#or that are within a certain threshold of time

[majestyeverlasting]

What about Harry Castillo wanting attention and therefore, purposefully distracting his wife from reading her book?

𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨

pairing harry castillo x female reader [established relationship] summary harry returns home from a night out and charmingly campaigns for the one thing he wants most: your undivided attention [fluff, 1.5k]. a/n thank you so much for this cute request. this is my first harry fic, so i hope you guys enjoy!

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Through the tall windows behind you, Manhattan is a sea of lights. Everything below looks small. Just moments ago, the sun seemed to be descending behind the horizon, and now the city is bathed in the darkness it wears so well. In that time, you’d lost yourself within the pages of a book that told the story of a different time and a different place, with characters who were a little bit of who you were and a little bit of what you dreamed to be. 

The click of front lock signals Harry’s return. From the foyer, he catches sight of you curled on one side of the couch with a book, face aglow with warm lamplight. At the sound of his footsteps, you look up to offer a smile. As he smiles back, you can’t help but notice he looks just as handsome as when he’d left earlier that evening—hair gelled back and Tom Ford tailored to his frame.

Harry had been invited to a private event at Bar SixtyFive to celebrate a friend of his brother’s whose film photography series had been accepted into the MoMA. As nice as it would’ve been to have you by his side, he was all too aware of how big social gatherings made you feel. Even after you insisted you could soldier through, he’d seen the repressed apprehension in your eyes. It was okay to pass on this celebration. There’d be many chances to accompany him at others just like it. 

“How was it?” you ask. 

“Really nice.” He holds up a matte black gift bag. “Brought back some goodies.” He crosses the room to bend down and peck your lips. “They’ll be on your nightstand.” 

Evidently, you’re preoccupied. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I’m in the home stretch.” 

Harry chuckles. “You’ll have to tell me all about it when you finish,” he says, and you nod in promise. “I’m gonna shower.” 

By the time you say okay, your nose is already buried back in your book. 

Harry eventually emerges with damp hair, and a towel around his hips, lovely olive skin on display. He pads to the thermostat and eyes it for a few seconds, before lowering the temperature by one degree. Even if you wanted to, it would’ve been impossible to look away from the muscles in his back, but he disappears back down the hallway to get dressed. He always had moved with a certain grace, a confidence. That’s what drew you to him three years ago on the night you met. 

Even if Harry had not the slightest idea of where he was or what he was doing, it’d never show. In the rare case that his confusion was evident, there was no doubt he wouldn’t figure things out in the end. That’s what made it so easy to follow his lead, to hang on to his every move and word. Even in small, weightless moments like these, your intrigue never waned. 

When he returns, donned in the loungewear he wears as pajamas, you briefly catch his gaze from over the top of your book, and he chances a small, hopeful smile your way. Any moment now, you’d surely set the book aside and strike up a conversation. 

In the kitchen, he pours himself a glass of water and finishes it as he stands in the invisible threshold to the living room. You can feel the weight of his gaze on you until he moves to stand beside your corner of the couch and cast his gaze out at the city. 

Within the first few seconds of the new proximity, your mind checks out of the words on the page. Even more so when Harry’s fingers curl around your shoulder in a gentle squeeze before he saunters to the console table to look through the contents of the mail tray. You’d gone to the mailroom while he was away. He makes mental note of who the envelopes are addressed from even though he’s already made up his mind to read through everything more thoroughly tomorrow. The only thing he wants to pay any mind to right now is you. 

From the looks of it, you’re miles away. 

With a sigh, he plops the small stack of envelopes back in the tray. As he yawns, the unabashed sound is accompanied by a stretch that makes the hem of his shirt rise up and reveal the dark trail of hair low on his belly. If that wasn’t enough, he gingerly scratches through it before smoothing his palm over the area. You close your book and set it on the end table. He’s all out of ideas now, and you’re well aware. His arms fall to his sides. 

For someone always so sure of himself, and five steps ahead, he almost looks like a child. 

It’s you who finally speaks up, “C’mere, handsome.” 

Harry obliges in a heartbeat. The cushions dip as he sits beside you. When you angle your body towards him, he reaches out to squeeze your knee. 

“Missed you tonight,” he admits. 

You hum. He can’t decide if it’s in acknowledgement, agreement, or both. Instead, he takes your hand and raises it to kiss over your knuckles as you try not to smile. Your lips quirk anyways. He scoots closer, draping his free arm around your shoulders as he kisses up the rest of your arm. His lips are light and plush, and you chuckle as he lets his last kiss linger on your shoulder.   

“What?” he murmurs against your skin before lifting up. He can’t feign oblivion, so he ends up looking guilty. 

“You know what,” you lilt, running a hand through his damp hair. “You just directed and starred in your own one-act trying to get my attention—” 

Harry presses his lips to yours to spare himself any further teasing. You melt into the kiss and relish the warmth that settles beneath your skin. He’s gentle like he always is with you. When he pulls away, he touches his forehead to yours, only to retreat when you lean in to continue kissing him. There’s a challenging glimmer in his eyes as he playfully holds your gaze. 

“Guess I’ll continue reading then…” you trail off and pretend like you’re going to grab your book again. He caves in seconds. 

“My love,” he sighs regretfully, chuckling. If there wasn’t so much base in his voice, it would’ve been a whine. “Just wanna be with you. Wanna love on you.” There’s a softness to his tone that gets you. 

He takes your chin in his hand and kisses you again, this time slower, like he’s drinking you in.  

After parting, you say, “Wasn't nice of me to ignore you like that.” 

Harry shakes his head. “I’m so used to getting my way. Someone’s gotta push back every once in a while,” he jokes warmly, crinkles forming by his eyes as he smiles and takes you in. 

“I guess so.” You watch as he relaxes back into the cushions and closes his eyes. “Tired?” you ask as you tuck yourself into his side. 

Despite the obvious signs that he is, he shakes his head no. You roll your eyes, but rub your hand in soothing passes over his chest as his breaths steady. Just when you think he’s dozed off, he speaks up again, voice low. 

“I’m going to hire him to take some pictures for us.” 

“Who?” you question. “The guy the party was for? Tim Montgomery?”

Harry nods. “Got to know him a little better and see some of his work. Told him to be expecting a call,” he says. “Really like the way he sees light… he’s not afraid to lean into its presence or absence.” 

A small laugh escapes you at that, but not an unkind one. Harry peeks his eyes open. “That’s just a very beautiful and astute compliment,” you assure softly. “You might have to find a way to dip your toes into the photography world with that eye.” 

Harry huffs a laugh but doesn’t brush off the idea. He was always drawn to beautiful things. 

“I think I just like the idea of how he’d capture you,” he says. Butterflies flutter in your stomach. “I’d order the biggest prints and put them up in every property I own.” 

Despite the fact that your cheeks have pleasantly warmed, you shake your head like he’s crazy. And maybe he is, but only about you. Because of you. 

“But what about you?” he changes the subject. “What type of astute observations have you taken away from your reading?” 

He’s not joking, not entirely. Whether or not you indulge him is totally up to you. But he’d be happy to sit here and listen to the sound of your voice as you rub his chest. No matter what stream of thought you chose to follow, he’d gladly be swept off in it too.

-

Thank you so much for reading! All likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. I promise I see them all! 

HARRY MASTERLIST

ALL MASTERLISTS

[marimbles]

It seems to be pretty well established that most fanfic authors don’t mind when readers leave comments on old fics and in fact welcome it. But what about authors replying to old comments?

Do readers care in general whether an author replies? Is it expected and seen as rude if they don’t? Is it nice when they do but not expected? Is there a time limit to the welcomeness of replies? Like is it nice if they respond within a few weeks but if it’s been months or years it feels awkward because you don’t remember the fic anymore? I’m curious!

[krems-chair]

How much damage do we think has been done by tumblrites thinking of ourselves as the smarter/movement-starting social media platform. I've read things on this site that undoubtedly bring me closer to understanding the mysteries of the universe and seen works that blew my tiny mind, but sometimes I'm on here for too long and a scoonch of dread kicks in and I'm like. We really are good at imitating each other and at some point everyone figured out how to talk a little bit like the academics on here who have spent years learning how to form and make and present an argument and now a lot of us walk around using just enough buzzwords to make the uncritical go along with it and then I'll scroll a little further and see a blog ranting about a pickle jar or something and it feels like touching grass. But the storm clouds still gather, ya know?

[musical-chick-13]

Who do I feel as though genderbent mello would get girboss treatment

See, I go back and forth on this, because my instinctive reaction is that you are absolutely right. There's the whole implied Catholicism thing (people love to use that as an aesthetic, which, fair, I used to be Catholic we have some banger art and designs), there's the leather and Fashion Choices™, there's the "is a criminal who kills people but isn't The Worst One Here" and there's the "main target of their ire is an unpopular character" all of which are prime traits for fandom girlboss-ification.

The conflict I find myself having, though, is that this character is. Angry. That's kind of his Thing™. And if he were a woman........people really don't like angry women. Especially if they act out about it. If they're lucky, all that happens is they get called "crazy" or "hysterical." But most of the time they get called [insert gendered insult or death threat here]. (Remember when I got harassed multiple times irl for simply dressing up as a fictional character at a con, good times.) A female version of this character would have "conventionally attractive thin young person" to her advantage, and people are kinder to female characters if they fit into that category than if they don't. And, again, a major source of this character's anger involves their misplaced disdain for a character the fandom at large (sadly, incorrectly) does not have a ton of love for. And those things might be enough to override the general fandom distaste for destructive anger in female characters.

I'm going to go into this further in my "almost-genderbent DN" post (which is. it's coming. I just. chronic illness. words.), but I guess it would depend on how unhinged (and, specifically in what ways she is unhinged) the story makes this genderbent version of her. Some types of "unhinged" are seen as delightful or even narratively palatable, and some aren't. Because there is a general-fandom threshold between, "The crimes make her cool™" and "The crimes make her the devil incarnate" and I'm trying to fully parse out where exactly that threshold is. And once I have a more concrete idea of it, all of you will be the first to know. :)

(Another factor in whether or not she gets Girlbossed™ is probably to what extent (if any) genderbending her changes her relationship with Matt. Because they're a pretty popular ship, and if a character choice makes a ship more or less appealing in the eyes of the fandom...historically, that's going to change the general perception of that character.)

[dollwrites]

ᴅᴏᴏʀ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ ┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° ʀᴀғᴀʏᴇʟ

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ goonette isekai! ( 7k follower event )

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), fem!reader, pwp, creampie, cum play, titty sucking, all characters featured are aged 18+

ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

Rafayel is a creampie addict.

whether it’s because he loves the way you look with his cum leaking out of your freshly fucked hole or because it’s his way of claiming your body, marking you as his mate, you didn’t know for sure. the only thing you could be certain of is, whenever he started to twitch and throb inside of you; whenever his balls drew up tight, and his ragged panting melted into a needy chanting of your name on a mindless loop, that he was going to cum inside you.

“Raf, ffffuck!” you crooned, breathless and undulating on the mattress beneath him. your back arched up from the surface to push your chest flush to his face, your right hand buried in his mauve tendrils so deep that you could feel the beads of sweat as they drench his scalp, and the heat of his fever transferring deep into your palm. you were gripping those sticky locks, holding on to them for some semblance of control as he rutted into you with wild abandon, his head dipped low to suck on your swell, whilst his hand fondled with other, his thumb mimicking the way his tongue flicked at your pebbled nipple, swiping over the taut flesh and nudging the little bud from every angle.

it was this lavishing of affection, paired with the rapid-fire, shallow pumping into your core, that had your eyes crossing with unadulterated pleasure, and your body trembling as you drifted closer and closer to a release. “I’m getting close, baby…” you half-plea, rocking your hips up to meet him in a sloppy, slick joining. if Rafayel was anything, he was a skilled lover. he knew that you didn’t need to be stuffed full on every occasion, and so he experimented with how many inches to fuck into you each time you laid together. tonight, though his thrusts were quick and greedy, he was only giving you half of his length at a time, letting the swollen, leaking tip of his cock head bully the spongy cluster of nerves that made up your g-spot until you were shaking and sputtering, instead of fucking you deep and steady.

“Yeah?” he asked upon prying his mouth away with a wet pop. his voice husky and low, and saliva glistening against the pink lower tier of his kiss-swollen couplet. his own complexion, though typically porcelain, had taken on a dusky, rosé glow, especially against the apples of his cheeks, the tips of his ears, and the expanse of his chiseled chest. his mouth, though still parted and panting out puffs of hot breath against your hardened nipple, curved into a strained smile as his eyes searched your countenance, equally lovedrunk. “Wanna cum with me, pretty girl?” he asked, his eyes darkened as he buries his face between the valley of your tits, breathing in the scent of the sweat oozing from your pores. his eyelids fluttered as he drank it in, like a man intoxicated, and you felt the warm, bumpy surface of his tongue flat against your flesh to lap at that essence. “Oh, fuck, tell me,” he murmured, muffled, as the lower quarter of his face disappears into your cleavage, but his eyes gaze up at you, the purple hues within them dim and stormy. “Tell me that you want me to make you finish while I cum in your warm, little pussy.”

you nod, eagerly, your voice breaking out of desperation as you tug on his hair, unsure of whether to pull him up to kiss his lips or smother him between your tits. “Y—yes, Rafayel! Please, make me cum with you!”

you’d hardly gotten the beg out before Rafayel was responding. sitting back on his haunches, he allowed almost every inch to slip from your clutching heat— until only his the bulbous head remained notched just beyond the threshold. you mewled at the lack of fullness in your depths, but your disappointment was soon replaced with pleasure. Rafayel allowed his hands, soft yet strong, to slip under your hips and drag your body close, until your bottom rested on the slope of his legs, keeping your lower half elevated on his lap. “C’mere, baby…” he breathed out, one hand splaying out against your lower belly, fingers stroking beneath your navel, allowing his thumb the reach he needed to paw at your clit in tight, concise circles. your own hands, that had initially reached out for him when he shifted positions, now fell back against the pillow your head rested on, fisting handfuls of it, unneeded, while Rafayel tended to your body. you moaned his name, your head tilting up so you were staring at the ceiling, brows furrowed, focusing wholly on his perfect ministrations.

“You look so cute like this,” Rafayel murmured, more to himself than to you, his free hand gripping the girth of his cock tight. he was still slick with your juices, and he used that to his advantage, pumping the exposed inches instead of plunging into you, to the rhythm same rhythm he assaulted your clit. the treatment elicits of moan from his parted lips, that bubbles up from deep within his throat. “— squirming and needy, chasing your high for me. Come on, pretty girl, cum on my cock for me.”

a few more encouraging words and Rafayel’s thumb running laps over your button is all that you need before you catch that orgasm you were so desperately chasing. you hear his voice, as soon as he saw you were about to be engulfed, whisper harshly, “Look at me,” and you were barely able to obey, your eyes flitting to his face just in time to glaze over. you maintained the unfocused eye contact, stars forming in your peripherals, and Rafayel doesn’t let up, coaxing you with furious strumming on your swollen clit to ride out the orgasm he’s giving you. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” he asked, knowing damn well the only response you could give him was a strangled yip and a half nod, his breathless smile widening, “Yeah? I know, baby, I know. I feel it, too. I’m cumming,” he growled, pumping himself erratically a few more times before he spilled himself inside you. warmth seeps in, spreads through your shallow core, and dribbles out in thick, streamers when Rafayel pulls his sated, softening cock from you. your cunt clenches, one last stitch effort to keep him anchored inside you, which ultimately pushes another rope of his creamy release out of your freshly-fucked body.

Rafayel sat back on his haunches for several moments, panting, with his twitching cock now draped, flaccid, over his sweat-sheened thigh, as he gazed down at his handiwork— his hands finding your trembling shape. he felt along the flare of your hips, up over your waist, his thumbs gently massaging the flesh there as he eased you out of your aftershocks with gentle fondling. “Come back to me, pretty girl, you’re so cute when you’re cumdrunk.” he murmured, drawing shapes over your heated flesh as he coaxed you back from the brink. his palms pressed against your sides, before careening downward, over your lower belly. “I left this pretty pussy all messy again, didn’t I?” he teased, applying enough pressure on your lower belly to force more of his cum to spill out of you and on to the sheets. you whimper at the sensation, your toes curled, and you nod. Rafayel only chuckles, angling his hand so his pointer and middle finger, slender and deft in their movements, can spread open your puffy netherlips. his breath, which had mostly recovered, left him in a soft, awed gasp as he admired the way his cum painted your folds, leaving them sticky and claimed. his cock twitches on his thigh. though hypersensitive, it jumped, as if waking up to the sight.

Rafayel sighs, rolling his eyes, acting as though the mere re-hardening of his cock was burdensome. “Can’t ever just go one time, can we?” he asked, sarcastically, quirking a brow as he stares up at you.

“You make it sound like it’s my fault,” you counter breathlessly, your hands finally unlatching from the pillow. your muscles are sore, but you run your fingers along the shape of his shoulders as he positions himself to take you again.

“Of course it’s your fault. You look too fuckable when you’ve got my cum oozing out of you.” Rafayel rasps, guiding his now-ready cock back into your sloppy hole. it slips inside easily, his cum frothing around it as he almost instantly falls back into his previous pace, bracing you in place when his hands grip the roundest part of your hips. “Fuck, yes…” he stutters a bit, pushing his cock deep enough to hilt it once, before dragging it out slow. you cry out; the nerves in your sex already heightened, so this new round of fucking feels almost statically-charged. his eyes list downwards, taking in the way his previous release cocktailed with your arousal coats his cock in rings as he pulls out, marking the depth of his thrust. “And besides, you take me in even better the second time.” he purrs with a contented sigh.

[ariichive]

LONG AWAITED

anaxa returns to the city of okhema with one goal in mind.

yan!anaxa x gen. neutral reader.

tw: slight yandere, 3.1 main story quest spoilers, kidnapping kinda, not proofread :'), phainon appearance

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

the air of okhema felt unidealistic as anaxa quickly turned away from the white haired chrysos heir, who's eyes held admiration and a hint of nervousness. anaxa could not blame phainon for being on edge, after all it's been some time since he's traveled far from the grove of epiphany; the tension with aglaea only intensifying.

phainon wasn't just worried about anaxa's distaste towards the dressmaster, but the fact a certain beauty happened to reside in okehma; one anaxa had a growing obsession with that aglaea had informed him about.

the scent of earth and lingering incense clung to the air as anaxa strode ahead, his pace brisk despite the weight of his thoughts. phainon hesitated before following, his fingers ghosting over the embroidery of his sleeves—a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. the streets of okhema were alive, yet there was an undercurrent of unease threading through the revelry, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

"...professor anaxa, with all due respect, you should probably go rest." phainon said nervously as he watched the annoyance grow on the professor's face he didn't put any effort in to hide. anaxa brought a hand up to his head, already feeling his headache increasing.

"still as unrelenting as ever," anaxa said more to himself than phainon (who knew not take that as a compliment).

phainon shifted on his feet, uneasy under the weight of anaxa’s sharp gaze. the professor’s silence was rarely comforting; it carried the weight of words unspoken, of conclusions already drawn and judgments already made.

“if you keep straining yourself like this, your mind will falter before your body does,” phainon tried again, forcing his voice to remain even. “and considering how much you pride yourself on your intellect, i imagine that would be a rather devastating blow.”

anaxa exhaled through his nose, a slow, deliberate gesture that conveyed both irritation and restraint. “you assume exhaustion is a state that can be remedied by mere rest. a rather reductive view.” his fingers pressed against his temple, as if attempting to physically restrain the inevitable onslaught of thoughts. “the mind does not cease simply because the body demands reprieve. if anything, it accelerates in retaliation. an unfortunate contradiction of existence. now then, i must be on my way. more time spent here entwined in aglaea's threads is less time spent with my [name]."

“if something happens—”

anaxa halted, turning just enough to glance at phainon from over his shoulder.

“then it will be because i allowed it.”

and with that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving phainon standing there, uncertain if those words were meant to be reassuring or a quiet promise of inevitability.

anaxa moved through the streets of okhema with a purpose, his every step measured, his every breath steady. the air here was thick with incense and candle smoke, curling through the alleyways in a way that made the city feel almost dreamlike. he ignored the idle chatter of merchants, the distant hum of music, the eyes that lingered on him longer than necessary.

his destination was clear.

past the winding streets, through the stone archways laced with ivy, beyond the courtyards filled with marble statues of nameless gods.

his mind churned through the possibilities of the night—outcomes, variables, countermeasures.

but then, as he neared the threshold of that familiar estate, he felt something tighten in his chest.

a presence.

not phainon. not aglaea.

you.

his fingers curled slightly.

the moment he stepped inside, he would no longer be professor anaxa, the ever-stoic scholar with a mind sharpened like a blade.

no, within these walls, he was something else entirely. something raw. something that could not be defined.

nothing about the outside of your residence has changed in the slightest. your same favorite greenery blooming by your door, the half broken pillar you have yet to fix, and even the familar sense of longing deep in anaxa's heart.

you were in there. goodness, how long has he deprived himself of your beauty?

with an almost shaking hand and a crazed smile, anaxa's hand slowly made its way to knock. one swift, sharp, knock.

the sound echoed in the still air, sharp and deliberate. anaxa’s fingers lingered against the wood for a fraction longer than necessary before he pulled back, exhaling through his nose in a measured attempt to steady himself.

he had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times—constructed dialogues, crafted perfect syllables, envisioned every possible reaction you could give him. but now, standing here with his heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against his ribs, he found himself at war with something far less logical.

and when the door creaked open, revealing you—bathed in the glow of sunlight, as breathtaking as ever—he felt it.

that intoxicating, maddening sense of possession.

how could he have ever let himself stay away?

meanwhile, you were in utmost shock seeing the familiar face of an old friend standing outside your door. "anaxa!" you were quick to take his hand and pull him inside. "y-you're okay," your eyes were quick to scan over his body for injuries.

you heard about the bustling news around okhema, the fall of many at the grove of epiphany by the newly announced flame reaver. with the news of no survivors being found, you were immensely relieved to see anaxa.

anaxa allowed himself to be pulled inside, though his expression remained unreadable, save for the flicker of something unreadable—relief, amusement, or something far more dangerous—when he felt your hands on his.

“of course, i’m okay,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he watched you scan him for injuries. “you underestimate my ability to persevere.”

but there was something strange in the way he spoke. something distant.

the warmth of your concern should have soothed him, but instead, it only deepened the ache inside him. you were still the same—soft, caring, unguarded in your worry for him. and he?

he still had this dark desire within him.

you, however, seemed oblivious to the turmoil beneath his carefully composed exterior. you cupped his face gently, your thumb grazing the sharp line of his jaw. “you’re burning up,” you whispered, concern lacing your voice.

anaxa let out a breathless chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. if only you knew.

“it’s nothing,” he dismissed, though he didn’t pull away. “simply the remnants of a journey longer than intended.”

your frown deepened. “you should rest. whatever happened at the grove… it must have been—”

his hand shot up, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not harshly, but with enough force to halt your words. his grip was steady, calculated, yet there was something almost desperate in the way he held you.

his thumb brushed idly over your pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his fingertips. a scholar by nature, anaxa had spent years studying patterns, deciphering truths from the subtlest details. and right now, your heartbeat told him everything—your worry, your hesitance, your trust.

trust.

his jaw clenched. did he still deserve it?

slowly, as if realizing the intensity of his own actions, anaxa loosened his grip, allowing his hand to drift away. “forgive me,” he murmured, his voice softer now, yet no less heavy. “it seems exhaustion makes a tyrant of me.”

you didn’t move for a moment, your eyes searching his, looking for something—an answer, perhaps, or reassurance.

maybe it was cerces playing a trick on him for his lack of belief in the gods. her former yearning for mnestia seeping through into him, enhancing his already deep need for you.

he took a slow, deliberate step closer, as though drawn by an invisible force, his presence closing the space between you without any words spoken. his eyes searched yours with an intensity that bordered on desperation, yet his expression remained calm, composed, almost as if he were fighting against something larger than himself.

