YOU POOR SUCKER.

☆ free palestine & sudan, fuck terfs, if you're racist, homophobic, zionist, antisemitic, transphobic, or otherwise weird walk the other way.

☆ primarily headcanon based. i only write with my mutuals and prioritize interactions with affiliates. when i say slow reply, i mean it. i work a really demanding job and as much as i'd love to be here more regularly, that just isn't always the case. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i'm also almost always perpetually tweaking something on this blog, whether it be graphics or tags or whatever specifics to post formatting i feel like tat the time.

☆ i will probably not be interacting with the arcane rpc / fandom at large. when i say canon critical, i mean that i enjoy analyzing arcane's political themes & what it has to say about class, and am openly critical of characters like silco, caitlyn, jayce, and even vander. how i write sevika plays directly into that. i'm also interested in what it means for sevika to have done so much damage to zaun working under silco only to make a turn in season 2. you'll probably see discussion of that abound. if that's not your cup of tea, it's understandable.

☆ i am a he/him butch lesbian. i also write sevika as a (vaguely gender nonconfirming) lesbian. you may see posts about that, too, because it's important to me, but i find the way the fandom at-large treats and talks about sevika to be sort of gross and don't like it, so if that's how you come at me, i'll be blocking. i like ships, but it's not my #1 priority when it comes to writing, and i like to know the writer at least a little before i go all in on that sort of thing.

“ not if i can help it. ” she's tilted her head back, pinching the bridge of her nose, can already feel the tender skin beneath her eye starting to bruise. she'll be lucky if she gets away with just the black eye—but with the way her nose is throbbing, she's worried she hasn't. she's angry enough now that she doesn't want to particularly look at them, right now. it's not often, these days, that she loses a fight. the lighting of the space they've been using for their impromptu sparring sessions (more frequent than she'd anticipated, but leitha is hungry to learn and eats up every lesson sevika gives them like they're desperate for every meal) isn't well lit enough for her to see the whole of the damage, but... it'll heal. with time.

she doesn't think she likes the way that caitlyn holds herself. all high and tight around the shoulders, clearly tense. when she denies the offer of a smoke, sevika draws back, all while caitlyn shrugs, looks around the room—at anything else. vi, to no one's surprise, is not doing well. none of them are. some of them worse than others, she thinks. she drags her tongue along the ridge of her speech and tries to find the words she wants to say so that she can put them up against what she should. with her cigarette pinched between thumb and forefinger, she slips it into the slotted rim of the ashtray so it can dwindle down further. in light of everything, she's been trying to quit... but hasn't she always?

“ no, ” sevika murmurs. not for lack of trying, of course. under every scrap of debris and remnant of jinx's tech that she can find, any remnant. she went to ground, sevika thinks, not... whatever it was that they said happened to her. that, of course, is her own private hope-turned-delusion.

she doesn't know enough about what happened to the twin hextech founders to particularly care, in earnest, about what had happened to them, what had spurred on the chaos, what had led to the sprawl of destruction across piltover and zaun both. people have already forgotten about zaun in the smoke and the rubble—nevermind the people they've lost, the lives they tried to save, what they had to give up in the process. to the pilties, zaun has always been in that perpetual state of destruction. why hunt for the dead? why look for ghosts at all? she's surprised by the two distinct holes left in the fabric of her life, now that some of the smoke has cleared. not the thin and spindly frame of silco, but another—a girl and a child. why had she ever tried to kid herself? she flexes her hand, an idle gesture, watching caitlyn from the corner of her eye. why should she get to continue on, when the others had died? this woman, of all of them? she gets to live?

she rolls her cigar to the other side of her mouth, doesn't take her eyes off the hand of cards she's holding. gert says it so quietly it's almost hard to hear under the low thrum of the music being played at the other side of the bar. gert's touchy. not so different from the girl she and the rest of her jinxers used to vaunt to the point excess, not so different from any of the rest of them who look at sevika now like she's some walking arm of the council, some puppet walked about on strings. gert's suspicion is justified—more often than not she has trouble looking herself in the mirror and recognizing her own face.

from the alley the music inside pounds a heavy beat, a hammer against sand trying to make glass. she's looking at vander's daughter—felicia's daughter—and trying to find any remnant of him under the smeared paint. she's got her hand curled up in vi's ugly leather jacket, shoved her whole body against the brick, and somewhere in the back of her head she's already made up her mind that vi deserves, at least, two black eyes for the state she left sevika.