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fushitoru · 7 months ago

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chapter 8: the lake a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺ dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, duke gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

warnings ⸺ nsfw, enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, SUGGESTIVE, making out, touching bare skin pre-marriage (the scandal), eventual smut, jealousy, misogyny, description of injury, concussion, blood, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly

chapter summary ⸺ both you and gojo discover contradictory feelings lodged deep in your heart, and a confrontation (with an unexpected ally) leads to a rather....wet conclusion. (4.6k)

a/n additional warning that this chapter is not beta read. this may seem like a short chapter but it has TEAAAA (if you didnt already guess from the summary). i pushed myself to finish this for the peeps who finished finals this week so it may be a bit messy. anywho see u down below <3

prev. the rebound | next. the embers

general masterlist | series masterlist

Dearest gentle reader,

This Author finds herself most intrigued by the unfolding events of the Inos' recent ball. It appears that Her Majesty has not yet abandoned her faith in the diamond she so carefully selected. Will her confidence prove to be misplaced? Only time shall reveal the truth. Yet one cannot deny that fortune seems to shine—dare this Author say, sparkle—upon Miss Itadori of late.

Last evening, she graced the ballroom with a strikingly altered appearance, one that left tongues wagging and gazes lingering. Most notable, however, was the company she kept. Duke Nanami himself was seen at her side, engaged in conversation that appeared both earnest and uncommonly animated. A rare sight indeed, for His Grace has shown little interest in the charms of other young ladies this season. Could this be the beginning of something extraordinary? This Author will watch closely.

And who could forget the Gojo house party, where the drama rivaled even the most lurid novels of the circulating library? Whispers abound of a certain Lord Naoya Zen’in, who, it seems, departed the event looking rather... bruised, both in pride and in visage. What transpired to cause such a spectacle? Alas, my sources have yet to provide all the particulars, but one can only assume that tempers flared—and perhaps fists followed.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

Satoru wipes his knuckles on a spare handkerchief, marring it with streaks of crimson. After the blood coating his hand is cleaned off, it reveals light bruises.

He always abhorred such physical entanglements. Let other men soil their reputations in drunken brawls or duels over imagined slights; Satoru prided himself on wit and charm, a tongue sharp enough to parry any insult.

However, for the first time, it seemed that the blasé duke-to-be Lord Satoru Gojo, ever so apathetic to others and their struggles, was not so blasé anymore. What affected him was contradictory; after all, he had made a big decision to avoid being affected by the woman herself. So why was he so…inconsistent? Perhaps it is this unpredictability, capriciousness the reason he has to distance himself from any others who may be in harm’s way—the way forged by Satoru himself. There is no space for inconstancy, irresponsibility, whimsicality, or contradiction in his life, especially not with his duties and the weight held over his shoulders.

But he allows himself this, one last time. Your expression lingered in his mind—the way your lips parted in shock, the stiff set of your shoulders as you brushed past Naoya’s lecherous words without deigning to respond. He had seen the moment your composure faltered, a crack in the armor you wore so effortlessly. The crack only he was supposed to cause.

It was intolerable.

As soon as pale pink ribbons trail out of the room, he moves toward Naoya, completely ignoring the lady who was talking to him and her trailing protests. When he’s right in front of the other man, he gives him a curt nod. “Naoya.”

The other man’s eyes—which were before no doubt prowling on other unsuspecting ladies—flit to him in surprise. “Lord Gojo, what a pleasant surprise. I daresay—”

“Meet me in the courtyard,” Satoru interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Naoya’s brows shot up, but he recovered quickly, a sly grin curling his lips. “A private word? How intriguing. Lead the way, my lord.”

Satoru didn’t wait to see if he followed. His stride was steady, his purpose unwavering.

The cool air of the courtyard carried the faint strains of music from the ballroom, the chatter of guests dimmed by the stone walls. Satoru turned to face Naoya, his stance deceptively relaxed, one hand resting on the pommel of his cane.

“Now, my lord,” Naoya drawled, his smirk widening. “To what do I owe this rather dramatic summons?”

The reply came not in words but in the swift arc of Satoru’s fist, connecting solidly with Naoya’s jaw. The sharp crack of the blow shattered the stillness, and Naoya stumbled, clutching his face as shock registered in his eyes.

“What in blazes—”

“Hold your tongue,” Satoru bit out, seizing Naoya by the lapels of his coat and slamming him back against the cold, unyielding wall. His tone was calm, his voice low, but it carried a menace that silenced all protests. “You will not speak of her in that way again. Do you understand me?”

Naoya grimaced, his defiant eyes narrowing despite the pain. “Ah,” he sneered, a breathless rasp laced with derision, “this is about Miss Itadori, isn’t it? Playing the chivalrous hero, are we, Lord Gojo? Or is it your own wounded ego driving this display?”

The next punch silenced him mid-taunt, burying deep in his abdomen. Naoya doubled over with a strangled gasp, his knees threatening to buckle, but Satoru held him upright, his grip vice-like.

“Speak her name again,” Satoru hissed, leaning close, his voice cold enough to chill even the night air, “and I swear you’ll find yourself in far worse condition.”

The tension between them crackled like a storm. For a fleeting moment, Naoya’s lips twitched into the ghost of a sneer, but his words died unspoken, arrogance muted by the sheer force of Satoru’s fury. Satisfied, Satoru released him with a sharp shove, watching dispassionately as Naoya crumpled against the wall, gasping for breath.

“You are mad,” Naoya spat, wiping at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll ruin yourself over this.”

“Perhaps,” Satoru replied evenly, smoothing the cuffs of his sleeves as though nothing had happened. “But I’ve never much cared for your opinion, Naoya.”

He turned on his heel, his steps measured, his expression impassive.

The sting in his knuckles was a small price to pay. Unfortunately it seemed that for you, it was a price he would pay again and again.

He had told himself the decision was rational. Logical. Your match had to cease because it had begun to unravel him. You were a distraction, one he could not afford. His life was designed for control, every action measured, every move calculated. A match with you, he had realized, would be unlike any other. It would mean more. It would demand more.

And yet, how could he feel this jealousy? This fierce protectiveness? It was contradictory, maddening even. His resolve to avoid entanglements of the heart warred against the memory of your laughter echoing through his mind. It was absurd, but he could not dismiss the sharp ache in his chest whenever you looked at another man, especially one so undeserving as Naoya Zen’in.

He had known from the start that you were different. No coy smiles or simpering obedience. No easy conquest to stroke his ego. Your instant rejection of him during your first meeting had been a blow to his pride and a revelation he had been too stubborn to acknowledge then.

Satoru was not a man who chased after women. He had no need to. And yet…

But even as he walked away, Satoru couldn’t help but feel the cracks in his own carefully constructed armor widening. What, indeed, was he doing?

You startle in your sleep, sitting up abruptly on your bed in the dark.

The season has taken a turn for the good, so far. With Whistledown singing your praises and the Queen not yet deciding to behead you, you were on the path of securing great prospects, whether it be with Duke Nanami or someone else.

“But you’re missing something, aren’t you?”

The voice is a low murmur, brushing the shell of your ear like the ghost of a touch. Your heart leaps to your throat as you twist toward the sound, your eyes darting across the dimly illuminated room. The corners of the chamber remain steeped in shadow, the moonlight doing little to ease your apprehension.

“Who’s there?” you whisper, clutching the sheets tighter, your knuckles whitening around the fabric.

The silence stretches, thick and oppressive, before a figure emerges from the shadow near the mantle. He moves with a predator’s grace, his steps silent against the floorboards. Even before he fully steps into the moonlight, you know who it is.

Gojo.

“You look startled, my lady,” he says, his voice carrying an infuriatingly casual lilt, though his gaze fixes on you with unnerving precision.

“This is a dream,” you murmur, your voice trembling despite your effort to remain calm. “You are not real.”

“And yet,” he replies. “here I am. Curious, isn’t it?”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to budge. He’s closer now, standing at the foot of your bed, his pale hair catching the silvery light like a halo—an angel or a devil, you can’t decide. “What do you want, Lord Gojo?” you demand, your voice sharper than you feel.

His eyes sweep over you, lingering for a moment too long before meeting your gaze again. “To commend you, of course,” he says. “You’ve been doing well—dancing with dukes, charming the Queen. The season’s darling.”

His words cut, though you can’t say why. “Why does that matter to you?” you snap, sitting straighter, as though defiance could shield you from the heat simmering in his gaze.

“It doesn’t,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his mouth quirks into a smirk that betrays him.

“Then why are you here?”

His answer doesn’t come in words. Instead, he steps closer, his boots brushing the edge of your rug. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, his gloved hand catching a strand of hair that’s fallen loose. He rolls it between his fingers, as though testing its silkiness, before letting it slip away. “Because I can’t seem to stay away,” he murmurs. His voice is low, meant only for you, and it sends a shiver through your body.

You scoff, though the sound catches in your throat. “You’re insufferable.”

His chuckle is soft, a deep rumble that seems to linger in the air. “And yet, you don’t look away.”

Your fists clench around the sheets, anger flaring in your chest—anger at him, at yourself, at the fact that he’s right. Before you can stop yourself, you throw the covers aside and rise to your feet.

He doesn’t step back. Instead, he stands still, a study in casual defiance, though his gaze flickers with something you can’t name as you move closer. His eyes lazily drag up and down your frame, which you notice is only covered in a flimsy, almost translucent nightgown.

“If this is a dream,” you say, your voice trembling with fury and something unspoken, “then it doesn’t matter what I do, does it?”

His smirk falters, replaced by a glimmer of uncertainty that only fans the reckless fire inside you. “Perhaps not,” he murmurs, though the tension in his voice betrays him.

Your hands shake as you reach out, your fingers curling into the lapels of his coat. His eyes follow the movement, then stare back at you, into your eyes. For a brief moment, his breath hitches, and his hands twitch at his sides, as though warring with the instinct to touch you. But the flicker of surprise in his eyes tells you he didn’t expect this.

With a sharp tug, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a collision of unspoken longing, yearning, and pining. The kiss is unsteady at first, as if both of you are testing the waters, but it quickly deepens, becoming a clash of fire and desperation. His hands find your waist, his grip firm but not demanding, as if he’s holding on to something precious.

You press closer, letting the reckless freedom the dream gave you sweep you away. His lips part against yours, and the kiss turns slower, more deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment, savoring you, devouring you. But then, his hands shift, moving from your waist with a slow, tantalizing seductiveness. They skim over your hips, his touch deliberate, before trailing down to the curve of your thighs. His fingers brush over the soft fabric of your nightgown, the heat of his touch searing through the barrier like it isn’t there.

Your breath hitches as he lingers, his thumb tracing a path along the sensitive skin just above your knee. The sensation is electric, and yet it feels like forbidden ground—an intimacy you’ve never dared to imagine, even in your most audacious thoughts.

It’s then that the dream begins to unravel.

His form flickers, as though caught in the haze of a mirage, the sharp lines of his figure softening. The room darkens, the corners of your vision blurring as though the world is folding in on itself.

“No,” you whisper, the word barely audible over the sound of your own pounding heart.

He looks at you one last time, his eyes filled with an intensity that feels as real as your racing pulse. And then he’s gone, the dream dissolving into nothingness, leaving you gasping and clutching the sheets. When you wake, the echo of his touch lingers, the heat of his hands on your thighs an ache you can’t explain. You press trembling fingers to your lips, your breath catching as though the kiss was still happening.

But no matter how much you try, you can’t shake the memory of his hands, of the way he’d touched you like he belonged there. Like he had always belonged there.

You choose to blame the irregular slumber you have gotten this past fortnight as the reason why you are being so discourteous. For Duke Nanami’s words drift your mind, never truly being registered, as you both had strolled, promenading hand in hand.

It is not merely His Grace who suffers from your inattentiveness. Any suitor who dares to approach is met with the same distracted gaze, your thoughts elsewhere. Whether it is the lingering remnants of that unbidden dream—one you’ve tried and failed to forget—or the fleeting moments where you think you spot Lord Gojo across the green only to realize it is a figment of your imagination, your mind is a battlefield.

A few awkward conversations—where you are not truly present—pass and go, until you sit by the lakeside of Surrey Park, deciding to take a break from the conversations that awaited you if you were to stroll towards your family’s pavilion.

But not now, for here, nature offers solace. The gentle ripple of water, the soft rustling of leaves, the occasional bird song—all soothe the cacophony in your head.

You settle onto a bench, your gown fanning around you, and allow yourself to breathe. But even as you close your eyes and tilt your head toward the sun, the peace does not come. Your thoughts betray you, circling back to him—his infuriating smirk, his piercing gaze, the way his voice seemed to linger in the air long after he was gone. The dream was completely unbidden, unexpected. You had only started to move on and start this season anew. It seemed as your consciousness was working against you in an effort to bring fictional desires to life.

You knew clearly that Gojo was infuriating, and had colored your name. So why must your mind actively go against what was clearly a certitude?

Before you could ponder on your thoughts for much longer, you heard her.

“You do seem terribly at ease for someone of your…reputation.”

The voice startles you, cutting through your reverie like a blade. Your eyes snap open, and there stands Lady Mei Mei, her expression a mask of genteel venom. You sigh inwardly, and bring on your best smile, albeit artificial. “Lady Mei Mei,” you greet, striving for composure. “To what do I owe this very unexpected…interruption?”

“Interruption?” she echoes, feigning offense. “How quaint. I merely wished to congratulate you on your newfound popularity. Though, I must say, the…boldness of your wardrobe choices does make one wonder.” Her gaze drags over your form, disdain dripping from every word. “Are you seeking a husband, my dear, or something far less respectable?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your skirt, but you maintain your poise. “Boldness, Lady Mei Mei, is often mistaken for confidence by those unfamiliar with either.”

Her lips twitch, but the venom remains. “Confidence, or desperation? It is difficult to tell with one so eager to flaunt herself before the ton. Tell me, do you find it tiring? Whoring yourself out for attention?”

The word lands like a slap, sharp and stinging, and you feel the surge of heat rise to your cheeks. Slowly, deliberately, you rise to your feet, smoothing the folds of your gown as you stand. Your chin tilts upward, a shield of composure against the venom Mei Mei has hurled your way. You desperately fight the urge to slap her into nonsense, but there are eyes, no matter how hidden from public view you may think yourself to be.

“I find it far less tiring than wielding envy as one’s primary weapon,” you reply, your voice cool yet cutting, every syllable sharpened to a blade. “But then, I would not expect you to understand.”

Mei Mei’s lips twist into something that might have been a smile, had it not been dripping with malice. Her eyes narrow, the sunlight catching the cold glint of her stare. She shifts closer, the deliberate grace of her steps at odds with the tension crackling in the air. For a moment, you think she might lash out—a slap, a shove, something physical to match her words.

But before the storm can break, a voice, smooth and deceptively warm, cuts through the charged silence.

“Lady Mei Mei.”

Your breath hitches, and you whip your head around to see him. Lord Gojo strides toward you both, his movements as fluid and effortless as a ripple across the lake’s surface.

For a moment, your mind stutters, unable to reconcile the sight before you. He’s here. Not lingering at the edges of the crowd, not offering a polite nod of acknowledgment before disappearing into the fringes of Surrey Park. No, he’s walking toward you with purpose, the light catching in his silver hair, his focus unerringly fixed on the scene unfolding before him.

The man who had, for days, seemed to find every excuse to avoid you (and you him), whose gaze had flicked past you as though you were nothing more than a fixture of the lawn—he was now approaching with a startling intensity, his presence impossible to ignore.

His expression is inscrutable, but the faint furrow of his brow betrays something darker beneath the veneer of his charm. The tension in his jaw, the faint set of his shoulders—it all speaks of an intent that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Lord Gojo,” you whisper under your breath, your voice barely audible over the blood rushing in your ears. What is he doing here? And why, when he looks at you, does it feel as though the air has shifted?

Lady Mei Mei recovers first, her voice cutting through your disarray like a blade. “Lord Gojo,” she purrs, her saccharine tone a stark contrast to the venom she had wielded moments earlier. “What a surprise to see you here.”

But you can’t take your eyes off him. You’re too stunned, too disoriented by his sudden appearance and the sheer force of his presence. Why must he appear now?

His gaze flicks briefly to Mei Mei, his lips curving into a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, before his attention returns to you. And when it does, it’s as though the world narrows to the space between you.

“Not half as surprising as overhearing this delightful conversation,” he says, his tone light, almost lazy, but there’s an edge to it—a sharpness that wasn’t there before. His eyes meet yours again, and this time, the intensity in them is impossible to ignore. Your breath holds itself in, your confusion and shock colliding with something you can’t quite name. There’s no teasing quip, no playful smirk to soften his words. Just the weight of his gaze, pressing down on you as though he’s searching for something you don’t understand. Then, he returns it to Mei Mei. “I was unaware you had taken to dispensing moral judgments, my lady. Though I suppose one must occupy their time somehow.”

The barb lands, and Mei Mei’s smile falters. Her spine stiffens, her fingers twitching at her side, but Gojo doesn’t stop. He steps closer, his boots crunching against the gravel, and the shift in his demeanor is subtle but unmistakable.

“I would suggest, for the sake of civility,” he says, his voice softening to something far more dangerous, “that you refrain from such remarks in the future.”

The crowd, drawn by the commotion, murmurs from a distance. You feel their gazes prickle against your skin, their curiosity thickening the already-tense air. Mei Mei’s cheeks flush a pale pink, and her hands clench at her sides, the effort to maintain her composure palpable.

“You dare—” she begins, but Gojo cuts her off, his voice a degree colder now.

“I dare a great many things, my lady. Do not test the limits of my patience.”

The words hang heavy in the air, silencing the murmurs of the crowd. Mei Mei’s breath quickens, and though her lips curl into a sneer, the fire in her eyes dims. After a moment, she dips her head again, but this time it’s no longer polite. It’s forced, a concession.

“Very well, my lord,” she says, her voice tight. “I can see when my presence is no longer welcome.”

Lady Mei Mei walked past you to exit the scene, clearly disgraced after Lord Gojo had surprisingly butted in to your defense. Her turn was sharp, and her skirts flared. Then, she did something you hadn’t expected. After all, you were nonplussed from Gojo’s appearance in of itself that you did not have much awareness of your physical environment. Foremost of all, you were furious. How dare he waltz into the scene, aiming at playing hero and gentleman after all he has done to you this season? The anger consumed you, leaving you ignorant to Lady Mei Mei's schemes.

The movement came quickly—a flick of her hand, subtle yet purposeful, as though she intended to brush away an inconvenience. Only, her target was not the hem of her gown or an errant lock of hair. It was you. That is, that was the intention of the action. However, fortuitously enough for you, Lord Gojo had noticed it.

With a sharp tug, his hand closed around your wrist, pulling you aside just as Lady Mei Mei's push landed—on him.

The splash was enormous.

For a moment, the world stood still, the lake swallowing the ripples as though it too were stunned by what had just transpired. Around you, gasps echoed, punctuated by the soft clink of champagne glasses dropped in surprise. All eyes turned toward the water, toward the spot where Gojo had disappeared.

Your pulse pounded erratically, caught between the shock of it all and the mortifying realization that everyone was watching. Watching and waiting.

And then, like something out of a scandalous painting that no young lady of good breeding ought to admit having seen, Gojo emerged.

The water clung to him as though reluctant to let go, his white shirt turned sheer and pasted to his torso, revealing every lean muscle and curve beneath. Droplets trailed from the tips of his silver hair, tracing maddening paths down the sharp edges of his jaw before disappearing beneath the soaked fabric. His black necktie clung damply to his throat, accentuating the hollows there, and when his eyes met yours—gleaming with mischief and something darker—your breath hitched.

It was obscene.

The crowd seemed to agree, though their response was far less scandalized than you might have expected. The ladies weren’t laughing; no, their gazes were riveted, their fans fluttering in a feeble attempt to hide their obvious fascination. Their admiration was palpable, their whispers laden with awe.

Flustered, you took a few steps back to give him space and to not drench yourself (a/n lmaooo you’re drenched already bestie), but you mentally noted to yourself to make his pectorals bigger in your dreams (not that you would continue to have such salacious dreams, of course. It was the mind creating desires you never had, obviously.) It was apparent that you were still very distracted, for you did not notice the two pairs of footsteps rushing towards your direction, towards Gojo.

“What happened?” Duke Nanami looked at Gojo’s very…wet state, concerned and alarmed. “What did you get yourself into this time, Satoru?”

Gojo, who was still wiping water from his hair and grinning like a fool, gave him an exaggerated look of innocence. He ran a hand through his damp, platinum hair, the gesture almost too casual for someone in his drenched state. As he did so, the hem of his shirt inched upward, revealing a tantalizing sliver of bare skin, a sliver that led downward to a trail of white hair disappearing beneath his waistband—

“Kento,” Gojo laughed heartily, as if there were nothing amiss. “You worry too much! A little water never hurt anyone.”

Lord Geto, on the other hand, had been trailing behind Nanami. At the sight of Gojo, he started laughing, snickering mischievously at the sight. He had a knowing look on his face, as if he were fully aware of the scene he was witnessing—Gojo’s accidental plunge into the lake being just another moment of unintentional chaos.

“Oh, Satoru, you're impossible.” Geto stepped closer, shaking his head in mock disbelief, but his smile was far too amused to be truly accusatory or reproachful. "Did you get knocked into the lake by your own... charm?" His voice dripped with sarcasm as he glanced at the crowd of ladies now eyeing Gojo as though he were some mythical creature freshly emerged from the depths.

Nanami sighed, his brow furrowing as he crossed his arms in that ever-earnest manner that seemed to constantly play contrast to Gojo’s reckless energy. “This is exactly why you need a keeper at all times, Satoru.”

Gojo, still basking in the odd mix of amusement and the lingering attention of the nearby ladies, merely shrugged. “I’m fine, Kento. Just a little... refreshment is all.”

“By the looks of it,” Geto continued with a raised brow, “I’m more concerned about you than you are of yourself.” He gestured with a lazy wave, motioning toward the way the water had soaked through Gojo’s shirt, revealing a lot more than was likely intended. “And, I mean, look at that—those ladies aren’t gazing at you for your intellect.” (a/n LMAO ate him up)

Before Gojo could lob a retort, Nanami interjected with his trademark no-nonsense tone. “Enough of this,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re soaked to the bone. Let’s get you inside before you catch a chill—or create an even bigger scene.”

Gojo lingered for a moment, casting a leisurely glance around the gathering. The ladies, previously locked in their own conversations, now shamelessly ogled him, their fans fluttering uselessly against the rising heat in their cheeks. Their gazes trailed after him as he started to walk away, and you swore you caught more than one wistful sigh among the crowd.

And yet, even as he moved farther from the lake and closer to the house, his steps deliberate and unhurried, he suddenly stopped. Slowly, his head turned, and his piercing blue gaze found yours with unnerving accuracy, as if he’d felt your bewildered stare all along.

His smile appeared—lazy, confident, and maddeningly seductive. The corner of his mouth tilted up just enough to make your stomach flip, and his eyes... Oh, his eyes. They gleamed like a predator’s, sharp and teasing, and yet impossibly inviting.

The world seemed to tilt, the air around you thickening. Your chest tightened with the realization: that smile wasn’t for the crowd, nor for the fawning ladies he left in his wake.

It was for you.

Your cheeks burned, your thoughts a chaotic mess as he turned back and sauntered away, water still dripping from his hair and shirt. The ladies continued to gawk openly, but you remained rooted to the spot, your heart pounding erratically.

