#move zero extension

[plumsaffron]

If anyone knows how to do movsx movzx or know how to use ptr (byte, word, dword qword) pointer properly on cheat engine when doing an auto assemble code injection script or Array Of Byte Script, do let me know. Like I've been scrolling around youtube for tutorials on these situations and I've found nothing. No I don't want an x86 guide. I just want a video cheat engine that shows me how to deal with such specific situation.

[snickerdoodlles]

*sees take about fic x AI*

*grits my teeth and moves on*

[ladyloveandjustice]

One thing that always bothered me as a kid, and still bothers me, is it honestly makes so little sense Steph didn't rank super high on the scale of Martial Artists after receiving the Robin training, if it's so amazing. Considering what she could do while untrained, the experience she had, it's baffling that no one ever considered her a prodigy, or that she wasn't at least notably more skilled than say, Tim was, when she started out as Robin.

Like, Steph was in the field and knocking out grown men twice her size with zero training. It was not even mentioned that she took martial arts classes or anything to explain how she can do this, just gymnastics and softball. And both were high school gymnastics, high school softball, not fancy expensive classes??? Even Babs, in Batgirl Y1 had the advantage of having taken martial arts classes and presumably a lot more since her goal was to be in the FBI.

Meanwhile Steph like. She's jumping off rooftops and surfing trains and taking down bad guys with nothing. Tim's gone through extensive Batman training and trained with Lady Shiva and all this stuff, and obviously she's not as good as him and needs him to watch her back at times, but she can keep up with him, and even saves him or get the jump on him quite a few times, and that's incredible when you think about it. Tim gave her gadgets and instructions in the field, but it's never shown that he taught her any moves.

There's even a panel where Batman notes Stephanie almost snuck up on him and "not many people can do that" when again, no training, no martial arts classes, this is way before he agreed to give her any help at all-- and then for some reason, after noting this girl with no training is more talented than most people he knows, just keeps telling her she's not good enough and should go home.

That's a ridiculous level of raw talent, and it's honestly so bizarre nobody in the Batfamily ever noted that and kept telling her to go home. When she does get training, it's very sporadic, it is not clear how much Batman or Black Canary trained her the first time, he disappeared on her and then fired her as soon as he came back, and we never saw her get trained on screen by Dinah (the only person who ever acknowledged she had talent). She sparred with Cass, but Cass never taught her anything. Despite all this, she was noticeably getting way better during the era.

But when she received the six month Robin training that's supposed to make them so strong or whatever...how did that not result in her being a prodigy? She's the only Robin who was an experienced superhero before she took on the mantle?

Bruce literally tells her "Tim did this better" when he was training her about something, which makes no sense considering she came into being Robin with way more skills and experience and martial arts prowess??? When she was surviving on her own and fighting villains before that? When she could nearly sneak up on Bruce even before that?

You could claim she's a "bad student" or whatever, but she was a clearly very good at taking her gymnastic coach's instructions, enough to become a genius at it, so that doesn't really hold water.

The only explanation that would make any sense would be that Bruce taught her badly on purpose. which. unfortunately wouldn't be too far out of character from how he treated her in that era. (And that she apparently improved a lot under Babs tutelage as Batgirl but not his. So. Not a good look for him)

I mean the real answer for why all this makes no sense is DCs misogyny ofc. But it’s pretty wild how there’s no justification for this in universe.

[weirdero]

I want to talk about Helena’s performance as Helly and her deep rooted misunderstanding of who Helly is as a person. And just in general how I think she perceives her especially after yesterday’s episode.

Helena is incredibly attentive, almost to the point of being terrifying. In the short moments she interacts with anyone, everything in her head is already scripted, calculated, and premeditated. She’s also a great method actress, reacting based on the energy around her. It’s like a stand up comic, constantly adjusting their performance to make sure their actions land. If something doesn’t click, she shifts.

Throughout the past couple of episodes, Helena spends most of her time just trying to go with the flow move with the water, trying to fit in without standing out, constantly monitoring the group and their reactions at every turn. And so far, she was good at it. She can play the part, until her own emotions towards helly start to blind her.

In these two pics she does a quick scan of Irving’s and Marks faces trying to analyze their reactions

Helena knows the group loves Helly. She knows Mark loves Helly. And honestly, I’d bet every dollar in my bank account that it genuinely makes her want to kill herself. She has zero respect for Helly, and she doesn’t need to. To Helena, Helly, and by extension, the group, are low value. Insignificant. At her highest, Helly is just a worker, a cheap extension of herself created with the sole purpose of just being a good employee to be displayed to the public as a little shining lumon puppet. But shit, the bitch can’t even do that. She’s done quite the opposite. So yeah, not a person to be respected or valued.

This particular disdain (and fuck it, I’m just gonna say hate) that Helena carries for Helly spills into the bonfire scene with Milchick.

While Milchick is reading the story, enunciating every word like a second grade elementary school teacher, showing pictures like they’re in a reading circle, I kept wondering to myself if Helena ever experienced something similar to this as a child. How many times has she heard this same story? Or hell, any other old Kier mythology? Lumon, Kier, the Eagan legacy, it’s all she’s ever known. This world is nothing new to her.

Even though I believe Helena is a loyal servant, she probably didn’t love all the weird shit she had to put up with in her childhood. The weight of the Egan legacy probably suffocates her. But she accepted it either way because that was the life she was given. Unlike fucking helly. Fucking helly who’s forced her into this situation to begin with. In my opinion, all of these particular feelings make their way into Helena’s reaction to the story as Helly, which could only be described as a middle schooler who suddenly thinks they’re too old for camp.

I saw this post someone made about this scene, and like shit, yeah, that’s probably right. Helena had one chance to shit on the weird religion that’s been shoved down her throat since birth and she took that chance.

Helena, in this moment, settles for crude, mocking jokes. She probably does this partially out of her own selfish need for Mark’s validation, as well as playing her role trying to fit into the group but I also think it’s a great reflection of her own personal feelings toward Helly. Helly, who would’ve never acted that way. Helly, who is many things, but never cruel. Helena doesn’t seem to understand that. For the moment, Helena takes a step back, flanderizes Helly, reducing her to this cheeky, crude, disruptive little jokester. That’s how Helena views her. With no respect. No nuance. Helly has layers Helena does not care to see. Helly doesn’t just break rules; she actively causes chaos, subverting everything around her. She’s purposefully, and happily, malcontent. A bitch, dare I say, an ungrateful bitch, most likely from Helena’s point of view.

Irving, who keeps testing her, makes her slip a little more. I talked about this a little bit in my last post about severance, but Helena doesn’t take well to being disrespected. She shifts from wanting the group’s (and mostly Mark’s) validation to just wanting to put Irving in his fucking place. These people aren’t equal to her in her mind. They aren’t cut from the same cloth probably not even made from the same fabric. There are levels to this shit, and they are not on her level.

She says what she says. It’s cruel. Mostly, it’s stupid on her part.

And just like Irving said later, and what I said earlier Helly was many things, but…

What Helena did at the bonfire was a fuck up. An especially surprising one coming from a woman as controlling and calculated as her. I’m fully convinced all those little mistakes came from a deep frustration within her. Much of that anger, in my opinion, is stewing from the realization that Helly, someone created by her, literally the source of all of Helena’s recent problems, someone who will stop at nothing to take her down, that person, the woman who’s literally locked up inside her, is more free than she will ever be.

Yes, Helena has no respect for Helly. Yes, she most likely hates that bitch. But when she herself is acting as Helly, it gives her the opportunity to almost let go. She gets the chance to essentially kill the bitch that’s been fucking up her life whilst simultaneously getting a chance to talk to this man who cares so deeply for a version of herself she hates, Even if it’s not the most ideal of situations (it’s not), it’s still something. I think, at the bonfire, she reflects on the ridiculous situation she’s found herself. All this shit caused by some other version of herself that she created, that situation plus all the other shit going down at Lumon is probably alot. And it just all bubbles up inside her. And when she’s given even the smallest opportunity to let anything out, she’s going to take it.

Idk it’s therapeutic in a way I guess.

She’s unfiltered, blunt, and almost carefree in a way that’s shocking almost unsettling. It’s clearly how she sees Helly to some degree, but also her own need to scratch an itch she’s never dared to before. And even though it’s an act of “Helly”, it still leaves a clear aftertaste of Helena.

Keep thinking about these two little moments whilst she’s making her jokes she not only keeps checking on mark’s reaction but also seems to laugh at her self in a way that just seems so genuine almost self deprecating. She acknowledges the ridiculousness of her situation and this dumb ass story she’s probably heard a million times

In my last post about Severance, I mentioned that Helena is the master of speaking her truth without outright saying it. She hides behind walls, but as Helly, she’s free to speak without restraint.

(Also her having sex with mark is a clear way of her expressing this new found freedom with in her role as helly but ima talk about that later)

[heartyluv]

thoughts are being thunk rn. thought about birthday sexy time with caleb (WAKEY WAKEY CALEB FANS, IT'S JUNE 1ST in my time zone at least 👀. HAPPY CALEBRATION 🎉🎉🎉) and my mind instantly went to giving him a lap dance for his birthday.

but i got a feeling homeboy won't last a second 😭 he'd be grabbing mc the second she steps into the room wearing their — yes, their. because anything mc likes by extension caleb likes — favorite set of lingerie.

mans is handsy, unless mc ties him up first/orders him to just sit like a good boy 🫣

but then that got me thinking, which of the lads men do you think would last the longest and get to see the end of the performance? 🤔

AHSHSHS IM SORRY IF WHAT I SAID IS MESSY AND MAKES NO SENSE. I TEND TO YAP

Note: BABE YOU WON’T EVEN BELIEVEEE WHAT I SAID LIKE TWO WEEKS AGO —click here— BUT YES I AM SO DOING THIS!!! Now in the future I could do a full fic or headcanons, but here’s a simple list in order from who I think will last the longest to who just can’t wait for the whole performance. AND WE LOVE A GOOD CALEBRATIONNN (i’m letting him get me pregnant)—too much? (he can lick his cake off of me)

Warning: A little explicit, but we’re all adults here.

!!MDNI!!

