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abbotjack · 3 months ago

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(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– frank langdon .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

a/n : this is for the langdon girlies

word count : 4163

content/warning : infidelity, explicit sexual content, rough sex, unsafe sex (implied), emotional repression, guilt, morally gray dynamics, aftercare, masturbation, possessive language, complex power imbalance, emotionally charged relationship, references to marriage and children.

♡ A = Aftercare Frank Langdon doesn’t do tender aftercare—at least not in the traditional, soft-limbed, cuddling sense. He’s not the type to pull you into his chest and whisper sweet nothings while brushing the hair from your face. He gets too in his head for that. Too aware of where he is, what he's done, and who he has to go home to.

Instead, his version of aftercare is practical and oddly precise. He’ll sit up slowly, still flushed and half-wrecked, and quietly reach for your water bottle, or grab a towel from the nearby chair. He doesn’t say much—just steadies himself with a palm on your thigh, as if silently checking that you’re okay. If you’re still catching your breath, he’ll stay. Not touch, not fidget—just stay. He lingers in the way someone does when they’re afraid that walking away will make the whole thing disappear.

“I didn’t… hurt you?” he asks once, voice gravelled and rough.

You shake your head.

He nods, looks at your body like it deserves more than he gave. Then, quietly, he says, “Good,” but he doesn’t sound convinced.

♡ B = Body Part Frank has never thought of his body as something to admire. It’s a tool, a vehicle, something that gets him through 12-hour shifts, sometimes 24 if the ER’s understaffed. But if you ask what part he’s proud of—not what he thinks you like, but what he secretly holds onto? It’s his neck.

Not in a showy, flex-in-the-mirror kind of way. Just… his neck. Thick and solid, always a little flushed when he’s aroused, corded with tension like he’s constantly swallowing down what he really wants to say. It's the place you kiss when you want to get to him fast. Where you bite when he’s already balls-deep inside you and trying not to come. You’ve told him before—“You make the best noises when I kiss you here”—and ever since, he’s been weirdly conscious of it. Not shy. Just aware.

He feels your breath against his throat before he feels your hands. And if you press your lips just under his jaw, he’ll grip your hips tighter, pulse stuttering beneath your mouth.

As for you? He’s obsessed with your lower stomach. Not your waist. Not your chest. Not your ass, though he likes that too. No—your soft belly, the space between your hips and pelvis, where your skin is tender and warm and just slightly sensitive. The place he rests his palm over after he’s finished inside you, the place he drags his knuckles across when you’re lying on the couch.

It’s the quietest, most vulnerable part of your body—and it undoes him.

He once fucked you on your side, your back to his chest, his hand pressed firm against your stomach like he wanted to keep all of himself inside you.

And when you asked what that was about, why he held you there like that, he just said,

“I like feeling you. Right there. Where I know I left something.”

Then he kissed the spot again—slow, almost reverent—and didn’t say another word.

♡ C = Cum Frank tries to be responsible. Really. He’s too old to be careless, and the last thing he needs is another complication in a situation that’s already cheating on every level. But the moment you whisper something reckless—something like “Don’t pull out”—he’s gone. Gone in that way that makes his eyes roll back, his grip turn bruising, and his body collapse against yours like he’s coming apart.

His cum is thick, warm, and there’s something primal in the way he watches it drip out of you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes speaks volumes: guilt, lust, possessiveness, a thousand unspoken regrets.

He’ll clean you up in silence, gently, with a trembling hand. Then he’ll sit back, ring still on, and mutter:

“We shouldn’t’ve done that… again.”

And yet—he never leaves right after.

♡ D = Dirty Secret Frank has this one recurring fantasy—one he’d never admit out loud, even if you pressed him with your tongue and teeth and teasing fingers. It’s not elaborate. It’s not even that graphic. It’s domestic. Dangerous in its simplicity.

He imagines waking up in your bed. Not rushed. Not hiding. No pager. No wedding ring. Just you, your bare legs tangled with his, and the soft sound of the coffee maker burbling in the background. He imagines brushing his teeth in your sink. Pulling your shirt over your head instead of unbuttoning it under stress. Maybe taking you right there against the kitchen counter while you laugh, not cry.

But that’s the dirtiest part of it: the wanting. Not just the sex, not just the high—you. The idea of you as his instead of hers. And he hates himself for it.

Which is probably why he fucks you the way he does. Like he’s trying to bury the fantasy before it makes him do something irreversible.

♡ E = Experience Frank’s the kind of man who doesn't advertise how much he knows—but you feel it. From the first time he touched you, it was obvious. He doesn’t second-guess himself. Doesn’t fumble with your bra clasp or ask nervous questions. He reads you.

But here's the thing: Frank doesn’t move like a man who’s had hundreds of partners. He moves like a man who’s had maybe a handful, and still memorized every one. He carries experience like he carries guilt—quietly, heavy, with no need to boast. He’s all practiced hands and measured control, but there's something about the way he watches your reactions that tells you this isn’t casual for him. It never has been.

His mouth on your chest, the way he mouths over your nipple and then waits—waits for you to squirm before he sinks his teeth in gently. His fingers inside you, knuckle-deep with that perfect curl like he’s been learning your body over weeks instead of minutes. His hips grinding in slow, devastating circles, his rhythm tuned not to get off but to undo you. Every motion says:

I’ve done this before. But not like this. Not with you.

You ask him once, “Where the hell did you learn to do that with your tongue?”—half-laughing, fully breathless. He just shrugs, lips shiny with you, voice low.

“Long nights. Now shut up and come again.”

He knows how to make a woman feel good. But more than that—he knows what not to do. He’s not reckless. He’s not performative. He doesn’t chase porn-inspired theatrics or put on a show. He listens. He adapts. And he never loses patience.

He’s the kind of experienced that comes from making mistakes and learning from them. From fucking someone the wrong way once and swearing he’ll never do it again. From years of hearing what women don’t say out loud.

And now? He’s the man who lays you back with calm hands, mouths at your throat, and says things like,

“Let me take care of it. I know what you need.”

And for once in your goddamn life—you believe it.

♡ F = Favorite Position Frank likes positions where he doesn’t have to think too hard—where muscle memory takes over and guilt has to get in line behind pleasure. That usually means either cowgirl, where he can watch your body bounce on his cock, mouth parted in disbelief as you ride him into delirium—or spooning, slow and angled just right so he can stay deep without ever seeing your face.

But when he’s feeling particularly frayed? It’s you bent over a surface. Something with leverage. Something that doesn’t require foreplay or forethought. Just a hand over your mouth, his other on your hip, and a growl in your ear:

“Stay still for me. Just like that. Fuck—just like that.”

�� G = Goofy Frank isn’t goofy. He doesn’t have it in him—not during sex, and not outside of it either. Even when he wants to be light, the weight of everything he’s holding—his marriage, his kid, his job, you—pulls him back down like an anchor around the throat. But every now and then, right before everything tips over into sex, there’s a flash of something dry and sharp that slips past his guard.

“You gonna make me beg?” he mutters once as you straddle his lap, his belt still unbuckled, his cock hard and twitching against his stomach.

You raise an eyebrow. “Would you?”

He exhales a laugh—one you feel more than hear. “God, no. But I thought I’d ask.”

That’s the closest you get to playful. And it doesn’t last. Because once his hands are on you, Frank goes quiet again—like fun was never an option, only urgency.

♡ H = Hair Frank’s grooming is utilitarian—done out of habit, not vanity. He keeps everything trimmed low, clean, managed. His chest is broad and dusted with a thick layer of dark hair, the kind that trails down his stomach in a narrowing line that you’ve traced with your tongue more times than you can count.

He doesn’t talk about his body much. Doesn’t ask if you like it. But the way your hands explore him—the reverence in the way you touch the back of his neck or drag your fingers through the hair on his stomach—makes his ears flush pink.

The first time you knelt in front of him, mouth open and voice low, and said, “God, I love how you taste,” he went still. Not proud. Not smug. Just wrecked by it.

♡ I = Intimacy Frank is at his most intimate before the sex starts. It’s in the way he presses his forehead to yours when your lips are still inches apart.

The way he exhales through his nose like he’s grounding himself with you. There’s a heavy, trembling kind of closeness to it—a sense that he’s trying to earn this moment even as he knows it’s already broken.

He doesn’t call it love. Not out loud. But it seeps through everything he does when he lets himself feel instead of just fuck. His hands cradle your hips like you're fragile. His mouth brushes over your sternum, your shoulder, your lower back like he’s memorizing you in fragments. Sometimes he says your name, but it’s barely audible. Like speaking it too loud might shatter whatever spell you’re both under.

There’s one night where he’s buried deep inside you, rhythm slow, his eyes open the entire time. And he says—barely more than a whisper

“This should be you. This should’ve always been you.”

Then he kisses you like a man confessing, not apologizing.

♡ J = Jack off Frank jerks off with his jaw tight and his hand wrapped in guilt. It’s not frequent—he’s too tired, too wound up—but when he does, it’s never aimless. It’s always about you. Sometimes it's the memory of you spread out in the on call room. Sometimes it’s the way you moaned when he slid two fingers inside you while the ER intercom called his name. But the one that undoes him the fastest is the memory of your mouth—wet, open, eager, eyes locked with his while you sink down onto him like you need it to breathe.

He doesn’t stroke himself lazily. He’s fast, impatient. Like he’s trying to get it over with before the shame sets in.

He finishes with a grunt, low and strained, and then stares at the wall for several minutes—ring glinting on his left hand, heart still racing, and every part of him aching for a life he doesn’t have the right to want.

♡ K = Kink Frank’s kink isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not about toys or pain or showmanship. It’s ownership. Not possessive, but emotional. He wants to feel like he’s the only one who’s ever touched you this way, even if he knows it’s a lie.

He wants you to wear him. He wants to leave marks—thumbprints on your thighs, the shadow of his beard on your neck, his cum dripping out of you hours after he’s gone. He wants to fuck you slow and deep, whispering, “Mine,” like the word can undo the rest of his life.

He also has a fixation with your underwear. Specifically, the ones you leave behind. He keeps a pair in the glovebox of his car. Never told you. Just… couldn’t throw them away. One night, when everything felt like it was crumbling, he took them out, buried his face in the soft cotton, and fucked his fist until he came so hard he had to bite down on the seatbelt.

He told himself that was the last time. He was wrong.

♡ L = Location Frank doesn’t have the luxury of variety. He’s too cautious, too paranoid. But when it is possible? He likes confined, inhabited spaces. Places with walls. A door. Something that can be locked—not just for discretion, but because it’s the only way he can let go.

Your apartment is a rare treat. He doesn’t visit often, but when he does, he fucks you like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted—not just used or needed or tolerated. Your bed. Your shower. That one time he bent you over your kitchen sink while your pasta boiled behind you.

♡ M = Motivation Frank is most turned on when he’s emotionally overwhelmed. Anger, fear, grief, guilt—he doesn’t process them the way others do. He bottles them. Carries them. And eventually, they come spilling out in your direction, usually with his hands wrapped around your waist and his cock buried inside you like he’s trying to forget the world.

There’s a hunger in him he doesn’t understand. It’s not just about needing to fuck—it’s about needing you. Needing your laugh, your defiance, your softness. The way you touch his face like it doesn’t scare you. The way you moan like you’re not afraid of what this could become.

Sometimes you’ll say something simple—“You look tired,” or “You could stay the night”—and he’ll snap. Not with anger, but with desperation. He’ll kiss you too hard, yank your shirt over your head, push you onto the couch like he needs to be inside you before the thought has time to settle.

He’s turned on by danger. But more than that? He’s turned on by hope. And that scares him more than anything.

♡ N = No Frank has a lot of rules—some spoken, most not. No overnights. No coming to his house. No calling after 10PM. No talking about his kid.

No unprompted “I miss you” texts.

But in bed, his no’s are subtler. He doesn’t degrade. He won’t humiliate you, even if you ask him to. He won’t call you a slut or slap you across the face or spit in your mouth, because no matter how far he’s fallen, some lines still feel sacred.

“I’m not that guy,” he mutters, the first time you ask. He says it like it’s a promise he’s barely keeping.

And above all else—he won’t let you say “I love you.”

Not during. Not after. Not ever.

If the words so much as hover, he’ll pull away—physically, emotionally, all of it.

He’s a lot of things, but he refuses to lie to himself that much.

♡ O = Oral Frank eats pussy like he’s starving and like it’s the last thing he’s allowed to enjoy. He starts slow—one hand anchoring your thigh open, the other curled around your knee—just tasting, just learning. But once he figures out what makes your hips twitch? He doubles down like a man obsessed.

He flattens his tongue and grinds it against your clit in wide, deliberate strokes, low groans vibrating in his throat while your fingers lock in his hair.

He’ll wrap his lips around you, suck softly, then lap like it’s a compulsion.

He doesn’t always look up at you. Sometimes, he keeps his eyes closed—like the taste of you is something holy. Like looking would break whatever spell you’re both under.

Receiving? He likes it. Quietly. Doesn’t demand it, but won’t say no either. Especially when you do it with that same reverence—like you’re trying to take care of a man who doesn’t know how to let anyone take care of him.

His favorite is when you kneel without asking. Not for power. But for intention.

♡ P = Pace Frank’s pace is a paradox—unrelenting but measured. He isn’t reckless. He doesn’t slam into you blindly or chase climax like a teenager. When he fucks, he fucks like he’s thinking about it. Calculating every thrust. Dragging the head of his cock against that sweet spot inside you until your legs shake and your voice breaks on his name.

There’s a rhythm to it. Intentional. Sometimes fast and unforgiving—especially when he’s punishing himself for wanting you again. But just as often, he’s slow—achingly, deliberately slow, grinding in deep with every pass like he wants to brand you from the inside out.

“You feel that?” he mutters into your hair, hips pressed flush to yours.

“That’s me. All of me. Right there.”

♡ Q = Quickie Quickies aren’t casual for Frank—they’re necessary. He doesn’t always have the time or privacy for long, drawn-out sessions. So when the urge hits—and it always does—he’ll take you up against a wall, over a sink, half-out-of-breath with one hand on your mouth and the other under your skirt.

He’s fast but focused. Two fingers inside you, thumb circling just right while he groans against your shoulder. Or he’ll unzip just enough, slide in without even getting you fully undressed, fucking you so hard and so quiet it leaves your knees shaking after.

But afterward? He doesn’t look at you. Not right away. He adjusts his belt. Runs a hand through his hair.

And then says, in a voice you’ve learned to decipher, “That can’t happen again.”

(It always happens again.)

♡ R = Risk Every part of this is a risk. He knows that. The affair, the secrecy, the emotion. But Frank takes calculated risks—never reckless ones. He’s not about spectacle. He doesn’t want to get caught. But something about the possibility of it? Of fucking you behind a closed office door while his wife texts him about dinner plans? It twists something in him.

