhurried. Controlled. Muscles rolling beneath its skin like living armor.
Ambessa’s expression does not change. But her posture sharpens.
You step between them without a flicker of concern and rest your palm against the tiger’s shoulder.
“It’s fine,” you murmur.
The animal’s ears flick toward your voice. Then, astonishingly, it lowers its head. Not submissive. Attentive.
Ambessa notices everything.
The way its breathing shifts when you touch it. The way its body angles slightly to shield you rather than expose you. The way its claws remain sheathed despite the tension.
“You trust it,” Ambessa says quietly.
“Completely.”
“And it would tear out my throat if it decided I was a threat.”
You tilt your head thoughtfully.
“Yes.”
The honesty almost makes her smile. Instead, she studies you.
You are stroking the tiger’s cheek with both hands now, pressing a gentle kiss between its ears as though you are soothing a child.
“Who’s my handsome boy?” you murmur softly.
The tiger exhales, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through the room. Ambessa steps closer.
Her presence does not waver. The tiger’s golden eyes shift to her again. There is no fear in Ambessa’s gaze. Only assessment.
“You treat it as though it is harmless,” she says.
“I treat him as though he is loved.”
The distinction lingers. Ambessa has commanded armies. She has led soldiers who would die at her word. She understands loyalty forged in strength.
But this, this is something else.
The tiger presses its enormous head into your side, nearly knocking you off balance. You laugh softly and wrap your arms around its neck, burying your face briefly in thick fur.
“He thinks he’s small,” you say fondly.
Ambessa observes the closeness carefully. There is no tension in the animal’s muscles around you.
“You are unafraid,” she says.
You glance up at her with a faint smile. “Should I be?”
“That creature could end you in a moment.”
“So could many things,” you reply calmly.
Ambessa studies you more closely at that.
“You do not command it,” she notes.
“No.”
“You do not dominate it.”
“No.”
You scratch lightly beneath the tiger’s jaw, and it leans into your touch with startling softness.
“I don’t need to,” you say simply.
The tiger lowers itself back to the floor, rolling partially onto its side and exposing its belly, though its eyes never fully leave Ambessa. A gesture of comfort. Not vulnerability. Ambessa’s gaze sharpens faintly.
“You have earned its trust,” she says.
You nod. “And it’s earned mine.”
Silence settles. The balcony doors are open slightly, wind stirring the curtains and ruffling the tiger’s fur.
Ambessa steps closer still, close enough now that the tiger’s massive paw is inches from her boot. The animal’s tail flicks once. She does not hesitate.
Her hand extends slowly, fingers brushing against thick fur. The tiger goes still. You rest your hand gently against its shoulder again.
“It’s okay,” you murmur.
After a long second, the tension melts. The tiger’s breathing evens.
Ambessa’s hand lingers in the fur, feeling the heat, the strength, the quiet potential. She withdraws slowly.
“You surround yourself with dangerous things,” she says. You look up at her.
“And?”
Her eyes meet yours.
“And you soften them.”
You smile faintly.
“Maybe they just needed someone to.”
The tiger shifts, moving closer to you, but its tail brushes lightly against Ambessa’s leg this time. Testing her. Ambessa looks down at it.
“…Are we negotiating?” she murmurs.
You laugh softly.
“He likes you.”
The tiger huffs, not quite agreeing. Ambessa steps closer to you instead of away. Her hand rests lightly at your waist, drawing you a fraction nearer.
“And if I wished to test that loyalty?” she asks quietly.
You glance between her and the tiger, unbothered.
“He’d choose me.”
There is no arrogance in your voice. Only certainty. Ambessa studies you for a long moment. Then she nods once.
“As he should.”
The tiger’s head lifts slightly. Ambessa meets its gaze again, something like respect passing between predator and general. And for the first time, the corner of her mouth curves faintly.
“Very well,” she says calmly. “He may remain.”
You beam. The tiger settles fully against your legs, enormous and impossibly gentle under your touch.
Ambessa watches the two of you, the softness in your hands, the power in the animal, the balance you hold so effortlessly.
“You are far more dangerous than you appear,” she says quietly.
hi fren! Can I request the arcane girlies/milfs with a reader who's a stripper???
Hi!!! Thank you for your request! Omg I love this idea!!!! I hope you’ll enjoy!! 🫶
Arcane ladies x stripper! Reader
Headcanons
Characters: Vi | Caitlyn | Jinx | Sevika | Ambessa
Vi
Vi finds out the “hard way”, meaning she walks into your club not expecting to see you and nearly chokes on her drink when you step onto the stage.
For a second she just stares. Not angry. Not uncomfortable. Just stunned.
You don’t look embarrassed up there. You look in control. Every movement deliberate. Every glance calculated. You’re not being consumed by the room, you’re commanding it.
Vi leans back in her chair slowly, arms crossing over her chest, expression shifting from shock to something quieter. Pride.
When your set ends and you approach her backstage, you’re braced for the reaction.
“You’re mad,” you say immediately.
Vi huffs softly. “Why would I be mad?”
“It’s… this.”
She gestures vaguely toward the stage. You look down. “It’s just work.”Vi steps closer, eyes searching your face.
“You look powerful up there,” she says quietly. “Like nobody owns you.”
That’s what she sees first. Not the bodies watching. Not the money being thrown. Your control.
If anyone ever treats you like you’re less because of it, Vi’s tone goes flat and dangerous.
“Funny how people respect violence more than confidence,” she mutters once.
In private, she loves watching you rehearse. The focus in your eyes. The discipline in your body. She understands physical control, she trains every day. She recognizes the strength it takes to hold yourself like that.
If you ever confess that sometimes it’s exhausting, performing, smiling, being desirable on command, Vi listens carefully.
“You don’t owe anyone the version of you on that stage,” she tells you. “That’s yours. You decide who gets it.”
And she means it.
Caitlyn
Caitlyn discovers your profession accidentally. She’s investigating something unrelated and finds herself in a club she would normally never frequent. She intends to leave quickly, until she sees you.
Her breath stills. Not from scandal. From surprise.
You look different on stage. More fluid. More daring. You hold eye contact with strangers like it’s a weapon.
Caitlyn watches quietly, respectfully. She does not leer. She does not act entitled to your attention.
When you confront her afterward, expecting judgment, she surprises you.
“I was not aware,” she says calmly.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
If you press her, “Does it bother you?”, she answers honestly.
“I am not concerned with the opinions of those who would diminish you for earning a living.”
But that’s not all. Later, in private, she asks gentle questions.
“Do you feel safe there?”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“Do you feel respected?”
She cares less about the morality of it and more about your well-being.
If high society acquaintances ever speak dismissively about your work, Caitlyn’s tone goes glacial.
“Your implication is inappropriate.”
She does not tolerate disrespect.
In intimacy, she finds something deeply compelling about the duality. The stage presence. The precision. The confidence.
But what she loves most is when you drop the performance and let yourself be soft with her.
“You are more than spectacle,” she tells you once, brushing her thumb along your cheek. “And I am grateful you allow me to see that.”
Jinx
Jinx thinks it’s the coolest thing in the world. The first time she sees you on stage, she lights up like someone just handed her fireworks.
“That’s my girl,” she mutters proudly.
She doesn’t get insecure about people watching you. She thinks it’s funny that they think they have access.
“You look at her,” she once tells someone staring too hard, grinning wide, “but you don’t get her.”
She loves the theatrics. The glitter. The transformation. She’ll absolutely help you design outfits, adding little details you pretend not to love.
But beneath the chaos, she’s observant. If you ever come home drained instead of energized, she notices immediately.
“Bad crowd?” she asks softly.