1. Zayne - This man is the EPITOME of discipline, cmon now. He’ll wait because not only does he like what he sees, but he wants to give you the opportunity to fulfill something you specifically planned for him without interrupting. I definitely think he lets you take complete control. Everything you say, he’s doing it. So if you say don’t touch, he won’t. But when he gets that green light..? HE’S INNITTTT!!!

2. Sylus - He’s going to let you complete the whole dance, but it won’t be without him teasing you. Maybe gliding his fingers along your skin to send shivers down your spine and kissing parts of you that get close enough to his lips. That deep breathy chuckle he does because he knows what he’s about to do the moment you stop..? YEAHHHH!!!

3. Xavier - Very patient man, but he’s struggling. Every time he gets a chance to inhale your sweet scent, when you grind on him, put your tits in his face—he’s rock hard and flushed. He moans too…just because he starts to get super needy. I think he kisses your body a lot while you dance since he just can’t help himself. I don’t think you’ll get to finish the whole song, though. Maybe you’ll have a specific amount of time left—like 36 seconds or something LOLLL. He was sooo close, but he couldn’t hold on.

4. Rafayel - He for sure joining you. I don’t think he’s just sitting there just watching tbh. I feel like he gets up to kiss on your neck and his hips are moving with your hips. When you’re trying to be all sexy, he’s already prepared to fuck the absolute hell out of you LOLLL. Like he’s literally peeling your lingerie down because he was neverrrr listening to that whole “be good and don’t touch”. And when he’s deep in you, he mocks you for even asking him such a thing—playfully, of course.

5. Caleb - You’re lucky if you get a whole minute into the song without him tackling you to the floor. Zero patience, zero discipline, he’s about to impregnate you LOLLLLLLL!!! Now for the sake of giving him a little more detail, let’s say he does listen to you and keeps his hands off at first—just know that it won’t be long. The moment you sit on his lap and your tits are right there—your pussy grinding on his cock? THE LINGERIE BARELY COVERING ANYTHING?!? He’s picking you up to give you some dick, but he appreciates the sentiment and your faith in his patience. That whole routine is longgg forgotten.

(no taglist because it’s not just for caleb and i don’t want to be blowing up peoples devices/inbox too much LOLLL)

[rimatsu]

Ok convince me to reject caution and embrace delusion. Why are you so hopeful? 

the safe bet is definitely caution. but regardless of initial intentions, nothing is ever set in stone in the 911 writing room and that’s reason enough to remain hopeful. still, when people say the chances of a reconciliation are non-zero, i think that’s low-balling it. at the very least, we’re at 10% chance, 90% faith.

granted the interviews i (unwillingly) absorbed via osmosis don't exactly inspire confidence but again: 1) tim is fickle as the wind and writers can change their minds at the drop of a hat, 2) nothing that was directly stated by actors or showrunner contradicts the idea of a makeup arc, 3) if the breakup was intentionally designed as a temporary hurdle they’d imply otherwise anyway (oh god i sound like Them don't i.... this is a cry for help)

the reasons why 8x06 could qualify as a temporary split have been extensively discussed so i’ll try to be brief (spoiler: i failed) before tackling what i’d like to see in 8b. buckle up buttercup, i’m a yapper:

1) the breakup wasn’t written as definitive or unfixable. buck and tommy didn’t part because of irreconcilable differences or because passion/attraction fizzled out. if they wanted that door closed, tommy could’ve simply said he was uninterested in pursuing long term commitment with buck, that they’re not compatible in the long run — there: a clean, uncomplicated break. instead, we’re told that tommy desperately wants to be the person buck settles down with, but he’s convinced buck is propelled by the excitement of novelty, that he suspects buck is latching onto him for the wrong reasons, that he can’t allow himself to merge their home life together in fear he’ll never recover once buck wants out. the implications here being tommy is in love with buck already. for his part, buck came to the realization that he wants a future with tommy and immediately decided to pursue it because that's just the type of man he is: never one to do things by half-measures, seeing no value in waiting once his mind is made up. so there’s no conflicting desire there. they want the same thing: permanence with each other. the next two episodes also paint a strange picture if the goal is a definitive separation. buck bakes excessively in an attempt to cope when he never needed a coping mechanism following a breakup before, and we’re told several times that he wants to reach out — in fact buck was about to reach out until he was physically stopped. in total, 3 tommy mentions so far. usually we get the one and then buck moves on to greener pastures (abby notwithstanding, but she's an exception and not the rule, main character privilege and all). we were even deliberately shown that tommy considered contacting buck on his own. that's establishing regret and a desire for reconnection on both sides of the equation. again, that’s a never seen before: tommy is an outlier. completely unnecessary if the breakup is a done deal. whether they follow it through or not, the aftermath was written in such a way that there’s ground for a reconciliation if needs be

2) this is the first buck break up to happen during the first act of the season, something that’s normally reserved for the finale for maximum impact. why this distinction? strange placement for the end of a romantic storyline if you ask me.

3) they're never going to replicate a LI that checks out as many boxes as tommy does, or recapture the romcom magic that was 7x04-7x06. and it's fine if they don't, not all endgame romances need to be the most memorable of the bunch, but it'd be stupid to let the remaining potential go to waste. it's undeniable, the show is nearing its end, i don't imagine they get renewed past s10. if they go the natalia route again and introduce a LI at the last moment, it's going to pale in comparison to the other viable option, one that has pre-established history and connection to buck/the 118. inadvertently or not, they set up an epic love story of intertwined fate. tommy has literally haunted the narrative since the pilot: one of the very first thing abby reveals is that she’s not over tommy breaking off their (retconned) engagement. as such, tommy has played a pivotal role in shaping buck into the man he is today: if tommy hadn’t transferred out to harbor station, buck wouldn’t have found his family and his life purpose. if tommy hadn’t left abby, buck wouldn’t have realized that emotional intimacy and romantic connection is what he seeks. if tommy hadn’t kissed him, a huge part of buck’s identity would’ve remained buried and unexplored. how are they possibly going to top a red string theory dating back 8 seasons? they can’t. i’m sure they’re aware of that.

4) why bring our attention to tommy’s admiration and envy for a tight-knit unit like the 118, on three separate occasions, if the ultimate goal isn’t to reward him and integrate him into the makeshift family?

5) idk what it's worth, if it's worth anything at all, but there’s been a substantial amount of displeasure voiced over their breakup. tommy is buck’s most well-received LI to date. they took a risk with the Big Bisexual Reveal and it paid off with increased engagement and viewership. if they were still debating a reconciliation, surely they've heard that at least some people will eagerly welcome a makeup arc with open arms.

i'm a broken record so i'm probably repeating myself but here goes my ideal timeline for the rest of the season (not a speculation, not wishful thinking, but a secret third thing):

i'm gonna operate under the assumption that the breakup happened solely so buck could be at his lowest for the kidnapping plot line with a minimal/reduced support system (no boyfriend AND no best friend around when his pregnant sister is abducted). in other words, i don't think buck will be in a place to venture back into the dating world by 8x09-8x10 quite yet (i don’t actually buy the buck-dates-the-serial-killer theory). he's handled the breakup fairly well but now with the kidnapping & eddie gone/in the process of moving, i assume that's when he really starts to spiral.

(if we get a fourth tommy mention here, i'd say it's a promising sign. it’d be a purposeful way to keep him in viewers’ radar after the 4-month break)

i think getting maddie back after a few days of fear and uncertainty will be a breakthrough for buck and he’ll make a conscious decision to move on from his funk by the end of 8x10.

ideally “jumping back into the pond” would take place in 8x11 to 8x13, starting with a comedic montage of buck in a string of various failed dates. this is the part of the season where i expect him to utter the word bisexual, probably when the topic of exes comes into play. every other queer identity in the show gets labeled and stated in no uncertain terms, but bisexuality is ever only vaguely implied (nancy in ls) or shown but not explicitly spoken (buck and eva). it’s frustrating. personally i choose to believe buck’s lackluster reaction to maddie’s questionable “how many men did she turn gay?” joke was intentional on the writers’ part. it was the perfect opportunity to reaffirm his sexuality but buck didn’t bc he's not fully in tune with his queerness yet. yeah he speedran through his coming out but recalibrating your entire identity after 3 decades of presumed heterosexuality is a complex process rifled with ups and downs. i hope it gets explored with more care and depth in future episodes.

supposedly we know two things: the fling is another form of coping mechanism, and it's short-lived. chances are it's going to be a woman, and i'd love for it to be a bi girl bc 1) yay bi4bi m/f representation, 2) he's dating someone who can intimately relate to his experience and can maybe offer some additional clarity where clarity is still needed.

my other preferred scenario is that he meets a guy who immediately clocks that buck is still hung up on his ex and not emotionally available for anything more than casual fun. basically give buck a sex friend who can expose him to the LA gay scene. if my memory serves me right, OS said he'd like to see buck in queer spaces. i would like to see it too (we could’ve had that exploration with tommy but i digress….)

long story short, he eventually meets someone he has chemistry with, but it's still not as easy or companionable or butterfly-inducing as it was with tommy. buck gets back home from the seemingly successful date and he just... starts baking — wordlessly communicating to the audience that he’s still plagued by Tommy Thoughts.

now if i put on my clown shoes, i’d say the bts pictures of the 217 engines suggest an upcoming bucktommy reunion on a call (surely they were made for a reason. right. RIGHT????), ideally in 8x14. i’ve babbled about it here, but the sparknotes version is:

- there's a 5 alarm high-rise fire requiring ground and aerial ops. tommy is tasked with delivering firefighters to the roof, including the 118. the chopper ride to destination is understandably awkward but professional enough

- tommy joins ground ops once he’s completed his maximum hours of flight. he ends up trapped in a pocket of rubbles with buck after a partial structural collapse. that’s when they hash it out. it’s not pretty: they’re on edge and exhausted and full of adrenaline and words aren’t sugarcoated or minced. but they’re honest, and afterward they understand each other’s perspective.