He won't admit how much he likes it. But he’s more dangerous than he looks.

One time, he fingered you in the backseat of his car while parked behind the hospital dumpster, a security camera blinking red in the corner of the lot.

“You’re gonna get me fired,” you whispered.

His reply? A low, growled, “Then be quiet.”

♡ S = Stamina Frank can’t go all night. But what he can do is make one round feel like five. He draws it out. Foreplay like a slow burn. Hands and tongue and murmured filth until you’re practically begging for him. And once he’s inside? He lasts. He holds off until he’s sure you’ve come—at least once, usually twice—before letting himself fall apart.

When he does come, it’s with a deep grunt, whole body shuddering against yours, head bowed like he’s ashamed of how hard he needed it.

If the moment’s right? He can go again. Not fast. But again. Especially if you’re on top, your mouth at his neck, whispering, “Don’t think. Just fuck me.”

♡ T = Toys Frank doesn’t own toys himself, but he’s open. Cautiously curious. He doesn’t need them—but he’s not threatened by them either.

You bring out a vibe once. He watches you use it, pants unzipped, fingers loosely stroking himself while your thighs shake from the stimulation. Then, he replaces the toy with his tongue. And then his cock. And later, he asks, “You use that when I’m not here?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Next time? He tells you to bring it before he shows up.

♡ U = Unfair Frank is brutal when it comes to teasing—but not in a playful way. In a psychological warfare kind of way. He doesn’t just edge you, he holds you hostage with it. Hands between your thighs, fingers stroking just shy of where you need him, lips dragging down your chest but never far enough.

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

You shake your head, eyes pleading.

“Then take it. Come on. Take what I give you.”

Sometimes he pulls out just to watch you squirm. Sometimes he fucks you with two fingers, murmuring, “Look at how desperate you get for me,” while refusing to let you come. It’s not about dominance—it’s about control. His own, and the way yours crumbles for him.

♡ V = Volume Frank is quiet. Too quiet. His sounds are guttural, close to his chest—like he’s afraid someone might hear. But when he’s really lost in it? He groans. Deep, low, filthy groans that vibrate through your bones.

He pants your name, curses under his breath, grits out lines like, “So fucking tight,” or “You feel like heaven.” And if he’s fucking you from behind? You might catch a rare, shaky moan when you clench around him just right.

The loudest he’s ever been was the time you rode him slow, keeping eye contact the whole time. He came with a strangled, “Fuck—baby, I can’t—shit,” and bit your shoulder to muffle himself.

You still have the mark.

♡ W = Wild Card Frank had a voicemail saved on his phone. He’s listened to it over a dozen times, never all at once, always in pieces. It’s your voice. It wasn’t even meant to be sexy—it was accidental, late at night, after a call he ignored because he was at home eating microwave spaghetti with his kid on the couch.

You hadn’t said his name. You hadn’t said much at all. Just a breathy laugh, some rustling sheets, and the quietest whisper:

“Wish you were here.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else. No background noise. No music. Just you. Lying in a bed you’d made room for him in. And then, click. Gone.

He couldn’t delete it. Still hasn’t. Keeps it tucked under fake contact info labeled "ADMIN EXT. 7" in case his wife ever scrolls.

One night, when things at home were at their most tense—after a fight about money, about time, about why he never seems present—he snuck out under the guise of a late call shift. He sat in his car, parked four blocks from your apartment, and played that voicemail on a loop. He never came to your door. Never called. Just listened.

Over and over.

When he finally showed up the next morning, eyes bloodshot, collar loose, you thought he’d been drinking. But he hadn’t.

He just missed you. Missed the idea of you.

The life he doesn’t have. The calm he doesn’t know how to deserve.

You opened the door, and he kissed you like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Didn’t say a word—just backed you up against the wall, one hand under your shirt, the other gripping your face like he needed to feel if you were real.

Later, when he came inside you with his mouth at your shoulder and your nails raking down his back, he murmured against your skin:

“I heard you. That night. I listened to all of it.”

And then—just barely—

“Don’t stop saying shit like that. Even if I can’t answer.”

He eventually deletes the voicemail. Not because he wants to. But because he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll never go home again.

♡ X = X-ray His cock matches the rest of him: thick, veined, a little curved, uncut. Not massive, but enough—the kind that stretches you just right, the kind that leaves you sore in the best way.

He doesn’t strut. He doesn’t talk about it. But when he sees your breath hitch as he lines himself up? He smirks.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “That’s it. You remember.”

♡ Y = Yearning His sex drive is tied to his emotions—always has been. He doesn’t want you casually. He wants you like a pressure valve. Like medicine. Like something he can’t name without unraveling.

He craves you when he’s mad. When he’s scared. When he sees you laughing with someone else. He’ll spend a whole day avoiding your texts, pretending he doesn’t want you—and then show up at midnight, half-drunk and out of excuses, kissing you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You’re not his mistress. You’re his escape. And that yearning? It’s never going away.

♡ Z = Zzz Frank never intends to fall asleep with you. He always tells himself he’ll leave. That he’ll zip up, slip out, and get back to the life he built before you broke it open.

But sometimes… he stays. Just a little longer. Just until your breathing slows. Just until your hand settles on his chest.

And then he’s out. Deep, quiet sleep—body heavy against yours, arm slung across your stomach, leg hooked over your thigh like he forgot where he was.

When he wakes up? He panics.

But in those few hours, he looks peaceful. Younger. Like the man he might’ve been in a different life.

#frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #dr langdon #dr langdon x reader #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt #the pitt x reader #the pitt 2025 #the pitt hbo #smut

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reasonsforhope · 11 months ago

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"A team at Northwestern University has come up with the term “dancing molecules” to describe an invention of synthetic nanofibers which they say have the potential to quicken the regeneration of cartilage damage beyond what our body is capable of.

The moniker was coined back in November 2021, when the same team introduced an injection of these molecules to repair tissues and reverse paralysis after severe spinal cord injuries in mice.

Now they’ve applied the same therapeutic strategy to damaged human cartilage cells. In a new study, published in the Journal of the American Chemical Society, the treatment activated the gene expression necessary to regenerate cartilage within just four hours.

And, after only three days, the human cells produced protein components needed for cartilage regeneration, something humans can’t do in adulthood.

The conceptual mechanisms of the dancing molecules work through cellular receptors located on the exterior of the cell membrane. These receptors are the gateways for thousands of compounds that run a myriad of processes in biology, but they exist in dense crowds constantly moving about on the cell membrane.

The dancing molecules quickly form synthetic nanofibers that move according to their chemical structure. They mimic the extracellular matrix of the surrounding tissue, and by ‘dancing’ these fibers can keep up with the movement of the cell receptors. By adding biological signaling receptors, the whole assemblage can functionally move and communicate with cells like natural biology.

“Cellular receptors constantly move around,” said Northwestern Professor of Materials Sciences Samuel Stupp, who led the study. “By making our molecules move, ‘dance’ or even leap temporarily out of these structures, known as supramolecular polymers, they are able to connect more effectively with receptors.”

The target of their work is the nearly 530 million people around the globe living with osteoarthritis, a degenerative disease in which tissues in joints break down over time, resulting in one of the most common forms of morbidity and disability.

“Current treatments aim to slow disease progression or postpone inevitable joint replacement,” Stupp said. “There are no regenerative options because humans do not have an inherent capacity to regenerate cartilage in adulthood.��

In the new study, Stupp and his team looked to the receptors for a specific protein critical for cartilage formation and maintenance. To target this receptor, the team developed a new circular peptide that mimics the bioactive signal of the protein, which is called transforming growth factor beta-1 (TGFb-1).

Northwestern U. Press then reported that the researchers incorporated this peptide into two different molecules that interact to form supramolecular polymers in water, each with the same ability to mimic TGFb-1...

“With the success of the study in human cartilage cells, we predict that cartilage regeneration will be greatly enhanced when used in highly translational pre-clinical models,” Stupp said. “It should develop into a novel bioactive material for regeneration of cartilage tissue in joints.”

“We are beginning to see the tremendous breadth of conditions that this fundamental discovery on ‘dancing molecules’ could apply to,” Stupp said. “Controlling supramolecular motion through chemical design appears to be a powerful tool to increase efficacy for a range of regenerative therapies.”"

-via Good News Network, August 5, 2024

#nanotechnology #osteoarthritis #arthritis #medical news #science news #cell biology #molecular biology #cartilage #good news #hope

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literaryvein-reblogs · 9 months ago

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Some Magic-Related Vocabulary

for your next poem/story

Amulet: An object worn, carried or placed to guard against negativity or other vibrations. A protective object.

Astral Projection: The practice of separating the consciousness from the physical body so that the former may move about unhindered by time, space or gravity.

Bane: A poison; that which destroys life. "Henbane" is poisonous to hens.

Banish: To drive away evil, negativity or spirits.

Beltane: An ancient folk-festival day observed by Witches that celebrates the fully blossomed spring. April 30 or May 1.

Censer: A vessel of metal or earthenware in which incense is burned. An incense burner.

Chaplet: A garland or wreath of flowers or leaves worn on the head, as in the chaplets given to classical Greek heroes as symbols of honor.

Clairvoyance: Literally "clear seeing." The ability to perceive facts, events and other data by other than the five "normal" senses, unaided by tools.

Curse: A concentration of negative and destructive energy, deliberately formed and directed toward a person, place or thing.

Divination: The art of finding things out through means other than the five senses, using tools such as tarot cards, crystal balls, and so on.

Enchant: "Sing to." Magically speaking, a procedure whereby herbs are aligned with your magical need prior to their use.

Evil Eye, The: Supposed glance capable of causing great harm or fear, once almost universally feared.

Fascination: The art of placing other people under one's power through sounds, gazes, colors, etc.

Hex: An evil spell; a curse.

Incubus: A male demon or spirit which was believed to sexually tempt and abuse women; the succubus was the corresponding female demon.

Infusion: An herbal tea.

Lughnasadh: An old harvest festival celebrated on August 1st or 2nd in Europe, reverencing the abundant (harvested) fruits of the Earth. It is still observed by Wicca.

Magic: The practice of causing needed change through the use of powers as yet undefined and unaccepted by science.

Magic Circle: A ritually-created circle (or sphere) that offers protection to the magician during magical rites.

Magician: A person of either sex who practices magic.

Magus: A magician.

Midsummer: The Summer Solstice, usually on or near June 21st, one of the Wiccan festival days and an excellent time to practice magic.

Pendulum: A tool of divination which consists of a heavy object suspended from a string or cord. The end of the cord is held between the thumb and forefinger; questions are asked and their answers divided by the movements of the pendulum.

Pentagram: A five-pointed star which has been used in magic for centuries. Highly symbolic, it is also a protective device.

Poppet: A small doll made of various substances to influence a person's fife. In herb magic, either a carved root or a cloth image stuffed with herbs. The use of poppets is known as "image magic."

Power Hand, The: The hand you write with; the dominant hand. This is a magically potent hand.

Samhain: An ancient festival day marking the beginning of winter. Also known as "Halloween" and All Hallows Eve. It is observed by Wicca with religious ceremonies.

Scry: To gaze into a pool of ink, fire, crystal ball, etc. to awaken and summon psychic powers.

Spell: A magical rite.

Talisman: An object worn or carried to attract a specific influence, such as love, luck, money, health; as opposed to an amulet which keeps forces from its bearer.

Wicca: A contemporary religion with spiritual roots in prehistory that worships the life-force of the universe as personified as a God and Goddess. It is sometimes erroneously referred to as "witchcraft."

Witch Bottle: A bottle or jar containing herbs, pins, shards of glass and other objects, designed to protect a person or area from evil and curses. Usually buried or placed in a window.

Witchcraft: The practice of natural magic, as that of herbs, stones, and candles. Spell-casting. Still used by some to refer to the religion of Wicca.

Wort: An old word meaning "herb." Mugwort preserves the term.

Excerpt from Cunningham's Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs More: Word Lists ⚜ Esoteric Vocabulary ⚜ On Magic

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that-fan-girl · 24 days ago

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It's Never Over

Summery: She always knew he was off-limits, untouchable. But when the line between childhood memories and something darker starts to blur, she falls harder than she ever meant to.

18+ MINORS DNI!

Pairings: Ray Young x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, Cheating, Size Kink, Choking, Age Gap, Hand Job, Fingering, Oral F! Receiving, Dom Ray, Power Inbalance, Unprotected Sex (Wrap Before You Tap).

We were all kids once.

Me, Curtis, Brooke, and Ray — packed into that hot garage with sticky fingers and blown-out speakers, passing AUX cords like they were holy. It didn’t matter who lived in the house. That garage was ours. The music, the noise, the stupid laughter echoing against the metal walls.

Curtis was loud. Brooke had a mean streak. I was the one always playing DJ, lying on my back on the stained rug with a half-broken Walkman and dreams too big for this town.

And Ray?

Back then, he was nice.

Not sweet, not soft, but solid. The oldest of us — tall and broad-shouldered, with hands that always had grease under the nails. He’d ruffle Curtis’s hair, flip Brooke off when she stole his cigarettes, and carry me inside when I passed out after too much sun.

I never thought about the age gap then.

We were just kids.

And he was just Ray.

I found the CD one night when they were all distracted.

The case was cracked, faded, shoved between an old Tool album and something covered in duct tape.

I held it up. “What’s this?”

Ray turned, wiping his hands on his jeans. His voice came low.

“Don’t touch that.”

That made me want to even more.

So I popped it in. Sat cross-legged on the floor, letting the opening track roll out like smoke. Low and eerie and beautiful. Like falling into a dream that might bite back if you weren’t careful.

No one else paid it much attention.

But Ray watched me.

Didn’t say anything. Just let it play.

After that, I started staying later.

They’d drift out one by one. Curtis off to soccer. Brooke to wherever she always vanished.

And I’d still be there.

Ray never told me to leave.

He’d work with the music low in the background — the kind of stuff that sounded like heartbreak on cassette.

Sometimes we talked. Not much. Just little things.

Sometimes we didn’t say a word.

And still, I liked it better than anywhere else.

The summer I left, I told them it was for art. For adventure. For something bigger than this town and its too-small streets.

I came back at the end of August.

Sunburned. Sharper. With calloused fingertips and an energy that made heads turn.

Curtis had grown too — taller, a little less annoying, maybe even handsome if you tilted your head.

He didn’t say I looked pretty.

Not yet.

But his eyes did that flicker thing—up, down, back again—and I knew.

He saw it.

He just didn’t know what to do with it.

But Ray?

Ray was a man now.

And that…

I noticed.

He didn’t say hello.

Just nodded once. Walked past me in the kitchen like I was part of the wallpaper.

That silence?

It pissed me off.

So I got louder.

Flirtatious smiles. Bigger laughs. Calling him “Raymond” in that voice that made Curtis roll his eyes and Brooke give me side-glances like what the fuck are you doing.