Oh, that bastard.

prev. the rebound | next. the embers

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n so....erm this was definitely a CHAPTER.....BUT AH POOKIES ITS HERE i got so excited bc i got the idea to write his lake fall so i finished this chapter. it's a bit messy, like i said, but i hope you liked it <333

I WANT TO SUCK GOJOS DICK BADLYYY i think this chapter was posted so fast after the last bc im on my period and im horny so hence the lake scene was born like i rawdogged this shit in five hours

ANYWYAS THERES PUSH AND PULL YEARNING PINING...so much contradiction hmmmmmm

miss itadori malfunctioning when gojo got out of the water (like a complete SLUT)

anyways i hope some of you WHORESS that simped for bridgerton!geto will be coming anew to simp for our main MAN. this debauchery i approve of. i fear all anons, especially zaynesbathrobe anon and anon in my walls, will be having a field day with this one

thank you for readinggg! please comment and reblog to let me know ur thots :3 (esp reblog, a lot of people have been binging bridgerton!gojo recently and spam liking. tumblr daddy might lock me up and shadowban me/mark my account, so reblogs would be appreciated <3)

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bbokicidal · 9 months ago

Text

First Times The Charm? | OT8 [SKZ]

Notes : This was a Drabble request someone sent in, so it's short, to the point, and simple. Hope you enjoy! Genre : Smut Warnings : 18+ Content Req : Giving SKZ head for the first time. <- But I altered it so it's not just 'you giving skz head for the first time' and rather, it's 'you giving skz their first head experience EVER.'

Chris :

He's so... so vocal. Constantly groaning, his voice low in his throat and gravely as if he'd just woken up. He's in Heaven, his head tipped back on the office chair he sat in. He's death gripping the poor arms of the chair, knuckles bright red from the flush that had covered his entire body. He, politely, refuses to touch you - partially because he's a little scared to and partially because he doesn't think he can move.

Minho :

In shambles. His body has a habit of trembling each time you take him in your throat and he swears he's never felt anything so good in his life. He's laid back in his bed, one arm draped over his eyes while the other sticks by his side, fingers splayed in your hair; gently pushing your head down each time he needs a little more. You learn very quickly he's a bit of a head pusher.

Changbin :

Stiff as a rock, but also a little tense and unsure. He's so shy seeing you between his fucking thick ass thighs already, his ears bright red and his cheeks warm with excitement. He loves it, he really does, he's just - He's got a bad habit of being a bit jumpy when people touch him. So when you go all the way down on his dick and deep throat him? His thighs snap shut around your head and he nearly suffocates you, not realizing it had happened until you have to slap his stomach and make him let you go. Not that it was that bad of an experience. You'd die happy there.

Hyunjin :

All vocals. Moaning, whining - even chuckling as you slurp on his cock. He's a bit arrogant when it comes to you giving him head. Even though it's his first time getting head from anyone, he's cocky about his size as it bulges in your throat and makes you choke. When he gets closer to release though, he's all breathy and sucking in air, biting his bottom lip as his hand rests atop your head.

Jisung :

So wiggly, so squirmy. Full of the jitter bugs as you go down on him. He's whiney. Very very vocal, very loud - so loud in fact that Minho has to tell him to shut up from the next room over. He gets all embarrassed, sliding his sweater sleeve over his hand and pressing it to his mouth to muffle his whimpers that escape. Also Lowkey fucking up into your mouth because he just can't keep still. Will ask you to eat his ass afterwards.

Felix :

Extremely laid back. The master of acting like he's had it before but you can tell by the blush dusting over his freckles that he's never had it done to him before. (He also told you that, but.) He's lounging back in his gaming chair and he's adoring the sight of you sucking on him like a lollipop. He loves the sounds you make, the soft moans and the wet noises from your tongue dragging on his cock. And he's a bit vocal too - all low moans and huffs of breath escaping his lips. He's very chill about it, but by the time he's coming down your throat his hands are on the back of your neck and he's humping your face.

Seungmin :

Refuses to touch you because he's shaking so much. He's near silent most of the time but he can tell that when you pause to look up at him for a reaction, he'll nod as quick as he can so you know it's perfect. He's falling apart under your touch, lying in his bed and subtly rocking his hips up into your mouth because of how much he loves it.

Jeongin :

Tou.chy. Touchy!! He's all over you, can't keep his hands to himself. At first he's cupping your face, but then he feels like he's in the way of your work so he's just resting them on your shoulders then. But then he feels like he's pushing you, so instead he busies himself with gathering your hair and pulling it back - and he's got big enough hands so it's easy for him. And when he blows, he places a hand around your throat to gently push you away so he can paint your pretty face with his cum.

Perm Taglist: @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground

#skz imagine #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz smut #bangchan x reader #felix x reader #stray kids smut #seungmin x reader #Jeongin x reader #Changbin x reader #Hyunjin x reader #lee know x reader #han x reader #skz fic

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tiramissyoucake · 4 months ago

Note

"Reader who fucking despises Mark Grayson but is an Invincible superfan"

Dude pleaaaaase write a small story to that, image reader even being a bitch or somewhat a bully to mark, but he can't even take her serious since shes wearing his merch

"fuck you looking at?"

"um, is that... an invincible keychain?"

"yeah. So what? Wanna choke on it?"

"no, I uh... Looks good."

– 💪🏽

This is less a story and more a ramble because GGRRRR I LOVE THIS IDEA I hope u like this <3

Mark is never going to live down the loser allegations because he knows deep down, he's too excited to be on the receiving end of your hatred.

But the thing that really made him fall in love with you is when he saved you as Invincible one day from a collapsing building, and you looked up at him with an expression he's never seen on you— god you looked so in love with him he almost ripped his mask off and revealed it was actually him all along.

You were always so... guarded around him, glaring at him and calling him a weirdo for staring at you too long and scowling whenever he'd have to talk to you, your disgusted gaze made him feel so small (regardless of whether he was taller or not) and he'd immediately look down and fidget with his hands.

And now, the tables were turned, he sets you down nearby and watches you under the guise of concern for a citizen, you were actually flustered this time, thanking him with a stutter and looking anywhere but at him as you fixed your clothes and your hair, under the layering and accessories he caught a glimpse of an Invincible shirt, god you were so cute.

"Anything for my biggest fan." He gives you his best smile while pointing at your shirt, an embarrassed laugh escapes you as you try to cover it with folded arms. "Again, thank you...! I really admire you and everything you do for the city...!"

He could die happy here and now, this was the first non-hostile exchanged he's ever had with you and you didn't even know it was with him of all people; Mark, the loser comic geek from your school.

He gave you a casual salute before flying off to deal with the rest of the threat, he could feel your gaze following him, ever since then he's been on cloud nine.

The following days since then, you're more freaked out by his behaviour, he's staring way more than he usually does. You had to restrain a groan as he approached your locker. "Hey, (Name)? I wanted to ask—"

"Thought I told you to fuck off, Grayson." You immediately responded, you could recognize that infuriating unsure tone anywhere.

"Well— I was gonna ask if you have a partner for that biology project?"

"... uh-huh, and why would I partner up with you?" You shut your locker, readjusting your bag on your shoulder.

Mark blinked before continuing. "Wh- Uh, well... because we're in the same biology class? And we.. both don't have partners?"

"Never noticed you there." Ouch, okay. Not the worst he's heard from you. "I have a partner, bye."

"Wait! Seriously..? I asked everyone and no one—" Mark paused when you groaned and whipped your head to look at him. "Can you stay out of my damn business?! My answer is no, go beg for another partner, creep!"

Your response left no room for an argument or a reply, and neither did the annoyed expression on your face. Mark raised his hands in surrender and watched you turn away, mumbling profanities about him, something something 'fuckin' geek'

He would've been dejected but he saw the cutest miniature figure charm of his hero alter ego hanging off the zipper of your bag, swinging back and forth with every step you took and he immediately remembered that cute timid girl who thanked him oh so sweetly for saving her life. He was sure if he peeked into your locker, he'd see posters or pictures of Invincible hung up for either moral support or pure admiration.

Your back was turned to him as the smuggest smile made its way onto his lips, you'd be wrapped around his finger soon enough, he just needed to play a little waiting game- him and his 'good friend' Invincible got all the time in the world.

#your stars have aligned .•°✧✦✧#invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader

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movingthisblogcelestialtarot11 · 9 months ago

Note

what placements would most likely signify working in the media & entertainment industry??

Leo sun/rising—Enthusiasm for acting, projecting themselves out there. Naturally attracts attention! Loves the world of dress up as well. Can play dramatics really well. May even want to own a band of their own.

Neptune 1h—Great at acting. Shifts like a chameleon and sucks in energy to deliver the image everyone wants. Tunes easily into the moment. May also go on to make great music. Great at photography because of their attention to detail.

Capricorn/saturn dom— Great at depressive roles, making more of an impact on the mass. Focused on terror, sublime horror, the gross truth of reality to deliver a message. Used fear as a way to draw viewers attention. In their music their words are deep and powerful, profound. Grips the people who are too comfortable with their life and throws them in for a disturbing ride.

Venus-pluto—Great at thriller acts, horror, comedy. Sets the scene for drama and terror and enacts it very well. Exudes a timeless charm and manages to sway the industry with their appeal. Can be controversial. Probably the kind where someone snaps a random picture of them and uploads it and sudden everyone wants to know their name.

Taurus stellium—may play in a lot of rom coms, is known for their stunning beauty as an actor. Plays the mean girl very well. Their visuals are breathtaking. Jessica Alba has a taurus stellium. Taps into stereotypes very well and uses it to their advantage.

Scorpio moon—Channels their pain into acting. May play obscene roles with hatred, terror, sadness. Betrayal. These signs are great at channeling their past into their work because their body remembers it all. Great at scenes of sobbing from the depths of their soul. Great at action movies, thriller, psychological thriller.

Pisces degrees, pisces placements, pisces-venus asp- Love for music and film industry. Mostly into aesthetics and atmospheric films. Focuses more on creating mood and setting the environment. Loves to capture scenes of utter rawness and chaos. Yet it’s romanticized, they have a poetic way of acting.

Pisces also has an idol they look up to and take a lot of inspiration from them!

Gemini placements—Great at analyzing moments and scenes to deliver a great performance. Some Gemini’s go on to play roles involving a government, FBI, NCIS, CIA, etc. Mostly men are into calculated, pressurized roles such as playing a single father, Agent, cop, firefighter. Gemini women also tend to do the same, they play roles in which it describes an “alter ego,” “hidden” persona, like Natalie Portman in Black Swan. That film falls under psychology horror. These placements are great at character arcs/redemption arcs.

5h stellium, 5h venus, 5h sun/mars—Great for channeling creativity/passion!

10h Venus/Libra/Taurus—Ruled by aesthetics, romanticism, and fame. Popular individuals! May get stunning roles and get popular easily. Success follows them.

Jupiter 10h—Supreme reputation in their acting/media career. Always maintains a good image regardless of scandals, issues.

MC in leo—Ultimate get famous placement! Great actors of their time, almost timeless. Brings back an era of newness yet nostalgia everyone misses. Whether it be in their music or acting! Stunning and motivational individuals.

Virgo rising—May be into modeling and climb their way to the top! Loves photography, fashion and aesthetics. Finds art absolutely beautiful.

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

Text

Welcome to Miami

Lando Norris x Messi!Reader

Summary: a crazy weekend in Miami leaves Lando with his first Formula 1 win, one very pissed off football legend, and a baby-shaped surprise set to arrive in just about nine months

Warnings: 18+ content and unplanned pregnancy

Note: based on a request by @glitterquadricorn that I may have ended up going a little overboard with

You wake up with a pounding headache, squinting against the bright sunlight streaming through the hotel room window. As you blink your eyes into focus, you realize you’re not in your own bed. The sheets are unfamiliar, the decor is generic and impersonal.

Panic starts to set in as you try to reconstruct the previous night’s events.

The space next to you is still warm, indented from where someone else was recently lying. You glance down at your lack of clothes and tousled hair. Yep, definitely had a one-night stand.

Wracking your brain, you vaguely recall meeting a charming stranger at the club, letting him buy you drinks until everything became a blur of flirtatious banter and wandering hands.

Your phone is on the nightstand and you grab it, hoping for some clues. A new contact catches your eye: “Lando 🍆”. You snort at the stupid name and obvious (if cringey) innuendo. At least he has a sense of humor.

You wonder what kind of guy calls himself Lando these days.

As you get dressed and leave the hotel, already trying to put the awkward walk of shame behind you, fragments of the night come back in flashes. Lando’s warm blue-green eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. His skilled hands roaming over your body. The way he whispered filthy praises in your ear between searing kisses.

You shiver, feeling an unexpected pang of disappointment that you’ll never see him again. But a one-night stand is just that — one night. No need to dwell on the best sex you’ve had in … well, maybe ever.

When you arrive home in the early afternoon, your dad greets you at the door with a knowing smirk.

“Have a good night, mija?” Leo teases, taking in your mussed appearance.

You roll your eyes, not wanting to give him any details. “It was fine.”

He chuckles. “If you say so. I’m just glad you’re home safe.”

Over the next few weeks, you put Lando out of your mind completely. Your life goes on as normal — training with the University of Miami’s football team, doing promotional appearances, and spending time with family and friends.

But then one morning about a month later, you wake up feeling nauseous. You brush it off as a stomach bug at first.

When the queasiness persists for several days along with strange cravings and bouts of fatigue, a nagging suspicion forms in your mind. You dig through your bathroom cabinets until you find an old pregnancy test leftover from a scare last year.

Your hands are shaking as you wait for the result. This can’t be happening. You were so careful with Lando, you’re almost certain … but maybe not careful enough.

The little plastic wand displays two solid pink lines. Positive.

“Oh shit,” you whisper, feeling like the ground has dropped out from underneath you.

How could you have been so stupid? Getting knocked up from a drunken one-night stand with a guy you can’t even remember properly. What are you going to do? How will you tell your parents? What about your athletic career?

A million thoughts race through your panic-stricken mind as you try to process this massive, life-altering situation. You want to call your best friend and cry, but you’re almost too overwhelmed to formulate words.

Part of you wants to be furious at Lando, that reckless idiot who came inside you so carelessly. But you know you’re just as much to blame. You obviously consented, you just can’t recollect the exact circumstances.

God, why did you let yourself get so sloppy drunk and make such terrible decisions?

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm yourself. Okay, first things first — you need to confirm this with a visit to the doctor. And if it’s still positive, you’ll have to figure out your next steps. Tell your family, decide whether to keep the baby or not. That’s still your choice, at least.

Your mind keeps drifting back to Lando, wishing you knew more about him than just a stupid contact name. Was that even his real name? What did he do for a living? Where was he from? Was he ready for the responsibility of being a father? Not that it mattered — you barely knew him. For all you knew, he could be married or secretly twisted.

No, you reason with yourself, trying to shut down that line of thinking, he seemed like a good guy. At least in the moment. Even through your tequila-soaked haze, you got a feeling of genuine warmth and kindness from him. Maybe you’re both just a couple of random people who made a reckless mistake after having too much fun together.

You take another breath and stand up, your mind made up. First, you’ll go to the doctor and get an official test. Then you’ll deal with everything else from there. There’s no use panicking until you confirm this is actually happening.

But deep down, you know this cheap little test is accurate. You’re pregnant with a virtual stranger’s baby. And in that moment, feeling so lost and overwhelmed and terrified, you can’t help but wonder — who the hell is Lando?

***

You sit on the couch, hands trembling as you clutch the results of your blood test. Tears stream down your face as the weight of the situation crushes down on you.

How could you have been so reckless? So stupid? You’re supposed to be a role model, setting an example for young girls. And now you’re pregnant from a one-night stand with some random guy.

The shame and fear swirl inside you until you can barely breathe. You need to tell your dad. He’ll be so disappointed in you. But you can’t keep this a secret, it will only get harder as your belly grows.

You hear the front door open and your dad’s familiar footsteps. Bracing yourself, you call out in a shaky voice, “Papa? Can you come here please?”

Leo wanders into the living room, his expression turning to immediate concern when he sees your tear-stained face. “Mija, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, bottom lip trembling as you try to find the words. “I … I’m pregnant,” you finally choke out.

His eyes go wide with shock. “Pregnant? How …” Realization dawns on his face. “Was this from that night you came home ...” He doesn’t need to finish the question.

You nod miserably, a fresh wave of tears falling. “I’m so sorry, Papa. I was drunk and stupid and … and I don’t even know who the father is, not really.” The words tumble out in a rush. “Just some guy I met at a club, his name was Lando or something. I barely remember anything!”

To your surprise, your dad’s expression softens into something like sympathy instead of the anger or disappointment you expected. He moves to sit beside you, wrapping a comforting arm around your shoulders.

“Shh, it’s alright mija. I’m not happy about this situation, but I’m not angry at you either. We all make mistakes.” He pauses, seeming to think something over. “This Lando guy … was it around the time of the Miami Grand Prix in early May?”

You nod again, not understanding the connection. “I think so, why?”

A look of recognition crosses your dad’s face. “There’s a young driver in Formula 1. I’m a bit of a fan actually, been following his career when I have the chance. It’s not the most common name.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the pieces fall into place. The drunk recollections of warm color-changing eyes and a charming smile. The weird name followed by that stupid eggplant emoji in your contacts.

It all fits.

“Oh my god … you think the father is Lando Norris? Like, the Formula 1 driver?” Part of you wants to dismiss the idea as ridiculous, but another part feels an undeniable certainty that your dad has hit the nail on the head.

Leo nods firmly. “I think it’s highly likely. He was in Miami for the race that weekend. Reckless kid probably went out partying after finally managing to win.”

There’s a hard edge to your dad’s voice at that last part. You can’t really blame his protectiveness — finding out your daughter is pregnant from a one-night stand, especially with a relative celebrity, can’t be easy for any father.

“What am I going to do?” You whisper, scared all over again at the massive upheaval your life is facing.

But your dad just pulls you into a tighter hug, his touch reassuring and strong. “We’ll figure it out together, mija. Don’t worry. If this Lando character is the father, he’ll damn well take responsibility. I’ll make sure of it.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting your dad’s words soothe you. He’s right — you’re not in this alone. And if Lando Norris really is the father, well, he signed up for this whether he knew it or not.

“Thank you, Papa. I was so scared to tell you, but I shouldn’t have been. I’m lucky to have you.” You hug him fiercely, fresh tears spilling but this time born of reassurance instead of fear.

Leo just holds you close, his embrace full of fatherly love and protection. “Always, mija. I’ve got your back, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”

After a few moments, he pulls back, his expression turning more stern. “And as for this Lando kid, he better step up and be a man about this situation. Because if he tries to abandon you or this baby ...” He lets the implied threat hang in the air.

You can’t help but give a watery laugh. “I have a feeling he won’t want to mess with you. Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Your dad allows a small smile at that. “Smart boy. Now, do you have a way to contact him? I’m sure someone can get us his information if not.”

You think for a moment, then remember — your phone contacts. You grab your cell and pull up the fateful entry.

“Here, just this number with the stupid eggplant emoji.” Your cheeks flush a little as you say it.

Leo arches an eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment. Instead, he takes out his own phone and dials the number, his expression hardening with determination.

“Right, listen up, Lando Norris ...” he begins, leaving no room for argument.

You take a steadying breath as your dad starts laying down the law to the man who knocked up his precious daughter. For the first time since staring at those two pink lines, you feel a tiny kernel of hope taking root.

No matter what happens, you’re not alone in this. Your dad has your back, and Lando — well, Lando better prepare himself. Because when Leo Messi demands you take responsibility for your actions, you don’t dare say no.

***

Lando jolts awake to the harsh buzz of his phone vibrating against the nightstand. He blinks blearily at the harsh red numbers of the alarm clock — 2:51 am. Who the hell is calling at this ungodly hour?

He fumbles for the phone, squinting at the unknown number with a +1 country code. Probably a spam call from across the pond. He’s tempted to just silence it, but something makes him swipe to answer with a groggy “Hello?”

“Lando Norris?” The deep voice on the other end is vaguely familiar, but Lando can’t quite place it in his sleep-addled state.

“Yeah, this is him. Who’s this?” He tries and fails to smoother a huge yawn.

“This is Lionel Messi.”

Lando’s eyes shoot wide open, any lingering drowsiness evaporating like he’s been doused with ice water. Leo freaking Messi is on the phone with him? His brain scrambles to comprehend what’s happening.

“I … uh … Mr. Messi, sir. This is … I mean … wow. What an honor!” He cringes at his own stammering, feeling very much like a star-struck fanboy rather than a fellow professional athlete.

Messi’s voice remains calm but firm. “I’ll get right to the point. Do you remember a young woman you slept with recently? The night of the Miami Grand Prix a few months ago?”

Lando feels his stomach drop out. Suddenly this phone call is taking on a very different context than just a casual chat with a sports legend. He racks his brain, trying to recall the handful of women he’d casually hooked up with around that time.

There was that petite blonde from the club after sprint qualifying … no, she was just a make-out in the back alley behind the valet. The pair of Brazilian bombshell twins he’d brought back to his hotel room on Saturday … no, they made him get tested after that escapade just to be safe.

Then it clicks into place — the gorgeous young woman with a killer smile that he’d met at the LIV Nightclub afterparty. They had danced and drank together all night until everything descended into a sweaty, semi-public grope fest in one of the VIP booths before he convinced her to come back to his suite.

He remembers her gasping and whimpering his name as he pounded into her from behind. Remembers the way her nails raked down his back when he made her come apart with his tongue. Remembers being too drunk and worked up to put on a condom before sinking back into her tight, wet heat and ...

Oh shit.

“I … yes, sir. I think I know who you’re referring to,” Lando forces out, his mouth incredibly dry.

“Good. Then you’ll remember getting my daughter pregnant that night as well.”

Lando actually feels the blood drain from his face, a rushing sound filling his ears. He must have misheard, right? There’s no way Leo freaking Messi just said Lando got his daughter pregnant!

“I … I’m sorry … your what?” He sputters out dumbly.

Messi’s tone takes on a steely edge. “My daughter. The young woman you slept with, she’s my daughter. And now she’s pregnant with your child.”

The room starts to spin. Lando tries to force air into his lungs, feeling like he might actually pass out. “Oh my god, I … I had no idea! We were both so drunk, I never would have … oh fuck, I’m so sorry, sir!”

“Sorry doesn’t really fix this, does it?” Messi’s voice is like sharpened steel. “You got my little girl pregnant from some drunken fling and now she has to deal with all of this.”

“I … yes, you’re right. Completely right.” Lando presses trembling fingers to his throbbing temples. This can’t actually be happening, right? “What … what do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, whatever you need!”

There’s a weighted pause on the line before Messi speaks again, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“First, you’re going to meet with me and my daughter in person so we can discuss this situation. Then you’re going to take responsibility and be a part of this child’s life, understood? Step up and be a man about it.”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely, of course!” Lando is nearly shouting into the phone, desperation and panic clawing at his throat. “Whatever you want, sir. I’ll be there. Just tell me when and where.”

“Good. I’ll have my people set it up and send the details to your team.” There’s a hint of grudging approval in Messi’s voice now, like he’s satisfied Lando appears to be taking this seriously. “I suggest you get some sleep, you’re going to need it.”

The line goes dead before Lando can respond. He stares dumbly at the silent phone in his hand for several long moments, trying to process everything.

Leo Messi’s daughter.

Pregnant.

With his baby.

Holy shit, what has he done? What is he going to do? How did one reckless, drunken night blow up into such a massive catastrophe?

His head is spinning and he can feel his overtaxed body starting to shut down from the shock and stress of the harrowing phone call. He tries to take a deep breath, pushing away the panic and leaning back against the pillows.

Sleep. Right. He needs sleep if he has any hope of dealing with … with all of this. But how can he possibly rest now?

Lando’s eyes start to drift closed despite his whirling thoughts. His body has other plans, sucking him under into blessed unconsciousness as he slumps fully back onto the mattress.

The last thing he’s dimly aware of is his phone slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor, followed by his own body going entirely limp.

When Lando finally does manage to sleep, it’s to the terrifying vision of Leo Messi’s furious face snarling “you got my daughter pregnant” over and over again behind his closed eyelids.

***

The flight from Nice to Miami feels like it takes an eternity, but also happens in a terrifying blur. Lando can barely remember booking the first available ticket, throwing some clothes into an overnight bag, or making his way to the airport in a daze. He runs on autopilot, his mind spinning in frantic circles.

He got Leo Messi’s daughter pregnant. How is this his life?

A private chauffeur is waiting at the baggage claim when Lando deplanes in Miami, holding up a printed sign with his name. Of course Messi would have people to handle something like this.

Lando swallows hard and approaches the stern-faced driver. “I’m Lando Norris. Uh, Mr. Messi is expecting me?”

