Arcane X Fem Reader - Blog Posts

Do you need me to, love?

Part 1 word count: 1.5k a/n: tbh this is just me being horny, not really about the plot 😞 I’m a woman with needs ok?? I swear I’ll be normal again once I stop ovulating

“Turn them over,” Caitlyn says in a pleading tone that makes you laugh. “It’s not funny, my love, I’m serious.”

My love. You don’t remember when she started calling you that, but it melts you every time she does. Those two words are all Caitlyn needs to break you down because they’re real. You are her love, the owner of her kisses and caresses, the one she looks for when she feels like she can’t go on.

“Caitlyn Kiramman, I’m not going to turn over every single one of my stuffed animals so they don’t catch us kissing,” you reply with a laugh, not seeing the point in her request.

You’re both in your room; Caitlyn came to visit you secretly-or not so secretly. A few days earlier, she had written to your parents, formally inviting them to tea with her family, using the excuse that both families should join forces in these uncertain times for the city’s progress, making it clear she’d be spending time with you while they were away. That’s one of the things you love most about her: even though your love is a secret, she never fails to do things the right way, insisting you deserve to be courted, even if no one else sees it that way.

“Well, then I won’t kiss you,” she says, crossing her arms, her stubborn streak showing.

“Then don’t kiss me,” you mimic her, crossing your arms and turning your back to her. Caitlyn can be stubborn, but you’re a brat, and you’re not going to let her win.

You hold your head high and, for a moment, you hesitate. You wonder if she’ll play along, if she’ll get tired and leave you alone, but before you give up and turn around to look at her, you feel her hands on your waist, her chest pressed against your back, and her lips on your shoulders.

“Are we really going to argue over this, my love?” she whispers as she kisses you, one hand sliding up your top, kneading and squeezing one of your tits over your bra. You didn’t know she was coming to see you-not until just minutes before your parents left. She didn’t give you time to get ready, knocking on your door right after seeing your mom and dad leave. So you’re wearing a comfortable pajama set: a thin-strapped tank top with a heart print and matching shorts. Caitlyn bites you gently, then soothes the spot with her tongue. You can feel her smile on your skin, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’re asking me for something that makes no sense,” you try to keep up the fight, but the way her fingers slip under your bra and tease your nipple won’t let you. You feel yourself swell immediately and sigh. “They’re stuffed animals, they can’t see us.”

“Of course they can,” she insists, now kissing your neck. Her lips stop at your ear, and she whispers in a way that makes your panties damp. “But let’s drop that, okay? I haven’t seen you in weeks, and I don’t want to spend the few hours we have left arguing with you.”

You don’t respond, letting her touch you, kiss you, do whatever she wants with you. Without breaking contact, she leads you to your vanity. Her reflection appears in the mirror, a large one, decorated with golden edges and a small lipstick stain you left while putting on makeup a few days ago.

“Look at you. You’re so beautiful.” Her words weaken you, but what really does it is when she slips her hands under your shorts and straight into your underwear. She’s not joking, not teasing. Not today. Her middle finger slowly strokes your clit, and you roll your eyes, grabbing her arm and digging your nails in hard. You catch a glimpse of a small wince in her reflection, but she doesn’t complain.

“Caitlyn,” you whisper, trying to find the strength to speak as you feel her finger moving faster. “We’re literally two steps from the bed, why here?”

Caitlyn laughs softly, looking at you, not through the mirror, but at you. At the sweat starting to form on your forehead, at the way your face tightens as you try not to make too much noise. “I want you to see yourself, princess. You look so good like this, it’d be a shame not to share the view. Even if it’s just with you.” As she speaks, she pushes two fingers deep inside you.

Saying you moan is an understatement. You tremble, writhe, and become nothing under her touch. You can’t help but grind against her fingers, craving more of that pleasure only she can give.

“Baby… please,” you beg without even knowing why. You don’t know what you want, but you don’t want her to stop.

She soothes you mockingly, the hand that was on your breasts now moving to your back, gently pushing you until the upper part of your body rests on the vanity. You’re face down, ass up. Just the way she likes it. Her fingers pause, pulling away from you to clean them with her mouth without breaking eye contact. The heat in your abdomen intensifies. You need her in a raw, carnal way. You try to say something, move, or complain, but she won’t let you, speaking before you can:

“You don’t know how hard it is to be away from you, my princess.” Her voice is hoarse, needy. You can see she’s trying to keep it together, but it’s tough. “It hurts how much I need you. Do you need me too, love?”