it has been said before, but i don't think buck registered the underlying message of the breakup. we know he doesn't handle rejection well, and it's likely he was so hyperfocused on being told no that he didn’t compute the “no matter how much i want to be (your last)” part. that’d explain the 118’s strange response to the split. if i was told “my boyfriend broke up with me because he thinks i'll eventually break his heart once i figure out he's not who i truly want” i’d strongly advise communication before calling it quit prematurely. but if my friend told me “my boyfriend broke up with me when i asked him to move in bc he doesn't think we'll last bc i don’t know what i want” i would trust that they relayed the correct story and i too would discourage contact.

anyway buck has stated that he doesn’t want to chase after someone who doesn’t want him before, but now he knows that wanting was never the issue with tommy, that the breakup was fueled by insecurities and fears and trauma rather than disinterest. at first, it’s presented as reaching a necessary closure: once the fire is contained, buck and tommy part way with another “see you around, buck. i truly hope you find what you’re looking for” and a bittersweet smile. except now buck has had another breakthrough, he’s full of renewed resolved and clarity, and he’s ready to fight for this relationship, so he shows up at tommy’s doorstep the next night and pleads his case.

in 8x15-8x16, we see them readjust to being a couple except this time, it's with the knowledge that they both want serious in the long run. maybe they discover facets of each other previously kept under wraps for the sake of 'keeping it light and breezy'. also they fuck/fade to black on screen (this is imperative)

the last two episodes are focused on the closing disaster, whatever that might be. in this hypothetical timeline, we get a few more glimpses of domesticity. maybe even establish the setup for a move-in next season when bucktommy discuss buck’s lease.

you can have the helicopter crash as a treat for s9. once they're truly settled with each other and it's bound to be more devastating.

voilà <3 apologies and congratulations for your perseverance if you made it this far. the answer was never supposed to be this lengthy or tangencial oops can you tell i’m obsessed. terminally ill even

[safetypinxtales]

Together with you | Azriel

(Lonely with you pt. 2)

summary: heart break sucks. Missing your friend sucks even more. It is mind-blowing what a little open communication can do.

words: 4.1k

warnings: angst with happy ending, terrible communication at parts (sorry), mention of alcohol consumption, fluff, just general misery, neutrally described reader/no reader description, no use of y/n, dumb idiots in love

notes: so this got a lot more angsty than first anticipated, but here it is! Not sure how I feel about it, I like some parts, not so sure about others - feedback is greatly appreciated! Enjoy!

part 1

Cold. Your bed was freezing cold. And empty. 

Like lying on a frozen slab of stone, utterly alone and undeniably pathetic. Just as alone and pathetic as yesterday, when you woke up on the couch in the living room. No Azriel in sight. Like he wasn’t the one to practically beg you not to leave him alone, and then he went and did that exact thing to you. 

It was humiliating. You were humiliated.

And that was why you had avoided him like he was contagious for all of yesterday, burying yourself in paperwork or hiding away in the library. But your plan was far from foolproof, you’d barely made it through yesterday without seeing him, so today had to be different. If being close to you was so shameful he had to sneak away before you had a chance to wake, you would simply remove yourself from the situation and spare yourself some Gods damned dignity. 

You had already written to Mor, your excuse of needing to get away from the happily mated couple for a few nights only a half lie. You were in desperate need of a good night’s rest, however that was not the most pressing issue at hand. But there was no need for her to know that. Yet. She would find out eventually, she always did, and you would be stupid to expect otherwise. 

Two hours past sunrise should mean that the Valkyrie training would be full and well underway, and thus it would be safe for you to make your escape. You got the things you’d need and made your way up the stairs to one of the smaller balconies overlooking the training ring. You knew you really shouldn’t, because what good would it do? But you had to. Just a quick glance. Quietly you moved towards the railing, scanning the people below. 

There he was, a thing of graceful, terrifying beauty. He seemed to be demonstrating a movement with a training sword for some of the priestesses. He moved with such fluidity, wielding the sword in his hand as if it was an extension of himself. He was like death on swift feet. A fallen angel, a dark prince. 

He was beautiful.

You must have accidentally made a sound, because his head shot up and his eyes zeroed in on you. Oh Gods. The intensity in his gaze, and the increasing pressure in your chest was too much. He didn’t want you. 

You staggered back, one little step and you had winnowed yourself down to the city streets. This was good, you needed to get away. He left you alone. He drew back first. You knew all of this, so why did it hurt such an unreasonable amount?

You rubbed your chest in hopes of getting rid of the tightness that seemed to have moved in there since yesterday morning, and then you set course towards the one stop you had to make before getting to Mor’s. 

-

It had been three days since you arrived at Mor’s apartment with a paper bag filled with the sweetest, sugar-powdered pastries your favourite bakery had to offer. It had taken you both approximately 20 minutes to devour them all, after which you no longer had anything to distract your friend from digging up the truth behind your visit. 

You were in love with someone who did not harbour the same feelings towards you. And you desperately needed to get away from him, to save what remained of your heart. 

You had cried, drank some wine, and then cried a little more. You went back to the bakery for more pastries the next day, and the cycle repeated. 

The crisp, early-spring wind was a menace today as you were on your, now daily, pastry run. You were trying to stop your hair from whipping around like a being possessed, cursing up a storm, when you heard him call your name. 

You froze to the spot, like his voice was some primal command. That insufferable tightness in your chest was as present as ever as you forced yourself to put on your brave face and turned towards him. 

There he was, jogging towards you, his brow furrowed. 

“Hey,” Azriel breathed as he came to a stop in front of you. His shadows swirled out in your direction, but retracted before they had a chance to reach you. 

“Hi,” you mumbled back, suddenly finding the cobbled street very interesting. 

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. You took one backwards. The cobblestone looks different here than in the alley by the bakery. 

“I haven’t seen you in a while… you haven’t been home – at the House, I mean,”  he coughed lightly. I wonder if it was made with, like, a different technique? Or maybe the stones are just differently shaped or something?

“Yeah, no, I’ve been staying with Mor for a bit.” It’s definitely mossier on the smaller streets, maybe that’s why? It just shifts the perspecti–

“Angel, please look at me.” 

You didn’t want to, Gods you didn’t want to. But alas, you seemed to have no power when it came to Azriel. 

Any other day, the worry swimming in those hazel eyes would have melted your heart. Today, it just hurt. “Did I do something? Is that why you… haven’t been around?” 

You scoff, “No, you didn’t do anything, Azriel. It’s fine.”

“It’s obviously not fine! I haven’t seen you in days, and now you can barely look at me?” He exclaimed, exasperation clear in his voice. “Look, I’m sorry if I overstepped, or made you uncomfortable – but I miss my friend,” his hands twitched where they rested at his sides, shadows swirling around him with unease.

“Oh, please,” his brows furrowed further at the dry laugh that escaped you, “Are you being serious, Az? I fell asleep in your arms, after you pleaded with me to stay with you – and then I woke up alone.” His face fell. “How do you think that feels? I mean, you must know how I feel about you!” You cursed yourself for the way your voice quivered, and that damned burning feeling behind your eyes that you were so sick of.

“What– no, I didn’t– what do you–,” he stuttered. He actually stuttered. The spymaster of the Night court couldn’t even come up with an excuse for being an ass.

“Save it. I get it – you were lonely, we’ve all been there,” you muttered, wrapping your arms around yourself, “I have to go.”

You turned back in the direction of Mor’s apartment, pastries be damned. You just had to get away.

Azriel had other plans though. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, the cool wisps of shadows snaking up your forearm. You couldn’t help the way you recoiled from his touch, how it seemed to ignite every nerve in your arm. 

“Wait–,”

“NO!” A sob wracked your body. “No, just leave me alone, Az. Can’t you tell that you’re hurting me?” His face twisted in time with your words, and tears pricked your eyes. “Being around you hurts!” 

His shadows were whipping violently around him, but he was as still as death itself.  Something like dread and confusion were clouding his eyes.

He called after you as you walked away. But he didn’t stop you, nor did he try to follow you. And you didn’t dare look over your shoulder, too scared you might run back and give him the rest of your heart, shattered as it may be. No, instead you carried the shards in your hands, tears rolling down your cheeks, one after the other. 

You weren’t sure how you were ever going to be okay. 

-

The bedroom door creaked open, and you pulled the duvet further over your head.

“Hey sleepyhead,” Mor said in a sing-song voice. You weren’t sleeping.

“I’m not asleep,” you muttered, huffing loudly at the giggle that escaped her.

“Yeah, well, calling you a crybaby would be insensitive so I went for the next best thing.” 

Her comment made the corners of your lips twitch, and you silently cursed her for always knowing how to cheer you up. You had gotten quite comfortable in your misery.

You pulled the covers down and looked over at where she stood. Your chest grew uncomfortably tight when you saw what was in her hands. 

“Another one?” You asked and rolled over to face the window. You had forgotten how stubborn he was. Competitive bastard. 

“Yes, and they just seem to get bigger and bigger. I like the daffodils in this one though, very spring-esque. The other ones didn’t have any daffodils,” she mused as she walked in and headed towards the far end of the room, most likely towards the dresser. It was the only surface area not currently taken up by a bouquet.

This was the sixth bouquet he’d sent. In three days. He had turned Mor’s guest room into a damn flower shop. Just being in a ten feet proximity of this room would have sent Cassian into a sneezing frenzy.

“Remember that time in Elain’s garden, when you told me daffodils were your mom’s favourite flower? That she called you her little daffodil when she carried you in her womb? They are very beautiful – just like you. 

“Yours, Azriel.” Mor read the note before carefully putting it back with the flowers. 

Every set of flowers had come with its own handwritten note. He had apologised in the first one, the rest told you he missed you, recalling memories of moments you’d shared. Each one ended with a heartfelt compliment, one that brought tears to your eyes every time, without fail.

Mor let out a slight sigh. “I am fully on your side here, and I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but… are you sure you don’t want to talk to him? I know you’re hurt, and you have every right to be, but… he’s a good male and he likes you – a lot.” 

She’s right. You figured that out two days ago. But your pride was wounded, and your trust had been betrayed, and it stung. 

However, somewhere along when the initial pain had started to diminish it had slowly but surely gotten replaced by the agony of missing him. Now you didn’t know what part of the pain came from what, you only knew that it hurt. 

But Gods, you really did miss him – more and more by the minute. You missed him in your bones; your best friend, your partner in crime, the male you loved. 

