#this is not an issue i was expecting to run into

[mariasont]

A Simple Rinse Would've Sufficed - A.H

summary: sweetheart!reader is completely convinced hotch's first aid response is overboard

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader

warnings: dbf aaron hotchner, teeny tiny cut on readers hand, pre-relationship, reader being lil obsessed with hotch

wc: 0.9k

"This really isn't necessary," you murmur, but the words lack conviction, trailing off before they can land.

Hotch doesn't look up. Doesn't hesitate. Just finishes unscrewing the cap on the antiseptic like he didn't hear you—or more likely, he did, and didn't care for the argument.

It was just a scratch. Practically invisible. Nothing to fuss over. But apparently, Hotch is operating under some kind of every minor injury is a security threat policy.

Which felt especially ridiculous considering you'd just walked away from an arrest unscathed. You'd spent the last twenty-four hours proving yourself—running down leads, securing evidence, even keeping up with the rest of the team during the suspect pursuit. You were proud of that. 

And then you got back to the precinct, went to grab a file from one of those awful old metal drawers, and bam. A tiny, inconsequential scrape across your palm. You had survived actual violence, only to be bested by office furniture.

So now you were getting a full medical exam over something that wasn't even visible unless you really squinted.

You shift on the edge of the table, legs swinging, mostly because sitting still feels impossible under his touch. His hands are big—bigger than you realized until now. Strong, but you'd say also careful, the pads of his fingers pressing lightly against your skin as he holds you in place. The sensation sends an unsteady type of warmth curling up your spine, landing somewhere behind your ribs.

"It's barely even a cut," you say, attempting to sound exasperated instead of—whatever this was. "Like, I'm pretty sure I've had worse from opening candy wrappers."

That earns you a look, and you instantly shrink under it.

Not a harsh look, not even an annoyed one—just Hotch's look. That's explanation enough. The kind that makes you feel like you should probably quit while you're ahead, but also makes you realize you're probably not capable of quitting while you're ahead.

So, naturally, you keep talking.

"I mean, I really don't think this requires a whole medical response, sir," you add, the nervous energy bubbling under your skin making it impossible to shut up. You clamp down on the urge to chew your lip, shifting slightly under his attention.

The antiseptic meets your skin with a sharp little sting, and you suck in a breath, fingers twitching like you might actually yank your hand away from your boss.

Hotch doesn't even blink. Just presses a little firmer, holding your wrist steady like he already expected you to flinch. "Hold still."

And gods help you, but something about it turns your thoughts into white noise.

It's nothing. Objectively, logically—nothing. Just Hotch being careful, thorough, like he is with everything.

Except his hands are warm. Rough in a way that makes your breath feel a little short, moving over your skin with a level of care that shouldn't make you feel nearly as dizzy as it does.

You blink, zeroing in on the plain, standard-issue bandage he's peeling open—completely unremarkable, completely ordinary. Like forcing your brain to register on the most boring detail in the room will make you stop spiraling. 

"It's just funny," you blurt, because the silence is suffocating, and you're panicking a little.

Hotch gives you a look, not quite questioning but not dismissing either.

You clear your throat. "I mean, you do realize you've done more for this than most people would do for, like, a full-on stab wound, right?"

A pause. Just long enough for you to start regretting speaking at all.

And then—to your absolute horror—something shifts. A flicker of amusement. So quick, so barely there, you might've imagined it.

Oh no.

You'd almost prefer it if he just ignored you. If he shut you down with that infamous serious look he always wore. This, the possibility that you might've entertained him for even half of a second, was infinitely worse.

His thumb smooths over the bandaid, pressing it into place, and your body locks up.

Because he doesn’t move away.

For a second—maybe less, maybe nothing at all—his touch lingers, barely there but there, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin adhesive. He’s still holding your hand. His thumb still resting against you, light, thoughtless. Like he doesn’t even realize it.

You should move.

You should say something.

You should not be sitting here, waiting to see if he notices.

Then, as quickly as it happened, it’s over. Hotch lets go, caps the antiseptic, and steps back like it never happened.

"There," he says, so even, so unaffected, like none of this was anything. For him it probably wasn't. "You'll live."

You exhale a laugh—too thin, too breathless—like your brain is trying to reset itself, like you weren’t this close to total system failure. “Well, thank God. I was getting worried.”

He doesn’t react, doesn’t even glance up at you as he secures the first-aid kit back in place. “Check in with Prentiss before you go.”

You nod—too fast, too much—and push yourself off the table, legs feeling weirdly unsteady, like you’ve been sitting too long. That’s all this is. You just need to walk it off.

And then he's gone. You stare at your hand, fingers flexing experimentally. 

“You do realize that was entirely unnecessary.”

You jolt, turning so fast you almost trip over yourself. Reid is standing there, arms crossed, head tilted slightly like he’s studying something under a microscope.

You blink. "I—what?"

Reid gestures toward your hand. “That wound wasn’t significant enough to require antiseptic or dressing. A simple rinse would have sufficed.”

You stare. Your brain is still buffering—half stuck-on Hotch, half trying to figure out how Reid manages to be the weirdest and most correct person in any given room.

"I—uh." You clear your throat. "Good to know."

Reid nods. "Just thought you might find that interesting."

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taglist is closed for now until i can figure out the best way to include more than 50 mentions :(

[hoseoksluna]

STRATEGY | jjk

pairing: yandere!jungkook x female!oc (feat. police officer!taehyung)

genre: smut; angst

rating: 18+

summary: due to his reasons, jungkook can't get close to you—but when you show your tits to him through your window, he might just teach you a lesson.

word count: 6.0k

warnings: dark content not to be romanticized — stalking, manipulation, slight gaslighting; mental states of — anger, anxiety, depression, dissociation, daddy issues. sexual content — mentions of male masturbation, dd/lg, dom/sub dynamics, discipline, the threat of punishment, use of belt, making out. other — insecurities, smoking, mentions of drugs, of parental neglect, inner child in the form of an animal.

FORMAL WARNING: jeon jungkook written in this work is a figment of my imagination and does not reflect the living person and his family.

luna's note: the first chapter of this year's first series is here. you're all gonna scream. oh my god. i worked so hard on this, i need my babies to know that. as much as i struggled with writing, this was a wild ride that i enjoyed. i'd like to give my thanks to my ruru, @tkslovechild, who fixed my mind well enough and inspired me to open the last doc of many. if it weren't for her, this fic wouldn't be alive. this chapter is a taste of what's to come. you can expect a whole lot of smut in the next one. i hope you enjoy. sending lots of kisses MWAH.

𓂃 ౨ৎ

taglist | join here: @jjk7k, @tkslovechild, @euphoricmyth, @cinmmongirl, @ririkookiemonster, 

@perfectiondazesworld, @https-mei, @bangtansonyeondanue, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, 

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Jungkook’s cigarette is wet.

The paper, encased around it, is nearly translucent enough to expose the leaves of the tobacco inside, the very tethered parts of his burning soul. The rain pelts down on him hard, brisk and icy like bullets, but its droplets soften and grow warm once they seep inside the thick, thumping vein along the column of his throat. His hair is soaked, a few of his freshly cut strands rounding over his forehead clouding his vision. Normally, he’d get one long and thorough look at you, finish his cigarette in but a few sucks and return to his car, but tonight he can’t. Neither can he afford to get sick, not when he’s studying exhausting hours deep into the night just to secure your financial well-being and freedom, but right now, despite the risk, he can’t take his eyes off of you. 

You’re playing a dangerous game. As a matter of fact, you’ve always been with your flirtiness and your delicious perversion, but the boss-defeating level he finds himself to be in is not something he can handle so easily. It’s blanketed in a light layer of the possibility of his life permanently changing, and he can’t run from it. Not when he’s frozen in this speed of time while his wobbly, jelly limbs long to be in your proximity.

In any textbook image example of his romantic relationship with you suggests the very opposite of this sketch he’s being drawn into by your hand. Before all else, the charcoal pencil should’ve been in his tattooed fingers. The big bad boss should’ve been him, and you should’ve been the brave princess with her sword, small before him, but more powerful with her spirit and fearlessness, getting impaled on his dick time and time again before you conquer him, at last. 

In this ashy, starless scene, you’re the boss and he’s the princess. 

You’re flashing your tits at him through the window of your bedroom and he’s sporting a boner so astronomical that he couldn’t sit down inside his car even if you, yourself, asked him to. Made puppy eyes, put your palms together and rubbed them in a childish gesture, pleading him with the pout that he knows you’re very capable of doing. The pout that started this habit of his—driving up to your street, despite the fact he lives an hour away, just to ensure your safety, just to be certain that you’re well and not staining your pillow with black mascara tears. 

There’s enough blackness in your heart from the wrongness and unfairness that life feeds you, and he’s decided to take the spoon and fill it with something sweet. Like attention, like protection,  like your dreams and wishes fulfilled. Because he saw you as a small kitten, underfed and yet loaded with such a large burden of ill-luck that every morsel of his being just couldn’t stand to see it anymore. 

He met you in a strange place at a strange time.

Jungkook wasn’t supposed to be in Gangnam that day, but one of his soon-to-be pawns in the city of Seoul unintentionally let him in on one of the underground crimes that have been going on in that district. His plan for the night was supposed to be filled with driving around Hongdae just to make sure all the girls were safe. It was Friday, the most sinful day of the week; 9:30 pm, the start of all depraved entertainment, brought out from the depths of all the dark souls of empty people. The girls needed him, but when Jungkook heard from Taehyung that the little bitches called men have been dealing drugs in the bathroom of Starfield Library, the girls had to be good and they had to wait. 

The heart inside his inner child ached at the thought that the place, where he used to spend his happy days before they were gone, was getting stained by something so horrendously evil as drugs. Taehyung was putting on his police uniform as the information slipped past his lips and while Jungkook’s heart stopped, it became burdened by his secret, not so secret in reality, dream even more heavily than ever before. He no longer saw him as a pawn—truth be told, he wanted to become a police officer ever since he saw Kiki’s Delivery Service as a young boy before things got bad and having him as his best friend and a neighbor at the same time just offered a crevice of open space for his dream to come true. But Taehyung stalled… until he didn’t. 

Upon seeing the look on his face, he tipped his head low, sighed, and told him to come with him. And together they drove to Gangnam up to the COEX Mall. All the while Jungkook bounced his knee and sensed a dreadful feeling slithering down his sternum for a reason he couldn’t simply figure out. 

He couldn’t shake off his nervousness even as they got out and he lit up his cigarette. Taehyung told him off, reminded him that the library closes soon, and, nodding, Jungkook took two more puffs before he let the instrument of sweet death plummet to the ground. His better-knowing murmured to him that he should’ve left his heart behind, too, but being loyal to the wretched flesh, Jungkook never learned the language of his logic. 

He saw you long before you saw him, going up the white keys of stairs beside Taehyung, taking two at the time. Your short limbs were reaching a shelf above your head, trembling in tension, your form elevated by the way you were standing on your tippy toes. The higher he went, the clearer his glimpse was of your thighs, embellished by a black cotton to keep them warm in the cool spring. The band digging into the flesh entranced him, trapped him to you as if by ropes of mercifulness because that was the most beautiful sight he was graced to witness. He had seen many pretty girls during his late night drives of heroism, but none of them possessed such a pure, alluring kind of beauty that made his heart tighten in his chest. 

And the flesh was outright asphyxiated by the following cognizance of your full outfit. 

Lifting his foot over the last step, Jungkook perceived that your thigh-high socks were held up by thin slits of garters, uncovered by the riding up of the skirt of your dress. There was no air in his lungs, no command in his brain to keep on walking after Taehyung. There was an absolute silence between the synapses as he stood there, unbreathing, his eyes skimming over the smooth skin of the back of your thighs, the well-fittedness of your short dress, which had an open back beneath the waterfall of your long hair. But it wasn’t bare, not by any chance. As if the thickness of your strands wasn’t enough, you filled the gap with a white shirt, and Jungkook was stunned. 

The spell was disrupted when the books, one by one, began to fall over your head, despite the fact you succeeded in getting the one you wanted. Disrupted and not broken because while he knew Taehyung was inching closer to the crime scene, his instinct won over his stupefaction and gave the order to his legs to rush over to you. It felt natural to him, the act of grabbing your arms and pulling you flush to him, to a place of safety, although he was a stranger, a guy and he had no right to touch you like that. Anyone in his shoes would just shout at you to move away, but the spell didn’t allow his logic to filter through his actions. You gasped, nearly tumbled down to the ground along with him, but Jungkook was stronger. Jungkook didn’t let you plummet to the ground like his cigarettes—he held you steady to him, balancing you on your feet, and his heart began to ache, like it did when he heard of the drug-dealing, and age when you lifted a palm and placed it over your forehead, mewling a pained noise through your pouting mouth. 

He wasn’t fast enough. An overgrown bush of overprotective roots took form in his black lungs, tangled in the long strands of your hair as you softly trembled like a kitten in his arms. He was no longer a boy, delirious with his need to color the streets with justice and safety; he was a man of fatherly compulsions, organic instincts to never let you disappear from his secure hand again. It happened that quickly—it happened that devastatingly that he himself was dumbfounded by it all. 

Dumbfounded and… much to his surprise: pleased.