“do you feel it too?” he asked, his voice a quiet rasp.

feel what? you wanted to ask. the tension in the air, the pull of something darker than you understood.

but instead, your breath hitched, something shifting within you as you stood there, uncertain whether to pull away or step closer. you couldn’t tear your eyes from his—this man, your old friend, your anaxa—but now, the person standing before you felt like something different altogether.

and suddenly, the truth was clear in the depth of his gaze.

he wasn’t here because of what had happened at the grove. he wasn’t here for the tragedy.

he was here for you.

and he wasn't going to leave without you.

“[name], you feel it too right? the gods won’t be here to save you either.”

[iniquitousyearning]

mattheo riddle. let me fuck you.

PAIRING: Mattheo Riddle x Gryffindor!Reader

SUMMARY: worried that mattheo was just going to use you for sex and leave, you had him agree to courting you first until you felt you were ready to take it to the next level. after months of this, mattheo finally can’t take it anymore, and lands himself on his knees at your feet.

WORD COUNT: 4.1k.

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, Degradation, Praise, Absolute Feralism, Begging, Exhibitionism, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasm, PIV, Semi-Public Sex (implied cloaking charm), Dirty Talk, Swearing, Oral (f receiving), Body Worship, Slight Breeding Kink.

Courage. Bravery. Honesty--all traits that your house, Gryffindor, valued and honoured.

However, conspicuously absent from that list, was stupidity. A trait that you certainly seemed to posses a fucking abundance of these days.

To delve into the specifics, you possessed stupidity in the form of pure idiocy that took root when you began messing around with a certain curly haired Slytherin boy. This curly haired Slytherin boy just so happened to come from a group of assholes who seemingly detested your friends as well as your own bloody existence, having been nothing shy of full blown enemies for majority of your time spent at Hogwarts.

And yet, somehow, one thing led to another with this certain boy, and before you knew it you'd found yourself in a certain situation you'd never have imagined in a million damn years.

A courtship.

Securing Mattheo Riddle's commitment to court you exclusively, with a firm agreement to abstain from sex until you felt unequivocally ready, baffled your understanding. This arrangement was meticulously crafted out of a deep-seated concern that, left unchecked, he might merely try fuck you and then vanish without a trace.

He was known for doing that.

The rules of the courtship were a safeguard for your heart, a decision rooted in self-preservation, rather than any preoccupation with your virginity or lack thereof.

The harsh reality was simple – you desired Mattheo Riddle, despite every instinct screaming that you shouldn't. To shield your heart from potential wreckage, you implemented a set of rules governing the extent to which Mattheo could advance in your relationship. The decision to progress to the next level, if and when you deemed him deserving, rested solely in your hands.

It was a fool proof plan. No way for you to get hurt.

However, to absolutely no one's surprise, Mattheo wasn't a fan of this plan –not when he reluctantly agreed to it, and certainly not now. Not as you were seated across from him in a dimly lit corner of the library, the top buttons of your white button-up uniform shirt straining against the curve of your tits, your tie a loosened mess around your neck, and your burgundy pleated skirt way too fucking short for any bloody blokes sanity to remain intact.

Mattheo had counted the fucking days since the two of you started messing around, each instance of shared intimacy without crossing that final threshold chipping away at his restraint like relentless erosion. He wasn't fucking sure how much he had left in him.

"Did you finish this one, Matt?" Your voice rang out as a soft whisper, the hum of it snapping Mattheo from his wandering thoughts.

Forcing himself to meet your eyes and not linger on the buttons of your shirt just begging for fucking relief, he nodded. "Yeah. This one too."

Mattheo lifted a divination book, a testament to the exhaustive night the two of you had spent cramming for tomorrow's exam. Weary, you gave a nod, pushing up from the desk.

"Let's put these away, yeah?" you suggested gently.

Mattheo's throat parched as he observed you tugging down your skirt, a belated realization of how perilously high it had inched past your hips. With an innocent effort to conceal the expanse of those enticingly thick thighs – the same thighs he enthusiastically found himself nestled between every damn night – you fueled a growing heat within him. Mattheo cleared his throat awkwardly, giving a nod before pushing himself up as well.

As the two of you retreated into a dimmer, more secluded section of the library, you bent at the hips to return your book to its shelf. Unmindful of Mattheo's intense gaze, exhausted yet persistent, you began chattering. "I think there might be one more we can skim through, if you're still up for it-"

That thought abruptly dissolved as two sizable, calloused hands sought out your body, gripping anywhere and everywhere they could. An instinctive flinch involuntarily escaped you, but the sensation of those hands delicately tracing your thighs swiftly eased your tension. A trail of burning flames surged up your torso, and you instinctively straightened against him.

"For fucks sake." Mattheo's voice resonated as a low, deep growl in your ear, so intense you questioned whether he meant for you to hear it. His fingers clawed at the buttons of your shirt, nearly tearing it open in a frenzy. "What the fuck are you doing to me."

"Matt-" your hands came up, finding his. The two of you had certainly messed around in a lot of questionable places, but the library? At midnight on a weekday? "W-what are you-"

That sentence was abruptly cut short as Mattheo's lips attacked your neck at the same exact moment he slipped a hand through your now unbottoned shirt and roughly cupped one of your tits, twirling his thumb over your nipple. An entire body shudder rumbled through your limbs and the softest of moans escaped your lips, filling the charged air between you.

Music to Mattheo's fucking ears.

"Let me fuck you." It wasnt necessarily a demand but more of a plea. The desperation in his tone was fucking palpable. He sunk his teeth into the side of your neck as he pressed his hips against your ass, the entirety of his erection jabbing into your back. "Let me fucking fuck you."

You gasped, lids fluttering in an involuntary response as his hand switched to your other breast now, kneading and groping and squeezing with just as much fervour, more even. When you moaned again, he growled against your neck, pulling off you momentarily just to spin you around to face him.

His hands seized your hips, pressing you back against the shelf. "What is it, princess? What the fuck do you need from me?"

You scarcely had a moment to absorb the question, accompanied by the raw, desperate vulnerability in his tone, before he surged into action again. Long fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your skirt, while the other hand ascended to your jaw, gently tilting your head back to meet his intense gaze.

"I've been so fucking good, have I not?" His fingers inched excruciatingly slow over your mound, taking his time to tease you for all he could, watching every subtle ministration of your face as he went. "I've stayed out of fights. Haven't partied. I've been so fucking loyal..."

You swallowed, acknowledging the sincerity in his words. Yes, all those things were undeniably true. Mattheo had transformed into a different man in recent times. While you were drawn to him for the chaotic soul he was, the fact that he willingly opted out of party nights to spend time with you hadn't escaped your notice in the slightest.

Mattheo noted your silence. "Was it the drugs? Because you know I quit those."

Long fingers crept toward your slit, one finger gliding along and coating itself in your slick. Gods, if you weren't already fucking dripping for him.

You tried to shake your head. "No, Matty..."

His hold on your jaw tightened as he felt how fucking wet you already were. He snuffed a groan in his throat. How a little fucking Gryffindor could manage to have him in such a chokehold was beyond his comprehension.

"Is it the smokes?" He tilted his head, watching your eyes. "Because, fuck--I'll light every last one into flames right here in this fucking isle. I'll use the ashes to sear your fucking name onto my skin--just give me the goddamn words."

As his finger connected with your clit, drawing quick frantic circles over it, you mewled, your hands squeezing his biceps as your brain could only muster the comprehension to say one fucking word.

"Mattheo-"

"Mhm." Mattheo groaned, pressing his lips to your temple, his hand on your jaw slithering down to clasp a firm hold around your neck. "Yeah, baby, that's my name, fuck...say it again."

His pace on your clit increased, your head spun with carnal lust. Intoxicated. "Mattheo-"

"Yeah, good girl. Fuck--so fucking good." The reply came within seconds, along with the release of your throat, his hand gliding back to tangle in your hair. "Come on, baby, you know I'm not in this for the sex...you know I want way more than that."

If you hadn't already been rendered helpless and speechless from his relentless pace on your clit, you would have scoffed at that. But instead, all you could do was attempt to breathe the words out between your moans.

Your lids squeezed shut, fingernails digging into the fabric of his uniform. "I-I don't know that, actually."

"Fuck." Mattheo dipped low, his finger thrusting into your cunt before you could even realize it had, his thumb continuing the pace on your clit. The way your wet walls gripped his finger as he pumped it in and out of you was enough to send him into pure fucking desperation. He sucked in a deep inhale, gathering himself. "How do you figure that, hm?"

"Because-ah-here you are practically fucking begging me to let you fuck me." Your back arched, your legs trembling. If it wasn't for Mattheo's looming frame practically pinning you against this shelf, you were certain you'd be a pile of limbs on the floor at his feet. "You're just...t-telling me what I want to hear, Matty."

"I'm not." His pace increased, his brows knit tight. He didn't like that response. Not one fucking bit. His lips found your ear, his grip on your hair intensifying. "You don't understand how fucking bad I want you--how fucking bad I want every single last inch of you. Your laugh, your smile, your wit, your heart, your fucking soul. You haunt me every moment I'm awake. Even when I'm asleep you're there, fucking torturing me. I dream about waking up next to you. I dream about growing old with you. I dream about worshipping you, pleasuring you. I dream about pumping this perfect cunt full of my cum. No woman has ever fucking done this to me. I'm insane for you. For fucks sake please let me fucking fuck you princess. I need you so fucking bad. All of you."

"Gods," was all you could say, not a single shred of coherence left in your brain, not as those words bounced around inside your head in rhythmic hums synced with the movement of his fingers. You were right there. "Matt--fuck, I'm gonna cum-"

"Mhm, go on baby," he cooed with a softness that seemed to fray against the edges of desperation, his voice nearly shredding against his vocal cords. How he was keeping himself together was truly fucking impressive. "You're so fucking good for me. Such a pretty fucking pussy, hm?"

"Yours," you breathed out just as your vision blurred, your entire body shuddering around his fingers. "It's all yours!"

A choked gasp slipped from your lips, swiftly muffled by the plush entirety of Mattheo's mouth. His tongue invaded past your teeth, meticulously exploring your gums as if etching the details into memory. The sound of his groan reverberated through you, but it soon became a mere echo as your ears rang and your orgasm charged, coursing through every inch of your being, leaving your head spinning and your body trembling against the shelf.

Mattheo withdrew his lips from yours, sensing the aftershocks of your orgasm rippling through you, sure in the fact you had regained enough composure to remain quiet without his help. He grazed his teeth along your jawline, warm breath bathing your skin as both of you panted in unison, bodies pressed and fighting for breath as he slowly pulled his finger from your cunt and teased over your clit with slow, sensual swirls.

"Let me fuck you," he repeated again, softer this time, his voice a whisper as light as a feather in the air. "You said it's mine...you said this pussy belongs to me."

"Yes," you panted, squirming against his hold as he continued his slow teasing strokes over your clit. "I...I did say that...it does..."

"Mm," his dark eyes lingered over your lips before he leaned in slightly, resting his forehead against yours, erratic breaths intermingling. "Please. Fucking please, let me take what's mine."

Mattheo Riddle had gone by many names over the years; an asshole, a delinquent, a rebel--but a man with manners? A man who'd ever had to beg and plead for something he wanted? That was not something you would have ever included in his description. Seeing him like this, completely and openly vulnerable, did something to you. Something you knew you could no longer resist. This was a man you knew you were willing to take risks for, willing to risk getting hurt for. It'd been fucking months. You wanted him. Just as fucking badly as he wanted you.

"I dunno, Matty," you grinned, unable to fight it off even if you tried. "Maybe you should say please again...maybe you should say it on your knees..."

Mattheo huffed, a groan accompanying it.

"Dirty, dirty little thing..." he whispered, pulling his hand from your cunt entirely now, both hands shifting to your hips, gracing them with a feral squeeze. "You really fucking are mine, aren’t you?"

As Mattheo Riddle dropped to his knees at your feet, you were certain the entire world had faded away. You were certain that time no longer existed and that there wasn't a single other living being in the entire expanse of the universe--all there was, across all existing planes of reality, was you and this messy, curly haired boy at your feet, looking up at you with dreamy chocolate eyes, poised to beg and fucking plead for release from his torment.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," his hands trailed a steady path from your hips down your thighs, squeezing and grabbing every inch of flesh he could. "You know that, right?"

You pulled your lip between your teeth, unable to peel your eyes off this boy before you. He was mesmerizing, In all his glory. Every last fucking molecule of him.

"Yes, Matty..." you breathed, your hands clutching at the wooden bookshelf behind you, steadying yourself. "You tell me a thousand times a day."

"Only a thousand? I was aiming for way more than that." Mattheo hummed, wetting his smirk-adorned lips as he brought his mouth to your inner thigh, softly nipping at it. "Guess I have to step my game up, huh?"

You blinked, pulse pounding in your ears. “I-“

“Please, princess…” Mattheo shifted, snapping himself back to the task at hand, nipping at your other thigh now, his voice so soft you almost missed it. His eyes never left yours. “Fucking hell.”

In one swift movement, his hands gripped your thighs and spread them apart, one leg slung over his shoulder as he brought his lips to your already dripping cunt, placing a vulgar kiss to it, tongue delving into your slit, a trembling groan echoing in his throat when he swallowed your wetness.

Your lungs sputtered, head falling back against the shelf--his eyes, in the pits of perversion, watched you, soaking in your speechless delight while he explored each tiny crevice of your cunt. Bliss built inside of you for the second time, blocks of white hot energy, stacking with every second those velvety, full lips massaged your folds. Your mouth fell in an open pant, your hips rocking into his face--his hands moved, sticking your wrists to your hips as he gripped you there.

You struggled to find your breath--oxygen had left the room--and you squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to keep your moans quiet. Your previous orgasm still had you tingling, the stimulation almost, almost too much--but you found yourself climbing toward your second with little effort. Your eyes rolled back, pleasure crashing over you, tiny moans leaving you while he sucked slowly on your clit, engorged and throbbing at his lips.

"Fuck, Mattheo-" you whined, your nails digging into the flesh of your own thighs as his strong grip kept them pinned there. "I'm gonna-fuck-"

Your core thumped with a demand to cum--Mattheo was reining you to a cliff, your desire a wild animal, bucking with abandon and ecstasy.

"Mhm, that's it," he muttered into your flesh. "Let me fucking taste you."

His tongue swirled over your nub, slipping wet circles around it before he groaned and sucked it hard between his teeth. You wailed, cracked, orgasm gushing through you, a geyser, a cascade of ecstasy that left you quaking, your walls spasming at his chin.

There was no more holding back your moans. "Oh--f-fuck!"

Mattheo swallowed your release hungrily, releasing your wrists and clutching your hips to his head, as if the evidence of your pleasure sustained him, laving at you until you squeaked and jerked from sensitivity. With a satisfied gasp, he released you entirely, slowly rising back up to his full height, watching with tethered emotion while you descended from your high.

Without even giving you the chance to process it, he reached down and swiped two fingers along your slit, collecting your cum before bringing it up to your lips and urging it past your teeth.

"That's what I do to you, baby," he cooed, his eyes far less intense than they were before. His free hand brushed the sweat dampened hair away from your forehead, watching as you wrapped your lips around his fingers and worked them clean. "You like that?"

You nodded, heat flashing your face, and Mattheo groaned appreciatively, slowly pulling his fingers from your mouth. His gentle grip found your chin now, drawing your eyes to his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, "you don't have to-"

You cut him off. "Fuck me, Matty."

Mattheo blinked, and you reached for his belt.

"Please, Mattheo," you clenched, body quaking with need. Even after two orgasms you still wanted more, needed more. You needed him, and now you were the one willing to beg for it. "Please, fuck me."

Almost immediately, Mattheo's eyes darkened, his gaze glossing over with a hunger that spoke volumes far louder than any words ever fucking could. He leaned in slightly, your scent still lingering on his breath.

"You want me inside you? Hm?" He purred, lips grazing over yours. "You want me to fuck you here? Open and exposed for anyone to see?"

You smirked knowingly. The cloaking charm he had cast didn't escape your notice. This boy always had a knack for thinking one step ahead. Yet, the exhilaration of the prospect was just another facet that had initially drawn you to him.

You nodded. "Yes, Mattheo...I need you..."

Mattheo pressed his lips to yours, not wasting another singular second of time as his hands moved to the clasp on his belt, fumbling with it, a low groan escaping him as he pulled his throbbing cock free, gliding his fist over it a few times as his tongue hungrily fought with yours.

Mattheo's hands shifted to your shoulders, spinning you around, your own hands grasping at the shelving in front of you. You felt the warmth of his thick length gliding between your thighs, teasing you, slicking himself in your wetness.

"You're sure you want this?" Mattheo's voice was a soft growl in your ear, his hands grasping at your hips with enough force to bruise. "Fuck, princess, please be fucking sure."

The reaction was immediate. As though he asked you if you needed oxygen to breathe. "Gods, I'm fucking sure, Mattheo. I'm so fucking sure."

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, fingernails digging into your flesh, pulling your skirt higher up your torso. "You've got me so fucked up, princess..."

As he slicked his length over your core once more, teasing your entrance, you whimpered. He was so smooth and silky and fucking big...you knew this was going to sting, even after two orgasms, even after he had you dripping down your thighs. Just that thought alone made your pussy clench, you'd do fucking anything to get him inside of you.

"Mattheo..." you whined, your body tensing with each false thrust. "Stop teasing me."

"Shit,” he breathed, easing the head of his length into you now, before slowly pulling out. "I'm teasing myself, baby...I don't know if I'm going to be able to control myself-"

You groaned, shuddering. "Please!"

Mattheo matched your groan with one of his own, and with one smooth movement, he tightened his grip on your hips, tugging you closer before he drove his dick into your cunt, splitting you open with one deep, slow thrust.

"Oh..." he moaned, paused, froze, entire body seemingly turned to stone. The only outward sign of his consciousness was his rapid breath washing over your neck. "...fuck."

You gripped the edges of the shelf with such intensity your knuckles were pale, doing everything within your power to keep quiet. The feeling of him seated inside you like this was everything you'd fucking imagined it to be. Better even. Your entire body was tense with bliss, your walls moulding around him.

Mattheo's lungs sputtered. "Relax...fuck-relax around me, baby..."

"I-" You weren't sure what he meant, your body trembling, your heart pounding in your throat. "Matt-"

"I'm not going to fucking last," Mattheo growled into your ear, the strain in his vocal cords more prominent than ever. "...if you keep squeezing me like that."

You mewled, head falling back against his shoulder as you fought to suck oxygen into your lungs. Mattheo finally began to move inside you; slow, easy strokes in an effort to give you a chance to adjust, feeling your tight walls relaxing around his thick girth, before he pulled out entirely and slammed back in, stuffing you full, groaning as you pulsed around him with each brief pause.

"Fuck...tight fucking pussy...so fucking wet..." he whispered, lips pressed against your ear. "All fucking mine."

Any ounces of restraint Mattheo had managed to maintain prior to this clearly had now been entirely annihilated as he increased his pace, fucking into you like a savage, as though he'd never get to fuck you again. He panted into your ear, groaning, fingernails bruising your thighs while he hammered your cervix with thrust after thrust after thrust. Sputtered curses left him under his breath and he attempted to silence himself with your neck, biting and nibbling at your throat. You stifled every single noise that threatened to leave your lips, body bouncing with the power of his hips, air hiccuping in your lungs as he pounded you.

"This little pussy is mine...you're mine..." he growled, fingers snaking down and brushing over your clit. "Fuck, you feel so good...I can't believe you kept this from me for so fucking long..."

Rapture numbed you, at the edge of your skin, a typhoon ready to wreck you witless. Your lids fluttered, teeth biting your lip with enough force to draw blood. He was going to make you crack. Make you fucking scream. There was no way you could continue being quiet when he was fucking you this good.

"M'sorry, Matty-" you weren't even sure what you were apologizing for. "So good...so deep...I-"

"Cum for me." Desire had consumed you both, his pace embodying complete desperation, a frenzied, urgent need to bring you both to orgasm. "Cum so I can fucking breed you...pump this little cunt full of my cum like I've dreamed of doing for months..."

Mattheo increased his pace on your clit, thrusts deepening even further--which you didn't even think was physically possible. He was slamming you deep, panting with every snap of his hips, your pussy hot and slick and pulsing with your oncoming climax.

You couldn't hold it back anymore--"Oh Gods-Mattheo!"

You shattered, exploded into flames, spectrum of colour blazing through your mind, a string of sobbing wails fleeing you as pulsed and spasmed on his dick, third climax shuddering through your veins. Mattheo groaned, clamping his palm over your lips as he continued to drill into you, holding off his own climax for as long as he could until he was physically unable to control himself--and he cursed, lungs sputtering as his hips slowed, cock twitching inside you as he poured his cum inside your cunt.

The room itself seemed to shudder, a tremor rumbling in the hardwood until he had finished and slowly pulled out, a deep, satisfied sigh leaving his chest.

After you collected yourself enough you spun around and watched as he tucked himself away, brushing his dampened curly hair back from his forehead. He straightened out, tucking the soft white fabric of his uniform shirt back into his pants before doing up his belt.

The second his eyes met yours, you reached for him. "I'm sorry for making you wait-"

"Don't ever be sorry," he cut you off, pulling you into him and placing a soft kiss on your forehead. "You were more than worth the wait, baby."

[prythianpages]

No One Like You | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Eris and you finally have your talk.

a/n: This is pt 12, a little over 5k. I sure do have a habit of updating this at 1AM where I live lol.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, Eris feels baby kick for the first time (pls lmk if I missed any!)

Eris was nervous to see you.

The anxiety coiled in his veins like wildfire, quick and hot. It crackled beneath his skin, making his thoughts and heartbeat more erratic. He was excited to see you, wanting to see for himself how you were doing. Curious, too, about your bump and whether it had grown since he last saw you.

However, overriding the excitement was worry upon worry. How would this meeting go? You had accepted to see him, to hear him out. A grace he knew he didn’t deserve.

But…what if you still wanted nothing to do with him after?

His hound could sense it too, ears perking as he turned to look up at his master.

“S’okay, Gravy,” he murmured, reaching down to stroke the hound’s head. The gesture soothed him more than it did the animal.

They stood inside a small house nestled within one of the Night Court’s smaller towns. The place was poorly kept—sparse furnishings, dust lining every surface, and an elaborate cobweb in the corner of the sitting room. He wondered if this was a random abandoned house Azriel gave himself access to. Or perhaps, one of Azriel’s properties, remembering his last conversation with Lucien. 

Still, he didn’t think this was your town. There wasn’t even a trace of your scent in the air. He and Gravy had arrived earlier to scout the area. He knew it must be somewhat close to you as he imagined you couldn’t travel far. From his experiences with his mother’s pregnancies, he was aware that winnowing was not recommended past a certain point.

Gravy caught your scent first, a small whimper leaving him. The hound’s entire body stilled, ears flicking forward, muscles tightening with anticipation. Eris’s breath hitched in response.

That’s why he’d brought the hound. 

Well, one of the reasons. 

The hound, though younger than the others, was sharp and intuitive. Loyal in the purest way a creature could be and protective, especially of you. Gravy had followed you everywhere, curling beside your feet at night when you’d stay at the cabin. Even after you left and Eris returned to the cabin alone, Gravy would look past him, eyes scanning the threshold expectantly, tail giving a hesitant wag—just in case you were behind him, like you used to be. 

Eris’s heart stuttered when he finally spotted you.

You weren’t alone. He’d expected as much, though he couldn’t fight the frown at the sight of Azriel beside you. The Shadowsinger kept a hand on your arm, steadying you over the uneven path leading up to the house. The stones were cracked, overtaken by grass and weeds. Eris silently cursed himself for not clearing it earlier.

