#i had my fair share of issues with it but its been working much better lately

[baby-xemnas]

super grateful to boosty that it allows me to continue to get by doing things i love BUT its a pain that i cant respond to tip messages with my thank yous to people

i hope you forgive me and know that i appreciate donations for niche stuff i fixate on So Much

love u guys thank you i just get smacked with "you cant send a message to this person" when i get a tip

#still so glad boosty functions relatively well god bless #i had my fair share of issues with it but its been working much better lately #and people have issues with p*ypal and others all the time so its not just boosty thats at fault #anyway thanks to everyone who put anything in my tip jar you are so sweet and lovely thank youuuu

[yesimwriting]

there's something about bestfriend!felix who has never had to restrain himself when it comes to feelings, who can't stand letting that much feeling just sit inside of him with nowhere to go.

he learns to hold it all in because feeling that deeply attached to one person isn't something he's used to, so it's a little confusing and hard to label, and maybe he's a little prone to commitment issues. but the main thing that keeps him from saying anything is the importance of the bond the two of you have created.

it's a kind of connection he's never had before, a trust and understanding that he's extremely protective of. so he doesn't say anything.

so he compromises with himself, allowing his affection to bleed into your friendship as much as the confines of a platonic relationship will allow. part of it is to satiate the need to be closer to you, and the rest of it is because he doesn't want anyone to think you're not his.

he's never been one to share, so he makes it as clear as he can that you're off limits.

when the two of you go out, he's even touchier than usual. some of it's the drinking and atmosphere, but most of it is because he can. you're close enough to leave giggly kisses against each other other's cheeks, hands, shoulders, necks. whatever's easiest to reach. he'll pull an arm around you to guide you through a crowded bar because you'll let him without hesitation.

and if felix catton constantly being all over you isn't enough to ward off every guy at oxford, he has nothing against appearing at your side and placing a hand around your waist. it doesn't matter if the guy is in the middle of a sentence or if you're saying something, you'll stop everything to immediately greet felix.

it's a subtle possessiveness that extends beyond just nights out. if you two are studying in the library with a group of friends, you're sitting next to him. if you're out to dinner with a group, he's mentioning inside jokes and topics of conversation that he knows you're interest in to make sure that he's your favorite.

if felix can't be your boyfriend, he's going to be your favorite person. he's not your friend, he's your best friend. a title that he makes sure to emphasize constantly. if you introduce him to someone as your friend, he's quick to teasingly correct you. thought i was your best friend.

he also uses the term to justify any hints of jealousy, and to get his way. if you're spending more time with a different friend (girl, boy, it doesn't matter), he's pouting a little when you finally do see him. if you notice and start expressing concern, he'll admit to it. "surprised you had time to notice anything about me." and when you're, rightfully, confused, he continues, "you're spending all your time with them, and i'm supposed to be your best friend."

sometimes, if its gone on for a significant amount of time, he'll start to think that maybe he's actually mad at you. it isn't fair, but felix can't help it. he'll do anything for you, and you're replacing him with someone that can't care about you the way he does.

but then you'll look at him, all wide eyed and exuding genuine shock at the thought of felix ever not being your best friend. you'll coddle him as much as he'll let you. he'll try to put up a hard exterior, but he's melting and letting it go almost immediately.

----

a short blurb to tide you all over and help me think through a request bc i wanted to finish writing it today but had to do a ton of homework instead <3

almost didn't post this bc the purpose of it was for me to work on characterization in a low stakes way after using up all of my mental but then decided why not!

a fuller, better developed version of this is coming soon 😭

taglist; @vader-is-hot @spiritofbuddha @getosangie @freyafriggafrey @ilovehyperfixating @aryiannarae @willowpains

#saltburn imagine #saltburn x reader #felix catton x reader #felix catton #bestfriend!felix #jacob elordi #jacob elordi x reader

[obsessedwithtoomanythings]

Keep Your Eyes Open

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

Warnings: Smut, P in V, female anatomy, reader is called she, lots of talk of guns, but no gunplay (I mean, it’s on the table and it’s in her hand, but it’s never explicitly used for the sexual stuff), dirty talk, crush confessions, Leon asks her out then fucks her.

Words: 4K

A/N: This is my first smut in forever. Cheers to Leon S. Kennedy for bringing back that smut inspiration! Inspired by this post! Thanks to @angelltheninth for letting me write it!

“Listen, you know I consider you a friend… but-” Hunnigan starts, eyes filled with concern as she looks over the piece of paper littered with holes. Let’s just say more of my shots ended up in the wall behind the target than the actual target.

“I know, that’s why I’ve been going every day, Ingrid.” My defense is pointless, and we both know that.

“Your firearm recertification is in 3 days. If your accuracy doesn’t get better by then, you won’t be allowed to carry a gun. Do you understand what that means?” She asks as if I haven’t been losing sleep over the issue.

“I know.” It means I’ll be the only agent in this fucking building who isn’t carrying a gun. “I’ll become ‘the girl who can’t carry a gun’ faster than you can say ‘fuck off’.”

A scowl comes from the agent in front of me. “Language,” she reminds. “Maybe you should ask another agent to help?”

“And let the whole building know I’m about 11 shots away from failing my recertification? Pass. I’ll just go practice some more,” I scoff, before turning on my heel to step toward the door.

“Just think about it! I know a lot of agents who aren’t dicks and who are more than willing to help!” She shouts, but I’m not listening anymore. I step out of Ingrid’s office into the cool hallway, shutting the door behind me with an almost silent click. Taking a steadying breath, my feet begin to carry me toward the place I’ve been seeing in my nightmares lately. The shooting range.

“Hey, rookie!” I hear a voice say, halting me in my tracks before I was able to close much distance between me and the stairs. I turn my head toward the voice. Leon Kennedy.

“What’s up, Agent Kennedy?” It feels formal to call him that, but while we’re in this building, it feels wrong to call him by his first name, given he is technically my superior.

“Agent Kennedy? Feels a little formal,” he says with a teasing tone, and I chuckle at him voicing my thoughts.

“Well, we are at work,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. Leon and I have become an unlikely pair of friends. The best agent in practically the entire country and the agent who is about to fail her firearm recertification. ‘Maybe he’d be willing to help me?’ The thought is dismissed as quickly as it appeared. ‘And make him think you’re incompetent? Pass.’

“True. Still feels weird though, Agent.”

“Wow!” I gasp in feigned surprise. “I’m not ‘rookie’ anymore?” A small smile makes its way across his lips as he chuckles.

“You’re definitely still ‘rookie’, just felt like being nice.” His comment is followed by a brief roll of my eyes.

“Okay but seriously? What’s up? I have some stuff I have to do, unfortunately,” I sigh, anxiety filling me again.

“Well, I wanted to see what you were up to.” The smile is still there. Any idiot with eyes can see how attractive Leon is. Bright baby blues, cut jawline, nose that anyone would be lucky to sit on. I have definitely had more than my fair share of daydreams starring the agent in front of me.

“I was headed down to the shooting range. I have my recertification in 3 days.” I pray he’ll opt to find something else to do.

“Oh, that shit’s a cakewalk.” Yeah, for you.

“I really want to practice a bit more. I get nervous before stuff like this.” Admitting this is not an easy feat, my cheeks dusting a light pink in embarrassment.

“Okay,” he says, and for a moment, I think he’ll depart with a ‘good luck’ and a wave. Why the hell would I be so lucky? “I’ll come with. I’ve taken that test a few times so I’ll be able to reassure you that you’ll pass with flying colors.” My eyes widen significantly, and the nerves suddenly take over my tongue.

“N-no!” I stutter, much louder than I intended. His eyebrows furrow over in confusion at the sudden outburst. “I-I just assume you’ve got better things to do.” Smooth.

“Not really. I was hoping to spend some time with you, so it’s no big deal.” Kill me now. He moves toward me, wrapping an arm around my waist to turn me and walk toward the range. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

This is going worse than I could have ever imagined. The target has maybe 3 holes in it and I’ve unloaded a whole clip of 15 shots.

“Well, it’s better than the last clip,” he chuckles, eyes still locked on my practically unscathed piece of paper. The shots didn’t even hit anything vital. I drop my head to the countertop in front of me in defeat.

“I may as well just hand over my gun right now,” I mutter into the hard surface below my forehead. Leon’s hand rests on my back comfortingly before he speaks.

“No, come on. I’ll help you,” he says, bringing the target closer to switch it out for a new one. I turn my head toward him with raised eyebrows, mostly in a ‘how can you possibly fix this?’, my temple resting against the cool surface now. “I noticed a couple of things you can fix that’ll help.” A sigh, forehead back on the counter. Leon pats my back again. “Seriously. Come on.” I rise up again, cheeks red from embarrassment as he pushes the target back to the required distance. Not that I think I’d do any better if it was closer.

“Leon, it’s pointless.”

“No, it’s not. Raise the gun.” I roll my eyes and do as he instructed. “Okay, first off, you’re locking your elbows. Loosen up.” He says, tapping a finger in the crook of my elbow. A chill runs down my spine at the contact. ‘Wow, it’s been too long since I got laid.’ I drop my elbows slightly, noting that it definitely feels awkward.

“This feels weird,” I mutter. Leon smirks.

“I’m sure it does if you’ve been firing with your elbows like that. Loosening them helps with controlling movement caused by the recoil.” He explains, and I’m grateful he’s actually telling me reasons, as it’ll make it easier to remember. “Do you fire with your feet like that?” I glance down at my position, my feet across from each other, shoulder width apart.

“Yeah?” I say, forming it as a question.

“Bring your dominant foot forward. It’ll steady you more,” He says, his tone definitely airing more on the professional side.

“Sir, yes, sir.” The words are mumbled with a light giggle at the end, and a small smile raises the corner of Leon’s lips.

“Okay try firing now.”

I squeeze the trigger slowly, the jolt surprises me which causes my eyes to close for a split second, and to steady myself, I accidentally move my feet back into their original position. The shot lands in the wall. Again. The disappointment on my face must be tangible from a mile away.

“Okay, I think I can fix this actually,” he says, and I sigh in defeat.

“Yeah I’m sure you can, super cop.”

Suddenly, as if the world is working against me, his much larger frame is pressed against my backside. Feeling his chest rise against my back and his hips grazing my ass, I breathe in a quick gasp. Completely enveloped in his scent, hard lines of muscle and heat practically radiating from him, it’s a miracle I don’t melt into a puddle right here on the concrete. His hands find my ear protection, removing the makeshift headphones from my ears, much to my confusion.

“The problem is,” he says, his breath tickling my ear, and I swear he can feel the shiver that runs down my spine, pooling in my panties. “You’re scared of it.”

“W-what?” I stutter, completely affected by his presence.

“You’re scared of the gun. The recoil scares you, and so does the sound of the shot,” he explains, voice barely above a whisper. “I think you’ll find the sound isn’t nearly as loud as you think.” His arms come up, fingers grazing along my skin which causes goosebumps to rise across my arms. He rests his hands right below my elbows, the warmth practically seeping into my bones. “Let me take the recoil. Just focus on keeping your eyes open.” His words send a wave of heat through my spine and I try and fail to not shift against him. His leg shifts forward, forcing my dominant leg into the position he recommended earlier, which presses his hips tighter against me. I almost topple over from the overwhelming sensation of heat from him mixed with his intoxicating scent filling my senses, and for a moment, my vision blurs and I squeeze my eyes shut to clear the sight. Like flipping a switch, his fingers graze my chin, lightly pressing against the edges of my jaw to get my attention.

“Leon, I can’t-”

“I believe I asked you to keep these open, sweetheart.” The agent’s voice is rough in against my ear, and I can feel the vibrations from his words rumble through his chest against my back. It feels like I peel my eyes back open as they beg to remain closed, and I attempt to get my focus on the target in front of me instead of the man behind me. “Now, squeeze the trigger.”

As I do, his hips move forward against me, and I release a gasp. Focusing on keeping my eyes open. The shot rings out, not nearly as loud as I assumed without the ear protection on. Exactly like Leon said. It makes contact with the paper, inches from the paper’s bullseye. My jaw drops at the sight. I actually hit the target.

“Good girl,” he mutters, arms dropping to rest against my waist tenderly. “Told you. You were focusing on it too much.” I feel my arms relax, pointing the barrel of the gun toward the counter as I attempt to turn around to face him, but his frame is like a brick wall.

“Leon,” I begin before another intake of air comes from my chest as Leon’s lips land on the soft skin of my neck. The reaction is immediate, my hips canting back toward him as I set the gun down.

“Nuh uh, baby. Pick that back up and finish unloading the whole clip,” he breathes into the column of my throat. “Want you to get used to this stance so you’re ready for your exam.” The light kisses quickly dissolve into small nips and bites, a moan tearing from my lips as my head lolls back, resting on his shoulder. He stops immediately.

“Leon wait-”

“I told you to finish firing the clip. It’s only 14 more shots. I think you can handle it.” A breath breaks from my chest as I lean forward, arms coming back up into the position Leon had put me in, although his hands remain on my hips this time. The gun goes off again with a bang once, twice, three times, landing in similar spots as the first shot, although they are definitely getting closer to the edge of acceptable. They are hitting the target though. As I squeeze the fourth shot, the man behind me pushes his hips forward again. “Stop thinking, sweetheart.”

“You know, if you wanted to fuck me, you could have just asked me to dinner.” The words come out much more breathy than intended, and I feel like I’m waving a neon sign that says ‘I want you to fuck me’. He chuckles lowly against me, his breath tickling my ear once again.

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take that,” he admits.

“But pushing your hips into me isn’t more forward than that?” I tease. Fifth shot. Only 9 more. He shrugs.

“I came up behind you to gauge the reaction before I did that though, didn’t I?”

“And what did my reaction tell you, Agent Kennedy?” My words are much softer now as if talking louder would shatter the mood of the room, which is alight with tension.

“That you want me to fuck you silly.” Sixth shot. “Did I read that right, rookie?”

Seventh shot. I nod gently, trying not to seem eager, despite the fact that my panties are practically ruined by this point, heat gathering in my lower belly and twisting.

“Leon, can we just-” His fingers skim over the waistline of my skirt, just barely dipping below it.

“No. Not until I know you’ll pass that recertification.” He’s gone back to nipping at my neck until he finds that patch of skin where my neck meets my shoulder. A moan leaves my lips unbidden, and I can practically feel his smirk against my skin. “Go on, sweetheart.”

Eighth shot. More than halfway done. His hand drops down further into my skirt until it’s grazing across the damp spot on my panties and I feel more than hear the low groan that he releases. “Fuck, baby.” My arms go lax as his fingers draw a single circle over my clit through the delicate lace before he moves to remove his hand altogether. 

“Leon, no,” I protest as he presses his lips against my ear, intentionally using a low rumbling tone.

“Finish. Firing.” The command springs arms back up into position.

Ninth shot. Tenth shot. Eleventh shot.

“Doing so good, baby,” The praise goes straight through me, a wave of arousal leaking through the lace. Hands dropping back down to my clit, Leon pushes my panties to the side easily, swirling a finger through the wetness pooling there before bringing it up to press cruelly against my nerve endings. “Is all this for me, sweetheart?” Twelfth shot. I nod, lips pressed tightly together to muffle the squeaks and sounds attempting to leave my throat from his attention. Thirteenth shot. One more.

As I squeeze the trigger on the final shot, Leon’s fingers press into me harshly, hitting that sweet spongy part inside unintentionally and it causes a jolt in my limbs. The shot hits the wall with a pop. I hear a brief ‘tsk-tsk’ in my ear before he speaks.

“Reload.”

“But I-”

“I said, reload. You’re gonna do all fifteen again.” Dread takes over and I feel tears pool in my eyes in frustration, and Leon coos in my ear at the sight. “Oh, poor baby. You can do this.”

“Leon, please, I can’t. I need-” I gasp, setting down the gun on the counter being careful not to flag either of us. (cause gun safety is a thing).

“What do you need, baby? Tell me.” Cocky asshole.

“You.” The word is nothing but a plea.

“Aw, baby. How about I give you what you need, and then you fire off those fifteen shots? That sound like something you can do for me, pretty girl?” I nod eagerly against his shoulder before his hand is between my shoulder blades, pressing my chest to the chilly countertop.

“What about the door?” I ask, breathless and red in the face.

“I locked it when we came in here,” he mumbles as he grips the hem of my skirt and brings it up until he can see the damp lace covering me. Did he plan this? The question surfaces but before it can leave my mouth, my panties hit the floor around my ankles. “Fuck, I wanna taste you,” he whispers, more to himself than anything, but I groan in protest.

“Please just fuck me, Leon,” I practically beg, impatience leaking from my pores at this point.

“I don’t know babe, I’m kinda hungry,” he says, and I don’t need to turn around to know his signature smirk is plastered on his face.

“I will let you later, I promise. I need you right now. Inside.” His chest presses to my back, bringing his mouth close enough to hear him as he speaks.

“Later? You saying you want more than just this?” The clinking of his belt is audible over my heavy breathing because of course, I’m the only one out of breath. I nod. “I wanna hear it, sweetheart.”

“Yeah. I like you,” I start, arms splayed out flat over the top of the counter, fingers searching for purchase.

“Maybe we should get dinner after this then?” He asks, still smiling. I nod.

“Fucking finally,” I mutter and upon hearing this, Leon laughs. Not a deep chuckle, not a teasing sound, a real laugh. An almost embarrassed laugh. Hands finding my waist and giving them a reassuring squeeze.

“Took my time with it, didn’t I?” He asks, and I can hear the nerves in his tone. He’s embarrassed. Like, really truly embarrassed.

“Yeah, you sure di-” The words are cut off as he presses the head against my entrance, dipping the tip in for the briefest of seconds before pulling out and repeating the process. It feels like hours of this torture, his teasing thrusts and slight grazes over my clit before he finally, finally, slides in to the hilt, bottoming out in one stroke. We both release groans at the sensation of my walls molding to accommodate his length, twitching, and spasming as I tighten unconsciously.

“Holy shit, pretty girl, I wasn’t expecting you to be this tight,” he growls into my spine, hunched over my frame as he collects himself. When he does, he leans back, hands moving from my hips to grasp my shoulders, bringing my front away from the surface til I’m practically upright, his cock still nestled snuggly in my heat.

“What are you-”

“Now, reload the gun.” His tone sends a wave of slick down around his length, and he rumbles a groan against my collarbone.

“What-”

“I told you that you were gonna fire off those fifteen shots.” My hands shake as I grasp the glock in my hands, reloading and then trying and failing to return to my stance, so I opt to just position my arms correctly. “Good girl.”

My finger in place, I take a deep steadying breath squeezing. Leon pulls his hips back and slams back home as the shot rings out, and I stop a scream from ripping free as my hands fly back to the counter.

“Lee, you can’t just do that.” The words come out as more of a moan than actual words, the syllables slurring together like a girl who’s had one too many drinks.

“Yet you still hit the target,” he says proudly. I look up and notice that there are fifteen holes in the paper. Sixteen total shots were taken and only one missed. Shit if I had known this is how to get good at shooting, I would have asked sooner. “Come on. You got fourteen more, sweetheart.”

The other shots follow the same routine as the first.

Shot.

Thrust.

Praise.

By the time I’m on the last three shots, my whole body feels like it’s on fire, every inch covered in sweat from his punishing thrusts, tears dripping from my eyes.

“You are doing so good, baby. Three more.” He sounds as wrecked as I feel, voice gravelly against my pulse. His hands grip beneath my elbows again, pressing them back into the correct form. “You are so close.”

The bullet hits the paper with an audible pop. His cock slams back into me, tip hitting my cervix hard enough that I’m pretty sure it’ll be bruised. Broken moans fall from my dry lips, mouth feeling akin to sandpaper.

“Good job, baby. Two more.”

“Please just come for me Leon, I can’t anymore,” My arms droop, barely able to hold the weight of the gun that I’ve grown used to by this point.

“Come on, you can do this. It’s just two more shots. You are doing so well,” he reassures before sinking his teeth into my skin, leaving a plethora of bruises and marks across the tender flesh. 

“What if I miss?” I ask, anxiety poking through, mind locked on how he stopped last time.

“I won’t stop this time. You’ve more than made up for the shot you missed earlier.” I sigh in relief. Forcing my arms back up, I try to steady myself before Leon’s fingers find my clit and I squeal, completely losing my aim due to the tight circles he’s rubbing. “Take the shot, baby.”

I fire, bullet catching the edge of the bullseye and I feel a swell of pride before Leon presses a deep thrust accompanied by a swirl on my clit, and his name spills from my lips as a plea.

“Please come for me, please.”

“Tell you what, if you get a bullseye, then I’ll cream this little pussy, how’s that sound, baby?” The pace of his fingers doesn’t change, and I can really only nod, mind barely able to remember why we were in here in the first place.

Taking aim. Deep breath. Squeeze.

The bullet lands dead in the middle of the red target. I practically drop the gun from my fingers, relief overtaking my senses.

“Atta girl,” Leon groans, pressing my frame onto the counter as he picks up speed to a fast pace, leaning down to crowd against me. My fingers reach up behind me, bent at the elbows, to cling to his hair that grazes against my temple as my eyes squeeze shut. His name is a broken sound coming from my lips as the coil in my gut tightens with each twirl of his fingers and each pass of his tip against my sweet spot. “Open your eyes when you come for me, rookie.”

Most of his words are just a jumble as the coil snaps and a scream rips from my already sore throat, but I can make out a ‘good girl’ and ‘creaming my cock so good, gorgeous’ here and there through the haze of my orgasm. It takes a few more thrusts before Leon groans and curses, lips pressed to my spine as he spills himself inside my still-spasming hole.

