I Loveeeee The Teacher Stuff So Much 💗 Can I Get W/ Karlach, Minthy, And The Boys Something With Them

I loveeeee the teacher stuff so much 💗 can i get w/ karlach, minthy, and the boys something with them being university professors and theres a bit of tension between you and them. perhaps you guys accidentally hooked up outside of class and now you want more but they are trying to stay professional??? love you miss seluney and thanks 🙏

thank you so much for blessing my inbox with this ask, love you too nonnie x the amount of research I had to do though for Astarion's was actually so funny

Karlach:

Karlach, or rather Dr Cliffgate, was avoiding you.

Not in the obvious, skittish way that most people avoided their problems, but in the way that made you aware of it. A way that made it obvious that she was trying not to avoid you, but also definitely was. Like how she never met your eye for longer than two seconds, or how she’d always position herself on the opposite end of the class, barking instructions from a distance.

And, of course, there was the rule.

"Five feet. I want five goddamn feet between us at all times."

It was the first thing she had said to you on your first day back after that night. The night you still dreamed about, the one that made you burn with want every time you looked at her. She had been so soft with you, all muscle and warmth, guiding you through it like she was made for it. She had held you so tight, pressed kisses to every inch of your skin—how could she expect you to forget?

And she wanted to pretend it never happened?

Bullshit.

So, naturally, you decided to push.

You weren’t bad at Sports Science. In fact, you were quite decent at it—when you wanted to be. But today? Today, your squats were terrible, your push-ups were abysmal, and don’t even talk about your deadlifts. Karlach was forced to correct you, calling out every mistake in that deep, commanding voice of hers.

It was fun, watching her squirm. But Karlach, to her credit, lasted the entire class without snapping. She was firm, professional, perfectly composed. Right up until the moment she ordered you to stay behind after class.

And now, you were alone.

Karlach stood at the front of the gym, arms crossed, expression taut with frustration.

"Alright," she said, tone clipped. "What the hell was that?"

You blinked innocently. "What was what?"

Karlach groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. "You know what." She fixed you with a hard stare. "You don’t need help with your form, and I know it. So tell me—why are you acting like a dumbass all of a sudden?"

You tilted your head, stepping forward just a fraction. "Maybe I just wanted some one-on-one time with my favorite teacher."

Karlach’s jaw clenched, and she immediately stepped back, holding up a warning finger. "No. No. Stay back—five feet."

You pouted. "What if I need help with my form?"

Karlach’s eye twitched.

You took another step forward.

She took one back.

"Bad student," she warned, pointing at you like you were a misbehaving pup.

You smirked, tilting your head coyly. "You weren’t saying that last time."

Karlach froze.

Her fists clenched at her sides, a storm brewing behind her eyes as she squeezed them shut and muttered something under her breath. Probably some kind of mantra to keep her from breaking, from doing what she wanted to do. Professional. She had to be professional.

But you could see it—the way her breathing had quickened, the slight twitch of her fingers, like she was fighting every urge to grab you and push you against the nearest wall. And you were more than willing to give her that push. You took another step forward, closing the distance entirely.

"Karlach," you murmured, voice soft.

Her eyes fluttered open—just as your lips pressed against hers. The groan she let out was guttural, half frustration, half relief. She grabbed you by the waist, yanking you flush against her as her mouth crashed against yours. The heat of her burned through your clothes, her grip iron-strong as if she was afraid to let go.

"Gods, you’re a menace," she growled against your lips.

You grinned, threading your fingers through her , dark hair. "I thought I was a bad student?"

Karlach huffed a laugh before lifting you onto the gym's padded table with ease, slotting herself between your legs.

"The worst," she muttered, before kissing you again.

Minthara:

Minthara was a strict professor.

She ran her Toxicology lectures with the precision of a battlefield commander, brooking no nonsense, no laziness, and certainly no stupidity. And normally, you were an exceptional student. One of her best, even.

Which is exactly why, when you deliberately screwed up your latest lab analysis, she had wasted no time in ordering you to stay behind after class. Now, you were seated in her office, watching as she paced behind her desk, ruby eyes blazing with frustration.

"Tell me," she said, voice sharp as a dagger's edge, "are you trying to be a disappointment? Or has your intelligence simply abandoned you?"

You bit back a smirk, watching the way her lips curled in distaste, the way her fingers flexed in restrained irritation. Gods, she was beautiful when she was mad.

"And look at you," she continued, exasperated. "Not even paying attention. Are you listening to me, or am I wasting my breath?"

You tilted your head, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip. "Oh, no, I'm listening, professor. Please—keep going."

Minthara paused. Her sharp mind caught on instantly, her ruby eyes narrowing as she studied your expression. The slight flush on your cheeks, the way you were watching her—intently, hungry. And suddenly, she understood.

"You like it," she murmured, more to herself than to you. "You like being scolded."

You grinned. "What can I say? You do it so well."

Minthara let out a slow, measured exhale, her nails tapping against the desk. "And what exactly am I meant to do with this information?"

You hummed, standing to your feet and sauntering forward until you were pressed against her desk. You leaned over it, propping yourself up on your elbows, your face mere inches from hers.

"Well," you mused, eyes alight with mischief. "You could always bring back some corporal punishment."

Minthara arched a brow. You smirked, tilting your head.

"Bring out the wooden ruler for a spanking." And then, to drive the point home, you slowly bent over the desk, resting your forearms against the polished wood. "What do you think, professor? Will that finally get through to me?"

Silence. Then—Minthara let out a deep, shuddering sigh, as if she were trying to summon every ounce of restraint she had left. And then, in a blur of movement, her hands were on you.

One gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as she dragged you up and crushed her lips against yours. The kiss was fierce, searing, a collision of teeth and tongue as she stole the very breath from your lungs.

"You," she growled between kisses, her grip tightening. "Are insufferable."

You grinned. "You weren’t saying that last time."

"Oh I think I was," Minthara’s grip tightened, eyes darkening as she pushed you back against the desk.

That one night. That reckless night. When you had been nothing more than strangers who had both, separately, decided to drink too much at a bar on the outskirts of town. She had been furious then, too—drunk, loose-lipped, and entirely unbothered by her usual air of control. You remembered the way she had pinned you against the wall of her rented room, how she had devoured you like a woman starved. And now, here, in the dimly lit confines of her office, she looked exactly as she had that night—eyes dark with want, expression hard with something that neither of you had dared to put words to.

Minthara muttered something in her native tongue—something that sounded distinctly like a curse—before pulling back just enough to reach for the wooden ruler on her desk.

"Perhaps it’s time," she murmured, voice like velvet and steel, "that I put you back in line."

And gods, you had never been more willing.

Gale:

Gale Dekarios was desperately trying to pretend that he hadn’t spent a night tangled in your sheets, gasping your name like a prayer, and utterly forgetting that he was supposed to be a responsible, professional figure in your academic life.

It was almost admirable, how steadfastly he kept his focus on the pitiful essay you had placed before him. His brow furrowed in exaggerated concern, fingers tapping against the edges of the paper as he sighed, long and heavy, like he was genuinely distressed by how abysmally incorrect your star charts were.

He was not fooling anyone.

“This is…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “This is not your best work.”

You hummed, leaning forward in your seat, chin propped up in your palm as you watched him intently.

“I think you are right, and I think I know why,” you mused. “I have been feeling rather… unsatisfied lately.”

Gale’s shoulders visibly tensed. He cleared his throat, choosing—rather wisely—not to acknowledge the deliberate edge to your voice. “Is there a reason you’ve been so distracted? It’s not like you to be so careless in your calculations.”

You sighed, stretching languidly in your seat. “I suppose I’ve just been in real need of some stress relief.”

Gale’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the page.

You watched him carefully, admiring the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—to where you sat before quickly snapping back to your disastrous work. It was clear that he was actively wrestling with himself, forcing his mind to stay on track, but oh, he was doing such a poor job of it.

“I—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to clear it again before speaking. “I can refer you to student services for well-being if you’re struggling with academic pressure.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, rising from your chair.

“Is that all you can do for me, professor?” The way his breath hitched did delightful things to your ego.

He held his ground as you circled his desk, though you could see his fingers twitch against the paper, as if debating whether he should shove it into your hands and send you on your way. Instead, he straightened, schooling his features into something carefully neutral as you came to stand before him.