The chauffeur gives him an appraising look but doesn’t respond beyond a curt nod. He turns on his heel, expecting Lando to follow.

The drive to the Messis’ palatial Miami mansion is silent and tense. Lando fights the urge to fidget anxiously, his knee bouncing until he forces himself still.

Get it together, man. This is it.

All too soon, they’re pulling through an immaculate gate onto perfectly manicured grounds surrounding the huge home. Lando takes a steadying breath as the driver gets his bag from the trunk.

Then the front door is swinging open and there’s Leo Messi himself, looking as intimidating as Lando has ever seen the football icon. His expression is stony, jaw clenched tight as he measures Lando up.

Before Lando can even open his mouth, Messi beats him to it, tone leaving no room for argument.

“I don’t like you.”

The words are like a kick to the gut. Lando forces himself to hold the steely gaze, giving a small nod.

“I understand, sir. I’ve made a terrible mistake and you have every right to be angry with me. I’ll accept whatever consequences I have to.” His voice is strong, despite the way his heart is jack-hammering in his chest.

Messi holds the intense eye contact a moment more before giving a short nod of what might be begrudging respect. He turns and heads inside, clearly expecting Lando to follow.

The foyer opens into an elegant living room where a familiar woman is sitting on one of the plush couches.

You.

Lando’s breath catches in his throat as memories from that hazy night come rushing back. Your skin glowing with a thin sheen of sweat as you moved rhythmically to the music. Your throaty laugh and sparkling eyes as you flirted shamelessly over your fourth … no fifth … mojito. The velvet silk of your hair brushing his face as you ground down against his lap.

He swallows hard, trying not to stare. The situation is awkward enough without dwelling on the admittedly incredible sex that caused this whole mess. Though he can’t deny the sharp spike of pure physical want that hits his gut at the sight of you.

Your eyes are wide and nervous as you take him in. “Um … hi.”

“Hi,” he replies simply, feeling incredibly self-conscious under the weighty stare of your legendary father.

An agonizing beat of silence stretches between the three of you.

“Well?” Leo prompts impatiently, making you both jump. “You got my daughter pregnant. What do you plan to do about it?”

The blunt words make Lando’s face flush hot, but he forces himself to meet your father’s stern gaze head-on.

“Whatever I need to do, sir. I’ll take full responsibility. Financially, emotionally, being there for the child … anything you need from me.” He pauses, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. “That is … if the mother wants me to be involved as well?”

He looks at you then, trying to convey his sincerity. Despite the casual nature of your hook-up, he meant what he said — he will step up and do the right thing for this kid.

His kid.

You seem to consider his words for a long moment before giving a small nod. “Yes … yes, I’d like you to be involved if you’re willing. This is as much my responsibility as yours. We … we can figure this out. Together?”

The uncertain note in your voice tugs at something in Lando’s chest. For all your father’s bluster, you just sound like a young woman in a scary, overwhelming situation. Just like him.

“Together,” he agrees firmly, returning your nod. “We’ll, ah, we’ll be good co-parents. For the baby.”

The words feel strange leaving his lips, but also fill him with a sense of resolve and determination.

Leo watches the exchange between you both like a hawk, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his words are measured but dismissive.

“Get it sorted out then. Find a way to make this work. I don’t care about the details as long as you two take care of my grandchild properly.”

With that, he gives a curt nod and turns to exit the room, leaving you and Lando to your own devices. The sudden lack of his intimidating presence seems to deflate the tension somewhat.

You let out a long, shaky breath, shooting Lando a wry look. “He’s … taking this about as well as could be expected, all things considered.”

Lando can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh at that, some of the nervous knot in his stomach loosening slightly. “Yeah, I’ll say. Your dad is legitimately terrifying, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” you say with a small smile.

An odd sense of camaraderie falls over you both then — two young people bonding over how Lando quite literally knocked you up. It’s almost enough for him to relax a bit.

Then you glance down at your still-flat stomach and all humor drains away. “So … co-parents, huh? You really want to do this?”

Lando doesn’t even have to think about it. “Of course. It’s my kid too, yeah? My responsibility, like I said.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “It’s not exactly how I pictured becoming a father, but … I’m in this all the way. For the little one’s sake.”

Something in your expression softens at his words and a tiny smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Thank you, Lando. That … that really means a lot to hear.”

Before he can think better of it, Lando closes the distance between you and pulls you into an impulsive hug. You stiffen for just a moment before relaxing against him.

“Hey, we’re gonna be okay, you and me,” he murmurs as he holds you close. “We’ve got this, baby mama.”

You stiffen again and pull back sharply at the words, a look of mortification on your face. Lando frowns in confusion until a familiar gravelly voice cuts through the room.

“Lando Norris, I swear if you ever call my daughter that again, they’ll never find your body.”

Leo Messi is back, leveling Lando with a look that would liquefy steel. The driver nearly swallows his tongue, flushing scarlet.

“Y-yes, sir! Of course, sir! It, ah, it won’t happen again!” He stammers out, mentally making a note to permanently delete those words from his vocabulary.

Messi just grunts in response, apparently satisfied, before retreating from the room once more.

You’re staring at Lando with wide eyes and badly-suppressed laughter. He groans, dropping his face into his hands.

“Why did I say that? God, I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, that smile breaking free. “This is just … all a bit surreal, isn’t it?”

Lando peeks through his fingers to meet your gaze, unable to stop the rueful grin that spreads across his own face.

“Just a bit, yeah.” He drops his hands with a defeated chuckle. “But your dad’s right — we’ve got to take this seriously for the little one.”

You nod, smile fading into a look of grim determination. “We do. Which means you can’t call me baby mama if you actually want to stay alive to see your child.”

“Deal,” Lando agrees readily, feeling lighter than he has since your father first called to drop that bomb on him.

Maybe co-parenting won’t be easy, but somehow he gets the sense you two just might be able to figure it out. And with the entire weight of Leo freaking Messi’s protective rage motivating him, Lando is damn sure going to try his best.

***

Ten Months Later

The vibrant Miami sun beams down on you as you carefully lift Maia out of her stroller, cradling the bundle of joy in your arms. Your daughter’s wide, curious eyes dart around, taking in all the sights and sounds of the paddock for the first time.

“There they are! My two favorite girls,” Lando’s voice rings out as he jogs over, already wearing his team gear in preparation for the drivers parade. He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before turning his attention to Maia. “And how’s my little princess doing today?”

Maia lets out a delighted squeal and you can’t help but smile at the pure adoration on Lando’s face as he gently brushes a finger over her chubby cheek. “She’s been an angel all morning. I think she knows this is a big day for her first race.”

“That’s my girl,” Lando grins. “Going to be a little racer before we know it.”

“Lando! There you are, mate.” The Aussie accent cuts through the paddock as Lando’s teammate bounds over. “I’ve been looking everywhere for … oh wow, is that her?”

Oscar’s eyes go wide as they land on Maia, taking in her tiny features with an almost comical look of awe. “She’s … she’s so small,” he says dumbly.

“What did you expect, she’s a baby,” Lando scoffs with a roll of his eyes, though his tone is good-natured. “Do you want to hold her?”

“Can I?” Oscar asks eagerly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an overexcited puppy.

You laugh and carefully transfer Maia into Oscar’s waiting arms, guiding his hands to properly support her head. “Just watch the grabby hands. She’s got a pretty strong grip these days.”

Oscar nods rapidly, looking a bit intimidated as he gingerly cradles Maia against his chest. But the instant she lets out a little gurgling coo, his face splits into the biggest, most boyish grin you’ve ever seen.

“Hey there, little Norris,” he murmurs softly, instantly transfixed. “I’m your favorite Uncle Oscar.”

“Oi, who said you get to be the favorite uncle?” Another voice cuts in as Carlos saunters over, immediately zeroing in on the form in Oscar’s arms. “Is that her? Dios mio, she’s gorgeous!”

Without hesitation, Carlos plucks Maia right out of Oscar’s hold, completely ignoring the other driver’s sputtering. “Well hello there, princesa. Don’t worry, your Tío Carlos has got you.”

Maia blinks up at the new face peering down at her, tiny fists waving as if to grab at the Spaniard’s perfectly coiffed hair. Carlos simply grins and nuzzles his nose against her cheek, seemingly not caring one bit about any damage the squirming infant in his arms can do.

“Are you seeing this?” Lando mock-whispers to you, looping an arm around your waist and leaning in conspiratorially. “How are we supposed to get her back now?”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand, watching in amusement as Carlos and Oscar descend into bickering over who Maia’s favorite uncle will be — only to be interrupted as another figure appears beside them.

“What do we have here?” Daniel Ricciardo pipes up with a wide grin, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “Don’t tell me you two are fighting over babysitting duties already?”

“Something like that, mate,” Lando chuckles, reaching out to clap Daniel on the shoulder in greeting. “Up for putting your name in the hat too?”

“You know it!” Daniel agrees easily, quickly sidestepping Carlos to peer down at Maia with a wide smile. “Hey there, little monkey. Look at you all bright-eyed and curious.”

Amazingly, Maia seems entirely unperturbed by all the fussing going on around her. She simply blinks placidly up at each new face, soaking it all in like a tiny sponge. At one point, she even lets out a delighted squeal and flails her arms — prompting a fresh round of cooing from the three drivers clustered around her.

“Aw, I think she likes me best already,” Daniel declares with a wink, gently booping Maia’s button nose and making her giggle.

You shake your head in fond exasperation even as Lando tugs you tighter against his side, completely content to bask in the scene. That is, until Daniel’s next words nearly make you choke.

“So just how old is this little angel?” He asks idly, eyes still trained on Maia’s sweet face. “Four months now?”

“Three months and one week,” Lando answers automatically — only to tense a split second later, mouth falling open in realization. “Oh. Oh.”

The smug grin that slowly spreads across Daniel’s face is borderline devlish as it clicks into place for everyone exactly when Maia would have been … well, conceived. A heavy silence falls over the group, disturbed only by Maia’s happy gurgling as she remains oblivious to the sudden shift.

“Well, well, well,” Daniel drawls, dark eyes dancing with mirth as he bounces Maia playfully in his arms. “I think someone got a little overexcited celebrating his win last year, didn’t he?”

The only response is a strangled squawk from Lando as his face flushes bright red — no doubt remembering exactly how the two of you celebrated his first time on top of the Formula 1 podium. Meanwhile, Carlos and Oscar openly gape at the revelation, eyes nearly bugging out of their skulls.

“Don’t you dare,” Lando manages to choke out, stabbing an accusatory finger in Daniel’s direction. “We are not having this conversation here.”

“Why not?” Daniel shrugs blithely, gently jostling Maia to the crook of his elbow in a way that has her giggling. “It’s a perfectly natural thing, nothing to be ashamed about. That must’ve been one hell of a victory lap!”

The innuendo hangs heavily in the air, made all the more mortifying by the lecherous waggle of Daniel’s eyebrows. Lando, meanwhile, looks like he’s two seconds away from spontaneously combusting on the spot.

“I’m going to kill you,” he mutters through gritted teeth, dragging a hand over his rapidly reddening face.

Before Daniel can respond with another quip, however, you quickly step in — scooping Maia out of his arms with a stern glare. “That’s enough of that, I think.”

Daniel wisely snaps his mouth shut at the warning in your tone, offering a cheeky salute instead. “I’ll lay off … for now.”

With a wink and a last jaunty grin towards a still-sputtering Lando, he bids the group farewell and heads off to prepare for the race. Oscar, seemingly remembering you’re all congregating in a very public place, manages to pick his jaw up off the ground long enough to clear his throat awkwardly.

“Right, well … I need to go, you know, do driver things,” he mumbles before beating a hasty retreat, stumbling over his own feet in his haste.

Carlos, for his part, has the audacity to start outright cackling the second Oscar is out of earshot.

“You never fail to entertain,” he manages between wheezing gasps, wiping away mirthful tears from the corners of his eyes.

Lando flushes even deeper, if possible, and shoots you a helpless look. You simply raise an eyebrow, letting him squirm for a moment before taking pity.

“Alright, that’s enough out of you,” you chide Carlos lightly, shifting Maia higher on your hip. “Unless you want to be the one explaining the birds and the bees to her when the time comes?”

That seems to sober Carlos up somewhat, his laughter trailing off into a few more chuckles as he waves a hand dismissively. “You wound me, amiga. As if I would corrupt the ears of such an innocent little one.”

You give him a pointed look and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m done.”

With a roguish wink, Carlos reaches out to gently pinch Maia’s cheek — earning a bright smile from the bubbly infant.

“You’ll learn soon enough that your papá can be un poco loco sometimes, princesa.”

“She really doesn’t need to learn that at all, thanks,” Lando grumbles, shooting his friend an exasperated glare.

You can’t help but shake your head fondly at the pair of them, even as Lando tucks you snugly against his side. For all their bickering, it’s abundantly clear just how enamored all the drivers are with Maia already.

The tender moment is interrupted, however, by a voice calling out for your boyfriend from across the paddock.

“Lando, we need you over in the garage. The parade will be starting any minute now,” a press officer arrives to herd him away.

Lando exhales a put-upon sigh, dropping a kiss to the top of Maia’s head before meeting your gaze apologetically. “Duty calls, I suppose. You’ll be okay here with my littlest fan club?”

You wave him off with a warm smile. “We’ll be fine. Just focus on having a good race, yeah? Maia and I will be cheering you on.”

The brilliant grin Lando flashes you is enough to make your heart flutter. “How could I do anything else with my two favorite cheerleaders?”

With one last lingering kiss, he tears himself away — offering a half-hearted wave to Carlos before disappearing through the paddock. An oddly serene quiet falls in his absence, the crowd breaking up to get settled before the race.

Carlos seems to sense your pensive mood, stepping up beside you to gently bump his shoulder against yours.

“You know, he really has changed since becoming a papá,” the older driver muses, casting a fond look down at Maia. “Far as I can tell, it’s done wonders for him.”

You smile softly, bouncing Maia gently as you watch Lando’s retreating back weave through the controlled chaos of the paddock. “He’s been … amazing. And he loves Maia more than life itself. My father complains that he has run out of things to threaten Lando over, which is the biggest compliment coming from him.”

Your daughter simply blinks at the two of you for a long moment before that sunny smile you’ve grown to adore stretches across her face, little fists waving happily in the air. You can’t help but chuckle at her antics, brushing a knuckle over her soft cheek.

As the bright Miami sun shines down and anticipation slowly builds in the background, you feel a surge of nearly overwhelming contentment. No matter what twists and turns life throws your way from here, you decide, you’ll always be able to find your way back to moments like this.

So much has changed in the course of a year, but you truly wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if Lando still can’t quite look your father in the eye.

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v6quewrlds · 14 days ago

Text

imagine a pregnancy scare with justin.

author's note⠀⁎⠀angst warning. unwanted pregnancy, mention of abortion.

The thud of her heart in her chest more closely resembled a bass drum than the gentle patter of rain outside her window. She sat cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom, leaning back against the closed door, her arms crossed, her eyes staring straight ahead at the minimalist wallpaper pattern that had been Justin’s choice. Her index finger tapped an even pattern against her arm where she had folded her limbs across her chest; a steady tap, tap, tap for her to focus on instead of the ticking clock in her mind—or the way that Justin just could not seem to even pretend to understand why this was not the best-case scenario.

“We could make it small and intimate. Just us, an officiant, our families, maybe a couple of close friends,” Justin rambled on, his eyes lighting up as he painted a picture of their hypothetical wedding. “If we do it in the next month or so, nobody’ll be curious about the timing.”

Her eyes remained glued to the wall as she processed his words. The concept of marriage and parenthood had always been something they talked about in the distant future. Not like this, not because a slip-up had pushed them into a corner they hadn’t prepared for. She took a deep breath, letting it fill her lungs before releasing it in a shaky exhale. “Justin,” she began, her voice more deflated than she anticipated, “why does it matter if people realize I got pregnant before we got married? We’re adults. This isn’t the 1930s. I think people know we have sex.”

Justin’s cheeks colored slightly, his gaze dropping to his feet. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I just want to do the right thing, you know? If there’s a baby coming, we should be together. Married. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” His voice was earnest, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that his excitement was a knee-jerk reaction to the fear of becoming a father out of wedlock rather than genuine enthusiasm for the life-altering event.

The universe must have sensed she was on the verge of an emotional breakdown, the 5-minute timer on her phone ringing out before she could collect her thoughts. She stood from her spot on the floor, quietly thanking Justin as he helped her up instinctively, his hand finding the small of her back as she shuffled over to the counter of the bathroom sink.

She couldn’t believe that after all the precautions they had taken—or rather, that she had taken—they were in this situation anyway. She had always been the one with the plans, the one with the clear vision of her future, but now, the very foundation of that vision was crumbling beneath her. The nagging voice of her grandmother echoed in her mind, warning her of the dangers of allowing herself to bend to the smooth charms of a man with a dreamer’s heart and the suppressed but inevitable ego of a star athlete.

“Turn it over. I can’t look,” she sighed, her face a canvas of anxiety as she held out the pregnancy test. Justin’s larger, calloused hand took it from her trembling grip with a steady gentleness. His eyes scanned the results, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard.

“It’s negative,” he finally said, the words seeming to hang in the air longer than they should have. She felt the world spin back into focus around her. The tension in the room eased ever so slightly, and she managed a weak smile.

“Oh, fuck, thank God,” she whispered, her hand flying to her chest. The relief that flooded her was so palpable it was almost tangible, a warmth that spread through her body and chased the shadows of fear away. She leaned into Justin’s embrace, feeling the tightness in her chest unclench as his arms wrapped around her.

Justin’s grip was firm, his heart thumping in time with hers. He kissed the top of her head but remained silent. As the moments ticked by, she felt the weight of his excitement slowly morph into a subtle, stiff disappointment. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but she knew him too well to miss it. She pulled back to look at him, her eyes searching his for any sign of the spark that had been there moments ago.

“It’s negative,” she repeated back to him, her palms pressed flat against his chest. The words hung between them like a confession in a quiet church. She searched his eyes for some sign of relief to mirror her own, but instead, she found a growing pool of sadness.

“Yeah,” Justin said, clearing his throat. His eyes darted away from hers, focusing on the floor again. “It’s for the best, right?” But the question lingered in the air, unanswered. She could feel the shift in his mood, the way his arms had loosened around her.

“Justin. We’re not… I mean you weren’t…” Her voice trailed off as she realized the gravity of what he was feeling. He had wanted this, more than she realized.

He shrugged, his eyes meeting hers again. “No, you’re right. I just—” he cleared his throat again. “If you’re not ready, we’re not ready. That’s—” another clear of his throat, “that’s fine.”

Her own emotions stalled at his reaction. “Right. We’re not ready,” she echoed, confusion embedding itself into the lines of her face. “I’m sorry if I didn’t make it clear. I know we’ve talked about it a lot lately, but having a baby isn’t exactly on my to-do list right now,” she said, her voice softer now, trying to navigate the sudden awkwardness that had formed between them.

Justin forced a smile. “It’s okay, babe. I get it. We’re still young. We’ve got time,” he said, his thumb gently stroking her arm in a reassuring motion. But she could see the hesitation lurking beneath the surface, words at the tip of his tongue that remained unspoken.

“But you’re disappointed.” She spoke plainly as she searched his face for any hint of his true feelings. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, until finally, Justin sighed heavily.

“A little, I guess. But it’s not about me. I want what’s best for you, for us, for… whatever we might have together in the future. I just thought—with us being together for so long, and with us talking about it so much, I figured we were on the same page. Or at least close to it.”

“Meaning?” she prompted, her voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

Justin took a step back, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I just… I wanted this baby with you.”

Her heart squeezed at his words. The realization that he had been dreaming of a future she hadn’t even allowed herself to consider brought a fresh wave of discomfort crashing over her. “I don’t know how else to say this without hurting you, but this whole scare terrified me. It made me realize that I’m not ready for any of this—not marriage, not kids—not now.”

When Justin didn’t answer right away, she continued. “All I could think about when I was sitting there waiting for the timer was how my life would change. And not in a good way. My career, your career. Everything I’ve worked so hard for would have to take a backseat to a baby that we hadn’t planned for. And I don’t want to get married just because we have a baby. That’s not a good reason to tie yourself to someone for life.”

Justin nodded, his eyes on hers but seemingly looking through her. “I understand that. I just thought that maybe…I don’t know. I knew you were hesitant, but I was ready to step up. Whatever you wanted, however you wanted to do it, I was in. Shotgun wedding or no wedding, it didn’t matter to me as long as we were in it together.”

She took a moment to think, allowing Justin to take her hand, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin. “What if the test was positive, and I decided I didn’t want to have the baby?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The movement of Justin’s thumb halted as if the oxygen in the room had been sucked away, his eyes widening with shock at her question. He couldn’t have expected this turn in the conversation. The silence grew heavier until it was almost tangible, pressing against her chest and making it difficult to breathe.

“I don’t know what I would have done,” Justin admitted after a moment, his voice barely audible. The weight of her question hung over them like a storm cloud, darkening the room. “But I would have supported you, no matter what.” His hand tightened around hers, his eyes searching hers for some semblance of understanding.

She took a deep breath, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions. It was difficult to tell if he was offering her reassurance out of genuine belief in their partnership or out of that innate instinct he had to do the right thing, say the right words to make everything okay.

“But you would’ve wanted me to keep it, wouldn’t you?” she asked sadly. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his own desires and his love for her.

“Sweetheart, I—it’s your decision. I would have liked to be a father, but I could never force you to do something you didn’t want to do,” Justin replied, his voice strained.

Her chest tightened, and she looked down at their entwined hands. The silence grew like a chasm between them, a stark contrast to the comfort their embrace had brought moments ago. She felt a tear slip down her cheek, and Justin’s thumb wiped it away before she could hide it.

“Justin,” she said, her voice trembling. “That doesn’t make me feel better. You can’t say you’d support me just to be the good guy. I don’t want you to be the good guy; I want you to be honest with me.”

Justin took a deep breath. “If you’re not ready to be a mom, then I understand. But honestly, if there’s a baby, I’d want us to go through with it. I wouldn’t want to miss out on that, even if it’s hard. And if you didn’t want to keep it, sure, that would be hard for me, but I’d still support you. I can’t lie about that.”

She felt a lump form in her throat, her eyes welling up. She didn’t know what to say to that. The reality was, she wasn’t ready for kids, and she didn’t know when she would be. The thought of losing Justin was just as terrifying as the thought of being a mother right now. But she knew she couldn’t lie to herself or him. “I’m sorry,” she managed to croak out, her voice muffled by Justin pulling her into his chest again.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” Justin whispered into her hair, holding her close. “We just need to figure this out together.” He kissed the top of her head, his grip tightening around her.

#&. justin.#justin herbert #justin herbert x reader #justin herbert x black reader #justin herbert x black!reader #justin herbert imagine #justin herbert fanfic #justin herbert fluff #justin herbert fanfiction

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astrologydray · 3 months ago

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Lot of Eros in each degree 😯😯

A juicy, mystical breakdown of how your soul-level passion, erotic magnetism, and karmic desire shows up at each specific degree. Whether you’re drawn to someone or something in an unexplainable way, the degree reveals the vibe of that attraction.

0° – The Raw Flame

Innocent but intense. A new soul cycle of erotic awakening. Your desire is primal, unfiltered, and powerful even before it’s fully understood.

1° – The Spark of Obsession

Instant attraction. You fall fast. There’s a need to act on desire immediately, often before you know why.

2° – The Soul Glancer

Drawn to subtle signs. You experience desire through body language, eyes, or intuitive hits. The vibe before the touch.

3° – The Tease

Flirtation and wordplay turn you on. You may attract people through charm, storytelling, or wit. Erotic energy in conversation.

4° – The Craver

This degree builds slow tension. You long for stability and deep emotional connection before physical union.

5° – The Performer

Magnetic, showy, and dramatic. You radiate desirability. You may be drawn to confident, playful, or “main character” types.

6° �� The Devoted

You express passion through acts of care or service. Desire is humble but profound. Can have a healing erotic aura.

7° – The Dreamer

Fantasy blends with physicality. You may fall for people you see in dreams, or become fixated on unreachable love.