It takes a few moments for us to move again, deep breaths the only audible sound in the silent room. He’s the first to move (him and his damn stamina), sitting up to stand before slowly pulling his length out, watching as his seed trickles out slowly and groaning at the sight. Leon reaches down, pulling my panties back up and adjusting them into place tenderly, mindful of the soreness he had no doubt was blooming. With a small tug and some slight wobbling on my end, Leon helps me into a standing position facing him now, small of my back barely resting against the edge of the counter as his hands hold me steady.

“You alright?” He asks, and I giggle and smile in response, leaning my face forward into his shoulder. He chuckles to himself, pressing a kiss to my hair. “I mean it, you okay?”

“Mhm. I’m good. You owe me dinner though.”

“Of course, need me to carry you?” I nod through a wave of sleepiness.

“Wait,” I say, hands on his chest as he looks at me, blue eyes shining with concern. “Can you kiss me?” I ask, shyness returning full force, and he laughs again. In favor of answering, he leans forward, pressing his lips against mine in a sweet, tender kiss. His lips are dry, as evidence of our exertion. We pull back from the kiss with dumb smiles decorating our faces, and he pulls my skirt down to cover my panties, planting another quick kiss on my mouth.

“So where do you want to go to eat?”

I step out into the hallway, flat shoes making far less noise than my usual heels. Leon looks at me expectantly.

“So?” I skip up to him, lips finding his as my arms wrap around his broad shoulders. Pulling back, I shoot him a smile before speaking.

“Guess who just passed her firearm recertification with flying colors?” I tease.

“Nice! See? I told you, cakewalk.”

Tags: @house-of-kolchek

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon x reader #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy smut

[roo-bastmoon]

IMPORTANT INFO: issues around Jimin’s album

I have an ARMY friend (who shall remain safely anonymous) who works in film production for the music and entertainment industry here in the US. They offered me some valuable insights today into production limitations and possible issues related to Jimin’s solo album.

Below the cut is a transcript of their messages to me. I share this in the hopes it better informs our discussions around fair treatment of BTS members’ releases. It is by no means a definitive account of Jimin’s situation—simply an insider’s ideas on what likely happened around a few things.

I understand there are very big feelings about this topic, especially with the apparent differences around JK’s single, and I appreciate everyone’s viewpoints. However, if you choose to interact with this post, you will be respectful to others (including members) or you will be blocked. You are always welcome to DM me privately if you need to vent—we are all human and we all need a bit of grace, so you’ll always have that with me.

Sending you guys so much love, Roo

Anonymous Insider

Some “light reading” while you’re resting up and recovering, lol. This is all just based on what I’ve been watching and seen. Of course, I don’t have access to their production budget sheet and Korea works very differently than the US when it comes to production, but this what I’ve been seeing when it comes to their videos and particularly the promotions for FACE.

(I’m sending in sections, lol)

Alrighty - I’m still like deep in edit-land (still am two days later 😭) but I started typing this on the train between meetings, ha ha. (And am still on the train doing this, lol.) Also this rambles a bit I’m sorry! So the first thing I did was go back to the interview where Jimin talked about the music videos — it was a Japanese TV show and he’s talking with a host in Korean.

He’s talking about “wanting to do it all,” laughs and says, “I wanted all the music videos” and that “they” (the company assuming) said “무리다” which has its roots in the word 무리 which means a herd, a party, a group — basically “it’s too much,” “it’s unreasonable,” and “it’s impossible” are decent translations as it refers to something or an idea being “too much” — then the host and Jimin burst out laughing and the host goes “서리와 무리다” which I read as “sorry (in konglish) but we can’t” and they continue to laugh. So based on that —it sounds very understandable.

We can imagine Jimin sitting down with his team and planning out SMFP2 and LC videos, with the 30 dancers and all the party scene extras, and then Jimin saying he wants to do the music shows with 6 different sets in rented locations so they could have total control. And if Jimin in that process went “what if we made official music videos for all of them?” the team would understandably go “that’s just not reasonable!” 1) because it would give Jimin a budget no other member had gotten and 2) there aren’t that many production houses in Korea. It’s a very small scene — it may just logistically not been possible. There aren’t enough DPs and crew and editors. Sometimes, as a producer, you have to tell your creative talent “I’m sorry, but no.” — I say it every week!

So what about the music videos? Well, here’s what I know from meticulously watching all the behind the scenes for BTS videos over the years. They work with a small team. They likely own a good deal of the gear — they shoot mainly on RED cameras and heavy expensive Cooke lenses (which you can’t get this stuff easily in Korea. I lost a lens cap for a Canon CINÉ Lens in Seoul and it was like this whole big deal because getting gear there is an import challenge but anyways) they use MOVI and Ronin gimbal stabilizers and Jimmy Rigs a lot.

Recently they’ve been using technocranes but I wonder how many technocranes there are in Seoul. As I said, they likely own a lot of this gear which can help with costs. But we’ve also been told — and I’ve heard through my industry friends — that Hybe PAYS. And in Korea there’s no unions in the entertainment world, and often the rates are shit (hence Netflix investing so much there - blerg) their standard work week is also already 12 hours longer than the US. It’s a whole thing. and they spend so much money on sets. It’s incredible.

They rent these huge spaces outside Seoul and BUILD — I mean the build out for SMFP2 was astounding. They easily dropped 1million on that video. The rigging, the build-out, the custom set and the custom camera rigs to achieve the 360 shots - the drone shots. They’re astounding videos. No US label is spending that money on videos these day. Absolutely none of them are — my friend recently produced a video for John Legend. They were trying to pull the whole thing off for $100K which is ridiculous. It’s really almost impossible.  

But on the Big videos they spend a lot of money, but they also produce a lot of other stuff too (and these are often looked at as Performance Videos vs all-caps MUSIC VIDEOS) -— like RM’s video shoot at DIA Beacon… that was a much smaller, fairly single camera shoot — all shot on drones or a MOVI handheld rig. No set, they also didn’t like pay for the set because DIA: Beacon is an art museum — and similar a little bit to Letter for Jimin, which was much smaller set and easy in-house gear.

(And it was also released on Bangtan TV channel vs Hybe Labels Channel, which is a good indicator of how they categorize these shoots.) But the big videos, they go for broke. I mean they spend so much money and again they may own a lot of the equipment but there’s still so much people-power and labor involved. Take the dancers’ rehearsals. You have to pay people for all that — you have to pay them for the weeks of rehearsal, you have to pay them to be in a video. It is so expensive — like, I would not be able to budget that video for under 1 million, that’s how much it costs.  

So then Jimin wanted to do music shows —- and so because he’s Jimin and it’s BTS, Hybe rented larger venues and locations for all of the shoots. None of them use the actual Broadcast spaces or were provided by the broadcast studios. The smaller companies do though — remember when BTS first started out they went to SBS to film on the day? — but they don’t do that anymore. They rent huge facilities so that they could be a mini concerts for ARMYs to visit with Jimin and see him.

They also have to do this kind of outside of the city and they built huge sets because they’re going to want to show off if they’re gonna be on TV but that is so expensive. (I don’t think you were an ARMY then, but when ON was released, at the time it was the “biggest broadcast performance ever” and they keep upping that ante for sure!) It’s possible the broadcast companies spend some money but what BTS is doing is so outside the usual budget and given the tension with the broadcasters and HYBE — they (Hybe) wants control of their products, and so I think they pay for that control.

I can’t imagine they got out of any of those days for under $500K; I mean, there were two different sets, all the crew; they’re paying for all of it. We add it up and they probably spent close to $3-5 million between Jimin’s music videos and his music show performances, and I would be understandably like: “That’s it!” Like, that’s the budget for an EP, you know.

I don’t think Jimin could have it all because that wasn’t the case for the other members. RM got to lead videos and J Hope had pyrotechnics, which definitely costs money and safety and insurance. You know he had visual effects his first video (a lotta visual effects) and again a lot of challenging technocrane work, but I haven’t really seen them build something on the scale of what they built for SMFP2 in a very long time (or ever?).

We heard from the Art Dept that Jimin did not want to shoot on blue screen, so they built the set for him. This cannot be the same label that is shafting him — that allows him to spend that amount of money just because the artist said “I want to shoot in a real space!” because I’m gonna be completely honest— he could’ve done that on a blue screen — I’m glad they built a real world because BTS almost always shoots on Blue/Green Screen. They build him a huge set like that. It’s absolutely incredible.

I was also reminded this morning that people are talking about radio for Like Crazy and not supporting the song — and I just keep thinking that they did exact rollout for Butter, Dynamite, and Permission to Dance. They released Like Crazy. It had both a Korean version and English version. (Obviously that wasn’t the case for the English BTS songs.) They released two additional remixes. Then they kept releasing, like, alternate cover versions — alternate covers of the main remix, alternate cover the other remix. They were trying to maximize the direct-to-consumer store and exact same way they had tried to maximize it with Dynamite and Butter and Permission to Dance.

The way you were buying Like Crazy was the same process I took on Dynamite. They did the exact same playbook. So the fact that they were unable to get the kind of radio play they wanted or maybe they weren’t prioritizing radio because they knew that they were gonna have a better chance at direct to consumer sales... Maybe they didn’t want to fight radio. Maybe Geffen was like “We don’t have the right ‘Ins’ yet!” — I’m not sure, but the fact that they got completely screwed over by Billboard doesn’t mean that they weren’t actually rolling it out in that way, because as soon as they started doing the whole alternate cover thing, I was like: “Well, they clearly want us to try to go for number one!” You know, “They clearly think that they are going to be able to get number one on the hot 100 and we’re gonna use these sales to do that!” And clearly that’s all changed now.

They keep changing the rules on us, so — with JK, they’re obviously trying to, you know, use whatever tools they have available to them at this point.

Finally, when it comes to restocking the digital single CD. There are still albums available in the store. So why would they manufacture and ship more (likely thrown away) plastic that’s just for one song, when those CD singles only serve to raise sales for the charts? All of the other member’s CD singles are out of stock except The Astronaut, which they treated more like a proper album a bit (kinda like the Butter CD releases). Because they still have both versions of his full albums in stock, so if I were Hybe, I’d be like “No,you need to buy the album, we still have albums, we’re not going to sell you a single song when you can buy the album!” That makes more sense to me. The albums cost more.

TL:DR, haha — so I feel like this narrative around Jimin’s release has been ramped up because, from my professional opinion, he’s had the most expensive release so far (by far) and if we want to compare him to, say, Beyoncé — well she owns her own production company (Parkwood Entertainment), so she can funnel her own money into a Visual Album, I don’t know if Jimin has considered that at this point in his career, but in the future, he might!

((Not including costs for Suga’s tour because that’s a whole other thing, and the tour probably made money I would expect to balance out the cost of the tour itself))

Anonymous Insider

This isn’t to say that the other things, the part where he didn’t get the cake celebration, or the posts, the issues with the linking and this general feeling that Jimin was short-changed in these things isn’t valid and understandable. I think Hybe relied too much on D2C sales and I don’t think they leveraged their might as much as could have for JM. They could have risked more for him.

{This is an end of Anonymous Insider’s messages to me. They noted that they are an intermediate non-native Korean speaker so please excuse any translation errors. They translated things themselves using Naver tools that aligned with the video subtitles.}

So, listen, I still don’t think Like Crazy was sent/promoted to radio (which was a mistake and still is a mistake) and I am furious at the shady articles and lack of celebration for Jimin…

But after reading the way the members approach their work in the Beyond the Story book and now hearing from someone who produces these works for a living, I have to wonder if the company was doing everything they knew how to do for Jimin, but the second it didn’t work out because of the western music industry culling streams and sales, they pulled back all their resources and pivoted for Yoongi and JK. (I also wonder if leadership shut up about it all due to liability issues, or not to cause bad blood with the music industry for future releases.)

Again, I’ll never forgive the lack of celebration and the split streams (not without a great explanation), but at least now I think there’s a good chance no one was actively trying to sabotage Jimin on purpose. They seemed to have wanted that #1 and then it all went to shit because Billboard and radio want to get paid. Maybe leadership decided not to put any more resources into Face but instead pivot for all the future music coming out (including PJM2.)

Perhaps I'm a cockeyed optimist. I’m just hoping like hell they never engage in payola. I want all our boys to win, but I want us to win fairly. And even if everyone cannot have the same investment every time on every project, I hope when they come back together in 2025 that everyone feels good about their solo works and each other. This is my prayer. Love, Roo

#jimin #jungkook #jikook #bts #face by jimin #set me free pt 2 #like crazy by jimin

[wambsgansshoelaces]

okay so last night i had this horrible bad bad bad no good panic/anxiety attack and like . i went through IT . was really bad , shaking so hard my teeth clattered , barely breathing , etc . so maybe could I get succession characters helping a so who has a panic/anxiety attack and grounding them? tysm 💐

~ 🦈

I’m really sorry that happened to you anon :( I hope you’re feeling much much better now!!! If you ever need to talk, you got me <3 I love u thank u for requesting, enjoy xx

panic attack (succession main cast)

Kendall

ᝰ he’s obviously had his fair share of panic attacks

ᝰ while he’s not really sure what’ll work for you specifically, he does his best to do things he wishes people did for him when he’d have attacks

ᝰ he has a few tricks up his sleeve, anyway

ᝰ when he first realizes you’re having one, he gets an ice cube

ᝰ and tells you to put it in your mouth and just leave it there

ᝰ “it helps your brain distract itself from its own meltdown,” he tells you softly

ᝰ all the while stroking your hair, your cheeks, your brow, whatever he can tell soothes you the most

ᝰ you suck on the ice cube until it melts

ᝰ and surprisingly enough, you’ve calmed down

ᝰ yes you’re still extremely anxious, but your breathing’s been regulated, your heart rate back to normal

ᝰ kendall coaxes you into a cuddle on the couch

ᝰhis fingers run through your hair over and over

ᝰ he’s just trying to bring you down from that bad high

ᝰ and he’s doing well

ᝰ he murmurs soft words to you

ᝰ and tries to get to the root of the issue

ᝰ “what caused all this, do you know?”

ᝰ you don’t have an answer

ᝰ but that’s okay

ᝰ he’ll take care of you regardless

ᝰ because you mean the world to him

ᝰ and if he can do anything to make you happy, he’ll do it

ᝰ you make him the happiest man to walk the earth

Roman

ᝰ is also a panic attack veteran

ᝰ kind of freezes the first time you have one in front of him

ᝰ but he snaps out of it immediately

ᝰ makes you lay down in bed while he runs to the bathroom

ᝰ he comes back with a cool washcloth and slaps it onto your face

ᝰ “roman!”

ᝰ “sorry, i didn’t think it’d go so hard!”

ᝰ you laugh

ᝰ but like you’re still having a panic attack

ᝰ he’s sat next to you, and rubs gentle circles into your cheeks and forehead with the washcloth

ᝰ the cool water helps soothe you as it seeps into your skin

ᝰ you calm down

ᝰ you’ve exhausted yourself

ᝰ once roman’s sure you’re not stressing the fuck out, he takes the washcloth and sets it on his side table

ᝰ he lays down with you and pulls you close to him

ᝰ “i’m tired, and i won’t be able to sleep unless you take a nap with me,” he states

ᝰ he sets your head on his chest

ᝰ and peppers kisses over your scalp

ᝰ he’s not even a little bit tired

ᝰ he just wants you to sleep and reset

ᝰ cheek smushed into his pec, you doze off

ᝰ he’s so happy, just having you here with him

ᝰ you’re safe when you’re with him

ᝰ and he’s safe when he’s with you

ᝰ he’s so warm and cuddly with you

ᝰ and you love it

Shiv

ᝰ if she’s ever had a panic attack, she’s never let you see it

ᝰ or anyone

ᝰ but when you have one in front of her, she can’t just let it happen

ᝰ she takes your face in her hands and makes you breathe

ᝰ “you’re going to do it just like me, okay?” she asks softly, eyes searching yours

ᝰ helps you box breathe

ᝰ “four cycles, babe, come on,” she encourages

ᝰ in four, hold four, out four, hold four

ᝰ “that’s it. you’re doing so well,” she coos

ᝰ within minutes she has you back to normal

ᝰ you don’t say anything, just hug her tight with your chin set on her shoulder

ᝰ “wanna talk about it?” she asks

ᝰ she’s there whether you do or you don’t

ᝰ if you do, she sits, she listens, and she does her absolute best to help

ᝰ and even if she can’t solve the issue itself, she’ll do everything in her power to make you feel better

ᝰ she goes out a bit later, not telling you where she’s going

ᝰ she returns with a banana split from dairy queen

ᝰ you share it, you perched on the kitchen counter, her standing in front of you

ᝰ your legs tangle together as you eat

ᝰ you end up getting a bit of whipped cream on the corner of your mouth

ᝰ“you’re so messy,” she says lightheartedly

ᝰ“what? look who’s talking,” you say back, wiping ice cream from her chin

ᝰ“i don’t know how that got there,” she mutters

ᝰ she lets you have the cherry

ᝰ she knows you love it

ᝰ but she loves it too

ᝰ so she kisses you, savoring the taste of the cherry

ᝰ but mostly just the taste of you

Tom

ᝰ well read wambsgans strikes again

ᝰ he realizes you have a panic attack oncoming and sits you down in a chair

ᝰ he keeps a hand on your shoulder and quietly talks you through it

ᝰ when your breathing begins to get erratic, he begins asking you questions so that you ground yourself

ᝰ “can you name three objects you can see in the kitchen?”

ᝰ “i, ah, the blender, the, um, coffee machine, and that stupid looking mug of yours,” you manage, referring to his ‘world’s best grandma’ mug he’d gotten in a white elephant thing at work

ᝰ “there you are. how about three things you smell?”

ᝰ he’s smiling softly at you, hand now pushing back hair from your face

ᝰ you inhale deeply, grounding yourself

ᝰ just as he’d intended

ᝰ “your cologne… i still kind of smell dinner? and…”

ᝰ at a loss, you lean forward and sniff

ᝰ “…laundry detergent,” you say after giving his shirt a sniff

ᝰ “you’re a cheater,” he says, despite his smile

ᝰ “oh, well,” you reply, smiling up at him

ᝰ he kisses your forehead

ᝰ “want to move to bed?” he asks

ᝰ “please.”

ᝰ before you know it, the two of you are curled together, the blankets and duvets bringing you comfort

ᝰ he brings you comfort

ᝰ he’s scratching gently at the nape of your neck, your head pressed into the crook of his

ᝰ you press lazy kisses to the skin under your mouth

ᝰ you fall asleep, a tangle of limbs, the sheets warm with affection

Greg

ᝰ lowkey is also having a panic attack

ᝰ but not really

ᝰ he pulls himself together for you

ᝰ he’s not really sure what to do

ᝰ so he googles it

ᝰ “hey, hey. close your eyes, and, uh, i’ll count to five, and you’ll breathe in through your nose, okay?”

ᝰ not really sure what this’ll do for you, but trusting him, you oblige him

ᝰ “exhale through your mouth, now.”

ᝰ after a few cycles, you’re feeling a bit better

ᝰ you’re still anxious, but it’s not suffocating you anymore

ᝰ “go sit, i’ll get ice cream,” he tells you

ᝰ when he comes back to sit next to you on the couch, he has a pint of your favorite ice cream in his hands and two spoons

ᝰ his arm goes around you and gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze

ᝰ the two of you end up finishing the pint

ᝰ he talks about everything to take your mind off of whatever it was that was stressing you out

ᝰ eventually, your brow isn’t furrowed, your features aren’t tense

ᝰ he kisses your cheeks

ᝰ “are you feeling good? better, at least?”

ᝰ you are

ᝰ you’re finally at peace again

ᝰ you spend the rest of the night watching a favorite show of greg’s

ᝰ you love sitting there listening to him talk about why he enjoys it so much

ᝰ he tells you that he’ll enjoy it better when you watch it with him

ᝰ because the first time around, all he could think of was you and whether you would like it

ᝰ you’re all that’s on his mind

ᝰ ever

Stewy

ᝰ this man is a masterclass in calm

ᝰ “hey, baby, take a breath,” he tells you, one hand brace on your stomach, the other on the small of your back

ᝰ when you clearly do not take a good breath, he changes tactics

ᝰ the hand on your stomach moves to take your own hand

ᝰ the one on your back begins rubbing in circles

ᝰ “i really want to go on a walk,” he tells you, “and i really, really, want you to come with me.”

ᝰ you know he’s lying

ᝰ but you go with him anyway

ᝰ the fresh air helps you

ᝰ and just moving around helps clear your head

ᝰ eventually, you’ve calmed down a bit

ᝰ your breath is still stuttering and tears are welling in your eyes

ᝰ stewy still has your fingers intertwined with his

ᝰ his eyes never leave your face

ᝰ he reaches over and thumbs away your tears

ᝰ “you know, i think we’re on time to watch the sun set,” he tells you, eyes twinkling

ᝰ you end up at a nearby park

ᝰ he pulls you onto a bench overlooking empty meadows

ᝰ his arm loops around you and he lets you lean against him

ᝰ your arms wind around his wast, your fingers fiddling with his belt loop

ᝰ he dots kisses all over your head as the sky melts into pinks and oranges

ᝰ “so gorgeous,” you whisper, the colors blending and swirling together before your eyes

ᝰ “not as much as you,” he murmurs back

ᝰ “cheese ball,” you say happily

ᝰ “you know you love me.”

ᝰ “i do. very much.”

#succession headcanons #kendall Roy #kendall roy x reader #roman roy #roman roy x reader #siobhan roy #siobhan roy x reader #tom wambsgans #tom wambsgans x reader #gregory hirsch #gregory hirsch x reader #stewy hosseini #stewy hosseini x reader #succession #succession hbo #wambsgansshoelaces #succession x reader #anon ask

[sithbvcky]

Gimme Shelter: Part Two

70s gangster bucky barnes x fem!reader au. Warnings: mature themes, drug use, alcohol, guns, blood, violence and nudity.