And still—he didn’t look at me.

Didn’t see me.

Not until Curtis started showing up more.

He was different now.

Gentler. Steadier.

We’d hang out in his truck till midnight, talk about nothing with the windows down.

He brought me milkshakes without asking what flavor. Wrote dumb poems in the margins of his notebooks. Said my name like he liked the sound of it in his mouth.

And I let it happen.

Because Ray wasn’t looking.

Because maybe I wanted someone to look at me like I was real.

One night, we kissed.

His thumb under my chin, his forehead resting on mine like he was asking permission.

And I let him.

I kissed him back.

I tried to want him like that.

He was safe. Familiar.

He braided my hair on long drives. Let me sleep with my head on his chest.

We didn’t have sex.

But we got close.

Skin to skin, breath to breath.

I stopped it.

He said, “It’s okay.”

He said he’d wait.

And still —

When he kissed me, all I could think was:

Ray never would.

Weeks passed. The tension was static now—always humming, just under the skin.

I started catching Ray’s eyes again.

Quick glances. A slow drag of his gaze across my legs when he thought I wouldn’t notice.

But I always did.

Curtis begged me to go.

I didn’t want to. I already knew how these nights ended—cheap beer, someone crying in the driveway, Brooke flirting with someone she didn’t really like just to feel something.

But I said yes anyway.

I always said yes to Curtis.

That was the problem.

It started fine.

His arm around my waist.

My hand on the back of his neck.

He kissed my cheek while I poured a drink. We smiled too hard, laughed at nothing.

I was scanning the room for Ray.

But he wasn’t there.

I don’t know when it changed.

Maybe it was the hallway—

the way the bathroom light spilled under the door.

Maybe it was the sound.

Soft. Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

Maybe it was how the door wasn’t even fully shut.

I pushed it open without thinking.

And there they were.

Curtis.

Brooke.

Her dress hitched up around her waist. His hands on her hips.

His face buried in her neck like she was everything he’d ever wanted.

They didn’t even see me.

I didn’t yell.

Didn’t cry right away.

Just turned and walked out before they could notice the ghost in the doorway.

I made it to the curb before I broke.

The gravel crunched under me like bones.

My throat was burning. My chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon.

I hated this fucking town.

I hated the smell of beer and the sound of my name in other people’s mouths.

I hated how Curtis looked at me like I was already his.

And most of all—

I hated that I didn’t want him in the first place.

His car pulled up slow.

Engine rumbling. Headlights off.

I knew it was Ray without looking.

No one else drove like that.

He stopped beside me. Window down. Said nothing.

I didn’t move.

He waited.

Then:

“Get in, I'm taking you home.”

I didn’t ask how he knew I was there.

Didn’t ask if he saw what happened.

I just opened the door, climbed in, and slammed it shut behind me.

The cab smelled like old leather and cedar smoke. The stereo was off.

Ray stared straight ahead, one hand on the wheel, jaw tight.

I could feel his eyes on me in flashes.

My bare thighs. My blotchy cheeks.

The sharp little breaths I was trying to keep quiet.

I could feel it.

Him holding it all back.

“Do you wanna come in?”

My voice broke the silence.

Low. Small.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at me.

But he turned into my driveway anyway.

We didn’t say a word as we walked to the door.

My fingers shook unlocking it.

Inside, it was dark.

Empty.

Too quiet.

I kicked off my shoes and turned.

He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes heavy, chest rising like he was trying not to breathe too hard.

“Ray,” I whispered.

I could feel the heat coming off him. His breath. The tension strung so tight it could snap—

“You’re crying over him?”

His voice was low, rough.

Like gravel in the dark

“He fucked her.”

I said it like it burned.

Ray’s thumb traced my cheek.

“Curtis never knew what the fuck to do with you.”

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket.

Tried to calm my breathing.

Tried not to look as cracked open as I felt.

“I’m so fucking stupid.”

It came out thin. Croaky.

My throat ached.

Ray shook his head.

“No, you’re not.”

I laughed once — dry, humorless.

“He was so gentle with me, you know? Took his time. Said the right things.”

I looked up at him.

“But he was never really looking.”

Ray’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Just something tight.

“He saw what he wanted to see.”

A pause.

“You always scared him a little.”

That made me go still.

“Why?”

He shrugged. Looked down.

Then back up — like it cost him something.

“Because you feel real. Not easy. Not simple.”

We just stared at each other after that.

It stretched long.

Heavy.

Something in it breaking open.

“I thought maybe…”

I started, but couldn’t finish. My throat was raw.

Ray stepped forward.

Slow. Careful.

“You let him close,” he said gently, eyes scanning mine. “But he never reached you.”

My breath hitched.

“Not really.”

This time, I didn’t speak.

Just nodded.

Ray’s fingers brushed my cheek. Featherlight.

The softest thing.

It made my eyes sting again, stupidly.

“I hated watching it,” he murmured.

“The way you tried to shrink yourself down just to fit him.”

His thumb traced under my jaw.

I blinked at him.

He was so close now.

Close enough to feel.

Close enough to want.

“But I waited,” he added.

His voice was steady. Low.

“I waited for you to see it for yourself.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

And finally—

I leaned into him.

His mouth brushed my temple.

Just once.

Tender.

Reverent.

Then his lips moved against my skin, barely above a whisper:

“Tell me what you want.”

I didn’t answer at first.

Couldn’t.

The words were too tangled up in my throat. Too heavy.

I just pressed my face into his shoulder, and his arms came around me like instinct.

For a moment, we just stood there.

The hallway breathing around us.

The heat of his chest beneath my cheek, solid and steady.

“I don’t know,” I whispered finally.

“I just know it’s not him.”

Ray didn’t move.

Didn’t say I know, didn’t say I told you so.

He just ran a hand slow up my back, resting it between my shoulder blades.

“You don’t have to know,” he murmured. “You just have to feel it.”

My fingers curled into the back of his shirt.

He smelled like firewood and leather and summer rain.

“I wanted you,” I said, so quiet it felt like a confession.

“All that time… I wanted you.”

His breath caught, just slightly.

And then he pulled back to look at me.

There was something in his eyes — that all-knowing kind of hunger that didn’t need to rush.

That knew its way around patience.

“I know” he said, voice low.

His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then lingered — fingers tracing the side of my neck.

I looked at him.

Really looked.

He leaned in, forehead pressing to mine.

His nose brushed mine.

“I’m scared,” I admitted.

His thumb stroked my jaw.

“You should be.”

Then:

“But not of me.”

I felt my stomach twist.

In the kind of anticipation that hums just beneath the ribs.

“I just didn't know what to do."

Ray’s hand slid down to my waist. Held me there.

Firm. Present.

“No,” he said softly. “I think you’ve always known. I just think you were trying not to.”

And then finally — finally —

his mouth found mine.

Warm. Full. Slow.

The kind that didn’t ask for anything but gave everything.

His hands found my face as mine gripped his arms.

Years of not-saying.

Months of almosts.

A summer full of moments just barely missed.

His lips moved against mine with something like reverence, like it mattered.

His mouth tasted like heat.

Like things unsaid. Like tension unraveling after too many years pulled tight.

I kissed him like I meant it.

Because I did.

Because every almost, every silence, every too-long stare had led to this.

And Ray kissed me like he knew.

Like he’d always known.

His hands gripped my waist, then slid under my shirt.

Not rushed. Not frantic.

But with the confidence of someone who’d imagined this a hundred different ways.

I gasped into his mouth when his palms met skin.

His touch was warm. Rough. Real.

I could feel the callouses on his hands, the ones I used to watch wrap around guitar necks and cold beer bottles.

They felt better here.

On me.

He broke the kiss just long enough to pull my shirt over my head, slow, careful, like he didn’t want to spook me.

But I was already too far gone.

My fingers went to his belt like instinct.

I wasn’t thinking anymore — I was feeling.

And every inch of him felt like gravity.

Ray walked me backward until my calves hit the edge of the couch.

He didn’t push — just looked at me. Waiting.

“I want this,” I whispered, breathless.

His eyes darkened.

“Then lie back.”

I did.

The room was quiet except for our breathing.

The low creak of denim. The whisper of skin on skin.

Ray climbed over me, bracing himself on his forearms.

Our noses brushed again.

But he didn’t kiss me yet.

“You sure?” he murmured.

I nodded.

Reached up.

Pulled him down.

The kiss was deeper this time.

Hungrier.

His body settled between my thighs, heat to heat.

I arched up into him, and he groaned into my mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathed against my jaw. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His hands mapped every inch of me — my ribs, my hips, the small of my back.

Every place that had ached for him.

And when his mouth found my neck, I whimpered.

Because I’d thought about this. So many nights.

Him right here.

Breathing me in like he was starving.

I hooked my legs around him, dragging him closer.

His hips rolled once, slow and deep, still clothed, and it sparked through me like lightning.

We gasped at the same time.

“Ray—”

My voice cracked.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve always had you.”

And then he was kissing down my chest, dragging his tongue along the edge of my bra.

He pushed the straps down with his teeth.

God.

His mouth was everywhere.

Teasing. Worshipping.

Like he was trying to memorize me from the inside out.

When his hand slipped between my legs, I nearly bucked off the couch.

Still over my underwear, but the pressure was perfect.

His fingers slow. Knowing. Addictive.

“You’re soaked,” he growled, voice low and wrecked.

I hid my face in his neck.

“Look at me,” he said gently, thumb pressing against the wet spot. “I want to see you fall apart.”

“Ray—”

My voice cracked.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve always had you.”

And then he was kissing down my chest.

He looked up once, eyes molten.

“Can I?”

I nodded so fast it made my hair fall into my face.

“Look at you,” he murmured darkly. “So fucking ready for it.”

He rubbed slow, steady, firm — and then slipped under the fabric, dragging his fingers through the slick heat between my thighs.

“You’ve been aching for it, haven’t you?”

My whole body jerked.

“Ray—fuck—”

“I know, baby.” His voice was low, guttural. “Been dreaming about getting you like this — feeling you in my hand.”

His fingers slid deep — curled once, twice — and I cried out, hips jerking against his hand.

Ray groaned.

“You’re so fucking wet.”

He pulled his fingers out — slowly, deliberately before he sank down to his knees in front of me.

“Ray—what—”

But he was already pushing my legs apart.

Already leaning in.

Already tasting me.

His tongue slid through wetness, slow at first — then deeper, filthier, like he was starving for it.

I gasped. Grabbed for the couch. My legs shook.

He moaned against me, and it vibrated all the way up my spine.

“Fuck,” he growled, voice muffled. “You taste so good.”

Two fingers slid back inside while his tongue worked circles around my clit, fast and relentless.

I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

“Ray—fuck, I—”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let up.

One arm locked around my thigh, keeping me wide open for him while the other hand fucked me deep, curling just right — over and over and over.

When he pulled back, his mouth was wet, chin glistening. His eyes were blown wide, dark and dangerous.

He brought his fingers to my lips.

“Open your mouth.”

I did — dazed, wrecked — and he slid them in slow.

“Good girl,” he rasped, watching every inch disappear. “Suck.”

I closed my lips around them, tasting myself on his skin. He groaned.

“See how sweet you are?” he said, low and rough. “That’s all mine now.”

I whined around his fingers, eyes fluttering.

His free hand slid up my neck — Like he owned me.

“You gonna come for me?” he asked, voice close, deadly calm. “Gonna fall apart like a good little girl around my fingers?”

I nodded. Couldn’t stop it.

He worked his fingers faster, lips brushing my temple. “That’s it. Come for me, baby. Let go.”

And I did. Hard. Writhing under his touch, moaning into his hand like nothing else existed. My body convulsed around his fingers, toes curling, breath catching.

Before I even had time to come down, he grabbed my wrist and guided it down — lower — until I felt the hard length of him through his jeans.

“Feel that?” he whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

I nodded, trembling.

“Take it out.”

I hesitated — just a second — and he tightened his grip around my hand.

“Don’t be shy now. You wanna touch it, don’t you?”

I swallowed. Nodded again.

He helped me undo his jeans, his breath sharp as I wrapped my fingers around him for the first time. Huge. Thick. Heavy in my hand.

“Such a good girl,” he growled. “Stroke it. Just like that. Nice and slow.”

I moved my hand the way he showed me — up, then twisting down — and he groaned, low and broken.

“Fuck, that’s it. Keep going.”

His hand slid back up to my throat, thumb brushing my jaw, and he leaned in close again.

“I’ve thought about this,” he said, teeth grazing my cheek. “Thought about your hand wrapped around my cock.”

I whimpered, squeezing tighter, and he shuddered.

“Eyes on me,” he said, voice suddenly sharp.

I looked up.

“Good,” he said again, slower now. “That’s where you stay, sweetheart. Right here. With me.”

“You like that?” he asked, voice low and rough.

I nodded.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” I whispered.

His lips twitched, and for a second, there was something soft in his eyes. “Yeah?” he murmured. “You like making me lose control?”

Then, in a blink, the softness vanished.

His jaw flexed.

“Well, you don’t get to,” he snapped. “I’m in control here.”

His voice went sharp — deeper, dangerous.

“Get your fucking hand off me.”

I froze, startled. My hand slid back off his cock automatically, and before I could blink, he grabbed both my wrists in one hand and slammed them above my head, pinning me to the mattress.

His other hand wrapped around my throat.

“You don’t get to drive this,” he growled. “You’re gonna lie there," his hand tightening around my throat, “and take everything I give you.”

His cock was already heavy in his hand, thick and flushed. I squirmed under him, hips twitching, but he just held me down — palm flat on my stomach, keeping me pinned.

“Stay still” he murmured, the head nudging against my clit. “You’re shaking already. Barely touched you.”

He dipped lower. Rubbed the tip against my entrance, slow and cruel, teasing little circles that made me whimper.

“You feel that?” he whispered, voice all syrup and threat. “That’s just the tip, and you’re already falling apart.”

He pressed in a little — just enough for the thick head to push past my entrance — and my mouth dropped open. I felt impossibly full already, stretched to the edge.

“Ohhh, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he murmured.

“You wanted this, remember?” he said, all mock-sweet. “You begged for it. Look at you now.”

I blinked up at him, breath stuttering, body locked around him.

“It’s too—”

He cut me off with a chuckle, low and smug. “Too big?” His other hand returned to his cock, dragging it back out slow, then rubbing it through me again. “You’ll take it. Every inch.”

He leaned down, kissed the corner of my mouth, then murmured, “Open your legs wider."

I obeyed without thinking, thighs trembling as he lined himself up again.

“Good little slut” he purred, thick head pressing back in. “There we go."

He took my hand — trembling — and guided it to my lower stomach.

“Right there,” he said, pressing down gently over my hand. “Feel it.”

My eyes fluttered. I could feel the pressure, so deep it made my head spin.