“I would strongly advise you to remain professional,” he said, voice measured, though you could hear the strain beneath it. You ignored him.

"Your tie’s looking a little loose, professor," you noted, gaze flickering down to where it hung slightly askew. "Let me fix it for you."

Gale opened his mouth, possibly to protest, possibly to attempt another weak defense, but he never got the chance. Because the moment your fingers brushed against his tie, he snapped.

One second, you were teasing him; the next, you were being yanked down into his lap, your breath stolen as his lips crashed against yours. His hands were firm on your waist, gripping like he was starved for the feeling of you, like he had spent every waking moment since that night thinking about how you had felt beneath him—how you had moaned for him.

He kissed you fiercely, hungrily, all pretenses of professionalism abandoned as he angled his head, deepening it with a groan that rumbled in his chest. One of his hands moved up, threading into your hair, tilting your head to his liking as he took control of the kiss.

And gods, you let him.

Because for all his self-restraint, all his desperate attempts to ignore what had happened between you, Gale Dekarios was a weak, weak man.

And you were more than happy to remind him of it.

Astarion:

Astarion’s lip curled as he held your latest project between his fingers, tilting his head as if it might suddenly reveal some hidden brilliance from a different angle. It did not. With a dramatic sigh, he let it drop onto his desk like it offended him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, tapping his manicured fingers against the wood. “Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time gallivanting, you could produce something half-decent. But alas, it seems someone has their priorities hopelessly skewed.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you leaned against the desk. “Oh please. The same could be said for you, professor. That is, after all, how we both ended up in that passionate predicament—”

Astarion immediately cut you off, talking over you with ease. “Yes, yes, I vaguely recall that debacle. But do you know what I’d much rather discuss?” He gave you a pointed look, lifting a perfectly arched brow. “Your abysmal stitch work. Truly, I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a seam ripper than endure looking at this for another second.”

You grinned, unfazed. His gaze flickered over you, from the crisp lines of your shirt to the neatly finished seams. Then, to your surprise, he huffed an amused laugh.

“The top you’re wearing now is an example of perfect tailoring,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely. “Proper dart placement, clean finishing—though the sleeve cap could use some refinement.”

You smiled at him, slow and knowing.

“Good to know,” you mused. “I made it myself.”

Astarion blinked.

You stepped closer, holding out your arm and tugging at the sleeve slightly, showing off the intricate seams. His sharp eyes honed in immediately, his fingers instinctively twitching, unable to resist assessing it more closely.

“Hm,” he hummed, inspecting. “Not terrible.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, undoing the first button of your shirt. “What would you have done differently?”

Astarion barely reacted, too focused on the fabric itself. “I would have—wait, what are you doing?” His gaze flicked up as you popped open another button, then another, exposing the curves of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders.

“Just giving you a better look,” you teased.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, his voice clipped. “Don’t you dare—”

You pulled the shirt off entirely. Astarion scrambled, eyes widening as he lunged forward, grabbing the discarded fabric and shoving it against your bare chest with an indignant noise.

“Are you insane?!” He hissed, pressing you flush against the desk in an attempt to shield your exposed skin. “This is not how a critique session works, darling—!”

You ignored him, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt and yanking him down, capturing his lips with yours. Astarion made a noise of protest—one that quickly turned into a needy sound as he melted into you.

The moment you pulled away, breathless and grinning, you traced a finger down the front of his neatly tailored shirt.

“Excellent inseaming,” you murmured appreciatively. Astarion let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, shaking his head.

“Gods, shut up,” he muttered before pulling you in and kissing you again, fiercer this time, like he was trying to sew himself into you.

Wyll:

Wyll sat behind his desk, your latest essay held between his fingers like it was something fragile, something unfamiliar. His brows were furrowed in a way that made his usual calm, disciplined demeanor seem almost troubled.

"I had some concerns about this," he said, tapping the parchment lightly. "Your writing is usually concise, structured, and critical. And yet this—" He lifted it slightly before setting it down again. "This is filled with… whimsy."

You tilted your head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"What's wrong with whimsy?" you asked, batting your eyelashes.

Wyll exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to keep himself composed. He had been doing that a lot since that night. The night where he had held your hips so tightly, pulled your body against his like a man starved, whispered things that should never leave a professor’s lips. The night that haunted his thoughts ever since.

But he was professional. Ethical. Disciplined. Or at least, he was trying to be.

He cleared his throat. "Whimsy, in itself, is not inherently wrong," he said carefully, sitting up straighter. "But philosophy demands clarity, structure, a foundation—"

You stepped forward. Just a little.

Wyll noticed immediately. His jaw tensed, but he carried on, unwavering. "—and while creative exploration is welcome, this lacks the critical analysis that I know you are more than capable of—"

Another step.

Wyll paused mid-sentence as you leaned in over his desk, as if to examine your paper more closely. It was a weak excuse—you knew what was in that essay, but the proximity gave you reason enough to invade his personal space.

Wyll sighed through his nose, jaw tightening further. "I know what you're doing."

You blinked at him innocently. "What ever do you mean?"

His fingers curled into his palm. He had already given you multiple warnings since that fateful one-night stand. Told you this was improper, inappropriate. Told himself that it couldn’t happen again. And yet, here you were. Again. Testing him. Pushing him.

It was wrong. He taught ethics, for gods' sake.

But all he wanted—all he wanted—was for you to straddle him in this office chair and ride him until the wheels broke.

Wyll forced himself back into reality, blinking rapidly. That was when he realized—

Your hand was on his thigh.

His body reacted before his mind could, heat rushing to his face. You gasped as if you were scandalized by his sudden flush.

"Professor Ravengard," you murmured, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. "You're burning up."

His lips parted slightly, a weak protest forming—but then you dragged your hand down, tracing his cheek, cradling it gently.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly.

Wyll closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if that would dispel the tension that had thickened the air between you. Then, he shook his head.

You smiled, your thumb brushing over his jaw. "I didn't think so."

You leaned in. Just close enough that he could feel your breath against his lips.

You could have kissed him. You wanted to kiss him. But you waited. You wanted him to come to you.

And oh, he did.

Wyll surged forward, his lips crashing into yours, his hands gripping your waist as if he had finally let go of every restraint that had been holding him back. The kiss was rough, needy, filled with every ounce of frustration and desire he had bottled up since that night.

They could debate the ethics of this later.

Halsin:

Halsin sat behind his desk, broad arms folded across his chest, his usual calm expression schooled into something unreadable. He had known this was coming. He had felt your eyes on him in class, the way you tilted your head when he spoke, the way your lips had quirked up into something just shy of teasing. He had ignored it. He had forced himself to pretend that nothing had happened between you that night—the one that still haunted his thoughts no matter how much he tried to suppress it.

But now, here you were, standing in the doorway of his office, as if fate itself was determined to test his restraint.

"Professor," you said sweetly, stepping inside. "I had some questions about today’s lecture."

Halsin arched a brow. "Did you, now?"

You nodded, stepping closer, taking the chair opposite his desk. "Yes, I found the discussion on mating seasons quite fascinating."

Halsin exhaled slowly. He knew where this was going. He had seen the glint in your eye, the way you played innocent far too well. But he was a professional. He was your professor.

So he sighed and leaned back, arms still crossed. "Ask away."

You smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words. "I was just wondering… how does an animal know when they've found the right mate? Is it purely instinct, or is there more to it?"

Halsin clenched his jaw.

"That depends on the species," he said carefully, his voice even. "Some rely on visual cues, others on scent—pheromones play a strong role in attraction, signaling compatibility and readiness to breed."

You hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against your chin. "So… they don't really have control over it? It's just primal instinct?"

Halsin took a deep breath, his large hands flexing against the arms of his chair. He had dealt with plenty of difficult situations in his life. He had faced wild beasts, braved the deepest parts of nature. But this? This was an entirely different kind of challenge.

"Instinct is powerful," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But control is what separates us from the animals."

Your lips curved into something wicked. "Is that so?"

He should have ended it there. Should have told you to leave, should have maintained the boundaries that were already far too blurred. But instead, he sat there, watching the way you looked at him with those knowing, hungry eyes—eyes that had once looked up at him from beneath tangled sheets, from between parted lips whispering his name.

You pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching ever so slightly before turning towards the door.

"Well, thank you for the lesson, professor," you said lightly, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the exit.

And then—

The last thread of his restraint snapped.

One second, you were reaching for the doorknob, and the next, you were yanked back, lifted effortlessly off your feet as Halsin turned you and pressed you against the wall, his large hands gripping your thighs, caging you in.

"Halsin—"

His mouth was on yours before you could finish, hot and demanding, all of his carefully controlled patience finally, finally breaking into something raw and consuming. You gasped against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed you with the kind of intensity that made your head spin.

"What kind of professor would I be," he murmured against your mouth, voice rough, "if I didn't give you a live demonstration?"

Your breath hitched, and then you were kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands roaming over broad shoulders, feeling the raw strength beneath his clothes.

Maybe you had been the one to set the trap.

But Halsin had always been a creature of instinct.

Was I just listening to reproduction from Grease 2 and when I kissed the teacher on repeat when I was writing this? Yes, yes I was. I'm putting Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Rolan, Raphael and Mizora on a list of things I want to write when requests are done with this prompt. I just cannot get enough of it. Hope you guys enjoyed it and if anything was inaccurate subject wise... shhhhhh-Seluney xox

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Dark!Karlach x reader | Blood-drenched Sunset

Hi!!!! I Was Wondering If We Can Have Some Dark BG3 But With Karlach.. If You Can Because Ohhhhh I Love

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The infernal glow of Avernus spread before you like a sick parody of a sunset, blood-red skies choked with smoke and ash. The smell of brimstone clung to everything, a constant reminder of where you were and what you had become a part of. Karlach stood at the edge of a jagged cliff overlooking the battlefield below, her fiery mane whipping in the hot wind. Imps and cambions swarmed around her like moths drawn to a flame, eager to do her bidding.

You watched her, your heart aching. This wasn’t the Karlach you had fallen in love with—the one who had fought so fiercely for others, who had carried a blazing heart of courage and compassion. But you understood how she had come to this. Her pain, her rage, her betrayal by the people of Baldur’s Gate—it all made sense. And that was what hurt the most. You understood her too well.

When she turned to you, her eyes were wild with fury and determination, but there was something else buried deep within them. Something you could barely see but refused to give up on.

“They’ll all pay,” she growled, her voice like a low rumble of thunder. “Every last one of Zariel’s lapdogs. Just like those cowards in Baldur’s Gate who let Gortash rise to power. They’ll all burn.”

You stepped forward, hands trembling but held open in a gesture of peace. You were covered in ash, grime and splatters of blood that belonged to those you called friend.

“Karlach,” you began softly, but your voice broke under the weight of what you were about to say. “You were one of Zariel’s servants once. Remember? There are people down there—innocents, just like you were.”

Her expression twisted, her lips curling into a bitter smile.

“Don’t,” she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut as she pointed her index finger at you. “Don’t you dare compare me to them. I escaped. I broke free. They don’t deserve your pity, and they sure as hell don’t deserve mine.”

You reached out a trembling hand toward her, desperation thick in your voice. “Please, Karlach. This isn’t who you are. You’re better than this—better than all of this. Be fair, give them a chance. Don’t let this place consume what’s left of your humanity.”

For a moment, you thought you saw her flinch, the barest flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But then her expression hardened, and she let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” she said, stepping closer to you, her towering form casting a shadow over your trembling figure. “You’re trying to control me. Hold me back. You’re lucky I love you, babe! So damn lucky!”

She snapped her fingers, and before you could react, two cambions stepped out of the shadows, their claws digging into your arms as they grabbed hold of you. You struggled and cried out, but their grip was ironclad.

Karlach grinned, the flames dancing around her face making her look almost demonic. She sauntered up to you, cupping your cheek with a hand that burned hot against your skin.

“Don’t worry,” she purred, her voice dripping with mock affection. “I want you to see everything. Front row seat, just for you.” She turned to the cambions, giving them a wink. “Make sure they don’t miss a thing.”

The cambions dragged you toward the edge of the cliff, forcing you to kneel as Karlach strode back toward the battlefield below. Her war cry echoed across the hellish plains, and her army of imps and demons surged forward with savage glee.

Tears streamed down your face as you watched the carnage unfold, helpless to do anything but plead silently with the woman you loved—the woman you knew was still in there somewhere. You whispered her name, over and over again, a prayer against the storm.

Somewhere in the chaos, you thought you saw her pause. Just for a moment. A flicker of something human—a memory, perhaps, or a feeling she couldn’t quite extinguish. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep your hope alive.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

y'all how dare you force me to do that to my baby girl.. jk jk i can't lie making her evil was very fun. I hope you guys enjoyed these dark karlach scraps, i think there is another dark karlach request in the queue so y'all will be fed again at some point - Seluney xox

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64 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

3 weeks ago

sub!vi getting her shit disrespectfully rocked <3

✄ sub!vi who's sprawled out across the couch when you come home from work, spending her day off taking some well needed rest

✄ sub!vi who immediately notices your pissed off look, knowing it was gonna be a long night

✄ sub!vi who doesn't resist your harsh hand when pulling her in - kisses all teeth and tongue, free hand grasping at every inch of flesh while her other held onto the collar of her cotton tee

✄ sub!vi who lets you drag her to the bedroom, following after your every step like a shadow

✄ sub!vi who waits patiently on the bed as you rush out of your work clothes, baby blue's staring right at your strap as you shuffle the harness on and lube it up

✄ sub!vi who welcomes your body clambering onto hers, calloused hands gentle and soothing on your waist as she spreads her legs for you

✄ sub!vi who's gentle presence contrasts with your strung out and exasperated one, letting you pour your frustrations past her lips and down her throat as forcefully as you need to

✄ sub!vi who sighs quietly at you grinding your strap against her, mouths moving in sync while the silicone rubs against her clit

✄ sub!vi who can't take it after a while, pulling away from the kiss to beg you to just put it in her

✄ sub!vi who agrees with your degrading teasing, giving you puppy eyes in hopes you'll let up

"yes, yes, i'm a desperate slut. just c'mon, please? i need you in me."

✄ sub!vi who moans when she feels you fill her up. not high pitched, not pornographic - it's raw, nearly broken from the teasing alone

✄ sub!vi who hardly gives herself time to adjust to the stretch, already grinding into you before you have the chance to move

✄ sub!vi who reels at the sudden emptiness as you pull out, only to immediately get stuffed again with a swift slam of your hips

✄ sub!vi who gets very little warm up before you start to pound into her, skin slapping against skin full pelt as you grab her ankles to push above her shoulders

✄ sub!vi whose breathing picks up at the pace, coming out as choppy gasps melded with small mewls

✄ sub!vi who rocks into you desperately despite her position, struggling to lift her hips up off the mattress, causing you to snicker

"gettin' greedy now, violet?"

✄ sub!vi who feels the sharp sting on her scalp before her eyes snap open - your hand grasping her hair near the roots, forcing her to look down

"look at yourself. sluttiest fuckin' pussy. aren't you ashamed?"

✄ sub!vi who can hardly form a response, a high pitched mewl tearing from her throat as she tries to close her eyes, only for her hair to get yanked farther

"did i tell you to close your eyes? huh? open that shit right now."

✄ sub!vi who cums not too long after, vision spotting as white hot pleasure floods her veins and arteries

✄ sub!vi whose thighs shake as you abate your movements, rubbing her clit to see her squirm and kick out before smoothing your hands down her thighs

✄ sub!vi who feels your hands grab at her not too long after, shifting her to lay on her back, head hanging off the edge of the bed

✄ sub!vi who feels the head of your strap prod at her lips, her eyes still closed as your voice floods her ears

"clean your mess up."

✄ sub!vi who barely opens her mouth before it's forced open, silicone bottoming out in her throat

✄ sub!vi who gags and chokes, shaky hands on your hips as you fuck her face

✄ sub!vi who swallows around the girth of the dildo, trying to relax as her eyes flutter close again

✄ sub!vi who gasps for air when you finally pull away, arms falling limp when you step out of her reach

✄ sub!vi who doesn't talk much as you clean her up, only answering the more important questions of "are you okay?" or "i didn't push it, did i?"