Synopsis: James "Bucky" Barnes, better known by his fearsome moniker, The Winter Soldier. It's Los Angeles in 1977 and only one man owns the city. Until someone decides to challenge the king for his throne.

Part One

Note: I do not give permission for my work to copied or translated anywhere else but this blog.

The Roxy was packed. When you and Bucky pulled up in his Rolls Royce, there was a line of people down and around the corner waiting to get in. Bucky stepped out first and extended his arm to you to help you out. Immediately you felt eyes on you from the people around. Some might've seen Bucky before and assumed he was someone important. Some might know exactly who he is. You could always tell by the gaze. If they stared in awe, they had no idea. If they averted their gaze, they knew. It kind of made you feel good. Knowing how much power he radiated just by walking into a club was intoxicating.

Music was beckoning you inside from the front door and Bucky didn't like lallygagging. The bouncer at the door shook Bucky's hand and unhooked the velvet rope to let you both in.

Being Bucky's girl had its perks. Free drinks, complimentary appetizers and the best seat in the house. Natasha was waiting for you in the VIP booth, dressed in a black dress that clung to her curves and showed off her cleavage.

"There's my girl." She winked as she saw you and Bucky approaching. She gave you a warm hug admiring the emerald green satin dress you chose for the evening. Nat gave Bucky a nod,

"Steve and Sam are stationed as you requested. There's been no activity so far." Natasha told him, leaning closer so she didn't have to shout over the music. Bucky nodded,

"You keep Y/N company. I'm gonna make the rounds." Bucky turned his attention to you, he squeezed your hand and placed a kiss on your forehead.

"Be right back, babe." He smiled, and left you in Nat's company. You watched as he melted into the crowd of people, shaking hands and sharing laughs with men you assumed were clients of his.

Nat lightly touched your shoulder,

"Come sit with me, I got us a bottle of wine to share." She gestured to the bottle that sat in a bucket of ice on the small table.

"Oh you know me well." You beamed, eagerly taking a seat on the red velvet lounge. Natasha opened the bottle and poured you both a glass.

"Cheers!"

Bucky had disappeared from view so you gave up trying to spot him in the crowd of party goers.

"Don't worry. He's a pro." Natasha placed a hand on your thigh gently. You forced a smile and took a swig from your glass. You knew he was good at his job but you couldn't help but be nervous for him when he wasn't in your line of sight. As long as you saw him you at least could see proof everything was fine.

You remembered the nights he would come home bleeding and bruised. Scaring you half to death but he would always flash that charming smile, like he felt no pain, and he'd let you help him clean himself up and act like nothing happened.

To be fair you knew what you signed up for when you agreed to go out with him. He didn't pull his punches and you knew that before you insisted to come along anyways.

You were here to have a good time and enjoy yourself. It was best to not act like you were waiting for something to happen, so you downed the rest of your glass and stood up.

"Come on, Nat. I wanna dance!" You grabbed her hand and dragged her off the lounge, down the stairs leading to the VIP area and out into the dance floor. You joined the other dancers throwing your hands in the air and swaying your hips.

"You know Barnes isn't gonna like this." Natasha whispered in your ear as she danced.

"He can come to me if he's got an issue. No use waiting for the other shoe to drop." You brushed off her warning and kept going. Letting yourself feel the beat and let loose. As long as Nat was with you he wouldn't get mad. And if he did give her trouble you would be her defender.

You were having a great time dancing and laughing with Natasha when the song changed to something slow and you saw couples gathering together. Nat took your hand and went to lead you away from the dance floor when a man bumped into you.

"Oh, I'm sorry I didn't see you there." He apologized. You looked up to see a slender man with dark hair and a well trimmed beard. Nat still held your hand and her grip was getting tighter.

"No harm done." You moved to step around him when he blocked your exit.

"I really do apologize, can I make it up to you? A dance perhaps?" He was charming but in a sleazy sort of way that made your skin crawl.

"Really it's fine." You smiled politely.

"Are you sure? I promise not to step on any toes." You didn't like the way he said that last sentence and Nat clearly didn't either.

"If you don't get out of the way I'll make you." Her voice was harsh and the man looked at her as if he was shocked at her temper.

"Apologies, ladies. I meant no harm." He threw his hands up in surrender and backed away allowing Natasha to continue leading you back to the lounge.

Nat poured you both another glass of wine but you could tell she was on alert. Something about that man didn't feel right, the way he spoke like he knew who you were gave you the chills.

"What's wrong?" You asked looking at Nat who was laser focused on the the people on the dance floor.

"Nothing, don't worry." Her eyes were scanning the room, probably looking for Sam or Steve. Bucky no doubt was in some back room talking business. She made a signal with her hand and a moment later Sam arrived.

"Hey, foxy." He winked at you and you smiled. Sam always had a lighthearted air to him and you appreciated his presence.

"What's the deal, Tasha?" He asked.

"Where's Barnes?" She inquired.

"In the back with the owner talking shop. Why?" Sam answered.

"I think our bogey arrived." She said with an edge. Sam turned to look around the room,

"Where is he?"

"Tall, dark hair and a clean cut beard. He interrupted us on the dance floor." Nat replied. Sam whipped his head back to you.

"Are you alright?" He questioned. You nodded,

"I'm fine he was just persistent and it felt like he might've known who I was." Sam furrowed his brows,

"What do you mean? What did he say?"

"Nothing specific. It was just a feeling I got." you insisted.

Sam sighed, "I'll have Steve get Buck. He's not gonna like this and it might be best you get Y/N out of here."

"Wait, no I don't wanna leave!" You protested.

"You're Bucky's girl and this man stepped to you without him around, Bucky ain't gonna like that especially because he was clear about your safety." Sam stated.

"I know, I know. Can you leave that part out, I don't want things to get ugly." You looked at Sam, ready to beg if you had to. You were asking him to lie to his boss and that wouldn't go well either if Bucky found out. But you could handle that. You really just wanted this night to be normal, for once. Sam looked to Natasha and sighed.

"Fine. I won't mention you, I'll tell him Nat spotted him and that's it. Ok?"

"Thank you." You squeezed Sam's hand,

"Yeah, yeah you better cover my ass if he finds out I lied for you."

"Count on me." You promised. Sam turned and left you and Nat alone again.

You took a sip from your wine glass and waited for Bucky to reappear and ask you to leave. It didn't take long, you saw him striding for you and parting the sea of people as he went. His face was riddled with anger and he climbed up the stairs to you.

"Where is he?" His question was directed at Nat.

"Last I saw he was on the dance floor." She lied, but only partially. Bucky ran a hand through his hair, the other on his hip.

"Babe, come sit down. Let's think this through." You patted the seat next to you. Bucky looked down at you as if he was debating his next move, the song changed again and a waiter came up the stairs with a drink in his hand.

"A drink for you, Miss." he placed it down in front of you.

"I didn't order anything." You said, confused.

"Oh, it's from an admirer." The waiter said. Bucky grabbed the waiter by the collar. You jumped to your feet, your hands gripping Bucky's biceps in a feeble attempt to stop him. Nat stood as well but she knew not to interfere.

"Who sent it!" He growled.

"Bucky!" You shouted as the chorus of the song blasted in your ears.

She's crazy like a fool

"I-I don't know, Sir!" The waiter stuttered. Bucky shook him, gripping his collar tighter.

What about Daddy Cool

"Don't fuckin lie, tell me the name!" Bucky yelled.

I'm crazy like a fool

"I don't know, man I swear! All he left was this card! That's all I know!" The waiter whimpered. Underneath the glass was a white card with the initials T.S. Bucky dropped the waiter and the boy scurried away, tripping down the stairs as he went. You looked at him as he was seething with rage. He crumbled the paper in his fist and was seconds away from smashing the drink onto the floor when you tugged on his arm again.

Bucky smoothed his hair and his jacket, taking out a cigarette and lighting it quickly.

"Nat, you take her to the back and don't you fuckin come out until I say so." He commanded.

"Bucky, please!" You protested. He took a drag from the cigarette and shook his head.

"No. I'm taking no chances." He stated, he gripped your face and placed a harsh kiss on your lips.

"Do this for me, doll. Please."

You knew there was no arguing with him. So you went with Nat, you turned back to look at him and he blew you a kiss, you reached out your hand and caught it tightly in your fist. He straightened his hair, the cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth as he turned around. Last thing you saw was his broad back disappearing into the crowd.

What about Daddy Cool

#bucky barnes #sebastianstan #sebastian stan #buckybarnes #buckybarnesau #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #winter soldier fanfic #winter soldier fanfiction #marvel fanfic series #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #marvel #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #sam wilson #tony stark

[jeonwonwoo]

— what’s up guys 😭 i just wanted to share my own little two cents on some colouring trends i’ve seen lately (particularly for kpop gifs!) which includes really distorted pink/red hues for skintones or oversaturated yellows so maybe i could give some tips that also helped me in the past!!

and of course because i love to talk a lot — this is a very long and image heavy tutorial...

❓ why is it an issue? i think its a very clear given that whitewashing is wrong and problematic for a vast number of reasons (with a history steeped in colourism and racism) and how there’s no excuse for changing the skintone of a person-of-colour.

— but with that said i want to make it clear that this is not an accusatory post! i’m not jumping on any one content creator or tumblr user to call them racist or colourist or a bigot 😭 and i don’t want to accuse anyone of having bad intentions with their gifs or images that they post! i really just want this to be a helpful post for anyone who is struggling to colour their gifs properly and more of a learning step instead of a call-out! 

however pink-washing (i’m aware there is another definition for this term but i’m referring to washing out a skintone to make it red-pink) and yellow-washing are equally as wrong! and they are also easily avoidable!! 

in the past it was a commonly held (and incorrect) belief that european people (a term i’m going to use broadly for non-poc) had a ‘fair’ and ‘pink’ undertone to their skin [and it was an encouraged beauty standard to try and emulate that fair pale pink skin] while asian people (particularly east asian ethnicities) had ‘yellow’ skin (as seen in racist caricatures and a plethora of terrible and outdated race theories).

thus pink-washing and yellow-washing both embrace two extreme ends of the scale and it’s simply better and more respectful to try and maintain the skintone of the idol in your gifs! there are deeper contextual explanations of this if you would like to learn more!

❓ identifying pink/yellow gifs

let’s start with recognising what colouring is a no-go ❌ if you’re a gifmaker you’re probably fighting a battle on two fronts — against the whitewashing music shows and then the struggle to restore skin colour without turning the dial up so much that you’ve changed their entire skintone.

for this example below i found a kpop psd posted recently (in the past few months actually) and applied it to a basic bright-lighting sort of facecam. 

the original facecam has no heavy stage lighting (as stages can often have really strong red or pink lights that also darken the colours) so it’s an easy one to follow along with.

the gif on the left has only a basic curves layer while the gif on the right has the added kpop psd on it. it’s a very stark difference in jungwon’s skintone and i would definitely classify this as an unnatural skin tone.

following a selective colour layer (to subtly increase the warm tones of his skin) / a photo filter (to counter the pale blue sort of lighting) and a colour balance - we can end up with a product like this.

now of course, this is only a very simple sort of colouring. and everyone has different colouring styles so you can go bonkers with all the colour manipulation for the blues and greens and purples as you like!

but what if the stage is just naturally red? 

may i introduce you to the dreaded seventeen stages during face the sun era then 😭

as you can see there is already a very heavy sort of pink-red cast on his skin (that only gradually got worse as the stage started because of those damn lights and shadows 😭) but we can easily work around them!

so here’s our stage lighting with no adjustments 

and now even though we got rid of the pink-tone it’s been replaced with a very strong yellow. (you might think i’m exaggerating out here but there are unfortunately a mite too many gifs like this). jeonghan’s skin (not to mention the members in the back) have been dialled up to a wasp yellow.

and unfortunately (at least in my experiences) there have been quite a few of the below instances (especially for this stage) so ultimately it is all about finding the right balance between getting rid of the harsh, unsaturated lighting while also bringing back warmth to the skintone while ALSO not giving the idols a spray-tan.

❓ so what can i do?

well i’m glad you asked! let’s go back to the jeonghan example we just used. here’s the stage gif once more without any adjustments or layers.

now i’ll add a simple curves layer (to even out the general lighting) and we end up with this. it’s obviously much better. the red-brown cast has no become darker creating a greater contrast with jeonghan’s skintone versus his black and white outfit! it’s a nicer gif overall but i want to bring out his skintone ever so slightly to make up for the harsh white lights on the highlights of his face.

i added another selective colour layer (increasing the reds with the cyan slider and then the black slider while also pushing on the yellow slider as well) and a gradient map (fading from black to orange and set to soft light at a 20% opacity)! and this is my final result!

❓ tips and tricks

— colour balance is your best friend! if a gif seems too blue (and hence giving your subject a pale purple-red sort of look) bring back the slider to the yellow side. or vice versa. it often sorts out all the little hiccups that a curves layer might have provided. — create layer masks to compare skin colour. it’s always useful to just have a little circle where you can see the skintone before and afters! — don’t just rely on selective colour to bring colour back into skin. this is where i find that i often trip up to overcompensate for whitewashing. a gradient map works wonders if set at the right opacity and you can adjust the skin colours minutely afterwards! — this might seem like a reduntant theme but it’s more than okay to ask for help! even i’ve found that i struggle with colouring a gif right and it’s better to get two or three heads in the game than one 😭

there is no one method or psd that will automatically graces oneself with perfect and correct colouring but it’s a matter of practice and figuring out what methods works for you!

i’d take a look at these very helpful tutorials! how to colour east/south-east asian celebrities how to fix orange-washed characters

#usergif #yeahps #allresources #photoshop tutorial #chaoticresources #usermills #userxoames #useralison #userives #usernanda #userfern #usershreyu #omgari #alielook #poc tutorial #gif tutorial #gif psd #annietrack #cheytermelon #uservince #userjoanna #usersha #creations #yeah idk what to tag

[eldjester]

SOAR, The Damage Race and Damage Die

(Yes, this is inspired by @makapatag latest post, I like getting into details about what goes on in my design thoughts)

So I've ran a fair bit of games over the years, and talked about a few design thoughts with my good friend Ru. That experience has lead me to feel opinionated on some stuff or try to fix some "issues" I didn't want in my own TTRPG, namely Damage Die and the idea Damage Race is all that matters.

-Damage Die: For about a whole year, I have been running a system that uses multiple types of damage die, from d6 to d10, which are bound to its classes rather than abilities (this is Icon, if you're curious), and while i don't think it is unworkable, it made me think about a few things, namely the nature of why we roll for damage in the first place and why so many Tactical TTRPGs want to have critical hits. In most cases, I don't tend to like rolling for damage with wide possibilities, for example rolling a d8 or a d10, as those are very swingy and hard to make informed decision about, even if they fit a playstyle that's more about pushing your luck, they just don't work for me, I don't like how they control pacing, especially if rolling high on them is supposed to really hurt, it tends to make anything that surrounds them uncertain for basically everyone on the table, and for me it doesn't really do a fun surprise when you do roll good on them. Critical Hits adding more damage is also a staple of many games, and I think as time goes on i'm less of a fan of that too as it tends to be done in a way that just shines a bigger spotlight on the uncertain damage numbers of some attacks (hi "Double Damage on crit" systems !). So what I ended up doing, was just remove this idea that your damage die has to inform the damage you do related to its number. See, I'm a big fan of tables, I love random tables, I also love having some level of control over what you can expect, so I had a fun idea, what if I used a damage profile table for attacks ? So, in SOAR, when you hit (which you still need to roll to do specifically for attacks, as I like having that mechanical lever to tinker with) you roll a d6 or more if your abilities add some, and you keep the highest one, the number you roll then tells you what you'll be using as a profile for the attack, bigger means better in this case, here's an example:

Weak Hit (1-2): 2 damage, push target 1, move 1

Normal Hit (3-5): 3 damage, push target 1, move 1, push target 1

Strong Hit (6): 4 damage, push target 1, move 2, push target 1, target is dazed

Critical Hit (6,6): 5 damage, push foe 1, move 2, push foe 2, foe is dazed. A keen eye might have noticed this shares similarities with how FITD handles rolls in terms of spread (being a tiny bit more forgiving), this has allowed me to make sure I know how much damage every attack does while still having room to make the damage uncertain, you can still cheer if you roll a strong hit or a critical hit (you in fact, have a resource you can spend to upgrade a hit to its next step if you want to), as a fun added fact, this type of damage profile idea started off as something I made for a gunfight based game, and worked backward into adding to SOAR, from my, admittedly limited, testing it has sped up play a fair bit while still giving me levers to work with in terms of balance. -The Damage Race There's this really annoying feeling sometimes when you play TTRPGs Combats that not doing damage isn't ideal, you see it all the time (death is the best control my beloathed expression) even when it isn't "true". Something you learn relatively soon in TTRPG design is that even if you don't think something is true, people believing it is will still affect how they interact with it, often in a self reinforcing way, and this was something I wanted to avoid in SOAR as it would be especially prone to this, it is after all a Beat'Em All inspired TTRPG, so it was going to have people come in with that assumption regardless. So I thought, hey, what if I didn't bother trying to balance Control and Damage here ? What if i had everyone "do both" ? So that's what I ended up settling on, every Style comes with an attack, which you can use EVERY turn, and a bunch of abilities, which is where a lot of statuses and utility moves exist. Of course, it didn't come free of problems, I had to essentially make everyone have more HP to account for it, but it also made me free of a problem I was having trouble figuring out: what if someone never attacks and just deals damage through abilities which never need to hit ? The way i'm doing it now, people HAVE to care about attacks, and it also means that, with it being essentially "free", I can balance around it and make sure fights aren't static, players always have 2 shots at changing things every turn they do. Thus far in testing I think it has proven to work.

#ttrpg #SOAR #gamedev #rpg

[flower-boi16]

The Owl House Is A Bit of A Mixed Bag When It Comes To Ships

The Owl House is a show that I love a lot, but when it comes to relationships I have some mixed feelings. Now, I don't hate ships in TOH but I do have some issues with them.

The Good

First let's start of with the good; one of the things I like about how TOH handles its ships is how they don't overtake the plot or anything, which is a pretty easy trap that any show with romance can fall into (looking at you Star vs). There's also no bullshit romance drama in the show (the closest thing we get to that is Luz not opening up in S2 EP11 and EP14 but that was about it and its also executed in a way that's not absolutely insufferable).

Lumity is also the show's best relationship; it's gradually built up over the course of season 1 and the first half of season 2 and they are legitimately pretty cute together. Ships like Veesha and Aladraius are also pretty neat. So now let's get into...

The Problems

NOTE: Any issues I have with TOH's ships are most likely due to the shortening, so take my critiques with a grain of salt. Also there will be some criticism levidied towards Huntlow and Reada, if you don't like that don't read the rest of this post.

I think my issues with TOH's ships have to come with the ship's themselves, mainly Raeda and Huntlow. Lumity is good as I already said but the other two have a few issues. First I'ma talk about Huntlow; I don't hate Huntlow as a ship, It's OK, I just think it could have been done a bit better.

The ship mainly suffers from being less developed than Lumity, as Willow and Hunter don't really have that much-developed chemistry with each other. There is one interesting thing about the ship though, that being how they are both young witchlings that were shunned for not being born strong and called a "half-a-witch". That is an interesting parallel, but I don't really think the show develops they're relationship beyond that. The ship is just kinda underdeveloped which is my main problem with it, they're relationship just isn't that fleshed out to me, and as a result, it feels a little bit rushed.

I WILL say though, the moment they had in FTF is cute, it's neat harmless little fan service that doesn't take away from the plot or characters, which is nice.

But overall Huntlow isn't terrible but I have my fair share of issues with it. I honestly feel like this ship has more developed chemistry in fan works than in canon. Like, seriously, Willow and Hunter are incredibly cute together in a lot of Huntlow fan works more than in the actual show.

Anyways, now let's get into...Raeda. I've already talked about this ship before and why I personally don't care for it so I won't go too in depth here, but Raeda to me just suffers from how Raine, as a character, is heavily defined by Eda, and they don't have much depth outside of that. If Raine as a character had more independence from Eda I would have liked this ship a lot more, but they don't.

Again, my issues of Huntlow and Raeda are purely there because of the shortening. If the show wasn't shortened than Huntlow would've definitely been more developed, and Raine would have been a better character with more actual development beyond "Eda's ex".

Conclusion

So ya, that's my thoughts on TOH ships. The shipping in the show isn't bad but I think it could've been better, though again, it's worth mentioning the show got shortened so these problems aren't necessarily its fault, buuuuuut my points still stand. So....bye.

#toh critical #toh criticism #toh #the owl house #toh analysis #not tagging this anti huntlow because I really don't hate the ship #I just think it's ok #anti raeda #also you are perfectly allowed to ship whatever you want #I'm just experssing my opinions on TOH's ships

[anonymityisfunwriter]

The Heir and The Spare - Part 2: "Fire and Ice"

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader Summary: Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Heaviest is the head that was always second best.

The Heir and The Spare Chapter List | Steve Rogers Masterlist

"The answer is no. That is my final answer."

"The offer is more than fair. It's a hell of a lot more than anyone else will offer you for your shares. You're being completely and totally unreasonable."

"Keep pressing the issue and I'll show you unreasonable," you retort, sitting further up in your chair. "I'm sure the board would love to hear all about this. We all know how much they love you."

Tony slams his hands down on the conference table, "We're not kids anymore!"

Happy flinches at the booming sound Tony's fists on the sleek mahogany table. The same table that he had to replace the last time you and Tony spoke - though you both maintain that Happy fell into the table.

At least this time, Pepper and Happy had the sense to keep you two sequestered on opposite ends of the table.

"Tony..." Pepper cautions, but neither you nor Tony hear her words.

You slowly rise from your seat, speaking through clenched teeth, "Precisely, we're not kids anymore, and yet, you're acting like a child demanding a toy that isn't yours."