 The hound paced around, back and forth in front of Eris. A bark of joy bursted from him before he glanced back at Eris, eyes bright with anticipation. “Wait,” he said, hand raised.

Eris moved from his spot in front of the window, a ragged curtain falling back into place. He then walked to the door, Gravy following close behind. He opened it, leaning against the doorway, his arms crossing against his chest.

The bond between you stirred and when he lifted his gaze, he met yours. Your eyes quickly fell down to the hound beside him and his lips curved upwards slightly at the way your face brightened. “Go on,” he said softly to the animal.

Gravy rushed toward you, meeting you at the bottom of the porch steps. He didn’t jump, knowing well to control his excitement. He sniffed at you eagerly, his nose lingering at your stomach. His ears perked, head tilting slightly in recognition of the life growing inside you. The coat you wore was thick but not enough to fool Gravy’s keen senses.

Gently, he nudged your leg and then licked your hand. Azriel’s shadows tensed, circling protectively. They eased up when they sensed your calm and the smile you gave.

“Well, hello there, Graves,” you said, a little breathless from the walk. Gravy leaned into your touch as you softly pet his head. 

The smile lingered on your face as your eyes lifted to Eris’s again but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. Your smile had dulled, the emotion in your eyes complex and body language cautious. It mirrored the turmoil in his own chest. 

Still, to him, you were breathtaking. And he would give anything, everything, to bring back the light he once saw dance in your eyes when you looked at him.

One hand held the porch railing as you climbed the frail steps with slow care. Azriel moved to help but the hound beat him to it, stepping into his path and forcing him to pause. Good boy, Eris thought, not bothering to hide the brief flicker of pride on his face.

He met you at the top of the steps and offered his hand, just in case you needed the extra support. He was surprised, and quietly thrilled, when you actually took it.

“Hi,” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Azriel cleared his throat, a bit awkwardly from behind. Both you and Eris turned to him. “I’ll be around. Call when you want me to come get you,” he said. One of his shadows left his side to go to yours, curling itself around your wrist.

You nodded your head, murmuring a small thanks. Azriel’s gaze shifted to Eris. A glare settling into his features, a stark contrast to the soft way he had looked at you. Eris recognized this glare as a warning–to not try anything. To not hurt you anymore than he already has.

Eris reigned in his anger and annoyance, nodding his head in silent acknowledgment.

Then, Azriel vanished into his shadows. 

**

The air between you was thick, a bit awkward and strained. There was so much to say, a thousand truths jammed behind his teeth, but none of them felt like the right place to start.

Eris’s eyes had not left you for a moment and he couldn’t stop them from drinking in every detail. You had taken off your coat after he lit the fireplace, the warmth slowly spreading through the room. He noticed you hadn’t worn a scarf or gloves and you hadn’t shivered at all outside, which was different. You used to exaggerate over the slightest chill. 

His gaze drifted—he couldn't help it—to the swell of your stomach. The sight of it stirred something visceral in him. Wonder, guilt and longing clawing at his chest and throat all at once. His child, the life you two created, was in there.

When your eyes met again, the words tangled in his throat. Cauldron, where did he even begin? There was no neat explanation. No apology deep enough to span the distance he'd put between you.

You glanced away first, down to Gravy, whose head rested against your knee, jaw slack and tongue poking out as you scratched behind his ear like old times.

“You cut your hair.”

You brushed your free hand through it. “Yeah. It was getting in the way.”

“I like it.”

You gave him a look, unreadable.

He inhaled sharply. “I’m sorry. You didn’t come here to start over with small talk. I—” He faltered, raking a hand through his hair. “I came because I wanted to explain…everything.”

You folded your arms, the same guarded expression from earlier on your face.  “Everything,” you echoed, apprehension furrowing your brow.

Eris hesitated. “Would you like to sit?” 

His voice, so often smooth and confident, sounded unsure. Ridiculous, even. But with you, everything felt unsteady at the moment. You were close enough to touch and yet he had never felt farther from you. He was terrified of making the gap permanent.

You glanced at the room’s single piece of furniture—a battered, miserable excuse for a loveseat. The right end sagged at an odd angle and the padding spilled from torn seams like a wound left to fester. Eris frowned at the sight and, with a wave of his hand, the loveseat transformed into something less scary and more comfortable.

You murmured a small thanks and carefully sat down, Gravy immediately settling at your feet. You and the hound both looked at him as you asked, “Aren’t you going to sit too?”

“Sure.”

Eris took the very edge of the loveseat like it was made of thorns. The last time he had tried to reach out to you, you had shrunk back as if his very presence burned you. The anxiety in him was telling him that if he made the smallest wrong movement, it might send you walking right back out the door. But the loveseat was small, his legs too long and despite his efforts to keep distance, his knee still brushed yours.

It was almost laughable. The way he sat like a stranger next to you, afraid to get too close to the person who once knew him best.

“Relax, you’re acting as though I might bite you.”

The tension in his shoulders eased but only slightly. “Well, you have before,” he quipped, a glimpse of his personality flickering through his awkwardness. “If it makes you feel better, you can. Or order Gravy to. I deserve that and more.”

Something in your expression softened but then your fingers twisted together in your lap.  Eris watched your hands fidget, watched the tremble in your fingers as they twisted the fabric of your dress into knots. His own hands ached with the need to reach for yours to steady them but he held himself back. 

“In your letter, you said you heard what I said to you last.”

“I did.”

“I need you to know that I meant it,” Eris said, his voice gaining back its strength and certainty. “I love you, y/n.”

Your fingers stilled at that. No longer fidgeting, now curled tightly around the folds of your dress like you needed grounding.

“I love you," he repeated. "And I need you to know that my feelings for you came before I knew of the bond. You already had a place in my heart long before then. The Cauldron… it just confirmed what I’d already known.”

“When did you know?”

Eris’s chest rose and fell slowly, drawing the memory forward from somewhere warm and aching. “I knew my feelings for you ran deep the day I took you to the cabin for the first time…“

“And while I was under that mountain, I thought of you every day.” His brows pulled together as the heavy weight of that place surfaced. “You were the only light I could hold onto, the only hope I had. I told myself I had to survive because I had to see you again. And when I came back, seeing you–everything shifted. I couldn’t hide it anymore. I knew you felt it too. Still, I said nothing. I let you say it first and then I—I ruined everything.”

You looked up, your gaze locking onto his. Your eyes seemed to be searching, as if trying to determine if this was another crafted lie of his. As if you wanted to believe him but didn’t dare trust your own heart to lean in fully.

A knot in his stomach twisted at the cautious look on your face. He had broken your trust but he hoped you could learn to trust him again and hear the truth in his words. What you found in his expression must’ve answered some doubt. Your eyes widened just slightly, your lips parting with surprise. 

Because it was true and that meant he had known he loved you for years. Decades, even. Long before Under the Mountain.

“I knew of the bond,” he added, voice gentler now, “the night you confessed your feelings. It snapped for me right after.”

Your expression cracked, pain surfacing in your features like a wave breaking through. A wave that crashed through him as well, stealing the breath from his lungs.  “Then why, Eris? Why did you lie to me that night?” you asked and this time your voice did break. “Why did you push me away? Why–why did you pretend I meant nothing to you?”

The questions struck him like a blade, each one piercing further and further into him. Shame seeped out, thick and hot, flushing across his face and down his throat like poison.

“Because I was scared,” he admitted shakily, his eyes burning. “You told me you loved me and my immediate thought was that you were joking. That you couldn’t possibly mean it. Love is a rare thing to find in Autumn. I had begun to believe it was a fable whispered by fools. But then… there was you.”

His gaze searched yours, reverent and pleading. “I had never felt something so… so all-consuming. You were light and I was darkness. I didn’t know how to hold something so precious, so good without ruining it. Without ruining you.”

His voice cracked, and he didn’t bother hiding it. “I thought if I denied it—denied you—then maybe I could protect you from me. From the court. From everything I’ve become in order to survive in it. From my brothers, my father…”

Eris looked down, resting his head into his hands for a moment. He took a deep breath. “Do you know why Lucien left?”

And why my brothers died, he thought to add. The way you shifted in your seat let him know you knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“I’ve heard rumors,” you replied.

Lucien leaving Autumn so suddenly had caused a shift in Autumn. He’d always been known as the friendlier, more approachable Vanserra. The one people loved and adored and yet after his disappearance, the people spoke little of him. It didn’t take long for rumors to surface–on how Lucien had betrayed some small folk and it had caused an uproar, leading to his brother’s deaths. His brothers had died, labeled as heros for their loyalty to Autumn, but their cause of death was far from heroic.

Your father hadn’t been a part of Beron’s inner circle yet so Eris did not know how much you knew. Those that dwelled within the Forest House did not know the full story but they knew enough to put the pieces together of what the Vanserras had tried to cover up. Beron did all he could to quell the gossip and within weeks, all that happened was nothing more than ashes in the wind.

“They’re true,” Eris said, lifting his head. “There was a time when love was a death sentence in this court. My youngest brother… he’d always been different. Beron never said it outright but he hated that. He let my other brother’s tear into him. Encouraged it, even. So when Beron found out Lucien had fallen in love with a lesser fae, he ordered us to make an example of her.”

He felt the way your body tensed, breath hitching ever so slightly.

“I took no part in it. But my brothers, they…they tortured her. Made Lucien watch and then they killed her. I tried to stop it. Cauldron, I tried. But I was too late. When Lucien broke–when he tried to fight back, they turned on him too. Beron just stood there and then he walked away. He was going to let them kill him.”

His hands balled into fists on his knees, knuckles turning white. “I had barely enough time to help him escape. I sent a message to Spring and that’s what saved him. Though, he thinks I was compliant and resents me for it. That night is among one of the few that has haunted me for centuries…”

Eris fell silent for a moment. That would be a story for another time. He hadn’t told you this for pity. He’d told you so you could understand. So you’d know why love—you—terrified him more than anything else.

He felt a gentle pressure on his hand and was surprised to find yours on top of his. Your touch was light, barely there, but grounding all the same. His gaze flicked down, staring at the soft contrast of your fingers resting against his rough, calloused hand.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” you said quietly.

“In Autumn, love can put a target on your back. You may have been born from a noble family but that wouldn’t have mattered. Beron would’ve seen my love for you as a weakness. And as his heir, I fear what he would’ve done…or my brothers…they’d hurt you just to get to me.”

Anything to see him bleed. Anything to see him fall.

Eris had been there for each of his brother’s births. Held them as infants, watched over them as they took their first steps. As the eldest, he had taken it upon himself to look after them. He tried to shield them from the cruelty of their father. But as the years passed, that bond had rotted.

Greed grew among them like a weed too deep-rooted to kill. One by one, he’d watched them change. Men twisted by power, by ambition, by the hunger to be favored. His brothers could be cruel but that night… that night they turned on Lucien, they proved just how far they’d go for Beron’s approval. For a sliver of higher status.

“That’s why I feared love,” Eris continued. “I would protect you with my life but danger lurks in every corner in Autumn and I feared what would happen to you if I–if I…”

If I slipped, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud. The same way Lucien had. If one moment he blinked a moment too long.

Jayce was always on his trail, always seeking out a tear in his armor. He had taken after Hunter, the brother that had taken it upon himself to find and trap Jesminda. He feared that history would repeat itself.

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze in understanding. “Why didn’t you just tell me all of this?”

There was no anger in your voice. Only a lingering, aching hurt.

“I thought… it would be safer if I pushed you away,” he admitted, ashamed of his foolishness. “I told myself you’d move on, forget about me. That you’d find peace. Live your life happy and safe, even if it meant finding another Lord Debling.”

“And you would have been fine with that?”

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head. “But I told myself it would be selfish to keep you with me. You wanted a family, a safe place to call home. I lied to you when I told you I didn’t want any of that. I, too, yearn for it all. I just didn’t think I could give it to you.”

Eris caught the way you placed your free hand on your belly, over the child growing inside you. The irony of the situation. The very thing he thought he couldn’t give you was already taking shape.

“I’m sorry. For not telling you the truth, for hurting you so deeply.”

“I know a bond doesn’t fix anything. A baby doesn’t fix anything,” he went on quietly, echoing your own words from before. “But when I found out that I left you, carrying my child on your own, I felt like the worst male alive. I had already failed you once. And now…” He swallowed hard. “I didn’t come here expecting forgiveness. I just—I needed you to know the truth. Even if you don’t wish to speak to me, even if you still chose to resent me for it.”

You didn’t respond right away. He didn’t rush you. The seconds passed like hours. The hand on top of his shifted, slipping so that it was now under his. Your fingers threaded with his and you gripped his hand tightly. 

“I could never hate you, Eris.”

Eris’s head turned to you slowly, his expression raw and open. No mask left to wear. Just a male who had made mistakes and desperately wanted to fix them. He brought your joined hands to his chest, right over where his heart thundered like a war drum. “Do you—do you still love me?” 

He braced himself, preparing to be gutted. But then, your gaze softened and he swore he felt your answer through the bond. And when you finally answered him, he felt his world tilt back into alignment.

“I never stopped.”

A trembling exhale escaped from him as he clutched your hand to his chest. Your words echoed in his chest and rang through his bones, chasing away every cruel thought that had taken root since the day he lost you. Relief surged through him so fiercely it nearly brought him to his knees. 

“Let me show you I’ve changed.”

“I believe you and I want to trust you but…” you looked away, blinking as if to hold back tears but one still slipped down your cheek. 

Eris reached for you instinctively, his hand rising before he could think better of it. His fingers paused just before they touched your skin, hesitating. His grip on your other hand loosened, giving you the chance to pull away if that’s what you wanted. But you didn’t. 

So slowly, he brushed the tear away with aching tenderness and gently turned your head back to him. Pain still lingered in your eyes and he desperately needed to know what you were thinking. “But…?”

“It’s not just me anymore. There’s a baby now and this path is unclear. The future feels–it feels uncertain and terrifying. How do I know you won’t push me–push us–away again when things get hard?”

“I’ve fought many battles but none of them compared to the war I waged inside myself when I lost you…,” he breathed, wiping another tear away. “I was so wrong, so stupid and foolishly wrong. I let you slip through my fingers and I realized… nothing terrifies me more than a life without you. A life without knowing this child of ours. I will never push you away again. Loving you is no longer a risk I’m afraid to take. It’s the only thing I know for certain."

"Let me earn back what I broke. Let me become the male you deserve.”

Another pause. Then, more hesitant, “But if… if you’ve moved on, if Azriel is who you want now—I’ll understand.”

You blinked and he swore the shadow still wrapped around your wrist did the same. “What?”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. The way he—” Eris nearly choked on the words. Though he meant them, it nearly killed him to say the following words. “If you’ve found something with him, something that feels safer or better than what I can offer you… I won’t stand in your way. But…” His voice faltered and then he shifted in his seat, moving so that he now kneeled before you. Both his hands now clutched yours in his. “Please don’t keep me from my child. I just want to be a part of their life. Even if I can’t be part of yours.”

Your eyes widened for a beat. Then, to his complete confusion, you scoffed. A sound that turned into a short laugh. “Azriel?” you said, brows knitting together in disbelief. “There’s nothing going on between me and him.”

“Oh,” Eris breathed, too stunned to react properly. “There’s not?”

“No, we’re just friends.”

Eris didn’t bother hiding the relief that bled into his features. His entire body eased, hair ghosting over your stomach as he bowed his head. He let out a small laugh of his own.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“And you're radiant,” he replied automatically, before he could stop himself.

It was instinctual, the words spoken as naturally and easy as breath. It was how the way things used to be between you two. And as soon as they left his mouth, he froze. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not yet. Not while everything still hung so delicately between you.

"Sorry." He cleared his throat, his expression returning to its solemn one from before.

"I forgive you," you then said quietly.

He felt your words in his chest like glowing embers with tender promise. He knew this wasn’t a bridge back to what you had. Forgiveness didn’t mean the path to your heart was clear and open again. And yet… that door you’d cracked open with your letter had opened just a little wider now. It was enough to begin with and he would earn every step back.

“I want you to come back home.”

“Eris, I don’t think I can.”

The longing in your eyes hurt. You wanted to come home. He could see it.

But he also knew why you couldn’t. He was the reason, after all. He knew your family well enough to know that they would not take well if you returned in your current state, pregnant and unwed. Even if he laid claim to you as his mate. The bond would bring you some protection. No one would dare harm you, unless they wanted to invoke a blood duel and only a fool would do so. 

Still, it didn’t mean you’d be any less vulnerable. You would be protected, yes. But not safe. Not truly. Not yet.

“I know,” he murmured, eyes falling shut for a brief moment. “I know you can’t. Not like things are now.”

And his heart broke a little more for that truth.

“I meant what I said.” His voice steadied, low but burning with intent. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life fighting for you, protecting you.”

His eyes met yours, holding your gaze. “And I’m going to start by fixing Autumn.”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, clearly taken aback. Emotion flashed in your eyes and he knew without question that you understood exactly what he meant. It was something the two of you had spoken about before. 

“Fixing?” you echoed, your voice almost afraid to believe it.

“Yes,” he nodded, the fire coursing through his veins burning hot. “I’ll bring peace back to Autumn. I’ll make it a place where hope can be sown and dreams allowed to take root. A place where love can grow..."

Though the weight of that promise settled heavy in his chest, it didn’t crush him. Instead, it steadied him. This wasn’t just a vow to you but to everyone in Autumn too. It was a declaration of war on everything his father had twisted their court into. He was done pretending that cruelty was order, the only way to gain respect. Enough with the silence and enough with the fear.

He’d tear down what Beron had built. Brick by brick, if he had to. He would no longer serve a kingdom rooted in terror, nor would he let your child—his child—grow up in a court where compassion was weakness and power was pain. He glanced down at your stomach again, at the swell of life beneath your skin, and something in him steeled further.

“Eris…”

“I know what it means,” he murmured. “To fix it. I know what it will cost.”

It would mean standing against the very male who had tried to shape him in fire and violence. Dethroning the monster whose blood ran in his veins. But Eris didn’t flinch from that vision anymore. Not now.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back home,” Eris promised. “Meanwhile, I want you to keep Graves with you. I trust him more than most people.”

Most people being Azriel, that is. He didn’t say it outloud. Hearing his name, the hound’s head perked up, tail thumping against the floor. 

“Eris, I can’t just bring a hound back with me. It’s not my home, Rosanna–”

“I’m sure she’ll understand,” Eris gently interrupted. “Please. He’s well behaved and won’t cause any trouble. Having one of my own by your side to watch over you while I’m away, it'd bring me some comfort."

You looked down at the hound, who was now watching you as if awaiting your verdict.

“Fine.”

The corner of his lips lifted ever so slightly. He brought your hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Whether you let me back into your heart or not, I’ll always be there for you,” Eris paused, eyes lowering to your stomach for a moment. “And for them.”

“For her,” you said softly.

Eris felt like his heart stopped.

He looked up sharply, his entire being stilled. “It’s a girl?”

You nodded.

Tears welled behind his eyes, blurring his vision. He didn’t know what to feel, what to think. He felt like he was breaking apart and being rebuilt all at once.

He didn’t know where the two of you stood. Whether you’d ever let him truly return to the place he once held in your heart. But right now, none of that mattered. He would keep trying. What mattered now, was that you were letting him in—letting him be a part of your life again. 

Of her life.

You reached for his hand, lifting it with yours and then, you placed it gently over your stomach.

“And she’s doing well?” he asked, barely able to get the words out.

There was a small shift beneath his hand. So small he almost thought he imagined it. It happened again and his breath caught, his eyes widening in awe. His throat closed with emotion as he stared at your stomach, completely undone.

“That was her, she moved,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he looked up to you. 

“She does that a lot now.” Your own eyes were glassy, lips curved in a small smile. This time, the tears weren’t heavy with sorrow but shimmering with joy.

Eris lowered his head slowly, until his forehead came to rest against your stomach, as if bowing before something sacred. His free hand clutched yours tightly, anchoring him to this moment. To the warmth of you, the presence of her.

His daughter.

He could stay like this, knelt before you, for as long as you'd let him. He closed his eyes and listened, reaching for that fluttering rhythm beneath. His baby's heartbeat. And when he heard it, warmth flooded through his veins, like a flame that whispered softly instead of roared.

His little flame.

She was real. She was alive. And she was already reaching for him, offering the smallest nudge against his head. He pressed a kiss to the space just beneath his hand. 

For the first time in his life, Eris truly understood what it meant to be willing to burn the world down just to make it safe for someone. For her. For you.

He knew what he had to do, his decision already made. There would be no more hesitation. No more waiting. Even if it meant setting fire to everything he’d known…

Even if it meant killing his own father.

a/n: boy, do I love writing conflict but writing some resolution? Not so much lol. Full disclaimer here and don't hate me for it but I don't think I'm going to explicitly write how Eris kills Beron bc I already have a different series where I plan to and I don't know how to make this au different from that 😅 Anyway, there's only like 1-2 parts left of this before it "ends." By that, I mean the end to the main storyline. I do plan to keep writing one shots for this au every now and then bc I've been dying to write girl dad Eris.

Like I've mentioned before, I've been kind of writing as I go, so I'm still conflicted on whether I want the baby to be born after or before Beron's death. Part of me is leaning toward after though. Anyway, as always, I love to hear your thoughts so feel free to leave them below! <3

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamaranci

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ BLOMSTERTID, PART FOUR !

summary :: Centuries-old mage, Y/N L/N, possesses magical abilities unheard of. A few citizens monopolize the remnants of magic they find, of which they now title “Hextech”. Hearsay of this power bleeds through all of Runeterra, until Piltover and Zaun find themselves in an anarchic war to obtain said power. Before Y/N can even blink, however, the humans neglect their plans when they realize they’d rather have Y/N instead.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 10.7k

content warnings :: SPOILERS! obsessive!vi, yandere!vi, yandere!jinx, yandere!viktor, gender neutral reader, alcohol/alcoholism, violence, suic1de attempt, & some s3xual themes (but nothing too explicit).

vi's yandere traits are . . .

ambitious, territorial, & controlling

⋆ ｡ ˚ ⋆ ⸺ When the moon rises and the vibrant world eases, Vi always finds herself dreaming of the same thing. 

She imagines herself beneath a shower of softness, the sight of prickling tears or bruising flesh disintegrating. Even in the height of her childhood, her desires have always been adorned in thick blankets of fluff. Instead of toys and trinkets, it was hopping sheep and tickling feathers. Here, there would be no further need for clenched fists anymore, not when there is tender love. 

To feel the touch of gentle warmth — that is the haunting desire which paints her dreams.

It is a desire that is entirely foreign. A stranger, indubitably. Yet, this hunger is so immense, the mere thought of actually satiating this emaciation causes her stomach to sway. 

Even standing at a high point in Piltover, identity exposed to any lingering pedestrians, Vi does not feel at unease. Beside Mylo, Claggor, and her sister, Powder, the heist they frivolously forged in their heads fails to provoke any nerves within the young girl. If anything, she is fearless, as many have described her as. Not a worried bone in her body.

Slithering into the apartment of a Topsider came with its bumps in the road, but nothing that team could not swiftly smooth out. The mess of golden gadgetry scattered around is framed in an array of twisting cogs and sprockets. Books are spread through the expanse languidly, a few left open and dogeared to certain chapters. A wide chalkboard joins this scientist’s paradise, as well. Scribbled in white chalk are a myriad of mathematical equations she couldn’t decipher even if she cared enough to try. 

With a warning of concern to Powder (and a quick scolding to Mylo and Claggor), Vi sets out by herself and finds an office space nestled at the end of the hallway. The door is of a dark mahogany wood, carved with dark golden frames and intricacies. Oh, to be born so lucky and care for the appearance of a simple door. 

Within, there is a wider variety of books, scattered pages of blueprints, and even a lone, half-eaten sandwich. 

And right in the center of this mess is a figure. 