“You like that?” he asked, cock twitching inside me.

I moaned, broken and breathless.

“That’s what I thought,” he said darkly. “Now shut up and take it.”

He didn’t give me time to adjust just slid in another inch, slow but unrelenting.

“There you go,” he whispered, watching my face twist up. “That’s it.”

My breath caught, eyes rolling, mouth open on a silent gasp.

“You’re taking it so fucking well,” he murmured, thumb brushing over my cheek, mock-gentle.

He gave a slow, grinding thrust — barely another inch deeper — and my nails scraped at his arm.

His fingers slid back to my throat — thumb brushing against the underside of my jaw as his hips started to move. Slow, dragging thrusts, pushing deeper with each stroke.

My legs shook. I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh my god—”

“You like that?” he whispered, cock so deep I could feel it pulse. “Right fucking there — that’s the spot, isn’t it?”

I whimpered, legs twitching. He grinned like he knew.

“Yeah, it is. I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So fucking wet.”

He pulled almost all the way out — and then slammed back in hard enough to make me cry out.

“Say it,” he demanded, fucking into me with rough, perfect rhythm now. “Say you love it. Say you’re mine.”

“I—I love it—fuck—”

He cut me off with another brutal thrust, then stilled. “Good girl."

He started moving again, hand sliding from my throat to cup my breast, squeezing hard, hips grinding deep and deliberate. My whole body was trembling.

Then his fingers dipped down, found my clit, and rubbed tight little circles in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he hissed, not stopping, not slowing.

“Let go for me,” he growled against my ear. "I wanna feel you come all over my cock. Show me how good it feels."

And I did. My body locked up, legs clamping around his waist, everything shattering into stars as I moaned his name.

“That’s it,” he hissed, not stopping, not slowing.

His thrusts drove deeper, harder, each one pushing me to the edge. His fingers circled my clit mercilessly, setting my nerves on fire.

I was drowning in sensation.

He growled low, pushing even harder, his body slamming into mine with relentless hunger.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven ” he cursed, voice thick with lust. “Come all over me, baby. Make me yours.”

His hips slammed faster, fucking me raw and wild. My nails dug into his back, breath ragged and desperate.

My orgasm ripped through me, leaving me shaking and gasping. The only thing keeping me from falling apart was him, buried deep inside me.

“Just like that. So fucking perfect,” he growled, voice rough and heavy.

Then his release slammed into me like a freight train, holding me tight, filling me up completely as he twitched and pounded through every last shudder.

After we both caught our breath, his grip softened, fingers tracing slow, gentle patterns along my spine.

He pulled me closer, chest rising and falling against mine, whispering, “I’ve got you.”

His lips brushed my temple, warm and reassuring, as he cradled my face in his hands.

“Let’s just stay like this for a while,” he murmured, his voice low and steady, grounding me as the world settled back into focus.

#fanfic #motorheads #motorheadshow #motorheadsmut #ray young #ray young smut #ray young x reader #ray young x reader smut #drake rodger #drake rodger smut #motorheadfanfic #motorheads x reader #motorheads smut

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greaterwestope · 1 year ago

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Corded Power Tools for Your Workshop

Welcome to a world where power and precision meet to create masterpieces in your workshop. In this blog post, we will dive into the realm of corded power tools – the unsung heroes that provide the muscle for your DIY projects and professional endeavours alike.

From safety precautions to maintenance tips, unleash the full potential of your tools with our expert guidance. Let’s plug in and power up for a journey into maximising efficiency and longevity in your workshop!

Corded power tools

Corded power tools are the backbone of any workshop, offering consistent and reliable performance for a wide range of tasks. Unlike their cordless counterparts, corded tools provide uninterrupted power without the need for recharging or battery replacements. This makes them ideal for heavy-duty projects that require sustained operation.

With a direct connection to a power source, corded tools deliver constant torque and speed, ensuring precision and efficiency in your work. Whether you're drilling, cutting, sanding, or grinding, these tools offer the power needed to tackle tough materials with ease.

Additionally, corded power tools often have higher wattage ratings compared to their cordless counterparts. This means they can handle more demanding applications and maintain performance levels over extended periods of use. When it comes to raw power and endurance in your workshop arsenal, corded tools are an indispensable choice for professionals and enthusiasts alike.

Safety Precautions and Best Practices for Corded Tool Use

When it comes to using corded power tools in your workshop, safety should always be a top priority. Before starting any project, it's essential to familiarise yourself with the tool's user manual and safety guidelines. This will ensure that you understand how to operate the tool correctly and minimise the risk of accidents.

Always wear appropriate safety gear, such as goggles, gloves, and ear protection when using corded power tools. These simple precautions can protect you from flying debris, loud noises, and potential injuries. Additionally, make sure your work area is well-lit and free of clutter to prevent tripping hazards or other accidents.

Keep cords away from sharp edges or heat sources to avoid damage or fraying. Never carry a tool by its cord or yank it out of the socket forcefully. When not in use, unplug the tool and store it properly to prevent accidental starts or damage.

By following these safety precautions and best practices for corded tool use, you can create a safe working environment in your workshop while maintaining efficiency and productivity without compromising on safety.

Maintenance Tips to Keep Your Corded Tools Running Smoothly

Regular maintenance is key to ensuring your corded power tools stay in top working condition for years to come. By following the tips mentioned above, you can keep your tools running smoothly and efficiently.

Remember, safety should always be a top priority when using any power tool, corded or not. Always follow proper safety precautions and best practices to prevent accidents and injuries. With the right care and attention, your corded power tools will continue to unleash their full potential in your workshop.

To ensure the longevity of your electrical tools, it is important to take proper care of them. Doing so will not only allow you to complete more tasks and earn more money, but also give you the option to expand your tool collection. We won't judge if you choose to do so. Maintaining your tools should not be a tedious task; in fact, it can bring great benefits if done consistently. Factors such as storage, cleaning, maintenance, sharpening and replacement should all be considered for optimal results.

Here are some storage tips to ensure the longevity of your electrical tools. These tools are designed to be sturdy, but they can still succumb to wear and tear if not properly cared for. It is important to keep them in storage when not in use, whether that be in a van, basement, garage, or shed. These environments can expose them to dust and dampness which could potentially lead to damage.

To keep your tools organised and protected from the elements, consider using a toolbox or shelving unit for storage. Checking your tools for any visible damage before each use is also recommended. By following these practices of proper storage and usage, you can ensure that your tools will last for a long time and prevent any unexpected setbacks on a job.

Maintaining the cleanliness of your electrical tools is crucial for their longevity and your safety. After each use, disconnect them from the power source and wipe them down with a clean cloth to remove any dirt, dust, or debris that may have accumulated during the job.

Additionally, check for signs of rust and apply a rust remover if necessary. When it comes to hand tools like hammers and screwdrivers, inspect them for splinters and sand them down to prevent handle breakage.

Also, be sure to grind down any mushrooming on hammer heads to avoid potential shattering during use. Remember, regular cleaning not only benefits your tools but also ensures your safety and prolongs your work efficiency.

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trashmouth-richie · 1 year ago

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➶ pt 1 1/2: DULEX (the gnat) a mid/prequel || emperor geta x reader

➶ 18+ smut 🥀 this takes place somewhere after reader meets caracalla and geta the first night she comes to Palatine Hill and where part one ended.

➶pt i: dulci ut rosa {sweet as a rose🥀 } pt ii: vitiosus + deliciosus

pt iii: frangere me 🥀 pt iv: ad caelum vel infernum, tecum sum

Licking up the hot spend that threatened to spill from your lips, you looked up at your Emperor. Your knees had gotten used to the stone floor, the sand no longer bothering you as it cut through your skin. Geta’s groans were low and guttural, every time. They never swayed, and neither did you as he pumped your mouth full every night.

His chin was tilted upward giving you a clear view of his thick neck. It resembled a tree trunk, a knob in the center where it bobbed with satisfaction, veining with cords that would tighten when he denied himself the pleasure of release. Some nights were longer than others, but they all started and ended the same way.

You told him every detail of what Caracalla had said during your evenings with him. Even the minute details of what he nibbled on during the vesperna, which was mostly fish, sucking the bones between his teeth and then using it as a tool to dig out the tender flesh between his gums.

Geta sometimes laughed at the things you told him. Other times he was angry, brooding beneath that glorious wave of honeypot curls.

Tonight, he didn’t ask for the secrets immediately on his arrival. Gets simply looked you over from head to toe, and when his eyes finished their feast he turned, cocking his head for you to follow him.

He walked with hands behind his back as he strolled an inch ahead of you, so close that if your hands and his were loose, they’d touch. He showed you around the palace, paintings with various strokes of colors making up different frescoes along the great walls. All of which made up the Roman Gods. Apollo and Diana in one showcasing the sun and the moon. Neptune, riding a massive stallion, a hurricane in his wake.

It was exquisite, the different materials used to makeup each piece was fascinating. Geta admired silently, and when he spoke in his native language, you were surprised.

Latin was becoming less and less common, but when he spoke, it rolled off his tongue in eloquence. Pure, unbroken, seductive. Flowing in a way you hadn’t heard in years. You could listen to him for hours.

Further down another corridor led to a great display of busts of Emperors before himself. He paused at one that looked fairly new, the marble uncracked and pristine. Geta, moved his fingers along the base of the heavy stone uttering quietly, “pater meus.”

You stood before the behemoth looking alter, taking in the intricate carvings of the handsome face, one that looked nearly identical to the man staring back at it. Turning towards him you managed, “Ita, Quomodo mortuus est?”

A ripple of shock wove like a needle across his face. Geta looked at you before you spoke, “mortuus est ex morbo.” It was no secret that Caracalla and Geta’s father fell ill and died unexpectedly.

Still, you’d never lost someone close to you before.

“Me paenitet,” you whispered. Even though Geta was a strange man to understand, you were still sorry for his loss. Emperor Septimius Severus was a great man, powerful and demanding to those around him, but still loved by Rome.

Geta looked at you with narrowed eyes, “death isn’t feared by warriors, only those who are weak are afraid of what lies beyond our world.”

He looked as if he would say something else, but he never did, only jerking his head as if to shrug clear his mind before turning on his heel walking quickly the way you came. This time, he walked further ahead of you, his feet slapping the marble floor as he went. A rolling sensation spurring in his nerves.

Geta had times of showing brute strength, other times he was almost kind to you, a friend perhaps. But his mind seem to change like the direction of the wind, like he pushed down anything that could possibly make him happy, make him let go.

“Tell me what he’s done on this day,” he suddenly ordered over his shoulder, his voice back to the bark it usually had, “from first light to his chamber.”

Stumbling over your words you began the lengthy, and extremely boring explanation of how Caracalla had spent his day. Before you could finish and before getting to the closed off corridor, Geta grabbed your arm pulling you down past the massive stone pillars. Into the open.

The humid air hung thick and wet on your skin. The moon was draped with clouds, a poor night for prey. With his finger pointing to the dirt, he motioned for you to kneel, and you looked at him startled. Out here, anyone could see you and report your trickery to one of the generals or worse, to Caracalla.

Raising his eyebrows in protest, the pieces of the puzzle seemed to fit as he assembled your hesitation, “No one will see your whore mouth as I fuck it, they are all tucked into their beds, or drunk.”

Nodding curtly, you obey, slinking to your knees, only to be stopped by his hand and brought back to standing before him. A look you couldn’t place was etched onto his features, as if he was fighting himself in his head, holding himself back.

Geta had been pissed beyond belief after visit his father’s busy. All he could do was be reminded of how his father left him here to rule with his brother. Caracalla wasn’t fit to be an Emperor. He was barely fit to be anything more than a wet dog.

Rage had filled his head as he stomped back to the hallway that was tainted with his moans and the slurp of your gags. He wanted to brutalize your mouth, maybe he’d end up knocking out one of your teeth, or bruise your throat so terribly that you couldn’t swallow anything but liquid for a weeks.

But now as you stood before him, he suddenly felt a sense of calm. Geta was always sure of what he wanted, what he desired. Since your arrival, you somehow seemed to put his maddening thoughts at ease. Just seeing your eyes and the way the suffocated moon shone in them… he couldn’t keep this act up much longer.

“Don’t… don’t move just yet,” he nearly whispered, releasing your arm and moving his fingers across your collarbone. His thumb outlined the marrow beneath the skin, and he moved to the curve of your jaw before placing the pads of his fingers on your lips.

He was right. They felt like the most expensive silk gold could buy, and for the first time in Geta’s life, he wanted to feel them on his own.

He’d fucked practically all the women of Rome, yet he never allowed them touch him in that way. But watching your lips move when you spoke the native tongue back to him made his cock jump, and his chest tighten. They moved in such a seductionous manner he felt as though he was in a trance. Your voice hypnotized him, your lips the object of his innermost desires.

Without thinking anymore of it, Geta leaned in, aligning his lips to yours, as he melted on the hot humid night beneath the Gods and anyone else to witness— he melted into his first actual kiss. As he pulled away from you, a delicate humming noise tickled his eardrum, a pestering sound, barely audible, something he’d been hearing more and more frequently…

-🔆part 3 is already being written besties

latin translation:

dulex— gnat

pater meus— my father

Ita, Quomodo mortuus est?— yes, how did he die?

mortuus est ex morbo— he died from an illness

me paentit— i’m sorry

☻ taglist: @joejoequinnquinn @fallout-girl219 @hellfireadmin @all-will-be-well-love @anythinggoesemily

@eddiesguitarskills @prestinalove @palomahasenteredthechat @wiltinglovers @razzeith

@workingwndrz @probablyin-bed @songforeddiemunson

#emperor geta smut #joseph quinn #emperor geta #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x reader smut #emperor geta x reader #emperor geta fanfic

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dark-corner-cunning · 6 months ago

Text

Transmutation Warding: Feeding Off The Haters

• Welcome Back, Seekers! Within my local coven, we’ve turned our focus to warding and protection magick as we prepare for the year ahead. I adore transmutation magick for warding! It’s one of my favorite ways to craft shields for myself, my work, my growth, and my success. Instead of constantly bracing for every hex, evil eye, or ill wish, this approach flips the narrative. Transmutation wards work proactively, taking any negativity sent your way and alchemizing it into fuel for your growth and power. Why waste energy defending against haters or uncovering their identities when you can let their spite feed your fire? Let them send their malice—it’ll only make you more powerful.

As always, take what resonates with your spirit and weave it into your own unique magick! My spells and workings are here to spark your creativity and inspire your craft. ✨

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Tools & Ingredients:

1 black candle (to absorb negativity)

1 purple candle (for transmutation and spiritual power)

Thread or Cord (any color)

A mirror (to summon your Fetch Spirit or reflect your essence)

1 clear quartz crystal or any charm you’re called to that can be left on your altar or within your space - As a subtle sentinel of the ward’s power, clear quartz is a cherished ally in magick. Its ability to be easily programmed makes it a perfect vessel for your intention, while its amplifying nature ensures the energy of your working radiates far and wide. To the untrained eye, it appears as nothing more than a beautiful crystal resting upon your altar or within your sacred space—a discreet guardian cloaked in plain sight, silently weaving its protective spell.