✄ sub!vi who lets you carry her to the bathroom, setting her in a warm bath while you change the sheets

✄ sub!vi who comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, looking slightly more alive as she dries off and gets dressed

✄ sub!vi who lays down in bed with you, clinging to your form with her face buried in your neck

✄ sub!vi who gets to pick the movie for doing such a good job for you, falling asleep to heavy praise and kisses

alr everyone thank saturn for helping me w this one or go sit in the corner

taglist : @hihihhihahahha @lolitalovess @peskylez @saturnhas82moons @kylorey25 @lipglosskxsses @mars4hellokitty @hwasddeongbyeoli @foralltheprettygirls @meow4510 @therealhexstrap @sunflowerwinds

640 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

2 months ago

Ambessa and reader who has mommy issues? Mostly in the sense that their mother blamed not being able to live her own life on reader and it shows with a need for validation and praise, extremely touch-starved yet touch-repulsed due to how foreign it feels?

Touch

I have mommy issues. I'm projecting <3

Contains mentions of parental abuse, mommy issues!r

Ambessa And Reader Who Has Mommy Issues? Mostly In The Sense That Their Mother Blamed Not Being Able

The first time Ambessa Medarda laid a hand on you, you flinched. It was barely a touch—just the back of her fingers ghosting over your jaw as she tilted your face upward—but your whole body locked up, breath halting like an animal caught in a snare.

Ambessa withdrew immediately, her golden eyes sharp and assessing, but she made no comment. Instead, her fingers drifted away as if she hadn’t noticed the way the you had recoiled from something so simple.

She knew better than that.

She noticed everything.

Ambessa was not a woman who pried. She was patient—not in a way that was gentle, but in the way a predator knew when to bide its time. She let the you orbit around her, let you take the space you needed. She did not demand. Did not push.

It was infuriating.

Because that was all you had ever wanted. Space. Permission. Someone who didn’t see you as a burden, a weight shackled to their ankles, keeping them from flight.

Your mother had always made sure she knew.

"You ruined my life."

"I could have been something if it weren’t for you."

"Do you know what I sacrificed?"

It hit hard.

You grew up knowing you were an obligation, not a daughter. That your presence was something to endure, not cherish. And it showed in the way you sought approval like a starving thing, the way you craved warmth and shrank from it in the same breath.

It made no sense.

Or maybe it did.

You had learned that love was something conditional, something that had to be earned with good behavior, with silence, with obedience.

And touch… touch had been nothing but a means to an end. A slap to silence you.

A hand squeezing her wrist too tightly when you stepped out of line. A perfunctory pat on the head when your mother remembered she was supposed to pretend.

Nothing about it had ever meant comfort.

So why was it different with Ambessa?

Why did it burn through you like an ember catching dry wood, leaving you both raw and wanting?

"You hold yourself like you are bracing for war," Ambessa observed one night, her voice low, considering.

You were in the privacy of her chambers, where the rest of the world could not reach. Ambessa sat in her chair, legs spread comfortably, a glass of wine held and tilted between thick fingers.

She was relaxed, but there was something in her gaze—something that pinned you to the spot like a blade to the throat.

You exhaled slowly, a forced breath. "That’s just how I am."

Ambessa hummed, unconvinced. "No. It is how you were made to be."

You stiffened. Looked away. Ambessa did not press.

Instead, she set her glass down, pushed to her feet, and approached slowly, deliberately. She always moved like this around you—never sudden, never careless. It made something inside you clench.

When she stopped in front of you, she didn’t touch. She simply looked down at you, a titan made of flesh and steel, war-hardened and unshakable.

"Tell me," Ambessa said, voice quieter now. "What would happen if I touched you?"

Your throat went dry. Your hands curled into fists.

"I don’t know."

Ambessa’s brow lifted, but she nodded. "Then let’s find out."

She raised a hand, slow and open, giving you every opportunity to step away. When you didn’t, Ambessa’s palm came to rest against her cheek, warm and solid. But it wasn't a slap.

It was soft, caressing.

You sucked in a sharp breath. Your instinct was to pull back, to flee—but you didn’t. You stood frozen beneath the weight of Ambessa’s touch, overwhelmed by how foreign it felt. There was no demand in it. No expectation. No hidden blade beneath the surface.

Just warmth.

Your lips trembled. Ambessa’s thumb brushed over your cheekbone, barely there, and you shuddered.

"You are touch-starved," Ambessa murmured, more statement than question.

You girl bit your bottom lip. Swallowed hard. "It feels—" your voice faded.

Ambessa’s hand did not leave your face. "Unfamiliar things are not always bad."

You squeezed your eyes shut. Every instinct screamed at you to run, to shove the touch away before it dug too deep, before it uncovered the ache you had spent years trying to bury.

But you didn’t.

Not this time.

523 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

3 weeks ago

vi x gn!reader | jayvik

synopsis: you and viktor observe your partners get up to stupid shit.

a/n: very much based on vi and jayce being bookstreet when together.

"what are you doing?" viktor asks, seeing you perched by the window as you look out of it. "any interesting birds about?"

"yes, i'm a cat, haha," you reply dryly, shooting viktor an amused glance as he chuckles. "no, look." you gesture with your chin to vi and jayce who are currently on the roof of the opposite building. "i have a tale of idiocy to share."

"oh god," viktor sighs. "what happened?"

"so vi," you start, pointing to vi who's standing over jayce. jayce who happens to be creating something; he's creating wings. "said that she bets she could fly if she flapped her arms really fast and had a running start."

viktor already looks tired. "mhm, and did you say that's physically impossible?" he asks, and you nod solemnly.

"i did," you say. "and jayce backed me up...for a minute before vi somehow convinced him it was physically possible."

viktor shrugs. "not surprising. vi is very persuasive."

"unfortunately," you agree. "so they spent the afternoon drafting up plans for wings made of cardboard." you give viktor a look. "y'know, a prototype."

"of course," viktor says. "all good projects need one."

your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile. "anyway, i'm watching to see the inevitable failure and rush out with medical aid."

viktor eyes you for a second, a little weary.

"won't bones be broken?" he asks and you shake your head, pointing at the large pool a few feet below. the height is enough to hurt but not to break any bones on impact.

"ah," viktor says, leaving you laugh as you pat his shoulder.

"my girl and your boy lose all semblance of intelligence when they're together." you tease and viktor laughs.

"well, they do share one braincell so of course it vanishes when they're together."

161 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

3 months ago

How do you think arcane characters would react to burn scars? I have them on the back of my thighs and thought I can't see them everyone who can says they cover most of my thighs and there dark

Your burn marks are a symbol of strength, not flaws. They tell a story of resilience, and that makes you uniquely beautiful. <3 please never feel otherwise.

Burn scars.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧୨୧

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi, ekko

☆ ◞ summary: arcane characters reacting to your burn scars

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. A lot of sensitive topics like, burn marks , insecurities, self doubt, the way the reader got the scars are not mentioned, if anyone is uncomfortable in reading about scars or is triggered I suggest to please not read this

How Do You Think Arcane Characters Would React To Burn Scars? I Have Them On The Back Of My Thighs And

Jayce Talis.

The evening was warm, the kind of night where the city hummed with quiet life outside the lab’s tall windows. Jayce sat on the floor of his apartment, leaning against the couch, his arms stretched out behind him as he watched you.

You were sitting on the edge of his bed, legs stretched in front of you, absentmindedly rubbing at your thigh.

The moment your fingers brushed over a particular spot, you flinched.

Jayce noticed immediately.

"You okay?" His voice was soft, careful. Not his usual booming confidence, but something gentler.

You hesitated. "Yeah, just..." Your fingers ghosted over the area again before you sighed. "Old scars."

His brows furrowed, eyes dropping to your legs. And that’s when he saw them.

Burn scars.

uneven marks stretching across the back of your thigh, the kind that told a story—one you clearly weren’t eager to share.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly aware of his silence. "They’re not a big deal," you said quickly, a half-hearted attempt to brush it off. "I don’t even think about them most of the time."

Jayce didn’t look convinced.

"Can I?" He gestured slightly, not reaching out but offering the space for you to decide.

You hesitated.