She cannot articulate how (or even why, for that matter), but the sight of them yanks the breath right from her chest. For the very first time in her tumultuous, violence-induced life, flight-or-fight has become a afterthought. Standing on the threshold, she freezes. 

Bent over the desk is a cloaked stranger. Their fingers, jagged and dark-hued, toy with some electric experiments. The subtle jingle of the jewels and adornments beneath their coat perfuse through the silence. A cloud, almost a halo, suffuses from their form in hues of purple and sapphire. All that is missing is a fluffy pair of wings and Vi would be positive she’s just stumbled upon an angel. 

When they turn over their shoulder to identify the sudden, yet sneaky entrance, she truly feels like she has become a statue.

They are pretty. Frighteningly so. Not in the same vein as the Piltover Pageant Queens, but something entirely beyond that. It is pure and unearthly; something soft, yet gut-wrenching. A whole other universal level of ‘pretty’, she’d describe. And as high and mighty as she carries herself, that stone-hard facade crumbles to baby pebbles when a subtle smile stretches on their serrated lips. 

They stand to their feet, abandoning their efforts with Topside science in favor of her. As they step closer to her, something unknown crawls about in her stomach. That hunger, so comfortable in its withering starvation that the mere scent of nourishment has it itching to sprint away. Still, she remains frozen in dazed wonder. 

It is only when they halt before Vi does the realization settle. She wished she had chased them through that sandstorm. Chased them through any storm, for that matter. She can no longer count on her fingers the instances in which she found her sister doodling that exact face among the walls of the Last Drop’s basement, her hands a permanent stain of old chalk and dry markers. It is simply a sloppy cartoon, she always assumed. But now, it is everything and so, so much more. 

“You may have a good heart, but you must not let it blind you.” 

Wind chimes. 

That is what the voice sounds like, accentuated by summer winds and sprinkling rain.

Wide-eyed like some stupid puppy-dog, all Vi can do is stare as they bring their hand up to her cheek. The heavenly warmth perfusing from their palm meets her flesh and in a flash, her vision is overwhelmed in darkness. Images flood through the shadows, all painting a picture of this stranger. 

They sit beside a river’s edge, peering into the water surface and scrutinizing their appearance in utter horror. Splotches of purple and blue cover their skin, contrasting in varying sizes and hues. Incomprehensible gibberish glitters across their exposed, sparkling skin. Black streaks of dirt and ash leak down their face with the seeping tears. Horrific perfection. 

“Mama…” They whimper, cracked and devastated.

A gasp leaps from Vi’s chest as she is finally granted clarity. 

Her feet fail her in awkward tumbles, before she inevitably falls to the ground. She finds herself to still remain in the office of this rich Topsider, but she is now in complete solitude. The stranger has vanished. Nothing remains in their departure besides the open window panes swinging with the wind. 

They leave the girl no room to digest the fact that every desire of softness and tender touch was just clutched in her palms. Not when it had abandoned Vi as quickly as it was granted to her.

This sense of abandonment festered inside of her for the remainder of an entire decade. 

Desperate endeavors at grasping a sliver of what you had gifted her all prove to be futile, no matter how ambitious the attempt. If anything, the sheer opposite had infested Vi’s life; a pendulum swung ahead to something amazing for only a second, just to remain stagnant on the opposing end for many agonizing years. 

Any effort at forcing that pendulum back, maybe even reforging the events of her memories, only serves as a blunt reminder of what she is now. A pit fighter, of all things; a savage spectacle. All her hands now know is violence.

Large streaks of dirt paint the expanse beneath her eyes. A smudge here, some dusted there — just the same as you, peering at yourself on the reflective surface of the river. And as devastating as the conclusion is, she has no choice but to accept this is what her life was made for.

The only remnant of peace Vi can grasp in this life is within the walls of her bedroom. As artificial as it may be, drinking herself sick and watching her poisoned brain carve fantasies into reality is the highlight of her day. 

Slumped over the thin mattress, she gapes in reverie at the blurry sights of you. Sometimes staring into the cracked mirror, a deity admiring the masterpiece of their appearance. Other times laying right beside her, gentle hands that cannot get enough of her flesh. Maybe even bludgeoning her fists into the punching bag, imagining some lovelorn, teenage-like fantasy of her defending your honor, to where you drown her in praise and gratitude. 

The peace is puny, pitifully so. Yet, is the only drop of fuel pushing her forward through this pathetic life.

And indulging in these visions is exactly Vi’s intentions as she returns to her room after another win in the pit. That is, until she is greeted by a sight that alone is enough to ruin her entire night. 

“Violet.” A smooth accent speaks.

Standing beside her door is a figure dressed in that familiar, irritating gold and blue uniform. Navy-blue hair is slicked back into a ruler-straight ponytail, framing her sharp face, paired with a gun almost as tall as her towering frame.

“Who are you? And how do you know my name?” 

She displays her badge like a shimmering trophy. 

“Commander Kiramman. Leader of House Kiramman. Address me with respect, or keep your mouth shut.” She speaks with direction, chin held high and chest puffed out. Classic Topsider.

“Still doesn’t answer my question.” 

“It’s written on your face.” 

Vi sighs out in defeat, entering her room and grasping a random, half-full bottle from the ground. She lands with an exhausted groan on her mattress.

“So, what is it now? Random search? Escort off the property? Or are you just here to waste my time?” 

The Kiramman follows suit and stands on the threshold, gaze stern as she glares at Vi. 

“I’m here for an investigation. I’m sure you and your people,” She spits out, “have heard of the attack against the council.”

“Yeah.” Vi snickers. “Just means we got a few less Pilties to worry about.” 

The last syllable barely parts from Vi’s mouth before she finds herself staring down the barrel of a gun. 

“I warned you, filthy rat.” 

She merely rolls her eyes at the aggressive gesture. Violence is a second home, after all. 

“Fine. I don’t know shit, alright? Bomb went off, rich people died — I know just as much as the other schmucks in this pit.”

With measured ease, the Kiramman sighs out a breath, folds her gun, and tosses it over her back. 

“We’re looking for Jinx, the criminal mastermind behind the attack. We’ve received several reports of her appearing around this area.” 

She folds her long arms over her chest. 

“Since you are the most prominent figure in this… pigsty, surely you have seen her.”

Vi sneers in response. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I’m too busy trying to keep myself afloat down here. Not that you Topsiders know jack shit about that…” 

She then takes a hardy chug of the alcohol in her hands. As she drinks, the Commander slips her fingers into her back pocket. She unfolds a wad of paper, before presenting it to Vi. 

“Then, do you recognize this person?” 

Cheap whiskey spatters from Vi’s mouth when she registers the contents. Eyes blown wide, she goggles at the sight of your face sketched in almost exact clarity amongst the lined page. A near identical replication of the day she was blessed with the genuine sight. 

The bottle in her grasp is swiftly abandoned in favor of snagging the paper from the Enforcer. A grunt of disdain huffs from her, but Vi is too engrossed in you to care for the disrespect of the stranger in her room. Every intricacy and trace is done with such grace, she may as well have been holding your face in her palms. 

“We are under the impression they played a role in this attack-” 

“No!” Vi abruptly interrupts. “They wouldn’t- You don’t know anything about them…” 

“Well… Whoever is behind it, we believe they are after Hextech. We’re halting all trades until further notice.” 

The words may as well have been background noise to Vi. In one ear and out the other, inevitable when she is met with the most realistic depiction of you she’s seen in years. 

“If it interests you,” The Commander begins, shoveling another item from her pocket. “You seem to know more about Y/N than you let on. And we need as many bodies as we can get.” 

The gold glimmer of an Enforcer badge grasps Vi’s attention. Taunting her, almost. She slaps the badge out of her hands almost as quickly as it was revealed, the metal clinking with the several empty bottles left languidly in the corner. 

“Fuck. You.” Vi seethes, her grasp still latched to the paper in her hands. Possessive is her disposition.

Nonetheless, the Kiramman remains just as stone-cold as she was when she first waltzed into the room. She does not utter another word before she leaves Vi to herself, her offer still plaguing the silent air.

Vi’s back hits the mattress with a hard thump. Paper still in hand, she stares into the etchings as though you were truly here beside her. Terrifying perfection.

It is that very perfection that sat Viktor here in the first place.

Right beside his partner before the city's councilors, who all look down at him as though he were a muck-covered stray at their doorstep. 

Piltover has never been his home, nor has its people accepted him as. The only home he has ever been granted full claim of is you and the paradise that is the sanctuary you’ve cultivated. Now, that serenity has been robbed straight from his hands; he was granted a second of heaven and nothing more. And it is torturing him more than he is willing to admit. 

Viktor’s disposition alone does all the confessing necessary, however. Urgent conversations from the councilors are drowned out by the forlorn, cry-ridden mold seeping through his mind. What was once soul-crushing anguish is now simply nothing. A hollow numbness that permeates his entire being; a deep pit that could only be filled by you.

Some frantic entity within him desperately latches onto any loose thread of yours he can find, but any breath of you is merely a figment of his imagination. No matter how hard he may fight and thrash, the truth still bludgeons its bruised, bloody fists into his form: Viktor was not strong enough for you. And without you, there is nothing else in this life that interests him.

“If the Under-City possesses even a sliver of Hextech, this could only result in-” 

“It is not the Under-City you should concern yourselves with.” Viktor interrupts. “It is Jinx who is the problem.” He snarls her name like he is spitting out rotten food. 

All attention is forced to Viktor, but his gaze remains far and distant. His thoughts have lost themselves in an open field of torturous disarray. 

“How are you so positive this is the effort of a single individual?” Cassandra questions him. “How do you know this Jinx you speak of is not working with others?” 

A sneer itches at his lips. 

“That rat stole Hextech directly from my hands. She will stop at nothing if it is for the sake of Y/N.”

“You speak quite highly of this… Y/N.” Mel Medarda inserts herself into the discussion. “Seems to me they hold some imperative power. Am I mistaken?” 

“They are of utmost importance. Y/N is an absolute necessity.” 

Whether this imperativeness is for the sake of Piltover or himself, he isn’t sure. Still, he will lay his deepest feelings bare for all the Councilors to judge and belittle if it means bringing you home. Viktor is now miles beyond desperation and this new sensation frightens him to no end.

“Power that Jinx could want, perhaps?” 

Viktor shakes his head in disagreement. “No, no. These… feelings Jinx has for Y/N tread deeper.” 

“You propose Jinx is possibly in love with Y/N?” Mel inquires further. 

“I believe Jinx thinks she is in love with Y/N, but it is merely insincere. No, a creature like her will never amount to anything worthy enough for Y/N. They are simply too…” 

A soft fog drapes over his expression. 

“Resplendent. Brilliant a-and radiant. An angel we have been-” 

“I think what my partner is trying to say is… Jinx is a problem that needs to be promptly addressed.” Jayce rescues Viktor from the social-suicide he was seconds away from committing. 

This does not save him from the ghost of his memories plaguing his body, however.

In the clap of a second, Viktor has returned to the scene of the crime: within the whorls of your beloved sanctuary. That laughter, that haunting laughter, pervades through his memory like a thrashing storm. Perfusing into every corner of his mind, granting the tortured man no possible room for clarity. And so enchanted with the moment, Viktor does not attempt to fight the urges his body indulges in before his eyes are rolling back and he’s leaning in to kiss you. 

Before your lips can meet in a music-swelling moment of bliss, an abrupt explosion penetrates through the air. The romantic scene is brought to a record-scratching halt and instinctively, Viktor leaps to protect you from the sudden intrusion. A fraction of his mind curses him for not discerning the threat sooner. He’d be a stronger knight if his monarch weren’t so damn hypnotizing. 

The swarming fireworks are soon engulfed by the encroaching of smoke bombs, erupting the once breathtaking environment into hazy clouds of purple, pink, and blue. Viktor does not hesitate before sacrificing his body as your shield, tackling you to the ground and ensnaring himself around every inch of flesh he can reach. 

Just as he begins to drown you in relentless assurances of his protection, his devotion, how he’ll never abandon your side, the rampant chorus of footsteps then accelerate behind him. 

In a flash of blue braids, he is knocked out cold.

When Viktor wakes, he discovers himself motionless in a pool of his own blood. Through his dizzy gaze, the colorful smoke has eased and the sun has reached its highest point. A bitter silence has now overwhelmed the air. Nonetheless, the only thought present in his mind is you. 

He searches through the havoc to no avail, dragging himself to his stuttering legs to further search his surroundings. Limping forward, every nook and cranny present is scrutinized by this crazed man, prayers of finding your face drifting from parted lips. 

The frightened villagers have all scurried to their homes, barricading the doors and windows with any fragment of protection they can garner. Cowards, Viktor mutters to himself. There is no force in the universe that could restrain him from ensuring your safety. He would tear mountains asunder just to see a smile stretch on your face.

Abruptly, Cassandra Kiramman is what halts Viktor’s trip down memory lane. 

“We cannot ignore the possibility that Y/N may be working alongside Jinx. What proof do we have that tells us otherwise-?” 

The snap! of Viktor’s cane splitting into two permeates the room’s expanse when he slams it against the desk edge. 

“You keep their name out of your filthy mouth!” He spits out, wild and enraged. “There is no boundary I will not cross if it means being united with my spouse! Be it another bomb from that blue-haired mutt, I will persist through all-!” 

In the matter of a second, a violent force crashes into the room and several councilors are killed beneath its weight. 

Viktor, horrifyingly so, is almost among those several. Not with the desperate enforcement of Jayce Talis, who rushes him to the lab to treat his fatal injuries.

And this very lab is where Jayce has remained for the past several days he has lost count of. 

His partner remains stagnant in the mess of Hextech, opalescent strings of gooey sludge enmeshing his unconscious body. Meanwhile, Jayce scrutinizes every etch of Viktor’s journals, searching for some antidote that will wake him from this magic-induced coma. Though, the most redundant theme in these scientists’ notes is the etchings of the same face, sketched over and over again in an obsessive harmony. 

Jayce’s fingers drift among the surface of the page, dragging his gentle touch among the curves and shading of their paper face. He can understand why Viktor is so enthralled by them, as they are evidently, heart-wrenchingly beautiful. But, Jayce is not an easy man. Thus, he does not waver for the artistic works of a man head-over-heels. He’ll just choose to ignore the strange pit in his stomach every time he recalls Viktor using the word “spouse” in regards to them.

“We need to begin preparing ourselves for a full-scale invasion.” 

Caitlyn Kiramman announces herself abruptly as she struts into the room. 

Upon this intrusion, Jayce slams the journal shut as though he were caught by his mother sneaking sugar before dinner. He cannot put a finger on the reasoning behind such a culpable reaction, but he digresses to accommodate her presence, anyway. 

“You’ve taken this time to secure Hextech, I presume?” 

She rounds the corner, but her determined strides reach a sudden halt upon finding the sight of Viktor. For just a moment, there’s a glimmer of emotion in Caitlyn’s expression. Brief, albeit, but its existence had prevailed fleetingly, nonetheless. 

“He’s breathing. That’s… That’s all I know.” Jayce mutters.

Her weakened attitude is swiftly replaced by her habitual, stiff disposition. Chest and chin held high, she continues. 

“There is no use dwelling on these matters. Not when the Under-City is potentially planning another attack.”

Exhaustion getting the better of him, Jayce scoffs at her persisting suggestions, rubbing the ache in his temple.

“Cait, I already told you. I promised Viktor. You can’t just go down there, guns-a-blazing-!” 

“And I have told you, Jayce, this is no longer up for debate. Jinx has proved herself to be an extraordinary threat. Now, we have proper reason to believe Y/N is, too. It is absolutely imperative these threats are located and neutralized.” 

Caitlyn glares daggers as she awaits his response. Jayce has been rendered speechless, however. The hopeful plans he formed for this nation a decade ago have all crashed and burned in a violent matter of seconds. He has found himself at a complete loss, no successful direction on this plane to resort to. All due to this Jinx character. Now, potentially, this beautiful stranger, as well.

Stuck within his inner turmoil, Caitlyn perceives his silence as an answer. She turns her shoulder and takes a single step toward the door.

“Let me try talking to them.” 

This grasps her attention.

“You… You wish to speak to Y/N? Why?” 

A confession of what lies in Viktor’s journal bridges on his lips, but he halts the efforts of his honest tongue. 

“I, uh…” Jayce gulps nervously, but conceals the motion with a forced cough. “I believe I can crack through them. If I can talk to them, I may be able to predict Zaun’s next attack.”

Caitlyn merely gapes at him in utter bewilderment, stammering over herself before she can properly articulate her puzzled thoughts. 

“That is vacuous! Our knowledge of Jinx is weak, yes, but Y/N is an utter stranger! A monster, at that! You’d be throwing yourself into uncharted waters, Jayce, you cannot be-”

Her expression drops from scrunched confusion to bitter offense when she realizes the intent behind his lies. He refuses to meet her eye and maintains his vision to the glossy floors. Ashamed, but he will not admit such. 

“What will Miss Medarda think of that? Hmm?”

Her tone is low and cautionary. A gentle threat, subtly jabbing at her new privileges as a respected councilor member.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. The sake of Piltover is most important.” 

The thinly-veiled lie provokes a sharp, dry laugh from Caitlyn. It is her final response before she promptly takes her leave.

Another powerful figure of the Upper-City has been claimed by this all-engrossing outsider. That being one of the closest friends she has ever known. This creature will surely claim more, unfortunately, but Caitlyn will not allow them to possess her. 

She will stop at nothing to bring this devil to their feet. No matter what it takes.

Down under, thundering music and flashing lights dance around Vi. Slumped over the ragged surface of the bar, the ache of alcohol hammers her messy mind. Her pockets are heavy with the coins she earned from another win in the pit, but her senses may as well have been melted to jelly with how much intoxication she has poisoned herself with. Just another night spent resorting to whatever means necessary to forget, the bartender knows all too well.

Tonight, however, another heavy-weight worry has been tossed onto the pile of thousands. 

“Me? An enforcer?” Vi chuckles at the prospect alone. “The peanut patrol can suck it, for all I care!” 

Another mouthful of liquor burns her throat as it descends. 

“That Piltie-bitch wouldn’t know Y/N if they punched her in her dumb face, heh!” 

Her bruised, calloused hand lazily grasps hold of her cheek, the very way you did all those years ago. A glance over to the busy dance floor and her evening intentions have found success. There you are, your cloaked figure like a sore thumb among the other partygoers; a scene so out of place, it is almost comical.

“Y/N…” 

With liquid courage working its wonders, she has an unbearable urge to shuffle over to you, collapse against your form, and pour her heart from her ribcage straight into your palms. The confession would be drunken and disgusting, stained in inky reverence and muddy worship. Yet, perhaps you’ll be so moved by this passionate declaration, you’ll let her drag you back to her room and-

“Sheesh, kid. Back at it again?” 

She’d let out a groan if her body had the energy to do so. 

Loris, a regular in the audience, sits himself beside her. Or, ‘Wannabe-Vander’, as she has jokingly titled him after one too many shots. 

“What’s ‘yer diagnosis this time, ‘ey? That ‘Y/N’ ‘yer still caught up on?” 

Her languid arm attempts to shove him away in her drunken state. Maybe sock him in the face for speaking of you so passively while she’s at it.

“Shut up… Dick…” 

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get ‘ye home.” 

His arms lock under hers and lift, bringing Vi to her wobbly legs. Reluctantly, she follows his guide. Her eyes are locked to the fuzzy hallucination of you with every step out of the bar.

The sight of the flags with the enforcers insignia threaded into the fabric is a brutal reminder of life without you present. 

“Enforcer… Fucking joke…” 

The thought alone puts a nauseating taste on her tongue. Do Top-Siders really think they can cast out their own people, only to return and take their pick of the litter? Despite all the inevitable disappointment their behavior elicits, Vi still finds herself in the same insufferable fits of rage with every action they take. Every damn day it seems they test her patience. Now, they’ve taken one step too far, from military stomps to an all-too aggressive, annoying intrusion.

Vi splats face-first into the firm plush of her mattress. Loris speaks, most likely a farewell, but the rampant ringing in her aching head fails to discern his words. The door closes with a clunky click and just like every other night, Vi is all alone. The air may be hollow and heavy, but her mind is alive with the softness she only touched once. 

“Y/N…” 

If it is true, if you are really out there somewhere and not just a pretty figment of a teenager's wild imagination, she cannot decide how to feel. She is at an odd juxtaposition between an ecstatic light and a lonely darkness. All those isolated nights, drunken ramblings, and savage bar fights — why weren’t you there to stop her again? All she has known her entire life is pain, why can’t you mend it the way you did all those years ago?

Even after all this buzzing noise, those words still echo in perfect precision. 

“You may have a good heart, but you must not let it blind you.” 

And to this day, she hasn’t a clue how this adheres to her life. 

‘Good heart’ this, ‘good heart’ that. It is what the most imperative figures in her life have told her. You, however, were different. You were a warning, a feather-touched glimpse into the brutality of her future. Swarming in like a steel crane, bludgeoning the walls she’s spent her entire life forging brick-by-brick.

A strangled gasp dances into the silence when the revelation hits. 

These walls have blinded her. That is why you are not here beside her! You must have attempted plenty of times, but the sheer girth of these walls has drowned out any call of her name. Vi was far-too engrossed in maintaining a tough, take-no-shit disposition and neglecting her need for gentler things. Neglecting her need for you, wherever you may reside beyond these thick layers. And this epiphany is shattering.

The Enforcer badge abandoned in the corner of the room calls out to her. A symbol of power and privilege, just beyond her touch. What was once something that churned her stomach by just a mere thought has now transformed into a golden, glimmering opportunity.

That navy-haired Commander, whatever her name was, seemed to know you extensively. Far more than Vi is comfortable with. Maybe if she bites her tongue and wears the badge, she’ll know just as much. Maybe if she leaves this pit, she'll know more than anyone ever has. Maybe if she crosses the bridge, she’ll obtain the proper resources to track down the love of her life.

Maybe, if she joins the Enforcers, she can leave the pigs a breadcrumb trail away from you. Then, just maybe, she can return some of that softness you gave her.

If one thing is abundantly clear, blue and gold are not Vi’s colors. 

That is a coherent understatement Vi is acutely aware of now, standing beside the Piltie’s who destroyed her life as their equal. Here, they utilize what they call ‘The Grey’ as a weapon against the people of the Under-City. Green puffs of poison perfusing from every possible angle, the place she has titled home is now reminiscent of a battlefield. 

Every building drowns in the gas, mere figments of shapes beneath its thick haze. ‘WANTED’ posters of this ‘Jinx’ character are engulfed in this matter, too. Respected members of the Chem-Barons are now left in languid messes of bodies, some dead while others gag and cling to life. The people of the underground deserve to breathe, until one of them is a bomb-wielding maniac. 

“We’ll begin in the Lanes then down to the Slums. Remember: if there is a clear shot, you may open fire, but it is I who will deliver the final blow. No matter Jinx or Y/N. Understood?” 

A series of “Yes, Commander”’s are mere squeaks against the booming authority of Caitlyn Kiramman. With a Hextech-powered gun in hand, she confidently guides several Enforcers through the quiet city.

Vi, amongst the several, feverishly scrutinizes through the green gas for even a prick of you. She is no longer blind; the mask has finally been torn from her face. As she concluded, it is surely only a matter of time before you come barreling out of the smog and into her embrace, there to never part again.

It is when their team passes an alleyway that her attention is garnered. 

The space is overwhelmed in green fog, but through the silent murk is a noise. It is a quiet sound, like skittering paws. Restrained coughing, almost. That sound is not foreign to the Under-City, an expanse overwhelmed with disease and infection. For reasons Vi cannot decipher, though, this is different. Familiar, she could further detail. 

The others have continued countless paces forward as she stands and studies the intricacies of the sound. Classic Topsiders leaving the Zaunite in their dust, once again. Vi does not take the rare moment of Enforcer eyes off of her for granted, however, and ventures into the alleyway. 