8° – The Intense One

Powerful, obsessive, and karmic. Sexual desire feels like life-or-death. This is a “soul contract” degree.

9° – The Philosopher’s Flame

You seek spiritual or intellectual meaning in lust. Erotic energy comes through beliefs, ethics, or teaching moments.

10° – The Achiever

You’re drawn to status, control, or “out of reach” lovers. Desire often plays out in public or within goals.

11° – The Rebel Lover

You’re attracted to those who break rules or don’t fit the mold. Unexpected crushes, electric chemistry.

12° – The Channeler

Erotic experiences come through dreams, spiritual rituals, or altered states. You’re a vessel for divine desire.

13° – The Taboo Craver

Attraction to what’s hidden, forbidden, or off-limits. Erotic secrets and forbidden love themes show up here.

14° – The Strategist

You approach love and lust like a game of chess. Erotic energy is cool, clever, and captivating without trying.

15° – The Core Flame

This is the heart of the sign. Passion is pure, magnetic, and undeniable. You embody your desire without shame.

16° – The Mirror

You attract partners who reflect back your deepest desires and fears. Erotic connection often feels like déjà vu.

17° – The Transformer

Sex = transformation. You’re drawn to intense lovers who break you open emotionally or spiritually.

18° – The Underworld Flame

Erotic attraction lives in the shadows. Themes of pain, healing, or power. Deeply karmic and psychic.

19° – The Fated Flame

You experience desire that shifts timelines. The person who changed everything. Love that alters your path.

20° – The Builder of Bondage

You desire loyalty and structure in passion—but can become possessive. Erotic energy is deep and enduring.

21° – The Romantic Muse

Drawn to beauty, music, art, and people who feel poetic. You crave love that inspires you and sets your soul ablaze.

22° – The Wounded Obsession

This degree often brings passion through trauma, survival, or emotional tests. Love becomes a lesson in power and pain.

23° – The Oracle of Desire

You have a sixth sense for soulmates. Erotic visions, downloads, or karmic recognition moments. Lovers as messengers.

24° – The Seductress

Magnetic. You draw in desire with ease—sometimes unknowingly. May attract people who want to possess or claim you.

25° – The Elder Flame

You carry ancient longing. Love feels eternal. Often drawn to older souls, or lovers from past lifetimes.

26° – The Puppeteer

Erotic mind games. You’re skilled at reading others’ desires, and may attract complex dynamics around control or submission.

27° – The Soul Contract

Every lover has a lesson. You don’t fall in love — you fall into soul agreements. This degree holds unfinished business.

28° – The Volcano

Passion builds beneath the surface, then explodes. Deep craving. Can involve betrayal, testing, or fate vs. free will.

29° – The Anaretic Lover (Final Flame)

The most karmic, intense, and climactic degree. You’re here to master desire in this lifetime. Love lessons may be hard, final, or unforgettable.

#astro notes #astrology #birth chart #astro observations #astro community #astrology observations #astrology community #astrology degrees #astro #astroblr #astro obvs #astrologyposts #astrology content #astrology insights

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vellihor · 25 days ago

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unspoken. chapter 4.

cw: sylus x non-mc reader, idiots in love, mute (for the first 3 chapters) reader, knives, blood, violence, gore, trauma, angst, fluff, reader is painfully oblivious! (in the beginning at least), SLOW BURN, intentional lowercase, inspiration from og LADS lore but may contain altered versions :), abuse of emdash

word count -> 4087

italics mean reader’s thoughts

italics in purple mean reader's shadow evol

bold italics are sound effects

quotes are for phone texts or audio

“normal text in quotes are speech”

“italicised text in quotes are signed speech”

author's note: i had severe writer's block... i wasn't sure how it should play out so i had like seven drafts. anyways, i hope you enjoy this! i also have no idea when the next chapter is dropping... school work has been taking the life out of me...

< previous chapter next chapter >

“YOU LET HER DIE. YOU’RE A MONSTER!” miss hunter screeches, fists pounding against sylus’ chest like she could somehow knock sense—or guilt—into him.

“why… did you even… choose me…” her voice cracking as she slumps onto the ground, sobs raking through her.

rooted on the spot, sylus couldn’t find the words to explain himself. guilt wrapping itself around his neck like a collar.

“she even told me to trust you, showed me these… these memories. fuck, i should have known she was going to do something stupid like this-” miss hunter rambles through her sobs.

sylus blinks.

“wait, memories?” sylus voice sharpening as he snapped his head to look at her. “what memories?”

miss hunter stared up at sylus, eyes rimmed red and glistening. “…you don’t know?”

“know what?” he growls, low and dangerous. irritation curling in his gut—not at her, himself—festering into something else.

anger. no, it was self-loathing.

luke finally speaks, still leaning against the wall. “missus was kidnapped. about two weeks before she got kidnapped again.” his tone tired, no judgement, only the truth.

“she was going to tell you but you were… busy.” kieran mutters, arms folded across his chest, glaring—actually glaring at sylus.

sylus flinches just slightly.

his birthday. why she looked so disappointed when he said he was going to spend the day with miss hunter. how she handed him his gift silently.

a deep ache begins to bloom in his chest and cleaved a chasm right where his heart was.

luke turns first, slipping out of the room in silence.

kieran follows without a word, but his expression says enough.

miss hunter gets to her feet, shaky but firm enough to yank her jacket from the back of a chair. she stops by the door, looking back once. the look isn’t anger anymore, it’s disappointment.

“you meant a lot to her, you know. you didn’t even try”

she leaves. the door slams.

and sylus is left in the empty room, drowning in the deafening silence—and everything he couldn’t say to you when he had the chance.

the base is dead quiet. rain still ticks against the windows like it’s keeping time.

sylus stands in his office, his hands are shaking before he realizes it.

the small box sits in his desk’s top drawer. untouched since the day you gave it to him. he remembers you handing it over with that tired smile—the one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

"be safe." your handwriting scrawled on the sticky note.

he thought it was just a trinket. a charm, maybe. he thought—

he thought he had time.

with slow shaky fingers, he lifts the lid.

inside is a small thumb drive. a note folded once, carefully.

“didn’t know what to get you, so I gave you something no one else has.”

“don’t laugh.”

he slots the drive into the laptop.

static hums. then—

"hi… sylus."

your voice stabs him like a blade. your voice was warm. soft. unsteady like you weren’t sure how to do this.

"if you’re hearing this… then i guess i did work up the nerve to actually give it to you." "congratulations, you're now the owner of the very first and very last voice recording i will ever make. you better feel special."

he lets out a strangled breath that sounds like a laugh. or maybe a sob.

"i know, i know, you’ve probably got about a hundred better gifts by now. i just… wanted you to hear me. in case…" (you pause) "in case i chicken out on actually telling you in person. the twins are practically hounding me to tell you."

he clenches his jaw. his throat burns.

"anyways. happy birthday, dumbass. i don’t actually know how old you are." "you're reckless and way too moody to be taken seriously. at least by me. but…" "…you matter to me. and i hope that you know that whatever happens, i’ve got your back."

the recording crackles.

"…oh boy, might need to record that again."

and then it ends.

just like that.

silence again—louder than before.

sylus slumps onto the chair, knees suddenly too heavy.

he covers his face with one hand and breathes in ragged breaths.

she gave him her voice. a goodbye he never knew he was getting.

he hated himself.

the ocean had buried you, but death refused to claim you.

a machine's claw dragged you from the seabed—limp, broken, leaking red into the deep. it wasn’t mercy that found you. it was design. cold. calculated.

they fished a body out of the wreckage under heavy security protocols — not because they feared you’d lash out, but because what they’d recovered was precious. a corpse that shouldn’t be breathing, with blood still leeching into the saline tank they had submerged you in. your vitals were a flickering pulse, barely there — yet enough.

thump. thump. thump.

your heartbeat. slow and steady.

"thought you died. most people would’ve. but you… you’re something else.” you flinch at the voice. familiar but not welcome. you realise your arms and legs are strapped to a metal table. you groan, eyes blinking hard as they try to focus under the bright blinding lights. a figure stands beside you, holding a clipboard, wearing a crooked grin.

oliver.

“you died, technically. heart stopped. but that lovely little serum in your blood? brought you back. sort of like a reset button. what a pretty sight.”

a pause.

“welcome back, my little miracle.” he walks away, whistling.

sick fuck.

agreed.

how am i busting out of this?

girl you barely have any strength now. they hit you with evol supressors.

what are you even?

silence.

you sigh and let your head hit the cold table.

a beat after oliver leaves, a mirror-like surface on the wall lights up. static fades as a surveillance feed shows miss hunter, back at the base, yelling at sylus. furious. devastated. tears streaming down her cheeks. luke leaning against the wall, nursing a fractured rib. kieran seated at the couch, with his head in his hands.

the purple tendrils flicker faintly on your wrist.

they think you’re dead. let them.

they began with integrating evols into your body, wanting to know the limit. they called it the "convergence protocol". each injection introduced a new ability — but your body resisted. veins ruptured, bones cracked. fever dreams took hold, and screams bounced endlessly off sterile walls.

they called you subject umbra. the experiments started subtly — no metal, no chrome. they weren’t interested in turning you into a machine. they wanted something worse. they wanted to rewrite the very language of your body.

it started small: enhanced neurocapacity. sensory acceleration, thalarokinesis. then — shadow manipulation. a little on the nose for the name subject umbra but you suppose scientists love gassing themselves up like that anyways.

each time they pushed, you cracked a little more inside. they kept you under for days at a time — intravenously feeding you with tranquilizers. when you woke, it was always in another cell. another test. another trial. another neuro-conditioning script. sometimes you would hear someone screaming in the cell across from yours, only to realize the voice belonged to you — from a different time, playing back on loop.

they stripped your name. gave you some bullshit number.

they told you he chose someone else.

you already knew that.

doesn’t make it hurt any less.

they told you no one was coming.

that you were now a tool — a weapon.

and worst of all — they nearly made you believe it.

but something held. strange.

a memory bleeds in, uninvited. kieran tossing popcorn into luke’s mouth across the rec room. sylus, silent in the corner, watching with that impossible softness in his gaze. you laughed then. a real laugh. something cracks inside you at the memory.

the memory of warm voices — laughter. a metal bird. the ache in your ribs when someone laughed too hard beside you. a name, not theirs — yours. not a weapon. not yet.

you stopped resisting when they came. let them feed you evols. let them think they had broken you.

and then, one night, you tore through the compound like a storm made flesh.

rain hell.

gladly.

the facility's lights flickered, died. guards dropped without warning, shadows ripping them apart before bullets left their guns. cameras blinked and then exploded. screams echoed across the labs as systems overloaded.

you were no longer their project.

reaching the core — the central server where your files were stored, where the footage of every test, every mind game, every scar lived. a flick of your hand destroyed all of it with no hesitation.

and when the facility collapsed in a rain of fire and screaming steel, no one saw you walk out of the smoke.

you were something they could never control.

good riddance.

the desert was quiet.

the facility had collapsed behind you, now nothing more than a blackened scar in the earth. smoke clawed up toward a moonless sky. the fire was still raging in places, sending embers into the night air like fireflies born of hell. but you didn’t look back.

your bare feet touched cracked stone, then sand. hospital garb torn, scorched — more blood than fabric — but you didn’t feel the cold. didn’t feel much of anything.

the night wind carried unfamiliar scents. dust. decay.

freedom.

the walk stretched for miles without knowing it, without pausing, until the desert gave way to road. distant headlights approached — a truck, maybe military. you raised your hand. not in greeting, not in surrender. just raised it. the truck flipped sideways mid-drive as if reality had bent beneath your fingers. the driver screamed. you didn’t hear him land.

you scavenged clothes. a cloak. gloves. boots. your reflection in the truck’s mirror was a stranger — gaunt, pale, with eyes that glowed faintly gold where they were brown once. irises pulsed with residual power like molten threads running under skin. pulling the cloak over your head, you headed off from the wreck.

you moved from town to town like a ghost. staying only long enough to eat, sleep, read the world again. the news whispered of a destroyed blacksite. no suspects. no survivors. the footage was gone, but rumors circulated — rumors of a test subject who refused to stay dead.

the underworld heard it first. someone had clawed their way out of something unspeakable, and she was looking for names. you were tracing back threads. not to go home — but to understand. what was done. who ordered it. who knew. and who let it happen.

sometimes, in the quiet hours between cities, when the adrenaline wore off and your evols took a beat, dreams would find you.

of metal wings fluttering against your shoulder, cool metal nuzzling your cheek.

of warm coffee in a cold base.

of a voice calling your name — not your designation. not your call sign. your name.

and you would wake up with hands shaking and heart screaming silently inside your ribs, and remember that you once belonged somewhere. with them.

but not yet. not until you could stand in front of them and say: this is what you let happen to me.

you were back.

but you weren’t home.

you didn’t even know if you had a home anymore.

you moved like smoke through these broken places. you didn’t beg for allies. you earned them. in the underground rings of evol trafficking, you found the discarded, the broken, the experimented-on. those like you. you didn’t need to tell them what was done to you. they could see it in your gaze. you became something between myth and leader. the one who got out. the one who lived. the one who fought back.

you became the phantom. the monster they couldn’t kill.

your army began with six.

nieve. the architect behind your tech, weapons, and infrastructure. from autonomous drones to battlefield implants. nieve was once one of the brightest minds of linkon — a prodigy responsible for designing half the drones that now patrol their skies. her downfall came when she hacked into the hunters’ association and accessed top-level clearance documents detailing the truth behind no-hunt zones—classified areas where the government sanctioned hidden atrocities under the guise of safety.

calyx. your fierce lieutenant, who was captured during her tour in the eastern front. experimented on by scientists with similar ambitions to your captors. when you met her, it was like staring down a mirror, only for your reflection to stare back at you. you didn’t need to earn her loyalty, it was forged in mutual understanding.

thorne. a former decorated general of the northern coalition, he had everything—a seat at the table, fleets under his command, and enough medals to drown in. then he saw the casualty reports. child soldiers. teenagers used as bait. disposable lives for political gain. he walked off the battlefield and defected that night. they branded him a traitor. you didn’t promise him peace. you promised him clarity. a war without lies.

reyna. venomous, magnetic and impossible to predict, reyna has been on every wanted list from the inner cities to the outer towns. a master manipulator, she’s survived betrayal, backstabbing and more near-death escapes than she cares to count. no one knows what made her stay. maybe it was the way you didn’t flinch when she threatened you. or maybe it was because, in a world full of liars and warlords, you were the first person she couldn’t manipulate—and the only one who didn’t try to control her.

niko. in another life, niko was a top-tier doctor at one of the most prestigious bio-medical research institutions. that was before the war. before he lost his daughter—killed in a crossfire incident by soldiers chasing after a child. you found him in a bombed-out clinic, patching up civilians with duct tape and stolen supplies. he didn’t ask who you were, just started working on you like he had been waiting. he is the only reason your evols haven’t torn you apart from the inside. the scars, the symptoms, the surges of power. he knows they are coming before you do. every time he patches you up, there is a faint flicker in his eyes—not pity, but pain. because you remind him of her. the fire. the stubborn will. the refusal to die.

quinn. once a political firebrand in the city built on bureaucracy and control. he led a coup to overthrow their lawmakers, and failed. he was publicly stripped of his title and exiled. they thought it would silence him. it only made him louder. you found him speaking in back alleys, stirring riots with nothing but a whisper and a grin. you gave him a platform, and in return he built you a network. he sees the cracks in the web of lies that they have weaved and helps you shatter them.

from city slums to high-rise deals, your influence spread like ink in water. you never appeared in the same place twice. rumors whispered of a woman shrouded in black, face obscured, voice calm, eyes empty.

they called you the phantom queen. you never corrected them.

starting small, you toppled micro-tyrants. you stole technology from the companies who funded the facility that made you. you intercepted shipments meant for the lowlifes, bleeding their resources without them ever knowing it was you behind the curtain. you made sure to bring them to their knees, begging for mercy from you.

when mercenaries or agents came too close, when someone got too confident about catching a ghost, they vanished. burned files. corrupted drones. silent bodies.

you weren’t hiding anymore.

you were building.

a throne of ash. a kingdom of misfits. a cause built on vengeance, justice, and freedom. not freedom handed to you, but the kind you take with blood-stained hands.

you didn’t want to rule.

but when the world decided to shape you into a weapon, you learned to point the blade where you chose.

and now, they would all pay the price.

SIX MONTHS LATER.

the rain was a soft whisper against the windows of the onychinus briefing room, a quiet counterpoint to the chaos flickering across the screen. kieran sat hunched in front of the console, blue light carving out the hard lines of his face, while luke loomed behind him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed on the collapsing patterns forming on the screen.

“third hit this week,” kieran muttered, dragging the cursor across scorched map sectors. “all high-priority targets. gone before we could even blink.”

“no survivors,” luke said, eyes scanning the metadata. “no signs of struggle. no footprints. just… different evol signatures everytime. definitely not working alone.”

kieran brought up a map—red dots blinked one by one across the city’s most corrupt sectors. drug dens. black market nodes. off-grid trading routes. the dots just vanished.

“people are calling it ‘cleansing,’” kieran said, voice tight. “word on the street is they were executed by something called phantom.” his face drew up in a skeptical look, glancing at luke.

luke leaned forward, eyes catching a flicker in one of the glitched frames of a surveillance camera footage. a silhouette—barely visible—moving with surgical precision. shrouded in dark mist.

“not something,” luke murmured. “someone.”

“wait. i recognize that from somewhere.” kieran paused the footage. it was only a shadow figure wielding knives in both hands. rewinding the clip, kieran’s eyes darted along with the figure.

“holy shit-” luke gasped, hands covering his mouth.

both of them stared at the screen before looking at each other.

they stormed into sylus’s office fifteen minutes later, soaked in urgency and cold determination. sylus was at his desk, a datapad in hand.

“boss, you’re going to want to see this.”

“if this is another one of your-” he began.

kieran dropped the tablet onto the desk.

“it’s not.”

sylus’s eyes flicked up. the tablet glowed with a still frame from the street surveillance—a blur of fire, steel, and a shadowy figure.

“really? you boys believe in ghost stories now?”

kieran huffed a breath of frustration before playing the footage. the three men soak in the figure’s movements and posture, how they wielded the double knives. quiet realization sinks into sylus. there was no one else that could move like that, especially wielding two knives.

luke stepped forward. “its the only footage that we have, that is connected to the quickly disappearing targets.”

“we thought it was scattered—random factions eating each other alive. but she’s wiping out the whole food chain. from suppliers to smugglers to engineers. we have no idea how they are connected. they’re calling her the phantom… uh- phantom queen, i think.” kieran added.

“boss, it’s her. it’s missus.” hopefulness peeking through luke’s voice.

sylus sinks deeper into his armchair. mind going a million miles a minute.

the silence was so unnatural. kieran furrowed his eyebrows. shouldn’t boss be happy about this?

until a creepy and eerie thought crossed his mind.

“boss… did… did you know she was alive?” kieran muttered, unsure but aware of the accusation he is tossing out.

sylus clenches his jaw, not meeting the twins’ gazes. they took it as a confirmation.

“when did you find out? why didn’t you tell us? fuck- why didn’t you look for her?” luke burst out indignantly.

“you think i haven’t tried? she obviously refuses to be found.” tossing the datapad in his hand onto the table, the twins saw a myriad of red dots on the map. littered with marks — places sylus have tried looking for you.

“so what now?” kieran says, glancing up from the datapad.

when they are met with silence, they retreat from the office. letting sylus sit in the choking silence that he has gotten all too used to.

outside the office, the twins have already begun moving to the hangar. “if he doesn’t want to face it, i’m not sitting around waiting for him.” luke looks to his brother. kieran’s jaw was tight, eyes flicking to the rain-slicked tarmac beyond the hangar. he didn’t argue. just nodded once, sharply. “i rather be out there, looking for her. now that we know she’s still alive.”

they moved quickly — practiced, silent. years of working together made planning almost unnecessary. the car was prepped in fifteen minutes. their movements had a certain violence to them — as if guilt was driving every step.

weeks pass with no results from the twins’ search. sylus was at an auction, looking for the aether core that has eluded him for the better part of the month. when the auctioneer tells him that another buyer had bought it out from him just moments ago, sylus flies into a rage and tosses the auctioneer against the wall, pressing him for more information.

“luke, kieran. it seems like there’s another force at play. i’m sending you the coordinates. i’ll meet you there.“ sylus talking into his phone as he steps out into the hallway.

the woods are unnervingly quiet. the cabin sits on the face of the mountain, inconspicuous amongst tall trees.

luke and kieran approach slowly, weapons drawn and ready. sylus had given them the coordinates that led them here.

luke narrows his eyes. “there’s movement inside.”

you sit calmly at the small dining table, legs crossed, one hand around a ceramic cup. steam curls from the tea. across the wooden floor, a man’s body lies sprawled, blood seeping from a clean slice wound to the neck.

you exhale slowly as you sense figures approaching the cabin.

the door gets kicked inwards and falls off of its hinges.

BANG.

the twins rush in, guns raised—only to freeze at the sight of you.

you don’t move. you simply raise an eyebrow.

“oh, come on.” you set the teacup down with a clink. “it’s not even my cabin.”

stunned silence.

the twins just stare. like they’ve seen a ghost.

“miss me, boys?” you grin, then take a long, unbothered sip.

“really? nothing?”

suddenly, the comms crackle on luke’s vest, sylus’ voice rings throughout the room.

“status?”

neither twin responds. they’re still too busy trying to decide what to do when you were right in front of them.

you hear sylus curse faintly over the comms. you knew he was always nearby in case things went sideways. if he was close before, he was sprinting now.

the doorframe groans. boots skid against the floorboards.

sylus appears in the doorway—panting, wide-eyed as he takes in the sight of you.

you stare back, unflinching.

when the room remains silent, still reeling from your appearance, you sigh.

“okay. that’s enough staring.” you pick up the briefcase by your side and shove it across the table. it skids to a halt right within sylus’ reach.

“there. take it.”

sylus approaches, hesitant like the briefcase might explode. i would deserve it, he thinks. he opens it— and sees the aether core pulsing softly within.

his brows furrow. “…how did you know?”

you shrug, leaning back. “i have my sources.”

a beat passes.

“you have what you want. now please—stop looking for me.”

the silence that follows is sharp.

then sylus snaps.

“that’s it? you’ve been gone for six months! we thought you were dead! and now you’re just—sitting here drinking tea-”

“weird.” you cut in smoothly. “you made the choice. so why are you the one yelling when i’m the one who should be yelling at you instead?”

you stand, slow and measured. your cold gaze pins sylus in place.

“keep telling yourself you didn’t leave me to die. that my blood isn’t on your hands.” you turn, walking towards the backdoor.

your hand brushes against the knob before it locks solid, unmoving. red mist coils over the metal.

you pause.

“huh… thought miss hunter left you.” your smirk sharp enough to cut. “is the aether core part of your pitch to win her back?”

wow. the petty is winning, i guess.

shut up.

you notice how the twins share a confused look. you tilt your head mockingly.

“oh. oops.” your tone cruelly sweet. “you didn’t tell the twins? i’d say i’m sorry, but…”

“i’m really not.”

the doorknob shatters under sylus’ evol. the mist dissipates.

your smirk falters. your gaze turning stone cold.

“before you try ordering me around again—newsflash, i don’t take orders from you anymore.”

your form flickers. shadows gather around your feet, shrouding you in darkness before it all melts away to nothing.

you’re gone. again.

< previous chapter next chapter >

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eeriepromis · 4 months ago

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Hogwarts House Sorting: LaDs Edition (and why Caleb isn't who you think he is)

Remember: Hogwarts houses aren’t restrictive boxes. Each person, real or fictional, carries traits from all houses. What determines sorting is not only personality but core values and priorities. This analysis takes into account that nice Slytherins and gentle Gryffindors exist, breaking stereotypes to portray a nuanced, realistic perspective. Let me know your thoughts and your own house headcanons!