You nod, unable to form coherent words, much less a sentence. Humiliating. Truly humiliating. From the position she’s got you in, to the effect it has on your mind, on your whole being.

“How about we go to the bed where we’re both comfortable?” Her hands caress your ass gently, speaking to you and looking at you as if you were the most fragile, delicate thing in the world. “I know you’ll turn the stuffed animals around like I asked.”

You laugh at her words, really laugh, in a teasing way that annoys her. You might be a horny little thing who wets her panties at the slightest touch, who squeezes her thighs just from the scent of her perfume, but you never lose your arguments. Never.

“I already told you I’m not going to do it.”

And you didn’t.

Caitlyn scolds you for it while her lips wrap around your clit, sucking in a way that makes your eyes roll back. You don’t know if it’s because she’s irritated or because she hasn’t seen you in a while, but the way she eats you out makes you feel so good. She licks your pussy with such passion that you wonder if she’s doing it for you or for herself. Her words get lost in your folds. A perfect mix of praise and reproach. And her fingers, oh her fingers. They pump in and out of you, making you lift your hips, craving more.

Your hands grip her hair, pushing it away from her face and guiding her where you need her. You pull her away when you feel your orgasm coming, not wanting to come on her face, but she growls and dives back between your legs, licking you like she’s starving, desperate.

“Don’t hold back, love, come for me. Don’t worry about me.” Caitlyn coos you, her free hand intertwined with yours. You squeeze it tight as the orgasm washes over your body, your thighs clamping down on her, but Caitlyn doesn’t mind and keeps licking. You hear her moan between your legs and notice how she grinds against the mattress, trying to calm her own arousal.

“Come here,” you call softly, barely audible, but she hears and obeys.

Without hesitation, Caitlyn spreads your legs wider, throwing one over you. She stays like that for a few seconds before letting her weight fall on you, and when she does, you feel like you could die right then and there, and if you did, you’d die happy.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” Her movements are slow, deliberate. You just had an orgasm, and no matter how desperate she is, Caitlyn doesn’t want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. She picks up the pace when she hears the moans escaping your mouth, mixed with sweet words and her name over and over.

You were a mess. Both of you were. The room is filled with obscene sounds, the scent of sex, and the proof of a passion that feels eternal. It didn’t take long for Caitlyn to come, and for you to reach a second orgasm.

She collapses beside you, her breathing ragged, just like yours. Without saying a word, she curls up against your chest, running a hand along your waist and pulling you close. You’re both sweaty, sticky, and you hate sweat. Yours, anyone’s, but not hers. Not when it’s proof of the love you share.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and your hand travels to her neck. “I mean it. I’m not happy when you’re away.”

You smile, snuggling closer, seeking the warmth of her body. “I missed you too. A lot.”

Neither of you says anything else. You just stay wrapped up in the comfort the other provides. You’re sticky, sweaty, and exhausted. So exhausted that neither of you hears your mother’s shrill voice announcing she’s home.

Uh-oh...

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You’ve got it, princess...

Part 2 word count: 2.1k

Music floats through the air like a sweet, golden mist, mingling with the clinking of crystal glasses and elegant laughter. The Kiramman mansion was brimming with life: soft carpets, chandeliers that seemed to float on their own, and a crowd dressed to the nines, discussing politics, power, and progress as if they were just casual after-dinner topics. And they were.

You stood near one of the inner balconies, a glass of white wine in your hand, watching the party as if it were a spectacle put on just for your amusement. In part, it was. Your last name alone was enough to draw the room’s attention with every step. Your lineage: an industrial dynasty that controlled a significant portion of Piltover’s technological development. The name you carried was synonymous with excellence, efficiency, and untouchability—something everyone respected and admired.

Everyone… except her.

Caitlyn Kiramman stood on the far side of the room, her back to you, talking to a group of Enforcer officers and the occasional young noble, all of them trying to seem more interesting than they truly were. Her elegant profile stood out even amid the opulence, as if she didn’t truly belong there, as if she bore the Kiramman name out of duty—because she was more than just that.