The sounds that once allured her have now been overwhelmed by her own rampant breaths, intensified within the barriers of her gas mask. Hope has consistently preceded betrayal over the course of her life, so she does not dare let your name touch her tongue. It still resides in her chest, however, where you have always lived. Calling out for you with every thundering beat of her heart.

When Vi rounds a corner, something juts out through the poisonous clouds. Anxiety thrashes inside of her, but she does not dare to halt her efforts now. When she takes a single step closer, her entire world plummets. 

Hidden behind an array of old barrels is no other than you. 

And just like that, the war is over.

Guns stretching into red-painted arrows mending broken hearts. Gunpoint threats overcome with strong declarations of devotion. Gunpowder residue building to form dust bunnies of a home well-loved. Gunshots easing to soft breaths of tranquility on a gloomy morning. Gunmen’s savage hands healing through bandages to fur-soft touches. 

Salvation has found its way directly to her doorstep, wrapped in pretty bows of purple and blue. The war is finally over and Vi can barely tolerate the rush of rapture now pumping through her bloodstream. 

You’re huddled into a ball, nearly nude and nothing short of terrified. Puffs of purple and blue spark from your palms in your effort of summoning your powers, but the sudden surge in strength from before has now run dry. Your attempts at shielding your coughing fit is futile, as well, evident in the second presence now towering over you. And it takes every fibre inside her to restrain herself from tackling you like some feral, emaciated animal. 

It is fate, purely. A few chapters late, albeit, but finally inked down in all of its beautiful, annihilating colors. You gifted her wisdom many years ago. Now, it is her turn to utilize her own wisdom to protect your precious life.

“Oh, Sweetheart…” 

Vi is swift in ridding herself of her gas mask to place it over your head instead. The relief in your expression is immediate when you are finally granted a gasp of clean air. 

It does not go unnoticed by Vi, either. She hadn’t realized she had placed a hand on your bare shoulder, but feeling your muscles ease beneath her touch has her releasing a shaky breath she wasn’t aware she was choking on. As though this was normal; as though neither of you had spent a single day apart from each other's side. Partners until the end of time, she muses, your paths and hands woven together with the universe’ needle and thread. 

Her lover. The thought alone sends a hot tickle up her spine. Lovers. 

Vi suppresses the gags induced by the gas in her elbow, while her other hand caresses the skin she has only dreamt of touching. Any turmoil hurled her way is now a cake-walk with your touch beneath hers. 

So engrossed in the whorls of you, in fact, it is only now does she take further notice of other fractions of your physicality. Some vibrant smudges are written on your forehead. “KISS ME, JINX!” is drawn in a blaring demand. Beneath the beautiful face, now covered in a thick mask, is an adornment around your neck. “Property of JINX!”, a warning threatening others off claimed territory.

It is a revolting collage of obsession, one that informs her without words how Jinx is the only threat present here. It could never be you, the pinnacle of tranquility. Too perfect to ever force harm. This Jinx, however, is a different story.

The memories then strike like cold water. 

Powder’s insistence of “the stranger” being taken alongside Vander, despite Vi’s assurances that they are nothing more than a fictional fantasy (a territorial motive on her end, she’ll admit). The relentless collision of blue magic that took the lives of almost everyone she held close. The quiet hope that somehow, you’d persevere through the wreckage and mend the impossible wounds.

Then, there was the red-hot rage ensnaring around her every action. Violent hands that swore to never touch family have done exactly so. “You’re a jinx!” erupting from her throat before she can measure the consequences. The enraged paces away, abandoning the only family she had left in ash. Stumbling upon the pit, where Loris took her under his wing. The place she has resided in for an entire decade.

“Please…” 

And then, there was you. The essence of her wistful dreams; the only light present to protect her from the monsters under her bed. Now, plunging your hands into her chest and claiming her soul as yours, once and for all.

“Do not hurt me…” 

You may as well have clutched her heart in the process, too. The thick, gooey chunks of the red organ stuffed beneath your fingernails.

Placing harm on you will never be a possibility. Like an ocean without water, a galaxy without stars, a pair of hands without touch. It is a prospect that simply does not exist. And it kills her that you think it does.

“You think I wanna hurt you, baby?” 

As though she were approaching a feeble, wounded animal, Vi slowly shuffles closer to where you sit. Her arm slithers around your shoulder, your touch igniting a flurry of goosebumps down her flesh. 

The puny strength your body conjured to plead for your life is soon snuffed out. Your heavy vision droops and you fall unconscious, coincidentally landing against the chest of Vi. And of course, in typical Vi fashion, her mind reaches the conclusion of you doing such from the comfort you find in her embrace. Not a second more is wasted before she is scooping you into her strong arms. 

“Sweet thing… Nothing’s gonna hurt you…” 

She presses a kiss to your temple. Electric, warm bolts tickle her lips upon contact. 

“’Never gonna let you out of my sight again…” 

Bringing herself to her feet, Vi adjusts your position in her arms and sets off into the night. Eager to embark on this new chapter where she indulges in the sweetest blessing she’s ever received.

The twists and churns of your stomach is what welcomes you when you first awaken. Voices dance in an echoing synchronization, impossible to discern in your weakened state. Specks of your vision return in short spurts which reveal nothing more than swaying purple lights through a maze of darkness. 

“Aww, shucks, birdie! Just can’t stay away, can’t ‘ya?” 

The familiar tones have you thrashing about in a new state of adrenaline-induced clarity. You frantically search for those blue braids you know too well, but find no sign of the criminal mastermind. What you do find, however, is another figure rushing to your side. 

“Easy, Sweets. Just you and me here.” 

Violet sits beside where you lay and her hands are on you in record speed. The Enforcer uniform she has draped around your form does not protect you from her greedy touch, with her caressing any fraction of you she can clutch in an attempt at comfort.

“What a mess you have become, child. What would your father think seeing you in such disarray?” 

The sudden perfusion of a voice you have not heard in centuries yanks a sob from your chest. It is met with even more loving affections from the persistent presence beside you. 

“Why did you abandon me…?”

Vi gapes at you in response. Tears prick at her eyes and her bottom lip begins to wobble — sensations that have become strangers over the past several years. She doesn’t grant herself a moment to even consider what this “abandonment” is before she’s adorning you in fervent reassurances. 

“I…” She stammers. “I would never leave you behind! You’re the only reason I’ve stayed in this fucked-up city in the first place. I promise you, sweetheart, I’m not blind anymore.” 

The intensifying ache in your stomach drowns out her remaining words. It is then you realize this sudden illness poisoning your body must be at fault for the excessive blood intake during your stay in Jinx’s lair. It is surely the reason behind such painful visions, too.

Rest is an imperative necessity now, but you will not ease until you have returned to the safety of your sanctuary. And you will certainly not rest in the arms of the girl you have not thought of once in an entire decade. 

You can’t even grasp how you are supposed to confess how the “blindness” you spoke of was in relation to her father, not yourself. On the rare instances you leave the expanse of your sanctuary, you reserve a fraction of time to help outside citizens. Young Violet amidst her Piltover heist were among those citizens. It is only now do you realize the consequences of your kind actions.

The hushed pitter-patter of boots outside are soon met with the intrusion of a smooth tone. 

“Retreating down to the Slums? Makes sense for someone of your kind.” 

Vi’s immediate acknowledgment and panic tell you this is not another cruel trick your brain is forcing onto you. She then parts from your side, concealing a half-broken bottle behind her back before she faces the unwelcome visitors. Her figure passing through the crooked threshold is the last thing you see before you doze off, once again.

“Does it matter? I’m following orders, Commander, am I not?” 

A stable lie has always come easy to Vi. This is a tool she swiftly abuses in the heat of the moment, a skill that is more imperative now than ever before.

“Without your badge, I see?” The Kiramman fires back. 

“Heh, this is the problem with you Topsiders. You only look at shit from a surface level. Never had to dig your hands in the dirt like the rest of us.” 

Caitlyn’s fingers tighten around the gun swung over her shoulder. 

“Is that so?” She further challenges. 

“’The fuck else would it mean?” 

The Commander allows a silence to settle, stalking the nervous tics and twitches within the newest Enforcer. Soon to be former, but Caitlyn doesn’t mind allowing this mutt to run around in circles. 

Always straight-faced, Commander Kiramman sends out her next demand. 

“Search the grounds.” 

The panic that ignites in Vi’s eyes is nothing short of delicious. If it weren’t for the purpose of maintaining her image, Caitlyn would allow herself to smile in response to the all-mighty pit fighter’s horror.

The bottle she successfully hidden then barrels through the air, puncturing into the skull of one of the several Enforcers. Their death came as quick as the bottle was thrown, landing on the ground with a harsh thump. 

A flurry of gunshots ensue, all of which Vi manages to dodge. All she has to defend herself is her fists, which has been the weapon she has used for as long as she has lived. With ease, she is able to disarm the surrounding Enforcers and beat them into bloody pulps. Never has Vi been one to bend over easily. And that is certainly the case now with her forearms drenched in warm blood, blue-and-gold dressed corpses littering her path.

However, there is one missing. Through the enraged chaos, Vi cannot find the Commander amongst the mess of bodies. With the door to her childhood home wide open, she feels her stomach cave into itself. She clumsily scrambles to her feet and rushes into the dilapidated building, eyes wide and crazed as she enters.

The Kiramman is nowhere to be seen, and horrifyingly so, neither are you. All that is left of you now is the Enforcer jacket she blanketed you in.

A roaring scream bruises Vi’s throat raw as she collapses to the dirt. Tears mend with the mess, seeping down her face like they never have before. There is no torture like being so close to having everything, then having it torn from your hands in the matter of seconds. That is a reality Vi will do anything to destroy.

Never in the thousands of years you have been alive did you ever consider the possibility of being arrested. 

One of the most powerful creatures in Runeterra has now been locked in a cage. You would laugh at the prospect alone if your body weren’t so weak. The stiff, cold surface of the cell bed you’ve been thrown upon does not aid this sickness, either. Neither does the boisterous complaints of other inmates and clanking metal bars. 

Despite the rampant pounding using your brain as its drum, you’re insistent on staying conscious. No matter how torturous reality may be. Soon, you assure, you’ll be back beneath the warm blankets of your sanctuary, a steaming bowl of soup and cup of tea greeting you first thing. This adventure will be nothing more than a silly story to tell your beloved villagers.

It is when you glance out of your cell do your thoughts come to a halt. 

Through the thick bars of the cell before yours, you find doe-like, honey-gold eyes staring at you in complete wonder. Her gaze is almost shielded beneath the messy mop of chestnut-brown locks atop her head. The fearful tears glimmering in the corner of those eyes prick at your heart, as well as the chubby cheeks already stained of her cries.

A little girl, in a place like this? What measures has Runeterra resorted to while you were sitting cozy in your palace? 

“Oh… Hello there, little one…” 

Your coo is quiet amongst the calamity of the prison, but the young girl latches to your words, nonetheless. 

“Would you like to see something magical, perhaps?” 

Her attention, already captured, is now thoroughly piqued as she eagerly nods her head. Her tiny fingers grasp the rusted metal of the cell bars, impatiently awaiting your next move. 

Normally, in a healthier state, you’ll entertain the children of your village by forging shapes from these clouds. From cranes and flowers to blimps and dinosaurs, it never fails to put them in a state of awe. With your stomach still swaying with blood, the best you can muster is a few fireworks that lazily dance from your palms.

Despite the (in your opinion) pathetic performance, the little girl brightens with excitement, her hands clasped around her cheeks in amazed shock. For the first time in weeks, just about, you smile with her. Raw and real, just the way it is back in your sanctuary.

Like clockwork, that happiness is robbed from you when a certain somebody makes their presence known. The sight of the little girl is blocked by the bulky figure of Vi, who stares down at you in your cell as though you were served as the main course at tonight’s feast. 

“Don’t get too excited, sugar.” She muses, tone slow and greedy. A timbre you know all too well. 

A few metal clanks and twists of her hand, the cell slides open and grants this lovesick monster full access to you. Her gaze is predatory as she locks the cell shut behind her, unblinking eyes never parting from yours. An evident fire burning inside her that not even the most violent of oceans could extinguish.

“You think that stupid Kiramman is gonna be enough to keep me away?” She laughs mockingly at the idea alone. “Took some pathetic groveling to get back here, but I have a few ideas of how you can make it up to me.”

You curl into yourself, knees pressed to your chest as though it could conceal you from the hungry mouth drooling to sink its sharp teeth into you. This effort is merely futile as Vi wastes no time in sitting down beside you, calloused hand beginning to massage the juts of your knee. 

“Violet…” 

A warmth blooms in her chest at the sound of you cooing her name; the only noise she’d ever want to hear first thing in the morning, replacing the hangover-buzz diluting the demands to prepare herself for another fight. 

“I worry for my people. Please, I insist! I must return home-!” 

A finger pressed to your lips and you’re silenced. 

The sly grin slithering onto her face is impossible to avoid, as well. Evidently giddy over the concept of having such control over you. You also do not fail to notice the way she subtly nudges that finger against her mouth. A sloppy indirect kiss, you presume. Even though he was such an ephemeral figure in your life, it might as well have been Viktor sitting beside you with such teenage-like antics. 

“You don’t need to worry about all that right now, sugar. No monster is gonna get you while I’m here.” 

A hand to your shoulder and you are swiftly tugged into her embrace, the same way a python ensnares itself against defenseless prey. Your body feels like that of a stranger when the action causes lethargy to perfuse through your whole body.

With your head on her chest, one thought remains persistent as you drift to sleep for the umpteenth time.

This is really getting irritating.

“Well… It all went to shit.” Jinx admits in defeat. “Didn’t it, Birdie?” 

The nightlife has now overwhelmed all of Zaun, but Jinx remains on the outskirts in complete isolation. She passes the countless posters adorning her face in favor of treading mindlessly. She has no intended path in particular. Anything to keep her moving; anything that will outrun the demons that lurk in her path. 

Her hair drags through the sand as she walks the edge of the lakeshore, feet bare to the jagged litter and broken glass shards. The water is frigid, to a painful degree, but she cannot find it within herself to pay any mind to the matter. Not with you gone, no. Nothing matters with you far from her side. 

Footsteps drum from behind her, but she does not dare to turn. She is perfectly aware of what prowls in the darkness. 

Mylo, in his state of a decomposed, neon-adorned apparition, breaks through the thick silence. 

“What did I say? Like always, you find a way to jinx everything. Jinx.” 

His teasing remarks do exactly as they intended: sink deep beneath her skin. Almost, she turns to snap back at his insult, but she manages to halt herself. After all, none of it is real, and surely you do not wish to date someone whose sanity is several blows away from shattering beyond repair. 

It is when Claggor joins the party does she nearly crack. 

“Did you really think they’d settle for someone like you? Come on, you knew it was a bad idea from the start.” 

Her nails dig into her hair, attempting to shield her ears from the rampant abuse. You wouldn’t settle, you’re not like that! No, you’d love her, you were so close to learning how to! It was those stupid Topsiders who rid two innocent lovebirds of that chance! And that scientist, that bones-y creep! Couldn’t get it up for you and had to snag you away for a round two! 

“Y/N, hoo! That’s a catch you don’t find too often. Don’t think it’s somethin’ you can hook, kid.” 

Vander’s thick accent seeps deep into her bones. Jinx’s clenched fists pound against her skull as she tries to stop the thoughts from rattling around. She has torn Zaun asunder trying to find you, it was those Piltie scums who sunk their hook into you! It was them! Their fault, not hers! 

Vi’s voice perfuses next. 

“Time to cut your losses, Pow-Pow. They’d do better with someone like me-” 

“Shut up!” 

A bullet pierces through the wind when Jinx whips around to blow her sister's brains out. When the silence settles, deep and lonely, she registers her sanity has finally received its final blow. Now, there is nothing but the chunks of her persistent failure that remain. She is a jinx and that fact prevails like it never has before.

A single step sinks into the wet sand of the beach’s shoreline. Another sinks deeper, then another, and another. Her frail body begins to shiver from the ice-cold contact, but still, she does not cease her efforts. 

Floating on her back, Jinx sways along with the gentle waves, a juxtaposition to the pandemonium within her mind. It is a strange peace the sensation earns her. Nothing reminiscent of your all-consuming tranquility, but the resemblance is puny, nonetheless. Serving as her only comfort through all of this noise. 

With the flap of her hands, she descends her body further into the waves. The water gladly consumes her whole, gleefully robbing her of any oxygen. It clutches at her lungs with no hope of ease and indulges in the thrashing fight. Through the chaotic wasteland of her mind, however, Jinx can only find you. 

Instead of the violent calamity she is so familiar with, the images stamped in her thoughts are inked in your happiness. Her eyes close and she revels in the picture-perfect scenery of what her life could have been. 

Vibrant paint splattered amongst each other, a playful fight in the midst of the renovation of yours and (now) Jinx’s palace. Toying with gadgetry and inventions, forging utensils to better the lives of your villagers (and maybe the bedroom, as well). Cheesy, romantic music perfusing from the gramophone as you both clasp onto each other in an intimate dance. Cherries-on-top present themselves through kisses on cheeks, flustered giggles, and warm nuzzles. The very definition of a perfect life, that is how Jinx would describe these fantasies. 

They continue to play as her lungs grow tighter and tighter and tighter. Though, there is no pain with your smile shining behind her eyes. 

Then, with one final gasp of your name, there is nothing.

Across the bridge, you’ve now found yourself in an irritating routine of succumbing to your body’s incessant need for rest. Asleep for years, it feels like, only to be granted mere minutes of energy. Every time you stir awake, without fail, Violet is the one you wake up against. How a prison guard has not raised the question of why one of their Enforcers is cuddling an inmate, you haven’t a single clue. 

What you do know is that she is currently in a deep slumber. Testing the waters, you lightly nudge the thick muscles of her arm. With no rousing in sight, you take advantage of her unconscious state and your sudden burst of energy.

With slowness that would put a snail to shame, you lift Vi’s arm from its permanent residence around your waist. Just before you can slither out of the new space for escape, that arm locks around your form, its sudden tightness forcing a gasp from your throat. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” 

Her leg is then brought into that equation, too, now latched around your hips. Nuzzling her face into the nape of your neck, you try to ignore the possessive affections and instead, measure the weight of your possible choices from here.

Simply walking out of this cell is not a clear option here. There is also the matter of being patient for your powers to return, but the waiting game is not something you wish to play. A repeat of what that blue-haired mastermind put you through is nothing short of a nightmare. With only one feasible option on the horizon, you take a deep breath of preparation. 

Evidently, this girl has a weakness. And that very weakness is heavy-eyed and lethargic, locked in this prison cell. Weaponizing this could result in your escape, sure, but it could also lead you into a… Sticky situation, if you will. Even if you read thousands of books on the skill of romance, you would still be oblivious in any effort to navigate that world. In the centuries of your life, you have never cared for such, either. 

The people within your village have always been of utmost importance. Tending to them has been the path you have happily tread down for years. Never a kiss, never an embrace, never even holding hands with a special someone — your interest in these pursuits has never been piqued. 

Sure, Viktor and Jinx are not the first to piece together your runes and find their way to your sanctuary, greeting you with lovelorn declarations of devotion that would take the trophies of the most talented of poets. None of their romantic pursuits ever compelled you to indulge them, though. Until the feelings are mutual will you ever consider the choice.

With that being said, this does happen to be the first time their reverence has pushed you and your magic outside of your sanctuary. Locked tight in a prison cell, no less.

From here, you bite the bullet and put on your best award-winning performance. 

Before Vi’s grasp can tighten once more, you swiftly slip out of her greedy hold. She reaches for you like a child parting from their teddy-bear, but another demand of your return gets lodged in her throat when you straddle her.

Fake smile plastered on your face, you take her face into your hands and simply stare. A few well-measured caresses of your thumbs and she’s entirely at your will, evident in the exasperated breaths and powder-grey eyes sparkling like a puppy-dog with a juicy bone. Vi’s hands clutch around your thigh, jagged nails digging into the flesh as a desperate means to not let them travel further. This attempt at self-control is weak, however.

“Fuck. C’mere-” 

Her lips just barely graze yours before you interrupt her intentions. 

“I was so frightened before. Not a soul could fathom the weight of my fears.” 

Paired with a gentle pout and nervous tone, any disappointment surrounding not having your lips on hers is replaced with genuine, unbreakable interest. 

“Jinx was so, so cruel, Violet.” 

The name of her sister should never sit on your tongue, only hers. It causes her to tense beneath you, a stirring pit of rage forming from the frail tones in your voice. The sight of tears building in your eyes does not assuage these feelings, either. No, it adds even more fuel to the fire.

“Even my cries were not enough to stop her vicious hands. Extraordinary violence, she always treated me with.” 

It is faux innocence; a sloppy attempt, at best. Still, your efforts work marvelously with the anger you’ve managed to ignite. The fact she has not thrown you back onto the cell bed, stormed out of the prison, and returned with a pair of blue braids on a silver platter is nothing short of a miracle. 

“You…” 

Your finger traces the jut of her collarbone, eliciting a chill with every centimeter your nail treads.

“You are simply different. A softness I did not deem myself worthy of, crashing into my world like the catalyst you are.”

Accentuated with laughter, Vi falls even deeper into your magic spell. It is only now do you realize a mere caress would have done enough damage, why hadn’t you utilized this skill sooner? You did not expect such antics to work so obnoxiously well. So much so, you fear you may have abused this tool a pace too far.

“Let me make you feel good, ‘Sug. ‘Promise it’ll be nothing you’ve ever felt before.” 

Her arm then ensnares around your waist once again, the other clasping your jaw to prevent another escape. The gasp it pulls from you is misinterpreted as something sensual, of which she gobbles right up. 

“Tastes like candy, I bet.” 

Vi’s lips find your neck before you can merely react to the sudden movement. Lapping and sucking onto any stretch of skin she can claim — a heaven she has only dreamt of clutching. 

You twitch uncomfortably from the affection, which she, once again, mistakes as an act of passion. If her mouth weren’t occupied with the best meal she’s ever tasted, she’d reassure you of how there is no need to rut against her for more of her touch. If she were to speak of such, your act may falter from the disgusting insinuations behind the filthy words. 

“Violet…” 

Your attempt at grasping her attention is perceived as one of pleasure, evident in the satisfied groan it pulls from her. Brows curling upwards and all. 

“Allow me to kiss you. Please.” 

The words are so foreign, they feel equivalent to vomit crawling from your mouth. Anything to remove this blood-hungry vampire from your innocent neck. 

Vi obliges in an almost whiplash-inducing speed and her eyes flutter shut as she leans in. With a prayer to no one, you enact on a power you did not ever believe you’d wield in such circumstances. 

Two fingers pressed to her closed eyes, you whisper your next action. 

“Sleep…” 

And just like that, it was like the humiliating scene had never occurred in the first place. Violet is out like a light, sinking down onto the concrete-surfaced prison bed. This mechanism has only been explored in more light-hearted scenarios. It was normally exercised to lull fussy babies. Now, it is used to pacify the animalistic exertions of this dark-haired street fighter.

With your weakened state, you cannot accurately anticipate how long Violet will be asleep for, nor can you measure how much time is left before you’re forced into a state of unconsciousness, once again. You yank the dangling keys from Violet’s hip and fiddle with them clumsily, before the correct one finally unlocks your cell with a click. Centuries spent applying your powers to any barrier makes for an awkward runaway, you surmise.

Scanning the long aisle of cells for any lingering guards, you dash to the cell directly before yours. Another graceless scrambling of clanking keys ensues before you finally hear that melodious click. Upon entering, frantic and horrified that you had possibly let a child witness such a fiasco, you release a pent-up sigh of relief when you find her fast asleep. And, most imperatively, safe. 

With another paranoid glance over your shoulder, you bend to her level at the edge of the prison bed. You inspect the skin not covered in rugged scraps for any wounds, of which you thankfully find none. The people beneath this roof are prone to aggressive violence. Forcing such hands onto a child is an act you deem unforgivable, and frankly, impossible to understand. It is an overwhelming gratitude you are met with when you find they spared the girl of such. 