Xavier – Primary: Gryffindor | Secondary: Slytherin

Though Xavier outwardly appears gentle and calm, his behavior aligns with core Gryffindor traits: courage, impulsivity, and rebelliousness against injustice. He's not merely courageous out of circumstance; he actively seeks out risks. His creation of the flashy alter-ego "Lumiere" showcases his bravery - and perhaps recklessness - perfectly embodying Gryffindor's inclination toward flashy acts of heroism. His decision to rebel against his royal lineage in Philos, openly defying his father the king who sacrificed innocent lives, further emphasizes his alignment with Gryffindor values - specifically, moral courage. Xavier willingly sacrifices personal safety and stability to fight for what's right and travels back in time, reflecting true Gryffindor spirit. Reasoning for secondary Slytherin: He is sneaky and a little manipulative at times and fully knows what effect his innocent looks have - and uses that to his advantage. You notice this especially during Fluffy Trap. Somehow he is always a few steps ahead of MC and tricks her!

Positive: Courageous, protective, strong moral compass, heroic.

Negative: Reckless, impulsive, stubborn, often acts without foresight.

Zayne – Primary: Ravenclaw | Secondary: Hufflepuff

Zayne's core value truly lies in his relentless pursuit of knowledge and understanding. Importantly, intelligence alone doesn't warrant a Ravenclaw placement - it's the priority given to knowledge and wisdom that defines them. Zayne consistently demonstrates that acquiring knowledge - medical or metaphysical - isn't merely practical for him; it's essential to who he is and what he wants to accomplish (saving MC's life). As the Foreseer and Master of Fate, Zayne’s life revolves around carefully acquired knowledge to make decisions of enormous consequence. His choices are rarely guided by impulse or emotion alone, but always supported by intellectual clarity. His calm, methodical approach underscores his Ravenclaw essence. Reasoning for secondary Hufflepuff: Beneath his logical, stoic exterior, Zayne consistently demonstrates deep-rooted loyalty, compassion, and genuine care. His medical profession and the tireless effort he invests to protect and heal highlight his sincere dedication to the well-being of others. His actions are not driven by glory or recognition, but by quiet, steadfast commitment and genuine empathy.

Positive: Wise, analytical, thoughtful, innovative, responsible.

Negative: Detached emotionally, overly analytical, may appear cold or indifferent.

Rafayel – Primary: Slytherin | Secondary: Ravenclaw

Rafayel strongly aligns with the house of Slytherin through his complex motivations, secrecy, and charm. His playful exterior masks carefully concealed ambitions and plans. His network within the N109 zone and hidden dealings demonstrate his adeptness at navigating complex social dynamics - classic Slytherin traits of cunning and adaptability. His artistic temperament and charisma further illustrate how Slytherins can embody traits often associated with other houses, like creativity and charm, while still prioritizing ambition, resourcefulness, and strategy as their core values. Rafayel exemplifies that Slytherins can have good hearts but choose to show vulnerability selectively, preserving an enigmatic persona. He keeps his cards very close and even MC gets to see them very rarely. Reasoning for secondary Ravenclaw: He’s deeply artistic, driven by a curiosity for truth, meaning, and beauty. These qualities align well with Ravenclaw’s love for learning, creativity, and understanding deeper meanings. His exploration of art as a means to expose societal corruption and his intellectual depth behind each masterpiece clearly display Ravenclaw traits.

Positive: Charismatic, strategic, resourceful, artistic, adaptable.

Negative: Secretive, occasionally manipulative, holds grudges, guarded emotionally.

Sylus – Primary: Slytherin | Secondary: Hufflepuff

Sylus is the epitome of modern, multifaceted Slytherins. Ambition and cunning don’t inherently equate to villainy; Sylus demonstrates Slytherin's core traits positively and negatively. He is deeply ambitious and maintains strategic long-term thinking, always planning steps ahead. His network of connections, meticulous strategies, and hidden plans further highlight his resourcefulness and adaptability - key Slytherin virtues. Yet Sylus also showcases a softer, family-oriented side, demonstrating that Slytherins deeply value loyalty and closeness, particularly within tight-knit circles. He’s fiercely protective of those he genuinely cares for, and despite his outward harshness, this selective loyalty underscores a balanced, nuanced Slytherin personality. Reasoning for secondary Hufflepuff: I can't really tell you why - it's just a feeling. I don't have a lot of his cards, but I did watch some of them on YT. You can tell me in the comments what you think. (this applies to the other LIs too)

Positive: Ambitious, resourceful, strategic, family-oriented, selectively loyal.

Negative: Manipulative, secretive, mistrustful, sometimes morally ambiguous.

Caleb – Primary: Hufflepuff | Secondary: Ravenclaw

Caleb embodies the genuine warmth and humble spirit often overlooked when discussing Hufflepuffs. While traditionally bravery is a Gryffindor trait, Caleb’s bravery is more circumstantial than inherent; life forced him into courageous roles rather than him seeking them out. His core identity is rooted deeply in kindness, gentleness, loyalty, and humility - all quintessential Hufflepuff values. Caleb’s universal kindness, even to those he's not romantically interested in, emphasizes his innate empathy and respect for others. He's beloved by peers not because he's overtly charismatic, but because he's genuinely thoughtful and attentive. He cooks and enjoys food - not for validation or prestige - but for the simple joy of it and to see his loved ones enjoy it, deeply resonating with Hufflepuff’s comfort-oriented nature. His protective behavior towards the MC arises not from a desire to be a hero, but from trauma-induced loyalty and deep-seated love. This fierce loyalty, shaped by childhood trauma, is the hallmark of a Hufflepuff pushed beyond comfort into challenging circumstances. It’s precisely this loyalty and quiet strength that makes Caleb a true Hufflepuff, not Gryffindor. (He is basically Cedric Diggory - just more alive ... barely.) Reasoning for secondary Ravenclaw: He shows great intellectual capacity, strategic thinking, and analytical clarity. He adapts to complicated situations (this is an understatement) using intellect, precision, and careful planning. Caleb attempts to find logical ways to cope and protect even in traumatic circumstances. His genuine curiosity, analytical problem-solving, and sharp observational skills reflect Ravenclaw characteristics beneath his Hufflepuff core.

Positive: Loyal, empathetic, humble, compassionate, steadfast., kind.

Negative: Overly self-sacrificing, can be obsessive, passive-aggressive under stress.

Read about why he isn't a Slytherin further below.

MC – Primary: Gryffindor | Secondary: ???

MC’s Gryffindor traits are unmistakable. At her core, bravery, competition, and the desire for truth and justice guide her actions. She doesn't simply endure challenges; she actively seeks them out, recklessly engaging in dangerous missions and confrontations. Her grief-induced impulsivity and rebelliousness also fit Gryffindor perfectly, as she channels loss and trauma into daring missions without a thorough plan. However, this recklessness is balanced by genuine bravery and a powerful drive to protect and avenge those she loves. Her pursuit of justice - even when dangerous or irrational - is a defining characteristic, making her a Gryffindor through and through.

Positive: Courageous, determined, loyal, passionate about justice.

Negative: Impulsive, stubborn, reckless, tends to leap before looking.

But Caleb is definitely a Slytherin you say?

It makes sense why people would place Caleb into Slytherin based on his Colonel arc. But personally, I see Caleb's "cunning" and manipulation not as inherent character values, but as coping mechanisms shaped by trauma and survival instinct. It's important to distinguish between a person's true core values and the traits they've been forced to develop under extreme circumstances. Caleb’s story is one of deep emotional trauma - losing loved ones, being subjected to invasive experiments, and being manipulated into a position he never truly wanted. He didn’t choose cunning or ambition willingly; rather, those became survival tools in response to severe situations he faced. (it's more like his Ravenclaw side coming to the forefront to help him survive) In his youth, Caleb was naturally kind, humble, and nurturing - classic Hufflepuff traits. He didn't seek power, nor did he find joy in manipulation or secrecy. The Colonel storyline showcases a deeply hurt and scarred person fighting for the little control left in his life, driven primarily by loyalty and protectiveness toward MC. His methods might resemble those traditionally associated with Slytherin, but his motivations remain firmly rooted in loyalty, compassion, and the desire for a peaceful, simple life. Additionally, Hufflepuffs aren't devoid of complexity - they can exhibit cunning, resourcefulness, and determination when their loved ones are threatened. These traits aren't exclusive to Slytherins; what differentiates the houses is the underlying core value. For Caleb, cunning isn't an inherent value; it's a tragic necessity. At his core, he's guided by warmth, empathy, and loyalty - the values of a true Hufflepuff pushed into a darker, harsher reality. So, while Caleb absolutely shows "cunning" and resourcefulness, these traits alone don't define him. They're reactions, not values. At heart, Caleb is still that caring, emotionally intelligent Hufflepuff trying desperately to protect the person he loves most, even if he must walk a morally gray path to do so. Caleb is such a deeply nuanced character. He isn’t embracing cunning because it aligns with his heart - he’s forced into it by circumstances beyond his control. Caleb is essentially walking a tightrope, pretending to be the cold, calculating Colonel that EVER expects him to be (the perfect weapon), precisely because that's the only way he can maintain some small degree of freedom and protect himself (and MC) from their control. The Toring Chip isn't just a physical implant - it's symbolic of the trauma and manipulation he's endured (and is still enduring). Caleb's actions and outward persona reflect not his true nature, but his desperate fight to keep that nature intact beneath the surface. His core Hufflepuff kindness and empathy never disappear; they're hidden behind the mask he must wear to survive. It's a heartbreaking struggle between his authentic self and the identity EVER wants to impose upon him. That’s precisely why calling Caleb a cunning Slytherin overlooks the heart of his character - he isn't ambitious or manipulative by choice, nor does he derive satisfaction or pride from it. He's a victim of cunning, not its master.

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hellinistical · 5 months ago

Text

Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. this list may expand and/or be altered.

trigger warnings: (for this chapter): afab. reader. fem. reader. body horror. vomit. descriptive ruin of flesh. trauma exploitation. careless discard of a body. blood. death of minor character. implied death of a child. maiming. pet names. manipulation. emotional manipulation. suffocation. descriptions of flesh and membranes. breaking of a neck. misuse of religious beliefs. the start of an obsession.

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated.

word count: 7.5k

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III. La Sorella

"When the rooms were warm, he'd call,"

Gods above, you had smelled divine.

Rafayel leaned back in his chair, fingers brushing over his lips as he exhaled through his nose, tasting the memory of it. It had been subtle, carried by the warmth of your skin, woven into the fibers of your habit. He imagined the way it must cling to you, pressed into the nape of your neck, tucked behind your ears, threaded through your hair.

How unfair, he thought, tongue running over the tips of his fangs. He had spent centuries with the scent of blood, of damp stone and dying prayers, yet here you were—brimming with life, untouched by decay, and smelling of something so achingly pure that it made his jaw tighten.

Rafayel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. It was just a scent. A passing thing. Nothing more.

And yet, deep in the marrow of his bones, he already knew that was a lie.

How unfair. How cruel, really, for something so fleeting to leave such an imprint.

The moment you stepped into his office, the scent had wrapped around him like a whisper of something forbidden, something intoxicating. It was warm, faintly sweet—like honey drizzled over ripe peaches left to bask in the summer sun. Beneath that, something softer, cleaner, the lingering trace of soap and the crisp linen of your habit, worn and washed a hundred times over. But it wasn’t just that. No, there was something alive in your scent, something human, something red.

It clung to the air even after you had gone, weaving itself into the wood grain of his desk, settling in the old stone walls like an invitation he hadn't asked for. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as if trying to taste the ghost of you that still lingered.

You had stood so close. So unaware.

He closed his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as he exhaled slowly. There was something sinful about the way you smelled—like warmth on a cold night, like blood rushing just beneath delicate skin, like something he wanted.

Regardless, he'd have plenty of time to be close tomorrow.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for his scripture, the old leather cover worn smooth beneath his fingertips. He licked his thumb, the taste of parchment and dust lingering on his tongue as he flipped through the fragile pages, scanning the familiar words. Verses of devotion, of faith, of divine wrath and holy retribution. The very foundation of Astra’s will.

But his mind was elsewhere.

Tomorrow, he would walk beside you, close enough to catch the warmth of your breath in the winter air. Close enough to see the way your pulse fluttered at the base of your throat. Close enough to watch the light shift in your eyes when you smiled at the villagers. Would you smile at him, too? Would you laugh, let your voice rise like a bell in the quiet streets of Linkon?

His fingers stilled on the page.

“And on the third day,” Father Rafayel intoned, his voice steady, measured, almost instructional, “The Vampires set off to find brides of their own,”

He moved slowly through the pews, the hem of his robes whispering against the stone floor as he passed. His hands were clasped neatly behind his back, fingers idly tracing the spine of his scripture. The flickering candlelight carved sharp planes into his face, but his expression was calm, thoughtful—he was not simply preaching, but teaching.

“To this, Astra spoke: ‘Man shall know no fear but of me, for I am ever the protector.’” He paused, letting the words settle in the air before continuing. “And so, in His divine wisdom, Astra cast the Vampire into eternal cold. For if the Vampire were to know warmth, would they not still refuse to repent?”

He turned slightly, addressing the room as a whole. “What is warmth, my flock?” His voice was softer now, almost coaxing. “Is it merely the sun on our backs, the fire in our hearths? Or is it the love we hold for one another, the kindness we offer, the devotion we show to Astra?”

A murmur of agreement spread through the congregation, heads nodding, some lips moving in whispered prayer.

Rafayel smiled faintly, satisfied, and resumed his slow pace down the aisle.

“To be cast into coldness,” he continued, “is not merely a punishment of the flesh, but of the spirit. The Vampire are forever condemned to hunger, to crave what they cannot have. They are forever seeking, but never satisfied.” He stopped near the front, tilting his head slightly. “And so, my dear postulants, what lesson do we take from this?”

Silence hung in the air as the room awaited his answer.

“That to seek what is not given to us by Astra is to invite suffering.” His gaze swept over the congregation, his voice unwavering. “That desire unchecked is a cage of our own making.”

He exhaled softly, letting his words settle before offering a small, composed smile.

You raise your hand, clearing your throat. "If desire unchecked is a cage, then why is it not when it is checked? Wouldn't a cage be limiting you instead?"

A flicker of amusement passed through Father Rafayel’s eyes as he turned to you, his expression unreadable yet attentive. He tilted his head slightly, considering your words with the patience of a scholar indulging an inquisitive student.

“A thoughtful question,” he mused, stepping closer. “Desire itself is not inherently evil, nor is it a cage by nature. But tell me,” his gaze locked onto yours, “when man desires something beyond his reach, something that is not his to take, does it not consume him?”

He paused, letting the room linger in the weight of his words.

“A cage is not merely bars and locks—it is the torment of longing unfulfilled. It is the hunger of the Vampire, forever seeking what has been denied to them.” His voice was even, yet there was something beneath it, something deeper. “Unchecked, desire festers, twists, becomes something monstrous. But when it is tempered—when it is acknowledged, understood, and held within the boundaries Astra has given us—it ceases to be a prison.”

He stepped back slightly, offering the faintest ghost of a smile. “Tell me, postulant, do you feel caged?”

"I do not. But...I also dont see why there are so many restrictions on the Vampire. What did they do? If we have power to limit them ourselves, why would Astra not just eradicate them?"

A silence settled over the room, thick and heavy. The other postulants shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between you and Father Rafayel. Even Simone, usually bold, looked at you as though you had just spoken something forbidden.

Father Rafayel, however, did not react with outrage or condemnation. If anything, there was a glint in his blue-and-pink eyes—something sharp, something intrigued. He regarded you for a long moment.

Instead, he laughed.

Low and quiet at first, but with a growing amusement that unsettled those around you. He shook his head, exhaling through his nose as if he had just been presented with the most fascinating puzzle.

“A fair question,” he said, and just like that, the room exhaled. His tone held no scorn, no reprimand—only consideration. “You ask why Astra did not simply eradicate the Vampire, rather than shackle them with restriction?” He clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace through the pews, as though contemplating aloud.

“Consider this: why does Astra allow the wicked to walk among the righteous? Why does He not strike down every thief, every liar, every sinner the moment they transgress?” He paused, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Because even the condemned have a role to play in this world. Their suffering, their struggle—it is a lesson, a warning, and a test of our own devotion.”

He stopped pacing, turning to face you fully. “The Vampire were not always as they are now. Long ago, they were men—until they defied Astra’s will, hungered for that which was forbidden, and sought to claim it. Their punishment was not to be erased from existence, but to endure. To be stripped of warmth, of sustenance, of life as they once knew it.”

"But Father, why are we so focused on the Vampire anyways as of late?" Simone asked, a puzzled expression on her face.

“A perceptive question, Sister Simone,” Father Rafayel murmured, settling into his chair with a composed ease. He adjusted his glasses, the flickering candlelight catching in the lenses, making his irises gleam.

He flipped through the scripture deliberately, the rustling of parchment the only sound in the heavy silence. When he found the passage he sought, he tapped a finger against the page, though he did not read aloud. Instead, he looked up at you both.

“The Vampires have always been a topic of importance in theological study,” he began smoothly. “They represent the boundary between man and monster. The consequence of unchecked desire. It is not merely about them, but about us—what we allow to fester in our hearts, what we fail to restrain.”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze drifting over the assembled postulants. “And yet, it is true—recently, the discussions of the Vampire have grown more… pressing.”

His fingers drummed lightly against the arm of his chair. “You’ve heard of the murders in Linkon, haven’t you?” His voice was calm, but something about it made the room feel colder.

A few of the younger postulants shivered. Simone nodded, hesitantly. “Yes, Father. But surely, it can’t be—”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Can’t be? I wonder, Sister Simone, how many bodies must pile before we stop dismissing the possibility?”

Silence.

“Astra’s teachings are not just relics of the past,” he continued, tapping a page with a gloved finger. “They are guidance for the present. The Vampire are not just myths, nor are they merely the evils of old. Their hunger is eternal, their presence... insidious.”

A beat of silence. Then, softer, more deliberate:

“It is our duty to be vigilant.”

He leaned back slightly, exuding the calm authority of a scholar, though something in his expression—something behind his ever-so-patient eyes—felt oddly satisfied.

“Does that answer your question, Sister Simone?”

You frown. Sureley there was more to it.

When you open your mouth to speak, Rafayel closes his book. "That will be all. We will begin our donations, in one hour. Get your food and drink, and you all grab your coats." his smile is kind, easy as he gets up.

Pressing your lips together, biting back the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. Something about his answer—about him—still doesn’t sit right with you, but there’s no point in pushing now.

Father Rafayel’s smile is warm, pleasant even, as he stands, robes shifting around him like a flowing shadow. But when his gaze flickers toward you, there’s something beneath the kindness—something watchful.

"Come now," he says, tone as gentle as a lullaby. "Astra blesses those who give freely. Let us not keep the good people of Linkon waiting."

You nod slowly, following the others as they file out of the pews.

The bread felt dry as you swallowed, your gaze fixed on Sister Jenna. She stood near Father Rafayel, their heads bent in close conversation. Her brows were knitted in concern, lips moving rapidly as she spoke. Father Rafayel listened intently, his expression calm, occasionally nodding in response.

You couldn't hear their words over the ambient chatter of the dining hall, but the tension in Sister Jenna's posture was unmistakable. She wrung her hands together, a gesture you recognized as a sign of her deep worry. Father Rafayel, in contrast, remained composed, his demeanor almost soothing as he replied to her.

Simone set her plate down beside you. "You would think they'd get tired of soup. But noooo." she tears her bread in half, dipping it in the soup before throwing a quick, "Thank you Astra.", and biting a good bit off.

You smirk, tearing off a piece of your own bread. "Soup is easy. Keeps everyone warm, keeps everyone fed. Besides, I think it's tradition at this point."

Simone chews thoughtfully before swallowing. "Mmm. Maybe. But still, a little variety wouldn't kill us. Imagine—roast duck, maybe a sweet pudding for dessert." She sighs dramatically, resting her cheek on her hand. "One can dream."

You chuckle, but your eyes drift back to Sister Jenna and Father Rafayel. She's still speaking, her hands now clasped tightly in front of her chest. Whatever she's saying has her nervous—agitated even.

Simone follows your gaze, raising an eyebrow. "What's up with Sister Jenna? She looks like she just found a rat in the bread bin."

You shake your head. "Not sure. But whatever it is, she’s not happy."

Father Rafayel murmurs something to Sister Jenna, and though you can't hear him, his expression remains smooth, almost reassuring. Sister Jenna, however, doesn't seem entirely convinced.

Simone nudges you with her elbow. "Bet it’s about the Vampire stuff." She lowers her voice mockingly. "Bewaaare, the Vampire walk among us, waiting to steal your warmth."

You roll your eyes. "Shh, someone's going to hear you."

Simone grins, tearing off another piece of bread. "Oh please, everyone’s too busy praying over their tasteless soup to notice."

"Still- he's rather...impish, don't you think?" Another plate settles beside you- Yvonne. "I think he's rather handsome."

You snort, covering your mouth as you chew. "Handsome? Yvonne, really?"

Yvonne shrugs, taking a dainty sip of her soup. "What? He is. Those eyes, that voice—he’s got presence."

Simone huffs, rolling her eyes. "Oh, come on. He’s unsettling. He always looks like he knows something we don’t."

Yvonne tilts her head. "That’s called intelligence, Simone. You might not be familiar with it."

Simone glares, flicking a breadcrumb at her. "Ha. Ha."

You glance over at Rafayel again. He's now watching Sister Jenna leave, his expression unreadable before he turns back to his own meal.

You lean in slightly. "Impish is a good word for him," you admit. "He’s...polite, but there’s something beneath it. Like he’s always amused by something we’re not in on."

Yvonne hums, tapping her spoon against the rim of her bowl. "That’s what makes him interesting."

Simone makes a face. "That’s what makes him creepy."

"Ya know, it's weird. Priests can get married and stuff but we can't." “Not how it works, Yvonne." "Father Thomas is married." "Okay?"

Simone waves her spoon dismissively. "That’s different. He was married before he joined the priesthood."

Yvonne shrugs. "Still. Feels unfair." You smirk. "You thinking of running off and getting married, Yvonne?" She grins. "Depends. Maybe if Father Rafayel asks nicely." Simone groans, throwing her head back. "Oh, please!" You chuckle, shaking your head. "I don't think he’s the marrying type." Yvonne sighs dramatically. "Shame. I’d make a great priest’s wife."

"Good thing you’re not allowed, then," Simone teases, nudging her.

Yvonne pouts. "Still, it’s not fair. Why can’t we?" You shrug. "I don’t think that’s the point, Yvonne. We’re supposed to be devoted to Astra, not distracted by… earthly things." Yvonne smirks. "You say that, but if Father Rafayel asked you to marry him, what then?" You nearly choke on your soup, coughing as Simone snickers. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard." "Is it?" Yvonne teases, nudging you. "You’re always asking him questions. Maybe you’re just curious about more than scripture." You glare at her, cheeks warming. "I ask because I want to understand, not because—ugh, never mind." Simone stretches her arms. "Honestly, if he did get married, I feel like it’d be to a book. Or his own reflection."

Yvonne sighs dramatically. "What a waste of a handsome face."

You roll your eyes, but as you take another sip of soup, you can’t help but glance at Rafayel again. He’s speaking with another sister now, his expression pleasant, charming even.

Your eyes meet Father Rafayels for a moment, and you don't miss the crows feet when his eyes smile, all too gone before his gaze returns to Sister Jenna. Yvonne and Simone were too busy talking to have noticed.

Your heart skips a beat. Was that...a hint of warmth in his gaze? You quickly look away, feeling a heat rise in your cheeks. There’s no way. He’s just being kind, like he always is. Right?

But the way his smile reached his eyes, how it seemed to linger just a bit longer than usual, leaves you wondering. The curiosity gnaws at you, but you shove it down, forcing yourself to focus on your meal.

Yvonne continues, oblivious. "I still think we’re underutilized around here. I mean, we could do more than serve soup, right?"

Simone laughs. "Don’t tell me you want to be handing out more donations. I can’t imagine carrying all those bags around."

You shake your head. "It’s not about what we’re doing. It’s about why we’re doing it. We’re helping others."

"That’s one way to look at it," Simone says with a shrug. "But we could still use a little more excitement."

You can’t help but glance back at Father Rafayel. His attention is still on Sister Jenna, but now, the thought of that smile lingers with you. What if there's more?