Though you both inherited the notorious Stark temper, the anger simmering in the room was just another one of your many differences. Tony was a hothead. His rage burned quickly, threatening everyone in its wake. You were sharp and stoic. Your words were cold and calculated, aiming to kill. 

Happy pinches the bridge of his nose, softly sighing at the fast deterioration of this conversation. Pepper sits at the head of the table, her eyes volleying back and forth with every quick witted retort.

"It is mine! You and I both know that!" he accuses. 

"If it was your's, you wouldn't be standing there begging." It's a low blow. Even more so when considering that Tony Stark doesn't get told no. He most certainly doesn't beg, and yet here he is, asking you to give up what is rightfully yours. Each word crawls under Tony's skin, adding more fuel to his rage. A sense of satisfaction creeps up your spine when you see the vein on his forehead popping out. Standing tall and rigid, you toss Tony's proposal in the very center of the conference table. "We're done here. And the next time you feel like extending an invitation, please, don't."

"That's it, then?" Tony spits. "This is the way it's always going to be?"

His question catches you off guard. You freeze, faltering as you reach for your blazer.

It's been this way for the better part of your life. You've spent two decades with your grudge against Tony being one of your few companions in life.

You wish you could say that you didn't know another way, but you remember it. You remember how it used to be, how it could be. You know what it feels like to have a loving, protective older brother. You want that back - desperately so.

But you also remember the day Tony took that all away from you. And despite all the time passed, you haven't quite worked out how to forgive him for that.

You simply don't have an answer to his question. And you're not sure you ever will.

You swallow the knot lodged in your throat. Slipping on your blazer, you turn to Pepper with a tense smile, "It was nice seeing you again, Pepper."

She gives a placating, mostly apologetic smile, "Will you be staying in New York long?"

"A few days of mostly meetings. Happy knows my itinerary."

"I'd love to get lunch if you're available." Before you can politely decline, Pepper elaborates on her invitation, "Just the two of us."

Tony guffaws, "Pepper, whose side are-"

"I'd like that," you agree, cutting Tony off. "Happy can work out the details."

"Of course I can," Happy grumbles under his breath. 

With that, you walk out of the conference room with your blood still boiling. You'd like to say that you can't believe Tony would do something like this, but you can. You believe it.

After all, there was a reason Stark Industries remained at number one all these years. Tony Stark simply didn't care if he had to step on and steamroll a few people, he'd do it without a second thought. It's strictly business. It always has been and always be strictly business.

Your heels clicking through the hall is the only sound that fills the silence. Not even scrolling through your packed schedule is enough to distract you from the anger you feel towards Tony.

That is, until heavy footsteps coming from behind you catch your attention.

"Come to escort me out of the building, Captain Rogers?" you ask, not needing to look over your shoulder to know that it's him.

He chortles, rubbing the back of his neck, "Is it too late to apologize for that?"

"You can certainly try, but it's not necessary, Captain Rogers."

"Steve. Please, call me, Steve."

You bite back the smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth, "Steve."

"So how'd it go? Everyone still in one piece?"

The smile melts off your face as you're reminded that the only reason you met Steve Rogers is because Tony wanted something from you. "It went about as well as you'd expect."

"With Tony making an ass of himself?" Steve guesses, walking alongside you as you make your way to the elevator.

You snort, still looking down at your phone, "He doesn't see it like that."

When you finally look up from your phone, you see it. It's striking, blindsiding you completely. You see the charm that oozes from Steve, from his smile, from the way he holds himself, those sky blue eyes, and from the way the doesn't automatically take Tony's side. You can't remember the last time anyone did that. Steve laughs, "He never does."

"Well, Steve, is there something I can do for you? Quite frankly, I'd rather be anywhere else but here."

"In my company or at Stark Tower?"

"Surprisingly, the latter."

"Why is liking my company so surprising?"

"Like I said, you're much less charming in person." This time, the words leave your mouth in a lighter, more teasing tone. This time, you don't mean it. 

"How does that bode for my chances on asking you out to dinner?"

You quirk an eyebrow at him, pressing the elevator button, "You're quite presumptuous, aren't you?"

"I go after what I want."

"And that is?"

"Dinner. Tonight, if you're free."

Your lips purse slightly, weighing your choices. You had plans, of course. Business plans, as per your usual. Social plans, you had a difficult time remembering the last time you had those.

You look back down at your phone, then back at Steve. You were certainly not free tonight. You'd also run the risk of sending Happy into cardiac arrest if you asked him to reschedule everything you had scheduled for tonight. The elevator finally dings above you. And still, you can't help yourself. "You're in luck, I am free tonight."

"Great," Steve beams as you step onto the elevator. As the doors begin to shut, he frantically asks, "Wait, how will I-"

"Be ready by 8," you call as the doors shut.

You're pleasantly reeling as you make your way down the elevator. Smiling to yourself, you can't remember the last time you left Stark Tower feeling anything remotely positive.

By the time you make it through the lobby, Happy is waiting beside the door of your black SUV. 

"What's that look on your face?" Happy questions, opening the car door for you. He slides in beside you, not wasting a moment before scrutinizing your expression, "You're smiling."

You roll your eyes, trying to bury your smile by examining your schedule, "I'm allowed to smile, Happy."

"A good mood usually takes several days after you talk to Tony. It's why I booked the meetings of people that aren't nice to me tonight."

"Are you insinuating that you build my schedule on when you think I won't be nice?"

"I'm insinuating that you're a little on edge after your family reunions - and that sometimes, people need a firm hand."

"A firm hand? Because they're not nice to you?"

"Exactly," Happy agrees. "Now back to your schedule, you've got a packed few days here, but I think I can pencil in lunch with Pepper on Thursday. Your meeting with those investors is tomorrow. You're meeting those charity people for lunch on Wednesday already, so that won't work but-"

"Happy?" you interrupt. "What do you know about Steve Rogers?"

"And I guess we're done talking about your schedule," Happy sarcastically remarks. He puts down his phone with a huff, "Why are you asking me about Steve?"

"He asked me out to dinner."

Happy's eyes widen, "And you said?"

"And I said yes," you reply as nonchalantly as you can.

"You said yes?"

"Tonight at 8." 

"You have a meeting tonight. Several of them!"

"Send my regards and let them know I'll reschedule as soon as possible."

"Sure!" Happy over exaggeratedly beams. "It's not like I planned those months ago or anything."

"I can always count on you, Happy."

"Just - Please tell me you're not going on a date with Steve to spite Tony."

"Please, Happy," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Steve asked me. And in spite of what you and Tony might believe, I don't live my life trying to spite Tony. I was simply asked out on a date. Spiting Tony is just an added bonus."

"An added bonus," Happy bitterly mutters, rolling his eyes. "I better get an added bonus."

"You always do," you remind him. "So?"

"So?"

"Tell me all about Steve Rogers."

Next Chapter

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Steve Rogers Masterlist

As always, let me know what you think! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated! 💛

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[sarah-denial-cq]

It's been a few months, how is Sarah doing? cw SA, addiction, family health issues, bigotry.

Fair warning: this isn't a sexy post. We'll try to get back to those when we can.

So first things first, I went off denial in November, meaning my 2023 denial period was about eight months of edging, teasing, serving, and zero orgasms. I'm really happy about it, it was fun and made me feel good, and I met tons of wonderful people in the community. I don't know when I'll next start medium-term denial again but I hope I get a chance to.

Anyways, I stopped in November because I had just so much going on personally that it was impossible to devote the energy and wound-up tension that denial creates in me to its practice. Work became more and more stressful. I was "promoted" at work, taking on responsibility for over twice as many people and deliverables, and was given no raise and also a new manager between me and my previous manager, who I had to train in addition to my new responsibilities. In addition, a close family member started radiation treatment for cancer. For the first time in my life, I didn't visit my family for the holidays, because political developments have made it unsafe for me to travel to where they live.

And then Megan assaulted me.

I was sharing a hotel bed with her - as friends - and woke up on the last day in the morning feeling her fingers groping me. I didn't know what to do, I froze and kept my eyes closed and waited for my alarm to go off and got up and went to work and then flew home. The next couple days are kind of a blur. I relapsed into a finsub addiction and sent a bunch of money to someone. I think Rose and I might have had sex that next day but I'm kind of not sure. I ended up talking to Megan about it a few days later.

"No, I didn't do that. I wasn't groping you. That didn't happen."

I told Rose about what happened. I was extremely nervous and also felt so stupid because all the tropes around women like me were playing out. I had imagined it. I had done something to lead her on. I was making a huge deal out of some minor petting. I was going to lose a friend over something that wasn't worth losing them over. I was going to blow up Rose's relationship with Megan and she wouldn't get to fuck my hotter friend anymore and it would be. My. Fault.

Eventually, things have cooled off a little. I talked to Rose and we made each other feel better. I talked to Megan and explained that I don't know or care why she thinks it didn't happen, but I think it did, and it can never happen again. Rose is still going to fuck Megan because she's hotter than me. Megan is still going to come stay at my apartment for several days this weekend. I'll probably be kicked out to the guest room while they fuck in the master bedroom.

I'm still struggling with the addiction relapse, and feeling guilty and sad about the really good friendships I made here during denial that I've been too messed up to maintain, and whether I still have value as a girl not in denial. But I trust that things heal with time. And nothing - *nothing* - is going to take away from the fact that Rose is going to *marry me* this year. Even with everything that's happened I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

I'll post some more soon, I hope.

xoxo Sarah

[greta-van-chaos]

hiii can you do a smutty fluffy jake x reader where ur insecure about your body & ur confidence has been down a lot but jake tries to prove to u that he thinks ur actually irresistible 🫶🏼 pls make it filthy the girlies could use it i love ur writing

Right Side of My Neck

Jake Kiszka x Reader

Warnings | Explicit sexual content, cursing, angst, anxiety, body image issues, rough sex, mirror play, hair pulling

Word Count | 2.2k words

Authors Note | I keep saying that I'm gonna write and release new stuff but I have had zero motivation. I have a lot of stuff in the works that im clearing out of my drafts... then its time for me to open requests again!

~

The water sloshes around your body, lapping at your sternum as you make the last step into the pool. Jake is nowhere to be found and so you make your way to the edge so you can set down the two beers you retrieved. Your eyes scan the backyard and the more people you see the tighter your throat gets. So many pretty girls in tiny bikinis, prancing around looking like models.

You've never been a fan of parties but you know that dating a rockstar comes with having to attend a fair share of them. You love Jake too much to turn down an event like this and so that's how you got yourself here, standing on the sidelines rather uncomfortably in a bikini that's way too small and makes you feel ridiculous.

"Hey baby," Jake pulls you out of your thoughts when he makes his way through the water to stand at your side and take you by your hips, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You blink away any tears that had been threatening to fall, clear your throat and wrap your arms around his neck. "Hey! where'd you go?"

"Josh texted saying he needed help with something, turns out he just wanted me to mix him a drink--" Jake rolls his eyes and scoffs "I know I'm the better mixologist but he could've done it himself." You stay quiet, the tears welling up again at how stupid you feel for being insecure and letting it ruin the mood. Jake catches on immediately and places a hand on the small of your back, the other coming up to rest on your cheek. "Are you okay, baby? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine!" You say, a little to excitedly as you wipe your tears away, plastering on a fake smile and wiling your voice not to shake. Of course, Jake doesn't fall for that.

"Seriously, something is up, what's wrong? You can talk to me."

All at once the buzz of the party becomes far too overwhelming, all of the chatter now zoning into the anxiety department of your brain. "Can we go somewhere quiet please? It's so loud."

"Of course, here--" Jake slips his hand into yours and begins to wade his way through the water, weaving around the heaps of people that have flocked around his brother Sam who just waded his way into the water. Once out he leads you into the house guides you up the stairs. You can barely navigate the house you're in but Jake pulls you along as if he's lived here his whole life. You're not even sure he knows who's house this is.

"Do you know where you're going?" You keep a firm grip on his hand but something in you falters when he stops in the middle of the hallway as if contemplating where he is.

"Not really. I came up here earlier to go to the bathroom, I just can't remember what door it was."

Despite his words Jake very confidently reaches for the handle of the closest door and pushes it open to reveal a very expensive looking bathroom. He gently pulls you inside by your wrist and shuts the door, clicking the lock behind you.

"Do you want to sit?" He motions to the marble edge of the bathtub that looks like its built in to the wall. You shake your head and stay standing in front of him, arms crossed over your stomach. He tsks and moves them away, taking each of your hands in his own. "What's wrong?"

The tone of his voice makes it very hard to keep your composure. He sounds so goddamn concerned and although you love him for it, it almost makes you feel worse for the negative thoughts about your body cropping up in your brain.

"I just--" Voice cracking you pull your hands back and hide your face behind them, shielding your eyes from his concerned stare.

Jake reaches out to stroke your arm, "It's okay, this is a safe space, you can tell me anything, baby, anything."

"I know-- god-- I know! I just feel so stupid."

You dare to glance at him and his eyebrows are drawn up in worry, why do you always have to do this? Jake stays silent and bids you to continue with a nod of his head.

"Everyone here-- Everyone has such nice bodies, they all look so good in their bathing suits and-- I just--" You sigh, not really wanting to finish the sentence and hoping he can piece it together himself like the ever intuitive boyfriend he is.

"Oh, baby..." His face falls and your heart clenches in your chest.

"I'm sorry-- I don't--"

"Why are you apologizing?" He takes a step towards you, pulling your wrists into his hands and rubbing over them soothingly with his thumbs. "You never have to apologize. If anything I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to feel like that."

"I just wish I was as beautiful as all of the other girls."

Something in his eyes changes and it's just barely noticeable. If it was anyone else with Jake right now the shift would go under the radar but you know him inside and out. The energy in the room is flipped on it's axis, thick tension seeping into the air between you.

"Are you kidding me?" He says it almost accusingly but you know him better than that, if anything he sounds... territorial.

"I don't understand why I don't look like them-- Why my body isn't--" A sob chokes you up, catching in your throat and you have to look away from Jake.

Silence overtakes the room, so potent that the only thing you can hear is you own heavy breathing. You can barely stand to sneak a glance at your boyfriend and when you do the expression on his face is chilling.

"Do you seriously not see how fucking gorgeous you look?" His voice has dropped an octave and the look on his face is one of pure lust. You want to be offended by the tone he's taken on but you can't help the warm tingling feeling that's sparked to life in your stomach. The atmosphere changed so quickly that you almost didn't notice it but nevertheless you welcome the change.

"Jake--" You breathe, stepping back and pushing yourself up against the counter.

"I'm serious, you look fucking perfect. Here--" Without warning Jake steps forward and slips his arms around your waist, turning you so you're now facing the wide mirror above the sink.

The sight your met with is not something you'd consider attractive but with Jake's wandering hands and the hot kisses he's trailing down your neck you can't seem to form a proper thought.

"You. Are. Beautiful." He mumbles against your shoulder, in-between kisses. Slowly, his hands trails down your stomach, to your bathing suit bottoms. They're tied tightly on each hip and when his fingers play over the small bows you secured earlier when getting dressed his eyes meet yours in the mirror, asking you silently for permission.

"Please, Jake." Your fingers card through his hair, pulling his mouth against your neck harder and forcing you to arch your back when his body is pulled tighter against you.

He takes his sweet ass time pulling the strings of your bottoms to loosen and eventually let them fall off of your body. From there he kicks them away and caresses your stomach, gently running his fingers over the skin.

The ripple of goosebumps that covers your skin only spurs him on further. Carefully and so incredibly slow, he drags the tips of his fingers in small patterns over your stomach, dipping just low enough to send a chill down your spine but not quite low enough to quell the heat blooming between your thighs.

"Look at yourself," He whispers. "You're a goddess."

Reluctantly your eyes scan your body and as you watch his hands move over you you feel a bit more confident. Not to mention how the way his gaze is devouring you makes you feel, just by looking in your direction he makes you feel sexy. When his hands travel to your shoulders and down your back you're already nodding, almost begging him to bare your naked body to him. The speed in which he removes your bra greatly contrasts how slowly he slipped off your bottoms, his fingers hungrily work at the ties until it falls away and he can cup your breasts, kneading the flesh. You press yourself against him and can feel the very obvious bulge in his swim trunks against your ass.

"That's what you do to me baby, you're perfect. I never want you to feel any other way because you really are perfect."

"Thank you, Jakey. Thankyouthankyouthankyou." The praise slips past your lips like a mantra and seems to be the only coherent thought you can manage. His wandering hands make it very hard for you to focus, so much so that you tip your head back and close your eyes, letting the fuzzy feeling of lust take over.

"Look at yourself. I wanna see you looking or I'll stop what I'm doing. You're so beautiful baby, just look and see."

When you reluctantly pull your gaze back to the mirror and meet your own stare you want to cringe away but then you feel Jake's hand between your legs and you watch as he circles your clit with an unmatched care.

"Wanna feel you, Jake." You whine, reaching back to thread your fingers through his hair.

Through the mirror you watch one of his hands come up to cup your breast while the other continues to work between your legs.

"You can feel me baby, i'm right here." He taps your clit lightly with his fingers before going back to his earlier motions.

"No, no, Jake, want your--" A moan rips through your chest when he sinks two fingers into you and without thinking your head tips back.

"Nuh uh baby, eyes on the mirror." He truly does completely stall any and all movement until you're looking at yourself again which makes you groan out of frustration. "So fuckin' needy, baby. Who got you all wound up like this? Hm?"

"You Jakey, please. Want you to fuck me. Pretty please, baby" Your words come out stuttered and breathy which makes him smirk.

"Well only cause you asked so nicely."

He removes his hand from between your legs to free himself of him swim trunks. His other hand still holds it's grip on your breast and in a teasing act he pinches your nipple lightly. You yelp and without warning he pushes into you, filling you up completely and pushing you down against the counter.

"Look at yourself, baby. So fucking pretty. So perfect."

You can't speak, you can only whine and moan as he fucks into you, wrapping a hand into your hair and pulling you up enough that you can still see yourself in the mirror.

"You're my pretty baby, aren't you?" He fucks you harder, his hips slamming against you and knocking your body into the cool marble top. "Say it."

Breathing wildly and barely holding onto anything as your own hips are rammed into the cabinets you meet his eyes in the mirror with a questioning look.

"You heard me. Fucking say it. Tell me you're my pretty baby."

With a high pitched moan you barely breathe "I'm your pretty baby, Jakey."

He groans and his eyes roll back into his head, hips faltering slighting. "Say it again, say that you're my pretty girl. Fuck--"

The only sound filling the bathroom is the slapping of your skin and your collective moans. Any passersby would very quickly be able to come to the conclusion of what exactly was happening behind the door.

"I'm your pretty girl, I'm your pretty baby"

"Yeah you are, baby."

You actually find it pretty easy to keep your eyes on yourself through the mirror. Although your eyes do stray behind you to view how fucked out Jake looks as he thrusts into you and holds your hair in a fist, every once and a while jerking you back a bit, you don't mind looking at your own body and face. There's something so incredibly sexy about being made to watch yourself come undone.

"You close?" He breathes, pressing a hot, sloppy kiss to your neck.

"So close." You cry, holding the faucet the keep yourself grounded.

"Touch yourself for me."

Without a second thought you slip that hand that isn't around the sink between your legs and within a few circles you can feel yourself nearing the edge of your orgasm. Your so close you can barely get the words out to warm him.

"Gonna cum, Jakey, please--"

"Go ahead, baby. Let it go for me."

When you finally are pushed into the tidal wave that is your orgasm, the last thing you see before your eyes close is Jake's blissed out face as he finds his own release in tandem with you. He can be so angelic and beautiful during even the most unholy of moments.

He continues to push into you, riding out your high as you come down as well as his own. You feel him let go inside of you and a sigh leaves your lips at the sensation.

When he finally does pull out you both wince from the overstimulation and loss of contact. Immediately he grabs some toilet paper to clean you up and helps you to sit on the counter.

"You are the most beautiful person on this earth and I never want you to doubt or forget that. Okay?"

"Thank you, Jake. I love you."

"I love you too." He whispers. In contrast to the heated affair you had both been lost in moments ago, he gently presses his lips to yours and brings his fingertips to massage over your scalp where he was holding your hair. "Was that okay?"

"Better than okay." You smile, kissing the tip of his nose.

After you both have a minute to regroup and eventually redress, he helps you off of the counter. "We should probably get back to the party, is that okay? Or do you want to just go home?"

You reach up and kiss his cheek, "We can stay."

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[pedroscurls]

Title: The Teacher (Part 8).

CHAPTER TITLE: Ellie’s Truth

Character(s): Joel Miller, Reader, Ellie Miller Summary: You find out the truth about Ellie. Word Count: 2,115 Author's Note: I just want to thank everyone for still sticking with this story. I didn’t expect to take a hiatus, but a lot of (very difficult) moments in my life came up in the month of April. I’m glad to be back, glad to be writing again, and I hope you all enjoy.  Warning: None.

You were walking towards your home when you noticed Ellie running straight to her little makeshift home with Joel trailing behind her, calling her name to no avail. 

Earlier that morning, Joel had walked into your house, concerned and frazzled that Ellie had left in the middle of the night and only leaving a note. While the two seemed to be in a heated argument, you were glad that they were both okay. 

��Joel? Everything okay?” You asked, seeing him look over at you when he finally noticed you.

“No.” Joel replied, not bothering to stop as he continued walking towards his own home.

That was new. Usually, Joel would greet you, give you a kiss, even if he had a tough day, but this felt different. While Joel and Ellie had their fair share of arguments, this one seemed to be more serious. You hadn’t ever seen Ellie that angry before.