You knew she hated events like this. And yet, she was always there—whether out of obligation or because she liked watching you from across the room. She looked at you like she desired you, body and soul. Her eyes traced every inch of you with a burning intensity, yearning to undress you without laying a single finger on you, making you feel small under the force of her blue eyes that said nothing, yet never failed to convey the heat they carried. Caitlyn was always there. And she always made sure you were too—though this time, her insistence had been more obvious than ever.

Her first letter arrived on an otherwise ordinary morning, hidden among the bills in the mailbox like a whisper that didn’t want to be found. The paper, scented with lavender and sealed with blue wax, bore her family’s name as an excuse. But you recognized her handwriting instantly. It was her. The letter said that you and your parents were invited to a party at the Kiramman mansion, with all the formality her last name demanded. But as you read it, you knew it wasn’t her family that wanted you there. Her handwriting had the exact shape of her voice when she spoke into your ear: slow, sweet, sure. And that single invitation was enough to make your heart stutter, already starting to dance.

Two days later, no one knocked on the door, your parents didn’t hand it to you—it was just there, on your bed: a large box wrapped in satin paper with a black ribbon, waiting. Inside, carefully folded over soft tissue paper, was a dress. A deep purple dress, as rich as a long-held desire. The fabric flowed like water through your fingers, and the neckline—subtle, but undeniably beautiful—seemed made just for your body. It wasn’t simply a dress for a party. It was an unspoken promise. And the moment you held it up to the mirror, you understood—it was her way of asking you to be hers that night, even if no one else would know.

You thought that would be the last gift, but she had always been braver than you. The next day, just before the party, another box arrived. Smaller, but wrapped with the same care. Inside: a set of black lingerie, so soft and light it seemed woven from secrets. Fine lace, barely visible embroidery. Not vulgar. Not bold. Intimate. A quiet reminder that tonight, while everyone else saw what you wore on the outside, only she would know what was beneath.

And now you’re here, wearing the dress she gave you, watching her from afar, waiting for her to come to you. Your relationship with Caitlyn was… complicated. From a distance, you were old acquaintances. The daughters of two of the most powerful families in the city, raised among gilded halls, private tutors, and promises of greatness. Up close, you were a secret. A secret that smelled of expensive perfume and gunpowder. Of stolen kisses and uncomfortable silences. Of words that never quite said what they meant.

Caitlyn continued to stare at you brazenly, a flash of blue meeting your gaze, and you forced yourself not to smile. That was your game: pretending nothing was happening. That you didn't know what her breath felt like when she moaned against your neck. That she wasn't familiar with the exact sound you made when her mouth was lost between your legs.

But tonight, something in her gaze was different. It wasn’t desire—desire was always there. It was urgency. A flicker of need she couldn’t hide—not tonight. Minutes passed, or maybe hours, as the party carried on. Until you saw her move through the crowd, brushing past you with her fingers ever so slightly, without looking. A touch only you noticed, but enough to make your skin burn.

You followed her.

Through carpeted halls, staircases that creaked softly beneath your heels, and a silence so sacred it seemed to grow the farther you got from the music. Until she stopped in front of a door—the east wing bathroom, the one only family used. She opened it without a word and stepped inside. You followed, closing the door behind you.

The sound of the latch clicking shut was almost like a seal. The white marble of the bathroom felt colder than usual, and the air between you was so thick, it could be cut with a single word. Caitlyn stood with her back to you for a few seconds, her silhouette reflected in the large mirrors covering the wall.

“You look…” she whispered, turning slowly, as if afraid you’d vanish if she moved too fast. “More beautiful than I imagined.”

You didn’t respond. You just looked at her, feeling the weight of her gaze sliding over your neckline, your hips, every curve she had chosen to dress in that dress. She approached slowly, as if crossing a minefield, and when she was close enough for her scent—gunpowder mixed with soft perfume—to surround you, she raised her hand and gently touched your cheek.

“Thank you for coming,” she said in that low, deep voice of hers. “I knew you’d come, but still… I needed to see you.”

“Why?” you asked, unmoving. “For this?” you gestured, referring to the fact that she could only touch you in secret.

“Not just for this,” she replied, letting her thumb slide down to your bottom lip. “To remind you that I think of you every night.”

“And what about every morning, Caitlyn?” you shot back, taking a step away this time. “Do you think of me then too? When you smile at others at those press luncheons? Or when your mother talks about your future political engagements?”