Trying to clear your head, you focus on the conversation again.

"Here you go ma'am," you hand a care basket to a woman. "No- no more- I don't need help from the church," "Pardon?"

The woman recoils slightly, her eyes narrowing as she looks at the basket in your hands, then at you. Her tone is sharp, defensive, as though she’s been caught in something she wants no part of.

"I don’t want anything from the church," she repeats, her voice low, almost trembling with unspoken anger. "What do you want? To keep me quiet? To pretend you’re doing some good?"

You blink, unsure how to respond. The other villagers, some further down the path, keep their distance.

Father Rafayel, noticing the exchange, steps forward, his presence looming. "Ma’am, this is simply an offering from Astra’s followers. No strings attached. It’s just food to help you."

She glares at him, almost looking through him. "It’s never just that, is it? You think you’re fooling us? I know what’s behind all this." Her voice cracks, and she steps back, shaking her head. "I don’t need your charity."

You hold the basket in your hands, unsure of what to do. Father Rafayel seems unphased.

"My son is missing after one of your 'donations,'" she repeats, her voice trembling but steady now, as if she’s found strength in her grief. "He was taken, just like the others. Don’t think I don’t know how these things work. You make promises, give a little, take a lot."

You feel a knot form in your stomach, an uncomfortable silence stretching between you, as all eyes from the group of villagers flick toward the woman. Father Rafayel’s calm demeanor falters for just a fraction of a second, but it's quickly masked by his polite smile, though his eyes are sharp and calculating.

"I’m afraid I don’t understand," he says, his voice soft but firm, yet with a subtle edge that betrays a hint of something darker beneath. "I assure you, every donation we make is done with good intent. There is no malice in our charity."

The woman steps forward, her face contorted with a mixture of sorrow and rage. "I watched him take that toy one of you left... Then he vanished." Her eyes flicker toward the other villagers, who are all pretending to be preoccupied but watching intently. "Now, I ask you, where is he?"

"Ma’am, please," he says smoothly, stepping closer to the woman with measured steps. "Accusations like these cannot be made lightly. I am certain there has been some misunderstanding."

“No! My son is gone, Father! Dead, like the others! Where is Sister Agnes? She is the only one suitable to lead Linkon!”

Father Rafayel puts a hand on your shoulder, cold and firm, before pulling you behind him.

His smile softens, almost as if he’s pitying the woman. He steps forward, his posture unthreatening, but there’s an air of assurance in his every movement. His grip on your shoulder loosens, and his voice drops to a soothing tone.

“Please, ma’am,” he says, his words gentle but full of weight. “I understand your grief. We all feel it, in our own ways.” His gaze shifts to the villagers standing around, their worried expressions now caught between fear and uncertainty. “But I promise you, nothing has happened here that you don’t understand yet. There are things beyond our control—things that even I, as a servant of Astra, cannot explain fully.”

He places a hand on the woman’s arm, his touch tender yet firm, guiding her emotions as if his mere presence could steady her heart. “The disappearance of your son, the pain you feel... I understand it more than you know. But blaming the church, blaming me—won’t bring him back.” His voice is like a balm, his words measured with the intent to comfort and convince.

“Do you trust me?” he asks softly, leaning just enough to meet her eyes, his expression almost fatherly, as if he has known her all her life. “I am here to help. But we must look for answers together, not through anger, but through faith. Through Astra's guidance. And I promise, we will find the truth.”

He steps back, his posture open and inviting, like a shepherd trying to calm a scared flock. “I can help. But you must trust that the road we take will be one of patience and peace. We cannot rush this. Come, let us speak of this calmly, and let me help you. Let me ease your burden.”

His tone is persuasive, persuasive enough to dull the sharpness of the woman’s accusations. She stands there, silent, her face still twisted with anguish, but there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes—an opening.

“I know it's hard,” Rafayel continues, his hand never leaving her arm, “but I swear on Astra's name, I will do everything in my power to help you. And we will find the answers—together.”

The woman softens, hugging him as she tears up.

“Thank you, Father.”

Father Rafayel’s smile falters just for a moment—so brief that only the sharpest eyes might catch it. It’s a subtle shift, but enough for you to notice. For that fraction of a second, his face twists into something unreadable, and his grip on the woman’s arm tightens ever so slightly, as if disturbed by the closeness of her vulnerability, as if he’s disgusted.

Then, in the blink of an eye, it’s gone. His expression smooths back into that calm, almost pitying demeanor, the one that lures people into trusting him. He takes a slow breath, clearly controlling his reaction, and his eyes soften once again as he gazes down at the woman who now leans into his touch, tears brimming in her eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, voice soothing, laced with false warmth. His hand remains on her arm, steady, even as his internal discomfort grows. “It’s my duty to guide you.”

But the moment lingers longer than it should, and for a heartbeat, there’s a coldness that creeps up his spine, a reminder of how easily the facade can break.

He gently pulls away, guiding her back toward the rest of the crowd with a practiced ease. “Now, let’s take a moment to breathe, together. Astra will guide us all through this.”

He steps back a fraction, his gaze flickering momentarily to you, as though assessing you for some deeper understanding, before returning to the woman. But that flicker of discomfort is gone, as if it never existed at all.

“Please Father, you too, Sister, come in.”

Father Rafayel’s smile widens, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as he steps forward, his movements smooth and assured. He gestures toward you, subtly guiding you behind him as he enters the woman's home. “Thank you, but we must insist. We are here to help.”

You follow in his wake, feeling the air shift as the woman leads you both inside, her voice shaking but insistent. The warm scent of soup still lingers in the air, mixing with the cold, earthy aroma of the house. Rafayel’s hand is still on your back, a gentle, guiding pressure, even though you can sense the undercurrent of his control in every gesture.

As the door shuts behind you, the woman wipes her eyes, now grateful but still fraught with grief. “Please, come sit,” she urges again, her voice softer now, as if the presence of the priest and his gentle authority has given her something to hold onto in her overwhelming sorrow.

You step further in, feeling the tension between you and Rafayel, a quiet hum of awareness between you two, as if there’s more to the moment than the simple exchange of care baskets. The whole scene feels eerily domestic, like you’re merely actors in a play that’s unfolding without you quite understanding the script.

You settle into a seat, glancing up at Rafayel, who already seems at ease. His presence fills the room, effortlessly shifting the energy. "Thank you for your hospitality," he says warmly.

And then he does something truly unexpected.

He grabs the woman’s face.

The room is suffocating as Father Rafayel’s fingers twist and press into the woman’s face. Her eyes bulge, the pupils rolling unnaturally as her body shudders with the struggle to break free. But there’s no escape. His grip tightens further, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh of her face, pressing her eyes deep into their sockets until—

A sickening crunch echoes through the air, her screams choked by the brutal force. Her body goes rigid, her mouth opening in a silent, grotesque scream, but no sound comes. Her eyes are utterly ruined, blood and fluid leaking from the sockets where his hands had crushed them.

Before you can react, before you can even scream, Rafayel's hand moves again—swift, clean. His fingers snap around the woman’s neck, and in one cruel, efficient motion, the bones snap under his strength. Her body goes limp in his grasp, crumpling in a heap as the life is ripped from her with terrifying ease.

You stand frozen, your throat tight, heart hammering in your chest. The room is dead silent now, except for the faint sound of the woman’s body hitting the ground, her blood pooling beneath her.

Rafayel doesn’t even glance at the corpse at his feet. He straightens up, brushing his hands together nonchalantly, as though he'd simply gotten rid of a bothersome insect.

"See?" he says, his voice low and calm, almost casual. "This is the price of questioning. Disrespecting." He looks at you, his eyes cold and unblinking, like a predator that has just satisfied its hunger. "A lesson in obedience." He kicks the body. “Not even worth drinking from, the damn whore,”

You can barely breathe, your mind reeling, unable to fully comprehend the violence that just unfolded before you.

His gaze turns back to the lifeless woman, a fleeting flicker of something like irritation crossing his face before it's quickly replaced with that eerie calm. “I’ll take care of the body,” he says, not even looking at you. "Come along."

The words don’t register at first. You’re too trapped in the horror of what just happened—the snap of her neck, the crushing of her eyes, the sickening finality of it all.

But you hear his voice again, smooth and unwavering. “It’s over now. Let’s move on.”

You don’t move for a moment, your heart beating slowly.

Rafayel’s gaze flicks to you, his expression unreadable. The air feels heavy, suffocating. The body at his feet—still warm, still oozing—is a silent testament to what he just did. To what he is capable of.

His lips curl, just slightly. “Apologies, Sister,” he says smoothly, taking a step closer. “I did not mean to startle you.”

Your breath is uneven, your body rigid as he moves within arm’s reach. The scent of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic. Your stomach churns violently, and you press a trembling hand to your mouth.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “We wouldn’t want you fainting now, would we?”

Your vision tunnels. The corpse is there, crumpled like a discarded doll. The woman’s face—what’s left of it—is grotesque, ruined. Her mouth still twisted in an expression of agony she never got to voice.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You—” Your voice cracks, your throat burning with bile. “You killed her.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, head tilting as if you had just stated something obvious. “Of course.” He steps around the body, walking toward you with that same composed grace, his expression patient. “She was becoming… a problem.”

Your pulse is deafening in your ears.

“You—” Your words are failing you. Your thoughts are failing you. The bile rises higher. You need to get out of here.

But his hand is already reaching, fingers barely grazing your wrist before you recoil violently.

His eyes darken, just for a moment. “Careful,” he says, voice still impossibly gentle. “Fear is unbecoming of you.”

You stagger another step back, shaking your head. “This—this isn’t right—”

Rafayel sighs as if this is all terribly inconvenient for him. “Sister.” His tone shifts, taking on something firmer. “Compose yourself.”

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps. You’re going to be sick. You are sick.

And yet, the way he watches you—it’s as if he’s enjoying this. Studying your every reaction, memorizing every flicker of horror in your expression.

“Now,” he continues, as if nothing had happened, “we still have work to do.” He gestures to the body with a gloved hand, his fingers flexing absently.

“Shall we?”

“No! We most certainly shall not! You-” “Careful now, sweetheart.”

Your breath stutters in your chest. The way he says it—sweetheart—makes your skin crawl, like something sickly sweet masking poison underneath.

“I—” Your words catch. Your pulse is hammering. You glance down at the woman’s lifeless body, her head lolling unnaturally to the side, sightless eyes ruined and dark. The smell of copper thickens, and your stomach twists.

His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it—something warning. “Don’t let that pretty head of yours get ahead of itself.” He steps closer, deliberate, calculated, the heels of his boots clicking softly against the ground. "I'd hate to see you become distressed over a little… inconvenience.”

Your stomach lurches. The bile in your throat burns. “A little inconvenience?” Your voice wavers, barely above a whisper, but the fury is there, tangled with the fear. “You murdered her! She—she didn’t even get to scream—”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly, like a teacher watching a foolish student struggle with a simple lesson. “Yes, I suppose that was rather quick of me,” he muses. “Would it have been better if I had let her beg first? Cry a little longer?”

Your body goes ice cold.

His lips curl, a poor imitation of something kind. “You’re shaking.” He reaches again, fingers brushing your elbow, but you wrench away, stumbling back.

He stills.

The moment stretches. The air feels wrong.

Then, his hand lowers, and he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Ah. So you do have some fight in you.” His smile lingers, eyes hooded. “Good. I was beginning to worry you’d crumble too quickly.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, a desperate, caged thing. “Stay away from me,” you rasp.

His expression doesn’t change. “Sweetheart.” He says it so sweetly, so condescendingly, like he’s scolding a child for throwing a tantrum.

“I own you.”

The words sink into you like teeth, cold and cruel.

Your breath stutters.

“You belong to the church. The church belongs to me.” He watches you carefully, studying every shift in your face. “And what kind of shepherd would I be if I let one of my flock stray too far?”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the salt stings your lips.

He leans in just slightly, enough that his breath ghosts over your ear. “Now… are you going to be good for me?”

His hand tilts your chin up so you face him. A playful smile rests on his face, even reaching his eyes this time- a genuine smile.

You feel the membrane of the woman’s eye on his gloved hand, now on your chin. Your stomach twists violently, revulsion clawing up your throat. The slick, gelatinous smear of ruined flesh clings to your skin, an obscene mockery of what used to be someone’s sight. Father Rafayel hums, watching your reaction like one would observe a butterfly pinned to a board.

“There it is,” he murmurs, almost fondly. His thumb strokes over your jaw, slow and deliberate, smearing the filth further.

His eyes, those eerie irises of blue and pink, gleam with something dark. Something hungry. You choke on a sob, barely able to force words out. “You’re insane—” He tsks, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Now, now. That’s not very kind, is it?” His grip tightens just enough to remind you it’s there. Rafayel hums, tilting his head as if studying a delicate piece of art. His gloved thumb—still damp with the remnants of the woman’s ruined gaze—glides across your cheek. “Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rich with amusement.

Your pulse thrums beneath his fingers. He must feel it—how rapid, how unsteady.

“There, there,” he soothes, like he’s comforting a trembling child. “You mustn’t look so horrified.” He leans in, voice dipping lower. Sweeter. “Astra wouldn’t want that, would He?”

You shudder, every nerve in your body screaming at you to run.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

His smile widens, catching the way your eyes dart—searching for an escape that doesn’t exist.

Then, without warning, he releases you. You stagger, your legs nearly giving out beneath you, but he simply watches, hands clasped behind his back, utterly unbothered by the horror he’s just committed.

He flicks his gaze down at his glove—at the remnants of the woman still staining the leather—before pulling it off with a sigh, tossing it onto her still-warm body.

“Now then. Shall we continue?”

He offers his arm, not waiting as he grabbed your own, linking it with his. “Let’s finish our charity.”

So you let him guide you forward, his arm linked with yours in a grotesque parody of companionship. The two of you walk past the cooling body, the scent of blood thick in the air, as Rafayel hums a pleasant little hymn under his breath.

Your body convulses, another wave of sickness ripping through you as you clutch the sides of the basin. The acrid burn of bile scorches your throat, and you gag, spitting out the last remnants of whatever meager meal you had managed earlier.

Your fingers tremble against the porcelain, knuckles white from how tightly you're gripping it. The room spins, the world tilting on its axis, and for a moment, you think you might collapse right there on the cold, stone floor.

The phantom sensation of Rafayel’s touch lingers—his gloved fingers against your chin, the slick, ruined remnants of the woman’s eyes smearing onto your skin. You scrub at your face furiously with your sleeve, but the feeling doesn’t leave. It clings, seeping into your pores, like a stain that refuses to be washed away.

You shudder, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

He had smiled.

He had hummed.

And he had walked away as if nothing had happened.

Another wave of nausea hits you, and you retch again, but there’s nothing left to bring up. Just dry, hollow heaving that leaves your stomach aching and your throat raw.

The world outside continues as if it hasn’t just shifted into something dark and terrible. As if a woman hadn’t just been silenced.

As if you hadn't stood there, frozen in horror, and done nothing.

You can still feel it—him. The icy press of his fingers on your chin, the sickening squelch of ruined flesh, the way he smiled as if he hadn’t just—

A sob chokes out of you, swallowed quickly by another dry heave. Nothing left to expel. Just the raw, hollow ache of terror curling deep in your gut.

The door creaks. Your breath stills.

Boots click against the stone floor, slow, measured steps. A shadow looms over you.

A handkerchief appears in your vision, crisp and clean. “Oh, Sister,” Rafayel sighs, his voice warm with something almost like pity. Almost. “If I knew you had such a weak stomach, I would have warned you.”

The scent of him is wrong—clove and something metallic beneath it, something that lingers too long in your lungs.

The handkerchief dangles between his fingers, an invitation. A mockery.

When you don’t take it, Rafayel hums, shifting ever so slightly. "Come now, Sister. You’ll make yourself sick all over again." His voice is smooth, patient. A priest soothing a distressed flock. A man coaxing something fragile just to watch it break.

You stare at the porcelain, focusing on the tiny cracks running along its edges. Anything but him. Anything but the weight of his gaze pressing against the side of your face.

A sigh. Soft. Disappointed. And then the handkerchief brushes against your cheek.

You flinch.

He works with the precision of a man performing a sacred ritual, slow and methodical as he wipes away the remnants of your sickness. The linen of the handkerchief is soft, but his touch is cold—too cold, even through the fabric.

You should recoil. You want to recoil. But your body won’t move, locked in place by the sheer wrongness of it all.

“There,” Rafayel murmurs, brushing a stray strand of hair from your damp forehead. “All better.”

You stare at him, throat tight, heart hammering. He doesn’t seem to mind the fear written across your face. If anything, he looks almost pleased.

He folds the soiled handkerchief neatly and tucks it away like it’s nothing at all.

"Are you well? It didn't trouble you so, did it-" "Get away from me, Father Rafayel."

His expression stills. The ever-present smile remains, but something behind his eyes sharpens, a glint of something dark and unreadable flashing through the blue and pink.

For a moment, he simply watches you. The silence stretches, thick as congealed blood.

Then—

A laugh. Soft, breathy, amused.

“Oh, dear Sister.” He kneels slightly, lowering himself to your level, his head tilting like he’s studying a particularly fascinating insect. “You wound me.”

You press yourself against the cold stone wall, as far from him as possible. Your breathing is shallow, rapid, your pulse a drum against your ribs. He notices. He enjoys it.

Rafayel sighs, straightening again, brushing nonexistent dust from his pristine robes. “You’re upset,” he states plainly. “That’s understandable. But don’t be dramatic. I only did what had to be done.”

Your stomach lurches again.

You turn away, gripping the edges of the basin as if it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. You can still feel him watching you, like a weight pressing into your spine.

Rafayel exhales, a soft, almost disappointed sigh. “I’ll have Sister Jenna come to collect you.”

It should be a mercy. A reprieve. But the way he says it—so calm, so unbothered—makes your skin crawl. Like you’re a child throwing a tantrum, like your revulsion is inconvenient to him.

His boots click against the stone as he turns to leave. But before he steps out, he pauses.

A beat of silence.

Then—

“I do hope you’ll feel better soon,” he murmurs, and when you finally dare to glance over your shoulder, he’s already gone.

"What's got you so sick lately?" Yvonne and Simone sat on your bed, having decided to stay the night despite the elder sisters firm threats of consequences if anyone was out of their rooms after 9:00 p.m.

You stare at them, trying to piece together an answer—one that won’t make you sound like you’ve lost your mind.

Nothing comes.

Nothing safe, at least.

“Probably just something I ate,” you mumble, forcing a weak smile as you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “It’ll pass.”

Yvonne hums, unconvinced. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

Simone leans in, scrutinizing your face. “And you’ve barely eaten all day. I mean, I know the soup is garbage, but still.”

You swallow. If you close your eyes, you’ll see it again—the ruined sockets, the twitching fingers, the sound of her neck—

Your stomach turns.

“I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just tired.”

Yvonne and Simone exchange a look, and for a terrifying moment, you think they might press further. But then Simone flops back against your pillows with a sigh.

“Well, if you die in the night, I’m taking your blanket,” she announces.

Yvonne snorts. “And I get her pillow.”

It’s quiet for a moment.

Yvonne tilts her head, studying you. "You sure you're not pregnant?" You whip your head toward her, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?!" Simone bursts out laughing, slapping her knee. "She’s got a point! Maybe that’s why Father Rafayel’s been so concerned—" "That is not funny!" you hiss, heat crawling up your neck. "Relax, we're just messing with you," Yvonne grins, nudging your arm. But then she sobers, her gaze searching. "Seriously, though. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. What have the sermons been about?"

Simone and Yvonne exchange a glance.

"Same as always," Yvonne shrugs. "Discipline. Humility. The Vampire."

"Yeah," Simone frowns, pulling at a loose thread on your blanket. "Father Rafayel’s been really fixated on them lately. More than usual. Keeps talking about how they need to be 'understood' before they can be judged. Whatever that means."

You swallow hard, your throat still raw. "Understood?" Simone nods. "Yeah. Like...he’s making it sound like they're not just monsters. That there’s something more to them." Yvonne snorts. "Creepy way to put it, if you ask me." You grip your sheets tightly. Rafayel’s cold fingers on your chin, the wet smear of another person’s ruin against your skin—it all flashes back in an instant. "What else did he say?" Your voice is quieter this time, urgent. Yvonne gives you a curious look. "Why do you care?"

"Cause I'm missing them? We have exams on these if you've forgotten." You point out, coming up with the excuse swiftly. A half lie. Another exam would be coming up in your training to be a nun soon enough.

Simone groans, flopping back onto your bed. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I’d rather scrub the floors of the entire chapel than sit through another exam." Yvonne smirks. "Maybe if you actually paid attention, you wouldn’t have to cram last minute." Simone swats at her. "Shut up, Yvonne."

Forcing a small smile, your fingers are still clenched in the fabric of your sheets. "So? What else did he say?"

Yvonne hums, thinking. "Well...he talked a lot about temptation. Not just the Vampire, but people, too. How those who question too much might lead others astray. How faith should be absolute."

Simone rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, same thing they always say. 'Doubt is the doorway to sin' or whatever." But Yvonne doesn’t look convinced. She shifts, lowering her voice. "It’s not just that. He was watching everyone while he said it. Like he was waiting for someone to react."

A chill creeps up your spine.

You exhale through your nose, keeping your voice steady. "Who reacted?" Yvonne shrugs. "No one. Not openly, at least." Simone huffs. "Not all of us have a death wish, Y/N. You heard what happened to Sister Agnes." Your stomach twists. "What happened to Sister Agnes?" Yvonne and Simone exchange another glance. This time, it’s hesitant. Uneasy. "You…you really haven't heard?" Simone asks quietly.

"No? I've been forced into bed rest for 2 weeks, Simone.I thought she left for the capitol since we hadn't seen her for a month.”

Yvonne scoffs, crossing her arms. "She was supposed to. But then she got sick. Really sick. Fever, coughing up blood, the whole thing."

Simone nods. "Yeah. They quarantined her in the infirmary for a while, but then one day—poof. Gone." She snaps her fingers. "The elders said she must’ve gone to the capital after all. That she recovered enough to travel, but no one saw her leave."

Yvonne sighs. "Probably just left at night. You know how she was—never wanted to make a fuss."

You feel ice creep through your veins. That doesn't make sense. If she had been so ill, how could she have just up and left? No farewells? No word to the sisters she was closest to? It doesn’t sit right with you.

"You're worrying too much, Y/N," Simone chides, nudging your shoulder. "You should be resting, not getting yourself worked up over rumors."

Yvonne smirks. "Yeah. Besides, Father Rafayel would have told us if something was wrong. He always does."

Your throat tightens. You force yourself to nod, though your hands curl into fists beneath your blanket.

Father Rafayel always knows.

©hellinistical 2025 do not copy, translate, distribute, plagiarize, or reproduce in any form without permission, and do not share to any media outside of tumblr.

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lilithlounge · 5 months ago

Text

Sun in the Davison Chart: The Core Identity of Your Relationship 💗

In relationship astrology, the Davison Chart is a powerful tool that reveals the true essence of a partnership. Unlike Synastry, which compares two individual charts, the Davison Chart creates a "birth chart" for the relationship itself—showing its purpose, challenges, and long-term potential.

Want to explore your Davison Chart in-depth? I offer personalized relationship astrology readings to help you uncover your connection’s deeper meaning!

Book your Davison Chart reading here: Buy Me A Coffee or Ko-fi

The Sun in the Davison Chart represents:

-The core identity of the relationship.

-The purpose and energy the couple embodies together.

-The overall direction and life path of the relationship.

Now, let’s explore what each Sun sign means in a Davison Chart and how it shapes the relationship’s dynamic.

Fire Signs: Passionate & Dynamic Relationship🧯

☀️ Sun in Aries ♈

A relationship full of excitement, independence, and bold energy.

-Fast-moving, action-oriented, and driven.

-Both partners push each other toward self-growth.

BUT can struggle with power struggles or impulsivity.

☀️ Sun in Leo ♌

A dramatic, romantic, and deeply expressive connection.

-Passionate love, grand gestures, and loyalty.

-Both partners feel special and admired in the relationship.