The adorable coos of gentle snores almost prompt a spike of guilt in you, but you insist on nudging her awake before this rare window closes.

Golden eyes peer around in confusion as she rouses from her sleep. Upon discerning the sight of you, the girl practically throws herself into your arms. You stumble back upon the surprising act, but do not hesitate in returning the affection. What kind of monster would deny a child the necessity of comfort, after all? The heart-shattering cries muffled into your shoulder only strengthen this belief furthermore.

“Oh, Rabbit… I will not let them harm us. I promise you.” 

When she retreats from your hold, you clasp her face in your hand and stroke her chubby face.

“I know of a place I am positive you’ll adore. Somewhere you will never be hurt again.” 

Her eyes are hopeful as they stare into yours, sobs having eased to hiccuping sniffles. A smile, just a hint of one, stretches on her scarred lips.

Shifting your gaze a little to the left, you find a rusted helmet with cracked goggles had been left underneath the bed. Possibly belonging to an old miner, it appears. You place the hat atop her messy locks, pretending you were crowning royalty. 

“You will need your best armor, soldier. Only the strongest can embark on such a journey.” 

That earns you a giggle, of which you revel in the success of. 

“Remind me, soldier, what is your name?” 

The girl seems to consider your question thoroughly, measuring how exactly she should inform you of such. Several motions of her hand spell out her name in sign language, of which you read in perfect coherence. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Isha.”

Meanwhile, Violet remains limp in the neighboring cell. A peaceful, blissful slumber that is oblivious to what is happening just several feet away. And in this slumber is where she revels in the exhilaration of a love she’ll cling to for the remainder of her days.

Like the triumph of a curtain call, Violet’s dreams have come true: to feel the touch of gentle warmth. After an entire lifetime, she is finally soft. Here, beneath the light of you, everything melts. 

Now, her dreams have shifted. Violet will keep a tight clasp on this feather-touch. 

No matter what it takes.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

❝ YOU REALLY GOT A HOLD ON ME,

SO THIS ISN'T JUST PUPPY LOVE . . . ❞

gif creds.

tag list: @honey-beeuwu @mrprettycom @makangelo @thelonelyme @solavily @eldritch-bunny @decaffeinatedclodbagelweasel @orbitingmarswithp @frickidyfrog @phantomdomi @mermaidm0tel6 @numbu5 @applepinsss @anon34570 @biohazardousbunny @vogelaqwry @lorely788 @mellowangeltree @myathegoat @alix-37 @lavandercinnamon @vrnicky @mellowfishauthoreggs

[ateliersss]

Bandaids and Kisses

Pairing: Yautja x Fem!Reader Summary: One part of motherhood seemed to be patching up your reckless pup after another adventure in the wild against his parents’ wishes. Cross-posted on AO3: here Warnings: English isn't my first language Word Count: 2.885 Before the Blooming Family series

⇨ Hello, you Yautja lovers. With this, we are going back in time, before the happenings of the "Blooming Family" series. I hope you enjoy it! Comments are always appreciated!

⇨ You want to know something hilarious? A Yautja in their early twenties is the equivalent of a human in its 50's/60's, so Akail as a ten-year-old Yautja would be a minus something human baby.

"Oh my God, Akail! Again?"

You were taken to Yautja Prime about fifty years ago, Life-mated to Mi'ytiar for forty years, and an accepted and established member of his clan for ten years now. Ten years, the same amount of time your son had walked, talked, and breathed. Ruling alongside your mate and hunting for food weren't enough to make your contribution. Giving Mi'ytiar a pup had apparently been the only thing that changed your role among them — from an outsider (and even a simple plaything for their leader to some) to what you were now — the female counterpart of a clan leader, the Matriarch.

You had heard of several Matriarchs on Yautja Prime. Like you, they were mated to the clan leader, but unlike you, they were the superior one in their dynamic and even above an Elder or Ancient. You wouldn't dare to assume the same form of authority for yourself and therefore kept to the secondary leading role just as a queen consort on Earth would. You had much more freedom and control than you could ask for, utterly content in the position you were holding right now, and you never felt the need to claim the power of a true Matriarch. The fact that the Females of the Yautja race were viewed much higher in leading roles than the Males was satisfying enough.

Nonetheless, you still had particular obligations and a certain appearance to maintain. You would take part in organizing the journey of the Un-Blooded to become Blooded, ensure the civilized coexistence within the clan by taking on the role of a judge like in court on Earth, approve of every newborn pup that was presented to you and deem them worthy, listen to their requests and suggestions and try to contribute as best as you could, and even had become a beacon of generosity and kindness to the clan for advice and consolation. The list went on and on, but instead of feeling crushed by the vast amount of responsibility, you relished in it. It was an honor, indeed.

Another thing that was expected of you was joining the elder Females in their den and listening to their wisdom with other younger Females. Rather than a bothersome duty you had to force yourself to attend, you absolutely loved their company.

And the den was a beautiful place you loved to spend your time in, a flawless merge between ancient architecture and the futuristic Yautja influence, round in shape and with a high dome-ish roof that was held together by a construct of pillars and beams into which hieroglyphs were carved. Fire was burning in the hollow beams and illuminated the room above the heads of everyone present.

A week of adjusting to your new life had gone by without leaving Mi'ytiar's home — your home the second you had crossed the threshold — before he decided it was time to introduce you to his people. And the place he had brought you to first was the den of the Elders. It had been a tough start, but they were surprisingly objective. Instead of seeing you for what you were, they saw you for who you were. Even if you were among giants, you had felt welcomed.

On this day and decades later, you had joined them as well, taking your place at the fire pit and opposite the entrance on the only chair in the round room. The Matriarch had her very own seat in the den, a throne-like construction made of something that felt like a mix of stone and metal. Meanwhile, the other Females sat on white stepstones on the mossy ground around the pit.

Matheih, the Female that held the unofficially highest rank among the Elders and had been the first you felt comfortable with, was just about to discuss the matter of a Bad Blood who had come too close to the clan's borders when you noticed movement from the corner of your eye. You snapped your head to the entrance and gasped.

Your shocked exclamation had cut Matheih off, causing her to startle. The rest of the Elders either looked at you or your son, who seemed to shrink under the intense eyes of the Females.

You immediately rose from your seat, the others following you swiftly, and you raced around them to Akail, who anxiously fiddled with the charm attached to his loin cloth.

One day, you had noticed the longing gaze of your pup fixed to his father's loin cloth and the trinkets and trophies swinging on his hips. Without further ado, you tailored him something new and decorated it with a thread on which various square stones and animal teeth were strung, the thread sewn into the front of the self-made cloth to the right hip. His eyes had been so bright when you presented it to him.

"Akail, my little warrior." You sighed when you reached your son, kneeling in front of him to be on the same level as him.

You cupped his cheeks and examined his face. There were several cuts across his face — two on his forehead, one under his right eye, and one above his left eye — and fluorescent green blood was smeared around his wounds and coated his mandibles. When you checked his dreads, running your fingers through the short tendrils, he winced.

"My sweetling, what happened?" You asked when you grabbed his hands and scanned his arms up and down.

"I follow a tochi." He mumbled and instantly avoided your stern glare.

A lie.

Placing your pointer and middle finger under his chin, you tilted his head up so he was looking into your eyes again.

"Were you near the borders again?" You pressed on and raised an eyebrow.

Akail pulled a grimace. "Yeah."

Another lie.

"How many times do I have to tell you that it's dangerous?"

Akail looked down like a kicked puppy. "Sorry, Mama."

No. No, you were not allowed to melt right now. You needed to be strong and determined to be angry at him for disobeying one of your and his father's rules. You needed him to understand that running after an animal for the nth time and moving too far away from the clan's land was risky without someone by his side.

But those damn puppy eyes of his, the same look his father sometimes used on you, they made you weak and yielding.

"Come on." You softly smiled at him and stretched out a hand to him.

When you stood upright again, Akail wasted no time to grab your hand while his other arm wrapped around your leg, clinging to you. You turned to the Females, excused yourself, and apologized to Matheih for interrupting her before you and Akail left the den.

Hand in hand, you walked the short route to your home.

"Does it hurt, my sweetling?" You asked him when you entered the grounds of your home.

You whistled at Be'jaa who had started barking at the intruders, as well as the two other Hell Hounds Mi'ytiar owned, Vohtu and Gihn'tha, and signaled them that it was just you and to stand down.

"Not anymore, Mama." Akail vehemently shook his head, putting on a brave face.

You smiled down at him and led him inside, lifted him into your arms, and carried him to the long table that stood in the center of the main room of your home. Behind it and opposite the entrance door, three other doors lead deeper into your home to adjoining rooms like your bedroom. Just like the den of the elders, this room was round with a dome roof made out of orange and light grey glass, but there was at least a meter of additional ceiling going sideways from where the dome ended and from which a ring of rock was hanging down, like a huge ring-shaped lamp circling the whole room.

Just like a routine, you placed him down on the surface, kissed the little space between his nonexistent eyebrows, immediately eliciting a merry purr from him, and got the Medicomp that was stored in one of the box-drawers under the long shelves where your mate displayed his trophies.

You placed the Medicomp next to Akail on the table, sat down, and quickly got to work crushing the plaster and melting it with the burner, adding the blue solvent and mixing it until you got a gel.

"You know the drill, baby. It's going to hurt." You warned him, taking one of his hands into your free one before you started applying the gel to the thin cuts on his face.

Immediately, Akail let out a sharp hiss and squeezed your hand as hard as he could. But he remained still, not wanting to ruin your already careful treatment. His eyes danced across your face, admired the color of your eyes that was so different from his, studied your smooth skin that wasn't as rough or beige and green as his, scanned your mouth that wasn't hidden behind tusks.

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could even utter the first syllable of his question.

"Be honest with me, Akail. What happened? You don't just get wounds like that because you followed a tochi." You questioned him and placed the spatula to the side before you grabbed the cloth that you had added to the Medicomp and dabbed the blood away from his already healing cuts and his mandibles.

"Stumbled over a stone." He answered in a huff.

Another lie.

"I roll down a slope in a bush."

Lie, lie, lie.

You hummed. "The bad ones near the Stonehenge? I told you to stay away from there. Those statues are unstable and you aren't yet strong enough to withstand their weight should one fall down on you."

"Sorry, Mama." Akail muttered and pulled his head in as if it would help him to escape the shame your words caused him.

You were melting once again at the sincerity in his words and reassurance washed over you. You may have had no idea how to raise a child as you never had the opportunity of doing it before, but you must be doing something right when he was capable of realizing his mistakes and showing remorse. But it wasn't the kind of remorse you were thinking of.

"It's alright, my sweetling. And you did so well in keeping still for me. You were very brave." You cooed and kissed first the healing cuts on his forehead before you turned to the ones at his eyes.

But he wasn't. If he was as brave as you claimed, he would tell you that it wasn't the thorns of the bushes overgrowing the Stonehenge but the still-developing claws of the older Younglings making fun of you that had caused the wounds. Akail had tried very, very hard to ignore their teasing and provoking snides, but when one of them — the tallest of all people — started talking about how glad he was that his mother was a respectable Female of the tribe and not some foreign, lowly pet that warmed the nest of the clan leader and probably pleased any other Male on the side, little Akail saw only red.

He had jumped the older Youngling and bit down on his neck while his claws inflicted as much damage as they were capable of. But due to his smaller size and frail strength, this advantage was turned against him in the next second when he felt his face being scratched open and his back colliding with the ground when he was pushed off by the older boy.

Luckily, before the situation could escalate even more, two Blooded Yautja neared the small group and Akail used the opportunity to quickly stand up and hurry to the den of the Elders where he knew his mother was.

It hadn't been the first time and it will probably not be the last time, but he had promised himself to always protect you from anything that could crush your beautiful heart and kind soul that had shown him unconditional love from the moment he had opened his eyes to take his first-ever look at his mother. It had been blurry and unfocused, but he remembered your smile. That smile.

"Mama?" Akail asked as he watched you packing up the Medicomp.

"Mhm?" You hummed and lowered yourself onto one of the chairs around the table right in front of him.

Instantly, Akail reached for your shiny hair and started fiddling with it, feeling how soft and silky it was. When he was a toddler, he would often play with it while purring, not being able to speak yet but his sweet chatter combined with his wide eyes was enough for you to be reminded how much he was his father's son. Both were enamored, maybe even slightly obsessed with your human features.

Akail huffed. "Why you not look like me?"

"Hm?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise at the topic of his sudden question.

"Why you look like this? Why not like me or Papa?" He pushed further and curled a lock of your hair around his pointer finger.

"My sweetling." You cooed, lifted him up by his waist, and settled him down on your lap, his legs dangling from each side of your thighs. He wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his face into your chest, close to your throat. "Do you remember the bedtime stories I sometimes tell you?"

You only felt vibrations against your skin and you took that as an answer, a cue to continue, "When I was little like you, your grandmama sat next to my bed and told me the same ones."

Akail pulled his face from your chest and lifted his head to look up at you. "Grandmama?"

I nod. "Yeah. Mama's mama." You cupped his little face and peppered it with kisses. "Those stories are from the place I was born. Earth."

"Are there more looking like you?"

"Yes. Many like me. Earth is similar to home. There are villages all over the planet and they speak different tongues, too. They have a clan leader called a major or a president and they have warriors, but also normal people who work jobs or go to school."

"What is job?" Akail asked curiously and cocked his head to the side.

"A job is something oomans do to earn a living, to build a life. It is a little different here. For example, with a job, you can earn money and buy food, but here, you just go into the forest and hunt. With a job, you can also build a house, but here, you just do it yourself with the resources this planet has to offer." You explained with a soft smile.

"What a ooman?"

"It's what I am, my little warrior. Mama is ooman, a human. That's why I look so different than you or your Papa."

"But why I don't look more like you?" Akail asked and his adorable face became even more precious when he pulled it into a frown.

You hummed as if you were in thought before you put on a bright grin and started to tickle his sides. "Because I wanted someone unique and extraordinary, and I hoped for someone who is as handsome and strong and chivalrous as your Papa. And speaking of your Papa, he was determined to have a pup like you, my sweetling."

Mi'ytiar had been very determined indeed that his DNA took root inside you. It also hadn't been the only thing that had completely dominated you.

"I know I'm not as big and strong and pretty as the other mothers-"

"You more pretty!"

"What?" You asked with raised eyebrows at his offended tone.

"You more pretty! More pretty than other mothers, more pretty than other Females! Say you more pretty!" Akail protested, immediately standing up for you even against your own words.

You had to swallow your emotions during his short rant. This boy had your heart, so precious and pure, and your emotional intelligence, already developed so far for his young age. You had no idea you were able to create something so beautiful and unique.

"I'm more pretty." You repeated his words with a smile, petting the top of his head, and kissed his forehead one, two, three times. "Why don't you go and look for Papa, hm? I bet he loves to teach you a little something about leadership."

Akail climbed down from your lap with a click of his mandibles and was already running out of your home. You had followed him, a little slower than the hazardous speed of his, and leaned with your shoulder against the entrance as you watched him in amusement.

You had hated the thought of becoming a mother. You had hated the thought of how children would affect your health and body. You had hated the thought of giving up your freedom for them. You had hated the thought of limiting your own life to adapt to theirs. You had hated the thought of abandoning every hope you had felt, every plan you had made, and every dream you had envisioned to tend to each of their needs.

God, never had you been happier to be wrong.

Masterlist: here

Tag List

@rorrika, @lialiwasneverseen, @lil-lilacwitch, @purplekitten30, @eternalmoonshineofahopelessfan,

@ladygrimmx, @blurpleuni-squid, @zaky-ller, @chrishy973, @devilslittlehelper,

@freyablack90

⇨ Want to join the tag list?

[eviesaurusrex]

"I am here." | B. Sorrengail

Brennan Sorrengail x Riorson!Reader

summary: Brennan knows she can handle herself and keep herself nurtured—but why should she if he can easily take care of her?

word count: 1.8k

warnings: pure fluff, reader is described as being independent and doesn’t accept any help at all, acts of services as a love language, Brennan is a softie, reader has the cold, cooking, short mention of clairvoyant abilities as a signet, mention of a not ideal childhood

author’s note: This idea came to life thanks to this post from @theseinfernalangels Thank you for the inspiration! <3 The dividers are made by @enchanthings-a

dragon name—Mór-ríoghan | Mór

Ever since they had first met in front of the parapet, Brennan Sorrengail had known.

He had known how hard he would fall for her—already happening after one glance from her and the slight tip of her lips despite the situation they soon had faced. It had gotten worse over the course of the following passing weeks until he hadn’t held back any longer. Not after they both had survived Threshing with a bonded dragon as their prize—and a few new scars as proof of their overcoming.

Even then, YN had been independent to a fault, only ever letting go of it when they flew formations. It was no surprise to him when she was named Section Leader and Wing Leader and continued on with her career after their graduation. Not with that signet of hers. Brennan still felt guilt gnawing at him in moments of retrospection, knowing she must have known of the day of his presumed death before he had even left for the battle. The guilt turned all-consuming every time she woke crying in the depth of night, startled by yet another nightmare of his death, her hands grasping for his body and clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

He did not mind, obviously. Those rare moments of helplessness, of being unable to hold herself together… Brennan did not relish in them, of course not, but he felt needed in a way she rarely expressed because YN wasn’t the type of woman who needed anyone. And yet, she had confessed her love to him all those years ago and had waited for him despite not knowing for certain if he would ever come back to her.

He had only left Riorson House for not more than an hour. He had headed to the market in the early morning after waking up to a coughing and wheezing YN; her body flushed with a fever, her cheeks warm to the touch. Brennan hadn’t imagined for her to wake up in the next couple of hours, not with the cold running havoc within her body after the last patrol she flew, but he was proven differently when he closed the door behind him, a pack of vegetables and herbs resting comfortably in the crook of his arm.

The clatter of knives, pots, and plates traveled through the hallway, and his eyes landed on Xaden, Violet, and Garrick standing on the threshold of the sunlit kitchen, watching something or someone. “Is Bodhi trying to bake again?” His question made them turn their heads one at a time before his sister looked back again, her forehead furrowed. “Not particularly…?”

Relief flooded the eldest Sorrengail because that disaster was something neither of them needed another time, especially if it involved fire and smoke poisoning again.

But the relief was short-lived when the familiar cough was heard between pots clattering and a mumbled swear. He was quick and stepped next to his friends, eyes raking over the kitchen, and found YN within a heartbeat, wrapped in her favorite blanket that dragged across the floor like a train behind her, her nose obviously being through a lot since he had left her in bed this morning.

“I offered to help, but…,” Garrick started and trailed off. “You know how she is,” Xaden ended the sentence with a grumble, obviously not fond of his older sister dragging herself around in such a state, arms crossed in front of his chest. Violet nudged Brennan softly. “I tried to get her back to bed, offered some of that tea Mira brought, but all she did was grumbling and mumbling No. She’s so much like you.” The last part was directed at Xaden hovering in her back, and he only rolled his eyes at that. “Well, they do share blood. And Fen wasn’t the most present father.” Garrick’s comment made Brennan’s heart clench just like every time YN had told him about her childhood and growing up as the firstborn Riorson—and not being the boy that was demanded by some ludicrous wedding contract.

Xaden stared at him, almost unblinking, and Brennan cocked a brow in return before pushing through the small group and nudging them back into the hallway. “Stop hovering and let me do my job, all right?” The other Riorson huffed at that, but Violet was quick to take his arm and lead him away, distracting him from wanting to beat Brennan up again. The Sorrengail didn’t need another one of his beatings, not when YN was still trying to cook herself a meal despite him being able to do it just fine for her.

With a soft sigh, he stepped into the kitchen and placed his purchase on the countertop, rounding the island with slow, measured steps in order not to startle her. His eyes raked over her form, taking in her slumped posture, the shake of her shoulders every time another cough rattled her tired body, her voice barely audible when she softly spoke to her dragon.

“I am as bright as day, Mór. I can make me some bloody soup without passing out.”

But Brennan didn’t believe that for one second, so his hands got a gentle hold of her shoulders, his thumbs caressing the soft fabric of her blanket. She didn’t even flinch, probably already anticipating him because they certainly weren’t quite when they had watched her rummaging in here, trying to cook something.

“Why aren’t you in bed, darling? Where you belong with that cold, might I add?” His voice was soft, and Brennan pressed a gentle kiss on the curve between shoulder and neck, feeling the heat of her body warring against the cold on his skin. A raspy groan was heard from her while she tried to hold onto the knife in her hand, which slightly shook with every cough. “Not you as well,” YN mumbled with a frown thrown his way across her shoulder, but his hand closing softly around the knife handle made her pause. “Love, I have every right to be concerned for your wellbeing. Let me help.” The Sorrengail tried to be as gentle and soft as possible, trying to coax her into finally letting him step up and help her for once, but the suspicion in her eyes wouldn’t vanish.

“Why would I let you cook when I am clearly capable of doing it myself? I’m not dying, Brennan, I am just sick. It's barely worth mentioning.” YN tried to cut through the first carrot she had found in the pantry but was forced to stop when another bone-rattling cough wracked her body, her fingers grasping for purchase at the edge of the wooden countertop. Brennan was right there, wrapping his arms supportively around her shaking and softly swaying body, holding her upright and steady. “Why would you need to cook yourself when I’m here, offering my help? You don’t have to do everything on your own, my love. Not anymore, at least. I am here, and I am here to stay and to help whenever and wherever I can if you’d just allow it.”

He wasn’t sure if the eldest Riorson even knew how useless he sometimes felt in the wake of her independence. Yes, Brennan was drawn to it—unmistakably so—but he needed to do things for her. He had started sorting their clothes and handling their leathers; he mended her boots as soon as the sole was thinning, and washed her hair after a particularly long day when she was too tired to even mutter a single word. Most things he did for her were quiet ones, ones she wouldn’t suspect, but Brennan wanted to do more.

So much more.

After a childhood where she had to raise not only herself but her brother as well, she deserved nothing less, in his opinion.

Slowly turning in his arms, YN looked up at him, brows still furrowed in uncertainty, eyes still holding that suspicious gleam he had grown to love just as well over the years. His fingers gently pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, still tangled from the restless sleep, watching her analyzing his plea. “You can command me around to your heart’s content, Major Riorson,” he teased quietly, a smirk playing across his lips and a soft laugh escaping him when he felt her hitting his shoulder without force. “You know how to cook the chicken soup my grandmother used to make?” Skepticism laced YN’s words, and Brennan couldn’t hold back but tap the tip of her nose with one of his fingers. “I’m sure I can learn while doing it.”

Huffing at his lack of experience, the Riorson allowed him to lead her to the chair right at the vast kitchen island in the middle of the room, eyeing the vegetables and herbs he had brought from the market scrutinizingly. “You could’ve chosen a better-looking thyme.” Brennan smiled brightly at the comment while washing his hands and returning to the carrots waiting to be diced, a kettle now starting to boil next to him. “Don’t be a grump, my love,” the man smiled across his shoulder, grinning to himself at the roll of her eyes but the smile tucking at her lips.

“We are getting somewhere, Marbh,” he chuckled down their bond and felt his dragon huff in relief in the back of his mind. “Finally. Mór would not let me sleep in peace because she is worried for YN. I will let her know.”

Humming while he chopped the vegetables, YN lectured him with soft words and an even softer tone, and he felt her gaze on the back of his neck, letting pleasant goosebumps erupt on his body and a pleased shiver run across his back. It felt good doing this for her—more than good.

When the water boiled, the Sorrengail grabbed a mug and steeped some tea, placing it right in front of her folded hands, and pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. “Do you need sugar? Honey?” Her eyes softened even more when YN looked up at him then, and without thinking, let one of her hands raise and cup his cheek lovingly. “Honey, please,” she whispered raspily, smiling gently when Brennan got a hold of her wrist and kissed the palm of her hand, quickly returning with the small jar of gathered honey from the bees right outside the city. “Thank you.”