Most people pretended not to notice them. Others stared without thinking, their curiosity poorly disguised. But Jayce... he was just waiting.

After a long moment, you nodded.

Carefully, he reached out, his fingers brushing over your skin—warm and deliberate. He didn’t recoil, didn’t wince, didn’t try to mask any reaction.

He just held you.

His thumb traced the edges of the scars with something close to reverence, his touch featherlight but grounding. "You know..." His voice was quieter now. "Scars aren’t something to hide."

You scoffed, a weak attempt at a laugh. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have—"

"I don’t," he admitted. "Not like these. But I know what it’s like to carry something from the past. And I know it doesn’t make you any less..." He swallowed, searching for the right words. "You."*

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone.

Slowly, his hand slipped down, intertwining his fingers with yours. "You don’t have to pretend they don’t exist," he murmured. "And you sure as hell don’t have to pretend they don’t bother you."

The knot in your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what to say—if you even could say anything. So instead, you squeezed his hand, letting the weight of his words settle between you.

Jayce squeezed back.

And in that moment, the scars didn’t feel quite as heavy.

------------------------------------------------

Mel Medarda.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered against the silk-draped walls of Mel’s quarters, casting long shadows across the ornate furniture. A gentle breeze drifted in from the open balcony, carrying the scent of jasmine and the distant hum of Piltover’s nightlife.

You sat curled up on the velvet chaise lounge, legs draped over the side, basking in the rare quiet moment. Mel was beside you, her fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along your arm as she studied a painting she had been working on earlier.

"You’ve been quiet tonight," she observed, her voice smooth but laced with curiosity.

You hesitated before shrugging. "Just tired."

She hummed softly, setting aside her brush before shifting to face you fully. Her golden eyes roamed over you, perceptive as always, until they landed on where your pants had shifted slightly—just enough to expose the back of your thigh.

Her fingers stilled.

"Come here," she murmured, voice softer now.

You hesitated for a beat before sitting up, allowing her to gently tug you closer. With a delicate touch, she brushed the fabric further up, revealing the burn scars beneath.

You watched her expression carefully, waiting for the usual flicker of pity, the well-meaning reassurances you’d heard a hundred times before.

But Mel Medarda did not deal in empty sentiments.

Her eyes traced the scars slowly, as if committing every detail to memory. "These..." she started, her fingers ghosting lightly over the uneven skin. "They remind me of gold leafing."*

You blinked. "Gold leafing?"

"Mhm." She tilted her head, her braids shifting over her shoulder. "In my homeland, when something is broken, it is often mended with gold—highlighting the cracks instead of hiding them. It is meant to show resilience. Beauty in imperfection."

Your throat tightened slightly. "I don’t think most people would call these beautiful."*

Mel’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your gaze to hers. "Most people lack vision."

The weight of her words settled between you, unspoken but understood.

Then, her lips brushed against the scarred skin—slow, deliberate, reverent.

A shiver ran through you at the intimacy of it, the way her breath warmed your skin, the way her fingers trailed up your thigh with featherlight precision. She placed another kiss, then another, until the tension in your shoulders melted under her touch.

"You are art," she whispered against your skin. "Even in the places you try to hide."

A shaky breath left your lips, but for once, you didn’t pull away.

For once, you let yourself believe her.

------------------------------------------------

Viktor.

The lab was quiet except for the steady scratching of Viktor’s pen against paper and the occasional hum of machinery. You were seated on the workbench across from him, stretching your legs out absentmindedly after a long day.

It had been a particularly warm evening, and in the comfort of the empty lab, you had rolled up your pants slightly to cool off. You hadn’t even realized that in doing so, you had exposed a part of your thigh—until Viktor’s gaze flickered over, and he stilled.

His pen halted mid-word. His golden eyes lingered, brows furrowing slightly.

"You are injured?" His voice was quiet, yet laced with something unreadable.

You blinked, following his line of sight before quickly tugging your pant leg back down. "No, it’s just... scars," you muttered, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of his stare. "Old ones."

Viktor didn’t look away. "May I see?"

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t trust him, but because most people either avoided acknowledging the scars altogether or gave you the same well-meaning but rehearsed reassurances.

But Viktor wasn’t most people.

With a quiet breath, you slowly rolled the fabric back up, revealing the uneven burn scars across the back of your thigh. You didn’t look at him—didn’t want to see whatever expression he might be wearing.

Seconds passed in silence.

Then, the gentle scrape of his chair as he moved closer.

Viktor didn’t reach out immediately. Instead, he observed them carefully, like he was reading something important—tracing the pattern with his eyes as if piecing together a puzzle only he could solve.

"Scars are... interesting things," he murmured, voice softer now. "They are proof of endurance. Evidence that pain was felt, yet you remained."

You swallowed thickly. "That’s one way to put it."

His gaze lifted to yours, and for the first time, you caught something in his expression—understanding.

Slowly, Viktor shifted, rolling up the fabric over his own leg. The scars along his knee and shin were different—ones born of overuse, surgeries, the toll of time—but they were scars nonetheless.

"People see these and assume they know my story," he said, tilting his leg slightly. "They assume pity is required. That weakness is present." His golden eyes flickered back to you. "But we are not weak, are we?"

Something tightened in your chest. "No," you said softly. "We’re not."

Viktor studied you for a moment longer before, carefully, he reached out. His fingers hovered over your thigh—giving you space to pull away.

You didn’t.

His touch was light, barely there, but warm nonetheless. "Your scars do not lessen you," he murmured. "They do not take away from who you are. They are merely a part of your story. And if anyone tells you otherwise..." He huffed a small breath, a ghost of amusement in his voice. "Well, they are simply not as intelligent as I am."

A small, breathy laugh left your lips despite yourself. "Oh? And what makes you so sure of that?*"

Viktor smirked faintly, withdrawing his hand only to tap lightly at his temple. "Genius, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest lingered.

And for the first time in a long time, the scars didn’t feel like something to hide.

------------------------------------------------

Caitlyn kiramman.

It had been a long day of patrolling the streets, and Caitlyn had returned to her estate looking exhausted. The moment she stepped through the door, she was greeted by the warmth of the fireplace and the soft hum of the house’s familiar sounds. It felt like a reprieve from the intensity of the day.

You were already curled up on the couch, a book in your hands, though your mind was elsewhere. Caitlyn’s presence always brought a sense of calm, but today, there was an unease you couldn’t shake.

As Caitlyn removed her coat and began to relax, she noticed you glancing at your legs, the slight fidgeting of your hand around the hem of your pants. She’d learned to read you like a book, noticing the smallest shifts in your behavior. Something was off, but she wasn’t sure what.

She walked over to you, gently resting a hand on your shoulder, her voice calm but insistent. "What’s going on, darling?"

You hesitated for a moment before you replied, your voice quieter than usual. "It's nothing, just... been thinking."

Caitlyn’s eyes softened, but she didn’t push. Instead, she perched herself on the armrest, her gaze never leaving yours. "About what?"

You sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze press on you. It was a warmth that made it hard to hide things from her. Slowly, you moved to pull your pants up slightly, revealing the scars on your thigh—old, deep burn marks that you had long since grown used to but never really let anyone see.

Caitlyn’s breath hitched, and her hand instinctively reached for yours, her thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. "You’ve never mentioned these before..."

You swallowed, not wanting to look at her, but you couldn’t help it. "They’re just scars, Cait. They don’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, clearly not convinced. "I don’t believe that for a second." Her voice softened, and she slowly knelt down beside you, her fingers brushing the skin around the scars with tenderness, her touch barely grazing you as if you were something fragile. "Scars tell stories, but they don’t define you. Not to me."

You felt your breath catch in your throat. It wasn’t the first time Caitlyn had said something so reassuring, but it was the first time it felt like she truly meant it. The quiet compassion in her voice was enough to make you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t prepared for.

"You don’t have to hide them," Caitlyn continued, her gaze meeting yours with gentle intensity. "You don’t have to hide anything from me, ever."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you quickly blinked them away, not wanting to seem weak. But Caitlyn, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in you. With a soft sigh, she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you into a tight embrace.

"You don’t have to carry the weight of this alone," she murmured against your hair. "I’m here, always."