BUT ego clashes or attention-seeking behaviors may arise.

☀️ Sun in Sagittarius ♐

A relationship based on adventure, exploration, and personal freedom.

-Strong intellectual and spiritual growth.

-A shared love for travel, learning, or philosophy.

BUT can struggle with commitment or long-distance dynamics.

Earth Signs: Stable & Growth-Oriented Relationships 💚💲🌱

☀️ Sun in Taurus ♉

A deeply sensual and stable connection rooted in loyalty.

-Emotional and financial security is key.

-Strong emphasis on physical affection and comfort.

BUT Resistance to change or stubbornness may be a challenge.

☀️ Sun in Virgo ♍

A relationship built on mutual support, healing, and self-improvement.

-The couple works as a team, helping each other grow.

-Deep care for each other’s well-being and goals.

BUT Perfectionism or over-analyzing the relationship can cause stress.

☀️ Sun in Capricorn ♑

A serious, goal-oriented relationship focused on long-term success.

-Stability, ambition, and shared responsibilities.

-The couple builds something meaningful together.

BUT work or external responsibilities may take priority over emotions.

Air Signs: Mentally Stimulating & Socially Engaging Relationships 🌬️

☀️ Sun in Gemini ♊

A fun, witty, and intellectually stimulating relationship.

-Endless conversations, curiosity, and learning together.

-Lighthearted, adaptable, and open-minded connection.

BUT can struggle with inconsistency or lack of emotional depth.

☀️ Sun in Libra ⚖️

A relationship based on harmony, beauty, and partnership.

-Romantic, diplomatic, and socially charming.

-Strong focus on fairness and emotional balance.

BUT conflict avoidance can lead to unresolved tension.

☀️ Sun in Aquarius ♒

A unique, forward-thinking, and unconventional relationship.

-A deep intellectual bond and shared visions for the future.

-Freedom and individuality are respected in the connection.

BUT emotional detachment or unpredictability may arise.

Water Signs: Deep, Emotional & Transformative Relationships 🌊⛲💙

☀️ Sun in Cancer ♋

A nurturing, emotionally deep, and family-oriented relationship.

-The couple creates a strong emotional and domestic foundation.

-A deep sense of care, protection, and sentimental connection.

BUT can struggle with emotional over-dependency or mood swings.

☀️ Sun in Scorpio ♏

A powerful, magnetic, and transformative connection.

-Deep emotional bonding, passion, and sexual intensity.

-A karmic, life-altering relationship that forces personal growth.

BUT can be prone to secrecy, control, or emotional extremes.

☀️ Sun in Pisces ♓

A spiritual, dreamy, and almost otherworldly relationship.

-The couple shares deep intuitive and emotional understanding.

-A connection that feels destined or past-life related.

BUT boundaries can become blurred, leading to confusion or codependency.

152 notes · View notes

aspenmissing · 6 months ago

Note

Oooookay okay okay. I will never be over those accidental babies but I come in with a new request!

I'm thinking something along the lines of a super creative reader; a fiber artist and seamstress making clothes and quilts and anything that can be made with a sewing machine. I'm a sucker for pining (like, SUCH a sucker for pining), but instances of pre-relationships where she's made something for the one(s) she's secretly pining for (and is definitely a little shy about it).

I'd like to see with just about all the guys from Arcane and JayVik (your other writing is slowly turning me into a Silco fan, too.)

ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʟᴏᴠᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ-ɪꜱʜ ||

10364 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴠɪᴏʟᴇɴᴄᴇ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀᴀʜʜ ʏᴀʀɴ! ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ, ꜱᴏ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ! ɪ'ᴍ ɢʟᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙᴀʙɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏᴏᴅ! (ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ ꜱɪᴅᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ;)

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ

JAYCE

Y/N sat in the quiet of her room, the soft hum of the sewing machine her only company as the late evening light streamed through the window. Her fingers moved nimbly, guiding the fabric through the machine, her mind lost in the rhythm of creation. She loved this; the flow of creativity, the way each stitch brought something new to life. It was her escape, a refuge where she could shut out the world and pour her heart into the things she made.

Today, however, her thoughts were far from the quilt she was piecing together. They kept drifting back to Jayce.

She had always admired him from a distance, Jayce being the best friend of her late mother’s brother—her only family. A brilliant inventor, a man who could charm anyone with a smile, his aura of intelligence and quiet confidence often drew others to him, but Y/N had always found herself fascinated not just by his mind but by the way he carried himself, the kindness he showed to those he cared about. There was something magnetic about him, something that drew people in—Y/N included. And she had tried, for months, to ignore the fluttering in her chest whenever he was near, but that never worked. The feelings only grew stronger. He never seemed to notice her the way she wished he would, always lost in his inventions and work, but she found her own way to show her affection through little, quiet gestures. She didn’t need him to know. She just needed to feel close to him.

It had been weeks since she'd secretly altered his academy uniform. The buttons on the jacket had been loose and misaligned, a small detail that bothered her every time she saw him in it. He was always so engrossed in his work, often absent-minded, that she knew he’d never notice the small imperfections. Without him knowing, she’d carefully fixed them, stitching each button with precision and care, ensuring they were perfectly aligned. She even added a small decorative patch inside the sleeve, something no one would ever see, just because she knew that if he ever did, it would make him smile.

But he hadn’t noticed. He was too focused on his work, too consumed by his genius to care about such small things.

Y/N let out a deep, frustrated sigh, leaning back in her chair and running a hand through her hair. Maybe it was time. Maybe she should just tell him. The thought of confessing her feelings made her heart race, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for that. What if it ruined everything? What if it ruined their easy camaraderie, their friendship?

She sighed again and glanced at the quilt she was working on, but her mind refused to settle. The patchwork of colours, the simple joy of creating, felt like a distant memory as her thoughts turned once again to him.

Meanwhile, across town, Jayce sat in his cluttered workshop, deep in thought. The plans for his latest invention were sprawled across the desk in front of him, an amalgamation of ideas and blueprints that he hoped would take his research to the next level. But his mind kept wandering. To Y/N.

It had become almost impossible to ignore her presence lately, and not just because she was constantly in his orbit, helping with errands or offering encouragement in quiet moments. No, it was the way she made him feel that had started to occupy his thoughts. How her creativity seemed to weave light into everything she touched. How she was always so thoughtful, so dedicated. Whether she was sewing a piece of clothing or making quilts, her focus and artistry were awe-inspiring. Even when she wasn’t directly around, he would think of her in the quiet moments—her laugh, the way her eyes would light up when she spoke of something she loved.

Then there was that one moment when he had caught a glimpse of the patch inside his academy jacket sleeve. It was small—almost hidden—but it had made him pause. Someone had taken the time to fix his uniform without his asking. A simple gesture, one that made him smile. But he hadn’t been able to figure out who had done it. Whoever it was hadn’t mentioned it, and Jayce hadn’t thought to ask, dismissing it as a small thing. But it lingered in his mind. The patch, the care, the mystery of it.

That night, after a particularly long day filled with setbacks in his work, Jayce found himself walking past her door, drawn by the familiar hum of the sewing machine. He knocked lightly, hesitant, before stepping inside without waiting for a reply.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the doorframe, his tired smile softening the exhaustion on his face.

Y/N looked up from her work, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. She quickly tried to hide the quilt she was piecing together, knowing that if he saw it, he’d ask about it. She hadn’t finished it yet, and it was still too personal for her to share. But Jayce had already noticed the burst of colour.

“What are you making?” he asked, his voice warm, curiosity dancing in his eyes.

Y/N chuckled nervously and shrugged casually, hoping her emotions weren’t as visible as she felt they were. “Oh, just a quilt,” she replied, her voice a little too nonchalant. “I like to keep my hands busy, you know?”

Jayce smiled, his gaze softening as he took a step closer to her. “You always make the most beautiful things. I don’t know how you do it.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “It’s just a bit of practice,” she said, trying to downplay her skill. “You can make anything if you put your mind to it.”

He took another step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’ve always been so creative, Y/N. It’s not just the things you make, but how you bring everything to life. You inspire me more than you know.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. His words were unexpected, leaving her momentarily speechless. There was something about the way he said it—soft, sincere—that made her feel as though he might just be seeing her for the first time in the way she’d hoped. “I… I’m just making things for fun,” she said, her voice shaking ever so slightly, hoping he couldn’t hear the longing that crept in.

Jayce, however, didn’t miss the way her fingers fidgeted with the fabric, nor did he miss the way her gaze dropped for a moment as if she were hiding something. His heart tightened in his chest. He had noticed the little things—her quiet glances, the way she would always be there with a thoughtful gesture or comment when he needed it most—but he hadn’t allowed himself to truly acknowledge the growing feelings inside him. He had convinced himself that it was just a fleeting thought, nothing more.

But standing in front of her now, feeling the electricity in the air, he couldn’t ignore it any longer.

He cleared his throat softly. “Well, I just wanted to thank you, by the way,” Jayce said, shifting the weight in his posture as though he’d been meaning to say this for a while.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her gaze still downcast. “Thank me? For what?”

“The jacket,” he said, lifting his sleeve slightly to show her the small patch inside. “I noticed it, and… I really appreciate it. You didn’t have to, but it’s a nice touch. You’ve always been so thoughtful, Y/N.”

Y/N froze, her heart hammering in her chest. He had noticed. She hadn’t expected him to, but the way he was looking at her now made her feel exposed. She didn’t know what to say, so she spoke quickly, desperately. “I… I just thought it needed fixing,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “It was nothing.”

Jayce smiled, a tenderness in his eyes that she hadn’t seen before. His voice dropped lower, filled with sincerity. “It wasn’t nothing. It meant a lot to me. You’ve always been the one who makes everything a little bit better, just by being you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and her pulse quickened. She looked up at him, her heart beating faster as the air around them felt heavier. The unspoken words between them seemed to hang like a thick fog, waiting to be broken.

“I…” she began, her voice barely a whisper. “I think I need to tell you something.”

Jayce’s heart skipped a beat at the vulnerability in her voice, and he stepped even closer, closing the distance between them. “What is it?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her mind racing. Could she really say it? Could she expose her feelings after all this time? She inhaled deeply, steeling herself before speaking.

“I’ve been making these things for you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “For a while now. Without you knowing. I’ve been trying to show you how much I care, in little ways, even if you don’t notice. But I didn’t know if you’d ever see it... or if you’d even care.”

Jayce reached out gently, his hand cupping her cheek in the most tender of gestures. “Y/N, I care. More than you could ever know. I think I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that for a long time.”

The words hung between them, a confession unspoken until now. Before Y/N could respond, Jayce closed the gap between them, pressing his lips gently to hers. It was soft, tentative, but there was something undeniable in it—a recognition of the love they had both kept hidden for so long.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads touched, and they shared a quiet laugh, realising that this had been what they had both wanted all along.

“I think I’ll need more of your little creations,” Jayce murmured against her lips, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Maybe I’ll ask you to fix my clothes more often.”

Y/N chuckled, feeling the weight of her secret finally lift. “Maybe you will, Jayce. Maybe you will.”

For the first time, it didn’t feel like a secret anymore.

VIKTOR

Y/N’s fingers worked in a rhythm that had become second nature to her over the years—stitch, pull, knot, repeat. The sewing machine hummed steadily beneath her as the hours passed, unnoticed by her. The soft light in her workshop cast gentle shadows over the shelves of colourful threads, piles of fabric, and completed projects. Yet, among all the fabric she had touched in her life, this one felt different. Every strand, every stitch, felt like an expression of something more than just creativity—it was a piece of her heart woven into every seam.

Her mind had once again drifted back to Viktor. She found herself in a state of constant yearning for him, even if she tried to suppress it. After all, Viktor was brilliant and driven, a man consumed by his work. She had spent so many years working alongside him, but she’d never found the courage to tell him how she felt. Instead, she focused on her creations, using her hands to express what her words could not.

The thought of Viktor was never far from her mind. She remembered the time, months ago, when she’d first noticed how his leg brace seemed to rub uncomfortably against his skin. Viktor, always so absorbed in his work, never seemed to notice the discomfort, but Y/N couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy. So, without a word, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quietly, late at night, she had added some extra padding to his brace, making it a little softer. She didn’t tell him. She couldn’t bring herself to. But when he had worn it for the first time, she had caught him glancing at her with a look of surprise—and something more, something unspoken, that made her heart race. It wasn’t the most dramatic gesture, but it was hers, and that small act of care had meant everything to her.

Now, as she sat at her sewing machine, Y/N was working on something far more personal, something that she wasn’t sure Viktor would even notice—but it was something she needed to do for him. It had started out as a simple act of wanting to do something nice for him, but it had quickly turned into something far more complicated, the emotions woven into the fabric of every stitch.

She was making him a jacket—tailored to perfection, fitted to his form, with a deep, rich burgundy fabric that would complement the shade of his eyes. The fabric was soft but sturdy, the kind of material that could withstand long hours in his workshop while still offering him comfort. She added small, intricate details—a delicate embroidered pattern at the cuff, a hidden pocket inside the lining, just for him. The embroidery wasn’t loud or obvious. In fact, it was so subtle that it could only be appreciated by someone who took the time to look closely. Viktor would never be one to wear anything flamboyant, but she knew he would appreciate the effort, the quiet care put into it.

The jacket was far more than just a gift. It was her way of showing Viktor that she saw him—that she saw not only his brilliance, but also his quiet struggles. She noticed the way he winced sometimes as he moved, the tension in his body from working so tirelessly, his reliance on the cane to support him when his leg ached. This jacket, she hoped, would offer him not just warmth, but a sense of care—a small token of comfort.

As she stitched, Y/N couldn’t help but think of how Viktor would react. He was so focused on his work, so consumed by his inventions, that she often wondered if he even had the capacity to notice things like this. Would he even recognise the effort she had put into making him something so personal? Or would it be just another object to him, like all the others she’d made for people over the years—something useful, but not anything more?

She shook her head, pushing the doubts away. She was doing this because she wanted to, because he mattered to her. That was enough.

She finished the last stitch, running her fingers over the fabric, feeling the weight of her emotions within it. She only hoped that Viktor would recognise the love she had woven into every thread, even if he never said it aloud.

The steady rhythm of the machine was interrupted by a soft knock on the doorframe. Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. She looked up, and there stood Viktor, framed in the doorway. His figure, so familiar, yet always startling to her in moments like this, stood with his usual intensity. His dark eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw something shift in them, something softer, but it was gone in an instant.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low, melodic tone that always made her stomach twist. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I just wanted to—” He faltered, his gaze flicking to the fabric she was working on, then to her. “I’ve been thinking about something. Perhaps you could offer me your thoughts.”

Y/N quickly hid the jacket under a pile of fabric, feeling a flush rise to her cheeks. “Of course, Viktor. What’s troubling you?”

He moved closer, his eyes scanning the room as he seemed to search for the right words. He always did this, Y/N noticed. His mind constantly shifted between ideas, a thousand thoughts racing at once. She loved how his mind worked, even if it sometimes meant he didn’t notice the little things. Or maybe, just maybe, he did notice—but was too focused on his work to say anything.

“I’ve been refining some of my calculations,” Viktor began, his tone slightly distracted as he shifted his weight, leaning on the cane that had become a constant companion. “But I feel like there’s something I’m overlooking. You’re the only one who always sees things others miss, Y/N. I could use your perspective.”

Her heart fluttered again, but she pushed aside the longing that threatened to overwhelm her. She nodded, focusing on the task at hand. “I’d be happy to help.”

As they moved to his desk, Viktor still seemed a little distracted, his brow furrowed in thought as he adjusted his grip on his cane, steadying himself. His eyes darted over his notes and calculations, his mind a whirlwind of equations and hypotheses. Y/N could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the subtle way he leaned into his cane when he forgot to stand fully upright.

She loved these moments with him, even if they were fleeting, even if they didn’t change anything. Viktor was here, and that was enough.

Her thoughts, however, remained on the jacket she had made for him. Would he ever wear it? Would he ever realise that it was her way of saying all the things she couldn’t say out loud? Or would it simply be another creation in his ever-growing collection of inventions and projects?

But as she helped him with his calculations, something in the air shifted—a quiet tension between them, unspoken but palpable. Viktor’s hand brushed against hers, just for a second, and she could have sworn she felt the softest of sparks. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to see her, to see all the things she had longed to show him.

And maybe, just maybe, one day, he would notice the jacket. And when he did, she would be waiting, her heart laid bare in every stitch, every thread, every moment of care she had woven into it.

Years had passed since that quiet, unspoken connection between Y/N and Viktor had begun. What had started as a secret longing, a quiet affection woven into the fabric of every stitch she made, had evolved into something deeper, something real. She still remembered the moments they shared, the hours spent together, working side by side, exchanging glances that held a thousand words. And now, as she stood at the altar, Viktor’s eyes locked on hers, everything that had once been unsaid, unspoken, was now there in the open, in the purest form of love.

The church was dimly lit, the gentle light of candles flickering along the pews, casting soft shadows over the gathered friends and family. But the world outside had all but faded into the background. There was only Viktor, standing at the front, dressed in the jacket she had made for him all those years ago.

The deep burgundy fabric, so soft yet durable, still held the same warmth, the same careful stitches she had woven into it. It seemed to almost glow under the light of the candles, every small detail—every tiny embroidered pattern at the cuff—still as beautiful as the day she had made it. It was almost as though the jacket had waited for this moment too, holding all the years of their journey together. Viktor had worn it countless times in the years that followed, but today, it felt different. It wasn’t just an article of clothing; it was a symbol—a symbol of how far they had come, how much they had endured together. And now, on their wedding day, it was more than ever, a reminder of the quiet care she had put into it, all those years ago.

As Y/N walked toward him, her heart seemed to beat in time with the soft rustling of her gown. Her thoughts were a whirlwind, but one constant remained: Viktor, the man who had quietly become the centre of her world. The jacket—his jacket—was there, a reminder of the early days when she had hidden her love for him in the softest of gestures.

Viktor’s gaze softened as she approached, and for the first time, there was no question in his eyes. He had seen it all, all that she had ever wanted to say. His eyes swept over her with the same quiet reverence that she had once felt when sewing that jacket. The jacket she had made for him, not knowing how the years would unfold, not knowing that it would one day be worn on this day—their wedding day.

When she reached him, Viktor took her hands gently, his gaze not leaving hers. "You still remember," he murmured, his voice a quiet reflection of the emotions swirling between them.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching as she saw the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "Of course I remember. I remember everything."

He looked down at the jacket, then back at her, his eyes soft with affection. "It’s never left me, you know. I’ve worn it more times than I can count, but today... today it feels different." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I wanted to wear it today, to wear the love you put into every stitch, to wear you as we stand here."

There were so many things left unsaid between them, but in that moment, words didn’t seem necessary. The past, the present, the quiet yearning from years ago—it was all woven into the fabric of that jacket. It was in every thread, every stitch, every moment they had shared since then.

The officiant spoke, but Y/N's attention was entirely on Viktor, the man who had quietly stolen her heart all those years ago. As they exchanged their vows, as they promised to stand by one another through everything life had to offer, she saw it—the weight of all their shared moments reflected in Viktor’s eyes. He was wearing the jacket, yes, but more than that, he was wearing her heart, and she his.

When the ceremony came to its close and they were finally pronounced husband and wife, Viktor’s hand slipped into hers with the same tenderness she had always known, the same tenderness that had always been there, quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

And as they walked down the aisle together, Viktor’s jacket—her jacket—glowed with a quiet brilliance, just as it had all those years ago, when she had stitched it with the hope that one day, he might see her love for him, in all its subtlety, in all its care.

Now, here they were, standing side by side, not just as two people who had fallen in love, but as two hearts intertwined, with all the years of longing, of creation, of care, wrapped around them like the jacket that Viktor wore so proudly. The jacket was more than just fabric. It was the fabric of their love story, woven with patience, with hope, with trust, and now with the joy of a future they would share together.

And when Viktor looked at her, his gaze as steady as it had always been, she knew one thing for certain—he had finally understood all along.

JAYVIK

The sun had just begun to set, casting a soft orange glow over Piltover’s skyline. Inside her modest studio, tucked away from the noise of the city, Y/N worked with a needle and thread. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine was like a familiar lullaby as she focused intently on the quilt she was creating. Each stitch was deliberate, each fabric chosen with care. Her craft was a reflection of her soul, a blend of artistry and precision, and though she had countless patients in the medical ward, this was her sanctuary. A place where she could pour her heart into every thread, even if it was a thread she couldn’t yet share.

Y/N hummed quietly to herself, her fingers deftly guiding the fabric through the machine. She had always loved the process of creation—the way a simple piece of cloth could transform into something beautiful with just a little time and patience. Yet, lately, her thoughts often drifted to Viktor and Jayce, both of whom had become so important to her in different ways. She wished she could say something, but the fear of ruining what she had with both of them kept her quiet.

Her mind wandered to the first time she had made something for Viktor. It had been a late evening when she’d been working on a jacket for him, stitching together fine, rich fabric with delicate precision. She’d hesitated before gifting it, worried it might come off as too personal, yet the soft hum of the machine had given her the courage. The quiet moment when Viktor opened the small bundle of fabric had stayed with her. His eyes softened in appreciation, and for a brief moment, she’d seen a flicker of something more—a connection that made her heart race, but one she didn’t dare name. He had simply thanked her, and in his gratitude, she had swallowed down the emotions that swirled within her.

She smiled at the memory but felt the familiar ache in her chest. The quiet pining for Viktor had always been there, simmering under the surface. He was brilliant, driven, and had a kindness about him that she admired deeply. But despite their moments of closeness, it always felt like there was an invisible wall between them. She never quite knew how to cross it. But she cherished the glances, the brief exchanges of words that made her heart flutter in a way she couldn’t quite control.

Then there was Jayce.

Oh, Jayce. The brilliant, exuberant force of nature who filled every room with energy. The man who had always looked out for her like a protective older brother, but she had come to realise that there was something more to his affection. He teased her relentlessly, always with that smile that never seemed to fade. Yet, she could see it—how deeply he cared. He had been there for her in countless ways, just as Viktor had, but in a different light. She remembered making him a vest once, tailored perfectly to fit his broad shoulders. The intricate patterns she stitched into the fabric had reflected the boldness of his personality. He had grinned like a child on his birthday when she handed it to him, his eyes bright with that warmth that made her heart skip a beat.

The pining had started there too, subtle and slow, like the weaving of threads in a tapestry. She had tried to dismiss it, thinking that perhaps, like Viktor, Jayce only saw her as a friend. The small acts of kindness they showed, the gentle teasing and shared moments, all remained unspoken. She kept her feelings buried deep, hoping they’d never notice. But how could they not, when every thread she wove into her creations was a secret declaration of affection?

But tonight, she was finished. She had just completed the last stitch of a new project—a quilt she had been working on for days. It wasn’t as intricate as some of her other creations, but it was personal. The colours were soft, the patterns intertwined—much like her thoughts of Viktor and Jayce. She had chosen the fabrics carefully, pouring into it a quiet wish that maybe one day, they would realise how much she cared. Would they ever see her as more than just their confidante? More than just the woman who made their clothes, their comfort?

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

"Y/N?" came Viktor’s low, warm voice. "Are you still working?"

She smiled, standing up from her chair and walking over to the door. She opened it to find Viktor standing there, his cane resting beside him, his sharp eyes flicking to the quilt in her hands before meeting her gaze. She noted the concern that clouded his expression.

"You’ve been working late again," he said, his voice laced with both concern and tenderness. "You really should rest. You’ve done enough for one night."

Y/N laughed softly, a playful glint in her eye despite the weight of her emotions. "I know, Viktor. But I just needed to finish this. It’s been on my mind all week."

Viktor’s eyes softened, his features betraying the faintest sign of worry. He stepped inside, glancing around the studio with an appreciation she always found comforting. His attention quickly shifted back to her, the quilt she had just finished catching his eye.

"You always put so much into your work," he said quietly, reaching out and gently running his fingers over the fabric. His touch lingered, and she felt a flutter in her chest at the closeness. "It’s beautiful."

Her heart skipped, and she fought to hide the blush creeping up her neck. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

There was a brief silence, thick with the unsaid things neither of them spoke. Viktor’s gaze lingered on her, an unreadable expression on his face. And for a moment, Y/N thought she might drown in the weight of his attention.