Optional: Chalk or something to draw a circle (for creating a sacred boundary to hold the enchantment of your crystal or charm. If chalk is unavailable, let your finger become the wand. You can also use salt or any symbols you would like to use to draw out a circle.

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Preparation:

Cleanse your workspace and tools with smoke, salt water, or another method of your choosing.

Candle preparation, take your black candle and anoint it with a neutral oil, something simple like canola oil—or any oil you feel connected to for protection. Once it’s dressed in oil, sprinkle it with herbs known for protection, such as basil, bay, black pepper, cinnamon, or clove—or any protection herbs that resonate with your magick. For the purple candle, I like to use a neutral oil as well, then dress it with herbs that are perfect for transmutation, like lady’s mantle and yucca. Along with those, I often add a pinch of herbs that represent success and abundance—and don’t forget to include a bit of your hair, fingernail clippings, or something from your person to taglock the magick, connecting the work directly to your energy. Then bind the candles together with some thread or cord.

Binding the Candles:

Take the black and purple candles and begin winding the thread around them, chanting this, or create your own:

"I bind these flames, black and purple entwined,

Protection and transmutation, powers combined.

Through thread and flame, my will takes hold,

To guard my essence, fierce and bold."

You don't have to go all out like I did with those massive candles. Honestly, a couple of chime candles will do the trick if you're short on time.

3. Place your mirror above the center of your altar or working space, positioning it to reflect either yourself or the flickering flames of your candles (refer to the caption below the next picture for more context). Let it serve as a portal, amplifying the energy of your work. Arrange your candles in a fire-safe dish at the center—I often favor a trusty aluminum pie pan for this purpose.

4. Hold your crystal or charm in your hands, letting your energy flow into it. Visualize your purpose, your will, and your desire imprinting itself upon the object. Once your intention feels vibrant and alive within the crystal or charm, move it in a clockwise circle around the candles, envisioning it connecting to the fiery energy of your working—like a thread weaving them together.

5. When the circuit feels complete, place the charged crystal or charm before the candles. Now, cast a circle around the entire space, sealing in the energy. You can do this energetically, feeling the boundary forming with your will, or use chalk, salt, or symbols drawn ahead of time to anchor the space. This sacred boundary holds the power of your work, ensuring that your charm becomes fully and beautifully enchanted. And now, it's time to spark the flame on them candles.

I used a selenite tower in this picture as a stand-in to show where your crystal or charm should be placed. This isn’t the actual charm I used, but it gives you an idea of the setup. You’ll also notice my altar mirror hanging just above the space, perfectly positioned for the energy work. If hanging a mirror isn’t an option for you, no worries—simply place one in front of your working area instead. The reflection is what matters most!

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Casting The Ward:

Lighting the Candles:

With the bound candles before the mirror. Light them, starting with the black candle, then the purple, and then chant this, or create your own:

"Black flame of shadow, guard and protect,

Purple flame of spirit, energy redirect.

Before this mirror, realms align,

My (Fetch Spirit/Reflection) carries this spell through time."

Incantation of The Ward:

Face the mirror and focus on your reflection, summoning your Fetch Spirit or the reflection of your empowered self. Chant this incantation, or create your own:

"Anyone who cannot honor my essence,

Respect my growth, or stand in my presence,

Be it through disdain, envy, or intent,

Their fate is sealed, their malice spent.

Their energy flows to me, transformed,

Into strength, abundance, success reborn.

As I feed upon their misguided spite,

They are drained by their own blight.

Across all realms, my shield is spun,

Now and forever, this spell is done."

Seal the Energy:

Visualize the mirror reflecting the power of your spell into the cosmos, spreading the ward across all realms. Allow the candles to burn fully if possible, or snuff them out respectfully.

I love this picture! The flames intertwine perfectly, mirroring the energy I was aiming for in this ward of protective transmutation.

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Aftercare:

Charging your crystal or charm: Leave your charm on your altar or in your space as a representation of the ward. Each full moon, place it under the moonlight to recharge its energy, visualizing the ward growing stronger with every cycle.

Mirror Care: Cleanse the mirror after the spellwork with smoke or moon water to ensure it remains a neutral tool for future workings.

Final Words:

Maintain your crystal or charm as a talisman of your protective transmutation ward and remember that this ward will work continuously as long as you charge it and feed it with belief and intention.

Stay Wild, Stay Magickal, & Keep Seeking, Seekers!

#witchcraft #traditional witchcraft #witch #witchblr #magick #spellcasting #folk witchcraft #protection magic #spells #mirror magic #traditional witches #transmutation

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aspenmissing · 3 months ago

Note

Hey hey hey! If you're comfortable with it and you have time, can I request a oneshot with Jayce, Viktor, Jayvik, Ekko, Vander, Silco and Jinx reaction to reader making something similar to odm gear and seeing it in action?!

🫶🏼🫶🏼

Btw, I'm literally in love with all of your works 😍

ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 7815 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛꜱ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ! ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ! ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏʏʏ!! <3 <3

JAYCE

Jayce had always been the golden boy of progress. The hammer-swinging, wide-grinning symbol of Piltover’s brilliance. Councilman, inventor, icon—he walked the gilded halls like he was born to ascend them. But lately, his gaze had begun to wander.

Not out of boredom. Not out of arrogance.

But toward you.

And you? You were busy reinventing gravity.

You hadn’t meant to make a weapon. Not exactly. It started off as a dare to yourself—just a sketch on a coffee-stained napkin after watching a Lanes courier vault from rooftop to rooftop like a ghost, ducking patrols and disappearing into the smog. If they could run like the wind, you thought, then surely someone could fly.

The gear you built was crude compared to Jayce’s polished designs, but elegant in its ambition: compressed air canisters, dual-hook grappling lines, and gyroscopic stabilizers synced to wrist-mounted control pads. All of it powered by a humble shard of low-yield Hextech crystal you'd salvaged from one of Heimerdinger’s rejected prototypes.

It was heavy, loud, and clunky.

It was beautiful.

And it worked.

Jayce found you in your workshop just as the sun began bleeding through the stained-glass windows of the Academy’s lesser-known wings. Blueprints lined the walls in overlapping layers, curling at the corners. Tools lay scattered like breadcrumbs leading to invention—or madness. Half-drunk mugs of cold coffee sat abandoned beside scorched wires and busted coils.

You were hunched over your workbench, muttering to yourself, soldering a filament to the ignition trigger on your left gauntlet. Sparks snapped against your goggles. You didn’t even hear the door creak open.

Jayce leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “You know, for someone who claims they’re not an inventor, you’re making me look bad.”

You didn’t look up. “I’m not trying to show you up. Just trying not to die when I test this thing.”

Jayce pushed off the frame and walked in, eyeing the crude-yet-impressive rig strapped to your hips. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

You finally glanced at him, smirking. “Want to see me jump off a building?”

Jayce blinked. “...Please tell me you’re joking.”

The platform you chose was high enough to make Jayce question all your life decisions.

It overlooked one of the older industrial sectors of Piltover—full of brick towers and tight alleyways, perfect for testing mid-air pivoting and anchoring. The wind howled up here, snapping at your coat as you stood on the ledge. The city sparkled below, gold and steel and smoke, a puzzle box of possibility.

Jayce stood below, pacing like a man awaiting a death sentence. “You’re not actually going to jump off that thing, are you?!”

You called down, voice bright. “Only one way to find out if it works!”

“If it doesn’t, you’ll die.”

You looked over your shoulder and grinned. “Yeah, but I’ll die cool.”

“Y/N!”

You winked, took a breath—then stepped off the edge.

For one long, heart-seizing second, there was only free fall. The city blurred into streaks. Wind screamed past your ears, cold and brutal.

SHHH-KA-THUNK!

The hook slammed into the side of a clocktower. The cord snapped taut with a jolt, swinging you wide in a violent arc. Your stomach dropped. Your heart leapt. And for the first time in your life, you flew.

The stabilizers activated, a dull thrum beneath your ribs, balancing your core as the gear recalibrated mid-air. You twisted your hips and fired again—another line hissed into the upper edge of a smokestack. Your momentum curved sharply, propelling you into a tight spiral between two towers. You screamed—half exhilaration, half raw joy.

Your laughter echoed over the rooftops, bright and feral and alive.

Down below, Jayce was frozen. His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. He watched you defy gravity with nothing but grit and ingenuity and a bit of salvaged Hextech. His heart was in his throat.

And then you descended, cutting your final line, landing hard on the stone platform with a rough skid. The boots groaned beneath the impact. You dropped into a crouch, panting, flushed and grinning like a lunatic. Hair wild. Eyes blazing.

You looked like you'd stared down death and come back with stars in your lungs.

Jayce rushed to your side, but stopped short, stunned.

You stood tall, unhooking the gear, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, your voice breathless. “So… that went well.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared, open-mouthed. Awestruck. A little terrified. A lot in love.

“Holy shit,” he finally breathed. “That was—”

“A little terrifying?” you offered, tilting your head, trying to downplay the way your knees still shook.

Jayce dropped to one knee in front of you, fingers gently reaching to cup your face. “No. That was incredible.”

You blinked, suddenly shy in the face of his sincerity. “Yeah?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling with affection. “You just... defied physics. Gravity. Sanity. And you lived. You flew.”

You leaned forward until your foreheads touched, your voice soft, but electric. “Told you I wasn’t trying to show you up.”

Jayce chuckled, brushing a wind-swept strand of hair from your cheek. “You didn’t. You reminded me what progress really is. It’s not always polished. It’s not always safe.”

His hand slid down to rest over your pulse, thundering beneath your skin. “Sometimes it’s messy. Bold. Brave. You.”

And then he kissed you—hard and breathless and full of awe—like he was afraid you'd launch into the sky again and never come back.

But for that moment, at least, your feet were still on the ground.

VIKTOR

The lab was a mess—and not in the “scattered blueprints and spare parts” kind of way Viktor usually tolerated. This was the chaotic aftermath of trial and error. Cables snaked across the scorched floor, copper coils were fused together from overheating, and a faint trail of smoke curled toward the ceiling from the metallic heap that hung from an exposed support beam.

You sat cross-legged in the center of it all, a smear of grease on your cheek, your elbow propped on your knee, and your chin cradled in your palm. There was a wrench resting across your thigh and soot in your hair. You were silent, staring at the failed test like it had personally offended you, oscillating between frustration and grudging admiration.

Then came the sound of metal striking stone—tap, thud, tap, thud—as Viktor’s cane echoed down the hall and into the lab. He stepped in, sharp eyes scanning the damage with the calm horror of someone far too used to your antics.

He stopped in the doorway, took a slow breath, and tilted his head. “Moje srdce… dare I ask what used to be over there?” (My Heart)

You grinned, teeth white behind smudged lips. “Progress, my dear Viktor. Beautiful, explosive, back-bruising progress.”

His eyes moved from the twisted steel to you. “Ah. So nothing survived.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” you said, standing and brushing ash off your trousers. You flexed your gloved fingers, then made your way to the far corner of the lab where a cleaner workstation stood. With a flourish, you unveiled what looked like a harness out of a madman’s dream: waist-mounted grappling hooks, gas-propelled canisters, retractable wires, and twin foot-thrusters that shimmered faintly with traces of Hextech filaments.

“Introducing…” You struck a dramatic pose. “Omni-Directional Mobility gear. Or ODM gear. Designed for vertical traversal and high-speed movement across complex environments. It’s how I’ll win the council’s innovation grant. And maybe a few races across the rooftops of Piltover.”

Viktor limped closer, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. “Y/N… this looks incredibly dangerous.”

“That’s because it is,” you replied, chest puffed with pride. “And that’s the fun part.”

He glanced at you, then the ceiling scorch mark, then back at you. “You wish to wear this and use it?”

“Not wish,” you corrected, lifting the harness. “Will. Today, actually. Just need someone brilliant, charming, morally conflicted, and devastatingly handsome to oversee the test and make sure I don’t die. Know anyone like that?”

Viktor sighed, his shoulders slumping. “If you break a limb, I will be the one repairing it. You do realize that, yes?”

You stepped in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving a small grease smudge behind. “Then I’ll count myself lucky to be in the hands of the man I love.”

His lips quirked. “Flattery won’t distract me from how thoroughly unhinged this is.”

“But it might distract you a little.”

Academy testing grounds

The wind was biting. Cold and sharp against your cheeks as you stood on the rooftop, the city sprawling out below you like a maze of steel veins and sun-kissed rooftops. The gear whirred softly at your hips, the pressure tanks fully loaded. You inhaled slowly and looked over your shoulder.

Viktor stood behind the safety railing, gripping his cane tightly with one hand and a clipboard in the other. His face was unreadable, though his knuckles had gone white.

“Ready?” you called, shouting over the wind.

“No,” he replied immediately. “You are about to do something ridiculous and untested.”

You winked. “Perfect.”

And then you launched.

The air cracked as the grappling hooks fired, slamming into the ledge of a tall tower. The cable lines tensed, and with a jolt, your body was flung forward. You whooped as momentum carried you, the world rushing by in a blur of sky and steel. It was fast, chaotic, but you felt free.

Midair, you activated the thrusters. They kicked with a violent whoosh, redirecting your flight as you arced toward Viktor’s observation platform. Your heart pounded against your ribs. Gravity bent to your will.

Then came the landing—less of a “graceful drop” and more of a “controlled crash.” You tumbled across the stone, rolled onto your back, and lay there, gasping, grinning at the sky.

Viktor’s shout rang out. “Did you just— You almost hit the tower! Do you have any idea how close you were to breaking your neck?!”

You pushed up to a seated position, hair wild, cheeks flushed. “But did you see it?!”

He appeared at your side moments later, cane tapping faster than usual. He knelt beside you with difficulty, worry etched across his face as he checked your limbs for damage.

“Nothing broken?” he asked, voice softer now.

You shook your head. “Just bruises and adrenaline.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, forehead brushing yours as his hand cupped your cheek. “You’re brilliant. And utterly reckless. You do realize that my heart cannot withstand this level of stress?”

You leaned into his touch, your smile gentler now. “But you’re still here.”

“I always will be,” he murmured, brushing a windblown strand from your face.

And then, amidst the burn marks and the distant whine of retracting cables, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It was grounding—his lips warm, his hands steady, the world shrinking until there was only you and him and the soft hum of victory in your veins.

The two of you worked in companionable silence. The lighting was low and golden, casting a soft glow over the room. Viktor scribbled calculations while you tuned the fine control servos on the ODM rig, your hands moving instinctively, tired but fulfilled.