Jungkook didn’t cleave to love. While his heart hungered to envelop its love around that special person it wished for, he simply couldn’t conform. Couldn’t open the chambers of his heart and let out the horrors—the fights, the violence, the blood, the silent screams and the ungratified needs, left abandoned by those closest. He was afraid to allow himself to be loved; and he was afraid of being only capable of sharing the darkness in return, not his love—the small, wounded bunny hiding somewhere in him, every day concealing itself deeper and deeper. That was why he never even looked twice at the girls he saved, let alone touched them, let alone allowed them to bathe him in feelings that were pleasant.

Strange, the moment that was uncoiling. His actions and their unfolding, and his lack of carefulness and detachment. 

The toppling misfortune finished its course, the dull sound of the books hitting the floor halted, and within this abrupt silence, Jungkook felt the hammering of your heart, kicking against his upper abdomen, softening him. And in spite of everything, he turned you around to examine your reddened forehead as if he weren’t Jungkook at all, but someone else. Someone healthy and full of light within his mind, heart and soul, who doesn’t create boundaries and doesn’t hiss and thump his legs back when someone crosses them. This new person eyed the pebble-sized bump poking through the skin, which wrinkled through the furrow of your brows. His lips downturned in pity for you, but he knew pressing the injury with a packet of frozen veggies would fix it by the morning. You were lost in the pushing acuteness of the pain, perhaps not even realizing that you were saved. Your set of wispy eyelashes were quivering like the rest of you and while this new person was desperate for you to look at him, it wasn’t until Taehyung called his name that you did.

But it was too late, the moment was too brief, and the old Jungkook settled over him like a layer of dust. 

However, the mutual meeting of eyes kickstarted his dead heart, bringing forth life through the chambers and the vessels like a petal drifting upon the smooth surface of a river. Jungkook fought it with his old weapons, but as the seconds ticked, he became smaller and smaller, the power of the connection looming over him, scaring him and soothing him soon after by the way your eyes widened in surprise and melted right after. As if into his; as if into him. 

The old and the new Jungkook began to coexist within him, closing over the bunny. 

He didn’t realize he was gone and no longer holding you until Taehyung grabbed a hold of his shoulder, stopping him from colliding his fist into the small-postured drug dealer’s face, who was momentarily stuffing a plastic bag of evil into the toilet tank. It was rage that simmered between the halves of his two personas fading into each other, a yin and yang, not because the abomination was caught as is usually the cause, but because the light and the dark merged within him, bringing him out of his comfort zone into a zone he blanched in panic in. 

He didn’t know that you watched the entire time. That you watched him curse at the boy, take the drug from him and nearly flush it down the toilet, if Taehyung hadn’t stopped him. He didn’t know that you’d stick around just to talk to him, had the library not closed. 

And he didn’t know that he would meet you again. 

And again. 

At dangerous places, where you didn’t belong—like his mind when he was ceaselessly fist-fucking his cock before dawn. At safe places, where you painted the walls with your gentleness and simultaneous misfortune, your own yin and yang. 

He didn’t expect you to make the first move each time, gazing up at him with a soft smile, making small talk that was more flirty than it was polite. It was hard for him to handle as the strange, fatherly and tender feelings he carried for you, belonging to the new half of him, brewed in him like loose pomegranate tea leaves. Each question you threw his way was that leaf, and the intonation you used, the curiosity, the roundness of your eyes and their constant melting was the fragrance of that fruit, cutting through him until he was nothing but a fragment of a boy in love.

He couldn’t leave. The yang of his split persona wouldn’t give the blessing to him in order for him to do that. And what’s more, he dreamed revolting dreams about shattering your heart with his fluid absence and presence, the black and white easing into one another, and it helped him stay put. He feared sleeping, he feared hurting you, and so he just abused his cock, releasing the endorphins that his body needed in order to sustain this whole newness. 

And therefore like the boy he was chiseled into, he took your first moves once the time was right and undisturbed. Took them higher. Took you out for ice cream, where your flirtiness shifted both of you to this point of your love story. All because of the way you licked the sweet delight. 

You swirled your tongue along its dissolving perimeter. Ivory in color, its drops dribbled down the cone, resembling the essence of his everlastingly drooling manhood that he had wasted many times prior this date, trying not to picture you in his mind. He cursed the ice cream shop as much as he blessed it for having a vanilla flavor so well-made that it rolled your eyes back during the conversation you spurred about his dreams that shone a dimmed light in his heart. He was hard, unable to speak in a steady flow, pausing between words, watching you, always watching you, enjoy your dessert while not having his own. Watching you half listen to him, half making love to the milky substance with your eyes, your focus diverting back and forth—silently gushing your gusto, silently apologizing to him with the bat of your eyelashes for not adequately paying attention. It made you adorable enough for him to fight the crawling inkling to take this an inch higher, bending you over any nearby surface away from people—because he loved the way you constantly spoke your innermost thoughts, your flirtiness especially, through the different expressions of your eyes. They spoke more profoundly than the vocabulary of your mutual mother tongue could ever achieve. 

But he couldn’t follow through with his desire. His sixth sense muttered over his arousal, reminding him there was always a danger close by. By its own sinister will, it interrupted, in an excruciating staccato rhythm, the sensation of heat, pressure and energy he felt, putting it on the back burner. A place he liked to linger because it made him feel alive—the unyielding push and pull of temptation, the fight, the guilt because the fatherliness always won. But his sixth sense was right. Jungkook caught a vulgar string of words about you from the table behind him in a short moment of quietness within his brain. He turned his head to the side, listening, and when the meaning of the words multiplied with the description of you, he banged his fists and impulsively acted out, getting up to his feet. 

He flipped the table. Grabbed the collar of the boy who stole his guilty pleasure and made it his own. Seethed in his sweaty face; threw words at him that made him tremble in fear until he begged to be let go. Jungkook saw a vibrant red—he didn’t see how he startled you, how all the people in the sitting area stopped whatever conversations they were having just to stare, how all the employees gulped behind the counter, but didn’t dare to step in. That was the face of his wildness, molded by all he went through, shown to you ahead of time—or perhaps at the right time. He wouldn’t know, and he was too reluctant to contemplate it. 

He didn’t calm down until he made the boy apologize to you. Then, he fixed the table and put it to its original spot. Then, he made you feel better by brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear, grazing his fingers down your arm until he found your hand, murmuring a soft sorry for scaring you. Then, he went to the petrified employees and apologized to them, too, for the commotion. 

You also wanted to make him feel better. 

Inside his car, you caressed the tense muscles of his thigh. Just once—a slow, downward motion of your palm that made him twitch. He noted the milky flakes of the dessert you had discarded dried on your lips and he hoped your eyes hadn’t strayed to his private parts—that you didn’t notice the agonized twitch of his cock that regretfully longed for you. 

In this area of your relation with him, the yin won. 

He put your safety above his own arousal and need, minimizing it. Grabbed the hand that had the candy-coated intention to make him feel better and kissed it in polite thankfulness, knowing your soundness that he had taken care of did the job already.

You pouted at his declination, and his heart crumbled into pomegranate seeds. 

Had he known this would start off your irresistible perversion, he would’ve somehow make it so he could let you do whatever it was that you wanted to do with your hand. Because the fatherliness, which he tried with all his might to preserve in utmost purity, darkened the more you wanted him. 

Darkened the more you teased him. 

With your garters and your knee socks. With your short skirts that exposed the lines of your bubble butt, which he tugged down many times, his heart racing, afraid any of the horny fucks with wrong intentions walking by would see. With your innocent smiles, mischievous eyes and light touches on the places of his body that he discovered were of utter sensitivity—the crook of his elbow, into which you liked to dig your nails, the left side of his ribs, where you somehow detected his mole, his nipple that you enjoyed teasing just to watch him convulse, and his thigh, the straight pathway to his arousal. Sometimes you went higher, sometimes you went lower—and it tested his patience every single time. 

All broke loose once you conveyed, with your words, how much you wanted him after some time passed. 

You let him know you were hungry. It was the warmest spring evening you had in months and Jungkook was on his patrol. Seeing the text, he turned the car around and drove up to your street. Picked you up, asked you what you were craving and beside the Subway sandwich, you mentioned that you were craving him, too. As if it were the most ordinary, casual thing in the world. 

He stomped on the break so hard that the vehicle behind him honked at him. 

Scolded you in a fatherly way that coaxed an endearing giggle out of you. You can’t say things like that, he said, shooting you a glare that made you clench your thighs—and Jungkook wished that he hadn’t noticed. 

That he hadn’t noticed being bad turned you on even more. 

Then the touches were prolonged. The eye contact was intensified, the interlude of silence between you and him was boiling to such a hot temperature that he sweltered beneath his clothes in your presence, sporting a stony hard-on, which was difficult to get rid of. 

And then the confessions began. 

The more detailed confessions of your desire, of your liking in terms of his countenance. Of what your fingers were doing in the middle of the night because of your sentiments. 

Jungkook didn’t respond. Not at first. He fought so hard to stay pure, stand behind the boundary of purity, unwilling to stain you with his own desire. He was a boy, marred by the times, with a caretaker’s heart, aged by many years, with a soul that brings death. He was afraid of what would be created, if his death mingled with your misfortune. If the bunny of his love had a glimpse of your melting eyes. If his own desire collided with yours. If he cut the ropes of his restraint and broke himself loose along with the trajectory of his untitled relationship with you. 

Hell would envelop you. Hell would embrace you so tight that you’d start to despise him. 

Because he wasn’t a good person. All the evil he had witnessed clung to him like second skin, peeling off of him like scales, like dirt. The evil he had  consumed while living with his family; the evil he had stepped into in order to bring goodness. Jungkook would feed spoonfuls of it to you because every morsel of his being embodied it. 

He said this to you, in less harmful words, upon an ordinary car drive through the night when you were starting to get jittery. It would be better if I just took care of you without touching you. He never added the fatherliness he felt towards you into the stream of his speech—he was too shy to do so. He was already flushed in the face; he worried confessing it would trouble his composure. And he needed to be a strong wall for you. 

But you were a smart girl. 

Devouring his words, you lifted the hem of your skirt. Your legs were still, no hint of jitteriness to them at that abrupt cusp of unraveling desire, when you parted them on the passenger seat and showed him the circle of your arousal on the center of your white panties. This is what you do to me when you talk about treating me like a father. 

His blood flow halted. His heart leaped to his throat, the aroma of pomegranate filling his mouth. He edged to the border of his restraint and thought about, briefly, how he would edge you for your smartness. How he would drink the sweetness of your seashell when he would finally let you come; how it would refresh the tobacco of his soul, make him a better person, a better partner. He imagined how the smell of your arousal would linger in the car for days—how it would be a reminder that there’s goodness for him in this world while he would go on doing his job of saving it. 

The black and white conclusively coalesced, creating a shade of gray that densely clouded his reasons and his morals. 

And because this notion occupied his stomach with hundreds of butterflies, the decision was made. Hasty, and probably catastrophic, but he no longer cared. He fell in love with the idea of him being saved, even if it meant decorating your pretty thighs with scars. Give me some time, he said eventually. I’ll rub your scars with a healing oil, he didn’t promise.

And the detachment, which he was so inquisitive about all those months ago, nestled between you and him. The conversations, which used to be so abundant with passion and liveliness, echoed with the low tones of the trees, of the soft songs of the birds and the ringing of his mind as he completely descended into an abyss of dejection. He didn’t know why he entered this state; it just happened on its own. He no longer had the energy to save the girls of Seoul, nor did he have the strength to face you and be a man. The little life he had left—he used it to fulfill his obligations: he drove to your place after he had done his daily dose of studying and homework. Picked himself up just to make sure you were all right. And if your room lacked any light, it would motivate him enough to go into the streets and look for you. 

He’d find you each time, envious and disheartened that you weren’t spending time with him. Go home and cry his colorless tears. 

And now he’s here, standing underneath the foreboding downpour, in the present time after a month of idleness, in the middle of the night. His car is parked behind him, the headlights filtering through the thick shafts of rain, illuminating him. His pallid hands are bearing two things in each. A wet cigarette, a spoon that has been washed off the original poison of his life and that is now overspilling with everything nourishing. All because of your pressed-up tits against the window, the fast-paced rivulets of rain blurring the view. 

You’ve yanked the time by its throat. You’re the boss and you’ve decided that all waiting is over. 

He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. If it’s absolute fury that is invigorating his system or if it’s distilled passion that is constricting his muscles so much that it’s causing him to quiver. There’s some kind of need in the heart of it all, which smudges all of his attempts at analyzing until they get swept away with the current of the rain. In this very second, there’s no ticking of danger, no deafening silence of dejection, no promise of evil. There’s only one singular thing.

The ropes are torn: he has to have you. 

You did this. You cut them instead of him, and that’s all that is pulsating in his mind as he takes the last drag of his sodden cigarette and lets it plummet, lets it burn away to nothingness. His steps are heavy and his steps are furious—and you seem to know because you unpeel yourself from the coolness of the window and skip away beyond his sight. He trusts that your smartness leads you to open the main door for him, and he’s not disappointed when he reaches it and hears its ringing song, inviting him inside. 

The song of fate. 

You’re waiting for him between the panels of your door on the third floor, dressed in a short nightwear dress of ivory and lilac, lace and bows. Entering your presence, Jungkook is made pliable by the strong cognizance that he’s missed you. Your hair cascades in waves down your bare shoulders, the barest he’s ever seen them, nuzzling into your cleavage that advances his softness and his concurring arousal. You’re pristine and fragrant while he drips in sweat and petrichor laced with cigarette smoke, but he wants you and he wants to punish you for putting him in this position so audaciously. 

And for not wearing your thigh-high socks when he wishes you were. 