“Alright, you don’t have to say anything. I have to visit Rhysand to go over some work though, and I won’t be home until late tonight, probably. There is food and tea in the kitchen, or you can go down to the pub downstairs and ask them to make you something. Just… make sure to go there earlier in the evening to avoid drunken idiots, okay?” You rolled over to look at your friend, who once again proved herself to be way better than you deserved. You nodded. 

“Thank you,” you whispered and her lips curved upwards in a soft smile.

“Of course, take care of yourself,” she said, that warm smile still intact as she made her way out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

After dragging out your stay in bed a few more minutes, the thought of a warm cup of tea became too enticing to ignore. Chucking on a thick sweater you dragged your feet out of the bedroom.

Once in the kitchen, you put the kettle on the stove and went in search of some tea. Where was the one Mor made you yesterday? The one that felt like drinking a warm, spiced hug – you needed that one right now. You found it in one of the cupboards just in time for the water to start boiling. So you made your cup of tea, drizzled in a little bit of honey, and walked out to the living room. You had just put your tea down and made your way over to the wall of bookshelves to pick out a new story to escape into when there was a knock on the door.

The way your entire body froze, yet seemed to come alive at the same time, signalled you knew who it was. How your body and soul could possibly know it was Azriel on the other side of that door, you weren’t sure. But alas, as you crossed the living room towards the entryway and tugged the front door open, there he was. 

He looked tired. His eyes seemed uncharacteristically old, his skin dull and the bags under his eyes were undeniable. Despite this he still managed to look as breath-taking as always. 

Those tired eyes met yours, and you swore you felt time stop. He was here. Your Azriel. 

Except he wasn’t yours, was he? A truth that only stung worse when your name fell from his lips. But seeing him here, like this… you could live with never having him, you thought. As long as he was in your life, if only as a friend.

That’s why you breathed out a “hi,”, and opened the door wider, a silent invitation to step inside. His shoulders sagged in relief as he stepped over the threshold.

“Hey,” Azriel whispered on a shaky breath, as you closed the door behind him. You stood in silence for a minute, neither of you apparently knowing what to say.

Azriel was the first to break the silence, “so, uh– did you get the…”. Bouquets is what he didn’t say, but he didn’t have to.

“Yeah, yeah I did,” you mumbled, never really meeting his eyes. “Pretty.”

“Yeah? Okay,” you could see him nodding out of the corner of your eye. “Good.”

You raised your gaze to meet his, and your heart clenched. You just wanted things back to the way they were, you wanted your friend back. Because standing here in front of him, not knowing what to say was awful. So you did the only thing you could think of…

“I miss you.” Your voice wavered more than you’d ever care to admit, but there it was – the truth. 

Azriel’s shoulders visibly shuddered at your confession. “Oh, angel,” it was your time to shudder. “I’ve missed you too, so much. I’m so sorry,” his eyes glazed over as he continued, “but please believe me when I say that I did not know – about how you felt. And maybe that makes me stupid, and blind, and oblivious–”

“No,” you interrupted him, “you’re not any of those things, Az.” His deprecating words wounded you so deeply, a heavy sadness filling your chest. 

“I should have known. I never would have– I wouldn’t have been such a coward if I knew.” You swore you heard the remnants of your heart crack. 

“Azzy…” You stepped towards him and reached up to cradle his face in your hands. His own hands flew up to your wrist and you prepared for him to reject your touch. 

Only he didn’t. 

Instead he gently held your hands in place and leaned into your touch in a manner so tender your breath hitched in your throat. His thumbs swiped across the backs of your wrists.

“I’m sorry, I got all up in my head and I–,” you didn’t let him finish.

“It’s okay Azriel, I forgive you.” His posture straightened a little as you continued, “I’m sorry too.” 

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, and before you could even register it happening, Azriel had pulled you into a hug. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he held you against his chest. He was so warm, and comfortable, and safe, and one tear became two, became three. All the while, Azriel held you, wings enveloping you in a cocoon as he whispered sweet nothings into your hair. 

After what felt like hours, but was merely just minutes, Azriel dropped his wings from around you and as you felt his arms ease their hold on you, you took half a step back. His hand that had cradled the back of your head now cupped your cheek, the other came to rest on your hip.

You dried your tears, ungracefully wiping snot from your nose, and you once again lifted your head in search of those hazel eyes you had grown so in love with. And as your gazes locked – that’s when you felt it.

Like the snap of a bowstring, dead center in the middle of your chest, that glowing, golden thread locked into place – forever connecting your soul with the male across from you. 

The impact was so intense you staggered back, knocking into the end table behind you. Your hand flew up to your chest, fingers clutching the fabric of your sweater as you tried to make sense of what just happened. 

Azriel is your mate.

Does he know? Does he even want you? A thousand thoughts swarmed your head, but they were all overpowered by one: mate. He was your mate. 

Azriel stood, one arm still partially outstretched, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Something like bewilderment filled you to an overwhelming degree, and it took you a moment to realise that the feelings did not belong to you. They were all Azriel, unable to keep his emotions from bleeding across the bond to you. 

“You’re my–,” you stuttered.

“Yes,” he breathed in response.

“I– I’m your–”

“Yes,”

“You knew?” His eyes shuttered at your question.

“Yes,”

You had to sit down. 

You wobbled over to the couch and dropped down. You didn’t even realise he’d followed you until you felt the seat dip beside you. 

He seemed to realise words were not something currently in your possession, and took it upon himself to start to explain.

“You were sleeping, had been for probably an hour at least, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I have–,” he swallowed and his whole body shook as he professed his next words. “I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you. When Rhysand introduced you to everyone and you were trying to sneak glances at all of us, thinking you were being discreet. You weren’t – quite the opposite actually.” You turned your head to look at him. One of those rare smiles decorated his face as he recalled the memory. “I think everyone noticed, but no one said anything. They were all probably as smitten by you as I was. Not only were you so adorable, you were the most divine female I had ever seen. Your eyes shone so brightly, and you radiated such calmness, such security – like every problem that had ever been wasn’t so bad after all. Like everything was always going to be fine, as long as you were around. You looked heavenly. Like an angel.” He whispered the last part and as his eyes met yours you sucked in a breath at the emotion swimming in them. 

Angel. His dedicated pet name for you. What he had been calling you, and only you, since that very first day. Not only were you the only person with that specific pet name – you were the only one of Azriel’s friend to even have a pet name, you realised. Sure, he referred to Rhysand and Cassian as his brothers. But you were his angel. 

“You love me?” You croaked, fresh tears filling your eyes.

“Yes, I do.” You hiccupped, face twisting as your chest filled to the brim with so many emotions you could not possibly name them all. He took your hands in his, and gave them a light squeeze as he continued, “When we were on that couch I was just… watching you. Holding you. Realising how perfectly you fit in my arms, when you moved. You snuggled deeper into my chest, like being close to me was an instinctual need, and then you sighed, and you smiled in your sleep – and I couldn’t breathe,” he took a deep breath, “that’s when the bond snapped.” You wanted to reach out and smooth out that crease between his eyebrows. Instead you just moved closer to him, pressed yourself into his side, and when he looked down at you, you gave it your best at pushing some of that endless love you held for him down that glittering bond. 

A sharp exhale left his parted lips and he gave your still entwined hands another squeeze. When he looked at you his cheeks were tinged with pink, the tips of his ears flushed. 

He loved you. 

He was your mate and he loved you.

“I was so shocked. Why would it snap now and not earlier?” He shook his head, his eyes not once leaving yours. “Then I started to… doubt myself,” his brows furrowed deeper, “what if you didn’t want me? I didn’t even know if you knew. Knew and… and decided you didn’t want to be with me. The Gods know I don’t deserve you.” 

You couldn’t help the broken whimper that escaped you as you listened to this wonderful male voice how lowly he thought of himself. 

“Don’t say that Azriel,” you croaked, your voice thick from crying. “I love you so much. I look at you and my heart fills to a point where I genuinely think it might burst,” you coughed out an attempt at a laugh. “You are a good male, and I could not imagine a greater honour than the Mother choosing you as my mate.”

A single tear rolled down Azriel’s cheek at your confession. You untangled your hands from his, instead crawling into his lap. This wonderful male, and he was all yours. The love that filled your chest felt so secure, so safe. Like the warmth of the morning sun. Like the smell of freshly baked bread, and early morning bird song. It felt like the beginning of something great. 

You raked your hands through his hair, and as you leaned in to kiss that lone tear away from his jaw, you watched his eyes shutter closed. 

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your forehead coming to rest against his, “my mate.” 

His hands found your hips and gripped them tightly, and the touch was more than welcomed. If it was up to you to decide, he would never let you go – forever in each other’s embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered once more, breath hot against your lips. “I shouldn’t have–… please don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” you promised, and then, like waves crashing ashore, you leaned in that last bit and pressed your lips to his. 

His entire body shook beneath you as he reciprocated the kiss, moulding his lips to yours and you couldn’t help but notice how incredibly right it felt. Like coming home. And as your lips moved together that glowing thread became a wild, real, physical thing between you. His hands gripped you tighter, like you were his lifeline. Pulling you impossibly closer, as if you were the air he needed to breathe. His tongue swiped over your bottom lip and your lips parted, letting your tongues meet in the most delicious of ways. 

The kiss was claiming, overpowering and you could not help the whine that escaped you as his fingers dug into your sides. A primal growl rattled deep in his throat, alighting every nerve in your body. 

This.

You wanted to stay right here, just like this, forever. 

-

You didn’t know how long you actually did stay like that – the two of you seemed to, again, be able to defy the concept of time together. But you were now laying on the couch, Azriel’s heart drumming a steady beat in your ear, a warm, overwhelming comfort overtaking your body. 

Slowly, you started to feel yourself drifting off to sleep, and with your head on his chest, his arms around you, the opening and closing of the front door and Mor’s voice that followed, felt so very far away. You almost didn’t apprehend what she said as her voice moved in closer.

“You better not leave her this time,” she ordered, and the rumble of Azriel’s voice, how very safe it made you feel, lulled you deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. 

Your body was impossibly heavy, the words he mumbled into your hair the last thing you registered before sleep claimed you.