You sighed to yourself, though. You didn’t want to pry or push the issue, so you kept walking to your home and up the steps of your porch. “Well, I’m here if you need anything, Joel.” You saw him give you a quick nod before he disappeared into his home. Walking inside your own, you shut the door behind you and made your way to the kitchen to get yourself a glass of water. However, before you could even grab yourself a glass, you heard a knock on your door. Expecting it to be Joel, you called out, “Come in!” 

Then, you heard her voice.

“God, I hate him! So much!” 

Ellie walked into your living, falling onto your couch. 

“Why does he always think he knows better?!” 

You poured water into two glasses, instead of one, and walked into the living room. “You wanna talk about it?” You asked, setting the glasses down on the coffee table and gently nudged her foot, motioning for her to sit up so that she could give you space to sit next to her. “I’m sure whatever he did, he had good intentions.”

Ellie shook her head immediately, sitting up and looking over in your direction. “Not this.”

“Well, he was worried when you left in the middle of the night, with just a note.”

“I needed to leave.”

“You could’ve gotten hurt, Ellie.”

“I’m immune!” She blurted out.

“What?” You asked, confused. “There’s no way that’s possible. What do you mean you’re immune?”

Ellie rolled up her sleeve, showing you the scarring beneath the newly drawn tattoo that Cat had been working on. It definitely looked like a bite mark, but as you glanced between the bite and Ellie, you noticed that Ellie hadn’t turned; she was fine. There was no hint of the bite mark taking its toll on her. You were at a loss for words – how was this possible?

“It’s old.” Ellie said, watching you closely. “The only ones who know are Joel, Tommy, and Maria.”

“Ellie, I don’t–” you sighed. “And you’re okay?”

“Considering everything, I guess.”

“I don’t even know what to say.” You admitted. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Ellie bit her lip, pulling her arm back and rolling the sleeve back down to cover the bite mark. “Joel– He was supposed to take me to the Fireflies,” she began. “They said– Marlene said they were going to make a cure and I would be the one to save the fucking world.”

You listened, watching the young girl pull her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees as she looked away from you. “After all we’ve been through, the people we lost, the people we hurt… And it was all for nothing.”

“What happened, Ellie?” 

Ellie shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “Joel lied to me.”

“Ellie…”

“No, my life would have meant something!” She exclaimed, tears slowly falling from her face. “My life would have fucking mattered!” 

Your heart broke at the sight of Ellie breaking down, so you pulled her into your arms. She sobbed against you, surely staining your shirt with her tears. Her body trembled in your grasp and you simply tightened your arms around her.

“Your purpose in this life is not dependent on that,” you whispered softly. “Besides, who says you still can’t save the world?”

Ellie pulled back enough to look up at you. Confusion spread across her features. “What’s better than a cure?”

You shrugged. Ellie had a point, but making a cure in this world with limited resources? It was highly unlikely that it could have worked. 

“Listen, I won’t lie to you. A cure would be– It’d be great, but I’d rather live in this world with you in it than to live in a world without you.”

Ellie’s eyes softened and she hugged you so tight, holding onto you as if her life depended on it. 

“You find a new purpose,” you said, running your hand along her back. “And whatever that is, you put your all into it. You look down at your arm and you use that as a reminder of a second chance to do what you wanna do.”

“But,” Ellie mumbled. “What if I’m no good at what I choose to do?”

“Something tells me you’ll be good at anything you do, Ellie.” You smiled. “But if you fall, you get back up. No matter what, you always get back up.” You looked down at her, wiping her fallen tears. “This is your life, Ellie. You get to decide what you wanna do with it. No one else. Not the Fireflies. Not Joel. Not me. Only you, Ellie.”

She nodded, hugging you once more. Part of you felt sorry for Ellie – so young and she had been through so much, had been told most of her life what she was meant to do, what her life was supposed to mean, but another part of you understood why Joel did what he did – he had given Ellie the chance to live her life. 

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

“Sure, of course. How about you take my room and I’ll be out here?”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” you smiled. “Now, why don’t you try to get some rest? You’ve been out all night.”

“You’re gonna talk to Joel, aren’t you?”

You nodded truthfully. “I’m sure he’s hurting too.”

“Good.”

Sighing, you shook your head. “Ellie…”

“I’m still mad at him.”

“I know, and you have every right to be, but I know deep down, you still care about him too.”

Ellie sighed, “unfortunately.”

“Okay, enough of that. Get some sleep. I’ll prepare some food and wake you once it’s done.”

Ellie stood from the couch and sighed. She grabbed the glass of water and looked over at you. “Thanks,” she said softly. “For not being weird about this and just… Just being there for me.”

—

You were on Joel’s doorstep, waiting for him to open the door after you knocked. When he finally opened the door, he was surprised to see you.

“Listen darlin’,” he sighed. “I just wanna be alone and–”

“Ellie told me. Now, can I come in?”

“Ellie told you?” Joel asked, slowly opening the door to let you in.

You walked inside, hearing the door close behind you. You looked around – nothing seemed out of the ordinary, the place wasn’t a mess, but you noticed a glass and a bottle of dark liquor on the coffee table. Joel didn’t drink often and when he did, it was always during dinner with family. If he went out to the Tipsy Bison, he would only have one, never indulging in more than that. And always, he drank beer. So, seeing the hard liquor on his table told you that this was affecting him more than you thought. 

“She’s immune,” you began, turning to face him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Joel shrugged. “Didn’t know if I could trust you and well, this…” He added, pointing between himself and you. “This is still a bit new.”

You nodded. You could understand exactly where he was coming from – he just wanted to protect Ellie.

“She’s gonna stay with me for the night. Is that okay?”

Joel sighed and walked towards the living room, taking the glass from the table and downing its contents. “I’d rather her be here.” He sat on the couch, glancing over at you.

“She’s upset, Joel,” you replied, following him and sitting across from him.

“She wasn’t ever supposed to find out.”

“Joel,” you sighed. “What happened?”

Joel shook his head. He couldn’t even look at you. Instead, his eyes were focused on his hands. He looked deep in thought with his brows furrowed; you hadn’t ever seen Joel look like this before. 

“Listen, whatever happened– I’m not judging. You did what you needed to do, but Ellie doesn’t see that. At least not right now.”

“You don’t–” Joel began, shaking his head. “You don’t know… I killed everyone in that hospital to save her.” 

“Joel…”

“I couldn’t lose another,” he whispered.

“Another?”

Joel didn’t respond. Instead, he just poured himself another drink. “You should go home, darlin’.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I know you’re used to me not prying, but this one affects Ellie.”

“I ain’t a good man and I meant that.”

“You saved Ellie, Joel…” You whispered. “What would have happened if you didn’t?”

“Marlene– She said the cordyceps spread, growing with Ellie as she got older… The only way for a cure to happen would cost Ellie’s life.” He said, slowly looking up at you. You noticed the look in Joel’s eyes – how could this man think he wasn’t good? There was sincere remorse for the things he had to do to save Ellie, but it also looked like this wasn’t the first time. This wasn’t the first time he lost someone he cared about.

“You chose Ellie… Over the possibility of saving the rest of the world?” 

Joel nodded. “And I would do it all over again if I had to.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Joel interrupted you. His voice was quiet, almost as if he was afraid and hesitant of asking you this question, “Do you hate me because of it?”

“What?” You asked, surprised. “Hate you for saving Ellie?”

“Yeah,” Joel sighed.”

“Hell no, I don’t hate you.”

Joel looked up at you, his eyes wide as if he was expecting a different answer. “What?” 

“Joel,” you sighed. “Do you really believe a cure could have been made? In this world with so few resources?” You scoffed. You didn’t believe that the Fireflies and Marlene were willing to sacrifice a young girl’s life over the slim possibility of a cure. There was no way that they could have made a successful cure in one go, especially not in this world. 

“Y– You don’t think a cure could be made?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

“But–”

“I wouldn’t have ever met you, or Ellie… I’d choose this world over the old one.”

“Why?”

You sighed quietly. Truthfully, you didn’t have the answer to that question, so instead, you stood up, took the drink out of his hands, and sat on his lap. Joel immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face against the crook of your neck. Your arms wrapped around his broad frame, gently rubbing his back.

“When I lost my husband,” you whispered. “My life stopped. I loved him so much…” Tears clouded your eyes and you felt Joel tighten his arms around you, comforting you. “Going back to a world without him… Without you? I wouldn’t want it.”

“But I–”

“Yeah, I know. Ain’t a good man,” you repeated. “To me, you’re just a man protecting the ones you love and care about. If that isn’t good, then I don’t know what is.”

Joel looked up at you. His big, brown eyes were soft, staring lovingly at you. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“What do you mean?”

“You,” he whispered. “You still look at me like… Like I could do no wrong. I killed so many people and–”

“I just know how it feels… To lose someone you love and care about. If I was in your position, I would have done the same thing.” You admitted. “Ellie will be okay–”

“But things are gonna be different,” Joel interrupted.

“Yeah,” you replied. “But give her time.”

Joel sighed. Part of him didn’t care that Ellie was upset with him because it meant that she was still here, still safe, still alive.

“It’ll all be okay,” you whispered reassuringly, softly placing your lips on his temple. 

You heard Joel inhale deeply, then quietly whisper with a shaky voice, “I had a daughter. Her name was Sarah.”

---

Part 9.

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[sethshead]

From the Kivunim Institute: Good and Evil: A True Story You likely don’t know the name Dr. Shoshan Haran. I met Shoshan, a world-renowned plant seed developer, while doing research for what became Let There Be Water: Israel's Solution for a Water-Starved World. Shoshan helped me to understand how Israeli non-GMO plant breeders had developed drought-resistant crops and plants that thrive on otherwise unusable brackish water. But at the top of her career, Shoshan had an epiphany: Instead of using her extraordinary abilities to help farmers in rich countries get ever-better seeds, she would devote the rest of her life to helping poor farmers in Africa. “No one,” she told me, “was developing specific seeds for places like Ethiopia.” Farmers there had to make do with generic seeds for their crops. An urbanite like me didn't know this, but seeds can be developed for particular places, with changes made for local climate, water sources, soil type and pests. Shoshan started a not-for-profit called Fair Planet with the intention of developing seeds for those poor African farmers as precise as the ones she had been helping to create for American and European farmers. The project succeeded beyond anyone’s expectations. In the first season using Shoshan’s tomato seeds created for central Ethiopia, farmers there saw a 500 percent increase in yield. Not only did this help to address issues of hunger and nutrition for those farmers and their families, but household income rose helping to lift communities out of abject poverty. In the ten or so years since, approximately one million farmers in several African countries have been using seeds developed by Fair Planet. In other words, Shoshan Haran is a hero, a person who has made the world so much better for her having lived. Now for the hard part. On October 7, Shoshan and her family were together in her home on Kibbutz Be’eri, a successful communal farm established by her father and the place where she was born. In all, there were ten family members gathered – Shoshan, her husband, her sister and brother-in-law, her daughter and son-in-law and their two children, her husband’s sister and the sister’s husband. They were all taken captive by the Hamas terrorists who invaded the kibbutz. In recent days, the remains of Shoshan’s husband and brother-in-law have been identified. As best as is known, Shoshan and the other seven family members – three generations – are hostages in Gaza, but no one knows for sure. It is easy to recognize this as evil harming far more than Shoshan and her family. Those many African farmers, and many others, are also harmed by the Hamas assault. It would also be reasonable to say that there are two competing ideologies at work here: One by incrementally helping others in peaceful ways and the second using horrifying and indiscriminate violence to achieve its goals. For me, I have been depressed, enraged, struggling to make sense of the terror attack, but now that I have learned one of the captives is someone I know and have hosted in my home, it is also personal. I hope the governments of Africa will join in with others to try to get Shoshan and her family freed from captivity, assuming they are still alive. Perhaps you, too, can try to publicize this story, sharing it with others. Every one of those being held deserves to be released, but showing how terrible it is to have a person like Shoshan in captivity perhaps helps to transform a general act of criminality and evil into something concrete and harder to ignore. Over time, many more stories of October 7 victims will be learned. Just knowing Shoshan’s story offers clarity that so much more than the lives of the victims and the captives are affected. Seth Siegel

h/t Shoshana Hantman

None of this matters to the left. They'll accuse Shoshan of promoting genocide by replacing traditional crops with higher-yield GMOs. There is nothing we can do anymore to convince the left that we are anything other than ogres poisoning the global well and using the blood of children for our bread.

We must keep our own ethics to heal the world, but not expect to win any hearts or minds. We must do what we must to protect ourselves, and let the public opinion of those who would destroy us be damned.

[jomiddlemarch]

While You Were Sleeping

Chapter 3

It had been an unseasonably chilly day according to their hosts, so the windows of the suite were closed tight, curtains drawn, all outside noise muffled. It was late, the staff all gone to their rooms, and they’d both finished their evening ablutions, the tap shut off. They lay next to each other in the bed, having mutually agreed to go to sleep. There was nothing but the darkness leavened with silvery blue moonlight and a soft, all-encompassing quiet. 

And then an unmistakable growl.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. But it was clearly a moment where they were both working out what to say, how to react, and in Hermione’s case, choking back a squawk of laughter which Draco would be sure to see as rudely mocking. Likely to, anyway.

“I beg—”

“You never beg,” Hermione interrupted, turning on her side so she could see him better. “You were going to ask for my pardon and you needn’t.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said. He sounded embarrassed. To be fair, if such a sound had come from her body, she would have wanted to spontaneously combust or Apparate to the moon, preferably a one-way trip for the first intergalactic Apparition that was reliably documented (she didn’t count that report from Durmstrang—if anyone got there first, it would be one of the up-and-comers from Uagadou, probably that tall witch from Lagos who sang all her incantations like Maria Callas.)

“You didn’t. I was a little startled, but not especially surprised,” she said. It was easy to be more open in the shared bed, the quilted counterpane rendered silken with the moonlight, everything around them soft, intimate. Draco seemed like another person, a man she’d never met before, except that she recognized him better at night or at least she allowed herself to admit she liked what she discovered. Very much indeed.

“No?”

“I will say you’re quite a bit louder than Harry ever was,” Hermione said, a naughty part of her unable to resist teasing.

“My shame is complete. Depthless as the Lost Sea, countless as the stars,” Draco said wryly. He was regaining his equanimity, though an additional growl, possibly louder than the first one, made him pause and Hermione chuckle.

“Don’t feel bad about it,” she said. “You’re hungry, there’s no shame in it. No surprise, either. You missed lunch. And dinner.”

I missed you, she didn’t say but thought. Nothing tasted as good without you there, she didn’t add but heard her voice murmuring. 

“I got caught up with some of the regulatory issues, their legal system is sometimes completely orthogonal to ours. It’s both fascinating and infuriating,” he said. “Lost track of time, I suppose.”

“I understand. It happens to me too, I get immersed in whatever I’m researching and then I come out of it, it’s like I’m surfacing from swimming underwater and it’s hours later, leagues away. The Ravenclaws call it perdu-trouvée, I guess Flamel was known for it too,” she said.

His stomach growled again, somehow with even more volume. 

“I’ll go find something, there must be something in the kitchen,” he said.

“Don’t,” she said, reaching over to lay a hand on his shoulder. He grew very still. “I noticed you weren’t at lunch and dinner. I made…arrangements for us.”

“Arrangements?” he repeated. 

“I knew you missed both those meals and that you wouldn’t ask anyone to get you something to eat—”

“It’s ill-mannered. Here and at home, unless there’s a House-elf available and I know how you feel about them,” he interjected.

“I know. I knew you’d say all that, do all that. Or not do, as the case may be. So I did,” she said, dropping her hand from his shoulder. She could feel the warmth of him, the restraint, as if it had been branded like a rune into her palm. “I suppose I’m living down to all your Pureblood supremacist inculcated expectations of me, but I knew we’d end up here, with your stomach growling louder than a dyspeptic dragon grumbling over its hoard.”

“The only expectation I’ve ever truly had of you is that you’ll exceed whatever measure or possibility I could ever conceive of,” he said. “I admit that as a child, I expressed this very poorly.”

“As a child? You were a child in seventh year?” Hermione said.

“I was slow to mature,” he shrugged. “Unlike some. And I didn’t have access to a Time-turner to help me along.” 

“I got a hamper. For you,” Hermione said. Draco was starting to take the conversation into uncharted waters and if she was going to navigate them, she at least wanted to get some food into him first. “A basket from the kitchen, so you could have a midnight snack. A meal, actually. Like a picnic. I asked them to include a cloth, cutlery, proper stemware.”

“I know what a hamper is, Hermione,” he said.

“I wasn’t sure if the Wizarding aristocracy had picnics or only elegant teas held in plein air. Harry was raised with Muggles, the Weasleys just Levitated their kitchen table into the garden because of the gnomes, and Neville and his gran prefer walking tours with Thermoses filled with tea and a packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches. I was afraid to ask Luna,” Hermione said.

“They always say you’re the brightest witch of our age,” Draco replied, choosing not to comment on the Weasley gnomes, the Longbottom predilection for non-magical Thermoses and the questionable reality Luna Lovegood inhabited, in favor of praising her with nary a smirk to be seen.

“Of your age, her age, they say. Not our. Not like I’m the most brilliant witch of the current, post-Dumbledore era,” Hermione said, frowning. She’d had a plan for this midnight snack revelation, and he was derailing her and while her plan had some accommodations built in, they were all centered around the idea he’d reject picnics or eating late at night or find it all terribly plebian. Not that he’d offer compliments that she didn’t deserve with what sounded like utter sincerity. 

“That’s why they’re wrong and you’re the brightest witch of our age,” Draco said. “Though I also prefer most brilliant. More gravitas to it. But I believe I’m upsetting your plans. There’s a midnight snack to be consumed, picnic-style, if we want to keep from waking the whole building with my obstreperous digestive system.”

“You’ve managed to be both incorrigible and correct, so I’m just going to get the hamper and you’ll eat,” she said.

“We’ll eat,” he said. “Surely you don’t think I’m going to gorge myself in front of you while you don’t take even one bite.”

“Fine,” she said, getting out of the bed and going over to the wardrobe that held her clothes and right now, an oversized but magically lightened hamper she would have struggled to lift without the enchantment. As it was, she made it only halfway back to the bed before Draco came and took the basket out of her arms and carried it the remaining distance, allowing her quite the delicious view of his delicious arse in his pinstriped pyjama bottoms, not a sight she would ordinarily have imagined could be erotic.

“Do you want to open it or shall I?” he said, kneeling on his side of the bed and his side of the hamper. Hermione hiked up the hem of her nightdress so she could sit cross-legged on her side and gestured for him to go ahead. He lifted the lid and took out the cloth first, spreading it out between them, then began to narrate as he took out one item after another.

“Orange pippins, grapes, Double Gloucester—you had them source Double Gloucester for me? Carr’s water biscuits, those little spanakopita-like things they had the first night and they’re still warm, a jar of olives, some sort of savory pie—”

“Pork, with sage and a little thyme,” Hermione put in.

“There’s a tureen—”

“Potage parmentier,” she said, before he opened the lid and spilled any. “The tureen is charmed to stay at the perfect temperature for serving.”

“Brandy snaps, jam roly-poly and macarons?”

“Those are pistachio. It’s not an allusion to you being Slytherin,” Hermione said. “There ought to be a Chenin Blanc and a flask of Earl Grey tea to go with the meal and dessert.”

“This isn’t a snack, it’s a feast,” Draco said, settling back on his heels. Even in the moonlight, which etched everything in silverpoint, she could make out the flush in his cheeks. “And it’s all my favorites. Every single one."

“Yes. As I said, I thought you’d be hungry,” she replied.

“A sandwich would have been fine. Some bread and butter,” he said. “How did you know—"

“Brightest witch, as you said. I pay attention to details, they’re important,” she said, smiling, but meaning it. Harry and Ron would be taken in by just the smile. Draco wouldn’t. “I know you strive to require nothing from people now, but that’s not how I operate. And I’ve been hungry before, it’s not something I take lightly.” 

I want to see you satisfied, she didn’t add. It was enough to think it. This time…

“We didn’t eat all these things here,” Draco said.

“No, I did some research. Reached out to access primary sources,” she said.

“You contacted Narcissa?” he asked. Could a person be aghast and impressed in only three words? It seemed he was. It also seemed he called his mother by her first name, a fact she filed away for later consideration.

“Andromeda. We belong to the same book club. It wasn’t a message out of the blue,” Hermione said. “I remembered you ate all the brandy snaps when we were at Hogwarts, you glutton. It’s a wonder you had any teeth left in your head.”

“You must like brandy snaps too,” he said. “I assume that’s why you noticed me eating more than my fair share.”

“It was at first,” she said. When they were hunting Horcruxes, she’d thought about him, how he’d looked so eager taking some from the platter, how he’d closed his eyes with the first bite. How ordinary his delight was and how it changed his face to have a moment of simple happiness. There was less darkness around him now, which she attributed to being fifteen years out from being under the thumb of a megalomaniacal chimerical soul-shredded monster who was quite frankly rather boring when he wasn’t being utterly annihilating and then, of course, his pompous father had been relegated to the Endless level of Azkaban. She wanted to see Draco’s face when he ate a sweet now, what expression there would be in his grey eyes when he opened them and looked at her.

“Let’s start with them, then,” he said. He offered her a brandy snap, waiting for her to take it out of his hand. “You did agree I wouldn’t eat alone.”

“Do you often eat dessert first?” she said.

“May I make a confession?” he asked. She nodded, dimly aware she held a brandy snap in her wand hand and that Draco had glanced down at her mouth after he spoke. “Sometimes, it’s all I eat. Sometimes, all I want is to taste something sweet, Hermione.”