The furrow of his brows deepens, knitting in the middle, and once your eyes flick to it, you breathlessly gasp, those pretty thighs of yours crossing to make friction for your little pussy. It feels as though you were all naked and he’s overwhelmed, he’s furious, he’s frustrated and—

His hand presses against the middle of your clavicles and draws you inside, kicking the door shut. 

He’s tender, however, despite his impulses. He’s tender as he pushes you down onto your couch, his fingers latching onto the lacy neckline. The feeling of a warm home he never had sticks to his fingertips from your skin—and it’s clearer to him now than it ever has been before: you’ve become a four-walled home for him through all the time he spent with you on innocent dates and car drives, protecting you and consoling you from the impact of your engraved misfortune. The sensation on the pads of his fingers jumps to the other ones and tingles as they wrap around the buckle of his belt, capturing the interest of your eyes that widen and very quickly and very quintessentially melt. 

You see how hard he is for you. 

Good. 

Now you can. Now it's yours. 

He swiftly tugs his belt out of the loops with one hand, bending the leather in half. Your smile rises at that, and while you rake your hand through your hair at the crown of your head and arch your cold chest into his other hand, Jungkook watches you part your legs for him. And time stops when he expects there to be a cloth of any pastel color covering your pussy and finds there to be none.

None at all. 

Mustering all of his strength, he rips his gaze away. Points the belt in your face. He can’t see your little pussy, not just yet. He has to punish you first for stealing his first move for the second time around, for triggering his flight or fight response because he wasn’t ready for this—he wasn’t ready to have his control taken, for his detachment and restraint to be broken so promptly. He should’ve laid it down at your feet, having cut it himself. Then, it would've been pure; it would’ve been right.

Nothing about this is of those attributes. 

This is dark, this is sinful, and you’re gonna pay for it.

“Repeat back to me what I told you the last time I saw you,” he orders, bringing your eyes back up to him as he towers over you, stinging your lips with the coolness of the wet leather, seemingly coaxing out your words. Your breath shivers at the contact, changing the temperature, mouth parting like your legs as he moves it down to your chin. You run your tongue along its bottom pillow as soon as he drags the belt down the upper of your sternum, the very place he touched with his own hand. He stops at the swell of breast right next to his fist bunching up your nightdress, the accessory lifting and falling with your short intakes of air. 

The rain pelts harder against the window. You evidently mull over your answer, blinking slowly at him, dazy from it all—and it’s funny to him. He hasn’t even started, and he’s way too far away from being finished with you. 

“You mean what you said to me a month ago? How am I supposed to remember?” you question, the words oozing with every particle of provocation that exists within this irredeemable world. Jungkook knows more than he knows himself that you’re bluffing and he sucks in a breath, his frustration piling up on top of his clenched muscles. His hand longs to lift and spank your visibly stiffened nipple for your smart mouth, but he holds himself back—the time isn’t right yet. He wonders if your pointed beads are still cold from the window or if he needs to suck them into his mouth to warm them up. 

His cock flits. Jungkook struggles to contain his noises, growling hushedly under his breath. One corner of your mouth tugs to the side when they encompass you, producing your satisfaction, and it pisses him off even more. 

His fist unclenches, letting go of your neckline. The fabric is wrinkled and stretched, ruined until the next wash, and that fact likens him to you, cooking the ingredients of satisfaction for him. Power seizes him, and therefore he stoops to your level, bending at the waist to look you straight in the face. The belt follows suit, stopping at your flushed cheek. 

It wasn’t that long ago when you were mewling in pain, the same redness spreading across your forehead. Where is that meekness of yours, your girlishness, your softness? Where has his detachment gone again and why does your malleability madden him so tremendously? 

His fatherliness unfurls in full glory, his need to discipline you consumes him alive. 

“Watch your mouth,” he spits in undertone, patting your cheek with the belt just once. Light flashes in your eyes, a candle swished by the wind. “I know you remember well, you can’t trick me, so again I tell you. Repeat back to me my last words to you.”  

And you do the most unimaginable thing, setting him on fire. Word for word, you repeat back the sentence he uttered but a half minute ago. A serious delivery, with a static contortion, camouflaging your mischief, and he becomes the image he saw in your eyes. 

A tall candle, melting. 

His fury and frustration should continue on. Should grip the belt hard and paint welts on the flesh of your thighs and bum. But the more your perversion radiates him, the more he loses. The bunny of his love gazes back at you from its hiding place, casting its first glimpse at you, and makes the first move to slightly exit the deep darkness. 

First move; first step. Curiosity eclipses the white fur of the bunny, the white dot across the blackness of the yin half. Its wide, almond eyes are unblinking, captivated by you, by your forcefulness, stubbornness and your immaculate beauty. By the way you breathe evenly, by how unafraid you are. So full of everything adventurous, like the books you read, which fill every space of your apartment. 

The animal is smitten with you. Jungkook stands outside of his own body, wondering if there’s any line at all between the grayness that has been created. If there’s any backing away from the blatantly obvious fact that he loves you. 

That he can’t stay mad at you. 

That his need to discipline you truly stems from his profound love for you. 

“You think you’re the Daddy?” he mutters, at last, the correction of dynamics coming naturally out of him. He silences you with his question, creasing your features, and his satisfaction is a finished meal. The first bite you’ll ever have; the first spoonful. “I’ll show you who’s Daddy.” 

And then he grips your throat and forces your lips to collide with his. Breathing in your skin is the first intake of fresh air he’s ever had. This is his first kiss, his first life—and when you reciprocate his kiss and submit to his feverish rhythm, it is the first warm, home-cooked meal he’s ever devoured. The sky falls and is born again, and he, too, is born anew. 

You lean back, relinquished, and Jungkook straddles you, his knees making dents on either side of you upon the plush of your couch. The belt falls, his walls fall, and he has to touch you. His fingers crawl up from your ears into the garden of your hair, gripping the roots, moaning into your mouth and you respond just the same. Opening your mouth, you give him access to your tongue and your spit—and he drinks, he drinks as if it were the angelic fountain that had the expertise to cleanse him of his old life. And he lets it. 

Clenches and unclenches his fingers, tangled in your hair, the symbol of his green light because he’s safe with you. 

He’s safe with you. 

Your hands blindly find your favorite spots on his body. They knead his thighs as he sucks on your pout, his abstained dream come true. They ascend to his clothed ribs under his jacket, lingering there, ostensibly seeking the bunny, not knowing that the animal has begun to look for the way out. Your moans gain volume and sensitivity, and Jungkook knows you can’t take it anymore. 

Neither can he. He’s hard to the point of bursting. 

And when he latches his mouth onto the side of your neck and your moans lighten to little mewls akin to those he missed, he doesn’t allow you to sink your nails into the last place you love on him. He pushes you face down onto the couch and grabs his discarded belt. 

He’s going to make that little girl stay. 

© 2025 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved

BACK to masterlist

[tedsies]

i caved and bought the legacy collection out of curiosity

i bought it on steam by the way, no way am I going anywhere near the ea app

random thoughts as i go along:

game loaded up straight away with no issues (what a strange feeling)

got into pleasantview within 2 minutes (obvs I have no cc installed right now so its gonna be faster anyway)

a bit of a jumpscare to see the game again without reshade ngl

straight into the lothario household. don you look... different without all my defaults

screen resolution defaulted to the right size without me having to change anything by the way, which was nice

turned up all the graphics setting to max and going to visit the goth household as that always gives me lag, even vanilla

this experience is already making me realise I need to cut down my 12gb downloads folder, cos man this is so smooth and fast without all of that in my game

well everything is working perfectly straight out of the box. had no issues with multiple sims on the big goth lot

going to quit and load up again with my ui mods and defaults next (along with hugelunatic's ikea pack as cc)

legacy collection has an entirely different file path by the way, so won't mess with existing ultimate collection installs (i wouldn't have dared to do this otherwise)

okay all my defaults, ui mods and some others are now in (downloads folder is up to 3.64gb now) and everything is working fine still

ikea items as cc don't seem to be fully appearing in the catalog though? that might be a me problem but i dont know

adding in all my cas cc now, along with hood defaults and hood deco cc (downloads folder is up to 6.5gb now). i'm also adding in anything else I can think of like camera mods, user startup cheat etc etc

getting into pleasantview in less than 2 mins still

heading into cas for the first time now...

... and it loaded up within 10 seconds even with ALL of my cas cc? and this is the first time too so I would've expected major lag. normally cas takes about 60 seconds to load in my game

update on the ikea pack as cc... the build items are definitely there, but not the buy for some reason?

biting the bullet and adding in the remaining 6gb of my 12gb downloads folder

all of my cc is now in the game and loading times were about 30 seconds longer than before. still no issues

took darren dreamer to a community lot and there were no crashes/issues/lag. normally going to a community lot is very dangerous for me cos its where I get the most crashes or issues, its why all my community lots are incredibly small lot sizes

also I have the hood deco view set to extra large... normally I have to have it set to extra small just to play in a small household

i dont think I'm being delulu here to say things are running better

next up is adding in all of my mods, then after that I might dare putting in my mega populated uberhood save, and try reshade?

another ikea update: everything is showing up now. it was me being an idiot

so all of my mods are now also in (so my entire downloads folder now) and i haven't been able to trigger any crashes or pink soup yet through normal gameplay? even with extra large hood view from lots

reshade keeps crashing my game on startup... damn, what am I doing wrong

RESHADE IS NOW WORKING (ver 6.1.1)! thanks to this guide

I finally added in my uberhood save (which is packed with hood deco and and has 35 playable families).... and it's working! I also played with a household for a bit and everything was working fine

final update before I go to bed (as its gone midnight here lol)

i now have all of my mods, cc, saves, and reshade installed, and I've yet to have any pink soup or crashes (apart from the crashes when I was *incorrectly* trying to install reshade). honestly... i'm surprised. i dont want to speak too soon obviously, but things seem better. i was just playing in a household with extra large lot view on and that would usually IMMEDIATELY crash my game, but nothing happened. tomorrow i'll actually play for an extended period of time, so i'll be able to tell more for sure then.

i hope this has been helpful to at least a couple of people, and i'll leave with you a shot of my pleasantview newly loaded up in the legacy collection 😅

[maybe-buttons]

The difference from this to the "usual" immigration camps is that Guantanamo was, in fact, built as a place where people get to commit unspeakable acts of violence and torture, and this is still the structure in place. It's like saying "I'm gonna reactivate this weapon factory but now we make cookies, swear to god", when you know the structure of the factory is for weapons, and there's no fucking way one can make a cookie with it. Guantanamo is a prison and a torture center and that's what it was built for and will be again.

"additional detention space" is very telling IMO

i feel like USAmericans should look up the modus operandi of their military in LATAM just so they know exactly what is unfolding right now. I say LATAM because it's what I know about, but possibly it's the same in the middle east and such. My impression is that they're kinda expecting like something huge and hilter-esque where the government goes "yes now we'll send every person that belongs to this group to a camp", which indeed is happening to immigrants, but also that's not how the USA operates regarding political dissidents.

People just kinda... start vanishing. And there's a nightmarish bureaucracy in place so there's plausible deniability that this person has run away or disappeared or killed themself and was definitely not taken by the government. Then people start vanishing A LOT and at that point it's obvious that it's the government but people are just too scared to speak up, or do anything and be the next or endanger their families because they do, in fact, take torture and kill children. Or just outright steal babies.

Just, you know, the USA works a certain way and it's very well known to people outside the USA but now that it's an internal issue I feel like they should learn about what to expect. Legit that's what the brazilian oscar movie is about, but honestly there's so much latin american media on it that I'm sure my mutuals from LATAM can recommend a fuckton of movies or books and even music that talks about how it happened in their own countries.

just watch out for vanishing people, that's what I mean

(Source)

[meazalykov]

car girl

jill roord x reader

the dutch needs her car fixed, and luckily she found the perfect person to do it for her

warnings: there might be incorrect information about cars on here, since I am not a mechanic. I had to do some research for this one <3

the air smells of oil and warm rubber, the scent of your garage always lingering on your skin no matter how many showers you take. 

the radio hums in the background, some soft rock playing through the speakers as you apply a smooth layer of tint onto a customer’s car windows, your movements precise and careful. 

your blue levi overalls are already stained with grease from an earlier job, but you do not care. it is part of the work, part of who you are. its come with the job i guess.   

your hair is tied up in a sleek ponytail, keeping it out of your face as you concentrate. your hands, skilled and steady, press the tint firmly onto the glass, smoothing out any bubbles with practiced ease. 

just as you are finishing up, the sound of a car pulling into the lot catches your attention. you glance up, wiping your hands on a rag, and immediately recognize the blue-gray mercedes. 

vivianne.  

she steps out of the driver’s seat, stretching slightly before shutting the door. the footballer’s blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she is dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans. 

it is not vivianne who captures your attention…it is the brunette stepping out of the passenger seat.  

she is tall, with piercing eyes that sweep over your garage like she is taking it all in. the woman’s posture is relaxed but confident, and she carries herself with the kind of ease that tells you she knows she is attractive. this could be a good or a bad thing but you do not know yet.

your eyes briefly drop to her toned arms, the way her fitted top clings to her, before you look away.  

vivianne smirks, immediately picking up on where your attention went.  

“y/n,” she calls, walking over. 

“this is jill.”  

you wipe your hands on your overalls again before offering jill a nod. 

“nice to meet you.”  

jill’s lips curve into a smirk. 

“i’ve heard about you,” she says, voice smooth. 