If you admit that sometimes the stares feel heavy, sometimes the expectations feel suffocating, she listens without interrupting.
Then she leans her forehead against yours.
“You decide what they get,” she says. “Not them.”
If anyone crosses boundaries? That’s when her smile gets dangerous. But with you, she’s gentle. You are not an object to her. You’re an artist.
And she adores that you burn bright on your own terms.
Sevika
Sevika meets you at the club long before she knows your name. She’s in the back. Watching. Silent. She doesn’t clap. Doesn’t whistle. She studies.
The way you hold yourself. The way you control distance. The way you never let anyone touch you without permission. That’s what interests her.
When she eventually approaches you, it isn’t with sleaze. It’s direct.
“You’re good at controlling a room.”
If you expect judgment, you won’t get it from her. She respects work. Period!
If you ever imply that you feel ashamed sometimes, she frowns.
“Why?”
“People think it’s cheap.”
She scoffs.
“People think everything is cheap until they can’t afford it.”
She understands power dynamics better than most.
She admires that you weaponize desire instead of being consumed by it.
If someone disrespects you publicly, she doesn’t cause a scene.
But later, they won’t do it again. She doesn’t need to explain why.
In private, she’s not possessive, but she is protective.
“You don’t owe anyone softness,” she tells you once, hands firm at your waist. “You give what you choose.”
And she respects you for it.
Ambessa
Ambessa does not react impulsively when she learns what you do. She evaluates.
She observes you once in your environment, how you move, how you command attention, how you manage boundaries. She sees discipline. She sees strategy and control.
When you ask if she disapproves, she answers plainly.
“Why would I?”
“It’s not… dignified.”
She steps closer, gaze steady.
“You hold a room of men in your palm and release them at your discretion. That is power.”
Ambessa does not view sexuality as weakness. She views it as leverage.
If anyone attempts to mock you in her presence, her voice turns lethal.
“Do not mistake confidence for submission.”
She ensures your safety quietly, increasing security, making sure no one crosses lines.
But she never frames it as rescuing you. She frames it as protection of what is hers.
In private, when the performance persona drops and you admit sometimes it’s tiring to be desired constantly, she pulls you into her chest.
“You are not obligated to be spectacle for anyone,” she says lowly. “Least of all me.”
And when she watches you move, on stage or in her arms, she does not see something shameful. She sees command.
HELLO ! I love all your writing BTW, your the first person I followed on Tumblr !
Could you please do headcannons of female arcane characters x reader who has a lisp and is self conscious about it ?
Hii!! OMG really??!🥺 I’m so flattered 🫶🫶💕 thank you so much! It really made my whole day 🥹🥹💕 honestly!!! And thank you for your request! I did my best to do my research before writing this fic so I hope you will enjoy!! Lmk if there is anything I should know! 🫶
Arcane women x reader! Who has a lisp
Headcanons
Characters: Vi | Caitlyn | Jinx | Sevika | Ambessa
Vi
~Vi notices your lisp immediately, not because she’s judging you, but because she listens to you. Fully. When you talk, she’s not scanning the room. She’s not distracted. She’s watching your mouth, your expressions, the way you think before certain words.
~The first time someone interrupts you mid-sentence with a barely-hidden smirk, Vi doesn’t explode. She just shifts her posture slightly and says, calm but firm, “They weren’t done.” It’s not loud, nor dramatic. But it lands. And it’s there.
~If you ever apologize for “talking weird,” her face hardens instantly. “Weird how?” And when you shrug and say, “My sounds are annoying,” she steps closer. “The only annoying thing here is you talking about yourself like that.”
~She never rushes you, ever. If you’re trying to push through a word and it takes a second, she waits like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
~Sometimes, when you’re frustrated and go quiet, she gently nudges your knee with hers. “Hey. I wanna hear it.”
~If you get embarrassed in public and your voice gets smaller, she leans in close and murmurs, “You take your time. I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
~And when you finally admit you hate how you sound, she surprises you by cupping your jaw softly. “You don’t sound broken,” she says quietly. “You sound like you.”
~And Vi? She loves your voice. The softness in it. The way certain words roll differently. She associates that sound with safety, with home.
~If anyone ever mocks you outright? She doesn’t yell. She just steps forward slightly and says, very evenly, “Say that again.” They never do.
Caitlyn
~Caitlyn listens like every word matters, because to her, it does. She doesn’t focus on how you pronounce something. She focuses on what you’re saying.
~The first time you stumble in front of someone important and immediately look embarrassed, she steps in subtly, redirecting the conversation without drawing attention to you.
~Later, when you apologize for “messing up,” she genuinely frowns. “You didn’t.”
I~f you confess that you’ve always been self conscious about your lisp, that people used to point it out, she doesn’t dismiss your feelings. She doesn’t say “it’s cute, stop worrying.”
~She says softly, “That must have been exhausting.” That acknowledgment alone almost makes you cry.
~She never finishes your sentences unless you ask. If you pause, she waits. If you’re searching for a word, she gives you the space to find it.
~She loves when you read to her. Especially late at night. She listens to the cadence of your voice, the concentration you put into forming words, and she finds it deeply intimate.
~If someone ever mimics you? Caitlyn doesn’t raise her voice. She simply says, “That was unnecessary.” And the quiet that follows is sharp enough to cut.
~If you ever try to hide your voice, speak less, speak softer, she notices immediately. “Don’t shrink,” she tells you gently. “Your voice deserves to take up space
Jinx
~Jinx notices your lisp the first day she meets you. But her reaction isn’t teasing, it’s curiosity. She tilts her head slightly, listening closely.
~If you get flustered and assume she’s going to comment on it, she surprises you by saying, “You talk different. I like it.”
~When you mutter that it sounds stupid, her expression shifts immediately. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
~She’s been mocked. She’s been called broken, crazy, wrong. She refuses to let anyone make you feel like that.
~If you get stuck on a word and groan in frustration, she leans closer and whispers dramatically, “Take your time. Suspense builds character.”
~If someone laughs at you? Jinx doesn’t argue. She doesn’t debate. She just stares at them with that bright, unsettling smile. “Wanna try that again?” They usually don’t.
~When you’re anxious before speaking in a group, she squeezes your hand hard and says, “If they don’t like it, that’s their problem. Not yours.”
~And sometimes, when you’re alone, she’ll gently repeat a word you said, not mocking, just mimicking the sound softly. “I like how that sounds,” she admits quietly. To her, your voice is yours. Something that is unmistakable. And she loves that she could pick it out anywhere.
Sevika
~Sevika doesn’t comment on it when she first notices. Because in her mind, it doesn’t require commentary. If you bring it up, clearly nervous, she looks at you flatly. “And?” When you explain that it makes you insecure, she studies you for a long second. “Does it stop you from saying what you mean?” “No.” “Then it’s not a problem.” That’s her logic. Simple.
~If someone interrupts you because you took a second too long on a word, she cuts in smoothly. “They weren’t finished.” She won’t over comfort. She won’t coddle. But she will make sure you are heard.
~If you get upset and shut down completely, she notices. She might not say much, but later she’ll sit close beside you and say quietly, “You don’t need to talk fast to be taken seriously.”
~If anyone mocks you? She doesn’t threaten. She just looks at them. And they immediately regret existing.
Ambessa
~Ambessa notices your lisp immediately, not with judgment, but with observation. She is a strategist. She catalogues everything. The cadence of your speech. The pauses before certain consonants. The way your jaw tightens when you anticipate stumbling over a word.
~What she notices more, though, is the way you brace yourself before speaking in larger rooms.
~The first time you hesitate during a formal discussion, someone attempts to speak over you. Ambessa does not even look at them. She simply raises her hand. Silence falls instantly. “They were speaking,” she says calmly. The interruption dies.