#dramione #one shot becomes multichapter #hermione granger #draco malfoy #hermione x draco #hermione POV #midnight snacks #fake married #post hogwarts #diplomat!hermione #lawyer!draco #slow burn #romance #world building galore #there was only one bed #so much food #fluffy

[kriz-fics]

The Sword’s Legacy

Series Summary: As the heir of your father's lands, you have grown up knowing that one day you must wed to your House's advantage, and there's no better catch than the younger son of the Magister himself. Meanwhile tensions within the king's court are set to come to a head at any moment - it just needs that spark to send everything ablaze. Now in a court more dangerous than the one you entered, you find distraction and joy in the company of the beautiful boy with the beautiful eyes. You can only hope to weather the storm you can sense brewing in the horizon.

Masterlist

Chapter Sixteen: Lore and Luminaries

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU, Historical Fantasy AU, Romance, Politics, Warfare, Eventual Smut (future chapters), Slow Burn

Length: 13.8K

CW: Mentions of underage sexual exploration / mention of child abuse (physical)

“Dragon root, dried wasp stings… vervain, lovage. Grind all those up for me, if you would, my lady.”

For a long while, the sound of stone grinding against stone is the only thing to be heard in the Healer’s rooms. It is the most riveting sound, that steady rasp, bewitching in its constancy. The scent wafting from the mortar is yet another component of the enchantment that has fallen upon the space. Each breath you take is more pleasant than the last. Invigorating. It is almost enough to make you forget the purpose of the brew. And to whom you will have it served.

Mother had been taken ill a couple of days past. The sweats, they feared, at its onset. The sweats, thank the gods, it is not. The source of the bug had been confined to her cottage, to sleep away the malady and prevent its spread. 

By no means was this to be the last spate of illness within the household, Healer Darya warned. The autumn storms are soon come upon you and with them the dreaded ague. It is not so lethal as the mortal sweats, to be sure, but it is a great deal more catching and takes its fair share of lives when left untreated. 

The cooks have been outdoing themselves of late, churning out dish after dish bursting with greens and fish and eggs. Fare to prevent further illness and strengthen the constitution, it is known. The year’s bounty of oranges (bloody and otherwise) find themselves a constant on the household table as well. And lemons. So many lemons. From fowl cooked with lemons to lemon cakes to liqueurs, the cooks find no end to their utility. It is almost enough to put you off them for the next year. Almost. Lemon cakes are altogether too tasty to give up for a full year.

“My lady, perhaps you can enlighten me with the properties of lovage.” Healer Darya gives you the briefest of glances before turning to her work. 

An unusual yet not unpleasant mixture of scents trails the priestess’s words. Peppermint, wormwood, silk moss. For the tonic to revitalize Mother. You grind your own ingredients on, as ordered, before eventually answering, “Lovage is most effective as an aid for digestion. If used too much, though, it can leave the patient extremely disoriented. As such, it must be used sparingly, and with a light hand.”

“What of vervain?”

“It is often used for the treatment of feral dog bites. However, it is also generally known as a potent restorative, especially if used in tonics. As we are using it right now.”

“Quite right, and well-put.” The Healer gauges the steadily burning flame beneath the small pewter cauldron on its iron trivet. She holds out her hand. “My lady, the paste, if you please.” The unusually pleasant scent takes on a new note and a different sort of pleasantness. Healer Darya puts aside the black stone mortar and its matching pestle, before taking up a ladle and stirring the concoction. “Perhaps I’ll set you to making the next few batches of these so I might at last move on to restocking the other essentials.”

You will take no issue with that. The past week or so of Healer lessons had been nothing less than stimulating. It began with books. The Lady Alyrya’s priestess was only too happy to oblige her mistress when you requested tuition. Light reading, to start. Greens in Your Garden; Flowers of the South; Physic and Herblore, an interesting treatise on medicinal plants, written by renowned herbalist Prior Flora, which you had started two nights past.

The true work is what you anticipate the most.

“Hang these up to dry and finish the tisane.” 

A bundle of herbs changes hands, and you proceed to obey. Pennyroyal and golden parsley, you note, with no small amount of wryness as you walk toward the drying area. Herbs needed for that most infamous of brews. The Healer had been instructing you on all manners of subjects: the drying of herbs, the extracting of vegetal oils, the making of tisanes, potions, pastes. Soon, you will move on to the more difficult tinctures, perhaps even your first poultice. All of these and more you will learn. But for the brewing of that one draught.

It had not been too long ago when Father had called you to his solar, grim and grave and so disappointed. He did not give you long to wonder at his disappointment. “What is this I hear about you and Young Master Meledin?” he had inquired, brisk and uncharacteristically terse.

He changed tack at your honest confusion, which he only doubled with his next query. Young, new-flowered Lady Rhyzkova could not understand nor picture what Father was on about. You had spent a good few moments in silence, puzzling out the details. You could not imagine how you were supposed to fit that hard rod of flesh inside you, or even that you could. 

So you had, truthfully, said no, Roman did not put his penis inside your sex. That new insight gave you awe, nevertheless. You might not have taken him in but you had taken him to hand, to his nervous excitement. That felt good, he said; it felt even better when you stroked. And so you did, encouraged by his eager urging, fascinated by the way he swelled and grew harder in your grip. Even the strange fluid that leaked from him in droves (not piss, he had asked Prior Ilya) did not put you off like it had that first time (your disgust did not let you get this far, and he had wilted from the embarrassment). He had climaxed all over your hand soon afterward. The milk-white liquid that came spurting from his cock was not piss, that was for certain.

For all your honesty, Father had his reservations. Healer Darya came to confirm your innocence, sent by Lord Alexander to corroborate his daughter’s claims. You were as intact as you could be, for a highborn girl, announced the priestess. It was not a boy’s cock that caused what tears there were down there. Noble girls are more like to lose their maidenheads to horses than to boys, this is known, and you have been riding since you were six, years and years ago.

Still, it stings, even now, to know Father had not taken you at your word. It is understandable, to a degree, to make absolutely sure - your value in the marriage market would have severely plummeted had you been plucked before your time. That does not lessen the sting, even so. It is some reassurance that he had not made you drink söga, at least.

Söga, the tisane you will never learn to make if Father and Healer Darya can help it. Both know well your capacity for wantonness. Your wanton streak, as Father called it. To your face. “You have a wanton streak in you, my child,” he had said, so very gently. Somehow, that had not stung - he could have worded, and delivered, it worse. He could have called it my whorish streak. 

And so you are relegated to keeping your whorish streak to yourself. It is all to the good, anyway. You know well what is expected of a lady, especially one with a standing as high as yours. That does not stop the what-ifs from cropping up every so often; they especially love to crop up in the face of a handsome boy, and the court does not lack for those. You are betrothed to one of those, as it happens. That you will use forbidden knowledge to go ahead and fuck your handsome boy without any consequences, you do not know. But that is certainly something.

You can always brew the tea yourself, you suppose, as you grab a length of knotted twine off the counter and begin to wrap it about the herbs’ stems. Söga is disastrous to get wrong, though. A misstep in the recipe will blast your womb and render you barren, a woman’s worst nightmare realized. You cannot have that; you must have heirs of your own body and continue a line eight thousand years strong.

Mugwort and nettle and goldenglow hang before you in a neat row, joined shortly by your pennyroyal and parsley. Herbal soldiers in line, waiting for their commands. And like true soldiers, they lose their potency beneath too much sun. All herbalists know to keep herbs away from scorching heat, and the Healer is no exception. The sandstone visible through the glass window before you makes for a dismal view.

The views are more cheering where the sun is allowed to shine. The apothecary is aptly stationed right beside the entrance to the sanctum, giving the resident Healer easy access to its wealth of flora. No autumn hues are evident through the wood-and-glass door that leads out into the palace gardens. This far south, the seasons turn more slowly, and so everything keeps its verdant bloom. For the moment.

You leave the apothecary bearing a silver trayful of remedies: ginger and mint tea (sweetened with honey), essence of yarrow, a bowl of hot water and a square of clean linen, marlock salve and the revitalizing tonic, finished at last after half an hour’s worth of labor. You cannot help the irreverent smile that pulls at your lips as you pass a familiar corridor.

Down those halls is a certain sitting room, now scarce used. It was that which made it so enticing to two highborn whelps who were too inquisitive for their own good. You do not know how that servant managed to catch you at it; hardly anyone went down there, as little used as the wing was. Perhaps you were louder than you’d thought. Par for the course for children, who tend to have little thought of their immediate surroundings. 

Father had the whole wing’s rooms locked and sealed away afterward. He hardly should have bothered. It had not taken him long to send Roman away, so you were left with no boys to play around with (no boys you were attracted to enough, at any rate). And no boys to learn the way of the bedchamber with, no one to fondle and explore just to see what went where. 

The older ladies of the court told you what went where readily enough.

Mother’s rooms are empty of callers and servants but for her handmaid, the Lady Oksana Aliyeva, sister to the Lady of Noyasnoy, Tatyana Aliyeva. “My lady,” she curtseys as you brush past the gossamer hangings to enter your mother’s bedchamber. The older woman proceeds at once to tie back the drapes, her long sheet of silvery blonde hair rippling in her wake.

You set your tray down on the table placed at the foot of the bed and gather the mug of tea in your hands. You wave away the handmaid as she comes over to assist. “Leave us, if you would, my lady.”

Lady Oksana checks, draws herself up and bows before taking her leave.

“Ah, my sweet little Healer,” Lady Theresia says hoarsely from her seat in her large bed, propped up on big silken pillows against her red gossamer-covered headboard and smiling her warm motherly smile. The stuffed peacocks flanking the bed stare haughtily down at you as you walk over to the bedside and sit on the crimson bedclothes. The clay of the teacup is rough and warm beneath your fingers, the tisane not too hot, perfect for drinking.

“How are you feeling?” you ask your lady mother as you hand her the drink. Still a bit peaky, you think, taking in Mother’s drawn complexion with a surge of concern. You mislike the gravel in her voice as well as its thickness. The mint will help the rocks and the obstruction.

Lady Theresia smiles, sardonic. “The cavalry is running a charge through my body, but this old bat is otherwise fine.” Mother and daughter share a laugh. “No leeches?” Lady Theresia queries after a taste of tea.

“Perhaps later. Healer Darya will drop by to check on you.”

“Oh, thank the gods. Such nasty creatures,” Mother shudders and takes another prim sip. “Did you mix this yourself?”

“Yes.” A bowl of water is sitting beside a tiny ornate brazier on the bedside table. A square of linen floats, submerged, in the yarrow-infused liquid. You stand and take the basin, striding back to the other table at the foot of the bed.

“Your lessons are going along swimmingly then.”

The pleasant scent of yarrow drifts through the air from the bottle in your hand. You pour a capful of the essence into the fresh bowl, well-pleased.

“Tell me of your curriculum. I trust that it is a good one. And appropriate.”

You cannot fail to hear the emphatic tone your mother’s voice has adopted. “It is good. And appropriate.” No söga, have no fear, Mother dear. You hang the unused linen over an arm and gather the steaming bowl, the revitalizing tonic, and the salve before returning to the bedside table.

“Eren is a handsome lad - gods, such a handsome lad, and so well-made-” you look askance at your mother’s dreamy expression, which she hastily shakes off, “-but you can afford to wait. Not long now ‘til you can tumble your man to your heart’s content.” Lady Theresia titters as the bottle of tonic near slips from her daughter’s hand at her remark. Her laughter waxes into a hacking cough as you turn to her with abject horror on your face. Never again do you want to hear anything remotely raunchy come out of your mother’s mouth.

“Ah, but he is a sweet lad,” Mother sniffs once her laughter and the coughing subside. She dabs at her nose with a square of linen. “And he makes you happy. That is the most important thing of all.”

You set the revitalizing tonic down beside the salve. He had sent you a tonic once, over a month ago. You had never been more surprised to see Healer Dmitriy outside your rooms in Merrydell, a purple glass bottle in his hands. “Young Master Eren asked me to give you this, my lady. Essence of valerian for your insomnolence.” 

As surprised as you had been at this unexpected visit, your astonishment paled in the light of the overwhelming surge of affection that coursed through you at this most thoughtful gesture. Your unrested state had struck a bigger cord in your betrothed than you’d realized. Such a sweet lad indeed.

Lady Theresia finishes her tea at last and hands you her cup. “We are lucky in our men, you and I.” Another set of smiles changes hands. “As I hope your sisters will be. And your brother with his lady wife someday. To be lucky in love is the sweetest thing.”

You putter about the bedside table, fussing at the cup and the bowl and the brazier, cheeks prickling at that most potent of words. Love.

Several moments pass before you can return to your place by Mother’s side. “Speaking of… men and future matches, how is Father taking into account the king’s continued reticence as regards the Crown Prince’s hand?” It has been some time since last you’d spoken of the matter. You hand Mother the small porcelain tub of marlock.

“Yes, well, your father has other options. As he always has in all matters.” A lesson he has been instilling in you most diligently throughout the years. Your mother removes the lid off the tub in her hand, dips her fingers in the ointment, and smears it over her chest, pulling the neck of her nightdress down a little as she does so.

“I don’t think the prince will make Lydia happy anyway.” Not when Lady Gudrun is around to be a paramour on the side.

“They can always grow into it. Such matters are a passing thing.” Lady Theresia hands back the tub, which you set aside on the table, just as a commotion in the form of your baby brother enters the room.

“Mava!”

The swept-back drapes of the bedchamber afford you both a view of little Oliver Rhyzkov tottering down the privy chamber, threading his way past the divans, the armchairs, and the tables in his route to get to Mother’s bedroom. He is carrying an earthenware bowl filled with a glistening golden mass in his little hands.

Behind him drifts his nurse, brown-haired matronly Mother Raisa, in her cerise robes lined with gold. She is carrying her own dish, this one piled high with the harvest’s bounty: pears, peaches, plums, grapes and dates and melons, all manners of berries. “My ladies,” she bows over her bowl once she reaches the threshold of the bedroom, which makes her young ward pause and dip into his own bow.

“No need to bow to your own kin, Olya,” you inform him with a grin, taking the dish from him and ruffling his hair affectionately, making the boy giggle. Your hand shoots out quick as a whip and closes around a pudgy forearm as your brother makes to run to Mother’s bedside. “Sorry, love, but no kisses for Mava just yet. You might get sick, and if you get sick, there’ll be no more playtime. And no more swimming.”

The threat of no more swimming hits hard. Olya slumps down in your hold, pouting a most magnificent pout. “But it’s tomorrow and you said you’d be better tomorrow,” he calls out, sad and plaintive, to Mother, who smiles at him apologetically.

“I’m afraid the bug is stronger than we thought, my love. But I promise I will be better.”

“I told you to let me squish it! I’m not afeared of bugs, I can squish it! So you can be better!”

“That’s why we brought these, your little lordship, to squish the bugs and make your mother stronger,” Mother Raisa intercedes as she places the fruit bowl amidst the physic on the bedroom bench. “Only a good serving of fruit can squish this sort of bug. Of course, a prayer or two will work even more wonders,” she adds piously, clutching at the golden pendant on her chest, that of the Mother Above’s scepter tipped with a tiny pomegranate.

Olya nods vigorously. “Honeycomb makes me feel better, too, so you have to eat them all today so you’ll be better tomorrow. For true.”

Sure enough, the sugary scent emitting from the bowl in your hands belongs to his favorite sweet. You place it beside the fruits, greatly endeared.

“I can’t promise you I’ll be all right tomorrow but I will be in a few days. For true,” Mother says, as endeared as you. “And then we can swim.” 

Olya is not quite placated, that is plain to see, but he nods anyway. His hand drifts to his mouth, prompting his nurse to grab hold of the limb. He has been weaned, for the most part, from that most babyish of habits yet still it manifests, especially when he is upset. At five, he is too old for such conduct and needs further work to break the practice for good and all. Lydia had suggested smearing his hand with sun pepper jelly to stop him sucking. Mother had rebuked her most sharply and the issue was dropped.

“I thank you most kindly for the fare. From a harvest well done, indeed,” Lady Theresia remarks, eyeing the overflowing fruit bowl with so much pride. “Not just for us, I am told.”

“Not just for us,” you affirm, proud as the room’s stuffed peacocks. The past week or so had seen the doves coming in from all the Vascalene provinces, all with reports of excellent harvests. You have yet to come down from the heights of your satisfaction.

“A good portent. And good for public perception. Any proof of the gods’ favor of your rule will help ease the way when you come into your own.”

The fact is a most pleasing one. And much-needed, to help chase away the weight of the role.

“Oh, before I forget, you need to drink your tonic,” you exclaim, moving to measure and pour out the potion for your mother’s consumption. “We’ll leave you to it, then,” you put in once the philter has been drunk. You bend to pick up little Olya, who is not so little now, you realize as you feel the weight of him in your arms. Mother Raisa strides forward, voicing out aid, which you wave away. “Say goodbye to Mava,” you prompt the boy, and he obeys, adding a little wave into the bargain. “She needs to sleep so she’ll get better. And then we’ll swim.”

“Swimming! We’ll swim, we’ll swim like Renren,” Olya chirps, bouncing in your hold, to your distress. “Honey!” he demands, reaching for the corresponding bowl. Mother Raisa breaks off a piece of the comb and hands it to him. He sets to at once, happily munching his treat (Mother’s in truth, supposedly), wax and all.

You adjust your grip on him and bid your own farewell to your most beloved mother. You will visit again tonight. A good Healer must needs check on her patients most diligently.

Renren the Newt’s namesake is standing outside the rooms to greet you, to your surprise.

“Hello,” he raises a hand in greeting.

“Hello,” Olya replies, raising his own smaller honey-smeared hand to return the gesture. 

Eren smiles that warm, tender smile that has made such a home in his beautiful face. The way he regards you and the boy in your arms is achingly soft.

You shift Olya on your hip, so conscious of Eren’s gaze. “You remember Eren, yes? My betrothed.” Encounters between your betrothed and your brother have been scant. Not least because you are keeping Eren to yourself most every time, and Olya has his own little boy agenda to go through every day. “What are you doing here?” you question Eren, most curious.

He purses his lips and sighs, all tenderness lost. “I heard Lady Theresia was sick and you were tending her. I wanted to know how she was.”

Something in you squirms at the restrained fear of his mien. You know well what frightens him so. It is hard to be confronted with memories of his greatest loss. Mother’s predicament is hitting too close to home. “She’s on the mend,” you assure gently. “A day or two and she’ll be right as rain.”

“You’re a knight, right? Teach me how to joust.” Oblivious Oliver licks at his fingers, exposing Eren to the full brunt of his special stare, that wide-eyed compelling look he loves to use on everyone if he must have his way.

It is working a charm on the most susceptible knight. And does a superb job cutting through the miserable tension in the air neat as a pin. “Do you know how to ride a horse?” Eren asks the boy, who shakes his head. “That won’t do. Before you can joust, you have to know how to ride.”

“Teach me.”

“There’s a thought,” you interpose. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Olya certainly thinks so, too. He bounces in your arms again and again and again, trilling “Teach me,” with each bound. Mother Raisa strides forward to take the little lordling off your hands, and this time you let her. There is no winning against Olya, not when he has begun to work himself into excitement.

Eren chuckles at the spectacle and moves closer to you. “Your master of horse should be the one teaching you, not me. I’m hardly the right authority on that matter.”

“You’ll make a fine teacher, and I speak from experience,” you cut in, noting the frown and the trembling mouth of the little face brought about by Eren’s statement. Nothing good will come from that trembling mouth. You turn to the nursemaid before Olya can work himself up into a tantrum. “We’ll proceed to the stables. Perhaps we can commandeer a suitable pony for Olya.” Crisis averted, you think, relieved to see the excitement return to your baby brother’s face.

“You taught me how to ride and I’m a much better horsewoman for it. Don’t sell yourself so short,” you tell your betrothed, idly fiddling with the braid draped over your left shoulder. Mother Raisa and her charge have already started down the corridor. Your fingers brush against something sticky. Olya’s honey, you grimace, lamenting the stain it made on the pale green cloth of your charovma.

“I can teach you a different sort of riding, if you find me such a fine teacher.”

Your head snaps up. “Pardon?”

Eren gives you a slow, smiling gaze and does not answer, merely reaching out to pinch your cheek. “You make the sweetest faces.” He slips his fingers through yours and tugs you along.

“I have to get changed,” you force out, emerging from one of many spells he has taken to casting on you of late. Your cheek tingles where he had pinched it. “I have been honeyed,” you clarify, plucking at your dress at his inquiring look.

“Oh.”

The comfortable silence that falls between you does not last long. “Are you… sniffing me?”

Embarrassment takes his features over, yet it goes as soon as it comes. “It’s just… you smell sweet. And green. I like it.”

“Oh.”

You play with your braid once more. These Healer’s lessons are proving to be a most valuable asset in your skillset. In more ways than one. You have no choice now but to go about it most diligently. And you do so love the smell of herbs.

Into that wild enchanted wood he strode, the prince of dreams, to take up his seat in this his arcane realm. The birds chirped, and the leaves rustled, and the maid giggled, the maid of the wood, that girl with flowers in her hair.

High up she perched on her hawthorn throne, the true sovereign of this wood, and for her he bent the knee. It was never his wood, never his realm, and this he knew as he had never known before.

“Here you are at last, my lady of the wood,” said he, the prince of dreams. “You have kept me waiting.”

“Here I am at last, my prince of dreams,” said she, the girl with flowers in her hair. “I have kept you waiting, for my person’s sake.”

“I do not mean you harm, and will never. This vow, you will see, shall I keep,” said he, the most earnest of princes.

The mystery of her intrigued him so, and the sennights had been a torment. Food had lost all savor and the sun was dark in his eyes each day spent without her radiance. He had naught of her for she gave him naught, not even a name he could call with yearning lips.

For names have power, you see, said she, the girl with flowers in her hair, and forsworn will I be should I give you power over me.

Dong!