You allowed yourself to lean into her, the warmth of her embrace easing the tension in your chest. The touch of her fingers against the scars felt like a promise, a silent vow that no matter what had happened before, no matter how you felt about those marks on your skin, Caitlyn would always see you for who you were—not for the pain you’d been through, but for the person you had become.

"I’ll always be here," Caitlyn whispered again, her voice low and steady. "And I love you, scars and all."

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you let yourself melt into her arms, the comfort of her presence washing over you. For the first time in a long while, the scars on your body didn’t feel like something to be hidden. With Caitlyn, they simply became another part of the story, and it was a story you were no longer afraid to share.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vi.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the smell of damp concrete and rust in the air. Vi kicked off her boots as she stepped into your shared apartment, shaking the water from her hair with a tired groan.

"That was a hell of a patrol," she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck before flashing you a lopsided grin. "Miss me?"

You looked up from the couch, giving her a small smile. "Always."

Vi plopped down beside you, tossing an arm over your shoulder with easy affection. "What’s up, sweetheart? You’ve been quiet."

You hesitated, shifting slightly, but Vi felt the tension immediately. She leaned back, studying your face, and her playful grin softened.

"Talk to me," she coaxed, voice dipping into something more gentle. "Something’s on your mind."

You sighed, glancing away. "It’s stupid."

Vi gave you a pointed look. "Babe, you know I don’t do ‘stupid’ when it comes to you. Spill it."

You hesitated before slowly rolling up the hem of your shorts, exposing the burn scars on the back of your thigh. You felt Vi go still beside you. Her usual warmth, her teasing nature, all of it quieted in an instant.

You braced yourself for some kind of pitying response, for words you didn’t want to hear. Instead, Vi’s fingers brushed over your skin—rough, calloused hands moving with the gentlest touch.

"How long have you had these?" she asked, her voice unreadable.

"For a while," you admitted. "I just… don’t really show them to people."

Vi was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the edges of the scars, slow and deliberate. You could feel her exhale against your shoulder before she finally spoke.

"You know," she murmured, "scars tell me more about a person than their words ever could."

You huffed out a dry laugh. "Yeah? And what do these tell you?"

Vi smirked, but there was something softer behind it, something careful. "That you’re tough as hell. That you’ve been through shit and still came out standing."

You swallowed hard, something twisting deep in your chest. "I don’t always feel tough."

Vi shifted closer, pressing her forehead lightly against yours. "That’s ‘cause you don’t see yourself the way I do." Her hand curled around your thigh, grounding, steady. "But I see you. Every single part of you."*

Your breath hitched when she leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss over one of the scars. Then another. And another.

Your fingers curled into her shirt as she whispered, "You’re beautiful, scars and all."

---------------------------------------------------

Jinx.

Jinx was never good at staying still. Even now, as she lay sprawled across your lap, she fidgeted—twirling a wrench in one hand while her other absentmindedly traced shapes on your arm.

"You’re awfully quiet today, sugar," she mused, tilting her head up to peer at you. "Not planning to ditch me for some boring, normal life, are ya?"

You gave her a small smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "Nah, just thinking."

Jinx flipped onto her stomach, resting her chin against your thigh. "Ugh, thinking’s overrated. What’s got you so—" Her words trailed off as her gaze flickered lower, landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

For once, Jinx went completely still. No jokes, no teasing—just silence. You knew she’d seen them before in flashes, but you had never sat down and talked about them. And Jinx? She never pried.

Until now.

"Where’d ya get these?" Her voice wasn’t mocking, wasn’t playful. Just quiet.

You shrugged, trying to pull your leg away, but she caught your knee, holding you in place. "They don’t matter."

Jinx’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Kinda seem like they do, since you never let me see ‘em."*

You exhaled sharply, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "I just… don’t like how they look. It’s not a big deal, Jinx."*

"Uh, yeah it is."

She sat up abruptly, straddling your lap, and before you could react, she reached for a marker off the table. With an impish grin, she clicked it open and began doodling over your scars.

"What are you doing?" you asked, baffled.

"Making ‘em cooler," she replied, sticking her tongue out in concentration. "I mean, these could totally be lightning bolts—oh! Or flames. Hell, we could even add little skulls, make it look all badass, like, ‘yeah, I survived a hellstorm, what of it?’"

Despite yourself, you laughed. "Jinx—"

"Shh, shh, artistic genius at work," she interrupted, tapping your nose with the marker.

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop her. Her focus shifted as she ran a gloved hand down your thigh, fingertips barely grazing over the scarred skin.

Then, softer, she murmured, "Does it still hurt?"

Your chest tightened. "Not physically."

Jinx hummed, twirling the marker between her fingers. "Yeah… I get that."

For a second, there was nothing but the sound of the city outside. Then Jinx leaned down and pressed a kiss to one of the scars, quick but sincere.

"There. Now it’s magic. You’re stuck with me forever."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt lighter. "Is that how magic works?"

"Duh." She kissed another one, then another, grinning against your skin. "You’re mine, and I’m yours. No stupid scars change that."

You reached up, brushing her cheek. "You’re a menace, you know that?"

Jinx beamed. "And you love it."

And yeah. You did.

------------------------------------------------

Ekko.

The Firelights’ hideout was quieter than usual tonight. Most of the crew had already turned in, leaving just you and Ekko sitting on the worn-out couch, the soft hum of old music crackling from a beat-up radio.

Ekko had his legs stretched out, arms draped behind his head, watching you with that easygoing gaze of his. "You’ve been weird today," he finally said. "What’s up?"

You hesitated, fingers curling around the hem of your shorts. "It’s nothing."

Ekko arched a brow. "Right. And I’m Councilor Jayce Talis."

You huffed a laugh, but it quickly faded as you shifted uncomfortably, trying to keep your legs tucked beneath you. Unfortunately, Ekko was too damn observant for his own good. His eyes flickered downward, catching the movement—then landing on the burn scars on the back of your thigh.

His expression faltered. "Yo... what happened?"

"It’s nothing," you said quickly, shifting to pull your legs away, but Ekko reached out, stopping you with a hand on your knee.

"Nah. Don’t do that." His voice was gentle but firm. "You always let me ramble about my scars. What makes yours different?"

You swallowed hard, staring at the floor. "Because they’re ugly."

Ekko frowned. "Ugly?"

"Yeah." You exhaled sharply. "People stare. Whisper. It just… reminds me of shit I don’t wanna think about."

Ekko was quiet for a moment. Then, without warning, he shifted, adjusting his weight until he was kneeling in front of you, his hands braced on either side of your legs.

"Look at me," he said softly.

You hesitated before finally meeting his gaze. His eyes weren’t filled with pity. No forced reassurances. Just raw, quiet understanding.

"You know what I see when I look at you?" he murmured. "Somebody strong enough to still be here. Somebody who’s been through hell and didn’t let it break ‘em."

His fingers traced feather-light over the scars—not afraid to touch, but careful, like he was memorizing them. "You think these make you ugly? Nah. They just prove that you survived something meant to take you out. That’s powerful."

Your throat tightened. "I don’t always feel powerful."

Ekko huffed out a small smile, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss against one of the scars. "Then let me remind you."

Another kiss. And another. His lips were warm, grounding, a silent promise in every touch. You closed your eyes, exhaling as you let yourself lean into his presence.

"You’re still you," he murmured against your skin. "Scars don’t change that. They never will."

------------------------------------------------

I must apologize to all of you because of such a delay I have been dealing with alot lately and also last year of highschool so much Happening BUT PUSHING THROUGH please send requests tho! I LOVEEE em!

406 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

1 month ago

Cw: Sub-bottom Vi. Fem-top Reader. Mild Age Gap (vi Is Older Than You). Strap-on Referred To As Cock.

cw: sub-bottom vi. fem-top reader. mild age gap (vi is older than you). strap-on referred to as cock.

synopsis: you can’t stay away from your best friend’s older sister.

you tell yourself that it’s just a fleeting crush, one that will fade with time, but it never does—not when vi ruffles your hair in passing, or when she drapes one of her strong arms around your shoulders, or when she teases you in that low, knowing voice that makes heat coil in your belly.

then, the line you swore you’d never cross fades into obscurity—because vi is lying beneath you in her childhood bed, keening every time your strap-on stabs into her cervix, whining high in her throat. her pussy squelches wetly—noisy and lewd—and the pink tufts of hair on her mound are damp from her own juices.

she looks veritably whorish.

of course, guilt lingers in the back of your mind, but you can’t bring yourself to care right now. powder will be pissed when she finds out—there’s no doubt about that—but honestly, how can she expect you to stay away from her sister when vi spreads her legs so eagerly for you? when her little hole is so needy for your cock? this was inevitable, really.