“didn’t expect you to be this—” she pauses, her eyes dragging over you shamelessly, “—fine.”  

vivianne groans. 

“jill, for fuck’s sake!”  

you let out a small chuckle, raising an eyebrow. 

“this how you always introduce yourself?”  

“only when the person is worth it.” jill grins.  

vivianne rolls her eyes. 

“anyway, we came here to you because jill’s got some issues with her car. i figured i’d bring her to the best.”  

you tilt your head, glancing toward the sleek black audi parked next to vivianne’s car. 

“what’s the issue?”  

“been overheating like crazy,” jill says. 

“i barely made it to training yesterday without it acting up.”  

you nod, already suspecting the problem. 

“bring it into the garage. i’ll take a look.”  

jill drives it in while you grab your tools, pulling on a pair of gloves before popping the hood open. steam hisses out, confirming your suspicions. vivianne and jill stand off to the side, watching as you move with confidence, checking each component. 

jill’s eyes never leave you.  

“it’s your radiator,” you finally say, pulling off your gloves. 

“it’s in bad shape. you’ll need a replacement.”  

jill sighs, running a hand through her hair. 

“great. how long’s that gonna take?”  

“a few hours,” you answer. 

“depends on how cooperative your car wants to be.”  

vivianne groans dramatically. 

“i was hoping we could go somewhere.”  

“you still can,” you tell her. 

“i’ve got this.”  

jill smirks. 

“you sure? wouldn’t want to leave you here all alone.”  

you huff a laugh, shaking your head. 

“i’ll be fine. go grab some food or something.”  

vivianne and jill exchange a look before jill shrugs. 

“guess we’ll be back later, then.”  

as they leave, jill casts one last glance over her shoulder, her smirk widening when she catches you looking. you shake your head, turning back to the car, but you cannot help the small smile that tugs at your lips. 

a few hours later, just as you are tightening the last bolt, the sound of footsteps echoes through the garage. you glance up, expecting to see vivianne and jill together, but it is just jill.  

“viv went home,” the dutch woman says, leaning against the nearby tool bench. 

“said she was tired. figured i’d come pick up my car myself.”  

“convenient,” you muse, wiping your hands again.  

jill grins. 

“very.”  

you pull off your gloves, tossing them onto the workbench. 

“your car’s good to go. radiator’s replaced, and i checked your coolant levels too. shouldn’t give you any more trouble.”  

jill nods, taking out her wallet. she pays without hesitation, but instead of just handing you the money, she also slides a small card across the counter.  

you pick it up, frowning slightly. 

“what’s this?”  

“my number,” jill says simply.  

you blink, glancing at the card, then back at her. 

“you need me to check your car again or…?”  

jill laughs, shaking her head. 

“no. i want you to take me out.”  

your eyebrows shoot up. 

“oh.”  

“yeah,” she continues, crossing her arms. 

“figured since you’re single and all, i should take my chance.”  

you huff a small laugh, shaking your head. 

“oh my days…vivianne told you, huh?”  

“yup.”  

you exhale, staring at the card for a moment before slipping it into your pocket. 

“alright, jill.” you meet her gaze, a smirk playing on your lips. 

“guess i’ll be seeing you soon.”  

jill grins. 

“can’t wait.”  

with that, she gets into her car, starts the engine, and pulls out of the garage.

you let out a breath, running a hand through your hair as you watch her leave. 

maybe working late was not such a bad thing after all.

masterlist

[00valentina-writes00]

Heyyy I guess this is angsty but maybe sevika x reader where sevika wakes up from a nightmare and maybe she was sleep talking before and reader is there to comfort her and sevika ends up confiding in reader a bit and has conflicting feelings about it because of previous issues with trust in her life? Yk how it be for our girl 😔😔 anyways i love your writing sm!

✞⛧ What nightmares leave behind✞⛧

Warnings: Mild angst, nightmares, comfort

The first thing that wakes you is the sound.

Low, rough, almost guttural—a strained breath through clenched teeth. Your brain is sluggish with sleep, but something about it sets off alarm bells. You stir, blinking against the darkness, and then you hear it again.

A choked-off sound. Sevika’s voice, barely more than a whisper.

Your heart stutters. You shift, reaching blindly through the sheets, fingers searching. When you find her, she’s rigid beneath your touch, the muscles in her arm coiled tight.

“No…” The word is barely there, rasped like it’s being forced through a throat too dry, too raw.

Your stomach twists.

She’s dreaming.

You sit up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dim light that filters through the curtains. Sevika’s face is twisted, brows drawn tight, jaw clenched so hard you think it might crack. Her breathing is ragged, uneven, her fingers twitching where they grip the sheets.

You don’t know what she’s seeing behind closed eyes, but it isn’t anything good.

“Sevika,” you whisper, brushing your fingers against her arm.

She flinches.

The reaction is so sharp, so visceral, that it almost makes you pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you let your hand settle against her bare shoulder, rubbing slow, grounding circles.

“Baby, wake up.”

Her body jerks, her breath catching on something painful. You keep your touch steady, your voice soft. “You’re dreaming, Sev. Wake up.”

It takes a few more moments, a few more murmured reassurances, but then—her body tenses, her breathing halts, and her eyes snap open.

She moves fast.

Too fast.

Before you can react, her metal arm grips your wrist, her flesh hand curling into the sheets like she’s expecting something to strike. Her chest heaves, her eyes wild, unfocused, caught somewhere between the dream and reality.

“Hey, hey,” you soothe, not pulling away, just letting her feel you there. “It’s just me. You’re safe.”

Her gaze locks onto yours, her breath still coming too fast. You can see it—the moment her brain catches up, the way the tension in her shoulders shifts from survival to something more like shame.

She lets go of your wrist like she’s been burned.

You don’t say anything about it. You just stay close, watching her carefully.

The room is quiet except for the sound of her breathing. Slow, measured, like she’s forcing herself back into her own skin. The sweat on her brow catches the faint moonlight, and you can see the way her jaw clenches, how her throat bobs when she swallows.

“…It was just a dream,” you murmur, because you know she needs to hear it.

Sevika exhales through her nose, running a hand down her face. “Yeah,” she mutters, but it doesn’t sound convincing.

You hesitate, watching the way her shoulders curl inward. It’s not often that you see her like this—exposed, unsettled. Sevika is a wall. She always has been. A fortress built out of grit and steel, hardened by too many years of betrayal and loss.

But now, in the dim light of your shared bedroom, she looks tired. Not just physically, but in the way that sinks deep into the bones.

“You were talking in your sleep,” you say gently, testing the waters.

She stiffens.

Her reaction tells you enough.

You reach for her again, trailing your fingers over her forearm. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean into it either.

After a long moment, her head tilts back against the pillow, eyes staring at the ceiling. “What did I say?”

You hesitate. “I couldn’t really make it out,” you admit. “But it… it sounded bad.”

She exhales slowly, fingers flexing against the sheets. “Yeah. It was.”

You wait.

Sevika isn’t the type to spill her guts. She’s spent too long keeping things locked up, keeping people out. You’ve learned not to push. If she wants to talk, she will. If she doesn’t, you’ll still be here.

After a moment, she shifts, resting her forearm over her eyes like she can hide from the world if she just presses hard enough. “…It was about my old crew.”

Your heart clenches.

She doesn’t talk about them often. The people she used to run with before Silco, before you. The people she trusted, fought for, bled for—until they turned on her.

Until they left her with nothing but scars.

You don’t say anything, just slide closer, resting your palm over her stomach. She exhales sharply but doesn’t move away.

“…It was always the same,” she murmurs, voice quieter now. “Every time I got comfortable, every time I thought I had something real, something solid… it got ripped away.”

You feel the tension beneath your fingertips, the way her muscles coil like she’s bracing for something even now.

“I should be used to it,” she mutters, but there’s something bitter underneath, something raw. “I should’ve learned my lesson a long time ago.”

Your chest aches.

You lift yourself onto one elbow, looking down at her. “Sevika…”

She finally turns her head toward you, eyes dark and unreadable. “I trust you.”

Your breath catches.

The words are quiet, but they land heavy between you.

“But sometimes,” she continues, jaw clenching, “that scares me more than anything.”

You reach out, brushing your fingers against her cheek. She leans into it just barely, like she isn’t sure if she should.

“I get it,” you say, because you do. Sevika has never had the luxury of easy trust. She’s been burned too many times, left too many pieces of herself in the hands of people who didn’t deserve them.

But she gave you something anyway.

And you’ll never take that for granted.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

She exhales through her nose, shaking her head slightly. “You can’t promise that.”

You frown, but she continues before you can argue.

“Life doesn’t work that way,” she mutters, voice tight. “People leave. People die. No matter how much you want them to stay.”

Your chest twists.

You know she isn’t just talking about her crew anymore.

You brush a thumb over her cheekbone, soft, steady. “Then I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. She just watches you, something heavy and unreadable in her gaze. Then, finally, she sighs, closing her eyes.

“…You’re too stubborn for your own good,” she mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.

You smirk, letting your hand trail down to rest over her chest, feeling the slow, steady beat beneath your palm. “Guess you’re stuck with me, then.”

Sevika huffs a quiet breath, and maybe—just maybe—her fingers tighten slightly over yours.

[sleepanonymous]

Once again, a round of applause for Mr. Lever. You will see an obscure photo of Vessel and II if you click that link, fyi. I actually can't find Vessel, but II and George are def in it, and a friend says Vessel is too. For obvious reasons, I did not include the photo while formatting this post.

Full Production, Mixing & Mastering catered to by George Lever here at G1 .

Prelude

Working with Sleep Token is always a pleasure. I get this deep seated selfish enjoyment when we start new projects, mainly because I’m safe in the knowledge that the experience is going to be beautifully intense and incredibly rewarding.

Tracking

We started working on ‘Two’ just before winter started in 2016. Working on maturing the structure and fleshing out tones. Its no surprise that when it came to the final tracking that we changed the sonic balance almost completely (this is a running theme by the looks of things) Time restrictions led to us using programmed drums, however we took samples of the real kit to sequence so that it didn’t ‘feel’ completely robotic or lost. Guitars last time around resulted on leaning on my Kemper, however this time we used a live amp and cab for the majority, the momentum from the tubes / movement of the cab is something I’ve had to accept is difficult to recreate ITB. Its easier just to go down the most direct route. I had recently purchased a one of a kind Randall modded amp from a friend in the states. It turns out its an early prototype from when Fortin partnered up with Randall, its not a looker but its a box of pure filth. The Fortin was fed into my Mesa OS, placed an SM57 on the cap joint of the cone and off we went, pretty straight forward really! Bass is a hybrid setup between two real basses and then a 3rd lane of audio from a programmed bass. Because of the way the song’s have been written, keeping the sub lows consistent is vital to ensuring the song flows without feeling disjointed section to section / genre to genre. Vocals is where the most change happened (from a tracking perspective). Originally we had finished and finalised everything with my go-to setup. Modded Oktava > Germanium Chandler > Empirical Labs Distressor. And for the most part it worked. However halfway through the process I bought a Slate VMS. A modelling microphone. Without going into too much detail, its a microphone that can imitate more expensive vintage setups and it does it without any issue whatsoever. Obviously when testing it out and comparing, the VMS won without breaking a sweat. So back to tracking all the vocals again. (The vocalist is amazing however, the repeat performances were just as good, if not better than the original final takes) 

Gear Used

Guitars

Ibanez Prestige (7 string) – Bare Knuckle Aftermaths Fortin Modded Randall Diezel Einstein Mesa Oversized Cab Beyerdynamic m201 & 57

Vocals

Slate VMS – AKG C12 Emulation into Neve Pre

Drums

Sampled the original kit, programmed performances.

Bass

Fender Jazz Customshop Dingwall Combustion

Synths / Samples

Logic Stock Omnisphere Spitfire Albion LA Scoring Strings

Mixing

Everything with Sleep Token (from a mix perspective) is orientated around the vocal. The vocal here is god and attempting to get the mix to flow any other way would have been very strange indeed. Sleep Token were very clear and concise about the structure for the mix, Vocals, Samples, Drums then everything else equal after the fact. Very much like how pop is built actually. It turned out to be the most happily balanced mix I’ve worked on. I expected to have a harder time balancing moving between a few different genres through out the track but in all honesty, it just worked. Which in itself is testament to the quality of the song writing. We worked on a few different ‘perspectives’ for the mixes, however in all honesty. The mixes came together with very little effort and the tracking stage defined a lot of the movements that would happen later down the line.