Eren looks round at the sound and instantly leaps to his feet. The time has slipped away from him and he is late. Lore and Luminaries, a Compendium of the Legends of the United Lands is thrown unceremoniously back into the lounge’s cushions as he makes a run for the library’s exit. He spares Prior Ilya a quick nod, who returns it, stiff and disapproving, as Eren speeds past his desk. He hastily straightens out the black and silver vidnon jacket (sans tunic) he is wearing with his black pants, making sure he is presentable as he proceeds down the hallway. The timepiece by the disgruntled dark-haired priest’s elbow shows the hour, that of the lynx.

Whatever seeds of remorse that have sprouted inside Eren wilt as quickly as they grow; he ought to be more careful with books, especially ones not his own, yet he is beyond caring at this point. He can always offer to rearrange the whole library in his idle hours. For now, his lady awaits.

And a true lady you are becoming, more and more each day. Some days, you would spend hours apart, you to your councils and audiences and duty, he to books and sparring and leisure. Much as he mislikes these times, some part of him marvels at them, marvels at you and what you can become. Detestable as she is in your intimacy, Lady Rhyzkova is promising to be a most resplendent woman. The image of you coming into your own excites him more than he realized.

Goldhaven’s sanctum is unrecognizable from the wood that it was two years ago. Then, it was a forest of oak and pine and hawthorn, of cypress and poplar and willow. Now, it is a park, and what oaks and pines and hawthorns there were are now growing in disparate plots across the sward. 

He strides down the stone trail that winds its way through the sanctum, eyes peeled for you. The sun is no longer at its zenith and has begun its slow descent into the west. It has dipped below the castle’s towers and so a quarter of the place is in shadow. He walks in dimness for a while until he comes across a choice of paths; he chooses the lefthand one and presses on, emerging at last into the light.

Like the gardens at home in Highridge, Goldhaven’s are elevated, perched high above the city on its leveled edifice. The wind will always blow here. It whips his hair about his face and he considers, for the briefest of moments, having it cut back to its preceding length. He has never grown his hair this long in living memory (it is almost to his shoulders now, hopelessly shaggy), and he is starting to realize why. Your voice echoes in his head, telling him how much you like the look on him, and he desists. For all the trouble it brings on, longer hair has its benefits.

A cluster of gardeners is about, trimming the verges that border one side of the large, circular fountain at the heart of the park. All turn to him and bow with their ‘Sirs’ and ‘Milords’. He acknowledges them with a nod, moving on and on and on, following his stone path. 

Still, his lady is absent, yet he knows where he will find her. Past stands of trees he strolls, once again astonished by how far this sanctum goes. The only other garden he knows can match the length of this one is the Bulwark’s. Connie had often claimed that one needed a mount to negotiate the place, as he and the Lady Mikasa were wont to do; it would take them half the day to do so on foot if they so chose to ply the full breadth of it. Eren had tested the veracity of that claim one summer’s day and decided that Connie was full of hot air and made from weak stock. It only took him half an hour to range the whole thing on foot, from the castle to the end of the gardens and back again.

He finds his lady where he knew she would be. High up you perch on the hawthorn tree, right there at the very end of the sanctum, lying latently along a sturdy branch. A fold of white cloth drapes down the bough from your dress, that white dress that exposed a great deal of smooth, shapely leg, split as it is from the thigh down. You are barefoot; your sandals peep out at him on the ground, beside a wicker basket and the godstone of this garden, a smooth, gray monolith with its proud, gray god, standing in front of this proud, tall tree.

His smile comes easily at your beauty’s behest. You have made a servant of his joy, and it comes so eagerly at your presence’s command. You are making a servant of all of him, his bits and parts, and he finds that he can care little and less. You can lead him anywhere and he will come. Unquestioningly. Willingly. Freely.

Your head turns at the sound of his footsteps. You smile your own smile and rest your head on your folded arms beneath you. “You have kept me waiting, Sir.”

Eren stares up at you, utterly charmed. “Here I am at last, my lady of the sanctum. I have kept you waiting only because time slipped away from me.”

“Ah, a flaw at last. The strong and dashing Falcon Knight is a most terrible timekeeper.”

“That is most unfair, my lady. It was only the once, I can assure you it won’t happen again. Look kindly upon me, I implore you.” Wind threads gently through his hair, light as your fingers had been that night in the Sphere. It slips through the edges of his loosely tied vidnon, its touch cool and pleasant on his bare skin. He takes a step forward until he is a handsbreadth away from the godstone. The rounded top of it reaches his waist.

“Why should I look kindly upon someone who calls me unfair to my face?” Wind threads gently through your hair, lifting it from your pretty face to flutter in the breeze. The hem of your dress ripples outward like a pristine banner. Not once did your smile drop.

He rests a hand atop the godstone. “It was the judgement that was unfair, not my lady herself.”

“The Falcon Knight has a silver tongue.” You sit up, lithe and languid, and press closer to the trunk.

“See, I have more to commend me than my timekeeping.” He comes closer, hand sliding off the godstone as he takes a step forward until he is standing by the hawthorn’s roots. His lady is sitting mere feet above him, all smiles still. He need not reach up very far to take one dainty foot into his hand. Yet he does not.

“What else commends you, aside from that tongue that gives you such credit?” You place an elbow on another branch beside you and rest your head upon your arm, playful as Alena of Makan had been with her Prince of Dreams.

Eren places a hand on the trunk, gleaming up at you, his own Alena. Without the flowers in her hair. “Wouldn’t you like to know. My lady.”

You giggle, a sound as sweet as silver bells. “Oh, I would like to know indeed.” You push off the branch and make to clamber down the tree.

At once, he reaches out to assist, taking a small hand into his own and guiding your way down the sloping trunk. The smell of leaves and herbs, that most intoxicating green smell, clings to you like perfume. It smells even better on you than your own perfume. Sweet as apples and winter roses are, they are not so comforting as the scent of fresh plant life.

You bend down to retrieve your basket, and there stands before him a maid of the wood. A vevda you wear, white and sleeveless and girdled with gold, the neck dipping down sharply to bare the shapely curves of your breasts. Your legs are as shapely, peering out from the split skirt of the garment. Your toes dig into the soft, lush grass beneath your still-bare feet. 

Eren gazes long and keen at you, committing the image of you as you are now to memory. A living fae maid. You only lack for flowers. A strong desire to crown you with such rises in him, and he glances about the wide, sweeping place. Flower bushes dot the area every few feet. Goldenglow and bronze betties and silver dream-of-morns, crocuses, peonies, even a patch of devil’s bloom with its black-and-scarlet petals, the garden is well-populated and still untouched by autumn’s hand. He will have enough for you.

“May I ask what it was that so engrossed the Falcon Knight that he would forget to keep a solemn promise?” you inquire lightly as you slip on your sandals.

“I was brushing up on my military science in the library. On the most sage recommendation of Sir Grisha.” You make your slow way back to the castle proper, hands clasped.

“Looking to gain more of an upper hand on me at our games, are we? I’ll have the truth of that tonight. I do admire your diligence. I would never think to read sleeping draughts as large as those during my reprieve.” You smile, shy and sweet, as he plucks a goldenglow from a passing bush and tucks it behind your ear. His hand lingers, tracing over the curve of your ear, slow and gentle, before pulling away. 

Eren watches you bite your lip at the gesture and look away. He bites his own lip to keep from smiling too widely. “Once you get past his tedious style, Hoover actually had interesting theses. And it wasn’t him that grabbed my attention. Prior Horst and his compendium provided a nice respite from all the philosophy and tactics.” 

“Ah, Lore and Luminaries?” You emerge at last from your reserve, eyes alight with interest.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Understandable, then. You are forgiven your lapse.”

Eren chuckles, just as you near the sanctum’s fountain. He has been rereading the old tales of late. His favorite stories ring different, somehow, though no one has changed the words. Perhaps it is he who has changed. Perhaps now he is reading with new eyes, not the eyes of a boy but of a man in l- 

Thump, thump, thump.

His hands have gone clammy in yours, though you do not seem to notice as you draw him down next to you onto the stone lip of the fountain. A circular stone colonnade, open to the skies, rings the structure. Queen Yelena Rhyzkova I stands at the heart of the fount carrying jugs, one pouring water down her stone vevda, the other spraying over her regal head. The steady splashing of water blends seamlessly with the rustling of leaves about you.

All those fade to nothing until all he can hear is the beat of his heart. Thumping, thumping inside his chest. Is he truly? He glances sidelong at his betrothed, the only girl he has ever liked this much. He likes you very, very much. But is it truly? Is it truly… love?

“The girl with flowers in her hair.” You reach up to touch the blossom behind your ear. “I only have the one.”

The sweet voice brings him back, as it always can do. “That can easily be remedied.” The gardeners have moved on to other verges. Those they had been trimming are in full bloom about you. Goldenglow, laceflowers, and violets give Yelena’s fount a touch of ornamentation. Eren plucks a golden blossom, and before long, he is plucking more, laceflowers, violets, more goldenglow. Fingers, long unpracticed, begin to remember their old skill. Slowly and surely, the crown takes shape.

“Where did you learn how to make crowns?” You observe his weaving hands, rapt.

“Mother and I used to make these for one another whenever we lounged in the gardens back home.” He smiles, lost in work and in memory. “I was her little Falcon Knight. She was my Queen of Love and Beauty.” 

The wreath lies finished in his hands at last, gold and white and violet. “Yours now, my lady, the title and the crown,” he avows, placing the ring of blossoms over your head. “The Queen of Dreams and Love and Beauty. The most beautiful Majesty.” The fae maid has flowered at last. “The girl with flowers in her hair.”

There it is, that look that he loves, the gentle awe of him come to grace your face again. And there it is, that word again. Love.

“The Falcon Knight has turned into the Prince of Dreams.” You brush light fingers over the petals and smile so beautifully. “You miss her so much,” you say, quiet and thoughtful, a statement meant to be a question yet comes out a statement nevertheless.

“Every day. And I always will.” The unceasing wind is the most comforting presence. He turns his face toward it, longing for the smell of salt. The sanctum faces away from the ocean, and so it is faint here, and far away. But it is there. Beneath the scents of the city - dust and woodsmoke and spices and humanity - there the salt breeze blows. Faint but never gone.

“You’re fortunate you can take care of yours,” he finds himself saying. “I could only watch, helpless, as I lost mine.” He takes your hands, marveling at how small they are compared to his, how smooth, and soft, and unscarred. Unmarked by violence. The hands of peace. The hands of a ruler. “The hands of a Healer,” he murmurs to himself, almost absently, caressing the unblemished skin. “You will preserve life, while I will take it away. And I have taken it away from a host of others.”

He stills as he feels the softness of your lips brush the back of his knuckles. You stroke the scarred skin, immersed in thought. “They have taken but they also give.” You hold up his hand and lace your fingers through his. His fingers close tight over yours as you reach with your other hand to cup his face, rubbing a tender thumb across his cheek. “And they can be so gentle. And so kind. And if they take, it’s only to preserve. You take to preserve those who matter.”

“And who are they, the ones who matter?”

You give him a long, considering look before giving answer. “I think… you would know that better than I.”

The ones I love. Those I am sworn to protect. The weak. The innocent. But who are the innocents, exactly?

It is too much to think about. Too much for the time and the place. Eren turns his head, to place a kiss on the cherished palm on his cheek. “Again, you always know what to say.”

You take your time withdrawing your hands, smile as soft as eiderdown. “I’m glad my words can touch you.”

“They do more than touch me, my lady.” He drinks in the sight of you, another one to keep in his memory for all his days. His eyes fall to the pendant that rests beneath the hollow of your throat, the family heirloom that proclaims to the world at large that you are no longer free for the taking, unavailable for marriage to anyone and everyone. But for him.

You will return the jewel to his House, as all brides must, to trade it for a more permanent piece, the scallop-and-pearl of those bound in wedlock.

The black pearl necklace’s chain gleams a bright silver beneath the afternoon light. Black and silver, like his vidnon. Black and silver, to your white and gold. Absolute opposing colors. Yet for all their opposition, a matched pair still.

“Lord Alexander invited me out for a gardening session,” he says, reminded of the fact by the basket that is sitting beside you. It is filled with greens, he now sees, indistinguishable from each other to his untrained eye.

“Oh?” You give him a look, of interest at the news, and of slight puzzlement at the change of subject. Which is just as well. You need to stir this ship to brighter, less troubled waters.

“Mm-hmm. I’m scared to death,” Eren laughs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. He cannot help recalling one of his recurring nightmares ever since you had been promised, of Lord Alexander chasing him around the halls of Midford Castle, swinging at him with a gigantic bludgeon. His future father by marriage is an amiable man, true enough, yet he is also… big.

You giggle at his expression and take his hand. “Oh, you have nothing to fear. He’s the most lovable pup despite what his size may tell you. Unless… you do mean to make me cry.” You gaze at him beadily as you tug him to his feet.

He scoffs. “I’ll tell him what I told your barkeep. I have no intentions of ‘doing you dirty.’ And if I do make you cry…” he lets his eyes dip down to the luscious curves of your breasts, and smirks, “it won’t be from grief.”

His smirk unfolds into a grin at your disbelieving huff. “That’s quite enough out of you,” you mutter, picking up your basket and pulling him into a walk. The corners of your lips are twitching upward, though. “And here I was thinking I could give you a lesson in herblore to better get you into his good graces. I’ll leave you to Father’s mercy, then.”

“Please, milady, I’m sorry, milady, I won’t say no stupid things again, I do so swear. Teach me the ways of the wood.”

You beam and laugh and wrap an arm about his waist, this girl with flowers in her hair. This girl any man can come to love. “Since you asked so nicely… I am compelled. And perhaps we can scrounge up greens for Renren’s tank.”

No, not any man. Only me. Only me.

Oluo Bossard is a man who plainly loves the sound of his own voice.

“‘-flattered that you care for me so, Lady Petra, but I cannot take you to wife for I am already wed. Duty is the most jealous mistress and she will not suffer any other woman in my life,’” Bossard yammers from his place before the blazing hearth, waving his empty teacup around as he regales… who is he regaling, exactly?

Dorin Serech is sitting before him in a pale purple armchair, yet his nose is buried in a book, apparently deaf to everything but for words writ in ink. Crowded around the window embrasure at the end of the room are the Brotherhood’s youngest. Connie Springer is holding court, entertaining Bertolt Hoover and Marin Tarasav with anecdotes of his own. He at least seems to be having more success with his audience, who are laughing and rejoining with corresponding quips. The forefront of the solar sees Erwin standing behind his desk, dictating a missive to Hange, the only woman (lawfully) allowed in the Hall of the Sentinel.

Perhaps Bossard is under the misguided impression that he is interested in hearing about the paltry niceties of his life. That annoys Levi to no end. He must disabuse the man of that notion at once. He stands from his own armchair by the fire, clutching his cup of tea, and sweeps past the still-rambling knight, who does not seem to notice his lack of an attentive audience.

Prior Hange does not so much as glance up from her work as Levi walks past her seat at the left hand of the Lord Commander’s desk. He does not escape Rolf Wolfsbane’s attention as easily, though. Hard bronze eyes glare at Levi as he leans against the wall beside the fabled princely knight, the most fabled in the Royal Guard’s history. Or so they claim. Levi ignores the glower and takes a sip of his drink. Pardon me, Your Grace, but you are only a bust and I’m free to lounge about wherever I like.

It is not long until he has drained his cup. He stares down at the specks of tea leaves dotting the porcelain and feels that old and familiar feeling once more, the one he can’t quite give a name to. It is one he always has whenever his squires come into their own and he is left to face the prospect of acquainting himself with a new boy yet again. It is part wistfulness, part resignation, he supposes. But that is the lot of the knight. Useless to tell himself never to get too attached. Somehow, some way, no matter how slight, he still does.

All that at the sight of tea leaves. He can almost laugh. He wonders if the new boy will be an exceptional teamaker. Dieter Augenstein is to be the name of the new boy, a younger son of a Lesser House sworn to the Reisses, a lad of some eighteen or nineteen years. Levi will have to teach him the ways of perfect brewing if he proves to be a botch. Eren’s first attempts at brewing had been depressingly unacceptable, yet he learned in the end. It is always a toss-up with the boys. Some will always be better brewers than others. But none have yet surpassed that most consummate of brewers, Farlan Church.

“Finished! At last!” cries the Prior, at the exact moment the Lord Commander speaks.

“Copper for your thoughts?”

Erwin is glancing at him from the corner of his eye. The leaded glass in front of him shows the Hall’s yard and Midford’s main keep right across their smaller holdfast. The day promises to be a good one for rain - the autumn storms are begun at last. If they aren’t, then they will be soon, now that the Month of Storing has started.

Levi looks away from the Lord Commander’s gaze and his right sleeve, empty, armless, and pinned up at the shoulder with an iron brooch in the shape of an anvil. “Keep your coin. My thoughts aren’t worth that much.”

“These ones are, it would seem. What has the cool, imperturbable Levi Ackerman looking so… sentimental?”

“Ah, I am starving,” Hange whines, slumping down on her seat, utterly woebegone. Erwin stares at Levi a few moments more with that piercing stare of his, then turns to sit down before his desk and pick up the letter the Prior has completed, reading over the contents. 

Silently, Levi lets out a breath. Relief. Did he truly give himself away like that? I’m losing my touch. Many squires he’s had over the years, and yet the first always comes back to haunt him. It’s always the first that gets you, for everything. His first squire. His first triumph. And his first true failure.

“Where are Mike and my sweet rolls?”

“This is passable,” Erwin announces after a time, and Hange sits up, lips pouted, mind stuck on her stomach. “He’ll be pleased to hear back from me soon.”

Ortwin of Smith Street is a blacksmith of the highest standing. A standing he did not have before his son rose to prominence, some will be quick to whisper. He was one of many smiths in the area, deemed to be neither exceptional nor terrible. But that was hardly fair; his craft is as fine as any smith’s worth his salt, and he is worth his many times over. And if his son’s legend brings on more custom, what of it?

“Will you be delivering by dove or in person?” Hange yawns, rubbing at her stomach.

“In person. It’s been some time since I’ve visited.” Before he lost an arm, the Lord Commander had been known to return home on his free days and take up his old trade again. He was a capable smith in his own right; that storied blade of his, Sunstrike, is a weapon of his own making. It is no truesteel blade such as those forged by the peerless metalworkers of Old Paradis, but the sword had served him well over his years of active duty. Now it sits in his rooms, gathering dust, its vocation ended.

“How is the work coming along?” Hange asks, a little vaguely, seemingly distracted from her stomach at last. Her eyes are trained on the rest of the room’s occupants, thoughtful and ruminative.

“Well enough. Slow but sure, as they say. Fold this for me, would you?” Erwin hands the priestess back his missive and she complies, folding the parchment into a neat rectangle and securing it shut with pale purple wax, which she stamps with the Royal Guard’s seal, a crown ringed with twelve swords. “Although I fear I may never again be as able. Continuous practice is what’s needed and my duties get in the way of that. Being Lord Commander is detrimental to being a smith.”

The Lord Commander’s visits to his family forge are not entirely filial. Still he takes up his craft, trying to hone his remaining limb until it is as dextrous as the vanished one. Levi can empathize, to a point. His dear Uncle Kenny had broken his right wrist when he was a boy, soon after he had mastered the rudiments of swordplay with his dominant hand. To make him a most well-rounded warrior, the man claimed as he proceeded, brutally, severely, ruthlessly, to train his young nephew to fight with his left hand.

Not for the first time, Levi feels that most consternating confusion of anger and gratefulness that rises inside him at the thought of his uncle. Seeing Erwin struggle to recondition his body after such a profound loss only exacerbates the emotions. More than half of Levi is thankful that, should he lose his right, he will still have his left and be as proficient as he ever is in battle. Not even the Lord Commander can claim as much. Perhaps those years of hell were worth it, after all.

“Has this room ever been full?” Hange questions promptly. “With all of you lot, I mean. The Brotherhood of the Twelve instead of the Brotherhood of… Seven,” she adds after a hasty headcount of the solar’s occupants.

“It can’t ever be full,” Levi reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest. “The king is not to be left alone and unguarded under any circumstance.”

“Ah, right.” Something morose descends upon her in a flash. Unusual to the highest degree with this most upbeat of Priors. “Don’t you have three from the North? I see one northman… where are the other two?”

“Sir Julian is on duty, with Sir Keith. Sir Symon is… away,” the Lord Commander answers, careful and circumspect. Things have been uneasy with their northern brothers nowadays. Not so Dorin, not as much, with him being a Trostman (and therefore not one of the aggrieved northern parties, though their sort remains wary all the same).

Renouncing past ties and allegiances to serve one is easier said than done. Hard to keep those vows when the one you devote your life to has done you a great personal wrong. And reducing your line - a line ten thousand years old, one of the oldest in the land - to a mere shadow of what it once was is a great personal wrong, Halkin will not see it as anything but. Worse still is to eradicate your whole House, root and stem, and leave you as the sole successor to its legacy. And a fine successor Skaryn makes, one whose vows prevent him from leaving his own successors to cultivate their tree. His House will die a true death with him, in the end.

Mistrust is a chord that does not strike well with the Lord Commander yet that kingslayer Marius Zackly had given precedent for the sentiment to exist. Never again will Julian Halkin and Symon Skaryn do duty together. The squires are to be kept away from the northmen as well. They cannot risk the boys being overrun should the men act on any impulse of retribution; only the veterans will serve with them now, to keep the closest watch.

A loud whoop of laughter rings out from the other end of the room, from the squires and their cheery japes. No, not squires, no longer squires, Levi has to remind himself. They are knights now, dubbed and anointed as he is, no matter how young. And they will not remain so. Further service and battle will change that. And time. Which is, at present, working further changes on them. Connie, who not too long ago was of his height, now overtops him, to Levi’s displeasure; a large part of him feels betrayed.

