Arcane headcanons | °• Sevika •°

You got injured while protecting her

• Sevika freezes for a split second as she sees you step in front of her, the sound of the impact and your sharp intake of breath cutting through the chaos.

• Her chest tightens as she catches you stumbling back, her mechanical arm reaching out instinctively to steady you before you hit the ground.

• The sight of blood—your blood—ignites a storm of fury and panic in her. Her eyes dart to the one who hurt you, her expression darkening with a cold, lethal rage.

• Without hesitation, she moves, dispatching the threat with a precision and brutality that leaves no room for mercy. Every strike is fueled by the image of you hurt because of her.

• As soon as the danger is neutralized, she’s at your side, dropping to one knee, her focus entirely on you. Her hand cradles your face while her mechanical arm hovers, unsure where to touch without hurting you further.

• “Doll,” she mutters, her voice low but tinged with urgency, trying to assess how bad it is. Her eyes flicker over your injuries, her usual steady demeanor cracking just slightly.

• You try to brush it off, but she doesn’t let you. “Don’t. Don’t do that,” she snaps, though her tone softens immediately when she sees the pain in your eyes.

• She carefully helps you sit or lean against her, one arm wrapped securely around you while her other hand applies pressure to your wound. “You’re gonna be fine,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you.

• The blood on her hands only fuels her determination. She’s not letting you slip away. Her movements are firm but gentle, her usual rough edges smoothed by the sheer need to protect you.

• When you start apologizing for stepping in, she shakes her head sharply, her jaw tightening as she holds you closer. “Don’t you dare,” she mutters, her voice thick with emotion.

• Carrying you becomes her next priority. She lifts you effortlessly, her mechanical arm supporting you with an almost tender precision, as if afraid of causing you any more pain.

• “I’ve got you, sugar,” she whispers, her breath brushing against your hair as she moves quickly, her strides steady but urgent.

• Her grip on you tightens slightly every time you wince or groan, a reminder of the guilt gnawing at her for letting this happen.

• Once you’re in a safe place, she doesn’t leave your side, not even for a moment. She tends to your wounds herself, her hands surprisingly steady despite the turmoil she feels.

• As she wraps your injuries, her fingers linger on your skin, her brows furrowed in concentration. The silence is heavy, broken only by her occasional murmurs of reassurance.

• When it’s all done, she pulls you into her lap, one arm wrapped protectively around you while her other hand strokes your hair.

• “Don’t do that again,” she finally says, her voice quiet but firm, the weight of her emotions clear. She presses a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if grounding herself in your presence.

• Even as you try to comfort her, she refuses to let go of you, her protective instincts kicking in stronger than ever. You’re hers, and no one’s taking you away—not even fate.