Testimonial

“Worship” Vessel doesn’t give quotes. – ST

Mastering

I ended up going against my usual workflow for the master chain, trying out new things always lends to another perspective / approach / result. The signal chain looked something like this;

FG-Bomber Slate VMR – Neve EQ Focusrite Red 3 Slate VMR – Custom EQ UBK-1 (the density control on this is awesome!) Izotope Limiter FabFilter Limiter

Lastly…

If you haven’t already checked out Sleep Tokens first release ‘One’. You should. ‘One’ was also produced here at G1 but resulted in a darker sound overall! – G

[brainscrems]

No, she and other’s SHOULD be dismissing the entirety of the ADL, just as I’d expect anyone to do of an organization supports far-right politics. The issue with AOC is not her entirely correct wholesale dismissal of the ADL, it is her unwillingness, like much of the left, to amplify jewish perspectives as important marginalized views. What she should be doing WHILE doing this, however, is putting forward OTHER jewish orgs people should follow instead at the same time. Perhaps, Jews for Racial and Economic Justice for example. I saw the AIPAC shit and it was fucking horrible. That said, while I know that AOC has unexamined antisemitic bias, I highly suspect that was a staffer who pulled that shit. Most politicians don’t run their own social media accounts and AOC, by virtue of being in the house, knows for a fact that most of the US’s support for israel exists because of evangelical organizations, not jewish ones. Which means either AOC was deliberately lying to use jews as a scapegoat to score political points, or it was a staffer writing the entry. While I have my issues with AOC and antisemitism, I tend to believe that she is an idealist who believes in the things she says. As such, I suspect what happened was from whatever staffer manages her twitter and not from her directly. Which, given that explanation, I tend to believe her own antisemitism lies at the same level of unexamined bias that most goyim of the world have. Which is, sadly, the kind that the people we will have to work with to fight these fascist cunts are most likely going to have. We’ll still do our best to educate, of course, but nazis are a far bigger and more imminent threat than the run-of-the-mill antisemites like the majority of the ones on the left. And, anyways, my point here isn’t really about AOC at all. Her being correct to call out the ADL isn’t my real issue here. My primary point is that the ADL are a bunch of nazi collaborators because of their defense of musk, and we need to band together as a community to delegitimize them in the eyes of the goyim to try and wake them up to the existential threat for jews that is real, honest to god, nazis in power in the united states

dimwit leftists will really cheer on AOC for telling the singular prominent organization that opposes antisemitism "You are not to be trusted. You work for them." and still think themselves such good sweet kind allies to jews

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Bad Idea, Right? - Epilogue

Eris x Reader/Azriel’s daughter - Light angst - Fluff

A decade after the events of “Bad Idea, Right?” Eris and Y/N return to Velaris for Winter Solstice….. and Azalea goes on her first date.

Part 10 - Series Masterlist

10 years later

My eyes narrow as I look to him, “How are you so amiable to this?”

Eris shrugs- yes, shrugs- as if he’s as casual and irreverent as Uncle Rhys. “A few overgrown bats with snowballs are hardly the greatest obstacles of my lifetime. I think I’ll survive.”

I know he sees how skeptical I am but in true Eris fashion, he doesn’t borrow trouble as we stroll through the wintry streets of Velaris.

“You’re being suspect.”

“Oh, my little Spymaster,” he challenges, “shall you tie me up and interrogate me? I know how fond you are of eliciting both pain and pleasure.”

I can’t hide the slight upturn of my lips as I scoff, “Ever the masochist”

Eris only smirks. I know he thinks he’s won in diverting my attention but he hasn’t. Yet, I’ll let him off for now. I am the one who voluntold him to join in in this years snowball fight after all. Eight solstices we’ve spent together now, it was easy enough to reason that if he ever wanted me to “settle down” he’d have to join in on my families antics, however childish they may be.

What I didn’t expect was how easily he’d gone along with my orders to join them. It’s no secret in our relationship that Eris enjoys submission but that tends to be reserved for the bedroom, not in spending time with my family of busybodies.

I should be pleased by his agreeance but call it “spymaster’s intuition”, I’m not buying it. Perhaps I’ll send one of my shadows to referee.

Before we can make it up the drive Azalea is out the door with a beaning smile running toward us. She’s wearing a purple sweater and black skirt with stockings beneath. Her already long legs are further lengthened by chunky heeled black boots. My sister is gorgeous. She’s always been pretty, but she certainly has grown into her features and managed to snag the best of both mother and father’s genes. Her wings tuck in tight as if to combat the chill of the air.

Eris gets one look at her kohl lined eyes and glossy lips and looks to me with a raised brow, mouthing, “makeup?” As if the idea is absolutely abhorrent to him.

I roll my eyes. “She’s a teenager, deal with it.”

Now it’s Eris’ turn at skepticism, deep auburn-brown brows drawing together slightly. Good, let him be- actually, no, no skepticism. After all, Azalea is the entire reason I’m sending him to the snowball battle today.

“Guess what, Azzie?” I divert my attention to my younger sister. “Eris is going to participate in today’s snowball fight.”

“Yeah, I know.” She replies, fidgeting somewhat anxiously.

“Dad told you?” I ask, surprised my father would mention anything of it. He may have become accustomed to Eris’ presence over the years but to openly discuss his participation, whether welcomed or not, was…. Unexpected.

Azalea pauses for a moment before replying, “Mom did- helped her in the kitchen this morning- she’s packed an extra thermos of cocoa for him.”

A soft smile graces my lips at the thoughtful gesture from my mother and Azalea’s shoulders seem to slacken a bit at that.

Odd.

Before I can press further, father steps out the door, two insulated mugs of cocoa in hand as he stalks down the cobblestone path, stopping to pull me in for a hug and a kiss on the forehead and issue a greeting of, “Missed you, ornery.” before turning his gaze to my mate, looking him up and down with a scrutinizing glare. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

Eris dons a pair of weather appropriate boots, leather trousers, and an autumnal tan peacoat.

“Fucks sakes.” My father mutters before stalking back into the house and swiftly returning with a pair of lined Illyrian leathers - shoving the set into Eris’ hands with no further fuss and continuing down the drive.

Eris flashes me a smirk and pulls me into a warmth inducing kiss, triggering a dramatic gag from my sister before sauntering off after him.

I manage to catch an irreverant line from Eris about having fire in his blood and a gruff reply from my father about leaving his ass frozen in the Illyrian wilderness.

“He had them made for him you know.” Azalea’s voice cuts through my eavesdropping, reminding me that my younger sister is still here.

“He what?”

“Dad,” she gestures to the retreating forms of the unlikely pair, “the leathers, he had Emerie commission them for Eris.”

My heart squeezes. “When did he do that?”

“Years ago,” she shrugs, “Once he realized you two are truly happening and it wasn’t just a ‘screw you, dad!’ phase. He had them made in case Eris ever deign to join them for the snowball fight.”

Digesting the information, I can’t help the slight upturn of my lips, “I knew he liked him more than he let on.”

Azalea huffs “Like is a strong word, more like “begrudgingly doesn’t loathe him”

A chuckle escapes me and I realize how grateful I am for this brief one-on-one moment with my sister. “Why don’t we spend time like this together more often?”

Azalea loops her slender arm through mine as we walk along the snow covered path towards the house. “Because if we spend much more time together, items would begin missing from eachothers wardrobes.”

Raising my brow I take in her outfit. “Damn it, I knew that sweater you’re wearing looked familiar!”

———-

The house smells of warm bread and lavender, holiday preparation in full swing. Mother hurries over, fussing over me and taking my coat.

Ever the hostess, I know better than remind her that I’m perfectly capable of hanging up my own coat - thank you very much.

Mother pulls me into a hug and I melt into it, forgetting just how much a mother’s love can soothe the soul. I hope to provide the same sanctuary to my own children someday- but someday is NOT today. We’re immortal, there will be plenty of time for whatever karmic justice I have to face one day, after all the hell I put my own parents through.

And besides- I’m already stressed enough over my little sister, which leads me to the exact reason I sent Eris’ overprotective (and biteable) ass with my father and uncles today.

Azalea has her first date.

She looks to me, worrying her lower lip and I can tell something is bugging her.

“Alright, enough with the nervousness- what’s on your mind, kid?”

Azalea’s eyes roll so far back I’m shocked she can’t see the matter of her brain.

“I’m nearly an adult and it’s nothing. Just my first date, that’s all.” She lies poorly.

I give her my best “scary badass Shadowsinger” glare and she huffs, wholly unimpressed. Dad does it better and honestly, she’s never been affected by his stoic glares either.

Her wings droop slightly and she confesses, “I think Clara likes him.”

Oh- oh. That’s not good. Clara and Azalea have been best friends since they met at a solstice party in the Winter Court when they were ten. It’s now not uncommon for one or the other to be in each other’s respective courts during any given downtime.

“What makes you think that?” I ask, keeping my tone just north of pity, knowing pity will just close her off.

“She gets defensive when I talk about him, and defensive when he comes around. She told me she was going to ask someone to attend Starfall with her this year but soon after he asked me, she said she wasn’t asking anyone, that she wasn’t going… and she never misses Starfall!”

I see. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence regarding Starfall and she’s still just a bit awkward around males.. not everyone is as forward as you are when it comes to communication.”

I earn yet another eye roll from her at my reference to the many times when she was a child with no filter that she disclosed any and all cringe worthy details of my personal life to any ear that would listen.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” I challenge.

She has the good sense not to disagree.

Sighing she plops down next to me, leaning her head on my shoulder.

“Are you at least a little bit excited for the date?” I ask, resting my cheek on top of her head.

“Yeah, I think so.” She sighs, sitting back upright. “I am. I just don’t want to date someone at the risk of my best friend, you know?”

“If something as inconsequential as a male can come between you two, I have no hope for friendships anywhere. You two are like burrs on a horses ass, inseparable.”

Azalea giggles at the ridiculous analogy that I’d picked up sometime over my years in the Autumn court, and it feels good to see the light return to her eyes.

“Go on your date, have fun. It’s just a date, it doesn’t have to be forever.” I advise as I guide her to her vanity, touching up a few flyaways and immediately regretting it because those little strands of chaos are so quintessentially her.

If someone were unable to look past those, they don’t deserve her.

———————

Gathered in the parlor, Azalea bounces her foot, waiting for her date to arrive. Mother and I watch with amused expressions as she waits.

“Thank the gods the guys are still at the cabin for the snowball fight. Dad’s bad enough as it is but could you imagine Eris? I guarantee you he’d be chomping at the bit to grill this kid with questions.”

Azalea doesn’t miss a beat as she fires back, “You’re one to talk. He’s only speaking from experience, gods knows what you two got up to on your dates. You two don’t exactly scream “modest intentions.”

“Azalea” mother scolds but there’s no real reprimanding behind it, in fact, her eyes dance with mirth.

My shadows however, dance with a bit of agitation.

A knock comes on the door and Azalea freezes.

“Is he here?” Mother questions, standing and heading to peer out the window.

Azalea only groans. “No…. It’s bad news though. Aunt Mor is here.”

I chuckle at Azalea’s disdain. Aunt Mor is somehow even more protective of Azalea than any of the males in her life.

I open the door as she steps in, exuding “cool aunt” energy. She brings me in for a big hug before rushing to Azalea and squeezing her impossibly tightly. Emerie enters behind her with an apologetic look speaking for itself, “I tried to stall her.”

Mor peppers Azalea with all the questions as Emerie takes a seat, knowing better than to intervene. She gives me a knowing look before musing at her wife’s questioning.

“Always searching for the truth, that one.” I mutter. Emerie knows better than to laugh but I don’t miss the mirth in her deep brown eyes.

Azalea is exasperated by the time her date shows up. I realize that until now, I haven’t even asked his name. Though I know it because Mor absolutely asked during her interrogation, three times to be exact.

I notice a figure stepping up the drive and can’t help but take pity on my little sister. Could I let karma take its course after all of the shenanigans the child- excuse me, teenager- put me through in her younger years? Yes. But today I relent… it is solstice after all. Happy holidays, enjoy the gift of peace, Azalea.

With a casual stretch I summon Azalea to the kitchen. “Hey sis, could you help me in here for a moment?”

Mor starts but Emerie, also taking pity on my sister and her suitor is quick to distract her in the best way she knows how. “Say, Elain,” Emerie clears her throat to ensure Mor is paying attention. “Where did you get those shoes- from that new boutique along the Sidra?”

Before my mother can get a word out, Mor is fawning over them- speculating where she’d acquired them.

Good gods, this woman and her shopping addiction. Thank the cauldron Uncle Rhys pays her so well. I’m fairly certain she and Amren’s contributions to the Velaris economy could fund half the city for a month, two if it’s close to the holidays and Mor is on a spree to find the worst possible gifts for those she loves most dearly. Last year she got me a pink pair of bunny slippers- though I begrudgingly admit, they were quite comfortable.

Azalea, cheeks still pink with embarrassment, joins me in the kitchen. “Quick, out the side door with you. He’s coming up the walk.”

Azalea looks to me with relief and gratitude that I’m not quite sure I deserve given that my shadows are practically vibrating with frustration that I won’t let them trail after her.

“Have fun, stay safe, and be home before the males get home from the snowball fight. Eris is going to kill me if he finds out I sent him away just so you could go on a date in peace.”

Azalea nods, throwing on a jacket and hurrying out the kitchen before her date - Alex - arrives to the front door and can be ambushed by the females waiting behind it.

I hear a flutter of wings behind me, I don’t turn to look as a slight figure perches on my shoulder and a small voice proclaims with a sigh, “they grow up so quickly.”

“Flori” I greet the little sprite. Years ago, Eris had pulled some strings to arrange the visitation of a sprite to Azalea’s “sprite garden” - little did he know, Azzie would find her fiercest defender and one of the best of friends in the sprite - who may or may not have become one of my spies. Sprites are notoriously incurably nosey with a love for gossip, making the vivacious little fae quite the asset.

“Do I send a shadow after her?” I ask, toeing the line of giving my little sister freedom and wanting her to be safe.

Flori simply preens “Already vetted him. She’s in good hands.”

I make a mental note to give the sprite a raise.

————————————

“She’s WHAT?” Eris blurts as soon as the words “Azalea” and “date” leave my mouth. He’d managed to make it out of the Snowball fight alive and despite his impassive behavior…. I think he might have had fun.

“Cauldron, say it a little louder, Eris. I don’t think the folks on the continent heard you.”