“Laughter is always a good thing to hear. Sir Symon should be here to partake of it. Or at least to listen.” Hange smiles sadly. “How terrible it must be, to know you are the last. It’s a hard sentence to bear.”

“The law is the law, no matter how hard.” The Lord Commander hesitates for an instant, before advancing, “No matter his… disposition, and his judgement, it has been hard for His Majesty as well. We’re looking to you, for good measure, to keep him safe down where he will not let us follow.”

Prior Hange nods soberly, and Levi is left to ponder. His Majesty has been visiting the vaults more often these days, and lingering longer than his Guard would like. Levi can trace this change as having come about in the days of the late Lady Mariya’s death. Which had concurred with the late Zheletine priest’s court visit.

The king’s private enterprise has been years long in the making. It started with Dietrich, the most truculent of lords in recent memory. Where it will end is yet to be determined. Rod Reiss, the First of His Name, will not be the first Reiss to start this selfsame enterprise. The end may yet be imminent but it need not be uncertain, if the fates of His Majesty’s enterprising forebears were anything to go by. You would think he, or anyone else, would learn by now.

It is the stuff of the Lord Commander’s worst nightmares, this project, and it tears him between duties - to obey and to protect. He had dared ask the king, once, the nature of this undertaking, only to be coldly rebuffed and warned off of further inquiry, on pain of dishonorable discharge. No man of them has inquired since.

They can put two and two together, nevertheless. His Majesty can make his Priors swear all the oaths he requires and warn off his Guard all he likes, yet that cannot make them ignore the sounds, muffled though they are by thick metal. Levi hears them still, in his nightmares. Disembodied they are in life; at the castle in the air in the gloaming, they take on the most monstrous forms. The Titans were long before his time but he has seen the tapestries, the portraits and the paintings, and those come to life in his head in his worst nights.

It disturbs him to no end to know that the king will see them living once more.

“All this magic in the world and we can’t even wield it. All the potential, all of humanity’s progress wasted. At the least, it would make this whole thing so much easier.” Hange sighs. “It’s an ironic thing, isn’t it, that the thing we are working on is the very reason we lost our divinity in the first place.” Sworn to silence she may be yet this vow she does not keep. Not with them, the Lord Commander and his leal right hand. They proved too sharp to feign ignorance with, so there is little point in upholding the farce.

“For all the death and destruction they brought, though… Titans were a marvel unlike any other. To see even one alive… to know that it was I who brought them about… that it was due to my brilliance that the impossible was made possible… I should die happy,” Hange breathes, and slumps down on her chair, dreamy as a milkmaid mooning over her farm hand.

It is all Levi can do not to shake his head at her. “A misstep and you’ll die before you see your life’s ambition come to pass. There will be no joy in it for you, I promise you.” Doubly so should their studies cause the death of the king. Some days of late, he emerged much the worse for wear, to the Lord Commander’s increasing disquiet. Holding his tongue to obey his king is becoming more of a sore trial, day after day after day.

“The Northern Matter, it’s what’s spurring him on. They won’t stand up to him if he still had the old power,” says Hange, suddenly grim as the grave they had reduced Zheletov to.

Ill-done, it was ill-done, a voice oft suppressed murmurs within. Try as he might to play deaf, something in Levi acknowledges the voice’s truth. Once, his nights would have been spent in the company of the dangling dead. Sleeping like a log makes for a superior shield against the accusing eyes. And time. The dead have lost all the power they held over him. Something in him is appalled by the fact. Death is never supposed to be easy.

“This is not the place or time to discuss this,” Erwin breaks in tersely, a note of warning in his voice.

“Do the lads know?” Hange asks, as though Erwin had not spoken. “When are you going to tell them? Soon or late, they must know if they’re expected to perform their duty to its full.”

The Lord Commander sighs. “Soon.” When their mouths prove as closed as mine, are his words unsaid.

“I’m back.”

Hange gasps and pops up from her seat, dashing toward the solar door with cries of welcome and glee. Mike fends her off at once as best he can from his basket of goods. “Marchpane!” she squeals, grabbing at the crock of it sitting atop his promised sweet rolls. Matthias Ackerman looks on from his place by the door, unimpressed by the tomfoolery occurring beneath his bronze nose. To be sure, there is very little that can impress the bust of the first Lord Commander. Levi wonders if this was true of his ancestor in life; he will know where his own temperament comes from, if so.

“Soon?”

The current Lord Commander gives Levi the briefest of looks before he stands from his desk. The squires-turned-knights are coming over, drawn by the Prior’s capers and the smell of fresh-baked bread. Erwin proceeds to his subordinate to grab a bite of his own. “Soon.”

You tap on the door, the little knock that you and Eren have taken to using for your late-night meetings. You have not used or heard it in quite some time now, now that you think on it. The blowback from the Northern Matter had cut into your nighttime arrangements. That is not to mention the hassle that came with traveling and settling back into the rhythm of being home once more.

But you have grown peckish reading Lore and Luminaries (which you had borrowed from the library at your betrothed’s unknowing influence). Somehow, reading of Gerald and Cressida’s midnight trysts served to make you crave your beloved strawberry cream pie. And your own knight’s company. You had left the lovers of legend in their midnight garden and slipped to the guest wing, by ways only you were privy to. 

Almost all castles have their secret passages, byways to cut the time spent ranging from one side of the keep to another. Most serve a more vital purpose. Father had shown you one such some years ago. It is conveniently located in the anteroom of the family privy chambers. The second panel from the tall window to the left of the room, you must always remember. This one leads to an underground cavern, which opens up to the Arsechkalan countryside. Should the worst come to pass and you are besieged by enemies, gods forbid, you are to take here the family and as many of the household as you can and escape for the nearest sanctuary.

It is a grim probability and not one you want to think too deeply on yet you know your duty. A good ruler must save as many of her people as she can in times of peril.

The passage you took to visit your knight had a less bleak purpose. Sir Bacon - may the gods give him rest, the darling thing - had found it for you sometime before you entered court. There it is, in the corridor that leads to the empty chambers connected to yours (your future consort’s, your parents informed you). The brown tabby had tripped a mechanism in one of the hallway’s alcoves and you had both slipped through. This one leads to a hidden garden, an old sanctum, now unused, which in turn leads to the inner palace gardens (this one not a sanctum). From there, it is no trouble slipping through the castle halls to your destinations of choice. It allows you to steer clear from the guards posted by the privy chambers, at least, which makes for the greatest of godsends.

You hope Eren isn’t asleep yet.

His door swings open and a god emerges. The breath leaves your lungs with all speed.

The firelight from the braziers standing either side of the entryway gives this god a bronze cast and throws shadows across his naked skin, accentuating every line, every crest of hard corded muscle. This is a sight not new to you. You saw it then in Zheletov and see it often in your most desirous dreams, yet in this warm gilded light he is even more a glory. His is a stunningly perfect body. And he is; stunning and perfect, broad and lean and muscled, handsome, so handsome, the consummate image of a man at his best. Your eyes roam lower, to the sharp-etched muscles of his flat stomach and the dip of his hip bones, to his dark pants sitting low on his hips, to what lay beneath the concealing cloth, right there in the junction of his thighs…

Your throat has gone dry as dust. You swallow and attempt to drag your eyes up to his face. A fine sheen of sweat brought on by the fuggy air makes him gleam almost golden. Like the Sun. The Creed oft depicts him as such, Lusin, god of sun and flame and youth. The golden god, young and handsome and virile, a deity to rival that comeliest of gods Elios, the male half of Lyias the Lover.

You need not look too far to see Lusin mortal incarnate. The young man before you is fire made flesh, an ethereal being, a golden man.

He has been drinking in your own form, you realize, catching the tail end of the movement of his eyes as they flick up to yours. His eyes are dark.

“Um,” you begin, knitting your fingers together on your stomach and withering a little inside at your discomposure. Bad form, bad form. “D-did I wake you?” The stutter makes you wither some more.

“Uh, no, actually, I was just… headed there. To bed, I mean.” His eyes drop down to your chest, much exposed by your short-sleeved black vevda, and back up again. “To what do I owe this nighttime pleasure?”

“I’m peckish,” you say, your voice coming steadier now, to your relief. You try to ignore the dip in his voice as he said his last two words. “I thought I’d invite you along to have a midnight nibble, just like the old times.”

“The old times of three months ago.”

You laugh lightly as the mists of tension dissipate a little. “Yes.” You pause. “Unless you’d rather head to bed. To sleep,” you hurriedly tack on when his abundant eyebrows vanish above his hairline. “I mean, it’s late and I can understand if you’re tired and would rather rest, I can go by myself-”

There is something in the way he says your name that silences you at once. Eren gives you one of his delightful crooked smiles, full of fond affection. He holds on to his doorframe, carrying on, “I’d love to accompany you. Let me just-” He gestures down his bare torso. You wish he hadn’t.

You purse your lips and merely nod, not trusting yourself to speak. He flashes you another smile, takes another peek at your breasts, and withdraws, closing his door with a soft snap.

A quiet gasp escapes you the instant he disappears. What was it he said about less dangerous hours and less dangerous dresses? “Fuck,” you curse softly, standing still in front of his door. You glance down at your chest. It hadn’t truly occurred to you just how deep this neckline went. Not until he brought attention to it with his, frankly, shameless ogling. You didn’t even mean to tease him with this garb, truly - you hadn’t been lying when you told him of your tastes in homegrown fashions.

You stride over to the opposite wall and sit on the nearby daybed placed between two rounded pillars, a lounge for hosts to mingle with and keep their guests company. Your twined fingers rest primly on your lap. For all that you tease your betrothed, you certainly are not impervious to him. And he knows that well, and takes advantage. From thus comes your ebb and flow.

He had fucked himself to you that night you noted that ebb and flow. It is one of those strange thoughts, surreal in their strangeness; they seem too… much to be true, and yet they are. Up until that night, you had not truly allowed yourself to consider the possibility that he, Eren Jaeger - sweet and kind Eren Jaeger, a boy oftentimes so stiffly awkward in the face of desire and romance - could ever desire you as much as he apparently did. And yet he did. By the gods, he did.

You had set that drying sheet aside, singling it out lest you lose it from the countless identical others in your possession. You do not know how he used it for his pleasure (and ruminating on that brings its own pleasure). You do know that it had known the touch of that glorious body, that it had caressed the most intimate parts of him in ways you could only hope to do someday (and the day is growing closer, so much closer).

The Lady Wanton was most disappointed that he had laundered the thing afterward. Gone was his most alluring essence, lost to you this time. You had so wanted to tell him - to his sweet, sheepish face as he returned the cloth the next day - that you couldn’t give two figs about him sullying what was yours. The Lady would have been thankful for a splash of water off his skin, his sweat… even a hint of his seed.

You squeeze your fingers hard upon your lap, stunned by the turn of your thoughts. Never have you shrunk back from your most wanton musings, but never before has a young man induced so much of them out. And in that capacity, too. You chuckle to yourself. It is the most bizarrely droll thing. There he is, getting dressed for one of your many late-night jaunts; here you are, sitting on the daybed and thinking about his seed…

The creak of wood and iron hinges makes you jump a little in your seat, throwing your mind back to the present and out of the gutters that it had rolled in so happily. Your godly knight comes to you in a dark vidnon, dark as the sky at midnight, black and violet both. Its silver lining at hem and sleeve and edge are bands of stars, elegant against the darkness. 

Her ladyship Mistress Wanton rues the loss of the sight of his radiant body. You have not much to rue, in truth, favored as you are by the sight of his broad chest, partially bared by the loosely tied jacket. The light is his most ardent lover, so determined to show him at his finest. You stand from your seat, hands still clasped in front of you.

“My lady. Shall we?” He reaches to take one of your hands in his own.

You recoil at his touch, to both of your bewilderment.

“What’s wrong?” With his concern comes the smallest inkling of hurt. 

The sight of it makes your stomach drop. “I-I’m sorry. I’m just… a little wrought up, I don’t know what came over me.” You reach out for him and slide your fingers through his, holding tight. His hand is rough, so warm against yours. As it always is. “Let’s head on, then,” you smile up at him, and are relieved when he returns it.

Perhaps your wanton thoughts and his touch make for a more overwhelming blend than you realize.

The kitchens are empty, the pantry well-stocked. Not that well-stocked, Eren complains, when it fails to yield his favorite cream cakes. “I’ll have them start making them for you, then,” you say, placing your mug of tea and plate of strawberry cream pie on the wooden table and sitting down on the bench.

You have lit the branches of candles atop a couple of the fluted pillars that bound the servants’ dining hall. It is not quite enough to banish the shadows, but it is enough to see by. The room opens up to the castle’s herb garden, so beloved of the palace cooks. The waxing moon shines over the plots; its faint light silvers the greenery and lends the place a dream-like aspect.

“Please. If it’s not too much trouble. I do miss the things.” Eren plants himself next to you, having settled on a lemon cake (Armin’s favorite and a staple of their boyhoods) and his own brew. “Let’s see if they can make them as good as Lisa does.”

“I’m sure they’re more than capable of meeting your ideals.” You take your first forkful of confection. Excellent as always, you think, well-pleased. The pastry is well-baked, the cream smooth, the strawberries sweet. Just the way you like it.

“You’ve set the expectations high, milady. Here’s hoping they can, indeed, meet them,” he raises his forkful of cake at you in a teasing toast, then begins his midnight repast in earnest. “You know, for all their tastiness, these can get really sickening really fast when you have them every bloody day,” he remarks thickly, swallowing and looking reflective. “Stupid thing to fight over, though, now that I look back on it. Boys can be the stupidest creatures in the world sometimes.” He shakes his head, amused yet hangdog. “I really gave Armin hell over loving a bleeding cake, gods… speaking of, have you heard back from him yet?”

“It’s only been a couple of days since our last letter,” you remind him, making him hum in recollection. The both of you have been corresponding with Armin this reprieve, sharing parchment and taking it in turns to write down your sections. So far as you have heard, Armin’s reprieve is proving to be rather mundane. And dutiful. 

He had filled his scrolls with accounts of councils and audiences and meetings, with the occasional trifling yarn. His Alyfeis was as festive as ever, he had told you in his last missive. Some fisherman had caught a swordfish fifteen feet long, which he had offered to Lord Hagen for the audience, now they must dine on nothing but swordfish for a month, the Young Master Arlert jested. He sounds well, in any case, and both of you are glad of it.

“Nice to know it’s all rosy on his front, no matter how unremarkable,” Eren says, then snatches a piece of your pie, to your disbelief. He chews and blinks and smiles, cheeks dimpling a little, innocent as Olya after his daily shenanigans.

You pout at him a little, though you can feel your lips trembling. “If you want less unremarkable news, the one from home should serve you more than passing well.”

Eren widens his eyes at you, chewing on his own sweet now, frowning and chewing faster to chastise you as you take the moment to raid his own plate. The tartness of his cake is a pleasant change from the sweetness of your pie. He swallows and gripes, “Oi, no fair.”

“It’s more than fair, thief.”

He snorts yet smiles all the same. “All right, the debt is paid. As to that other thing… I’m to be an uncle twice over now.” His mouth curls in mild revulsion. “Their sheets must be exceptionally dirty these days for that to actually happen.”

“Oh, hush, you,” you reproach, light-hearted, smiling at his little snicker. “Took them five years this time. I suppose Zeke’s hoping for a boy. Your proper Jaeger heir.” You have to scoff at these Paradisian conventions. Ymir can rule just as well as her lord grandfather. Having or not having a cock should never be a consideration in such matters as power. In this is yet another way the Old Way triumphs over the new. You, at least, need never worry about Tibor or Oliver supplanting your rights. Vascalin is yours.

“And I move down the line of succession,” Eren declares, with no hint of envy or regret. This betrothed of yours has never aspired to further power or rule, a fact you find noteworthy. Honor, glory, and renown make his ambition, nothing more.

“Should Elva have a boy, we’ll have the making of little Ymir.” Lord Grisha had broached the matter with Father in the letter he’d sent bearing the monumental news. The birth of a brother will leave her free for wardship.

“Southron-raised, just like her uncle,” Eren mulls, taking a thoughtful sip of his tea. “A fine court to be in. I expect to see a proper lady when she comes back to us in full.”

“Of course, you’ll have nothing less.” Ludicrous to expect anything less. “Too bad she won’t have Olya for company. Still, there are the other wards, she won’t get lonely.”

Eren has finished his cake at last. “Olya’s a good lad. A champion in the making.” It had been such a joy to watch your betrothed instruct your brother in the ways of the horseman. You had acquired a pony for the little lad, a sorrel colt Olya had named… Lad. Lad was a gentle thing, an easy enough mount for a boy of five to manage. Eren had taught Olya the fundamentals, the equipment, the proper stances, and walked the boy around the inner yard to get him used to the motions. Olya had wanted to canter, but Eren put his foot down; he must walk before he could canter.

Seeing Eren handle your baby brother was… enlightening. It is not often you see him around children, yet he handles them more than exceptionally well whenever he chances to be with them. Ymir, Olya, even slightly older children like the miller’s girl Meadow, all of them he treated with an easy warmth. You find yourself pushing your fork around your plate, swirling cream and crumbs and strawberries about. He would make a great father, the smallest of voices whispers within. You smile tremulously down at the remains of your pie.

“Oh, look at this.” You have unearthed that rarest of treasures: a twin strawberry. Such luck. There it sits in the middle of the dish, a delicious red heart half-buried in sweet white cream.

“Luck,” Eren whistles, leaning closer to see. Heat prickles down your skin at his proximity.

“Do you want the other half?” You are cutting it down the middle and spearing the piece with your fork before you can think too much on anything else. You hold the utensil up to him, offering.

He does not move to take the morsel at once and merely stares at it, quite uncomprehending. Blank. There is something incredulous about his blankness, you notice. You suppress your smile. This will hardly be the first time you’ve ever fed him. You wonder what holds him back this time around.

Eren stirs back to life several heartbeats later and opens his mouth for the treat. You give it to him gladly, watching his lips close around the steel to take his half of luck. A pink flush colors his cheeks as he chews, faint in the dimness of the hall yet visible all the same. His eyes never leave yours, though.

You break the stare to tuck in to your own half, very aware of where this fork has been, of whose essence you are now polishing off the ware. Somehow, this piece is the sweetest of them all.

“There’s cream on your cheek.”

You still as a long, slender finger runs gently down the skin of your face, near the righthand corner of your mouth. You turn your head to look at Eren and watch as that finger vanishes into his mouth. He catches your eyes and flushes once more, yet his embarrassment leaves as soon as it comes. “Sweet,” he says, low and simple.

It is some time before you can think to look away, closing your slightly open mouth. You cannot recall parting them. “Let’s head back.” You make to stand from the bench.

“My lady.”

There is something in his voice that strikes. He is earnest as earnest can be when you turn to him once more. “I know I tease you sometimes but I never mean to upset. If such attentions are unwelcome, then tell me and I’ll stop. But,” he reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, looking down at his lap like a scolded boy, “I thought we’d reached a certain understanding of one another the past month or so.”

Guilt blazes up in you at his crestfallen face. “No, it’s all right! I mean,” you shy away some, fiddling with your fingers on the table, “your attentions are very much welcome.” Perhaps you had been more curt than you meant to be, earlier. And you did flinch away from him before that, much earlier by his rooms… All responses easily misconstrued. You resolve to do better moving forward. “We do have an understanding of each other now,” you add quietly. “I’m sorry if I came off so… standoffish.”

Relief overtakes him, so strongly that it brings a smile to your face. “I’m-I’m glad,” he answers softly, taking up your hand in his and kissing it, light and gentle.

You leave the kitchens with the air cleared between you.

“So.” Once again you stand at the threshold of his chambers, about to part ways this time. You give him a parting beam. “Good night, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Good night, my lady. Dream of me tonight.”

Both of you giggle at that, and your fingers thread through each other upon your stomach as you contemplate your next course of action. Hesitating, hesitating… Oh, hell. You move forward and tilt your head up. Lemon and tea, soap and wood, Eren floods your being as you press your lips to his cheek, right at the edge of his mouth. You move away several heartbeats later, smiling at him one last time. “I hope your dreams will be as sweet as mine.”

And you turn and float away. You look back once you reach the end of the hall. Still he stands outside his door, staring back at you with a hand up his cheek. Like a statue. The most handsome statue. The tale of Kamilla the Kisser comes back to you then, she of the village of Swiftfrost, the girl who could turn men to stone with a kiss.

You giggle, wave, and move on.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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A/N:

Disclaimer! Any real-life herbs I mentioned and their properties are heavily played around with and may not reflect their real uses and properties in real life. Fantasy = playing around with these kinds of things, after all.

Added 1 (one) paragraph in Chap. 10 about Eren being quite fluent in the Traders’ Tongue for future purposes hehe. Also reworded a bit of Levi’s Chap. 4 dialogue to reflect the plot here - the old draft made it seem like they had no idea about Rod’s plans in the vaults.

And speaking of, yes, at last, the reveal of what His Majesty’s hobby actually is: he’s trying to bring back the Titans. Major plot point commences. To add on: Lord Commander background! And memories of squires for Sir Levi. Oh, Farlan...

I mentioned Wolfborn before, yes? Literally wrote Eren’s POV with their little theme (5:44 - 6:07)  in mind and I just *sighs* *swoons* at last, one of my favorite scenes come to life! Can’t wait for the next ones, hehehe. Ahh, the young couple coming to grips with *love*. Is it love? Is it? 😬😌🤭

Speaking of themes... toying with the idea of publicizing my playlist for the fic... and maybe publishing all the lore details as an extra (most like in AO3)... the playlist is more likely to happen but... I’ll see, I’ll see. I’ll deffo post links if I get around to them.

Again, thanks so much for the support and interest in the fic! Everyone’s been so kind and I’m storing all the love in my little heart <3 Til next time!

Tagging: @princess-okkotsu @lukepattersin​ @tojis-discord-kitten

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