“I won't,” he pressed a kiss to your head, “never again.”

tags: @hnyclover @justdreamstars @historygeekqueen @sharknutz @icey--stars @mel-wcst @alysena2 @lewsnumerounofan

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #12 死

† breaking point †

"Eunchae stealing your sleeping spot was not in your bingo card for the camping trip, nor was it sleeping in Jeon's tent. And... everything that comes with it."

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⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 8.3k

rating: explicit, 18+

content: your sleeping spot being taken, having to share a tent with The Chief, petty arguments, cold night, accidental touches, too much wriggling, jeon getting pissy, fights, and somehow smut, jeon's smugness shining through (finally!) dry humping, grinding, nipple/breast play, jeon on cleaning duty.

☠ author's note ☠

I— LOOK. I knew this chapter was gonna be long because damn. I was so looking forward to writing their first ~encounter~ that I absolutely put my whole kikussy into it.

BUT. UHM. 8k WORDS?? WITH MORE THAN HALF BEING SMUT?? (•᷊ิ꒳​​•᷊ิ)

Well. I went overboard. This definitely could've been two chapters, but then again it would make zero sense to divide the scene. ᵃⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ'ᵛᵉ ᵖʳᵒᵇᵃᵇˡʸ ˢᵉⁿᵗ ᵃⁿ ᵃˢˢᵃˢˢⁱⁿᵃᵗⁱᵒⁿ ᵈⁱᵛⁱˢⁱᵒⁿ ᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ ᵐᵉ ⁱᶠ ᴵ ᵐᵃᵈᵉ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁱᵗ ᵗⁱˡ ⁿᵉˣᵗ ʷᵉᵉᵏ ˢᵒ.

If this is your first time reading my smut, welcome to the thunderdome! If you're a returning customer, you know the drill. Either way, consider this my formal apology to my FBI agent who has definitely seen better days.

Enjoy the treat, you thirsty catastrophes (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ And don't worry—there's MANY more to come! This is just the appetizer. The whole menu is extensive and frankly concerning.

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

The camp's finally quiet, just leaves rustling and the fire dying down somewhere in the distance.

Everyone's crashed after today's chaos—because apparently, throwing a bunch of criminals together in the woods is exactly as messy as it sounds.

You duck into your tent, already dreaming about passing out, only to find... well, shit.

Yunjin's fast asleep, which isn't surprising. What is surprising is Eunchae sprawled across her like some drunk octopus, taking up what was supposed to be your spot. Her arm's thrown over Yunjin's waist, leg tangled with hers, dead to the world and probably going to wake up with one hell of a hangover.

Great. Just perfect.

You stare at the scene, torn between laughing and groaning. It's kind of adorable, in a "my-drunk-friend-is-a-koala" way, but it also means you're shit out of luck for sleeping arrangements.

Waking Eunchae isn't really an option—she's out cold, breathing deep and steady in that way only truly hammered people can manage. Besides, Yunjin would probably give you that disappointed look if you disturbed them. She's got that whole protective big sister thing going on, even though technically you're all trained killers.

Fucking hell.

With a sigh that's probably a bit more dramatic than necessary, you grab a spare blanket from your bag and drape it over Eunchae's shoulder. They both look so peaceful, which is honestly weird considering what you all do for a living.

You turn and head back out, already dreading the crick in your neck you're going to have tomorrow. The fire's still going, barely, throwing off just enough warmth to make sitting out here slightly less miserable.

You're trying to soak up what's left of the heat when footsteps break the silence. You don't need to look up to know who it is—there's only one person who moves that quietly while still somehow managing to feel like an oncoming storm.

Jeon emerges from the darkness like he owns it, because of course he does. His eyes scan the scene, taking in everything from the empty chairs to your clearly displaced presence, and you just know he's cataloging every detail like the perfectionist asshole he is.

He raises an eyebrow, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips. "Couldn't sleep?"

You shake your head, trying for casual and probably missing by a mile. "Eunchae's taken over my spot. She's passed out on top of Yunjin like some drunk koala."

"And here you are," he says, sounding frankly too amused, "playing the martyr by the fire."

"It's not about being a martyr," you snap, exhaustion making your voice sharper than intended. "Just didn't have the heart to wake her."

There's a couple beats of silence where he watches you with that intense look of his, like he's trying to see right through you. The cold night air nips at your skin, and you suppress a shiver.

Finally, Jeon sighs, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

"Look, I've got a tent," he says, sounding like he's already regretting the words. "It's insulated. No sleeping bags, just blankets. You can crash there if you don't fancy freezing your ass off out here."

Your eyes narrow, trying to read between the lines of his offer. Sharing space with Jeon is dangerous—all that heat and tension and the constant dance of 'we shouldn't, but god do we want to.'

Fuck. This is a bad idea.

But it's cold, and you're tired, and the thought of a warm tent is more tempting than it has any right to be.

"You sure about this?" You eye him suspiciously. "Since when do you share anything?"

His lips twitch, and you catch that ghost of a smile he rarely lets slip.

"I don't," he admits, and god, his voice shouldn't sound that good at this hour. "But I'm not enough of an asshole to let you freeze. Besides," he adds, almost like an afterthought, "last time we shared a bed, I actually slept."

"Your tent, huh?" You can't help but push, because that's what you do. "What, you gonna play gentleman and sleep outside?"

He actually smirks at that, the moonlight catching on his lip ring.

"Not a chance." His eyes lock with yours, and fuck, there's that heat again. "We'll share. Got enough blankets."

The words hang between you like the smoke from the previous cigarette, still lingering and heavy with everything you're both pretending not to want.

You stand up, brushing dirt off your pants and trying to ignore how the dying fire isn't the only thing making you feel warm right now.

"Fine," you say, resigned. "But keep your hands to yourself. I'm just here because it's cold."

He laughs, low and rough, and you hate how it makes your stomach flip.

"Same here," he says, already turning toward his tent like he knows you'll follow.

And you do, because of course you do. You trail after him, telling yourself this is just about staying warm and not at all about the way his shoulder blades move under his shirt or how he smells like pine and wood and danger.

Such a fucking horrible idea.

But you're following him anyway.

The moment you step into Jeon's tent, you're hit with warmth. Not the cozy kind—more like the desperate kind that barely takes the edge off the cold trying to burrow into your bones.

The space is small, and fuck, it smells like him. Pine and mint and something darker that makes your head spin a little. It's not fair how his scent alone can make you feel like this, like you're unraveling at the seams.

He jerks his head toward the spot beside him—not an offer, an order. Typical. He's always like this, acting like everything he does should just be accepted without question.

You stand there longer than necessary, watching as he turns onto his side, showing you his back.

Drawing a line.

Because that's Jeon for you—edges and boundaries, even when he's pretending to be nice.

When you finally lie down, you move like you're defusing a bomb. The tent feels too small suddenly, the fabric ceiling pressing down like it's trying to suffocate you both.

Your heart's going crazy, and it's stupid. He's just lying there, being his usual brooding self. But you can feel him, like some kind of electric current running through the air between you.

"What about tomorrow?" Your whisper barely disturbs the darkness. "When everyone sees I wasn't in my tent? They'll put it together."

He stiffens—just slightly, but you catch it. Then he rolls over to face you, and Christ, the way he looks at you should be a crime.

"Then make sure you're gone by dawn," he says, voice hard as steel. "Get out before anyone's awake, and there'll be nothing to realize."

He's close enough that you can smell mint mixing with tobacco on his breath.

Huh. So he probably did chew gum after that cigarette.

"By dawn," you echo, matching his tone even though your pulse is doing gymnastics in your throat.

He stares at you for a moment longer, like he's trying to read something in your face. Whatever he's looking for, he either doesn't find it or doesn't trust himself to acknowledge it.

Then he's turning away again, another wall going up brick by brick.

The silence comes back heavier than before. You pull the blanket tighter, but it doesn't help. The cold seeps in anyway, settling deep in your bones.

Jeon's lying there like he's trying to turn himself to stone, fighting the same thing you're pretending not to feel. But it's there—even with his back to you, even with the frigid air between you.

And it's cold.

Motherfucking cold.

You're shivering so hard your teeth are chattering, and god, these blankets might as well be made of paper for all the good they're doing. Every muscle in your body is locked up tight, fighting against the cold that's trying to burrow straight into your bones.

You force a big inhale, summoning as much body heat as possible, and time does that weird thing where it stretches out forever, like cold molasses, each minute feeling like a small eternity.

The quietness that has settled over in Jeon's tent is only broken by the sound of your teeth doing their best impression of a woodpecker.

Then—warmth.

It happens so fast you almost miss it. One second you're freezing your ass off, the next Jeon's arm is wrapping around you, pulling you against him. The heat of his body hits you like a gush of hot AC hair, and suddenly your face feels like it's on fire for entirely different reasons.

"What the—" You start, but your mouth stutters because holy shit, he's close.

"Shh." His voice rumbles against the back of your neck, and you suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. "I can't sleep with your teeth clacking together like you're trying to send a damn Morse code."

He's like a human furnace pressed against your back, all solid muscle and ridiculous body heat. You can feel every breath he takes, the slight brush of his legs against yours, and fuck, you sense every single point of contact between you.

Nevertheless, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

"Sorry, didn't realize I was being that loud."

Your hands hover awkwardly, because where the hell are you supposed to put them now?

"It's fine," he mutters, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "Just keep it down. And try to warm up or whatever."

"I'm trying," you shoot back, but the words lack bite because his warmth is already seeping into you, melting away the cold that's been torturing you for the past hour.

Both in your body and your voice.

He doesn't say anything else, but his arm tightens around you just slightly. Like he's making sure you're actually getting warm. The tension starts bleeding out of your muscles, the shivering finally subsiding as his heat wraps around you like a cocoon.

Then, the tent falls quiet again, except for the intermittent sounds filtering in from outside and your synchronized breathing.

You're still a bit flustered—because of course you are—but grateful for the warmth. Who knew the ice king could actually be... decent?

Dangerous thought territory. Abort.

Now, about getting comfortable... That's a whole other battle.

You shift around, trying to find a position that doesn't make you feel like you're cuddling with a statue made of knives. Your elbow catches his ribs, your knee bumps his, and you're pretty sure you just elbowed him in the spleen.