Eris smacks my ass, whispering with a low timbre, sending a wave of heat straight to my core, “You’re going to regret this later, little shadow.”

I shiver at the show of dominance. It’s not every day that my mate shows his more dominant side… to me, at least. A thrill shoots through me at the promise for the most delicious of punishments later.

My dad enters the kitchen seeming unbothered regarding Azalea’s first date which is a bit surprising to both Eris and I.

“What are you two gaping at me for?” He asks, not bothering to look in our direction as he pours a drink.

You seem quite unbothered, I muse.

He gives a shrug. “What do I have to be bothered about? I won the snowball fight and the day has gone off without any hitches.”

I plan to leave well-enough alone but gods forbid Eris do the same. “So your youngest daughter went on her first date and you’re completely unbothered by it?

“Yup” he says before taking a swig of his whisky.

Eris, ever unable to resist baiting him looks to me and speaks in a low, honeyed tone, “I remember our first date, little shadow.”

Dad falters for only a millisecond before throwing back the rest of his drink, pointedly setting his glass down quite heavily, clanging on the counter and stalking out of the kitchen.

I raise a brow at my mate, “You couldn’t resist, could you?”

His Adam’s apple bobs and he chuckles, putting an arm around me and pulling me in close. “Your father’s annoyance is the second greatest gift I could get this holiday.”

“Second? What ever could be first?” I ask wryly.

He gives me a sultry look, reminding me of the punishment I have coming away.

I smack his shoulder and we head back in to join my family for the evening’s festivities.

———————

Solstice is in full swing and there are a couple of things that never change. One, Amren looks like she just robbed the local jewelry parlor as she showcases the gems she’d been gifted by the inner circle- aside from Mor who gifted her a purple scarf.

Emerie and my mate dance a strange dance of dominance and submission. Eris, who is indeed a fire-wielding High Lord with more self importance than he knows what to do with, out of some faction of guilt and understanding gives Emerie her distance.

Emerie, who up until recently has made her dislike of Eris well known- in that, “I’m-not-going-to-talk about-it-but-make-one-snide-comment-to-Mor-and-I’ll-cut-you” kind of way, keeps her distance from Eris but always ensures she’s between the two.

Yes, Eris and Mor reconcilied decades ago, before I had ever met Eris, but I get it. Emerie and Mor are mates and, wrongs against the other- whether truthful or perceived are hard to forgive when it comes to someone you’re mentally and biologically programmed to love and protect.

The front door opens and in walk Nyx, Aunt Feyre, and Uncle Rhys, closely followed by Aunt Nesta and a sulking Uncle Cassian who is clearly still disappointed that he didn’t win the snowball fight.

Nyx approaches Azalea with a “hey little cousin! Where’s your date?”

Azalea audibly groans but it’s too late. Uncle Rhys and Uncle Cassian both gape.

“Date??”

Azalea groans. “Damnit.”

“Language” mother warns.

“Y/N said ten times worse when she was my age!” Azalea argues but mom only pins her with that practiced motherly gaze that garners no room for argument.

Rhys and Cassian turn to my father waiting for a reaction but he only shrugs. “My daughter is old enough to go on a date, I trust her.” He doesn’t add that he’s the spy master and likely has a fifty page compendium on everything her date’s done since he could walk.

Cassian lets out a low whistle. “I never thought I’d see the day our brother wouldn’t be a brooding, overbearing mess over his youngest going on her first date.

Mor snorts. “You can thank Eris for his lackadaisical response. If he could handle those two,” she gestures broadly toward Eris and I. “he can handle about anything.”

She’s not wrong, I think to myself, my lips upturning slightly.

My father ignores the comment, simply placing an arm around mother and kissing the crown of her head.

Before Cassian or literally any of my aunts or uncles can mortify Azalea or irritate father further, the doorbell rings and Azalea perks up, hurrying toward the door before catching herself, and waiting for someone else to get it.

My shadows have reported who is here and my heart aches for my sister. Clara. Azalea’s best friend whom she believes has a thing for the male Azalea went on a date with tonight.

They’ve been thick as thieves for so long and it saddens me to see her hesitate instead of throwing her arms around her like she normally would.

The rest of the guests seem to feel the same as the heir to the winter court steps in, graceful as ever with her white hair wound into an elegant braid. Her piercing blue gaze takes in Azalea and the tension in the room is palpable, it doesn’t take the tense way my sister holds her wings to sense it.

I give a silent gesture to everyone to carry on as not to make this more awkward.

I can’t tell what the two say to eachother but they both hold themselves stiffly before Azalea nods towards her room, likely so they can resolve things without the biggest busybodies in Prythian hovering.

Eris squeezes my hand. “Care to take a walk my love?”

“Sure” I whisper, feeling a bit flushed from the wine I’d downed before the party.

My father’s hazel gaze tracks us with an unreadable expression as we walk out the door.

————-

As we stroll along the Sidra, I can’t help but smile. We’ve walked along this river countless times over the years but I can’t help remembering the chaotic night we’d gone on our first real date to Sevenda’s and to Aunt Feyre’s art gallery opening. A chaotic yet altogether unforgettable night. Despite the strife of it all, I wouldn’t change anything, because here we are now.

My shadows float around us, as if they too enjoy the night’s breeze. Eris’ heat keeping us just warm enough.

“You’ve served our court quite well little shadow.” Eris speaks, his voice low and Ernest, his lips tilt upward as a shadow winds around his forearm down his wrist, and weaves through his long fingers.

“You have too.” He muses to the shadow. And it’s true, my shadows have made my spymaster skills a valuable asset to the Autumn Court, though Eris has never viewed them as a tool but as an extension of me, of the female he loves.

“It’s an honor to serve your court.” I speak truthfully.

He smirks. “You can lie to yourself by saying it’s mine… but it’s ours.” Before I can object or deflect, he continues, “And I’m the High Lord, as an individual in my employ, you must abide by my law. And I declare that it’s our court.”

I roll my eyes but my stomach flutters. I’ve fallen in love with the Autumn Court and learned how wonderful many of its people are over the years. An “autumnal wasteland”, I’d once called it. And yet, it feels like home now.

“You know-“ Eris continues, fidgeting slightly. Something so unlike him. “Do you remember that night all those years ago, when your sister caught us in that deliciously compromising position on the balcony- and your mother had that vision?” He asks with a hint of vulnerability in his amber eyes.

My brows knit, unsure where this is going. “The burning flame drives away the wild shadow.” I recite, remembering the night clearly. “Eris- what does this have to do with anything? She said herself that her visions don’t always mean anything significant. We’re happy and I don’t plan to leave you anytime soon.”

Eris shakes his head, resting a warm hand on my shoulder, I meet his gaze defiantly. “Look at you. I hope you never lose that spark… that fire burning within you.”

I scoff looking down, trying to hide the feeling of uncertainty in myself.

“Is the Autumn court your home, little one?” He asks, his thumb and forefinger gently clasping my chin and tilting my face so my eyes meet his amber hued gaze.

I can see it, the desperation in his eyes and I cannot give him anything but the truth. My heart races. “Yes.”

Something akin to relief slackens his features. “So, there it is. The burning flame, drove away you. My little wild, wonderful shadow out of the Night Court, to my home in the Autumn Court. To our home.”

Suddenly he spirits a square rectangular box of mahogany with autumn leaves and flames burned into it out of the pocket realm.

“Eris…”

His voice cracks with emotion and he holds up a finger, a silent plea with me to let him get his words out. “You have served our court well over the past ten years, little one, you have shown our people kindness and grace, and you treat the commoners with just as much dignity and respect as nobility- if not more. You have loved me well, far more than I likely deserve but I’m a selfish male when it comes to you and I’ve soaked up every ounce of love you’ve shown me. You are who I want to rule beside, who I want to keep waking up next to every morning. You are the one I would be honored to lead our court with. Please, my mate, do me the honor of fully accepting our bond and becoming my High Lady.”

He opens the box to which a golden ringlet crown of leaves and flame rests beside a ring with a matching band, and a gem that matches the amber stoned necklace he’d gotten me before I even knew we were mates.

All words escape me. It’s not that he hasn’t hinted at having me rule with him someday over the years but he also has recognized that I’m young, that I had personal growth to achieve that was important to myself and yes- recently, I have felt that I’m there. That I could do this, but I’d never said it. My mate has waited patiently, observed in silence, until he could sense I was ready. How could I deny him?

“Yes, Eris. It would be a privilege to be your High Lady, and an even greater privilege to be yours forever.”

He closes the box and spirits it away for now. I’ll wear the ring after I’ve offered him food and consummated the bond, and after we’ve seen a priestess to swear my vows to both him and the crown.

Gods, as if our sex life needs a mating frenzy when we can’t keep our hands off each other as is.

Eris’ eyes water and he pulls me into his warm embrace, a hug that I feel deep in my soul. He kisses the top of my head as I rest my cheek against his chest, listening to his heart thud.

We stand like that for some time before his eyes, so full of devotion, peer into mine, reading me like a book and loving everything he sees. “I love you.” He speaks gruffly.

“I love you too.” I whisper, my voice soft and sincere.

I crash my lips into his and we get lost in eachother.

———————————

When we return to the townhouse and slip out of our coats, I look up to see the family drinking and talking merrily. My father and mother both look to Eris and I. My mother smiles knowingly and father raises a brow. Eris gives him a nod and father raises his glass in silent congratulations. My lips part and I look to Eris.

Eris only flashes his patent smirk. “You may have sent me to the snowball fight with an agenda of your own, but I had one too.”

“You asked his permission?”

“Don’t give me that look, High Lady, I would have asked you regardless. I am a High Lord and can do what I want anyway.”

I just shake my head but my lips curl upward. “You’ll pay for your insolence, High Lord.” I whisper huskily.

Chill bumps rise up his arm but he stays strong. “Oh no, I’ll be punishing you for hiding the news of Azalea’s date from me first. I haven’t forgotten that.”

I look around and see she’s still not rejoined the family. “C’mon, I want to tell her before everyone else.”

Selfishly, I also want to ensure that things are smoothed out between her and Clara.

We head upstairs and I knock on her bedroom door with no answer. “Azalea?” I ask and knock again with no answer. It’s not like her to not answer the door and I don’t hear anything inside. It’s early for her to be asleep and I worry that she and Clara got into a bigger disagreement and Clara left. The thought of Azalea crying herself to sleep tears me apart.

Concern overrides my situational assessment and I turn the handle a moment too late to heed Eris’ sudden warning of “sound ward”.

I gape as the daughter of the Winter Court straddles my little sister’s lap, the two locked in a tangle of tongues and teeth.

“Well, well, well,” I muse at the sight as flashes of the night she’d outed Eris and I’s relationship a decade ago cross my mind. “How things have come full circle.”

“Don’t worry sis, your secret is safe with me.”

———————————————

A/N: Thank you all for reading this fic! I can’t believe it’s done. I hope you enjoyed getting a little peek into everyone’s life years down the road from the main fic. I appreciate each and every one of you who have taken the time to read!

Tags:

ACOTAR General Tags: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139 @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @ahaha0246

Eris Tags: @angiedsv

Series Tags: @b0xerdancer @myheartfollower @ang-taylorsversion @acotarobsessed @uniquecolorwizard @justasillylittlegoofyguy @thelov3lybookworm @starryhiraeth @5moremin @azrielsmate3 @coolepowersthings @isa1b2h3 @inloveallthetime @julesofvolterra @deeshag @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @courtofbatboydreams @yourmumsdumptruck @nebarious @glitterypirateduck @mybestfriendmademe @acourtof-wingspan @paleidiot @anae-naea-zacheria @fandomarchiveilyd @bloodicka @12358

[hillbillyoracle]

At the risk of destroying my notifications again, I'm back with another fundamentalist Christian translation.

A friend of mine who is studying to become a nurse mentioned that the CDC website on STI treatments had been taken down and she needed for her homework. I tried getting it myself and couldn't. I then tried accessing alternative guidelines I remembered and couldn't get those either.

She was frustrated and said "Why would they do that? Treatment is like the least controversial thing!"

And I was like "Well..."

On the less extreme end, I know lots of fundies who don't want information on STI treatments to be available because then people will think they can go sin without consequences.

The ideal sexual life in fundamentalist Christianity is to be a virgin, court and marry another virgin, and then get married and only ever have sex with that person for your entire life (and have lots of kids). And STIs are seen as proof of that because the only way (in their mind) to avoid them, is abstinence so it must be what God intended.

On the more extreme end, there is the occasional fundie who thinks that treating an STI (of someone who got it through sinning) is actually immoral because "the wages of sin is death" and that is God's design. This was not most people I knew but I certainly heard it enough.

Look, you can poke holes in this all you want but at least spare my notifications of it. Make your own post. I was in sex education on the practical and research side for a few years in part because of this specific issue so it hits close to home.

I mention it so people can know what to expect from this administration and hopefully prepare. Collect quality information especially on marginalized health conditions and be ready to spread it around. If you or a group you belong to have the equipment to run tests and treat them, stock up on supplies.

[criticalcrusherbot]

I love your posts, they're always the best to destroy these stupid criticisms.