The words fell so softly from her lips, the copper-haired giant almost could’ve missed them if he wasn’t so tuned in on YN after the years they had spent together. “You will never have to thank me for anything, my love. This will always come freely.” Another kiss was pressed to her head before he returned to the preparation of her soup, and while he chopped and sliced and diced, YN told him step for step what he had to do next, watching him with the unwavering warmth spreading inside her body that certainly wasn’t the making of the tea cupped by her hands.

Thank you so much for reading my silly little fanfiction! Please consider leaving a like, a comment, and a reblog—it would mean the world to me <3

[harvestmoss]

Witchcraft is literally out there for free!

I feel like most beginner witches start in Autumn, with the so called "season of the witch" but if anything, now is the time to start! This is the true season of the witch, the summer season!

Lots of beginners think that you have to buy a lot of the tools and ingredients witches use, but that's further from the truth. Witchcraft should be and is accessible to everyone!

Magic comes from within you. No amount of tools will do the magic for you, you have the harness the tool's and ingredients magical property through your energy and magic.

Magic with NO ingredients:

Singing, chanting, murmuring, announcing, praying, yelling - think of speaking it into existence!

Dancing, moving, exercise, yoga, clapping - As offering, or moving stagnate energy.

Meditation - Obvious, to clear the mind, and focus.

All your senses - Be aware of spirits talking and listen, or listen to the wind, talk to the wind, taste your food, taste the magical properties, see auras, see spirits or see visions, touch things and feel their energy.

Friends - Ever seen those "send thoughts and prayers" post? well that's because the more people we use for a spell, the more energy we give a spell. So if you're comfortable, ask your friends to send energy your way for a spell or wish you luck on exams, or jobinterview, or wish you a happy birthday, or to send healing energy by wishing you good recovery.

Charging, binding, banishing - through feeling, visualization, hearing and more. Charge your spells using your energy.

Magic with ingredients for FREE:

Physically you and people - Hair, nail clippings, sweat, blood, tears, etc.

Power of animals - Either your pet, or animals in your park, nearby forest, lake, ocean. Just being near them to lend their powers.

Botanicals - You can go outside right now to your nearby forest or park and pick up herbs, leaves, flowers, dirt, grass, etc for spells! You don't have to buy them

Your kitchen - You most likely have a spice rack and can use that for your spells, the same goes for baking items like flour, sugar, etc can be used. I know you've already bought these items and therefor used money but, it's free in the sense if you already had them.

The elements - Not just outside but they're also inside you! You breath air, your body heat is the fire, your skin is from and will be earth, you are made of 70% water.

Rocks - You don't have to buy crystals, you can find quartz in river banks and creaks or hag stones at beaches, or just rocks you like. from your drive way.

More magic for free I couldn't categorize:

Celestial bodies - You can easily work with celestial bodies like the earth (being that we're from here) and the moon!

Days and hours - Cast your spells on a specific day, no ingredients or tools required. if you want a spell of luck, cast it on a Thursday and so on!

Working with spirits - Talk to the plants, animals, forests, trees, your house, and more! The simplest offering you can do for no money is picking up litter in your are or forest or beach or park you like to go to. Dancing and singing are also offerings for zero money.

Thresholds - Cast your spells in specific areas like crossroads, graveyards, ruins, natur, or even in your own home such as casting dream spells in the bedroom.

Researching - You can find many online resources for free on the internet, from youtubers to articles, helpful image guides and blog posts. Remember to go beyond the witchcraft sphere. In order to find and identify the right herbs, learn from herbalists and foragers, not just witches.

Substitutions - If you don't have a certain thing, research and look further for something else. You don't have to buy that ingredient if you have something similar, especially in your area or in the realm of what you usually buy.

Low budget magic:

Tea lights - As candles.

Rubber bands - I always get rubber bands for free when buying eggs, and you can use rubber bands for binding spells or to hang your herbs up with instead of string and ribbon.

Tap water - Depending on your area i suppose, but you can use water for everything, even as an offering to spirits, they're probably thirsty.

Arts and crafts - Printer paper and pens that I've taken from office buildings that can be used to write, make sigils, and draw for spells and offerings.

Reused jars - From pickles to marmalade, you can save those jars and use them to contain dried herbs and spells. This can count too with bottles from vodka or lemonades. I use those bottles to store waters like river water.

Mentioned it already but... your kitchen - Your spice rack, baking ingredients, coffee mugs, glasses, scale, plates, pots, pans, knives, and more! I use a plastic spoon ment for soups in my kitchen for stirring my potions, I don't use those fancy extremely tiny detailed teaspoons. don't have a morter and pestle? place your ingredients in a bg and hammer it and role it with a rolling pin, should be good enough.

Even if you don't have access to nature in an aesthetic sense, there's still plenty of ways to do and perform magic. Nature still exist in the city. It's there in the dogs barking, the dandelion through the concrete, the bird shit on your window, the icy on buildings, the leaves on the ground, the pollen in people's noses, the sun in the area, the puddles from rain, the rocks rom car tires picking them up, the wind in your hair.

This is just what I can think of right now, I bet there's many more things out there in the realm of witchcraft for free because that's what witchcraft is. It's free.

[walalppper]

In the Sinners Land - Remmick x (Y/n)

Description: A remote chapel. A storm. A man who is not a man. When (Y/n) opens the door to a stranger soaked in rain and shadow, she knows something is wrong. But it’s not just the forest whispering anymore—it’s him. With a smile like a secret and eyes full of old sins, Remmick isn’t here to be saved. He’s here to collect. Warnings: Contains depictions of religious trauma, graphic violence and gore, implied sexual violence, supernatural and psychological horror, stalking behavior. Reader discretion is advised.

The chapel stood at the edge of the world.

Or at least, that’s how it felt to (Y/n).

Tucked miles away from the nearest whisper of civilization and buried deep within the gnarled bones of the forest, the crumbling church sat like a forgotten monument—its white paint peeled like old scabs, the bell tower bowed as if in shame, and ivy wrapped around its frame like veins around brittle knuckles. Her father used to call it “God’s land.”

But to (Y/n), it didn’t feel holy. It felt abandoned. Forgotten by heaven.

Remembered only by something darker.

She’d known that feeling since she was a child. The dreams had always come—slithering through sleep like smoke under a door. Dreams of trees whispering secrets in tongues older than time, of shadowed laughter, and a man standing just beyond her vision. He smiled like a wound. His eyes were slick and endless like spilled ink, and he always lingered at the edge—never speaking, never moving.

She never told her father. He was a preacher of hard truths and harder fists. A man with scripture in his mouth and judgment in his hands. There was no room for nightmares in his version of faith. No space for daughters who saw ghosts.

But lately, even the townsfolk had begun to murmur.

Not about dreams—no. About things worse.

Villages going silent overnight. Homes still warm, but empty. Livestock found hollowed and brittle, drained and curled in on themselves like forgotten fruit. The only things left behind were the smell of iron and the certainty that something had passed through.

They called it the devil.

A man cloaked in charm and tar. A voice sweet as honey and a heart blacker than pitch.

And he was coming.

When she asked her father about it, he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look up from the fire.

“He’s already come once,” he said, low and quiet. “And he’ll come again. That’s the nature of debt.”

(Y/n) didn’t understand.

Not then.

Not until the storm.

The sky split in two the night he arrived.

Lightning carved through the clouds like claws. Thunder rolled after it like distant war drums. Rain crashed against the chapel’s stained-glass windows, wild and relentless, as though trying to drown the light from within.

(Y/n) knelt by the hearth, coaxing the fire higher, her linen nightgown trailing like mist along the stone floor. Shadows stretched long across the worn wooden pews behind her. The smell of ash and damp filled the air.

Then—three knocks.

Slow. Heavy. Too calm.

She went still.

No one came this far. Not during a storm like this. Not unless they were desperate. Or sent.

Her hand hesitated over the iron latch. Her breath caught in her chest. She told herself not to answer. Told herself it was nothing. Just the wind. Just noise.

Then it came again.

Three more knocks.

Measured. Intentional. Confident.

She cracked the door open.

And there he was.

A man stood on the threshold, haloed by the storm. His coat clung to his broad frame, soaked and heavy, the hem dark with red clay. Rain sluiced down his curls, plastering them to his forehead. A satchel hung off one shoulder. His boots were thick with travel and time.

He looked like he’d been walking for miles. Or years.

But he didn’t look tired.

He looked certain.

What unsettled her most wasn’t the sight of him—it was the feeling. Like she was seeing something that didn’t belong to this world. Or any world. Something that knew her name, even if it hadn’t said it yet.

His eyes were dark. Gentle. Too gentle.

The kind of eyes that studied you like they’d already dreamed your ending.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he drawled, voice slow and warm, soaked in Southern ease but carrying something deeper—older. It curled through the air like incense. “Storm’s turned the road to hell itself. Thought I might ask for a little shelter. Just for the night.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t open the door any wider.

“You’re not from the village.”

Her voice didn’t shake. But her grip on the door was white-knuckled.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No, ma’am. Not anymore. But I’ve… seen this place before.”

He looked past her then—just briefly—into the chapel behind her. His gaze lingered on the walls, the fire, the pews—like he was remembering something. Or checking if something was still there.

It made her stomach turn.

“You been here before?”

His head tilted slightly.

“Not in any way that counts.”

That answer unsettled her more than a lie.

Rain surged harder. The trees groaned like something alive.

He shifted on his feet but didn’t step forward. He didn’t try to force his way in. He just waited—for her to decide.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he said, voice softer now, “if there was anywhere else nearby. But the storm’s not lettin’ up, and I’m soaked through. Thought I saw a light… figured it was worth knockin’.”

She didn’t open the door farther.

But she didn’t close it either.

His eyes searched hers—not pleading. Just watching. Knowing.

That was what made her skin crawl.

The way he looked at her like he already understood how she moved. How she’d say no—and still open the door anyway.

“You sure you’re not lost?” she asked quietly.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“No, darlin’. Not lost.” He tilted his head. “Not anymore.”

She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the storm howling behind him like it had teeth. Maybe it was something older. Deeper.

She let the door fall open. Just enough.

He stepped inside. "Thank you darlin' ." he said softly. (Y/n) only nodded, unsure why her throat had gone dry.

The rain didn’t follow him. The fire popped behind her as the air held its breath. He moved toward the hearth, the firelight catching on his wet coat and the faint gleam of something old beneath his shirt collar—something that looked like silver, or bone.

And (Y/n), standing alone in the doorway with the storm shrieking behind her, couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t let a man in.

She’d let something else in.

Something that had been waiting for this moment far longer than she could imagine.

He moved like something not entirely made of flesh—fluid, too quiet, too careful—casting shadows that didn’t quite follow the laws of light. His coat hung heavy on the hearth, water still steaming off it in curls, smelling of ash and distant storms.

(Y/n) watched him from across the room, arms folded over her chest. She didn’t sit, only came to fetch a mug of tea for the “guest”.

The fire popped in the hearth, casting long shadows across the chapel walls. Rain hissed against the stained glass. Outside, the wind screamed through the trees like something angry had been loosed.

Remmick sat with his back to the blaze, steam rising off his coat. His boots were still wet, dripping onto the stone floor, but he didn’t seem to mind. He held the mug she’d given him like it was something sacred—fingers long and pale wrapped around the chipped ceramic, the faint gleam of something bone-white glinting beneath his collar.

She hovered by the edge of the pews, arms folded tight over her chest, keeping her distance. Watching him.

“Quiet place,” Remmick said after a moment. His voice was smooth, low, like whiskey left out in a storm. “Smells the same. Cedar and ash. You burn lavender in here?”

She didn’t answer. He smiled a little. Not mockingly—just patient. “Your da always did like a little peace with his prayer. Still preaches, then?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s sick.”

“Ah.” Remmick gave a soft nod, almost respectful. “Shame, that.”

He sipped the drink, watching her over the rim. “But you’re tendin’ to things now, I reckon.”

“May I ask your name,” she said, ignoring that.

He smiled again, wider this time. “Remmick.”

“Just Remmick?”

“Just for you, love.”

She frowned. “That supposed to mean something?”

“Supposed to mean I’m bein’ honest,” he said, tone light but laced with something harder underneath. “Far as it goes.”

“You told me you’re not from the village.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You passing through?”

He hesitated. Just a beat. Then: “You could say that.”

She stepped closer, slowly. Her voice lowered. “You came from the woods. You weren’t passing anything.” Remmick chuckled, low and warm. “Ain’t you sharp. Thought I might ease into the truth a little gentler.”

“Try,” she said flatly.

He looked amused. Touched his heart with mock gravity. “Well, if you insist. I came knockin’, didn’t I? Brought no storm with me. I even said please.”

“You said ‘thank you.’”

“Manners all the same.” Silence stretched between them. The fire cracked again.

She took another step forward. “You’re stalling.”

He looked up at her then, really looked. His eyes were dark, fathomless, with a strange light flickering just behind them. The smile softened.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want?”

Remmick sighed and set the mug aside. He didn’t stand. Just leaned forward, forearms on his knees, fingers loosely laced like a man about to deliver a sermon or a sentence.

“I came to collect a debt.”

Her stomach tightened. “What kind of debt?”

“Old kind,” he said gently. “Promised kind.”

Her voice turned sharp. “To my father?”

He tilted his head, gave a slow, almost fond nod. “Aye.”

She frowned. “He’s a preacher. What kind of business could a preacher have with a stranger like you?”

That got a soft chuckle out of him—low, amused, almost fond. “Oh, darlin’...”

“...a man can preach from sunup to sundown, wear the collar and call down heaven... but that don’t mean he don’t have debts. You know better’n that, don’t you?”

She said nothing, but her stomach curled tight.

Her throat tightened. “That’s not an answer.”

He leaned back in the chair, stretching his long limbs, fingers interlaced across his stomach like he had all the time in the world. “Ah,” he sighed. “But it’s the right kind of answer.”

“That’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re not even— He wouldn’t—”

Remmick’s eyes didn’t leave hers. “He would. He did.”

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.” She stared. The firelight danced across his face, catching on the curve of a silver chain around his throat. She hated how calm he sounded. Like this conversation was just part of a script he'd memorized long ago.

“What are you?”

The smile slipped from his face.

For one long second, his expression emptied. Not angry. Not smug. Just… quiet. Like something ancient inside him had turned its face away.

Then the smile returned—slower this time. Warmer. Almost sad.

“I’m a man who keeps his promises,” he said, the Southern lilt thicker now, the vowels dragging with old weight.

She studied him. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But it’s still true.” She stepped closer and finally sat across from him. Not close. But close enough to see the way his pupils didn’t quite move like human eyes should.

“You keep dodging.”

“And you keep askin’ questions that might make you lose sleep.”

She leaned forward. “I think you want me to ask.”

The smile froze. Just for a breath.

Then he picked up his cup again, turning it once in his hands. “You’re clever,” he said quietly. “He said you would be.”

“Who?”

He looked up. Straight at her.

“Your father.”

Her heart stuttered. Her mouth went dry.

“He told me you were strong. Stubborn. Faithful.” His voice softened. “Didn’t mention the fire in you, though. That... that part’s yours.”

She swallowed hard. “He doesn’t talk about me.”

“No,” Remmick said, shaking his head slowly. “He don’t talk much about anything anymore.”

The fire dipped. Or maybe just the light.

It felt like the room was listening.

“Why now?” she asked, her voice no louder than a breath. “Why come now?”

He watched her over the rim of his cup, his eyes darker than pitch. “Because,” he said, setting it down, “he’s not here.”

The weight of the words made her spine go cold.

“You waited until he was away.”

“No,” he murmured. He rose from the chair with slow, unhurried grace. “I waited until you were alone.”

She stood too, heart hammering.

“You’re not here for him,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Something old shifted behind his eyes.

She felt it in her bones. The dreams. The whispers. The name she never learned but always knew.

“You know me,” she said.

His gaze found hers and this time, it didn’t look away.

Not her name. Not her face.

Her.

He took a single step forward.

“I’ve known you since your first breath, love,” he said, voice like thunder behind silk. “Known you long before you learned to pray.”

She backed away.

“You’ve been waiting.”

“I’ve been patient,” he said, his accent thick now—Southern drawn through Irish peat and blood. “That’s a whole different sin.”

And with that, the fear bloomed. Fully. Awfully.

Like a mouth opening, almost like something ancient was calling her home.

She smartest thing she could do was turn around and run out the old door.

Branches clawed her skin, tearing the nightgown into ribbons. Mud sucked at her feet like hands dragging her down. Her lungs burned, throat raw from screaming—but there was no one to hear. No one left but him.

And he was coming.

Not fast.

Not yet.

The trees held their breath. The storm above howled—but the woods themselves were quiet, listening.

Hunting.

Somewhere behind her, a twig cracked. A sound so soft it might’ve been nothing—except her body knew better.

She bolted again, crashing through the undergrowth, slipping on wet leaves, skidding down a slope. Her bare knees slammed into rock. She gasped, blood slicking down her shin.

She didn’t stop, she couldn’t.

The chapel—her mind clung to it like salvation. A ruin now, but holy once. Her father’s sermons echoing through the rafters. If she could just make it there—

“Little dove…”

His voice floated through the storm. Gentle. Mocking.

“You know better than to run in the dark.”

She spun wildly, heart hammering. Nothing but trees. Fog curling like fingers around the trunks.

Then silence again.

"Hide. You have to hide." (Y/n) thought to herself.

She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling into the hollow beneath an old oak, body trembling, blood smearing the bark where her leg dragged behind her uselessly.

She pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing.

Too loud. Too fast.

The rain fell in sheets. The thunder rolled on.

But then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Mud-slick boots crushing wet leaves just beyond the tree line.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Tuck yourself away.”

She froze. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t—

“I like a girl who makes me work for it.”

She whimpered, too quiet to be heard—she thought. But the footsteps stopped.

“There we are.”

A pause.

“Found you.”

The roots tore as he wrenched her from the hollow like a rabbit from its den. She kicked. Bit. Fought. Nails clawing his face.

He only laughed.

Not angry.

Thrilled.

She struck him hard as her elbow connecting with his jaw. His head snapped to the side.

But when he looked back, he was smiling.

“Ain’t you just full of fire.”

He shoved her against the tree. Her skull hit bark. Stars bloomed in her vision. The woods spun.

“I like that,” he said, voice low, his accent curling warm and wicked against her cheek. “Means your blood’ll be dancin’ when I take it.”

She tried to scream.

He silenced her with a hand, cold as marble, pressing over her mouth.

“Hush now,” he whispered. “You’ll wake the dead.”

And then he was carrying her.

She kicked and flailed, but he held her like something claimed. Dragged her through the trees until the broken chapel rose from the storm like a mausoleum.

He threw her down onto the stone floor.

She tried to crawl but her leg gave out. Blood pooled where her thigh was cut open. The wind screamed through the broken rafters.

He crouched beside her.

“Look at you.”

She didn’t.

He gripped her chin, forced her to face him.

His eyes glowed faint red—not bright, not cinematic. Faint. Smoldering. Like embers under ash.

“Do you know,” he murmured, brushing blood-matted hair from her temple, “what you look like right now?”

She sobbed, teeth chattering.

“Like an offering.”

He pressed her down.

Not fast nor violent, just a final show he was giving to no one but himself.

His weight crushed her against the cold stone. His breath ghosted over her collarbone.

“Please…” she whispered.

“Oh, dove’.” His smile was tender. “You were never gonna be saved.”

He pinned her wrists above her head. Fingers like iron. His body slotted over hers, deliberate, intimate, unbearable.

“You reek of faith,” he said, dragging his nose along her jaw, breathing her in. “Of prayer and purity and shame so thick I could drink it before I even touched you.”

She turned her face away. He leaned closer.

“And I ain’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Then his mouth opened, fangs bared, breath cold, lips brushed against her throat.

And he bit.

Pain exploded. She screamed, back arching, wrists twisting uselessly in his grip.

His growl vibrated through her ribs.

Blood poured into his mouth, and he moaned, slow and guttural—like he'd been starving for this. Like she was water after a century in the desert.

And maybe she was.

Because in that moment, he loved her—in his way.

Dark. Twisted. Ruinous.

He drank not for need, but for communion.

And he felt her soul with every pull. Innocence. Terror. Fury. Desire. It bled into him like wine into a white cloth. Permanent. Staining.

Pain bloomed—sharp, unbearable, intimate. Her back arched against him, a cry torn from her lips. He drank like a man possessed, growling low in his chest as her blood spilled down her shoulder, hot and wet.

Her head lolled. Her knees gave way.

Still, he held her close, cradled, like a lover might.

And when he pulled back, mouth slick with crimson, eyes heavy-lidded with dark hunger, he looked at her like she was divine.

“Fuck,” he whispered, reverent. “I could live inside you.”

He kissed the blood from her shoulder. Her throat. Her jaw. Lingering. Almost… adoring.

And then he lifted her.

Into his arms. Against his chest. Like she was already his.

“You ain’t dyin’.” His voice was soft now, but dangerous. “You’re comin’ with me.”

She tried to speak, but it was all too much pain, cold, the storm howling like wolves outside her skull.

He looked down at her as she shivered in his arms.

“You don’t get to die tonight, little dove.” He grinned, slow and blood-streaked. “You get to learn what it means to be kept.”

And then they were gone, swallowed by the night. The woods fell still.

And in the chapel, broken, empty and abandoned, the rain whispered secrets through the rafters.

Because heaven had never come for her.

And now, hell wouldn’t let her go.

Heyy, hope you enjoyed <3

[moirasdolly]

˚ ⋆ﾟ୨୧ Vampire Heart ୨୧ ˚ ⋆ﾟ Arlecchino x Fem Reader

Synopsis: You had gotten all dolled up for Arlecchino expecting a long night full of many surprises. You didn’t know what you had gotten yourself into until it was too late, but you find yourself ignoring the other woman’s red flags.

Contains: NSFW (men and minors dni), graphic depictions of blood sucking, hurt/comfort (only slight angst).

Listening to ♪ ིྀ: …baby one more time - The Marías

Previous chapter: 2

Notes: Just a quick update before the blood sucking ૮₍ - ⤙ - ₎ა I thought I’d bring this fic back just in time for spooky season !! I’m definitely going to try to finish it by the end of October, but for now please enjoy this chapter <3

❤︎ Chapter 3: Fangs

Arlecchino had no trouble drinking in your pretty, doll-like appearance as you laid in the mountain of frilly blankets covering your bed. She thought you looked cuter than anyone she had ever seen with the way you were peering up at her through your long, dark lashes. It was taking all she had in her to not just pounce on you the moment she stepped through the threshold of your room.

You had giggled softly at her staring and if she thought you couldn’t get even cuter, she was mistaken. Her gaze followed your hand down to where it was patting the empty space beside you, and if you were insisting, then who was she to refuse? She easily slid into the bed beside you leaving you no personal space. She was oddly cold, you thought to yourself, maybe she just naturally ran cold… You paid that no mind though and instead you favored cuddling up to her to try to warm her up since you were feeling a bit bolder about initiating contact.. “Arle… You’re freezing.” A pout graced your lips and she simply shook her head at you. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me, I’m perfectly fine as long as I have you warming me up.”

At her words you draped one of your legs around her own and nuzzled closer to her, letting your head rest gently on her chest. You hadn’t considered that the neckline of her slip plunged low on her chest, so when your cheek made contact with her bare skin, you felt your body heating up. Arlecchino felt it too because you heard a deep chuckle from within her throat as she ran her lithe fingers up and down your lower back. “Are you getting shy now? Cute.” Her tone wasn’t exactly mocking, but the way her voice lilted up at the end made it feel like she was trying to work you up.