You hear him sigh, and you already know what's coming.

"For fuck's sake, will you stay still?" Jeon's voice cuts through the darkness, irritated.

"I'm trying to get comfortable," you snap back. "Your gang tattoos aren't exactly memory foam, you know."

"Maybe if you'd stop wiggling like a damn worm on crack, you'd be settled by now." He adjusts his leg with an annoyed huff that you can feel against your neck.

"Maybe if you weren't built like a bag of knives, it wouldn't be so hard," you grumble, pushing back against him just to be petty.

His laugh is low and mocking, sending vibrations through your back. "Bag of knives? That's new."

"Don't laugh at me," you whine, hating how your body responds to that sound. "I'm cold, uncomfortable, and now I'm basically superglued to you."

"Superglued to me?" His hand finds your hip (probably to steady you), grip firm, and fuck—that shouldn't feel as good as it does. "You're the one who's been squirming like you're trying to start a fire."

"How am I supposed to relax when I'm sharing a blanket with a human cactus?"

But you try anyway, forcing your muscles to unwind even as every accidental touch between you feels like it's on fire.

"A human cactus that's keeping your ass from freezing," he mutters, voice rougher than before. "Now pick a position and stick with it before I lose my mind."

Too late for that, you think, trying to ignore how his hand is still on your hip, burning through your clothes like an inferno.

"This is torture," you grumble, squirming again as another rock tries to become one with your hip. "Pretty sure this ground is actually made of spite and broken dreams."

"For fuck's—will you stop moving?" Jeon's voice is strained, like he's counting backwards from ten in his head.

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't built like a weapon rack!" Your whisper comes out sharper than intended, but seriously, how is anyone this uncomfortable to cuddle with?

"Fine. Here—" He shifts suddenly, probably trying to help, but his elbow finds your ribs instead.

You wince. Because that shit hurt. Man's made of strength and muscles, so being the target of his attacks (even if it's an accidental elbowing) is not exactly pleasant.

"Jesus fuck, Jeon!" You swat at his arm, completely forgetting about staying quiet. "Are you trying to give me internal bleeding?"

"Me?" He swats back, definitely pissed now. "You're the one treating this like a goddamn dance floor."

"I wouldn't have to if you'd just—"

"Just what?" He cuts you off, and you can tell his jaw is clenching. "Just magically transform into your perfect little pillow?"

"That'd be a start," you snap, past caring how childish you sound. "Better than this human armory act you've got going."

"Un-fucking-believable." He mutters, but you absolutely hear him. "Try to do something nice for once..."

"Nice? Is that what we're calling attempted murder by elbow now?" You can't keep the bite out of your voice.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm calling it!" His grip tightens on your hip, and fuck—

That really shouldn't feel good. Like, at all.

"Well, your version of 'nice' feels a lot like getting squeezed by a python," you shoot back, trying to ignore his hand placement.

"Python? Thought I was a bag of knives." There's something different in his voice now, like he's fighting back a laugh.

"Clearly you're gifted like that." The words come out softer than intended, your own anger fading into something dangerously close to amusement.

You both fall quiet, your almost-laughter seeping into the night. You're still pressed against him, but somehow the tension has shifted into something... different.

Dangerous.

"Done with your interpretive dance yet?" His voice still has that amused edge to it, the one that makes you want to elbow him again. On purpose this time.

"Maybe." You draw out the word just to be annoying. "If your tent wasn't trying to become one with my spine."

"Good." He sounds relieved, but there's still some tension bleeding into his tone. "Now can we please try to sleep before we have to do this shit all over again?"

You let yourself settle against his chest, and for a moment—just one blessed moment—everything's still. Then your nose starts itching like a bitch, and when you twist to scratch it, your elbow finds his ribs. Again.

"Fuck—"He hisses through his teeth. "Are you serious? Do you have a personal vendetta against my ribcage or something?"

"It was an itch," you snap back, not even trying to sound sorry anymore. "I'm not a fucking robot."

"Could've fooled me with all these assassination attempts." His voice drips with sarcasm. "Just stop wiggling! Every time you move it's like you're starting a riot in here."

"Well, maybe if your arm wasn't crushing me—" You try to adjust his grip, which only makes everything worse.

"My arm wouldn't be dead if you'd stop moving your goddamn hips like you're at a concert," he growls, but he shifts anyway, trying to find a better position.

"You're the one who decided spooning was the solution here," you remind him, because you're physically incapable of shutting up apparently.

"Yeah, to stop you from freezing to death, not to participate in whatever wrestling match you're trying to start!" And now he's frustrated.

"Oh, I'm sorry—" No, you're not. "Did you forget people actually move when they sleep? Or is that not covered in Assassin School?"

"Jesus fucking Christ." He clicks his tongue.

He tries to forcefully pull away all of a sudden, but you're already sitting up, blankets pooling around your waist as irritation floods your system.

"What the actual hell is your prob—"

The words die in your throat.

Oh.

OH.

Because there, in the dim light filtering through the tent, is some pretty compelling evidence of exactly what Jeon's problem is.

Your eyes snap to the very obvious bulge straining against the blanket around his hips, and suddenly his pissy attitude makes a lot more sense.

Holy shit.

Your brain short-circuits for a moment because—fuck. This isn't the first time you've noticed him getting hard around you.

Once could be biology, sure.

But twice?

That's starting to look like a pattern.

The realization hits you like a truck: maybe this tension isn't as one-sided as you thought. Maybe all those loaded looks and charged moments actually mean something.

Your eyes meet his, and the air in the tent gets about ten degrees hotter. There's a challenge in his gaze, like he's daring you to say something.

"Got something to say now?" His voice comes out rough, almost angry, but not entirely.

Your mouth goes dry, but you've never been one to back down. Especially not when you've got the upper hand.

"Yeah, actually." You can't help the smirk that tugs at your lips. "You could've just said you wanted to cuddle."

His eyebrows shoot up, caught between amusement and annoyance. "Cuddle? I was trying to shut you up so I could sleep."

"A pretty damn hard way to shut someone up," you shoot back, and god, the way his jaw clenches at your terrible pun is almost worth the whole uncomfortable night.

Jeon's eyes narrow, and he shifts uncomfortably. The movement only draws your attention back to his... situation, which isn't helping your concentration at all.

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly helping matters with all that ass giggling," he growls, and fuck—why does he sound that good when he's irritated?

You watch as he holds himself completely still, like he's trying to turn into a statue—like every single muscle in his body is tense, restraint is rolling off him in waves.

He looks like he's fighting a war with himself, and maybe he's losing.

"So what, this is my fault now?" You scoff, crossing your arms. "I'm responsible for your dick's opinions?"

"I'm not blaming you for shit," he snaps, voice stretched thin. "Trust me, I'm very aware of my own fucking body."

"And what it wants?" The words slip out before you can stop them, somewhere between a taunt and genuine curiosity.

His nostrils flare—got him—and his jaw clenches so hard you worry for his teeth. He looks away for a second, like he needs to physically remove you from his sight to think straight. When his eyes find yours again, there's something dark and hungry and god maybe you've died a little.

"What it wants doesn't matter," he says, each word careful and measured. "We're here for a reason, and it's not to play house or indulge in—"

"In what, Jeon? Basic human needs?" You cut him off because apparently, you have a death wish. "Because last time I checked, we're still human. Unfortunately."

He lets out a sharp laugh that sounds more like frustration than humor.

"You think I don't know that? But unlike some people, I can control myself."

And yeah, that would be have been convincing if his eyes weren't burning holes into you, if his gaze didn't keep dropping to your lips every few seconds.

"Is that so?" You lean forward slightly, watching him squirm. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're about two seconds away from snapping that famous self-control of yours."

"Fuck you," he growls, but there's something else dancing around in his tone that makes you slightly bolder.

"Maybe you'd like to."

His breath catches.

The look in his eyes makes your throat close. Raw need flashes across his face for a split second before he locks it down, trying his best to pull that cold enforcer mask back on.

"Don't push me." He says and it's rough, like it's supposed to be a warning.

But you notice how his eyes keep darting away from your face, like he can't trust himself to look at you directly.

"I'm not pushing anything." You keep your voice steady despite your racing pulse. "I'm just not running away."

"You're playing with fire," he bites out, but his tongue flicks at his lip ring—that nervous tell of his that makes heat pool in your gut.

"Am I?" You tilt your head, watching him fidget with the silver hoop. "Sure looks like you're the one burning up here."

His hands clench into fists. He's fighting for control, you can see that.

"You know the rules. No attachments. That's how we survive. That's how we keep our heads."

You can't help but scoff.

"Attachments? Who said anything about catching feelings?" You shift slightly, watching his eyes snap back to you. "I'm talking about scratching an itch. One we both clearly have."

He licks his lips again, slower this time, metal ring catching the dim light. For a moment, expression morphs, and you see it—the same thing you're feeling, raw and desperate.

Desire.

Jeon's gaze hardens, but not in the way you'd expect it to. "Don't twist my words. You know exactly what I mean."

"Yeah, I do." You meet his stare head-on. "But sex is just sex, Jeon. We're not breaking any rules if there aren't any feelings involved."

Before he can build another wall between you, you move.

In one fluid motion, you're straddling him, and holy fuck—you're sure the body heat he's producing alone could keep up with an oven. And his cock—god his cock is hard against you and definitely happy to see you there.

"See?" Your voice comes out lower than intended, perhaps a tad wanting. "No attachments. Just two people who need to get off."

His eyes are almost black now, pupils blown wide. His hands hover over your thighs like he's fighting himself, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

"You really think it's that simple?" The strain in his voice is delicious.

"I think," you breathe, leaning in until you can feel his exhale against your lips, "that we make our own rules. I want you, Jeon. And judging by what I'm feeling right now—" You shift slightly in his lap, drawing a sharp breath from him, "—you want me too."

His lips are close. Pine and wood and him fill your lungs, making you dizzy. You watch as his control frays at the edges, watch him wrestle with the rules he's built his life around.

"Fuck." The word tears from his throat like it hurts, rough and desperate.

"That's the idea," you murmur, and then you're closing that last inch between you, consequences be damned.

And God.

His lips are soft—way softer than you expected. That's your first coherent thought when Jeon finally, finally kisses you.