~She does not rush you. She does not fill the silence. She lets you finish at your own pace, and the room follows her lead. Later, in private, if you admit you hate how you sound, she studies you carefully. “Hate is a strong word,” she says evenly. You look away. “It makes me sound weak.” That is when her posture changes. She steps closer, not invading, but grounding.
“Weakness,” she says quietly, “is hesitation of spirit. Not hesitation of tongue.”
~If you confess that people have mocked you before, that you learned to speak less because of it, something sharp flickers in her gaze. “You allowed lesser minds to dictate your volume,” she says. It is not blame or assessment.
~She does not dismiss your insecurity. She does not say “it’s beautiful” in a shallow way. She says, “When you speak, people listen.” And she means it. Ambessa values authority. She values conviction. And she sees that in you, even when you cannot.
~If you ever try to rush through words to avoid stumbling, she gently interrupts. “Slowly.” Not as correction or as command. And when you slow down, when you let each word land, she nods once in approval.
~If someone openly mocks your speech in her presence, she does not raise her voice. She turns her head slowly toward them. “Repeat that.” Her tone is level. The air shifts immediately. No one repeats it.
~In more intimate moments, when it is just the two of you, she sometimes rests her hand at the base of your throat lightly, not controlling, just steady. “Your voice carries,” she murmurs. “It is not fragile.”
~If you ever shrink back mid-sentence and apologize, she will tilt your chin up gently with two fingers. “Do not apologize for existing.” She does not coddle you. She fortifies you.
~Over time, you notice something subtle: when you stand beside her, you do not rush anymore. You do not preemptively apologize. You do not shrink your words. Because she waits. And when Ambessa waits, the world waits with her.
~Eventually, you realize something powerful: she does not see your lisp as a flaw. She sees it as part of your cadence. Your signature. Your unmistakable presence.And in her eyes, presence is power.
Could you pretty please do a silco x reader hurt/comfort one shot where Silco says something rude or mean to reader during an argument and reader is obviously hurt by it
Thank you for your request! I hope you will enjoy!!
I Didn’t Mean That.
Silco x reader
Hurt/comfort
Silco does not raise his voice often. He doesn’t need to. When he’s displeased, it’s quieter than shouting. Sharper. Controlled. That’s what makes it worse.
The argument starts small, it always does. A disagreement about a shipment. About risk. About him sending someone into a situation you both know is dangerous.
“You’re stretching yourself thin,” you say, standing near his desk, arms crossed. “You can’t solve everything alone.”
He doesn’t look up at first. His pen continues scratching across parchment, movements precise.
“I am not alone.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
His jaw tightens faintly.
“I am well aware of what you meant.”
You step closer.
“You don’t have to carry all of this.”
“And you don’t have to question every decision I make.”
You swallow. “I’m not questioning your authority. I’m worried about you.”
His pen stops. Finally, he looks up.
The faint red shimmer in his damaged eye catches the low light of his office.
“Worry,” he says coolly, “is a luxury we cannot afford.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
His voice sharpens now, impatience creeping in.
“You think I enjoy these choices? You think I have the freedom to indulge sentiment?”
You hesitate.
“That’s not what I’m saying—”
“Then what are you saying?” he snaps.
The silence stretches too long. You exhale slowly.
“I’m saying you matter to me.”
That should have softened it. It doesn’t.
Instead, something flickers across his face, something raw and defensive.
“And that,” he says coldly, “is precisely the weakness I cannot allow.”
The words land heavier than either of you expect. You don’t react immediately. That’s what makes it worse. Then, quieter than before, “So I’m a weakness.”
It’s not accusatory. It’s hurt.
Silco’s breath catches,?almost imperceptibly.
“That is not what I—”
“But it’s what you said.”
You don’t raise your voice. You just look at him.
And that look, the one where your shoulders draw in slightly, where something behind your eyes dims, hits him harder than shouting ever could. You step back.
“I didn’t realize caring about you made me a liability.”
The room feels suddenly smaller. He stands slowly.
“You are not a liability.”
“You just called me one.”
“I called sentiment one.”
“And I’m sentiment.”
There’s no anger in your tone now. Just quiet understanding. And that’s what makes his chest tighten painfully. He takes a step toward you. You take one back. That small distance feels enormous.
“You misunderstand,” he says, but his voice has lost its edge.
“No,” you reply softly. “I understand perfectly.”
You turn slightly, like you’re about to leave. And that’s when he moves. Not forceful. Not grabbing. Just reaching. His hand closes gently around your wrist.
“Stay.”
It’s not a command. It’s almost a plea. You hesitate.
He releases your wrist immediately, as though even that touch might be too much.
“I spoke carelessly,” he says quietly.
You don’t look at him.
“That’s rare for you.”
“Yes.”
A beat of silence.
Then, lower, “And regrettable.”
You glance at him finally. His posture is different now. Less rigid. Less armored.
“When I said weakness,” he continues carefully, “I meant the vulnerability that comes with attachment.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No.” His voice softens, controlled but earnest. “Weakness implies failure. Vulnerability implies risk.”
“And I’m a risk.”
“You are… precious.”
The word feels foreign in his mouth, almost unpredicted. He swallows.
“You are the one thing I cannot calculate. The one variable I cannot control. That terrifies me.”
Your expression falters slightly.
“I would burn cities to protect you,” he says quietly. “But the thought of losing you makes me reckless.”
You blink.
“That doesn’t make me a weakness.”
“No,” he agrees. “It makes me human.”
The admission hangs between you. He steps closer now, slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You don’t.
His hand lifts again, but this time it settles against your cheek, gentle, almost reverent.
“I will not speak of you as a liability again,” he murmurs.
Your voice is small when you answer.
“You hurt me.”
“I know.”
The words are immediate. Not defensive or seekingjustification.
“I am… unused to fear manifesting as anger,” he says quietly. “But that is not your burden to carry.”
His thumb brushes lightly along your cheekbone.
“You matter to me,” he says again, not sharp this time, not defensive.
Steady.
“I reacted because I care too deeply, not because I care too little.”
You search his face for insincerity. Find none.
After a long moment, you lean slightly into his hand.
“Don’t shut me out when you’re scared,” you whisper.
His breath catches faintly at that.
“I will try.”
For him, that’s monumental.
He draws you closer carefully, arms wrapping around you in a way that feels deliberate, protective, almost fragile. His chin rests lightly against your hair.
“You are not weakness,” he murmurs against your temple.
“You are the only thing that keeps me from becoming monstrous.”
You close your eyes, finally letting yourself relax against him. His hold tightens just slightly.
And for the first time since the argument began, the room feels steady again.
The fic with Jinx and fem reader’s baby was so cute oh my god 😭 Could we please see a continuation where baby’s finally through teething, and she’s with Jinx and reader when she says her first word 🥹
I’m so glad you like it!!! I love cute fics with Jinx! I also found writing this one so adorable as well!! I hope you’ll enjoy! Thank you for your request! 🫶🫶
“Say It Again.”
Jinx x reader! With a baby
Fluff
Teething had nearly broken all of you.
For weeks the apartment had been a war zone of tiny screams, half empty bottles, and Jinx pacing the floor at ungodly hours like she was plotting revenge against baby teeth
themselves.
“She’s fighting her own mouth,” Jinx had muttered one night at three in the morning, bouncing your daughter carefully while you leaned against the kitchen counter, exhausted. “That’s not fair. I wanna punch evolution.”
You’d laughed weakly, even as your eyes burned. But eventually, the storm passed.
The tiny white edges finally pushed through. The drooling slowed. The furious chewing turned into curious nibbling. And for the first time in weeks, the apartment felt… calm.