“I bet you weren't shy when you were snooping through my belongings earlier.” Her tone darkened and your body went rigid at her words before you pushed yourself away from her. You stayed silent for a moment, not knowing what to say to defend yourself. You knew there was no defending yourself though, it was clearly wrong going through her possessions. “I-I…” You started, not sure how to continue. Your eyes were searching her own for any sign of warmth, but you were met with a face of indifference. She was incredibly hard to read, and it was making you nervous just how quick her demeanor could change.

“I’m sorry, I was just so curious about you, you were so secretive about certain things I wanted to know about you.” Your lip was quivering as you spoke, and Arlecchino stayed silent, seeingly contemplating her next move. “So you decided to invade my privacy, instead of asking me about myself?” Her voice wasn’t angry, but that’s what scared you more. You’d rather have her yell at you or be angry than whatever she was doing now. “You always dodged my questions, when I asked you why you went out at night you said it was business or errands, but I know that’s a lie.” You rambled on, starting to grow more nervous.

Arlecchino peered over at your shrinking form before grabbing your wrist, and bringing it to her lips. She pressed a soft, gentle kiss, completely contrasting the tense atmosphere between you two. “If I tell you, promise you won’t be scared?” Alarms were blaring in your mind, but you ignored them in favor of the woman before you. Your head was nodding on its own before you knew it and the other woman was on top of you in a second. Her arms caged you in under her, and one knee was slotted in between your thighs. Slowly, she leaned in, her lips barely grazing your sensitive neck. Her breath tickled you as she spoke, “I go out to hunt at night.” Confusion clouded your mind, why would she need to hide that? “You’re confused little doe? I hunt lost ones like you for their life source, blood.” Your heart was beating out of your chest now. Was she a murderer? Was she going to kill you? Was she just tricking you into thinking she cared this whole time? Your fear must have been present on your face because Arlecchino had taken it upon herself to soothe your nerves. She caressed your cheek gently, turning your head to face her once more, “I’m kidding. I don’t kill humans, unless they deserve it.” A wicked grin formed on her face and you were even more confused now.

“What are you talking about?” Your thoughts were swirling around in your head and you felt sick. “Have you ever heard of the myths of a vampire living in this very town?” She chuckled. You thought she must be pulling some sick prank on you, because vampires couldn’t actually exist. Right? “That’s absurd. Are you trying to tell me you’re a vampire?” Instead of answering you with words she answered with the fangs that seemed to appear out of nowhere within her mouth. The glint of white rendered you absolutely speechless, you felt you were going insane. You didn’t know if you found her 100 times more attractive, or if you wanted to scream and push her off of you, you were truly short circuiting. All you could do was stare.

“What’s on that pretty little mind of yours?” Her gloved hand cupped your cheek softly. Her actions completely betrayed the nature of the secret she had shared with you, and it eased your thoughts ever so slightly that she seemed just as gentle with you as she always has been. “Who’s Peruere?” You mumbled quietly, recalling the details of the journal you found. In the back of your mind you already knew the answer, but you wanted to hear her say it.

“Peruere is one with me. I parted with the name hundreds of years ago though.” She spoke of those hundreds of years ago as if it was just some distant memory, but it was truly hard to grasp how old she must be. “I know it’s a lot to take in, I wouldn’t want you to be frightened of me after this.” A sigh escaped her lips, her fangs barely peeking out past her top lip.

You were silent momentarily to contemplate what you wanted to say next. “I’m a little scared, but I know you won’t hurt me.” It was more of a question than a statement the way your voice wavered. You wanted to think she liked your presence in her life enough to not kill you. Arlecchino’s eyes softened at your voice and she nodded her head slightly. “You’ve captured my heart, darling. I wouldn’t dare hurt you, unless you asked.” Her voice lowered at the last part, her eyes trailing down to your bare neck. You furrowed your brows at her words until what she meant finally caught up to you. “I thought you only hunted animals?”

“I do, but your blood must be the sweetest of nectars. Your scent is almost intoxicating to me.” Her voice was thick with desire, and it seemed as if she was getting needy for a taste of you. “Would it hurt?” You couldn’t believe you were even considering letting her drink from you, but the way she looked right now was simply irresistible. Her blood red eyes were nearly glowing with desire, her cheeks were flushed, and the way she towered over you was making it harder to say no to her. “Only for a moment, but I could make it feel better…” She trailed off, alluding to your pleasure.

You squirmed underneath her, your body brushing up against hers. She felt almost feverish where your skin met, and you were bordering on the same feeling. After a moment of weighing your options, you locked eyes with hers and nodded slowly. Within a moment her gloved hand slithered up your cheek before settling back down on your chin. She sucked her teeth and for a moment you thought you dissatisfied her. “Use your words. I need you to say you want it.”

Your mouth parted, inviting her thumb to slip past your plump lips. “I want it, I want you.”

[pampushky]

cling to his chest

Alpha! Lando Norris/Omega! Lauda! Reader - chapter 6 - 2.9k words

Woooooo done with this chapter sorry it's late shorter, but stocked with some good lore shit! as I am wriitng this, my dog is throwing a tantrum that i'm not in bed yet.

previous part | next part | masterlist | series masterlist

Late-Mid March 2006. Selangor, Malaysia

An hour after qualifying, you’re asleep on Nico while he quietly talks with Fernando. You’re drooling on him, your mouth parted to reveal your missing milk teeth, the big gap where you’ve lost your two front teeth. It’s looking to be a promising day for the young, German omega, and he’s preening under Fernando’s praise and attention. You shift a bit in your nap, making a high-pitched whine as you do so, mouth opened in a yawn. Both Omegas coo at the sight of you yawning, looking so adorable as you snuggle into Nico further. 

“Oh, little mouse, you’re so perfect.” Nico purrs, as you fall deeper into your nap. Niki is off at Ferrari, working with Micheal and Felipe for their complaints about the car. It had been a less than stellar season for them. As much as he adored you, doting on you with every breath he took, he still had a job to do. So he would leave you with the Prime Omega as your guardian for that time, or another German driver if he couldn’t take you with him.

The first race you’d attended had been the previous one, the opener for the season. The Bahrain GP. It was almost bad enough that it had been the one year anniversary of your dam’s death. You hadn’t realized that, actually. You were only five, and while the concept of time’s passage was something you could understand, it could still be a bit wonky for you to truly grasp. You still asked for your Dam in the first few months, laying in your hospital bed. That had been the first thing you asked of Niki. Asking where your mother was. 

Had you been bad? Was that why she didn’t want you anymore? Or was it your Gran? Gran never seemed to like you. Did Gran tell your Momma to give you up?

All of these said with tears in your eyes, so certain that you’d been abandoned, no memories of how your Dam had pushed you under the bed to save you. That her last act had been saving you. 

Oh, how that had broken Niki’s heart, and then Micheal’s when he’d learned. 

You still asked for her. Still whimpered for her, when in your deepest sleep. Hugging the little bunny with her scent close. But now you’re snuggled into Nico’s embrace as he carries you to the pack home— a large motorhome for the grid that came to every race. If the pack didn’t all sleep in a specialized suite, they slept in the motorhome. 

Just as Nico and Fernando pass the threshold of the motorhome, you stir, waking up and crooning softly. You squirm in his arms, stretching out and looking around sleepily, little ears twitching. Jenson starts to laugh, seeing how you squirm in Nico’s arms, and even Kimi cracks a rare smile, offering to take you. You stare suspiciously at the Finn, and after a moment’s pause, let out a shrill squeal to be put down. 

“Words, use your words.” Nico chides, looking unamused when a flailing hand smacks into his cheek. “Okay, yes, I’ll put you down.”

When you’re put down, you continue to stare at Kimi. Kimi stares back. A test of wills seems to occur just within the entrance of the motorhome, not even within the nesting room. This was pretty standard for your behavior. The spoiled and beloved pup of the F1 pack. Adored beyond measure by every single member of it— except, seemingly, Kimi. 

Which was actually quite incorrect. Kimi, if anything, spoiled you the most. He was the closest thing to Niki, actually, in your mind. Quiet and serious, with the same death stare as Niki. It was quite adorable, really, to see all three of you together, staring at something that had annoyed one of you. 

“Kimi.” You state bluntly. Arms out and held expectantly, as if you want to be picked up. 

“Use your words.” Kimi folds his arms. You stamp your foot, making you slightly off balance with your bad leg holding all your weight. The Finn darts forward, eyes wide with panic when you wobble a little. Your hands dart out to balance yourself. Fernando’s breath catches, and Nico’s eyebrows almost look like they’re crawling up his forehead. You steady yourself, as the three drivers hold their breath. 

“M’okay,” You mumble, arms still out. Kimi scoops you up, hugging you tight, while Fernando fuses over you. Nico has a hand to his chest, taking in a deep breath. Robert Kubica pokes his head out of the door to the main room, brows furrowed as he takes in the scene. “Didn’t fall!”

“What happened?” Robert asks, as you squirm in Kimi’s arms. 

“She was being a brat,” Nico sighs, wilting slightly. “And stamped on the wrong foot.”

“Ah, balance issues. David watched her do that the other day.” 

“Did not!” You hiss, puffing out your cheeks. The southern twang that had mostly disappeared thickens your voice again. “He didn’ see nuthin’!”’

“At least you’re using your words now,” Nico ruffles your hair, as you get set down again. Shuffling to the pack room to nest with the other pack members who are present. When Niki, Felipe, and Micheal enter the room, they’re met with the adorable sight of you in the middle of the nest, positively preening as Fernando grooms you in his canine form, licking your face and making sure your hair is smoothed to your head. You beam up at the trio, grinning widely. 

6 Days to First Race, 2024. London, England. 

Sleep had been refusing your company as of late. 

You’re not entirely sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s more of an annoyance. Logan and Oscar dote on you constantly, when you finally get back from Abu Dhabi. Worried about the reaction you’d had to Will, and overall the public attention heaped on you. It’s meant to be nice, to show how much they care about you, but it feels stifling at times.

Your ceiling has the little glow-in-the-dark stars that you’d had in your room as a child. You vaguely recall a memory of Mattias sitting on top of Lukas’s shoulders to try and balance so he could place them like constellations on your ceiling. 

They were uneven and a bit wonky. But they were made from a place of love, to try and make you feel comfortable in your new room. They had been painstakingly arranged by Marlene and Niki, and you could smell it on the sheets and quilts heaped on top of the mattress. It was the softest thing you’d ever laid on, and you felt as though you were going to sink into it and drown in the sheets. This had resulted in you crying out and latching onto Niki for help, wailing and grabbing at his arm so he could pull you from the nest. 

The bed was too soft, and much too large for you. In the end, you’d slept sharing the bed with your Sire and littermates for two months, whimpering and crying when one of them was away. 

Now, you were laid in your own nest, on your back, looking up at the ceiling. The glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling aren’t as wonky. They’re too accurate and clean. Put up by Logan, bless him and his efforts to make you feel safe and at home in your new apartment. 

“Maus, are you in there?” 

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear, you think as you shift in your nest, making a sleepy growl at the American as he nudges the door open. Heaped on your plate is a frankly giant pile of white rice and crispy, perfectly fried pork with a barbeque sauce that makes your mouth water. 

Damn Oscar and his resources, getting the names and recipes of your favorite meal and somehow being able to cook them perfectly for you. You can practically smell how proud of Oscar that Logan is, preening as he sets the plate on the nightstand on the side of your nest. The food is tempting you. 

Rice and pork. That’s the one thing you could remember about your mother’s cooking. Rice was cheap and bountiful, and pork was a less expensive cut of meat due to the farms in the area. Pork and steamed rice, with the pork pounded thin, coated in breadcrumbs, and friend in a cast iron pan while you were held on her hip. It would get coated in a tangy barbeque sauce that still made your mouth water— even to this day. 

You need to eat. This you know. Your sulking will get you nowhere, and you will do nothing if you just continue to grumble about your rotten luck with teams and the people around you. 

The scent continues to waft in your nose. Logan chuffs grumpily when you continue to just lounge in your nest, reaching over to cuff your ear like a grumpy littermate, which is accurate to your relationship with him. Always bickering with each other, even before you were both promoted to F1 together.

Oscar pokes his head in the room, the perfect omega, with his doey eyes and unblemished skin. You can’t help it but feel a bit jealous of him. He’d always been a natural at everything, and now it just seemed to be being rubbed in your face. Especially with how easily he made food for you, and took care of you after everything. Unwittingly, you croon at him, allowing the other omega to enter your nest. Oscar does so happily, chirping for you and smiling in a way that would surprise the media with just how emotive he is. 

He’s a completely different person in private, every bit the perfect and beautiful omega as he smoothes your hair to your head gently, scenting you. He’s only a little older than you are, but it feels like a lifetime more. Always put together, always organized, with a plan in place. Oscar knew that Logan was his mate the moment he met him, when they were still pups, racing karts against each other. Oscar didn’t care when he presented as an omega first, and everyone assumed that Logan would be an omega. He was his mate, that was it. 

Now, as he takes care of you, during the pseudo-heat triggered by the way Will had reacted to you, with Logan watching over you. Oscar huffs at Logan, and the Alpha relents, making a soft chirping noise before leaving, closing the door behind him. Trying to urge you to sleep, pulling the phone from your hands as you mindlessly scroll. 

“Silly rodent,” Oscar teases, no venom in his words, only affection. “Still on TikToK?”

“It’s always that damn phone,” you deadpan, wordlessly. Teasing. Mocking how the older pack members treated the three of you as pups still, even when you’d all presented years before. And in your case, a decade before, in 2009. Still freakishly early, but not as freakishly early as four and a half. The doctors had taken you off the presentation-blocking meds for the sake of your liver. 

“Liberals, and whatever your Dam’s side would say,” Oscar lets you curl further into him. Feeling the slight roughness of the scarred side of your face on his cheek. “You’re clingier than normal.” 

“Sorry,” but you don’t move your face away. “False heats. You know.” 

“I know.”

The silence is comforting. Just the two of you, laying in the nest you’d made the moment you’d gotten back to London. False heats were an unfortunately common event with your… unique circumstances. To you, they were hell. Normally, an omega would have a true heat once every three months. But with you, and the strong suppressants and scent blockers you were on, you had a true heat once a year, meant to keep you from becoming infertile.

As annoying as it was to be prevented a treatment that totally stopped your heats  because of some hypothetical situation that was likely to never come true (you’d seen how pups shied away from you, and how many people struggled to not flinch when you turn to look at them, without the usual, skin-leveling makeup that hid the worst of your scarring). 

Besides, true heats had always been terrible for you. More uncomfortable than anything pleasurable, like they’d always been shown to be— days of passion between an omega and their mate, heartfelt whispers of having pups— what a lie. 

What was romantic about you having a fever while also having the chills, curled up in your nest and sweating. Cramping, unable to eat anything without throwing up— you’d happily forget that and never experience it again after your last true heat. 

When he had attempted to force a bond with you, he’d attempted to use a heat inducer on you, which was one of two ways to force a heat to occur. To use a heat inducer was risky. They were volatile at best, being measured in milligrams and even smaller, and never anything more than twenty milligrams at the absolute most. He had managed to get you with around thirty, and had planned to use double that, had you not fought him so much when he had initially tried. Had it not been for your mangled leg, the same one that had stopped you from running away from him, it would have triggered your heat within the hour. 

Instead, it took three, which was enough for you to get to a locked heat room, while your Sire dealt with the legal side of things. 

According to Lukas, Niki had nearly ripped James Vowles head from his body when the team principal had asked if you would still be willing to act as a race engineer at Williams if he was dismissed. That’s when things had started to get a bit ugly between Logan and Williams. You were out of it at that point, and for some reason, the FIA thought it would be a good idea to try and question you then. 

Micheal nearly came to Abu Dhabi himself when he’d learned about that little tidbit. 

But the fury of Prime Alpha, regardless of if he was in power or not, wasn't something to be taken as lightly as the FIA had tried to. (And besides, it wasn’t as if the current FIA president could fine Niki—  he wasn’t even a consulting member of a team anymore! To try and ban him from any race would be equally as impossible— especially with a reputation like the Niki Lauda.)

But why had Will acted in such a way? You were blunt, yes, but that’s why you’d been hired and why he’d been let go. Clearly, what he’d been doing wasn’t working. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“I don’t want to talk about anything.” You mumble. Rolling so that your back was to Oscar. 

“I’m here if you do.”

“I know you are.” 

“I just don’t….” Oscar trails off, his voice uncertain. Something left unsaid and waiting for you to answer, to let him say what he wants. 

“Don’t what?” You sound grumpier than you mean to. “Hide things?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Oscar huffs. He sounds like he’s wincing. And maybe you feel a little bad about it. But just because he’s older doesn’t mean he gets to treat you like a pup. “I just… worry. Especially with—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, okay, I won’t, but,”

“The ‘but’ part of that implies you’re about to say something,” You groan, rubbing your face. “And it’s gonna be something I’ll be annoyed at, right?” You roll over to look at him. Scowling. 

Oscar looks like he’s just tried a lemon for the first time, with the face he’s making. Cheeks pink. Eyes darting anywhere but yours. 

“Don’t get mad,” He starts. 

“Oh for fucks sake,”

“Zak and Andrea wanted me to keep an eye on you. They’re both worried you’re about to quit, because of everything that’s happened in the first month.”

Oh. 

That’s not what you expected. So you reach over and pinch Oscar’s nose, making him whine like a pup being lectured for eating too much sugar. 

“Snitch.” Your scowl gets more pronounced. Oscar whines, bowing his head. “I’m a grown ass woman. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“But they have a right to be worried!”

You try to ignore how he technically has a good point. The past two and a half months have not been…. Ideal, yes, but you were on the up-and-up! Sure, Lando being a prick and the Will incident had been annoying, but you were fine. You’d seen tougher. You’d been through worse. You’d worked at Williams with Nicholas Latifi. It could not get any worse than that. 

Maybe it wasn’t perfect. That was fine. You didn’t need it to be perfect. You just needed it to be anything else. 

“Whatever, I’m fine,” You lay on your back. Oscar makes an annoyed huffing noise, but doesn’t say anything else. SIlence lapses once again. Awkward. Tiring. Not as comfortable. So you do what you normally do. Check your social media, scrolling through your burners on everything but your LinkedIn. 

Which makes you gasp. 

Because you’re still awake at 12:27am, London time, which is also 1:27am, Monaco time. And Lando, for whatever reason, as of two minutes ago, has viewed your page. 

tags: @charlesgirl16 @boo8008 @the-holy-trinity-l @laura-naruto-fan1998 @amalialeclerc @vellicora @st0rmzi3 @poppyflower-22 @hiireadstuff @seonghwaexile @mrsmelinda @actuallyazriel @noam-rosier-icr

[fushiglow]

[Exclusive] Getō Suguru is this week's cover star!

Here's a preview of his interview where he discusses his collaboration with Satoru and much anticipated album, Your Blue. Read the full story in chapter 14 of Over the Threshold!

“I’ll never return to Blue Spring again”

The quiet resurrection of Getō Suguru

This year marked Getō Suguru’s long-awaited return to the radio waves, but this time, his voice is nowhere to be heard. The singer-turned-producer discusses raising the next generation of musical artists and forging fast friendships in unlikely places. Read the full story below the cut.

Once upon a summer, Getō Suguru’s sunny smile lit up every street in Tokyo. You couldn’t round the corner without seeing his billboard, bold and bright and brazenly blue. The man I meet at a quiet café in Kagurazaka is a far cry from the fresh-faced youth Japan remembers. Crowded behind a tiny bistro table, he seems almost too big for his surroundings, both in presence and in stature. It’s a quality he shares with his collaborator, Gojō Satoru (known mononymously as Satoru), with whom the producer made his emphatic return to music this year. But over the course of forty five minutes and an English breakfast tea (milk, one sugar), I learn they share little else. “Satoru is the most honest person I’ve ever met,” Getō says of the story behind their implausible partnership. With his all black attire and neatly crossed legs, he’s the picture of understated elegance, despite the tattoos and piercings. Though he lacks the otherworldly looks of the singer he’s talking about, Getō is just as striking to behold. He’s beautiful for a man, with soulful eyes that bely how terribly young he is, even after all these years away from the industry. Unlike his counterpart, there’s a certain warmth to him, evident when he says, “It’s the reason he’ll go down as the greatest artist of our generation.” A bold claim, especially considering the as of yet unreleased album marks the K-pop idol’s first foray into the Japanese language market. Satoru’s individuality has won him hearts overseas but, despite his staggering talent, his aversion to discretion risks alienating him on home turf. Only this week, he caused a stir when he described the “old geezers running the music industry” as “a collective erectile dysfunction flopping around in a poorly fitted designer suit”. Indeed, “honest” is putting it generously. But perhaps you’d expect nothing less from Getō, whose brand of charm is suave and sophisticated where Satoru’s is cheeky — to put it generously. “There’s a heart of gold beneath that rough exterior,” he insists, surprisingly serious. “You can hear it in his songwriting.”

Maybe he’s right, or maybe Getō simply brings out the best in Satoru. In music and in conversation, Getō has a way of polishing Satoru’s harsh edges to reveal the hidden jewel within. It’s a marvellous gift he possesses, and Satoru has undoubtedly reaped the benefits of his proximity to Getō. The reverse, surely, cannot be said to be true. From stampedes at Shibuya station to speculation about his sexuality, this year has seen the producer catapulted into the public eye in new and uncomfortable ways. Is Getō bothered by the seemingly relentless scrutiny the superstar invites, inevitably bouncing off Satoru and onto him? “Not at all.” Getō’s smile is warm, fond even. His effortless charisma makes it easy to trust his word, but if Satoru is honest in his estimations, then Getō’s admission that the pair of them are “opposites in lots of ways” raises question marks. Unrelated, I was instructed not to ask any questions about the mysterious reasons behind his lengthy hiatus from music. There’s a common English proverb that says ‘opposites attract’, often used to suggest that ideal partnerships are built on contrasts. Research proves otherwise, and in Japan, we tend to prefer the notion that ‘birds of a feather flock together’, but perhaps Gojō Satoru and Getō Suguru buck the trend, because the art they’ve created together (and it is art, despite what their naysayers declare) is undeniably impressive. Ahead of its release on December 24, Your Blue has already garnered a number of wins at the prestigious Japan Record Awards. Though there was no prize on offer for best producer (a title that would surely go to Getō), all three singles due to be announced during the ceremony on New Year’s Eve. It marks the first time in history that multiple works by a single artist have been nominated in the category in a given year. But is he worried that Satoru’s untimely comments have dashed their chances with the voting committee? “That would suggest I think the awards aren’t really about the music.” Ever the diplomat, Getō neither confirms nor denies that’s the case, though it’s perhaps of note that Getō will not be attending the awards with Satoru on December 31. “For me,” he says with a shrug, “New Year’s Eve is a night for family.” One might imagine Getō is rooting for Sugar, a masterclass in pop production on his part, or Limitless, which earned him his first lead songwriting credit on a professionally released record since his debut. His favourite for the win? “Blue.” A predictably magnanimous choice by the producer, considering it’s the only song on the album he didn’t have a hand in creating. In the face of such humility, it’s not hard to remember why the Prince of J-pop was once touted as the ideal role model for Japanese youth. In recent years, Okkotsu Yūta took that title for himself, though one could argue that Getō Suguru paved the way for a great many of the young artists climbing the charts today. Prior to his collaboration with Satoru, the producer worked with up and coming group, Resonance, on their debut album. The trio are overwhelmingly tipped to win Best New Artist at the Japan Record Awards, less than a year after they burst onto the scene. With his tracks widely lauded as the standouts on their album, is Getō Suguru the key to unlocking an artist’s potential? He thinks not, at least when it comes to Satoru. “Satoru is perfectly capable of unlocking his potential by himself. He doesn’t need Getō Suguru—

I actually lied. This is the full story. This is all you're getting, here and in the chapter itself. So, what do we think? How's that for a WIP Wednesday, huh? Please please please scream at me to help me get this thing over the finish line at last! ♥