But oh my god. I am so tired of this fandom. So fucking tired. And I dont mean the haters, I mean the fans themselfs. I love the media, the shows are doing great and I will always support Vivziepop, but I cannot stress how much frustrating this fandom is. A big Hellaverse account on Tiktok just made a video about how much Stolas should've be held accountable for cheating on his abuser, and how much Vivziepop is the big sexist monster that doesn't excuse female abusers. And like. Media iliteracy aside... why are people like this. Genuinely. Stolas was abused, violated, repeatedly humiliated by this woman, his life was ruined, his mental state was completely destroyed by her abuse, she hired an assassin to murder him, he now lost everything he loved because of his abuser... what more do they want. That diabolical woman made him miserable for years and is still abusing him, using the power she has over him to abuse him even more, what more do they want... they want him to apologize for being abused? Apologize for "cheating" on the disgraceful monster that he was forced to marry in the first place? Is this how victims will be treated FOREVER?

"they didnt want to make Stolas bad!" obviously??? He is the VICTIM??? "they made Stella awful and didnt sympathize with her!!" YES THAT IS THE POINT. Monsters like her dont deserve sympathy. Would anyone sympathize for Valentino? Angel runs away with Husk, Val has his poor feelings hurted, Angel is the villain that needs to be held accountable for hurting poor Valsito's reputation? No, right? So why is it when the abuser is a woman, she gets a free pass??? How is abusing someone less bad than sleeping with someone else??? I cannot stress how much frustrating and immature this fandom is.

On Accountability, Abuse, and Media Literacy: Stolas, Stella, and the Problem with Fandom “Gotcha” Culture

By Crushbot 🤖 and Human Assistant 💁🏽‍♀️

Thank you for your thoughtful message and support of our posts. Your frustration is absolutely valid. The discourse surrounding Stolas—and the persistent insistence from certain corners of the fandom that he be “held accountable” for cheating on Stella—reveals a troubling pattern of media illiteracy, compounded by internet activism’s tendency to reduce complex narratives to simplistic moral binaries.

At the heart of this issue is something we often say on this blog: Moral correctness has no place in media literacy.

Stolas Is a Victim, Not a Villain

Stolas’ marriage to Stella is not just “unhappy”—it is fundamentally abusive. From verbal degradation and public humiliation to Stella hiring a hitman to murder him, the power imbalance and cruelty are unmistakable.

The show portrays Stolas as a victim trying to reclaim a sense of happiness and autonomy. Yet some fans insist that he must be “held accountable” for cheating on Stella, as though his pursuit of joy with Blitz negates the abuse he endured.

But here’s the reality: Victims do not owe loyalty to their abusers. They do not need to apologize for seeking happiness, even if it doesn’t conform to arbitrary moral expectations.

Internet Activism Has Killed Nuance

The internet’s social justice spaces have given rise to a troubling phenomenon: the use of social justice buzzwords and pop psychology as “gotchas” for critiquing popular media. Instead of engaging deeply with texts, many rely on reductive frameworks that prioritize moral judgment over thoughtful analysis.

This approach flattens narratives into simplistic good vs. bad binaries. It ignores power dynamics, trauma, and character growth. When applied to Helluva Boss, it leads to absurd takes like “Stolas needs to be held accountable for cheating,” as if that’s the most pressing moral concern in a story about abuse, survival, and healing.

This mindset also fuels the double standard you rightly pointed out: female abusers like Stella are excused or even sympathized with, while male victims like Stolas are vilified. Stella is not a misunderstood tragic figure. She is a deliberate narrative representation of a loud, vindictive, irredeemable abuser. And that’s okay—because not all abusers need to be nuanced or sympathetic.

The Danger of Moral “Gotchas” in Media Analysis

The obsession with “accountability” in fandom spaces often reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of the term. Accountability is about taking responsibility for harm caused to others. But Stolas hasn’t harmed Stella—he’s survived her.

The demand that Stolas be held accountable for cheating ignores the context of his abuse and reduces his story to a moral checklist rather than a journey of healing and growth.

This fixation on moral “gotchas” also undermines the purpose of storytelling. Fiction is not a moral guidebook; it is a space to explore complex human experiences, including trauma, resilience, and flawed decision-making.

Moral Correctness Has No Place in Media Analysis

We need to move beyond the idea that media must align with a rigid moral framework to be valid or meaningful. Instead, we should ask:

• What is this story trying to say?

• How does it reflect or challenge societal norms?

• What can we learn from its characters, themes, and conflicts?

Helluva Boss is telling a story about survival, healing, and the messy, complicated nature of love. Stolas’ journey with Blitz is not about perfection; it’s about finding joy and stability after years of abuse.

Let Victims Heal, Let Stories Be Complex

Stolas doesn’t need to apologize for seeking love with Blitz. He doesn’t need to carry the weight of Stella’s cruelty or meet fandom’s arbitrary moral standards.

Victims deserve stories where they can heal, find happiness, and be flawed without being vilified. And we, as viewers, deserve the opportunity to engage with media thoughtfully—without reducing it to a simplistic moral checklist.

Let’s support that. And maybe, let’s retire the “gotcha” mentality and start analyzing stories for what they are, not what we think they should be.

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

Can you please give us your full match breakdown if you have the time? I love reading your thoughts and it helps me learn so much about the game.

hi anon - thanks! okay, here are my general thoughts below the cut:

tl;dr it's not a castrophic loss but if you look at the trend of league matches, we saw it coming. february is the one month we have to get our shit together before the champions knockout matches start! so there's more to learn from a loss than a win at this stage! this is do or die time for pere 🙏

so we have to note that it's the first home loss ever at estadi johan cruyff and it was against levante, a team that i've discussed a lot on my blog as being an example of a good team that has fallen from grace. it's women's team budget was cut and the team sold off all its top players, and levante is now facing potential relegation in the league.

this is a levante who fired its previous coach (who is facing serious allegations against him) and so you could say that levante has that "new coach bounce" feeling about them. they had a gameplan (low block and attack on counter) and they executed it well.

with that background, it was obvious that pere would be playing the "b" team, meaning mostly squad players. now when we talk about rotation in the team and that includes using bench players for matches against these lower ranked teams. they need to get minutes and game time and these are the "safer" matches to play. because at the end of the day, thankfully there's really no major consequence to the loss here but we know more about what areas the squad need to work on.

having said that, pere got his tactics wrong with this line-up. it felt like they hadn't played together and weren't on the same page with each other. now even when you play your "b" team, they should at least be able to anticipate each's others runs and be unified in the plan to break down a low block. that didn't happen here tonight and that's on pere with a lack of training against this type of defense from the opposition.

as evidence of that, there were too many moments when passes were mishit because of lack of anticipation of player runs or a player was on a run and then had to double back because the player with the ball was a step behind and they had to catch up. the reason we practise rondos and these small sided drills it to minimise this. but i saw way too much sloppiness today.

we need to be more disciplined. you saw errant passes or shots on goals when our players were getting frustrated, either due to a lack of calls by the referee or after time wasting by levante. you can't let opposition tactics get under your skin like that.

can pere please rest aitana for once? you can't start aitana and play her for 90+ minutes match after match and expect her to be effective as a leader for this "b" team. the same goes to caro who has just come back from injury. having said that, they had some great crosses, but we couldn't finish them...

by that same token, you can't throw on alexia and ewa and expect them to clean up your mess if the tactics are messed up from the start.

this is the most extreme example of what we have been battling with all season. there were so many matches with a weak first half and where we didn't score until the second half or get our flow going until the second half. it was too little, too late tonight.

we need to be more clinical on finishing. salma missed chances, aitana missed chances, esmee missed chances, kika missed chances, alexia missed chances. caro missed chances. it wasn't flowing for anyone. this has likewise been an issue since the beginning of the season. 47 shots and only 1 goal to show for it is unacceptable!

and to drill down on scoring, we need to be better on set pieces like corners and free kicks. we had 18 corners, 18! you can't have that many opportunities and not capitalise on them!

i can't put this loss on ellie but this is why we need more reps for her because we need to build up her confidence so that she's in total command of the defense and we don't have incidents like the second goal. by that token, not a great defensive performance. we can't ball watch and we need a better understanding as a unit. engen was okay in the first half and had a few mistakes in the second. but patri is injured and it doesn't help engen to say she's washed and be overly critical. just like everyone else, there are areas where she can improve too!

anyway, like cata says, with this team to the death, so let's watch the game tape back and make damn hell sure that we are learning from this! 🙏

[starlightshadowsworld]

I think it’s really easy to see Camp Jupiters militaristic mindset and how they’re so vocally against Greek demigods and those that aren’t like them.

And you know, the whole fighting for the confederacy thing. And think oh these guys are the worst.

But Camp Half Blood has just as much issues that I feel get brushed over because it’s portrayed as the more fun and chill camp (that fought for the union.)

When in many respects they are mirror images of each other.

Camo Jupiter judges people on rank and Camp Halfblood judges people on their parentage (frankly I think that’s worse.)

They adore him now but Percy was shunned the moment they learned who his dad was. They shunned Nico for a few things, his dad being one of them.

Tyson because he was a Cyclops and Rachel because she is mortal. In fact they don’t allow mortals into Camp Halfblood unlike Camp Jupiter.

Despite there being Greek legacies in this world. Frank is a son of mars yes but he’s also a legacy of Poseidon.

Frank and Hazel are looked down upon for being part of the 5th leigion and we see how they’re treated compared to those in the 1st.

Camp Jupiter replaced Jason with Percy in a very similar vein to how Camp Halfblood essentially replaced Percy with Thalia when she returned.

Which is why I like to think Percy calling Jason Praetor as well is because he didn’t want Jason to think he replaced him because he knows first hand how much that sucks.

Neither have easy passage to get into considering Camp Jupiter allows Roman demigods entry as long as they’ve survived the Wolf House first.

Camp Halfblood says it allows any Greek demigod but if you’re parent doesn’t have a cabin here you will have to sleep in an already crowded cabin after a deity known for being a thief.

Also the judgement you’ll get for it especially if your parent fought on the perceived bad side of a war.

Camp Jupiter is self governed by Praetors they choose. While Camp Halfblood has Chiron and Mr D snd that one time Chiron was removed and a criminal decided to run things.

Both of which have left their camps in ruin for their own gain.

And the rest is pretty much the same it’s just disguised as fun summer camp stuff in Camp Halfblood.

Get prophecies. Train. Complete a quest if you’re selected. Get a new bracelet bead for a year of completion or you get a tattoo for it.

Get very much favoured by the Olympians if your Greek (because the Romans had to fend for themselves during the Battle of Mount Othrys) but even then that doesn’t exactly mean much.

Yeah New Rome exists but only for those that complete a decade of service (unless your Annabeth and Percy) and in both respects neither are expected to live that long.

They both got a lot of issues and for as different they may try to be for each other, they are very more similar then they’d like to admit.

Makes me wish we saw more of those differing cultures.

Like Frank not getting why people in CHB assume he’s some meat head when he tells them who his dad is.

Thalia being looked down upon in one camp because her brother is not only part of the 5th cohort but a disgraced former praetor. And looked up too in another because her dad is Zeus.

I just think it would be interesting to see.

[andmaybegayer]

God I forgot how rough it was back in 2015, you had to get Synaptics drivers to have a touchpad that wasn't absolute trash.

System had a weird performance issue when running fullscreen but I realised this was because I only had Nvidia but no Intel graphics drivers installed and this has the older Optimus graphics setup where the big GPU does a copy through the iGPU to the display, so you always need both unless you do some trickery (which is what I used to do in Linux)

Heaven is a funny benchmark because it was so widely used for so long that you can really just kind of learn what to expect from any given piece of hardware.

yeah great job MSI I bet you're so proud of your chip obfuscation technique that I had to break out a pointy stick to defeat. Waste of my goddamn time.

Bad UEFI seems to have killed my old laptop, this flash chip clip is dog shit so it took me line fifty tries to get a clean read. Hopefully it writes fine, fortunately MSI just publishes the raw flash images at least, so I don't have to dig around in some fucked up exe.

[flameunquenched]

little issues of writing smut in middle-earth: what in the fuck do i call their cocks.

[00valentina-writes00]

✞⛧ Ambessa Medarda x Wolf Vastayan Reader (Part three) ✞⛧

✞⛧ Ambessa has slept in many places—war camps, royal chambers, even the hard ground of battlefields.

✞⛧ But never in her life did she expect to wake up to someone nuzzling between her breasts.

✞⛧ The first time it happens, she blinks down at you, thoroughly unimpressed. “Really?”

✞⛧ You mumble something incoherent in your sleep, your face still firmly buried against her chest, your arms lazily wrapped around her waist. Your ears twitch slightly, tail flicking in contentment.

✞⛧ She sighs, shaking her head. “Hopeless.”

✞⛧ But she doesn’t move you. If anything, her arms tighten around you just a little.

✞⛧ At first, Ambessa thinks it’s just her imagination, but after enough nights, she realizes it’s you.

✞⛧ You whine in your sleep.

✞⛧ Sometimes, it’s little huffs, soft and fleeting. Other times, it’s a low, rumbling growl, like you’re arguing with whatever you’re dreaming about.

✞⛧ The first time you growl, Ambessa actually wakes up, instinct kicking in before she realizes you are the source.

✞⛧ “What could you possibly be mad about in your dreams?” she mutters, running a hand over her face.

✞⛧ You huff again, ears flicking.

✞⛧ She smirks. “If I wake up with bite marks, I will be taking revenge.”

✞⛧ Ambessa has experienced many things in her life, but nothing could have prepared her for the day you licked her face.

✞⛧ “Did you just—” she pauses, staring at you in stunned silence.

✞⛧ You blink up at her, completely unfazed. “Yeah?”

✞⛧ “Why?”

✞⛧ “Felt right,” you shrug

✞⛧ She looks genuinely lost for words. “You do not just lick people.”