Not silent, never silent, but softer.
Your daughter sat between you now on the living room floor, surrounded by a chaotic circle of Jinx-engineered toys. None explosive. None dangerous. Just colorful mechanical animals that blinked, spun, or made soft clicking sounds when tapped.
Jinx lay on her stomach nearby, chin propped in her hands, blue braids pooling around her shoulders as she watched the baby with laser focus.
“She’s thinking too hard,” Jinx murmured.
“She’s stacking blocks,” you replied, smiling.
“Exactly. Strategic.”
The baby babbled to herself, determinedly stacking one crooked wooden block on top of another. Her tongue peeked out slightly in concentration, a habit she’d absolutely stolen from Jinx.
The tower wobbled. Fell. She gasped dramatically. Then squealed with delighted outrage. Jinx grinned so wide it was almost blinding.
“She’s got your dramatics,” you teased.
“She’s got taste,” Jinx shot back.
You leaned forward, brushing your fingers gently through your daughter’s hair. She turned toward your touch immediately, eyes bright and curious.
“You’re getting so big,” you whispered softly. “No more angry teething monster.”
Your daughter blinked at you. Then she turned her head. Slowly toward Jinx. Jinx froze mid comment.
The baby studied her for a long second, like she was solving something very important.
Her tiny mouth opened.
“Mama.”
The room went completely still. You felt your heart slam into your ribs. Jinx didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.
The baby tilted her head slightly.
“Mama.”
The second time was clearer.
Confident.
Like she’d tested the sound and decided she liked it.
Jinx’s hands flattened against the floor.
“…No way,” she whispered.
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Say it again,” you breathed.
Your daughter squealed happily at the attention and slapped her hands against the floor.
“Mama!”
Jinx made a broken sound, half laugh, half sob, and scrambled upright so fast she nearly knocked over one of the blinking metal toys.
“She said it,” Jinx said, voice cracking around the edges. “She said it.”
You were already crying.
Jinx crawled forward carefully now, like she was approaching something sacred. She reached out slowly, giving your daughter a second to pull away if she wanted.
She didn’t.
Tiny hands immediately grabbed fistfuls of Jinx’s shirt.
“Mama,” she repeated, proudly.
Jinx’s entire expression shifted. Softness filling her heart.
Completely undone.
“Yeah,” she whispered, pressing her forehead gently against the baby’s. “Yeah. That’s me.”
Her shoulders shook just slightly.
You could see it, the disbelief.
The weight of it. Like she couldn’t quite process that someone so small, so fragile, had looked at her and chosen that word. Chosen her.
“She chose me,” Jinx said quietly, almost to herself.
“She did,” you replied, stepping closer.
Your daughter turned her attention toward you now, eyes bouncing between both of you like she was checking something.
She reached for you with one chubby hand.
“…Ma.”
You felt your heart splinter in the best way possible.
Jinx gasped dramatically. “OH. Oh no. We’re both important.”
You laughed through tears, kneeling down and gathering them both into your arms. Your daughter squealed happily, clearly pleased with the emotional chaos she’d caused.
“Mama,” she said again, patting Jinx’s cheek.
“Ma,” she tried again, touching your collar.
Jinx pressed a messy kiss to her forehead.
“You’re real smug for someone who couldn’t sleep last week,” she muttered fondly.
The baby giggled.
And then, as if completely satisfied with herself, she collapsed against Jinx’s chest, tiny body suddenly heavy with exhaustion.
It happened so fast you barely had time to react.
Jinx froze again.
“She’s—”
“She’s just tired,” you whispered gently.
Jinx looked down at her like she was holding glass.
Your daughter’s breathing evened out almost immediately, tiny fingers still tangled in Jinx’s shirt.
“She said mama,” Jinx murmured again, softer this time.
You wrapped your arms around both of them from behind, resting your chin against Jinx’s shoulder.
“She did.”
Jinx swallowed hard.
There was something vulnerable in her expression now. Something raw and uncertain.
“I didn’t think I’d…” she trailed off.
You waited.
“I didn’t think I’d get to be that,” she admitted quietly. Your hand slid gently up her arm.
“You are,” you said softly.
She leaned back into you slightly, careful not to wake the baby. For once, there was no bravado. No jokes. Just warmth.
Later, when you laid your daughter in her crib and the apartment settled into a quiet hum, Jinx lingered by the doorway longer than usual.
“She said it so sure,” she whispered.
“She did.”
“What if I mess it up?”
You stepped closer, resting your hands on her waist.
“You already didn’t.”
Jinx looked at you like she wasn’t sure she believed that. But then she let out a slow breath.
“Okay,” she murmured.
When you both finally collapsed onto the couch, she pulled you into her side, tucking her face into your neck in a way she rarely allowed herself to.
“She said mama,” she said one last time, like she needed to feel the words in her mouth.
You smiled into her hair.
“Yeah.”
And in the quiet that followed, no crying, no pacing, no teething chaos, Jinx’s breathing softened.
For the first time since your daughter was born, she slept without tension in her shoulders.
Because someone small and perfect had looked at her and decided, that’s my mama.
Okay fluff prompt for the muscle mommies of arcane.
Post gym muscle soreness. I’m think baths with salts, I’m thinking massages, I’m thinking trying to get the more stubborn ones to take it easy, I’m talking vulnerability and naps and possibly some soft smutty implications
Hi! Thank you for your request! I’m sorry if this became to short😅 but I hope you will enjoy anyhow! 🫶
Arcane muscle mommies x reader!
Fluff
Vi
Vi insists she’s fine. She always insists she’s fine. Even when she drops onto the edge of the bed with a low grunt, rolling her shoulder carefully like she’s trying not to show how much it aches.
“I’ve had worse,” she mutters when you raise an eyebrow.
You don’t argue. You just disappear into the bathroom and start the water.
She hears the salts hit the tub. Hears the faucet run. Hears you moving with quiet purpose.
“You don’t gotta do all that,” she calls.
You peek your head out. “Get in.”
She groans dramatically but pushes herself up anyway, peeling off her shirt with a wince she tries to hide. The sight of her muscles, flushed from training, skin warm and slightly damp, makes your throat tighten just a little, and she notices.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, but there’s no bite in it.
“You’re sore,” you reply, stepping closer. “Let me help.”
It takes her a second to surrender. That’s the hardest part, the surrender.
But when she lowers herself into the bath and the hot water hits her back, she exhales in a way that’s almost shaky.
You kneel behind her, hands settling on her shoulders, thumbs pressing carefully into tight muscle. She tenses at first, instinct, then slowly melts beneath your touch.
“Damn,” she breathes.
Your fingers move slower, deeper, easing knots from her shoulders down to her arms. She tilts her head forward slightly, trusting you with the weight of it.
“Didn’t know I needed this,” she murmurs.
You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the back of her neck.
“Yeah. You did.”
Later, wrapped in towels, she pulls you down into bed with her, one heavy arm slung over your waist.
“You’re not allowed to leave,” she mumbles sleepily.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
She’s asleep within minutes, muscles finally relaxed, breathing steady against your chest.
Sevika
Sevika pretends soreness is a myth. She comes home late, jacket slung over one shoulder, rolling her neck like she’s working out a kink that’s definitely worse than she’ll admit.
You watch her carefully and she sees it.
“Don’t start,” she mutters.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
You step closer anyway, reaching for her hand. Her organic one is warm. Her metal one hums faintly from overuse.
“Sit,” you say gently.
She narrows her eyes. Then sits.
You kneel in front of her, hands moving to her thighs first, slow, firm pressure, working upward. She exhales through her nose, pretending she isn’t melting.
“You don’t have to prove anything right now,” you murmur.