“hnnghh! ohhh, shit—haaah!” she pants as you rock your hips.

vi’s childhood bedroom is dusty and obsolete—neglected ever since she moved out. the worn fabric of her (embarrassingly juvenile) spider-man sheets clings to damp skin, except you hardly notice it; all you can focus on is vi—her rosy cheeks, her blown pupils, her trembling muscles. violet, violet, violet.

surely this must be a dream, because there’s no way you’re actually fucking your best friend’s big, bad older sister—turning her into a mewling kitten on your cock. but it’s real; you can feel it with the her calloused hands grip onto your shoulders, trying to keep herself tethered, as if she needs comfort with the way you’re bullying her pussy.

god, her cunt smells ripe, it’s glistening with arousal—she’s your very own forbidden fruit.

winding your hips back, you groan at the way vi’s pussy is clinging onto your strap. it’s rather adorable that she has such a desperate little cunt. who would’ve guessed that vi, all sharp edges and snarled confidence, would melt into such a docile sweetheart when she has her hole filled? when the right button is pressed against deep inside her gummy walls?

her cheap, rickety twin-bed slams against the wall with each thrust, loud and jarring like the bang of a gunshot. “unghh! not so rough, fuck—“ vi gasps.

jeez, vi is ridiculous, acting as if you don’t know exactly what she needs. if anything, she needs it rougher; you’re being far too tender. still, it’s cute and mildly humorous when vi acts like her pussy isn’t desperate for you, like you don’t know how to fuck her correctly, as if you don’t know her body better than she does. it’s evident that you’re the only one able to fill her cunt just right—scratching the itch that she, herself, can’t even reach.

“shut up,” you say, palm clasping over her mouth. “you don’t want your sister to hear us, right?”

you can feel the way her nose crinkles like a bunny’s underneath your hand. a flicker of guilt crosses over her face as she remembers the weight of her lust, the delicious wrongness of this entire situation, and how awful she is for wanting you anyway.

“fuck, can you not bring—unghhh—bring that up r-right now?” vi says, muffled. then she keens when the pad of your thumbs finds her clit, pressing down with perfect, punishing precision.

“relax, vi. just focus on how deep i am inside you, how good i’m making you feel. let go for me, yeah?” you coo, and vi whimpers like a stray dog—big, blue puppy eyes and all.

still, despite how wrong this all is, a dark thrill coils in your chest as you watch vi’s internal struggle—how she tries so hard to resist your temptations, clings to the idea of being a good big sister—but vi’s body always betrays her in the end, and her pussy abruptly paints your abdomen in her saccharine squirt.

taglist: @2ftall @jinxedbambi @mxchi-mxxn @maddiluvsu @just4jinx @rhian88

1K notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

2 weeks ago

Title: The Wolf and The Ghost

Pairing: Ambessa Medarda x Reader

Summary: After the war ends, Ambessa is left haunted by the loss of the one person she truly loved, Reader, who vanished after she chose ambition over their relationship.

Warnings: None

MEN & MINORS DNI: 18+ ONLY!!!

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The war ended, and the world kept turning. Cities rebuilt. Alliances were redrawn in blood and ink. Monuments went up to honor the dead. And Ambessa Medarda stood in the center of it all, a general, a strategist, a war hero.

And utterly alone.

She had the world’s respect, yes. Power in abundance. But no one to share it with.

Because you were gone.

You left her before the final siege. You’d watched too long from the sidelines as she let ambition carve the warmth out of her. You gave her warnings, soft at first, words by candlelight, hands on her cheek, begging her to choose you. But war always came first.

You left without ceremony. No goodbye, no note. Just vanished. She came home from council chambers to an empty apartment and a silence so complete it roared.

She told herself you’d come back. Of course you would. You loved her.

Didn’t you?

⸻

Weeks turned into months. The war ended, but she didn’t go home, what was left of home, anyway, with your scent long gone from her sheets?

Instead, she went looking.

First, she sent letters to your family. No answer. Then she sent soldiers. No sign.

After that, she went herself.

She walked through mud-soaked markets and highborn halls. She questioned people who hadn’t seen you in years. She hunted you like an enemy, her desperation barely hidden beneath sharp words and colder threats.

“Tell me where she is,” she hissed to a man in Piltover who claimed he once sold you paints. “I’ll burn this district down if you lie to me.”

He hadn’t lied. He just hadn’t known.

She searched for you in cities scarred by war, in the ruins of Zaun, in the red-lit brothels of Navori, even in the temples of Ionia, hoping maybe you’d gone there seeking peace, something she’d never been able to give you.

But every time she thought she was close, the trail went cold. You were always one step ahead, like you knew she was coming.

Sometimes, she thought you were punishing her. And maybe she deserved it.

⸻

She began to see you in dreams. Not the gentle ones no, Ambessa didn’t get those. Hers were jagged. You stood at the edge of her battlefield, drenched in blood and rain, whispering, “You never chose me.” She always woke with your name on her lips and her hands clenched in her sheets, furious with herself for dreaming at all.

She kept your locket in her coat pocket. The one you gave her the night before you left. She never opened it, she couldn’t. It felt like a grave.

⸻

Then came Zaun.

A diplomatic mission, they said. Negotiations, they said. But Ambessa didn’t give a damn about the papers. Something told her, intuition, maybe that you were here.

It was raining, because of course it was. The city always seemed to weep.

She wandered for hours, cloak soaked through, eyes burning from smoke and memories. And then, down a crooked alley with flickering lights and the smell of tea and burnt bread, she saw a shadow behind a rain-streaked window.

And her heart stopped.

You were sitting at a low table, face half-lit by a lamp. You looked… different. Softer, quieter. You had lines around your eyes that hadn’t been there before. But you were still you. Still her.

Ambessa didn’t enter like a general. She entered like a ghost.

The bell above the door didn’t ring. Or maybe she didn’t hear it over the roar in her ears.

You looked up.

She watched you freeze.

No tears. No smile. No embrace. Just silence.

“I heard you were alive,” you said.

“I was,” she rasped, voice wrecked. “But not without you.”

You blinked. Looked down at your tea.

“That’s dramatic. Even for you.”

She didn’t laugh. She couldn’t.

“I looked for you,” she said.

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“I know.”

You looked up at her then, eyes tired. “So why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want to win if I have to do it without you.”

You exhaled, slowly. “That’s not how it works, Ambessa. You made your choices.”

“I made the wrong ones.”

You nodded. Said nothing.

She sat, uninvited, desperate now. “Tell me what to do. I’ll do it. You want me to leave the empire? I will. You want me to beg? I—” her voice caught, “—I’ll kneel. I’ve done worse for far less.”

You stared at her. Something in your expression cracked, and your voice came quieter than before.

“You think I wanted you to suffer? That I left to punish you?”

Ambessa said nothing.

“I left because staying was killing me. Because I loved you, and you loved war.”

She bowed her head. The rain outside seemed to hush, waiting.

“I don’t know how to be what you deserve,” she whispered. “But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long, long time.

Then, slowly, you reached across the table. Your hand touched hers.

Her breath caught like a sob in her throat.

“I’m not who I was, Ambessa.”

“Neither am I.”

A beat.

“…Then maybe we can meet again. As who we are now.”

Your fingers tightened around hers. And for the first time in a year, the storm in her chest began to calm.

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163 notes View Post

blasphemous-riot

4 months ago

THIS MOMENT

synopsis: what’ll happen when Yamaguchi Tadashi realizes he likes boys— his best friend, Tsukishima Kei, to be exact?

a/n: did i make myself cry while writing this? yes, yes i did. but this is for all you TsukkiYama shippers ;)

cw: *let me know if i missed something* angst, bullying, violence, blood (kinda), use of sexual slur, fluffy ending

i wanna give a huge thanks/shoutout to @usami-ichigo for helping w the title and beta-reading 🥺

word count: 1,593

Yamaguchi Tadashi and Tsukishima Kei have been friends since primary school; Tsukishima having helped the latter from some bullies. They have been by each other’s side since then- it’s rare to see one without the other.