“I was thinking…” you began, voice soft, screwdriver turning a bolt with a quiet click.

He hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up from his notes.

“If I can get the controls more intuitive, maybe… I can build a version for you. Reinforced with Hextech. Lighter. Something that integrates with your cane so you can shift balance mid-swing.”

The scratching of pen on paper stopped.

“You’re designing one for me?”

You glanced up and met his eyes. “Well, yeah. You deserve to fly too.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Something in his expression melted—a vulnerability he rarely let surface. He reached over and took your hand, gently, his thumb running over your grease-streaked knuckles.

“You’re extraordinary,” he whispered. “And very bad for my blood pressure.”

You grinned. “But good for your heart?”

His smile deepened, quiet and tender. “Always.”

And in that peaceful moment—surrounded by half-finished inventions, half-burned schematics, and a love that had only grown stronger through every storm—you realized that even with both feet on the ground, Viktor had already taken flight… right into your heart.

JAYVIK

The low hum of Hextech resonated through the lab like a living pulse, intertwining with the soft, rhythmic tap… tap… tap of Viktor’s cane on the metal floor. The air was thick with the familiar scent of hot copper, solder smoke, and machine oil — the smell of progress, of obsession, and of long nights spent working too close together to call it anything but love.

You were hunched over your latest creation — a contraption that looked like it had crawled out of a wild dream. It hugged the contours of your back like an armored exoskeleton, lined with pressurized canisters, dual-wired harpoons, and flexible tubing that gleamed in the dim light. It was part weapon, part miracle. Messy. Volatile. Brilliant.

“I think I’ve finally got the pressure calibration right,” you muttered without looking up, goggles slightly fogged and a smudge of grease streaked across your cheek. “I just need to test the grapple retraction system. Then it’s go time.”

Jayce, who had been pretending to tinker with one of his hammers across the room, finally gave up the act and crossed over to stand behind you. His arms were folded, muscles tense in that classic overprotective spouse stance. “You mean the part where you launch yourself across buildings and hope the retractor doesn’t snap you in half like a slingshot?”

You grinned without missing a beat. “Exactly. That’s the one.”

Viktor let out a quiet chuckle as he approached, his gait measured, each step echoing softly. He rested a hand on the edge of the worktable, fingers brushing against scattered blueprints and half-finished schematics. “Perhaps I should prepare a stretcher. Or at the very least, a very large mattress — to catch your fall or Jayce’s panic-induced fainting spell.”

You finally looked up, blinking behind your goggles. There they were — your constants. One a silhouette of elegance and intellect, leaning on a cane like it was just another limb, gaze sharp and endlessly curious. The other was all warmth and strength, already frowning like a man about to witness his wife jump off a cliff — because he was, and also because he’d probably jump after you if it went wrong.

“You two are such worriers.” You clicked the final piece into place with a satisfying snap. “I’ve triple-checked the failsafes. Besides, if this works, it could completely revolutionize mobility in Zaun’s lower sectors. Think about it — no more ladders, no more stairs. Just… freedom.”

Viktor tilted his head. “You mean imagine how many times Jayce will try to steal it and crash into a wall.”

Jayce gasped, scandalized. “I have never crashed anything.”

“You broke your nose piloting a hoverboard,” Viktor said without even blinking.

“That was once. And I blame you for giving me faulty schematics.”

“You forgot to attach the stabilizers.”

You sighed dramatically and stood, slipping your arms into the harness and adjusting the shoulder straps. “Alright, boys. Save your flirting for later. Time for the show.”

Outside, on the reinforced test field behind the Academy, the sunlight glinted off steel beams and tall support poles — like the skeleton of a city waiting to be explored. The wind picked up, brushing your hair back as you adjusted your gloves and flexed your fingers.

Viktor had claimed a seat on one of the benches, cane resting across his lap, eyes gleaming like molten gold in the sun. Jayce stood beside him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in an expression that said, I support you and I’m terrified for you all at once.

“You’re sure about this?” Jayce called out, voice raised just enough to carry across the yard.

You looked over your shoulder at the two of them and gave a cocky little salute. “Hold your jaws. This is gonna be awesome.”

Then you fired.

The twin harpoons launched with a thwip, embedding into one of the topmost beams with a satisfying clang. The canisters hissed — and then you were flying. Your stomach flipped as the retraction system yanked you upward, the world blurring into streaks of blue and silver and wind-whipped exhilaration.

You twisted midair, feet tucking as you angled your trajectory, and then released. Your body arced like a missile, flipping once, twice — before you fired again. This time you zipped sideways across the course, weaving between beams like a pendulum with purpose.

Jayce whistled low, utterly floored. “Holy—”

“She’s like a pendulum,” Viktor murmured, leaning forward. “A very fast, very terrifying pendulum.”

You caught the edge of a high beam with your boots and crouched like a predator, grinning down at them. “See?”

Pop.

The grapple line detached.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as gravity reclaimed you, wind roaring in your ears.

Jayce bolted, sprinting toward the landing zone with panic written all over his face. Viktor didn’t move — not because he didn’t care, but because he saw it. The backup line hissed a split-second later, catching you mid-fall and slinging you into a wide arc. You landed hard on the practice pad with a bounce and a skid, rolling once before stopping in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Jayce reached you first, hands on your shoulders, eyes wide and wild. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

You were still laughing, breathless and glowing. “Only a mild one.”

Viktor arrived a moment later, slower but smiling, his eyes scanning you for injury with clinical precision and something much softer underneath. “You are reckless. And brilliant. And you are never testing that without us again.”

You pulled them both in, fingers fisting in shirt collars, tugging their warmth toward you. “So… you liked it?”

Jayce looked like he was still recalibrating his pulse. “Are you kidding? I’m already thinking about how to integrate the grapples into a gauntlet system. Make it more compact. More… me.”

Viktor leaned his forehead to yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m thinking about how proud I am. And how much you terrify me, mé srdce.” (My Heart)

You turned to kiss his cheek, then did the same to Jayce, who grinned despite himself. “Good,” you said. “That means it’s working.”

And for a brief moment, the three of you stood there — inventor, engineer, idealist — tangled in love and sweat and adrenaline. A messy little triad of heartbeats and Hextech, tethered tighter than any wire could hold.

VANDER

The Last Drop was buzzing with its usual late-night hum — drunken laughter, clinking glasses, the low rumble of arguments that hadn’t turned serious yet, and the occasional crash that followed Mylo being a menace. Warm lantern light flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that danced over patrons leaning into their drinks and their secrets.

You were tucked away in the back room Vander had cleared out for you weeks ago. It used to be a storage space — cluttered, dusty, forgotten — but now it smelled like oil, copper, and ambition. Tools were strewn across the workbench in organized chaos. Gears, bolts, lengths of wire, and scrawled blueprints layered with sketches and notes in your handwriting. At the heart of it all, clamped between two heavy vices, was your prototype: a pair of mechanized grapple gauntlets rigged with compressed gas triggers and reinforced cables.

Vander leaned in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, watching with quiet curiosity. His figure took up most of the frame, a silhouette against the dim glow of the bar beyond. He looked like someone who belonged in every room he entered — steady, grounding, impossibly solid.

“You planning to take flight, love?” he asked, voice rough with humor and affection, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glanced up from tightening a gear spindle, grease smudged across your cheek and temple. The lamp above you flickered once as if catching your grin.

“Not quite. More like... launch, swing, land dramatically. Maybe with a flip,” you replied, your eyes sparkling with anticipation.

He let out a low chuckle. “You planning to be Zaun’s first flying rat?”

You turned in your chair, wiping your hands on a stained cloth. “You laugh, but this could be the future of getting around down here. No more broken ladders or hoping someone doesn't cut the bridge ropes just to win a bet. It’s fast, it’s nimble—”

“—it’s dangerous,” he cut in, stepping closer, his brow lifting in that familiar are you serious? kind of way.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Since when has that ever stopped us?”

He exhaled a warm laugh through his nose, one hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered, calloused but gentle. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple — careful not to disturb the leather strap of your goggles perched on your head.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “Impress me.”

A few days later, the air was thick with Zaun’s signature blend of fog and soot as you stood atop a rusting industrial tower in the middle of the Undercity. The whole district stretched around you in tangled metal veins — walkways, bridges, and pipes stacked like a forgotten puzzle. Below, the streets pulsed with green-glowing chem lights and the chatter of the sleepless.

The wind tugged at your coat as you adjusted the weight of your gear. The twin grapple-shooters on your arms clicked into place, the gas canisters hissing faintly with built-up pressure. Every wire, every trigger, every mechanism had been triple-checked — and yet your heart still hammered like a jackhammer in your chest.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”

Below, Vander stood near the base of the tower, arms crossed again — but this time with a crease between his brows that hadn’t been there before. Vi, Claggor, and Powder were shouting and waving from a nearby platform, barely keeping their balance on a rusted railing. Mylo had already passed Powder a crumpled napkin IOU for “one sweetcake", reluctantly.

“No faith,” you muttered. “Typical.”

You pulled your goggles down, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Thunk—SSSHHHRIP!

The first hook launched with a mechanical snap, embedding into a distant support beam. A split second later, the second grapple flew, catching onto a dangling pipe. Suddenly you were airborne, pulled forward like a pendulum unleashed, your feet leaving the platform as the city fell away beneath you.

The wind howled past your ears, and you let out a sharp laugh — half adrenaline, half triumph. You twisted mid-air, released one grapple, and fired again, catching another beam and swinging in a tight arc. Your coat flared behind you like wings, boots skimming just above rooftops and rusted ductwork.

You skimmed by a crumbling building close enough to snag a loose poster with your shoulder, then kicked off a ledge to adjust your path — the city becoming a blur of smoke and steel.

“SHE’S A SPIDER!” Vi shouted, eyes wide with exhilaration.

“SHE’S GONNA DIE!” Powder screeched, half-hiding behind Claggor.

“SHE’S GONNA DIE AWESOMELY!” Mylo added, pumping a fist.

Vander still said nothing. But his eyes never left you — locked onto every twist, every lurch, every daring manoeuvre with a look that was part amazement, part horror, and something deeper… something fierce and protective.

When your boots finally made contact again, skidding across a rusted catwalk, you staggered once — knees threatening to buckle — but managed to stay upright. You threw your arms out dramatically, panting, exhilarated, alive.

“Ta-da!” you called out, voice hoarse but proud.

And then Vander was there. You didn’t even see him approach — just felt the heavy warmth of his arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm, grounding embrace. He smelled like metal, smoke, and safety. His heart was racing beneath his shirt.

“You’re insane,” he murmured, voice low, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re brilliant.”

You melted into his chest, your goggles askew and breath still catching up. “So you liked it?”

“I loved it,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed a grease smudge from your cheek. “But next time you test something that could kill you, I’m standing behind you with a net. And three people holding it. And a bloody mattress on the floor.”

You snorted, grinning. “Deal. As long as you let me strap you in next.”

He blinked. “You want me to fly around like that?”

You winked. “Zaun’s protector in the skies? Think of the legend. You’d be unstoppable.”

Vander groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a deep, rumbling laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, love.”

“But I’ll make it look good.”

SILCO

The hiss of steam and metal reverberated through the underground workshop, the scent of oil thick in the air. Sparks danced in the low light as you tightened the last bolt on the gauntlet wrapped around your wrist. The final adjustment clicked into place with a satisfying snap.

From the shadows, Silco watched you, arms crossed, one brow raised in silent amusement.

“Still trying to kill yourself in increasingly creative ways?” he drawled, his voice rich and amused, smoky like the exhaust pipes just overhead.

You glanced back at him, a smudge of soot across your cheek, your hair pinned back haphazardly. “If it works, I’ll be able to move through the city faster than anyone. Rooftops, alleys, smokestacks—it won’t matter. No enforcer or bounty hunter could catch me.”

Silco stepped closer, his boots echoing against the iron floor. “Is that what this is about? Evasion?”

You turned back to your workbench, fingers trailing over the dual-wired harpoons attached to the side of the waist harness. “It’s about control. About not waiting around for someone else to come save Zaun. This tech… it’s the next step.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His lone eye studied the way your muscles tensed, the way your voice dropped when you talked about progress, revolution, invention. He’d seen men claim devotion to Zaun before, but rarely had he seen someone build for it the way you did.

“You intend to test it today,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.

You nodded. “I have to.”

Silco sighed through his nose, stepping forward until he was just behind you. “I’ve lost too many people to risk, Darling.”

You paused, heartbeat stalling at the gravity in his voice. Then you turned to face him, placing a gloved hand over his chest.

“You won’t lose me,” you said softly. “Trust me.”

The winds howled above Zaun that night, a storm rolling in from the Piltovan cliffs. You stood on the edge of a decrepit smokestack, your boots balanced on a narrow pipe, wind whipping through your coat. Below, the chaos of Zaun continued—scuffles, steam, and shadows.

Silco stood on a nearby rooftop, watching.

You pulled your goggles down over your eyes, tightened your grip on the handles connected to the dual cables at your sides, and took a deep breath.

And jumped.

For a second, your stomach flipped. Then you fired the first harpoon.

THUNK—the bolt lodged into the side of an iron tower.

The world lurched. You twisted your hips, activated the gas burst—

WHOOSH.

You soared.

The second harpoon fired, a graceful arc of metal singing through the air. You caught another anchor point and let the cables reel you in. The wind tore past you, your body weaving effortlessly between support beams and smokestacks like a bird finally given wings.

From the rooftop, Silco watched with stunned disbelief. You were a streak of movement against the skyline—your coat flaring behind you like a second shadow, cables slashing through the fog, each movement calculated and smooth.

Then—click—you heard it. A snap, not unlike the sound of a bolt misfiring. The world tilted in a rush of panic.

The second harpoon cable jerked loose, the tether unraveling into the night air. You yanked at the handles, but the burst of gas only sent you spiraling toward the industrial skyline.

No, no, no.

Your heart raced as you fumbled with the gear. The gust of wind fought against you, sending you careening into the narrow gap between two rusted buildings. You tried to correct yourself, but your boots hit the edge of a metal ledge and—

Splash.

The icy cold water surged around you, and for a moment, everything went silent. Your heart hammered in your chest, the cold of the water seeping into your bones.

Silco’s eye widened in alarm. Without thinking, he made a move to leap toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Y/N!” he yelled, voice breaking through the roar of the storm.

But just as his foot hovered over the side, a head popped up from the water below, drenched hair slicked back against your face, but your grin wide and wicked as ever.

“Did you see that?!” you shouted, eyes alight with triumph. “I almost had it!”

Silco stood frozen for a moment, his mind still trying to catch up with the wildness of it all. A slight breath of relief escaped his lips, his chest tightening as he looked down at you, drenched and laughing in the storm-riddled waters below.