“I’m not proving—”
You press deeper into a tight muscle and she cuts herself off with a low breath.
“…keep going.”
There’s something intimate about touching her like this. Not urgent. Not heated. Just deliberate care.
You move behind her eventually, working along her shoulders, careful around the line where metal meets skin.
She doesn’t talk much.
But at one point, her hand reaches back and grips your thigh, grounding herself.
“You’re good at this,” she mutters.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let it get to your head.”
Later, she pulls you down beside her on the couch, one arm heavy across your waist.
She won’t admit she’s exhausted.
But she falls asleep with her forehead pressed lightly against your shoulder
Ambessa
Ambessa does not complain.
She finishes training, dismisses her soldiers, and walks into her chambers as though her body is not carrying the weight of battle.
But when she removes her armor, you see it. The tightness in her shoulders. The careful way she rotates her wrist. The faint stiffness in her stride.
“You pushed too far,” you say softly.
“I pushed appropriately.”
You approach anyway.
“I drew you a bath.”
She studies you for a long moment.
“You assume I require it.”
“I know you do.”
A short pause form between you two. Then she nods once.
In the bath, she sits straight backed at first, even in vulnerability. It takes time for her posture to soften.
You sit behind her, hands moving slowly along her shoulders, down her arms, firm and respectful. There is reverence in the way you touch her, not because she is powerful, but because she is tired.
Her eyes close. Only for a moment. But you see it.
“You do not need to carry it alone,” you murmur.
“I do not carry it alone,” she replies quietly.
Her hand reaches back, fingers lacing with yours briefly. The gesture is small but still Intimate.
Later, in bed, she pulls you against her chest with deliberate strength. One arm wraps around you fully, protective even in rest.
“You will remain,” she says softly.
“Yes.”
She sleeps deeply, not as a general, not as a strategist. Just as a woman who allowed herself to rest.
Can you write for professor Grayson x fem reader secret relationship
Hi! Thank you for your request!! I hope you’ll like this!!!
After Office Hours
Professor! Grayson x Student! Reader
Grayson never loses control in a room.
Her lectures are precise, measured, delivered in that calm, even tone that demands attention without ever rising in volume. She does not rush. She does not stumble. She does not indulge unnecessary questions.
And she does not linger. Except when you do.
It begins innocently, at least that’s what you tell yourself.
You ask thoughtful questions. You stay after class. You sit near the front but never too near. You listen with the kind of focus that makes her gaze pause on you just a second longer than the others.
The first time it shifts, it’s almost imperceptible.
A late afternoon. The lecture hall nearly empty. You approach her desk with a paper clutched in your hand, asking about a comment she’d written in the margin.
She leans closer to explain. Too close. Her hand brushes yours. You don’t pull away. She does. But not quickly enough.
After that, Thursdays become dangerous. You don’t plan it. You just start noticing patterns. She assigns longer readings on Thursdays. Dismisses class a few minutes early. Leaves her notes spread out instead of neatly stacked.
You pretend to organize your things slowly, waiting for the last student to file out.
The door shuts. The room changes. The quiet becomes thicker. “Miss,” she says one afternoon without looking up. “Stay a moment.”
Your pulse jumps, but your face remains composed. You step forward.
The sound of your shoes against the floor echoes far louder than it should.
————
It had never been about recklessness. If anything, it was restraint that drew you in. Grayson is not impulsive. She does not flirt. She does not smirk or tease.
Her control is what makes it unbearable.
The way her eyes linger on your mouth when you’re speaking. The way her fingers tighten slightly around a pen when you lean too close over her desk. The way she corrects your work with care, not indulgent, not harsh, but attentive.
You start testing the boundaries carefully. A step closer than necessary. A longer look. A brush of your knee against hers beneath the desk. She never comments. But she notices.
———
Now, the door is closed.
She stands slowly, walking around the desk with deliberate steps. You can feel the space narrowing with every inch.
“You missed a citation here,” she says quietly, holding your paper out.
You take it, letting your fingers graze hers. This time she doesn’t pull away. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“You enjoy this,” she murmurs.
You tilt your head slightly. “Enjoy what, Professor?”
Her gaze sharpens at the title.
“Provoking me.”
Your breath catches, not from fear, but from the way her voice drops slightly when she says it.
“I would never,” you reply softly.
A lie. And she knows it.
“You understand the risk,” she says after a moment, stepping closer.
The nearness is different now. Not accidental. Intentional.
“Yes.”
“If this becomes known, it does not damage only me.”
You swallow.
“It won’t.”
Her eyes search yours, looking for immaturity, doubt, recklessness. She finds none. That’s what makes it worse. You are not naïve. You are choosing this.
—————
The first kiss happens in silence. No dramatic build. No grand declaration. Just tension stretched too thin to hold. You step into her space. She doesn’t move.
Her hand rises slowly, almost cautiously, fingers brushing along your jaw as though giving you one final chance to reconsider.
But you don’t.
When her lips meet yours, it is controlled. Firm. Measured. There is no desperation in it. Only restraint finally giving way.
She kisses like she speaks, steady, deliberate, certain. One hand settles at your waist, not pulling you flush against her, just enough to anchor.
When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.
“This cannot interfere with your education,” she says quietly.
“It won’t.”
“And it remains between us.”
“Yes.”
Her thumb brushes once along your cheek before she steps back, reassembling herself piece by piece, collar straightened, posture restored.
It’s almost unfair how easily she becomes Professor Grayson again.
———
The secrecy becomes part of the intimacy. The way she avoids looking at you for too long in class. The way her tone never changes when she calls on you.
The way you never linger too obviously when others are around.
But sometimes, when no one is watching, your fingers brush as she hands back papers. Sometimes your eyes meet across the lecture hall for a heartbeat too long.
Once, a colleague nearly walks in while you’re still inside after hours.
You both separate instantly, papers shuffled, distance restored. Your heart is racing. She is calm. After the door shuts again, she exhales slowly.
“That cannot happen again.”
You nod. But the danger only makes it burn brighter.
———-
One evening, you find her still at her desk long after the lamps have dimmed.
You hesitate at the doorway.
“You’re still here,” you say softly.
She doesn’t look up immediately.
“Marking.”
You step inside anyway.
“You’re allowed to rest.”
Her pen pauses mid motion. She looks up then, and for a moment, not Professor Grayson, not enforcer, not authority, just a woman who looks tired.
“You are a distraction,” she says quietly.
You step closer.
“And you let me stay.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
That confession feels heavier than any kiss.
You move to her side, resting your hand gently over hers. She studies the contact for a moment before turning her hand slightly to lace your fingers together. It’s subtle. But it feels monumental.
When you leave separately that night, ten minutes apart, careful, measured, the air between you lingers. In class the next morning, she is composed as ever. But when your eyes meet briefly across the room, something soft flickers there. Something real but hidden.
And that secrecy, that shared restrain, becomes its own kind of intimacy.
Hi! It's me again. I was wondering if you could do a Vampire Reader x Arcane Women. Ambessa included, with their first encounter with us being when they find us feasting on someone, when we notice them, the encounter ends with some flirty banter and possibly a date.
Hiiiii!! Thank you for your request!🫶 i love this idea!!!! I love vampire stuff🤭💕🧛♀️ I hope you’ll enjoy!
Not human
Arcane ladies x Vampire! Reader
Characters: Vi | Caitlyn | Jinx | Sevika | Ambessa
Vi
The alley is narrow and dim, lit only by a flickering lantern and the distant glow of Zaun’s lower streets. The air smells faintly of rust and rain, sharp against your senses.