For some odd reason, Yamaguchi had begun to- at times- get shy around Tsukishima in their last year of middle school- his stomach feeling weird and tingly. He would also find himself daydreaming about the latter. Wait, he’s my best friend, so why is this happening. I can’t like him; it’s impossible because I’m supposed to like girls- not boys.

Yamaguchi was very open with his mother and explained his feelings to her. “Tadashi, baby, I believe you may have a crush on Kei.”

Tearing up, he said, “b-but I’m supposed to like girls- not boys.”

“Tadashi, look at me,” there she goes with her soft voice and equally soft hands grabbing his face, turning it towards her. She wiped the tears off his cheeks with her thumbs while sending him a warm, comforting smile with a soft look in her eyes. “It’s okay if you like boys. You’re allowed to like whoever you want.”

“But won’t kids make fun of me? Won’t Tsukki be disgusted by me?” Just the thought alone is enough to send him into a panic. His mother hugged him, cooing words of consolation.

That night was when Yamaguchi Tadashi realized he had feelings for his best friend, Tsukishima Kei.

Fast forward a few months from his middle school promotion to his first year in high school: his feelings only grew as time passed. Thankfully, he was able to hide them from Tsukishima. But not from his classmates.

One day before volleyball practice, Yamaguchi was turning a corner when he bumped into someone. The person pushed Yamaguchi to the ground, looking at him with a look of disgust. “Watch where you’re going fag,” he spat out, emphasizing the last word. Yamaguchi looked down at his pants, his face flushing out of embarrassment.

“Hey, he’s blushing. I think he liked it,” the guy’s friend said, causing him to cackle.

“Oh, so you like that degrading shit? You kinky ass fag.”

“Repulsive.” The two looked at each other for a brief moment before nodding and kicking Yamaguchi. All the poor boy could do was curl into a ball and protect his head with his hands. The first boy grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up and off the ground, and gave him a harsh blow to the face; he’s going to have a black eye and busted lip after this. He threw Yamaguchi back on the ground and spit on him before walking away, laughing, with his friend.

None of the bystanders that watched the whole thing did anything to help him; they all just stood there, watching everything unfold as if it were some MMA match on TV. Yamaguchi heard some of the whispers from those that were around:

“I heard that he’s sucked off some of the teachers for a better grade.”

“I heard he gives himself up for money.”

“Guys like him disgust me.”

“He should go to hell for being gay.”

Yamaguchi tried to fight back the tears threatening to spill out from his eyes. He stood up from his place on the ground and continued on his way to the boys’ locker rooms.

He was relieved to see that it was empty. He wasn’t ready to be interrogated by his teammates. He stripped himself of the white uniform shirt- which had some faint tints of red. Yamaguchi drew his eyebrows together in confusion and looked down to examine the wounds; they were already forming dark purple bruises and had some small cuts. He opened his locker door and spared a glance towards the small mirror attached to the inside of it.

He was right; he did have a busted lip, and a bruise was also forming around his right eye with a small cut on his brow bone. Lightly bringing his fingers into contact with his swelling eye, he winced in pain. Tears started to form in his eyes again, no, not now. Just wait until later. I can’t cry right now. So he finished changing into his clothes for practice, slamming the locker door shut, and walking to the gym.

Stepping into the gym, Sugawara greeted him. “Hey, Yamaguchi!” and the latter mumbled a small hey in response. Sugawara’s eyes grew wide once he saw Yamaguchi’s state: busted lip, bruised eye, and slightly limping.

“Yamaguchi, are you okay?! What happened?” His senpai questioned, rushing over to him; this gained the other members’ attention, their eyes also blowing wide.

Yamaguchi ignored his question, only causing Sugawara to grow more worried. “Hey, what happened?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled in response. Once he got to his usual spot in the gym, he saw Tsukishima looking at him, concern and anger laced into his usually stoic expression. Yamaguchi tried to avoid his best friend’s gaze but couldn’t. Just one look into Tsukishima’s eyes was enough to have tears stream down Yamaguchi’s face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tsuksihima asked in a hushed voice. Yamaguchi gave a small nod in response and told his best friend what had happened- only loud enough for the latter to hear.

“So what if you are [gay]? Why the fuck do they care?” There was pure anger in Tsukishima’s voice, face gaining a tint of red from it. “Who was it? You know what,” he walked away from his spot and sped walked out of the gym.

“Tsukki? Where are you going?” the latter asked, rushing after him.

“I’ll just find them myself.”

“Stop.” Tsukishima kept walking, ignoring Yamaguchi’s attempts to stop him.

“Please, just leave it be.” Still, Yamaguchi was being ignored, which only made him grow frustrated. “Tsukishima Kei!” the other came to a sudden halt hearing Yamaguchi call him by his full name. “I said,” Yamaguchi’s voice was shaky, “stop. Leave it alone.”

“I can’t!” the other shouted, throwing his arms in the air out of frustration.

“Tsukki, stop.”

“I can’t!” Yamaguchi flinched at his shout.

“Please, Tsukki.”

“I can’t just let this go; why don’t you understand that, Yamaguchi?”

“Because it’s nothing! You’re just going to make things worse. It doesn’t matter anymore. It already happened; it’s in the past. Just let it go.”

Yamaguchi started walking away when Tsukishima grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug. “Ts- Tsukki?” He just stood there, in the other’s arms, confused.

“I can’t let this go,” Tsukishima’s voice was softening, “because it pains me to see you like this.”

“Why do you care?” Yamaguchi tried to say sharply, but instead, it came out shaky.

“I’ve always cared, and I’m sorry for not showing it.”

He pushed the other away, “just stop. You don’t have to lie to make me feel better.”

“Yamaguchi,” he lowered his voice. He closed his eyes and started leaning in when the latter, once again, pushed him away, getting out of his hold.

“Tsukki, stop. You’re just going to lead me on.” Shit, he realized he had indirectly confessed. Fuck, why’d I had to say it aloud? Tears started to stream down his face because he could no longer hold them in.

It pained the tall blonde to see Yamaguchi crying and so vulnerable. He had to do something, but he didn’t want to do the wrong thing. He opted for pulling Yamaguchi in for a hug: one hand holding his head and the other rubbing small circles on his back.

“Tsu-”

“Please, just let me hold you.” Yamaguchi gave in to his words and hesitantly wrapped his arms around the latter. Tsukishima held him a little tighter with the fear of the other running away if he were to loosen his hold; he was already prepared for the other to run away. But to his surprise, Yamaguchi snuggled his face into the crook of his neck, causing Tsukishuma to stiffen a bit.

“Please,” Yamaguchi croaked out, “please don’t leave me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m… because I’m gay, and,” he paused, tears once again spilling from his eyes.

Tsukishima felt the warmth of his tears on his neck, then reassured him by softly saying, “I’ll stay no matter what you say.”

“And because,” he took a deep breath. “I like you,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

Tsukishima pulled away just enough to see Yamaguchi’s face, holding it with his hands and wiping the few tears on his cheeks. Yamaguchi leaned into his touch, closing his eyes. Was he always this pretty? Gosh, I’m definitely in love with him. Tsukishima took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he was about to say. “Yamaguchi,” the boy looked into his eyes, “I’ve always had this weird feeling when I’m around you.” Yamaguchi tried to turn his face away. He’s just trying to make me feel better. He doesn’t mean it.

Tsukishima held his face in place, “and now I think I understand the feeling. I love you, Tadashi.” And that was it, he said them. But did he mean it? He must have meant it if he used Yamaguchi’s given name, right? He just has to say back, even if Tsukki is lying.

“I love you too, Kei.”

“I promise I won’t leave you.” He planted a kiss on Yamaguchi’s forehead. The two boys stood there- foreheads now pressed together.

What does this mean? What will happen to their friendship? Those are questions to be answered another time. Right now, all they’re thinking about is savoring this moment.

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blasphemous-riot

2 weeks ago

You are gorgeous omg

Aww thankyou so much love🥺🥺🥺

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