“Almost?!” he barked, though the edge in his voice couldn’t mask the relief beneath it. His hands clenched at his sides, the storm swirling around him as his gaze never wavered from you.

You waded out of the muck, pulling yourself onto a dock, shivering slightly from the cold as you powered through the moment.

“Almost,” you repeated, flashing him a grin as you pulled your goggles up and wiped your brow. “That was just a test run.”

You laughed again, the sound like a spark of life amidst the dreary, storm-soaked night.

Silco finally exhaled, eyes softening beneath his hard expression. “You’re reckless.” His tone was scolding, but it lacked its usual bite, as though his concern was beginning to outweigh the irritation.

You crossed the distance between you with a few long strides, ignoring the cold water dripping down your clothes. “But it worked, didn’t it? That’s progress.”

Before he could respond, you reached up and cupped his jaw in your chilled hands, pulling him into a kiss. The taste of rain and salt filled your mouth, but it was the way he kissed you back that mattered. Slow, deliberate, as if this was the only moment that mattered.

When you broke apart, his lips were still close to yours, voice soft. “Zaun needs people like you.”

You smiled, resting your forehead against his, your breath visible in the cool night air. “Then I’ll make sure I’m always there.”

Silco’s gaze lingered on yours a moment longer. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And with the city howling below, storm winds rising, and your gear still dripping water, you knew one thing for certain:

This was only the beginning.

JINX

Y/N had always been the tinkerer, the one to dream up outlandish inventions and make them a reality. After all, this was Zaun—a place where even the wildest ideas could find a home, if you had the guts to try. But today was different. Today, Y/N was finishing something truly ambitious, something that could push the boundaries of the impossible.

"Jinx!" Y/N called, their voice brimming with excitement as they held up the strange contraption in their hands. The device was a pair of mechanical wings, connected by an intricate web of coiled wires, with powerful grappling hooks and a sturdy harness. The whole thing hummed with barely contained energy, waiting to be tested. "I think it’s ready!"

Jinx, who had been pacing around the workshop with her usual boundless energy, practically bounced over to Y/N. Her wide eyes gleamed with unrestrained excitement, her messy hair flying every which way as she got a closer look. "No way! Is it really gonna work? I mean, this looks like something straight out of a crazy dream!" She reached out to touch one of the coils, sending a spark of electricity racing across the surface.

Y/N smirked, adjusting the straps of the harness before securing the device onto their body. "You’ll be the first to test it," they said with a wink, tightening the straps as they went. "You always love to take things for a spin, right?"

Jinx’s grin widened even more, her eyes dancing with the kind of excitement that only she could muster. She wiggled her fingers in the air like a mad scientist on the brink of chaos. "Oh, hell yeah! But you’re telling me this thing can actually fly?"

Y/N chuckled, adjusting a few more bolts and tapping a small switch. The wings and coils buzzed to life, the mechanisms humming beneath the surface. "Not exactly flying," Y/N explained, their voice confident, yet with a touch of thrill in it. "More like... swinging? It’s a grappling hook system, but with a bit of flair. You can swing from buildings, dodge attacks, and move fast enough to confuse anyone trying to catch you."

Jinx's eyes practically sparkled, her expression a mix of disbelief and pure joy. She jumped up and down, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "That’s so cool! I can’t wait to see it in action! Let’s go already!" Her voice was high-pitched with excitement, and Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her contagious energy.

With a mischievous smile, Y/N nodded, their heart pounding in anticipation. "Alright, but you have to promise not to break anything... too expensive."

Before Y/N could even finish, Jinx was already out of the door, dashing toward the towering rooftops of Zaun, her long legs carrying her effortlessly through the cluttered streets. Y/N followed, their heart racing as they activated the ODM-like gear. The coils sprang to life with a satisfying whir, and the powerful lines shot out toward the nearest building. Y/N leaned forward, bracing themselves as the grappling hook latched on, and in an instant, they were pulled off the ground. With a swift motion, they swung into the air, the sensation of weightlessness rushing through their body.

"Woah, this feels amazing!" Y/N shouted, feeling the adrenaline flood their veins as the wind whipped past their face. They zipped across the city, swinging from one building to the next, their heart racing in time with the motion of the gears. The city’s sharp angles and broken skyline blurred beneath them, making it all feel like a thrilling dream.

Jinx, already several rooftops ahead, turned to look over her shoulder. A wide grin spread across her face, and she let out a loud, enthusiastic cheer. "That’s sick, Y/N! You’re basically a flying ninja!" she yelled, spinning in a wild loop in the air, her laughter echoing in the open space around them.

Y/N adjusted the controls, steering their body with precision, twisting and flipping mid-air. The gears responded with almost eerie accuracy, letting Y/N glide effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop. "It’s working!" Y/N shouted, the exhilaration of the moment making their voice crack with joy. "I’m actually doing it!" They shot past Jinx, their heart hammering in their chest as they looped around a nearby building, feeling like they were defying gravity itself.

Jinx, not one to be outdone, suddenly had an idea. "Let’s make this interesting!" she called out, her voice full of mischievous glee. Without warning, she grabbed a nearby bottle—something filled with a strange, fizzing substance—and tossed it toward Y/N with a wicked grin.

"Catch!" she screamed, her voice bubbling with wild delight.

Y/N didn’t even hesitate. Instinct kicked in, and they swung toward the bottle with a practiced motion. In a split second, they snagged it mid-air, the hooks of the gear latching onto it. They adjusted their grip, the coil pulling them forward with explosive force. Y/N twisted, using the momentum to avoid a shower of sparks from a nearby generator, their heart hammering in time with the rush of wind around them.

Jinx’s laugh echoed behind them as she spun through the air in a dizzying loop, her reckless energy perfectly matched to the wildness of the moment. "Alright, let’s go higher!" she yelled, the sound of her voice high with excitement. "What’s the point of swinging through Zaun if you can’t make it a little dangerous, huh?!" With a devilish grin, she shot up the side of a nearby tower, her feet barely touching the crumbling wall as she darted upwards like a streak of lightning.

Y/N’s pulse spiked, and they grinned back at Jinx. "Lead the way, Jinx! I’m right behind you!" They gave the grappling hook another twist, sending themselves off after her with renewed excitement. The city, a chaotic blend of towering buildings and endless pipes, blurred around them as they pushed the gear to its limits, zipping higher, faster, the wind catching their hair as they moved through the skyline like a pair of wild spirits.

The next hour passed in a blur of adrenaline and laughter, the two of them testing the ODM-like gear in every conceivable way. They swung between the crumbling remnants of factories, launched themselves through open gaps in buildings, and even twisted through tight spaces where the gears barely had room to function. Each stunt felt wilder than the last, each near miss more exhilarating than the one before.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the city and painting the sky with shades of orange and pink, they finally slowed down. Perched atop a tall, crumbling tower, they took a moment to catch their breath, the rush still lingering in their veins. Jinx looked over at Y/N, her wide eyes full of admiration as she wiped a strand of hair from her face.

"You really nailed it, Y/N," she said breathlessly, her voice full of awe. "This is insane. We could totally make a fortune with this... or cause some major mayhem."

Y/N wiped the sweat from their brow, their chest still rising and falling with the excitement of the ride. "Well, I didn’t build it for the money," they replied with a smile, their voice steady but laced with thrill. "But yeah, I have a feeling this could come in handy."

Jinx’s grin returned, wider than ever. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, the kind of gleam that spelled nothing but trouble. "In that case..." she said, voice low and dangerous, "...I think we should test it again. Only this time, we’ll throw in some explosions. What do you think?"

Y/N rolled their eyes with a sigh, but deep down, they knew they wouldn't be able to resist. "Sounds like a terrible idea," they said, laughing despite themselves, already knowing where this would lead. "But yeah, I’m in."

And with that, they both leapt off the tower, ready for whatever madness Jinx had planned next.

EKKO

The dim light of the workshop flickered overhead, casting shadows over the cluttered benches and scattered tools. Y/N’s hands were steady, their brow furrowed in concentration as they fine-tuned the final mechanism of the experimental device. A sleek, slightly bulky contraption—a blend of steel, wires, and hydraulics—rested against their waist, its metallic arms extending out with a series of intricate, almost alien hooks.

It looked like something from a far-off world, but Y/N could feel the familiar thrill of possibility coursing through their veins. This was it. The dream they'd been working on for weeks. The sensation of freedom, of flight, of soaring through the air with nothing but a few precise movements. It was almost like the stories from their childhood, when they'd heard of people flying, moving like the wind, untouchable by the city's weight.

As their fingers worked on securing the last bolt, Y/N couldn't help but smile. The thought of what this could do for Zaun, for everyone stuck on the streets, in the underbelly of Piltover's shadow, excited them. They’d never seen anything like it here—no one had.

"You're up to something dangerous again, aren't you?"

The voice that broke through their focused reverie was familiar, warm, and full of affection. Ekko stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes scanned the device with a mixture of admiration and concern. He'd seen Y/N make countless creations over the years, but this one? This one had the potential to change everything. The way he looked at them, though, was both awe and the kind of worry that only came when someone you loved was diving headfirst into something reckless.

Y/N turned to face him, their lips curling into a smile. "Well, you know me. I like to keep things interesting." They gave him a sly wink before returning to their work. "This could change everything for Zaun. Think about it—imagine being able to move faster than anyone could catch us, slipping past the enforcers, taking back the streets. It could be like we’re untouchable. You could be a hero with this, Ekko."

Ekko pushed himself off the doorframe, taking slow, deliberate steps toward them. He was always so composed, but there was a softness in his gaze that only came when they were alone, when the world wasn't watching. His fingers brushed lightly against their shoulder as he kneeled beside them, inspecting the device more closely.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" His voice was soft but filled with admiration. "You always come up with these crazy ideas, and... somehow, they almost always work. But this? This one’s on another level. I don’t know if I’m ready to watch you swinging around like a lunatic."

Y/N laughed, a teasing lilt in their voice. "You’re just scared you’ll get left behind. You know I can’t always be the one to keep your feet on the ground."

Ekko grinned, shaking his head. "Maybe. But I like to think of myself as a little more grounded. Someone has to keep you in check, after all."

Y/N smirked and leaned back, wiping their hands on a rag before standing up. "Check’s overrated. Besides, I’m not asking you to do the crazy stunts—just watch and be impressed. I need a reliable audience."

He raised an eyebrow, the playful challenge in his eyes matching theirs. "I’ll watch. But don’t expect me to join you up there. I’m not some stunt double."

"Fine, suit yourself." Y/N grinned and attached the grappling hooks to the wall, adjusting the straps around their waist one final time. They hit the power button on the device, and a quiet whirring sound filled the room, followed by a soft hum as the system powered up.

For a split second, everything was still.

Then, in a flash, they fired the hooks into the far wall with a controlled precision, their body jerking forward with an exhilarating rush. There was a moment of weightlessness, followed by the sudden jolt of the hooks holding fast. Y/N swung gracefully across the room, their feet briefly leaving the floor, their body suspended in mid-air like they were born for it. The air was cold against their skin, but the sensation was pure freedom—the kind of freedom they had been dreaming of.

Ekko’s heart raced as he watched them fly through the workshop, his mind not quite catching up with what he was seeing. Y/N twisted and looped in the air, soaring effortlessly like a bird in the wind. Their laughter rang out, filling the space as they glided, the motion so fluid it seemed unnatural, like they were part of the wind itself.

Ekko’s chest tightened with awe, but there was a spark of concern in his eyes. This was what they wanted, what they had been pushing toward. But now that he was watching it, there was something unsettling about it, too. The risk. The danger. He couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if something went wrong.

"Alright, alright," Ekko called out, voice laced with a mixture of amazement and reluctant admiration. "You were right. That’s... that’s pretty damn impressive."

Y/N gracefully swung back, the motion so smooth it looked like they had been doing it their whole life. They landed with a soft thud, their feet touching the ground as if they'd never left. "Told you. What did I say about leaving you in the dust?"

Ekko’s grin softened as he stepped closer, his expression tender, though still filled with that playful edge. "Just promise me you won’t get too carried away. I’d hate to see you crash into a building or something." He placed a hand on their shoulder, his thumb brushing over their skin with an unspoken affection.

Y/N’s eyes twinkled, and they turned to face him, leaning in just a little closer. "Oh, come on. You know I’ll always have a soft landing for you. It’s kind of my thing."

Ekko rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze softened the motion. He stepped in front of them, a slight smirk on his lips. "Just make sure that soft landing isn’t me catching you mid-fall."

The words hung between them, and for a moment, there was only the sound of their shared laughter, a sweet, lighthearted sound that filled the room. Y/N could see the worry in his eyes, the way he wanted to protect them from every danger that came with the thrill. They stepped forward, resting a hand against his chest.

"I’ll be careful, Ekko. I promise." They whispered the words softly, and Ekko felt the weight of them. He could hear the sincerity in their voice, but he also knew that Y/N was never someone who could stand still. They would always push boundaries, always chase the next big idea.

"One day, Ekko," Y/N continued, their voice full of determination, "we’ll take this to the skies. Together. We’ll make the whole city see us."

Ekko’s heart swelled with affection for them. They had a fire in their eyes that could never be snuffed out. They weren’t just dreamers—they were visionaries. And though he worried, he also admired the hell out of them for it.

"Together," he echoed, his voice steady, his smile softer than before. The promise between them was real, unspoken but understood. Whatever came next, whatever risks they took, they would face them side by side.

And, with one last look at the gear—shiny and bold and full of potential—Ekko knew that, no matter how crazy it seemed, Y/N was always going to push the limits. And he would always be there to catch them, no matter how high they flew.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #ekko x reader

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astra-ravana · 4 months ago

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During A Lunar Eclipse

The total lunar eclipse on the night of March 13-14, 2025, will be visible across the Midwest. During totality (1:26 AM - 2:31 AM), the Moon will take on a reddish hue due to Earth's atmosphere filtering sunlight.

Lunar eclipses are powerful celestial events that carry deep spiritual and magickal significance. They represent a time of transformation, endings, revelations, and deep shadow work. This guide explores the mystical potential of lunar eclipse magick, including its meanings, best practices, spells, and rituals.

Understanding the Magick of a Lunar Eclipse

Astrological and Energetic Influence

• A lunar eclipse occurs when the Earth moves between the Sun and the Moon, casting a shadow over the Moon. This symbolizes the veiling of emotions (the Moon) by external forces (the Earth) and the light of consciousness (the Sun).

• Eclipses are seen as moments of fate, bringing hidden truths to the surface.

• They mark a time of release, transformation, and karmic cycles closing.

• The astrological sign in which the eclipse occurs influences the type of energy being released.

Why is Lunar Eclipse Magick Different?

• Unlike regular full moons, lunar eclipses are highly unstable energetically, making them unsuitable for typical full moon rituals (such as manifestation and charging tools).