He starts slow. Careful. Like he's still fighting with himself even as his mouth moves against yours.

It's driving you insane. Because fuck, you've seen how he usually is—all storm and fury—but right now? He's taking his sweet fucking time.

You can taste the hesitation on his tongue when he licks at the seam of your lips. But it's pretend, you don't even question that, because you can feel his hunger as well. And you part your lips immediately—it's not like you to play coy, not when you've been wanting this for so long.

The first slide of his tongue against yours makes your chest tighten. There's something almost reverent in how he explores your mouth, like he's memorizing every detail. His lip ring clicks against your teeth and shit—that is just fucking hot, okay.

He tastes like cigarettes and mint—a combination that screams Jeon—that makes heat pool low in your belly.

His hands start wandering then, those big, calloused palms that you've caught yourself staring at during briefings. One traces up your spine, and even through your shirt, his touch makes you burn.

The other hand finds your neck, thumb pressed just under your jaw. Possessive. Demanding. Your pulse jumps against his fingers.

The kiss deepens, turns messy. Wet.

His tongue strokes against yours with purpose now, and Christ—the sounds you're both making are absolutely filthy. All slick slides and breathless little noises that make your cheeks flush.

You arch into him instinctively, wanting—needing—more. Because this? This careful exploration? It's not enough.

Not nearly enough.

You can't help the moan that slips out when his tongue slides against yours just right. It's embarrassingly needy, but fuck it—he's earned that reaction with the way he's kissing you.

"Keep it down," he murmurs against your mouth, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Unless you want an audience."

His thumb presses against your lips, calloused skin catching slightly. When you meet his eyes, his gaze darkens. The possibility of getting caught should probably worry you more than it turns you on, but... well. Here you are.

His hand traces down your spine like he's mapping every vertebra, and christ—who knew the guy who barely speaks two words could make you feel so much with just his fingertips? Each touch feels prepared, like he's conducting some kind of thorough investigation of what makes you squirm.

"Relax," he growls, low and rough in a way that does not help you relax at all. The vibration of his voice seems to travel straight between your legs. "I've got you."

That's kind of the problem, you think hazily as his other hand slides down to your hip with maddening slowness. Your breath hitches when his fingers slip under your crewneck, skin-on-skin contact sending electricity up your spine.

He takes his sweet fucking time inching the fabric up, like he's got all night to drive you insane. The contrast of his burning hands against your cooler skin makes you shiver. His thumb brushes just below your navel and fuck—you bite your lip to keep quiet.

You want to tell him to hurry up, to stop being such a tease, but there's something intoxicating about the way he's touching you—like he's savoring every inch. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have.

"Is this..." His voice trails off, rough and uncertain.

You've never heard him sound like that before—like he's actually struggling for words.

"Is this what?"

You can barely get the words out. Hard to form coherent thoughts when his hand is burning a path up your ribs.

"Is this okay?" The question rumbles from his chest.

His eyes are fixed on where his hand disappears under your shirt, as if he's memorizing every inch.

"Yeah." You manage a small nod, not trusting your voice for more.

Fuck yes it's okay. It's been okay since the moment his mouth claimed yours.

Something in your answer must satisfy him because his hand slides higher, mapping your skin underneath with a precision that makes you shiver.

It's maddening how gentle he's being. You've seen those hands snap bones, seen them steady a rifle for impossible shots. Now they're ghosting over your skin like you're something precious, something that might shatter if he pushes too hard.

"Jeon." His name comes out embarrassingly breathy, halfway between a whine and a plea. "Keep going."

The bastard actually chuckles, the sound oscillating through you where you're pressed together. "Don't have to say it twice."

But he keeps that same torturous pace, each sweep of his thumb deliberately slow. Like he's got all night to take you apart piece by piece. Like he wants to drive you crazy.

You're starting to think he does.

His proximity is a heady thing and you could swear there's a storm raging behind his heartbeat.

You press closer, desperately seeking more contact.

More friction.

More anything.

But Jeon's self-control is nothing short of fucking legendary, it seems.

"Slow," he murmurs, eyes fixed on where his hand disappears beneath your shirt. "We take this slow."

You could fucking cry. His calloused fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, each touch light, teasing, and the contrast between his rough hands and gentle movements is driving you insane.

His other hand joins the first, sliding under your clothes with a confidence that borders on arrogance.

Yeah, he's smug; but you could swear there's something reverent in the way he touches you—and it's only because of that that you don't punch him.

Those dark eyes lock onto yours once more, asking a silent question.

A question he doesn't need to mutter.

You manage a quick nod, and he wastes no time pulling your crewneck and long sleeve over your head in one smooth motion.

But the universe hates you as much as you seem to hate yourself.

Because of course—of fucking course—you're wearing the most basic, practical bra imaginable. Why would you have worn anything sexy today? Not like you planned on Chief Jeon getting you half-naked in his tent.

His eyes rake over you, taking in every detail. When that infamous smirk tugs at his pierced lip, you already know he's about to be insufferable.

"Didn't dress up for me, huh?"

Heat floods your cheeks. You swat at his chest, torn between embarrassment and the urge to wipe that smug look off his face.

"Shut the fuck up, Jeon. Wasn't exactly expecting to get fucked today."

That deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, and fuck—it vibrates against you in a way it should be illegal.

But it's his eyes that get you—dark, hooded, pure filth swirling behind those orbs.

"You're acting like I care." He says as if you've told him a funny joke. "Trust me, I don't."

And his hands? Yeah, his hands haven't stopped their torturous exploration, mapping every inch of exposed skin like he's got a point to prove. Each brush of his callouses sends electricity down your spine. The bastard knows exactly what he's doing.

You want to hate him for that.

You don't.

His fingers trace your bra strap and he leans in close—so close you can feel his breath hot against your ear.

"Can I?"

Like he even needs to ask. Like you haven't been thinking about his hands on your bare skin since that first sparring session.

You manage a shaky nod, pulse thundering in your ears. One quick flick of his fingers and the piece comes undone. The clasp sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room.

The bra falls away and oh—the way he looks at you makes your core throb. His eyes rake over your exposed breasts in pure appreciation, hungry and possessive. You'd feel self-conscious if it wasn't so fucking hot.

When his hands finally—finally—cup your breasts, you can't help the gasp that escapes. His thumbs brush over your nipples and your back arches instinctively, pressing into his touch. His hands are so big they practically engulf you, rough and warm and perfect.

Then it's his breath. It fans hot against your neck and fuck—just the anticipation has you squirming. He hovers there, taking his sweet time, the bastard.

When his lips finally press against your throat, you have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

He presses a kiss. Then another. Then another.

Each one is slow, tongue flicking against your pulse point leisurely. Your head falls back automatically, giving him better access. Like he needs the invitation.

"Ah—"

"Shh." His voice vibrates against your skin, equal parts warning and amusement—and fuck his smirk.

His fingers are a fucking menace on your breasts, rolling your nipples between thumb and forefinger until they're almost painfully hard. And yeah okay, your pussy is literally throbbing at this point.

"You're so damn vocal," he grunts against your throat, punctuating the words with a sharp nip that makes you gasp.

You want to tell him to fuck off, but your brain's a blue screen as of right now. Your fingers find his hair instead, tangling in those dark strands just to have something to hold onto. To ground yourself while he systematically takes you apart with his mouth and hands.

But enough is enough.

So you shove at his chest, creating just enough space to think straight. His eyes widen for a split second before that infuriating shit-eating grin appears.

As if he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, tugging impatiently. Off. Now. The fabric joins your discarded clothes somewhere on the floor (you're too busy staring at his chest to care where).

"Someone's eager." Voice pure sin, the jackass is clearly enjoying himself.

"If I'm half-naked, you better be too," you snap back, but the breathiness in your voice ruins any attempt at sounding annoyed. "Fair's fair."

He doesn't respond verbally, no.

Instead, he yanks you back against him and the feel of his bare skin against yours makes you want to keen. His hands grip your waist fiercely while yours explore the ridges of his abs, the hard planes of his chest. Each muscle twitches under your touch.

When his mouth claims yours again, it's different—hungrier, deeper. His tongue slides against yours in a way that makes your pulse quicken, and you can't help but press closer, fingers curling around his neck to pull him down.

And maybe sounds you're making should be embarrassing—all breathy sighs and desperate little whimpers. But with his hands burning paths across your skin and his tongue doing that, you can't bring yourself to care.

The tent feels like its own little universe, just you and Jeon and whatever the hell is going on between you right now (sex, probably). You grind down against his cock, the rough fabric of his cargo pants hitting you just right.

And he likes that, you can tell—because soon enough his hands grip your waist, guiding your movements with a precision that makes you want to eat him alive. Each roll of your hips presses you against his straining bulge, drawing embarrassingly needy sounds from your throat.

When you break the kiss to breathe, you can't help but stare. His lips are slick and swollen, that silver ring glinting in the dim light. His usually perfect hair is a mess from your fingers.

But he seems to like his battles well fought. So he bucks up against you. And fuck, you're growing impatient now.

"Where the fuck are the condoms?" you pant, desperation making your voice crack.

He actually has the audacity to chuckle, low and mocking.

"Didn't pack any," he shrugs, like he's commenting on the weather instead of ruining your life.

"What the fuck?" You stop moving, staring at him in disbelief. "Do you seriously expect me to ride you bareback?"

"No wanna?" His voice is so soft, almost childlike, like he's talking to a particularly bratty kid.

That is not hot. Why does he make it seem hot?

"What the fuck, Jeon!"

"What?" His lips twitch, and he has the nerve to look amused. "Wasn't planning on fucking either."

You roll your eyes, ignoring how his hands are still tracing maddening patterns on your skin.

"So you're just walking around with a loaded gun and no safety on?"

Another infuriating shrug. His thumbs slip under your waistband, teasing.

"Didn't plan on shooting."

His nonchalance is driving you insane—both with frustration and arousal. Especially when he's touching you like that.

"Literally, fuck you."

"I thought we agreed that would be a bit reckless right now?"

"Oh my god, Jeon." There's no hiding the frustration coloring your words. "We're surrounded by tents, which is bad enough, and now you're telling me we can't even fuck properly?"