You have the man pinned carefully against the brick wall, one hand braced at his shoulder, the other steady at his jaw. His heartbeat stutters beneath your mouth, fast at first, then slower as you take only what you need. You are not reckless. You never take enough to kill.
When you finally pull back, you do so with measured control, catching the last trace of red with your thumb before it can stain your chin. The man slumps gently to the ground, unconscious but alive.
You are about to disappear into the shadows when you feel it.
The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
You turn your head.
And there she is.
Vi stands at the mouth of the alley, leaning casually against the wall as though she’s stumbled onto a street performance instead of something that should terrify her. Her arms are crossed over her chest, boots planted solidly against the ground.
Her gaze moves from the body at your feet to the faint smear of blood at the corner of your mouth, and then back to your eyes.
“…Well,” she says after a beat, voice even. “That’s new.”
You straighten slowly, the movement deliberate rather than defensive. “You’re early,” you reply.
“For what?”
“For your mistake.”
Her lips twitch.
“And what mistake would that be?”
“Coming alone.”
She pushes off the wall at that, stepping fully into the alley. There is no hesitation in her movement, no tremor in her stance. If anything, she looks faintly amused.
“You think I’m scared?” she asks.
You tilt your head slightly, studying her. Her pulse is steady. Strong. Not the frantic rhythm of prey, the controlled beat of someone who’s chosen to stay.
“You should be,” you say softly.
Instead of retreating, she closes the distance further, stopping only a few feet away. “I’ve seen worse,” she replies. “And if you were planning to kill me, you wouldn’t be talking.”
Silence stretches between you.
She’s right.
If you’d wanted her dead, she would already be on the ground.
You glance down briefly at the man you’ve left behind. “I don’t kill indiscriminately,” you say, almost casually.
“Good,” she answers. “I’d hate to have to punch a vampire tonight.”
The word lingers between you.
You raise an eyebrow. “Vampire.”
She gestures vaguely at you. “Pointed teeth. Dramatic alley. Blood. I’m connecting dots.”
A faint smile curves at your mouth despite yourself. You take a slow step forward, testing her, watching for any sign of retreat.
There is none.
She stands her ground.
Now you’re close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Close enough to hear her heartbeat clearly without straining. It would be so easy to lean in, to let instinct take over.
Instead, you hover just inside her space.
“You’re remarkably calm,” you murmur.
She shrugs lightly. “If you wanted me dead, I already would be.”
There it is again , that steady certainty.
You search her expression for bravado and find only confidence. It is not ignorance that keeps her here. It is choice.
“You’re bold,” you say.
“You’re messy,” she counters, nodding toward the body behind you.
You glance back briefly, then meet her gaze again. “I was hungry.”
“And now?” she asks.
You hold her eyes a moment longer than necessary.
“Now,” you reply slowly, “I’m curious.”
The air shifts. Not violent, but charged.
Her smirk deepens slightly. “About what?”
“About why you’re still standing there.”
She steps closer again, not enough to touch, but enough to erase the last of the distance.
“Maybe I wanted to see what you’d do.”
Your lips curve faintly. “Disappointed?”
“Not yet.”
You exhale a quiet laugh. It has been a long time since someone reacted to you like this, without screaming, without running, without the sharp metallic scent of fear.
“You owe me an explanation,” she says after a moment, jerking her chin toward the street.
“And if I decline?”
She shrugs. “Then I’ll follow you until you don’t.”
The confidence in her tone makes something warm flicker beneath your ribs.
“Persistent,” you observe.
“Curious,” she corrects.
You study her one last time, the solid set of her shoulders, the way her stance never wavers, the faint challenge in her eyes.
“Fine,” you say at last. “One drink.”
Her gaze drops pointedly to your mouth.
“Not that kind.”
You grin, slower this time. “Relax. I don’t mix meals with dates.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Date?”
“You approached me,” you reply smoothly. “Seems intentional.”
She rolls her eyes, but she falls into step beside you as you leave the alley, the unconscious man already forgotten behind you.
The night air feels different now.
Less predatory.
More… promising.
And for the first time in a long while, you walk through the shadows with someone at your side who does not fear the dark.
caitlyn
You knew you were being followed long before she chambered the round.
Not because she was careless, she wasn’t. Her steps were disciplined, evenly spaced, boots landing with deliberate control. But human hearts are loud to you, and hers had been steady and focused for the last three streets.
Not fear. Purpose.
You could have disappeared at any point. A shift into shadow, a blur across rooftops, a moment too fast for mortal eyes to track.
Instead, you let her follow.
The warehouse you chose was quiet, hollowed out by years of neglect. Rusted beams stretched overhead, and the air tasted faintly of damp iron. The man who had run here moments before had not been quiet. He’d stumbled, pulse racing wildly, desperation thick in the air.
You caught him easily.
Pinned him with one hand against the wall, the other steady at his jaw. You took what you required, no more. You never took more.
When you pulled back, you let him slide carefully to the ground. His heartbeat remained. Weak, but present. He would wake.
Only then did you speak.
“You may lower the rifle.”
The silence that followed was controlled, not startled.
“I would prefer not to,” came the reply.
You turned slowly.
Caitlyn stood near the entrance, rifle leveled with immaculate precision. Her posture was flawless, shoulders squared, chin slightly lifted, finger resting close to the trigger but not yet committing.
She was not trembling.
You appreciated that.
“You’ve been investigating,” you observed.
“And you’ve been leaving a pattern,” she replied calmly.
Her eyes flicked once to the man at your feet, then back to you. There was no panic in her gaze, only assessment.
“You are not human,” she said, not as accusation but conclusion.
“No.”
“And yet you do not kill them.”
“Not unless necessary.”
Her jaw tightened faintly. “That is not your decision to make.”
“No,” you agreed evenly. “But it is mine.”
The space between you hummed with restrained tension. Not chaos. Not the frantic energy of prey and predator. Something quieter. Measured.
You stepped forward.
The rifle did not waver.
“You followed me alone,” you said softly. “That was deliberate.”
“I prefer to assess threats personally.”
“You consider me a threat.”
“I consider you unknown.”
You closed the distance by another step. Close enough now that you could see the controlled rhythm of her breathing. Close enough that the barrel of her rifle hovered just inches from your chest.
“If I intended to shoot,” she said evenly, “I would have done so already.”
“Correct.”
“You allowed me to track you.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
You held her gaze. “Because you were interesting.”
The faintest shift crossed her expression. Not flustered. Not embarrassed. Something sharper.
“You are aware,” she said carefully, “that I cannot condone what you are.”
“And yet you have not fired.”
Her silence was not indecision. It was calculation.
“You select your victims,” she said after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Criminals.”
“Yes.”
“That does not make you judge and executioner.”
“No,” you replied. “It makes me hungry.”
The words did not carry threat. Only fact.
Her grip on the rifle loosened slightly, not lowered, but adjusted. The weapon remained between you, but the space felt different now. Less defensive. More… conversational.
“You do not run,” she observed.
“From you?” A faint smile curved at your mouth. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are not afraid.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You mistake composure for a lack of fear.”
“Perhaps,” you murmured. “But fear does not smell like this.”
A beat of silence followed.
Then, deliberately, she lowered the rifle.
Not out of trust.
Out of choice.
“If I determine that you pose a danger to innocents,” she said, voice steady as ever, “I will not hesitate.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
She stepped closer now that the weapon no longer divided the space. Not recklessly. Measured. Her gaze searched your face as though she were examining evidence for cracks.
“You could have vanished,” she said.
“Yes.”
“But you stayed.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You allowed yourself a small pause before answering.
“Because you intrigue me.”
The honesty settled between you, unadorned.
“You are remarkably forward,” she said.
“You tracked a vampire alone into a warehouse,” you replied. “So are you.”