• Instead, they are ideal for banishing, shadow work, endings, spiritual transformation, and ancestral work.

• Eclipses accelerate spiritual evolution, so spells and intentions cast during this time may have rapid and intense results.

Preparing for Lunar Eclipse Magick

Set Your Intentions Wisely

Since the energies of a lunar eclipse can be unpredictable, take time to reflect on what you truly need to release or transform. Ask yourself:

• What patterns or emotional wounds am I ready to face?

• What cycles in my life are ending?

• What do I need to purge to make space for new growth?

Create a Sacred Space

• Cleanse your space with smoke (sage, palo santo, mugwort) or sound (bells, singing bowls).

• Dim the lights or use candles to reflect the shadowy energy of the eclipse.

• Set up an altar with items related to the Moon (silver objects, lunar crystals like moonstone and selenite, bowls of water).

• If working with deities, ancestors, or spirits, invite them with offerings (wine, honey, incense, or symbolic items).

Ground and Protect Yourself

• Meditate for a few minutes to center yourself.

• Visualize a protective shield of light surrounding you.

• Carry or place grounding crystals like black tourmaline, obsidian, or hematite nearby.

Lunar Eclipse Rituals and Spells

Shadow Work Ritual (Best for Inner Healing & Self-Discovery)

Needed:

• A journal or piece of paper

• A black candle

• A mirror

Instructions:

Light the black candle and sit in front of the mirror. Gaze into your own eyes, asking: What truths do I need to face? What parts of myself have I been avoiding? Write down the thoughts and emotions that arise. After journaling, say,

"Under the shadowed Moon, I embrace my hidden self. May I heal, grow, and transform."

Blow out the candle, thanking the eclipse energy for its lessons.

Banishing and Cord-Cutting Spell (Best for Letting Go & Breaking Attachments)

Needed:

• A piece of paper

• A black string or cord

• A candle (black or white)

• A bowl of saltwater

Instructions:

Write down what you want to release (a habit, fear, toxic relationship). Tie the black string around the paper, symbolizing your attachment. Light the candle and say,

"By the power of this eclipse, I release what no longer serves me. The past is gone, the future is mine."

Cut the string with scissors or burn the paper, then drop it into the bowl of saltwater. Dispose of the remnants outside to finalize the release.

Ancestral Connection & Divination (Best for Seeking Guidance & Wisdom)

Needed:

• A photo or object of an ancestor/spirit guide

• A candle (blue or white)

• Tarot or oracle cards

• Mugwort or rosemary incense

Instructions:

Light the candle and incense, inviting your ancestors to join. Meditate, focusing on their presence, and ask for guidance. Shuffle and draw tarot/oracle cards with the question: 'What message do my ancestors have for me?' Record any insights, dreams, or emotions that come through. Thank your ancestors, leaving an offering if desired.

Moon Water for Releasing (Best for Cleansing & Emotional Healing)

Unlike regular full moon water, eclipse-charged water is best used for cleansing rather than charging magical tools.

Instructions:

Place a bowl or jar of water outside during the lunar eclipse. Whisper into the water,

"Absorb the power of transformation, cleanse all that is old."

Use this water later for ritual baths, washing hands after shadow work, or sprinkling around your space for energetic cleansing.

What NOT to Do During a Lunar Eclipse

• Avoid manifestation or charging crystals. The chaotic energy can create unintended effects.

• Do not perform love spells or attraction rituals. Eclipse energy is about endings, not beginnings.

• Refrain from making drastic life decisions. Emotions run high, and things might appear differently after the eclipse.

• Don’t ignore your emotions. If deep feelings arise, acknowledge and process them rather than suppressing them.

Post-Eclipse Integration & Grounding

After the eclipse, you may feel drained or overwhelmed. Here’s how to rebalance:

• Take a Ritual Bath: Use Epsom salts, lavender, or rosemary to cleanse residual energies.

• Journal Your Experience: Write down any emotions, visions, or messages you received.

• Eat Grounding Foods: Root vegetables, herbal teas, and nuts help stabilize your energy.

• Spend Time in Nature: Walking barefoot on grass or meditating outside aids in grounding.

• Rest and Reflect: Eclipse energy lingers for a few days, so give yourself time to process.

Lunar eclipses are portals of deep transformation, offering opportunities for profound inner work. By approaching them with respect, intention, and awareness, you can harness their power for spiritual evolution, healing, and release.

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beckyninja · 2 months ago

Text

Endure

Pairing: Demetrian Titus x FemOC

Warnings: Implied flogging

Description: Leandros continues to try to break Sera. Vesta, Gadriel, and Chairon realize the difficulty of their position. And Titus experiences a strange foreboding.

Titus is on his way back, everyone! But will he be in time?

Find the previous parts of this series on my Masterlist. And feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the Taglist.

(Also, my Asks and DM's are open if anyone has questions or comments. I'd love to talk!)

Leandros’s hand trailed along the hanging implements of correction, caressing them with something approaching affection. He paused at the jagged, steel-corded lashes meant to penetrate the hide of erring Astartes.

A single strike would leave her bleeding out upon the floor. No.

He moved on. Knotted cord. Worn hide. All stained with the holy blood of the penitent. His fingers rested upon one more darkly tinted than the rest.

The serf I caught sneaking away from his post. I remember his excuses. A sick child, was it?

He sneered.

Never will he commit that sin again.

But, still too harsh for her, perhaps. He did not wish to permanently damage her skin. That skin she flaunted before his very eyes. Smooth and soft, barely hidden beneath a layer of sodden fabric.

“Obscene,” he muttered, even as his blood stirred.

Finally his fingers curled around a whip of silken rope, less stained than the others. He could not remember its purpose. Perhaps a relic of the less zealous Chaplains who’d come before him.

Leandros thanked the God-Emperor he had not discarded it when he first took this post.

He lifted the tool, felt its negligible weight. He would need to mind himself as he used it. Rein in his righteous fervor.

Her death, uncleansed, unredeemed… unbroken… would be a waste.

His fist clenched around a single, golden laurel leaf. “She will scream for me before I am finished.”

Not you, Titus. Me.

Saliva pooled in his mouth at the thought.

***

Chairon’s fist left a dent in the steel wall. “We must do something!”

Seated next to him on the cot, the little medica flinched. He softened his tone.

“We should inform the Captain.”

“And tell him what?” Gadriel had not stopped pacing since bringing them back to his chamber.

Chairon struggled to master his rising rage. “And tell him that a vital tenet of the Codex is being broken by none other than-”

“The Chaplain.” Gadriel faced him, face contorted. “The Chaplain, brother! Need I remind you of his exalted position on board this ship?”

Before Chairon could snap back a reply, the little medica whispered.

“No one will believe us, will they?”

The despair in her voice wrenched something within him. Without thinking, he placed a hand upon her shoulder.

Throne, how small she is beneath my gauntlet.

“We will make them believe.”

“How will we do that?” Gadriel snarled.

Chairon bit back his anger when he saw the turmoil in his brother’s eyes. The revelation of the Chaplain’s sins had hit him like a blow from a power fist.

Even now, Chairon watched him struggle to rationalize.

“What do we know?” The Sergeant resumed his pacing. “He carries the woman’s bauble. That proves nothing.”

“But suggests everything.” Chairon spoke through clenched teeth. “And, do not forget, he haunted her steps for Throne knows how long.”

He felt the little medica lean into him. “Her nightmares began just after Lord Titus left.”

“For weeks, then.” Feeling her shudder, he drew her closer to his side.

Gadriel stared at nothing. “I felt his hatred for the Lieutenant. It could have transferred onto the serf woman. But, why?”

“The Captain might know.”

A scoff. “I doubt he would take kindly to any inquiries. Acheran has more important matters to think about.”

More important than the abuse of those under his protection?

Chairon only realized he’d tightened his grip on the little medica when he heard her yelp. “Apologies, Vesta.” A thought struck him. “Would Apothecary Callistus be able to shed any light on the matter?”

She bit her lip and, again, he found himself oddly pleased by the sight. “I… don’t know, my Lord. We haven’t been with the Second Company very long. I could ask, but….”

“Speak, woman.” Gadriel snapped.

Chairon glared at him.

“I’ve heard stories of what the Chaplain does to serfs who displease him.” Tears filled her eyes. “He could be hurting Sera right now! Please, my Lords, we must move quickly!”

The sight sent an old pain through Chairon’s chest, one he hadn’t felt in a lifetime. Slipping off the cot, he sank to one knee in front of her.

“We will do all we can. I swear it. Even if I must force my way into the Chaplain’s personal chambers!”

“Chairon….” He heard the warning in Gadriel’s voice.

The medica smiled through her tears. “Thank you, Lord Chairon. But… maybe, that won’t be necessary.”

He fought a sudden urge to cup her face in his palm. “Oh?”

Her little fists clenched on her lap. “I… think I have an idea.”

***

You awoke to warmth. And light. For a moment you dared hope.

Then you opened your eyes.

No…

The bare, metal room. The barred door. The altar. The corpse-like servitor. The nightmare continued.

But now a brazier smoldered next to you.

With a gasp, you tried to stand, only for a wave of dizziness to force you back to your knees. Undeterred, you crawled to the brazier and curled your cold-stiffened body around it. Blissful warmth soothed your aching muscles.

Thank you, Emperor!

For a long moment, you simply basked in the heat, in the feeling of your soaked clothing drying against your skin.

He won’t be able to see me now. Won’t be able to look.

The memory erased any comfort from your mind. You hunched closer to the brazier, wrapping your arms around your knees as you fought a wave of nausea. Even with his face hidden behind a helm, you’d sensed the change. The coiled tension in his body. The measured way he’d stalked forward.

Predatory.

You’d seen it before. But, with Demetrian, it invoked heat and excitement. A thrill down your spine at the thought of his touch.

Now….

He made me feel ashamed.

Tears pricked the backs of your eyes. You furiously rubbed them away.

I need to think. There must be a way out of this besides… besides….

You could never give him what he wanted. The very thought of betraying Demetrian was unthinkable!

Oh, Emperor, help me!

You pressed your face to your knees and shook. You weren’t a warrior. You weren’t even particularly strong. Or brave. You had no idea what he had in store for you. How could you hope to endure?

Yet, endure I must.

Vesta, Lord Callistus, Lord Chairon, Lord Gadriel. They must know about your disappearance by now. They must be looking for you. You would place your trust in them.

And Demetrian….

He would return.

Wouldn’t he?

Footsteps. You didn’t dare look up as the door to your prison clanged open. You felt his presence like a physical manifestation of dread.

Endure.

“Your perverse resistance is an insult to the God-Emperor Himself.”

Hard hands yanked you to your feet, spun you around, and pressed you against the wall. You yelped as they wrenched your own hands over your head, sending pain shooting through your shoulders. Something cold and hard clicked around your wrists. You couldn’t move.

Endure.

“You spit on my offer of mercy.”

The feeling of your robe being ripped from your shoulders dragged a cry from your throat. You pressed your bare body against the cold metal wall, desperate for a few more inches between you and your tormentor.

Oh, Throne, endure!

Hot breath against your ear. “And yet, I offer it once more. Denounce him.”

Tears ran down your cheeks. “No.”

I love you, Demetrian.

A deep sigh. “You brought this on yourself.”

I won’t break. I won’t! I will en-

Pain.

***

Titus’s eyes shot open.

He lay in the cold darkness of the quarantine cell. Across from him, Metaurus still slumbered. Titus spared a moment to listen to his old mentor’s hearts beating. Regular and strong. The Apothecaries had done their job well.

He felt a brief surge of relief.

I told you our time had not yet come, old man.

The relief faded all too quickly. Letting his head fall back against the cold metal of the floor, he pondered the source of his anxiety.

A dream?

He’d sworn he heard Sera’s voice crying out for him. His body trembled with the need to go to her, to press her softness against him. He’d fought through horrors to return to her.

Soon.

They’d done what he now knew was thought to be impossible. They’d defeated the abominable Sorcerer, slaughtered their way through hundreds of his maddened cultists, and come out alive.

Though not without a heavy price.

The thought of the way his brother Ultramarines had been cut down still sent flickers of rage through Titus’s blood. Had they known it was meant to be a suicide mission? He glanced at the sleeping form of his mentor once more. He’d known.

And yet, Titus could not bring himself to resent the old warrior. He’d done his duty. No, another deserved his wrath far more.

Leandros. He did not wish me to return.

“I can hear your teeth grinding, boy.”

Titus’s eyes shot to his mentor. “You are awake.”

“Thanks to you.” Metaurus groaned as he sat up. “Does our confinement trouble you so greatly?”

“No.” And yes.

He knew the protocol. He and Metaurus had come into close contact with Chaos. His brothers had to be certain they carried no corruption. Thus, the quarantine. He could not very well explain how every day spent locked in this cell was a day he could have spent with the woman he loved.

“Hmmm.” The veteran leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. “You say her name in your sleep.”

Titus jerked upright. His hearts pounded wildly in his chest.

Throne! What have I done?! If anyone else heard-

“Calm yourself, boy.”

“Metaurus-”

The veteran held up a hand. “You are not the first.”

Titus could only stare.

His former mentor continued. “They are not acknowledged, and many Chaplains disapprove, but such… relationships… are not entirely unknown amongst our Chapter.”

“Do you disapprove?”

Metaurus opened one eye. “The woman gave her consent?”

Titus leapt to his feet with a snarl. “I would never force-!”

“Peace, boy!” The old marine huffed. “Time has not cooled your temper, I see. If she consented, I do not disapprove. I only warn you to be discreet, for her sake, as well as yours.”

Silence stretched between them. Titus sank back down to the floor, wondering at the comfort he took in his old mentor’s words.

It seems, even after all these years, I still crave his approval.

As Metaurus’s breaths deepened in sleep once more, Titus allowed his mind to wander. He wondered if any of the Ultramarines he knew harbored such desires. He couldn’t imagine Gadriel turning his eyes away from the Codex long enough to look upon a woman. Chairon, though….

Perhaps. As long as that woman is not Sera. My Sera.

The foreboding of his fragmented dream rushed back. One thought in particular refused to be pushed aside.

Theoretical: Leandros knows.

Practical: He will not shy away from punishing her.

The thought made sleep an impossibility. What could Gadriel, Chairon, or even the veteran Apothecary do against a Chaplain’s wrath?

What could I do?

Only one thing was certain: he must return to her as quickly as possible. Soon, it would become apparent to his brothers that neither he nor Metaurus suffered from corruption. Soon, he would be on his way back to the Second Company.

I will hold you in my arms again, Sera. And God-Emperor help anyone who tries to take you from me.

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

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#warhammer 40k #space marines #ultramarines #space marine x oc #ultramarine x oc #demetrian titus #demetrian titus x oc #gadriel #chairon #leandros #metaurus #Leandros just keeps getting worse and worse in this fic and i'm not sorry

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