Before she could respond, the door opened again, and Jayce strode in, his usual confident gait betraying a tenderness in his eyes when they landed on her. The corners of his lips tugged up into a mischievous grin, but it softened as soon as he caught sight of the quilt.

"Did you finish it?" he asked, his voice light, though there was something more behind it. "I hope you’re not going to try to keep it from us."

Y/N laughed again, more freely this time. "No, it’s for both of you."

Jayce’s grin softened further as he moved closer, his gaze playful, but with an edge of something deeper—something Y/N tried not to read into. "You really do spoil us, don’t you?"

Her heart fluttered, but she held her composure, a small smile curling at her lips. "It’s just a small thing. Nothing too special."

Viktor stepped forward, his expression serious yet gentle. "To us, Y/N, everything you make is special." His voice was quiet, almost reverent, and it made her breath hitch.

Her chest tightened, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around her like a soft blanket. Was this the moment? Would they finally see her for what she was—not just the woman who made their clothes, but the woman who had quietly loved them both for so long?

"I’m glad you like it," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. The air between them felt charged, thick with the unsaid things that hung like delicate threads in the space between them.

Jayce’s hand rested gently on her shoulder, and for the briefest moment, she could feel the tenderness he tried to hide behind his usual bravado. The way his fingers brushed against her skin sent a spark through her that almost made her dizzy. "We love it. We love you, Y/N," he said softly, his words wrapping around her heart like a comforting embrace.

Viktor’s gaze flicked to Jayce, and then back to her. There was a softness in his eyes that made her stomach flutter, his gaze holding hers with a quiet intensity. "Jayce is right," he agreed, his voice low and steady. "You’re important to us. More than you realise."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. They were so close now, standing in her small studio, the distance between them vanishing with every word they spoke. The connection she’d felt for so long was suddenly undeniable, woven through with every glance, every touch. She could feel it—a thread that pulled them all together.

And then, as if in unison, both Viktor and Jayce reached out, their hands brushing against hers in the same instant. The touch was soft, but it was enough to send a jolt of electricity through her veins. It was a spark—quiet, but undeniable.

"Maybe it’s time we talk," Viktor said, his voice steady, yet there was a softness there that made her chest ache with longing. He stepped closer, his hand lingering near hers.

Jayce’s thumb brushed over her hand, sending a thrill through her that left her breathless. "We’ve been wanting to, for a while now," he added, his voice sincere.

Y/N’s heart soared, the quiet ache of unspoken affection finally breaking free. The thread of their shared feelings, woven so carefully through time, finally began to unravel, drawing them closer. It was a beginning—a slow, tender start. And for the first time, Y/N let herself believe that maybe—just maybe—her pining might finally be returned.

The soft hum of a crackling fire filled the cosy living room as Y/N sat comfortably on the couch, her legs tucked beneath a thick, woven blanket. The evening light bathed the room in a golden hue, and the warmth of their shared home wrapped around her like a familiar embrace.

Her hands worked deftly, needle and thread gliding through the fabric of one of Jayce’s suits, mending a small tear along the seam. A small smile played on her lips as she traced the well-worn material, recalling how many times she had stitched up something for him—whether it was his suits or Viktor’s jackets, she had always taken care of the two men she loved. And now, as her gaze drifted down to the swell of her belly, she knew she’d soon be caring for someone new.

Her pregnancy had been a dream so far, and despite the weight she carried, she had never felt more at peace. Viktor and Jayce had been doting beyond words, tending to her every need, often to an almost comical degree. But she loved them for it—loved them for everything they were and all they would become.

Just as she finished the final stitch, the sound of the front door opening caught her attention. She glanced up, amusement flickering in her eyes as she heard the telltale murmurs of her lovers, their voices hushed yet brimming with excitement.

Then, they appeared.

Jayce and Viktor stepped into the living room, their smiles wide and unmistakably mischievous. The sight of them—one tall and broad-shouldered, the other lithe and sharp-eyed—filled her heart with warmth. They were up to something. She could see it plain as day.

Her brow arched in suspicion as she set the suit aside. “Alright,” she drawled, resting a hand on her belly, “what did you two do?”

Viktor smirked as he walked over to her, his cane tapping lightly against the wooden floor before he carefully lowered himself onto the couch beside her. Jayce, ever the dramatic one, sat on the coffee table directly in front of her, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. In his hands, he held a small bundle of fabric.

“We made something for you,” Jayce said, his voice tinged with pride. He turned the fabric over, revealing a tiny onesie—albeit, one that was crudely stitched together, the seams uneven, and the buttons slightly misaligned. It was far from perfect, but the love and effort put into it made it the most beautiful thing Y/N had ever seen.

Her breath caught in her throat as she reached out, her fingers brushing over the soft material. “You two… made this?” she asked, her voice full of wonder.

“Hand-stitched and everything,” Jayce grinned. “Well, mostly hand-stitched. Viktor got impatient with me and took over halfway through.”

“I would not call it ‘impatience,’” Viktor said with a smirk, his fingers ghosting over Y/N’s hand as she held the onesie. “I simply could not watch him continue to butcher the stitches any longer.”

Y/N let out a laugh, shaking her head as she turned the tiny garment in her hands. It was a little rough around the edges, but it was made with so much care and devotion that she couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes.

“It’s perfect,” she whispered, holding it close to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”

Jayce leaned forward, resting a warm hand on her knee. “We wanted to do something special,” he said softly. “You’ve always taken care of us—always stitching up our clothes, making sure we’re looked after. We figured it was time we tried to make something for you… for them.”

Viktor’s hand gently rested over Y/N’s belly, his touch featherlight yet full of love. “We wanted to give our child something from us,” he murmured. “Something made with our hands. A beginning.”

Y/N sniffled, brushing away a stray tear as she looked between the two men who had become her world. Her heart felt as if it might burst from the sheer love she held for them.

“You two are going to be the most incredible fathers,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Jayce beamed, his fingers tightening around hers. “And you,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, “are going to be the most incredible mother.”

Viktor pressed a tender kiss to her temple, his voice barely above a whisper. “We are a family. That is all that matters.”

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warmth of their love settle deep within her bones. In that quiet, precious moment, with their hands entwined and the tiny onesie cradled against her chest, she knew without a doubt—this was happiness. This was home.

VANDER

The steady hum of the sewing machine filled the dimly lit backroom of The Last Drop, the rhythmic whirring blending with the faint murmur of voices from the bar beyond. The scent of old wood, ale, and candle smoke mingled with the faint traces of fabric dye and thread wax, a smell that had become comfortingly familiar to Y/N. Her small workstation was cluttered but organised, bolts of fabric stacked neatly to one side, a basket of unfinished mending beside it. Spools of thread, needles, and small scraps of cloth lay scattered across the table, evidence of the late nights she spent here.

Her fingers moved with practised ease, guiding the needle through worn fabric, repairing yet another tear in Vi’s jacket. The girl was rough with her clothes—climbing, fighting, running through Zaun’s underbelly without a care. But Y/N never complained, never hesitated to patch up every tear and stitch every rip. Because Vi, Powder, Mylo, and Claggor—they were family in every way that mattered.

“You spoil them, you know.”

The familiar voice pulled her from her focus, low and gruff but tinged with something warmer than mere amusement.

Y/N didn’t have to look up to know it was Vander. The scent of ale and leather, the way his deep voice carried with a certain weight—it was unmistakable.

“They’re kids,” she replied without pause, finishing off the stitch with a deft flick of her wrist. “They tear their clothes faster than I can fix them, but they don’t have many to begin with. Least I can do is keep ‘em from falling apart at the seams.”

Vander exhaled a quiet chuckle, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorway, watching her work. His broad frame nearly filled the entire space, his presence as steady and unwavering as the bar he protected.

“They adore you for it, you know,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Powder won’t let that rabbit out of her sight.”

That made Y/N smile, a small, fond expression that softened her features. She had made that stuffed rabbit from scraps of fabric, carefully stitching it together after seeing Powder clutching a threadbare piece of cloth as if it were a proper toy. It was a simple thing, but the way Powder had beamed when she received it—holding it tight like it was the most precious thing in the world—had been worth every stitch.

“She needed something to hold onto,” Y/N murmured, setting Vi’s jacket aside and reaching for another garment in need of mending. “Something that’s just hers.”

Vander was quiet for a moment, watching her hands work, the glow of the candlelight casting a golden hue over her skin. She was always doing this—fixing things, putting care into every thread, every patch. Not just for the kids. For everyone.

“And what about you?” Y/N asked, breaking the silence as she glanced up at him. “Still wearin’ that scarf I made you?”

Vander scoffed, a teasing glint in his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around the fabric. The scarf had been a gift from her last winter, something she had pressed into his hands with a quiet “Zaun gets cold, you know,” as if she wasn’t completely aware of how stubborn he was about taking care of himself. It was a simple thing—nothing extravagant—but she had chosen the fabric carefully, making sure it was thick enough to keep out the Zaun chill.

He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“Best scarf I’ve ever owned,” he admitted, voice quieter now, the words carrying more weight than he likely intended.

Their eyes met, a brief but lingering moment stretched between them. She could read him better than most, could see past the gruff exterior, past the strong front he put up for everyone else. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something in the way his fingers absentmindedly traced the worn edges of the scarf, something in the way he stood just a little closer than necessary.

He pushed off the wall with a small shake of his head, as if breaking whatever spell had settled between them. “You should charge more for your work.”

Y/N only laughed, shaking her head. “And have half of Zaun freezing or running around with holes in their trousers? Not likely.”

Vander huffed, muttering something under his breath about her being ‘too damn kind for her own good.’ But there was no real heat behind it. He wouldn’t change her for anything.

She watched as he walked back towards the bar, the blue of her scarf still wrapped around his neck, the candlelight catching in his silvering hair.

She didn’t miss the way his eyes softened as he looked at her before turning away, the unspoken words hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Not yet. But maybe someday.

The following days passed in a steady rhythm, much like the quiet whir of her sewing machine. She continued her work, fixing torn garments, mending stuffed animals, and occasionally stitching together something entirely new. The bar bustled with its usual energy—clinking glasses, murmured conversations, the occasional burst of laughter or the distant hum of tension from the undercity’s unrest. And through it all, Vander was a constant presence.

He found excuses to stop by her small corner in the backroom. Bringing her a drink she hadn’t asked for, leaning against the doorway with a watchful gaze as she worked, making small talk about the latest scuffle at the bar or how Claggor had managed to tear a hole straight through the knee of his trousers again. He never lingered too long, never said too much—but his presence was always there, warm and steady, like the faint glow of candlelight on a cold night.

One evening, as she finished a particularly intricate embroidery piece on a worn-out coat, she heard heavy footsteps approach. The familiar weight of his presence settled in the doorway before he stepped inside.

She looked up just in time to see Vander set something on the table beside her—a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“For you,” he said simply.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, setting down her needle. She wiped her hands on her apron before carefully unfolding the cloth, revealing a thick roll of high-quality fabric. It was unlike anything she could find in Zaun, sturdy and warm, likely bartered from Piltover’s markets. The kind of material that would hold against the bitter Zaun chill, something made to last.

“Vander, this is—”

“Figured you might need it,” he interrupted, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something almost sheepish about the way he said it, as if unsure how she’d take the gift. “For…whatever it is you’re always makin’. Consider it a thank you.”

She looked up at him then, her chest tightening slightly at the rare hint of hesitation in his voice. He wasn’t a man of grand gestures, wasn’t one to put emotions into words easily. But this—this was something.

Her fingers ran over the fabric, feeling the softness beneath her touch. The edges were neatly folded, carefully bundled together, as if he’d handled it with more care than he’d admit.

“I’ll make something good with it,” she murmured, voice softer now.

His lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that was gone too quickly but left warmth in its wake. “I know you will.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the weight of something unspoken settling between them. The candlelight flickered against the walls, stretching shadows long and soft. She could feel the unspoken words lingering in the air, the quiet understanding neither of them wanted to disturb.

Then, as if realising he had lingered too long, Vander exhaled and took a step back, turning toward the door. “Don’t stay up too late workin’,” he said over his shoulder, voice gruff but tinged with something gentler.

And just like that, he was gone, leaving her sitting there with warmth blooming in her chest, the weight of his quiet kindness settling over her like a well-loved quilt.

She traced the fabric with her fingertips, thoughtful. Vander wasn’t a man of words, but he had his own way of showing things—small gestures, quiet care. It had always been there, between them, stitched into every moment they shared.

Maybe someday wasn’t so far away after all.

SILCO

The first time Silco truly noticed her, it was not because of her appearance or her sharp wit. It wasn’t even the way she carried herself, though that too intrigued him. No, it was because of the rip in his coat.

It wasn’t the first time his clothes had seen damage; as a man in his position, a leader with enemies at every turn, he had grown used to the wear and tear. The fight in the Lanes had been a typical skirmish—fists, knives, and threats exchanged over petty rivalries. He’d never imagined it would result in a tear down the side of his long, dark coat. He had barely noticed it in the chaos, but when he returned to the Underbelly, the jagged tear caught his eye.

At first, he considered simply tossing the coat aside, but something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was the way the fabric seemed to reflect the disarray in his mind after the conflict. His thoughts, much like his coat, felt torn and frayed at the edges. But then she appeared.

She was standing there at the entrance to his office, as though she had known he’d be there. There was something about her, something predatory in the way she stepped forward, almost as if she had been watching him for some time. Her sharp eyes assessed him immediately, but not with the usual wariness he was accustomed to. No, she took in the coat, the tear, and then—without waiting for permission—she moved to inspect the damage.

He had intended to wave her off, to brush aside the need for anything resembling care. But her presence was immediate, commanding, even without a word. The way she touched the fabric, her fingers sliding along the tear, tracing its path like a careful examination of a wound. She seemed to read the damage, as though she knew exactly how to fix it, where to pull, where to stitch.

“Leave it with me,” she said, her voice calm, almost amused, though he saw no mockery in her eyes. She said it with an assurance that left no room for argument. She already knew he would relent. And, to his own surprise, he did.

Silco wasn’t a man given to sentiment. His empire was built on dominance, control, and cruelty. He had no time for kindness, for softness. Yet here she was, standing before him, offering to repair a coat that, in his mind, held little value beyond its utility. But somehow, her words, her confidence, made him trust her in a way he couldn't fully explain.

She wasn’t from the grime and muck of the underbelly like most people in Zaun. She didn’t have the hardened edge that the typical denizens of the Lanes wore like a badge of honour. Instead, she had settled into the city like a delicate thread woven into an old tapestry—soft yet resilient, unfurling and unraveling at the same time. She had a sort of quiet grace about her, a sense of purpose that was both subtle and undeniable.

A seamstress. A maker of things. A woman whose hands were stained with ink and dyes, a patchwork of colours permanently imprinted into her skin from years of working with fabrics of every kind. She was a stranger to the underworld, and yet she had an undeniable place in it. The children of Zaun adored her. Her humble shop was always filled with the noise of their laughter, their cries for attention, their hands pulling at her skirts, eager to see what she was making next. They were drawn to her in a way they never were to anyone else—especially Powder, the youngest, whose fascination with Y/N’s work bordered on obsession.

And in a way, Silco found it curious. The children, so often abandoned and ignored by the world, had found solace in her presence, a warmth that he could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, he never doubted that she was something special.

After she mended his coat, a task that seemed so simple, so mundane, he found himself inspecting it more than he’d like to admit. He ran his fingers over the stitches, feeling the tightness of them, the precision in every movement. She had taken a coat that was merely a tool and turned it into something more—a symbol, perhaps, of her ability to see what others might overlook.

When she returned it to him, there were no formalities. She didn’t ask for thanks, didn’t expect anything. She simply said, “Good as new,” and watched him closely, waiting to see his reaction. It was not the typical response she’d receive from others, and she seemed to know it. He nodded. That was all. But he could feel it, a certain unspoken understanding between them. The coat, now mended, was a marker of something unspoken—something subtle and deliberate.

And then there was the waistcoat.

It appeared one evening, folded neatly in brown paper and left at The Last Drop without a word, no explanation, no card. He found it tucked away in the corner of the bar, a surprise that didn’t fit with the usual chaos of his life. He unwrapped it carefully, the fine fabric smooth under his fingers. It was a deep charcoal, dark but with an intricate emerald design embroidered along the edges—a delicate touch, but one that spoke volumes. The kind of thing he never would have chosen himself, yet it felt... right. It was understated, quiet in its elegance, but unmistakably hers.

That night, after a particularly grueling day spent managing Piltover’s politicians and the constant friction with the people of Zaun, he wore it. He didn’t think about it much at first, just slipped it on as if it were any other garment. But when he looked in the mirror, something tugged at him. It wasn’t just a waistcoat. It was something more—a symbol of her care, of her quiet, unnoticed influence on his life.

They did not have the kind of relationship marked by loud declarations or gestures. No, their bond was built in quiet moments. In the soft rhythm of her sewing shears cutting through fabric. In the weight of the threads, carefully pulled through delicate fabric. In the way her eyes always seemed to search him, studying him like the seamstress she was, looking for the places where the seams might have frayed, where the edges might have come apart.

One night, he found himself standing at the threshold of her shop, unannounced, a place he rarely visited without a purpose. But that evening, there was no agenda, no business to be conducted. He simply wanted to see her, to observe her in her element. She was sitting at her workbench, the dim glow of a single oil lamp illuminating her face as she stitched together a new garment—one of her many projects, one of her endless creations.

He didn’t speak at first. He simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her hands as they worked with unshaken precision. The needle passed through the fabric again and again, a rhythmic dance that felt hypnotic.

“What is it tonight?” he asked, his voice low but breaking the silence.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips, but it was fleeting. “A coat. For a friend.”

“A lucky friend,” he replied, his voice laced with quiet humour.

She didn’t answer, only hummed as she threaded her needle again. “Luck has nothing to do with it. Just care.”

And for a fleeting moment, a flicker of something passed between them—something unspoken, something deeper. She cared. He could see it in her hands, in the steady way she worked. She didn’t do it for accolades, didn’t do it for recognition. She did it because she cared.

The thought unsettled him. She wasn’t like others, who cowered beneath his power or avoided his gaze. No, she studied him, watched him, as if she could see beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d built around himself. And for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, he didn’t mind. In fact, he welcomed it.

Silco had made his name as a man of power, a man who controlled the shadows, a man whose empire was built on fear and ambition. He had forged himself from the broken pieces of the world around him. But when she looked at him, when she saw him as she did, he wasn’t Silco the tyrant or Silco the visionary. For a brief moment, he was simply Silco, a man who had a tattered coat and a waistcoat stitched with care.

Weeks passed in a haze of strained negotiations, political manoeuvring, and the steady grind of maintaining his hold over Zaun. Silco didn’t have the luxury of time to dwell on much outside of his empire, but there were moments—fleeting, dangerous moments—when his thoughts wandered back to her. The way she had touched his coat, the subtle care in every stitch, the way she never flinched under his gaze. There was something there, something fragile yet strong, like an ember flickering in the dark.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Silco found himself walking toward her shop again. He had no particular reason to be there. His coat was still intact, and he hadn’t needed any new clothes repaired. But something in the back of his mind told him he should check on her, to see if she was still as steady, as unwavering as she had been the last time he’d seen her.

As he approached her shop, the dim light spilling from beneath the door caught his attention. The flicker of the lanterns inside, the soft hum of activity—it was a rhythm he had come to recognise, one that spoke to the quiet dedication she had for her craft. It was late, later than usual. Silco hesitated for a moment, his hand resting lightly on the doorframe, considering whether to enter or not.

But then he heard it—the harsh rasp of voices, the unmistakable sound of a scuffle inside. His instincts kicked in, and he pushed the door open without a second thought.

Inside, the scene before him unfolded in a quick, brutal flash. Two men—rough, unkempt, with the stench of desperation hanging over them—had cornered her. One of them was holding a knife, its blade glinting ominously under the light of the lamp. The other was gesturing wildly at the shelves, clearly trying to intimidate her into handing over whatever they could steal.

Her back was to the door, and for a moment, Silco saw her—saw her not as the gentle seamstress who had repaired his coat, but as someone who had lived in the same world as him, someone who had faced her own battles. Her posture was calm, but there was a fire in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to bend to their will.

"Just give us the damn money, lady," the one with the knife spat, his voice low and rough. "We’re not here to play games."

Silco’s mind moved quickly, calculating the best way to deal with this. He didn’t care about the petty theft. What bothered him was the way they were treating her—as if she were just another victim to be taken advantage of. As if she were weak.

But she wasn’t weak.

Without a word, he stepped forward, the door creaking softly as it closed behind him. The sound was enough to catch the attention of the men, who turned just as he moved closer. The one with the knife sneered at him, recognising the man who had brought Zaun to its knees.

"Who the hell are you?" the first man growled, his voice a mixture of surprise and aggression.

Silco didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang heavy in the air for a moment, allowing the tension to build. He wasn’t worried about them. The men were nothing more than irritants to him, mere distractions in a world full of dangers.

"You’re in the wrong place," Silco finally said, his voice low and measured, his gaze cold and unyielding.

The men exchanged wary glances. The one with the knife hesitated, but the second man, more desperate, growled. "You don’t scare us. We’ve got a knife. What’s it to you?"

Silco’s lips twitched, amused by their audacity. The tension in the room thickened, but Silco’s presence alone was enough to shift the balance.

The man with the knife stepped forward, brandishing the blade in an unsteady hand. "You want to make something of it, then? I’ll carve you up, just like I’m gonna carve her up if she doesn’t listen."

Silco’s gaze never wavered. He was calm, cold, the eye of the storm. There was no fear in him, only a sense of inevitability. Without a word, he reached for the concealed knife tucked in his belt. The men barely had time to register the movement before he had it in his hand, its cold steel glinting in the lantern light.

"Put the knife down," Silco said, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife itself.

The second man, realising the situation had shifted, took a step back, his face contorted in confusion. But the first man—still gripped by his own desperation and pride—didn’t relent. He raised the blade, aiming to strike.

Silco stepped forward, his movements swift and fluid. His knife flicked in the air, and the man with the blade froze, his hand trembling.

"Now," Silco’s voice rang out like thunder.

The man’s resolve broke, and with a muttered curse, he dropped the knife to the floor. His hands raised in surrender, and the second man, seeing the fight drain out of his ally, backed away as well.

Silco didn’t need to say more. He watched as they stumbled towards the door, muttering under their breath, eager to escape the presence of the one man in Zaun they feared.

As the door slammed shut behind them, Silco turned back to her. He noticed the damage immediately—the rip along the seam of his coat where one of the men had caught it in the scuffle. A small tear, but enough to catch his eye.

Before he could brush it off, she was already moving toward him. Her gaze was focused, and without a word, she was inspecting the tear. The flickering lanterns cast a soft glow on her features, her expression filled with concentration as she ran her fingers over the fabric.

"You’re going to want to get that fixed," she said, her tone both calm and concerned. "Let me—"

"I’m fine," Silco interrupted, his voice terse, though he wasn’t entirely unaffected by the care in her words. "It’s just a small tear."

She barely looked up, already beginning to gather her tools. "It’s a shame," she muttered, her hands moving quickly to pull a needle and thread from her kit. "The fabric’s too nice to let it go to waste."

Silco raised an eyebrow at her, bemused by her reaction. Most people would have been intimidated, maybe even scared, at the thought of trying to repair the coat of someone like him. But here she was, entirely unfazed, focused on restoring something that was clearly important to him.

"I’m not sure you understand, this coat isn’t just a coat," he said, his voice softening slightly. "It’s… important."

She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes with that same steady intensity. "I understand," she said simply, before returning to the task at hand. "I’ll make sure it’s good as new. It’ll be even better once I’ve finished."

Her certainty was palpable, and it settled over him like a weight. Silco felt something stir within him—something unfamiliar and quiet. He hadn’t expected to be here, hadn’t planned on staying this long. Yet, in this quiet moment, with her focused on repairing his coat, he realised he didn’t mind at all.

Maybe this was where he belonged, at least for now. And maybe, just maybe, it was enough to stay a little longer.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #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

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