She went silent, swallowing hard. Then, with a sigh that seemed to weigh her down from the chest, she answered:

“It’s not that simple. You don’t know what it’s like—”

“I know exactly what it’s like,” you cut her off. “I’m the one who has to pretend nothing’s happening when I see you in the streets of Piltover. The one who hides when your officers show up. The one wearing the dress you picked while you smile at the world like I don’t exist.”

“It’s not that you don’t exist!” Caitlyn replied, her voice shaking as she took a step toward you. “It’s that the world around me doesn’t let us exist. Not like this.”

“Don’t use it as an excuse for your cowardice,” you spat, your eyes shining. “Don’t ask me to come in secret and leave just as invisible. Don’t look at me like that and then walk away as if you never touched my skin.”

She blinked, wounded. You could see it in how she pressed her lips together, in the way her breathing became unsteady. But she didn’t step back. Not this time.

“I… I love you,” she finally said, in a low voice, as if those words might break her. “Doesn’t that count?”

Your eyes filled with both rage and tenderness.

“Of course it counts. But you know what else counts? The fact that I can’t keep being the part of you that no one sees.”

Caitlyn came closer again, and this time she cupped your face with both hands. Her lips found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft, but desperate. Loaded with guilt, desire, and everything you’d never dared say out loud. Your fingers clenched the fabric of her dress, gripping it like that could make her stay. And for a moment, it did. She kissed you with a hunger that hurt. There was no shyness. It was a desperate collision, full of craving, of need. A kiss like those that aren’t planned, born from an impulse burning in your chest that turns into body, skin, desire.

Her hands didn’t stay still. One grabbed your waist, pulling you toward her with a fire that burned. Her hand traveled to the back of your hair, tugging gently to tease you—she loves to tease you. The world disappeared. It was just the two of you, breathing into each other, melting into that kiss that asked for no permission, apologized for nothing.

Caitlyn kept kissing you with the passion that defines her, the kind that melts you over and over again, even when you don’t want it. You can’t help but return the kiss, and when she realizes it, her tongue slips into your mouth without asking—she never asks, especially when she knows you want it too. She pushes you until your body crashes against the sink in the tiny bathroom, lifting you gently to settle between your legs.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Caitlyn whispers as her lips trail down your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses. “I’m sorry, darling, I love you.” She repeats it like a prayer, as if she needs those words as much as you do. You try to hold back the moans threatening to escape when you feel her cold hands slip under your dress and caress your thighs, tempting you.

“We can’t do this… not here,” you whisper, but your body says otherwise, your legs parting to give her more space.

“No one will find us, relax,” Caitlyn says, seizing the chance as her fingers travel to your center, wanting to feel your wetness through that black lingerie set she gave you—but what she finds leaves her speechless: you’re not wearing it. In fact, you’re wearing nothing.

“You’re a fucking threat,” she whispers against your neck, biting you in a way that makes you writhe. “You came like this for me to fuck you? Well, I’ll give you what you want.” Then, without warning or gentleness, two of her fingers plunge into your slick entrance, drawing a sharp moan from you that echoes through the bathroom.

“Caitlyn… fuck,” you writhe as her fingers curl inside you, hitting those spots only she knows, places even you can’t reach. She stays buried in your neck, kissing, licking, whispering sweet nothings that make you forget why you were angry in the first place. She apologizes for not having the courage to love you openly, promising to change—but you don’t care, not when her thumb strokes your clit, making you arch your back for more, or when her fingers move faster, reaching deep inside you like it’s second nature.

The whimpers and moans spilling from your lips grow louder; she feels your walls clench around her fingers. You can’t hold back, not when she cradles you against her body and strokes your hair, offering affection and treating you like the most fragile thing in the world—though the motion of her fingers and her insistence on going deeper say otherwise.

“Come for me, darling. Relax, I’ve got you,” she whispers, the words carrying you over the edge, crying her name with desperate need. “That’s it, you’ve got it, princess. You’re so fucking beautiful, so mine.” She pulls you closer, guiding you down from your high, kissing your forehead and face, watching your exhausted expression.

You say nothing, letting her caress you. In that moment, everything feels frozen: the steam on the mirror, the slight tremble in her fingers, the rhythm of your breathing like a melody learned by heart. The world outside is a distant echo, shapeless and urgent. Only this corner exists, where your bodies, still entwined, recognize each other as solid ground, as refuge.

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