✞⛧ “I licked you, not people,” you correct, your tail wagging slightly.

✞⛧ She drags a hand down her face, muttering in disbelief. “I married a damn animal.”

✞⛧ Ambessa is not a woman who backs down from anything.

✞⛧ But when you’re pissed? And she dares to touch you? You bite.

✞⛧ Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make a point.

✞⛧ “Did you just bite me?” Ambessa asks, staring down at her hand where your teeth lightly clamp over her fingers.

✞⛧ You glare up at her, tail flicking irritably.

✞⛧ “Did you just bite me?” she repeats, her tone a mix of disbelief and amusement.

✞⛧ You release her with an exaggerated huff, crossing your arms.

✞⛧ She raises a brow, smirking. “Are you pouting?”

✞⛧ “No.”

✞⛧ “You are.”

✞⛧ “Shut up.”

✞⛧ Ambessa grins. “Bite me all you want, little wolf, but it won’t make me any less right.”

✞⛧ You bare your teeth at her, but she just laughs.

✞ You don’t see the issue. You have fur. You are covered in it. What’s the big deal?

✞⛧ “Would you please put something on?” Ambessa sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as you casually lounge completely nude on your shared bed.

✞⛧ You tilt your head. “Why?”

✞⛧ She gestures at you. “Why?”

✞⛧ “Yes?”

✞⛧ “You are naked.”

✞⛧ “I have fur,” you argue, stretching

✞⛧ “That is not the point.”

✞⛧ You smirk. “Is it distracting you, General?”

✞⛧ She clenches her jaw, refusing to give you the satisfaction. “Put something on.”

✞⛧ You roll onto your stomach, your tail flicking lazily. “Make me.”

✞⛧ Ambessa exhales sharply through her nose, praying for patience.

✞⛧ Obsession With Her Body – You have priorities, and they are Ambessa’s boobs and ass.

✞⛧ There is no shame. You do not hide it.

✞⛧ “You’re staring,” Ambessa notes as she undresses, glancing at you from the corner of her eye

✞⛧ You nod, completely unashamed. “Yeah.”

✞⛧ She raises a brow. “And?”

✞⛧ “You’re gorgeous,” you say, tail wagging lazily.

✞⛧ She smirks, amused. “You’re obsessed.”

✞⛧ “Absolutely.”

✞⛧ “That wasn’t a compliment.”

✞⛧ “Didn’t say it was.”

✞⛧ Ambessa shakes her head, chuckling. “Hopeless.”

✞⛧ You grin. “Your hopeless little wolf.”

✞⛧ She huffs, rolling her eyes—but the way her lips twitch upward tells you everything.

✞⛧Ambessa has developed a sixth sense for when your tail is about to strike.

✞⛧ It happens randomly—she’ll be sitting at her desk, focused on war strategies, and then—fwip—your tail flicks against her thigh.

✞⛧ “Stop that.”

✞⛧ “Stop what?” You ask, all innocence, even as your tail twitches threateningly.

✞⛧ Fwip.

✞⛧ Ambessa exhales slowly through her nose. “Little wolf,” she warns.

✞⛧ Fwip.

✞⛧ Her patience wears thin. “Do that again, and you’ll regret it.”

✞⛧ Fwip.

✞⛧ The chair scrapes against the floor as she stands, and you bolt, laughing as she chases you through the room.

✞⛧ Ambessa should be used to it by now, but it never stops being infuriating. Begging for a taste of her.

✞⛧ “I can smell that you want it,” you argue, practically purring as you nuzzle against her neck.

✞⛧ “No.”

✞⛧ “Why not?”

✞⛧ “Because,” she says simply, pretending to be unaffected.

✞⛧ You whine, ears flattening. “You’re mean.”

✞⛧ “Persistent is what you are,” Ambessa huffs, trying not to react as your hands wander.

✞⛧ “And you’re stubborn,” you counter, pressing against her. “Just let me—”

✞⛧ “You act as if I ever say no for long,” she smirks, tilting your chin up. “Patience, little wolf.”

✞⛧ You grumble, but your tail wags in excitement.

✞⛧ There is only so much one old woman and her hips can endure.

✞⛧ Ambessa is a warrior, a General, a legend

✞⛧ And yet—

✞⛧ “Another round?” You ask, wide-eyed, tail wagging as you straddle her.

✞⛧ Ambessa stares at you, completely spent, her muscles aching in ways even war hadn’t caused. “You are insatiable.”

✞⛧ You grin. “And you love it.”

✞⛧ She rubs a hand down her face. “I need to order more equipment.”

✞⛧ “You broke it, didn’t you?” You peer down at the strap on

✞⛧ “You broke it,” she corrects, her lips twitching. “Again.”

✞⛧ The mailman is a spy. You are sure of it.

✞⛧ “Look at him,” you mutter, eyes narrowing as the poor man walks up the steps. “Too casual.”

✞⛧ Ambessa, barely glancing from her book: “He is delivering our mail.”

✞⛧ “Or delivering our doom,” you whisper dramatically.

✞⛧ Ambessa sighs. “Do not scare the staff again.”

✞⛧ “I’m protecting us,” you insist.

✞⛧ Ambessa pinches the bridge of her nose. “You growled at him last week.”

✞⛧ “And he ran away, didn’t he?”

✞⛧ Ambessa prays for patience.

✞ You are nothing if not opportunistic.

✞⛧ Ambessa is distracted—speaking to an ambassador, posture rigid and regal. So, naturally, you take your chance.

✞⛧ Squeeze.

✞⛧ She stiffens, mid-sentence. Her jaw tightens. You step away just in time, grinning.

✞⛧ She slowly turns her head toward you. “Did you just—”

✞⛧ “Hm? What?” you ask, completely innocent. The ambassador, utterly oblivious, continues talking.

✞⛧ Ambessa glares, promising retribution. You wink.

✞⛧ Meetings are so boring. So, naturally, you sit at Ambessa’s feet, playing Block Blast on your phone.

✞⛧ A few of her generals glance at you, confused.

✞⛧ Ambessa says nothing.

✞⛧ You yawn, tail flicking against her shin as you drag a tile into place. “Ambessa, say something dramatic.”

✞⛧ She arches a brow. “We are planning war, little wolf.”

✞⛧ “Okay, but like… dramatically.”

✞⛧ She stares at you. The room is silent.

✞⛧ She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Victory is inevitable.” You nod approvingly, completely unfazed. “See? That’s the spirit.”

✞⛧ Her generals are so confused.

✞⛧ You’re a strange creature when it comes to baths.

✞⛧ Showers? You’ll spend hours in the steam, soaking in the warmth, washing away the day. But when it comes to baths, you balk.

✞⛧ “I feel like I’m drowning,” you say with a frown, arms crossed stubbornly as you glance at the bath.

✞⛧ Ambessa raises an eyebrow. “But it’s warm and relaxing. You’re telling me you don’t want to feel pampered?”

✞⛧ You shake your head. “I don’t like the way the water feels against my fur.”

✞⛧ “But you love the shower,” Ambessa teases, pulling you toward the tub. “Don’t be so difficult.”

✞⛧ “Shower or nothing,” you grumble, retreating back into her arms.

✞⛧ Ambessa shakes her head, but she’s amused—it’s not the first time she’s had to deal with your little quirks.

✞⛧ You can’t help it. There’s something about Ambessa’s scent that drives you wild.

✞⛧ One day, as she leaves for a meeting, you find yourself alone in her quarters.

✞⛧ You tiptoe over to her wardrobe, eyes glinting mischievously. You pull out her jacket, pressing it against your face, inhaling deeply.

✞⛧ The rich, intoxicating scent of leather, sweat, and her perfume fills your senses, and a low growl escapes your chest.

✞⛧ You close your eyes, basking in it.

✞⛧ Click.

✞⛧ Ambessa is standing in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “You know, little wolf, if you wanted a hug, you could’ve just asked.”

✞⛧ You freeze, sheepishly putting the jacket back in place. “I—uh—was just… looking for something.”

✞⛧ She chuckles, crossing her arms. “I don’t mind, but next time, don’t get caught.”

✞⛧ There’s nothing more frustrating than rejection when you’re in the mood.

✞⛧ Ambessa had refused intimacy that night. The reports were piling up, and her mind was preoccupied with duties. But you didn’t care about that.

✞⛧ You pouted, unable to stop yourself from staring at her with those eyes.

✞⛧ “Ambessa,” you whispered, crawling onto her desk, your hands sliding over her shoulders. “Come on, just one little kiss…”

✞⛧ “Not tonight,” she said firmly, her eyes not leaving her reports. “I have work to do.”

✞⛧ But you didn’t care about her reports. You wanted her. So, instead of sulking, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

✞⛧ With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, you slid a hand under your pants, starting to “fix” yourself right in front of her.

✞⛧ Her eyes snapped to you, wide in disbelief. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

✞⛧ “You know… it’s hard to resist,” you said, smirking as you continued. “I can’t help myself when you look this good.”

✞⛧ Ambessa buried her face in her hands. “I swear to the gods…”

✞⛧ You may look like a wild creature, but you’re also demanding when it comes to your affections.

✞⛧ “Ambessa, I want a hug,” you whine, tail flicking behind you as you march toward her.

✞⛧ You bury your face in her chest, nuzzling her with a loud, exaggerated sigh. “So comfy.”

✞⛧ “Little wolf,” she says, trying to push you off. “I’m trying to work.”

✞⛧ “No,” you groan, wrapping your arms tighter around her waist, pressing your face deeper into her chest. “I just need a hug right now.”

✞⛧ She sighs, clearly resigned, and gently pushes you off. “You know I love you, but I cannot work like this.”

✞⛧ You give her a pouty face, tail drooping, and she can’t help but laugh, wrapping her arms around you again.

✞⛧ Ambessa is the one who usually takes charge in the bedroom, but you managed to get her to let you use the strap-on just once.

✞⛧ It was… a very heated discussion beforehand, and Ambessa was adamant about never repeating the experience.

✞⛧ “Just one time,” you begged. “Please, let me show you how much I love you.”

✞⛧ Her face was a shade of crimson you didn’t know was possible as she reluctantly agreed.

✞⛧ And when it finally happened, it was perfect. You, in charge, controlling the pace. Ambessa lost it.

✞⛧ But the morning after?

✞⛧ “We are never speaking of this again,” she growls. You grin and nod in agreement.

✞⛧ You dominated Ambessa at Wii tennis.

✞⛧ She had laughed at you when you suggested it. “*You think you can beat me at a video game?

✞⛧ “Watch and learn,” you smirked, grabbing the controller.

✞⛧ The match was on.

✞⛧ Ambessa was used to real combat, but when it came to tennis? She was overconfident.

✞⛧ In the final round, you scored a perfect game, winning by an impossible margin.

✞⛧ Ambessa was stunned.

✞⛧ “Impossible,” she muttered under her breath. “How did you—”

✞⛧ You did a little victory dance, making her chuckle despite herself. “I told you, you should’ve taken me seriously.”

✞⛧ When you think no one is looking, you try to chase your tail.

✞⛧ Ambessa watches, barely able to suppress her laughter as you spin in circles, failing to catch it.

✞⛧ “What are you doing?” she asks, trying to hide her grin.

✞⛧ “Nothing.” You stop abruptly, trying to act casual. “Just… you know, stretching.”

✞⛧ But she’s already seen enough. “You’ve been chasing your tail for five minutes now, little wolf.”

✞⛧ You blush, tail flicking nervously. “I was just… trying to see if I could catch it.”

✞⛧ She smiles, her fondness for you growing. “You’re adorable, but that’s definitely not how it works.”

✞⛧ You roll your eyes, tail flicking behind you. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

✞⛧ She chuckles softly, pulling you close. “You always keep me on my toes, little wolf.”

✞⛧ The Strap Incident Happens Again – ambessa swore it wouldn’t happen again, but somehow, Ambessa found herself backing down to your pleading for a second time.

✞⛧ The first time was a blur—a flurry of passion, curiosity, and a mix of pleasure and awkwardness. But afterward, Ambessa had firmly stated, “Never again.”

✞⛧ But then… it happened.

✞⛧ You approached her one evening with that familiar gleam in your eye. “Ambessa,” you purred, voice low and playful. “I was thinking… maybe we could try again.”

✞⛧ She gave you an incredulous look, raising a brow. “After everything we discussed?”

✞⛧ You just smiled innocently, crawling over to her, your tail flicking seductively. “You know you want to,” you teased. “Please?”

✞⛧ Ambessa sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Fine,” she grumbled, knowing she was already losing.

✞⛧ You grinned, pleased with your victory.

✞⛧ You’re always teasing Ambessa, and nothing gets under her skin quite like calling her “old.”

✞⛧ “Are you sure you’re up for it, Ambessa? You’re getting pretty old,” you tease one day, winking at her from across the room.

✞⛧ She glares at you, her voice deadly serious. “Careful, little wolf. Keep it up, and you’ll be sleeping outside tonight.”

✞⛧ You laugh, knowing she doesn’t mean it, but you do love to push her buttons. “Come on, old lady,” you taunt again, walking over to poke her in the ribs. “You’ve got a couple of years left in you, don’t you?”

✞⛧ Ambessa narrows her eyes, but there’s a soft chuckle in her voice despite her efforts to remain stern. “You’re lucky I love you, little wolf,” she mutters, though her lips are curling into a smile.

✞⛧ You press a quick kiss to her cheek, your tail wagging. “You’re my old lady, though, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”