That almost drew a smile from her, almost.
“What precisely are you proposing?” she asked.
“Dinner,” you said lightly.
Her eyes flicked once to the man on the ground. “You have already eaten.”
You inclined your head. “I was referring to something warmer.”
The corner of her mouth twitched, though she quickly suppressed it.
“One hour,” she said after a moment. “Public location.”
“Of course.”
“And if I find your answers unsatisfactory—”
“You will reconsider your assessment.”
Her gaze locked onto yours again, steady and unyielding.
“Yes,” she said. “I will.”
You stepped past her toward the warehouse exit. She hesitated only briefly before falling into step beside you, rifle now resting against her shoulder instead of aimed at your heart.
The night air outside felt sharp and clean.
For the first time in a long while, you were not walking alone through it.
And as Caitlyn adjusted her gloves and glanced at you from the corner of her eye, you realized something quietly amusing.
You may have allowed yourself to be tracked.
But she had chosen to follow.
Jinx
You smell the smoke before you hear her.
Gunpowder. Oil. A faint sweetness beneath it, something electric and unstable. But you’re busy.
The man beneath your grip is shaking violently, pulse hammering so loud it nearly drowns out the rest of the world. You have him pinned gently against a wall on the rooftop, one hand at his throat, not crushing, simply steady. Your teeth press against skin just long enough to break it.
Warmth floods your mouth.
You close your eyes for a moment, controlled, measured. You never take too much. Never let instinct override discipline.
That’s when the giggling starts.
Not panicked.
Delighted.
Your eyes open slowly.
“Well,” a voice sings from somewhere behind you, “that’s new.”
You don’t turn immediately. You finish, carefully, pulling back just as the man’s knees give out. He collapses in a heap, alive but deeply unconscious.
Only then do you glance over your shoulder.
Jinx is perched on a metal beam above you, legs swinging lazily, bright blue braids catching the neon glow of Zaun’s lights. She’s watching you like someone watching fireworks.
“You’re messy,” she comments cheerfully, tilting her head.
You wipe the faint line of red from your mouth with your thumb.
“You’re loud.”
She gasps dramatically. “Rude.”
You turn fully now, studying her. No fear. No trembling. Just wide-eyed interest and something dangerously close to excitement.
“You were watching,” you say.
“Uh huh.”
“And you didn’t run.”
She kicks her heels lightly against the beam. “Why would I?”
You take a slow step forward, testing her reaction.
She leans forward instead.
“Ooo,” she hums. “Are you gonna do the creepy eye thing?”
You blink once.
“My eyes do not—”
“They totally did,” she interrupts. “Very glowy. Very dramatic. Ten outta ten.”
A faint smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself.
“You should be afraid.”
She drops from the beam without warning, landing lightly in front of you. Too close. Far too close for someone who just witnessed you feed.
Her head tilts, studying your face like you’re an interesting gadget.
“You’re not foaming at the mouth,” she notes. “And you didn’t kill him.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t need to.”
Her grin widens.
“So you just… snack?”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Essentially.”
She circles you slowly, boots scraping against rooftop gravel. You can feel her heartbeat, fast, but not from fear. It’s exhilaration.
“You’re like a walking urban legend,” she muses. “People have been talking about the drained guys for weeks. I thought it was boring.”
Her eyes flick to the unconscious man.
“This is way better.”
You step into her path, stopping her circle.
“And you followed me.”
She shrugs.
“I follow interesting things.”
Her gaze drifts briefly to your mouth again, then back to your eyes.
“Do the teeth again.”
You stare at her.
“…Excuse me?”
“The fangs!” she insists. “I barely saw them. You gotta commit to the aesthetic.”
Despite yourself, you let them show, just slightly.
Her eyes light up like you’ve handed her a new weapon prototype.
“Oh that is so cool.”
“You are remarkably calm,” you murmur.
“You’re remarkably hot for someone covered in blood.”
Silence.
You did not expect that.
She leans in closer, invading your space without hesitation.
“You gonna bite me?” she asks brightly.
You hold her gaze.
“If I wanted to, you wouldn’t have time to ask.”
She grins wider.
“That wasn’t a no.”
You exhale slowly. You’ve encountered fear, hysteria, righteous anger. You’ve never encountered this.
“I do not feed indiscriminately,” you say evenly.
“Good,” she replies immediately. “I taste like explosives anyway.”
That almost makes you laugh.
“You are not disturbed by what you saw?”
She gestures vaguely toward the unconscious man. “He’s breathing. You didn’t drain him like a juice box. I’ve done worse.”
There’s no flinch in her voice.
Just truth.
“You intrigue me,” you admit quietly.
She beams.
“I know.”
“You assume much.”
“You didn’t run when you smelled me either,” she counters.
That’s when you realize she’s right.
You sensed her long before she spoke.
And you stayed.
She steps back suddenly, spinning once on her heel.
“Okay! Field trip.”
“To where?”
“You said you snack. So that means you’ve got rules. I wanna see the rules.”
“That is not—”
“Relax,” she cuts in, pointing at you. “Not like right now. But maybe later. You can show me your spooky vampire routine.”
Her grin turns sharp.
“And then we get drinks.”
“You cannot be serious.”
She leans in one last time, close enough that her voice drops slightly.
“Oh, I’m very serious.”
A pause.
“You buy.”
You look at her for a long moment.
Chaotic. Bright. Fearless.
Dangerous in an entirely different way.
“Fine,” you say at last. “One drink.”
She claps her hands together excitedly.
“And if you try to eat me—”
“I won’t.”
“—at least make it dramatic,” she finishes anyway.
You shake your head faintly as she skips ahead toward the edge of the rooftop.
“For the record,” she calls over her shoulder, “this is the coolest thing that’s happened all week.”
You glance once more at the man on the ground, ensuring his pulse is steady.
Then you follow her into the neon lit night.
And for the first time in a long while, you’re not the most dangerous thing on the rooftop.
Sevika
The alley behind the Last Drop smells like cheap liquor, rusted metal, and something sour that never quite leaves the stone.
Tonight, it smells like blood.
You have the man pressed against the wall, one hand braced at his collar, the other steady at his jaw. His pulse is erratic beneath your mouth, not innocent, not clean. You chose him carefully. You always do.
You take only what you need.
Warmth spreads through you, slow and controlled, and when you pull back, you make sure his heartbeat is still there. Weak. But steady enough to survive the night.
A match strikes in the darkness.
You don’t startle.
Smoke curls through the air before you turn your head.
Sevika stands a few paces away, leaning against the brick wall like she’s been there the entire time. One arm crossed over her chest, the other lifting a cigarette to her lips. The glow at its tip flares briefly, illuminating sharp features and unreadable eyes.
She takes a slow drag.
Then exhales.
“You’re wasting it,” she says.
You straighten, letting the man slump carefully to the ground.
“I beg your pardon?”
She nods toward the thin line of blood trailing down his neck. “Could’ve taken more.”
“I don’t need more.”
Her gaze drifts over you, slow and deliberate. Not fearful. Not even surprised.
Assessing.
“You’re new,” she says.
“I’ve been here longer than you think.”
She hums faintly at that, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. Boots scrape lightly against gravel, unhurried. The air between you shifts, not frantic like prey and predator.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
“You’re not concerned,” you observe.
She shrugs. “You didn’t kill him.”
“No.”
“If you were going to kill me, you wouldn’t be standing there talking.”
A faint smile curves at your mouth.
“You assume confidence.”
“I assume pattern.”
She stops only a few feet away now. Close enough that you can see the faint scar cutting across her brow, the quiet tension coiled in her stance. Her organic hand rests casually near her hip. Her metal one hangs heavy and ready.
“You feed on the ones who won’t be missed,” she says, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
“And you think that makes you different from the rest of us?”
There’s no judgment in her tone.
Just curiosity.
“I think it makes me selective.”
She studies you for a long moment, cigarette smoke drifting between you like a thin veil.
“You’re not shaking,” you murmur.
“Why would I be?”
“Most people run.”
“I’m not most people.”
That much is obvious.
You take a slow step forward.
She doesn’t retreat.
You’re close enough now to hear the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Slower than most. Controlled. Strong.
“You smell like blood,” she says quietly.
“You smell like smoke.”
Her lips twitch faintly.
“Fair.”
Silence lingers, thick and deliberate.
“You don’t belong to anyone,” she says after a moment.
It’s not a question.
“No.”
“And you’re not looking to.”
“No.”
Another slow drag from her cigarette. She drops it, crushes it beneath her boot without breaking eye contact.
“You’re bold,” she says.
“You watched.”
“You were interesting.”
The corner of her mouth lifts just slightly.
“That so?”
You step closer, close enough now that if she wanted, she could grab you.
“If I intended to harm you,” you murmur, “you would not have had time to light that cigarette.”
Her metal hand flexes faintly.
“If I intended to stop you,” she replies evenly, “you wouldn’t have finished your meal.”
You tilt your head slightly. “You’re not disturbed.”
“I’ve done worse,” she says simply.
You believe her.
The man at your feet groans faintly, still breathing. Sevika glances down at him, unimpressed.
“You’re careful,” she observes.
“I don’t waste resources.”
Her gaze returns to you.
“And what am I?”
The question hangs there, sharp and deliberate.
You hold her eyes.
“Not prey.”
That earns you the faintest smirk.
“Good answer.”
A beat of silence.
Then she jerks her chin toward the street.
“Walk.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“You said you’re selective,” she replies. “So explain the criteria.”
You consider her for a long moment.
“You’re inviting me to justify myself.”
“I’m inviting you for a drink.”
There’s no softness in it. No flirtatious tone.
Just a challenge.
“And if I decline?”
She shrugs, turning toward the mouth of the alley. “Then you walk away.”
You glance once more at the man on the ground, ensuring his pulse is steady.
Then you follow her.
“You’re remarkably calm for someone who just watched me feed,” you say.
She doesn’t look at you as she answers.
“You’re remarkably calm for someone who just got invited out by a woman who could crush your throat.”
A faint smile pulls at your mouth.
“Is that a threat?”
“Depends how the night goes.”
The neon lights of the Last Drop spill across the pavement as you step into the street beside her.
You are both predators in different ways.
Neither of you flinches.
And as Sevika pushes open the bar door and glances back at you briefly, you realize, this is not a hunt. It’s a negotiation.
Ambessa
The courtyard is quiet at this hour.
Noxian stone still holds the warmth of the day, and the torches along the walls burn low, casting long, deliberate shadows across marble and iron. The man you have pressed against the column smells of fear and old corruption. You did not choose him at random. You never do.
His pulse races wildly beneath your fingers as you steady him in place, one hand braced at his collar, the other firm at his jaw. When your teeth break skin, it is not frantic. It is precise. Measured. You take only what you require, feeling the slow transfer of warmth, the steady fading of strength.
You stop before it turns fatal.
You always stop.
When you pull back, you make certain his heartbeat remains, weak but present, before allowing him to slide to the ground. He will wake with a headache and little else.
It is then that you feel it.
Not footsteps. Not the scrape of armor.
Presence.
You turn.
Ambessa Medarda stands beneath the torchlight as though she has always belonged there. Hands clasped loosely behind her back. Posture unyielding. Her armor gleams softly in the firelight, and her gaze is steady, unhurried, entirely unimpressed.
She has been watching.
She does not call for guards.
She does not reach for a blade.
Her eyes move from the man at your feet to the faint smear of red at the corner of your mouth.
“…Efficient,” she says at last.
You wipe the blood away with calm deliberation. “You are not disturbed.”
“I have seen worse,” she replies evenly.
There is no bravado in it. No attempt at intimidation. Simply fact.
She steps forward, boots echoing lightly against stone. The distance between you closes gradually, not rushed, not tentative. Her gaze drops briefly to the unconscious man, studying the rise and fall of his chest.
“You chose him,” she observes.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He will not be missed.”
Her eyes sharpen slightly at that.
“You presume to judge.”
“I select carefully,” you answer. “Indiscretion invites chaos.”
A quiet stillness settles between you, not tension in the frantic sense, but the slow hum of two beings assessing one another without flinching.
“You could have killed him,” she says.
“Yes.”
“But you did not.”
“No.”
She takes another step forward, close enough now that the heat from the torches catches along the edges of her armor and reflects faintly in her eyes.
“You are not human,” she states.
“No.”
“And yet you exercise restraint.”
“I do not waste what I do not require.”
A faint shift touches her expression, not quite approval, not quite amusement.
“Discipline,” she murmurs. “Rare.”
You meet her gaze without lowering yours.
“You approached alone.”
“I do not delegate what I wish to see for myself.”
“You are aware I could have vanished.”
“I am aware,” she says calmly. “You did not.”
The words are not accusatory. They are analytical.
“You remained,” she continues. “That was deliberate.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
You consider her for a moment, the steadiness of her stance, the absence of fear in her scent, the deliberate patience in her posture.
“Because you were not afraid,” you say.
A faint pause follows.
“I do not fear what I can understand,” she replies.
“And do you understand me?”
Her gaze travels over you once, not with desire, not with revulsion, but calculation. Your stillness. Your control. The fact that you did not attempt escape.
“You are selective,” she says slowly. “Capable. Controlled. You eliminate problems quietly.”
Her eyes return to yours.
“You are useful.”
The word lands without ornament.
Not flirtation.
Appraisal.
“And if I refuse to be used?” you ask.
“Then you walk away,” she says.
There is no threat in her voice. No command.
Only choice.
You take a slow step forward, narrowing the remaining space between you until only inches remain. You can feel the warmth of her presence now, solid and unyielding.
“If I had intended harm,” you murmur, “you would not be standing here.”
Her chin lifts slightly.
“If I had intended to stop you, you would not have finished.”
There is no hostility in it. Only acknowledgment.
Power recognizes power.
“You watched,” you say quietly.
“You were worth watching.”
The faintest curve touches your mouth.
“And now?”
She turns slightly, gesturing toward the archway that leads deeper into the courtyard.
“Now we speak.”
“Of what?”
“Terms.”
The word is deliberate.
“You assume I am interested in alliance.”
“I assume you are intelligent,” she replies. “And intelligent beings prefer arrangement over unnecessary conflict.”
Your gaze flicks once more to the man at your feet, still breathing, still alive.
“And what arrangement do you propose?”
She steps closer, not enough to invade, but enough to signal intent.
“Dinner.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“You disapprove of my methods.”
“I disapprove of unpredictability,” she corrects. “If I understand you, you cease to be a variable.”
“And if I decline?”
Her voice lowers slightly, not threatening, simply certain.
“Then you remain unknown.”
A pause.
“I prefer clarity.”
You study her for a long moment. She does not flinch beneath your scrutiny. She does not reach for a weapon. She does not retreat.
She stands as though she has already calculated every possible outcome.
“Very well,” you say at last. “One dinner.”
A subtle satisfaction settles into her expression, restrained but unmistakable.
“Good.”
She turns without checking whether you follow.
You do.
Not because you are commanded.
Because you are curious.
And as the courtyard falls quiet behind you, torches flickering against stone, you realize something quietly dangerous, this was never prey meeting predator.
It was power, recognizing power, and choosing to sit at the same table.