His breath fans hot against your neck. "We can get creative."

The promise in those words makes your cunt throb, but you're not letting him win that easily.

"And leave us both desperate? Dream on, pretty boy."

He drags his lips over your collarbone and fuck—your hands clench in his hair just to stay upright, because can he stay in place when you're trying to tell him off?

"Hmm?" The smugness in his voice should be illegal. "But you were so needy a few seconds ago."

When he rolls his hips up, his cock grinding against you through his pants, you have to bite your lip to keep quiet.

Fucking, insufferable h̶o̶t̶ bastard.

"Pretty sure there's other ways to get each other off," he adds, and oh—the way he says it.

You try to respond but his mouth is already trailing up your neck, each kiss hotter than the last. His breath ghosts over your ear and you shiver, fighting the urge to tilt your head but doing so regardless. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex under your touch.

His hand keeps you pinned against his cock, the hard length of him pressing just right through his pants. His other hand teases at your waistband and you almost whimper.

Almost.

You lift your hips—an invitation that makes his eyes glint wickedly. He tugs your leggings down roughly, bunching them at your thighs. The cool air hits your heated skin and fuck—you've never felt more exposed, straddling him like this, movement restricted.

His palm slides up your inner thigh, leaving fire in its wake. When his thumb brushes over your clit through your panties, the shock of pleasure makes you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your moan.

His muscles tense under your teeth and he makes a sound—half growl, half grunt.

"You like that, sunshine?" His voice is low and taunting.

And damn it. That fucking nickname again. You don't know why you fucking like it. Oxygen must not be reaching your brain.

Though it's not like you can trust yourself to speak—not with his thumb doing that, drawing slow circles that make your thighs shake.

You press a hum into his shoulder instead, teeth grazing skin in silent demand for more.

The heat between you is becoming suffocating, giving you a headache. Or maybe that's just him, the way he touches you like he's got all night to take you apart piece by piece. Like making you fall apart is his new favorite hobby.

"Jeon," you gasp against his shoulder, already embarrassingly breathless. "Take your fucking pants off."

For a terrifying second, you think he might deny you just to be a dick.

But then a deep snort rumbles through his chest and fuck—his next words may be your undoing.

"Bossy, aren't we?"

His tone is too smug for your own good.

For his own good.

For the good of humanity.

He manages to unzip his pants one-handed, whilst his other hand grips your waist, lifting you effortlessly—and honestly, the casual display of strength shouldn't be sexy but of course when it comes to him, it just is.

He shimmies his pants down to his thighs, leaving just his tight black briefs between you.

"Better?" He sounds all cocky about it, but you're too busy staring at the obvious bulge straining against the dark fabric to care, really.

You immediately sink back down onto his lap and oh—the thin layers of cloth do nothing to hide how hard he is.

The heat of his cock pressed against you makes you bite back a sound.

"Yeah."

The word may have come out too damn breathy, but you can't bring yourself to care. Not when your hands are already wandering, desperate to touch more of him.

"Mhm," is all he says low and approving.

Your thighs clench instinctively, core throbbing at just his fucking voice.

Fuck him. Y̶o̶u̶ ̶w̶i̶s̶h̶.̶

Every roll of your hips makes sparks dance behind your eyelids. His cock is right there, hard and thick against you, and even through the layers of fabric you can feel how perfectly it lines up with your clit. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding your movements with absolute control.

"That's right, sunshine." And yeah, fuck, that's a growl. "Make yourself feel good."

Truth is—you couldn't stop if you wanted to. The danger of getting caught, the way his breath hitches when you grind down just right, the way he's gripping you like you're his lifeline—it's all too much and not enough.

And then, his fingers trace the edge of your panties.

It has you shivering, that light touch.

Because he's still being careful, so deliberate, like he's savoring every second. Like he wants you to savor it too.

You keep rolling your hips, chasing that delicious friction. When he starts bucking up to meet your movements, the added pressure makes you see fucking galaxies. His dark eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown wide with want.

"Can I take these off?"

And fuck, fuck, fuck, he still sounds smug, but there's a hint of neediness treading his tone that's turning you on further. His fingers hook under the elastic, waiting.

"Yes," you breathe, already thinking about getting his briefs off too, wanting to feel all of him.

But before you can even voice your concerns, he's already responding.

"I know." He replies, reading you like a fucking open book.

He smirks, thumbs hooking under his waistband, and peels his briefs down torturously slow, like he enjoys your impatience, making you wait. When his cock springs free, thick and hard against his stomach, your mouth goes dry.

You can't help but stare���the way it curves slightly to the left, the way it twitches under your hungry gaze.

The urge to touch, to taste—it's bordering on agonizing.

"My turn." He murmurs, like he's been patiently waiting for desert.

He helps you shimmy your panties down to join your leggings, his hands steady on your hips as you lift up. The fabric rustles obscenely loud in the quiet tent, like even your clothes are trying to give you away.

And then you're both naked where it counts, no barriers left between you except the rules you're already breaking—although not really because sex without attachment doesn't break any rules.

The distant sounds of the camp feel miles away, like you two have totally forgotten you're in Jeon's tent, in the middle of a camping trip.

Well. You're pretty sure people have fucked in worse situations. So whatever.

His hands grip your hips once again, guiding you down onto him. And when you do, the slide of his bare cock against your slick folds nearly makes you whimper. You can feel every ridge, every vein pressing against your core—and each tiny movement sends sparks of pleasure shooting through you.

"So good," he groans, the sound rumbling through his chest.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, like he's fighting to keep control, and you couldn't agree more.

Because the friction is divine, each roll of your hips making your thighs shake. You're already embarrassingly wet, leaving him slick and shining in the dim light.

He's so wet—from you, from him, it doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is the obscene sounds of skin on skin and the filthy curses falling from his lips.

His mouth returns to your collarbone and his lips are impossibly soft and the metal of his piercing incredibly cold and for some forsaken reason it turns you on even further. When he moves lower, dragging that piercing over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, you nearly come undone.

His hand on your hip keeps you exactly where he wants you, controlling the pace as he grinds his cock against your clit. He's moving hips like he knows how to make your eyes roll back. His other hand finds your free nipple, pinching and tugging until you're trembling under his touch.

"Do you wanna cum like this?" The words vibrate against your breast, making you shiver. "Grinding against my cock?"

You can barely nod. Your brain's a puddle of want and sex, reduced to basic functions like yes and please and more.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, needing to hold onto him as he takes you apart piece by piece. Every 'sunshine' that falls from his lips pushes you closer to the edge. You're quivering, hovering right on the brink, completely at his mercy.

And judging by that smirk against your skin? He knows it.

"Yeah, just like that." His voice is pure gravel, wrecked and hot and just outright sex. "Keep rubbing that pretty pussy against my cock."

You should be embarrassed by how those words affect you, but you're too far gone to care. His filthy mouth just makes you wetter, makes you grind down harder.

"Fuck yeah." The curse hisses through his teeth, and god—the way he sounds when he's losing control is addictive.

He keeps humping, cock rubbing against your clit every time, sending electricity shooting up your spine—and he's just so hard, so thick and fucking perfect under you. You didn't even know grinding could feel this fucking good.

"Shit, s'good," he pants, and you can tell he's barely holding it together.

His nails dig into your hips harder now, like he's nearing his own edge, like he wants to tumble down the precipice of pleasure as much as you—if not more.

Like he's fighting to maintain control over his own body.

You kind of want to make him lose it.

Your fingers are completely tangled up in his hair now, and you can't even tell where your hand begins and his locks end. All that matters is each fucking perfectly synchronized roll of your hips, each firework burning behind your eyelids.

You're so close, so fucking close.

He must feel it in the way your thighs tremble, because suddenly his grip on your hips turns bruising. His mouth releases your nipple with an obscene pop, and then he's burying his face between your breasts, breath hot against your sweat-slick skin.

"C'mon sunshine." He sounds absolutely debauched. "Cum f'me. Do it."

And fuck—that does it.

One more perfect grind of his cock against your clit and the orgasm embraces you like a warm hug. The moan that tears from your throat would definitely give you away if Jeon's hand didn't clamp over your mouth just in time.

Your body jerks against him, every nerve ending on fire. You're vaguely aware that you're probably pulling his hair too hard but you can't help it (he deserves it for being a teasing bitch).

Though, you can't help but feel a bit proud because it must be the sight of you falling apart what pushes him over too.

Because suddenly he's crushing you against him, face pressed between your tits to muffle his groans. His cock pulses between you, and there's hot ropes of cum painting both your stomachs.

His whole body trembles as he cums, nails leaving crescents on your hips—moons that will stay buried in your skin for days to come.

But you don't mind, enjoying the way each throb of his cock sends aftershocks through your oversensitive core. You can feel his heart hammering where you're pressed together, matching your own thundering pulse.

Holy fuck.

You collapse against him, completely boneless, barely aware that the tent now reeks of sex and pine and chai, and your brain's too fuzzy to do anything but breathe it in.

The judgemental owl from before hoots.

Your head finds his shoulder while his face stays buried between your breasts. His breath is hot against your skin as it slowly steadies. One of his hands traces lazy patterns on your back, and it's... nice. Surprisingly gentle for someone who just made you see stars.

"That was intense." His voice vibrates through your chest, rough and satisfied.

"Yeah." It's all you can manage. Your tongue feels too heavy for words, your body weightless and done.

He actually chuckles, the bastard. "You really needed that, huh?"

You want to smack him for being so smug, but your arms won't cooperate. You settle for an annoyed grunt instead, which just makes him laugh harder. His chest rumbles against yours and god—you're too fucked out to deal with his ego right now.

He taps your hip gently—a signal to move.

When you peel apart, you both look down at the mess of cum painting your stomachs. The sight makes heat flood your cheeks, a vivid reminder of what you two just did.

And frankly, how good it was—even if only grinding.

Not that you'll tell him that. His head's big enough already.

Jeon sighs—all annoyed like he wasn't just cumming his brains out—and starts rummaging around for something to clean up with. You just... roll over. Press your face into his blankets and, yeah, they smell like him. Not cologne or soap, just pure Jeon. Pine and wood and man.

Your eyelids are so heavy. The blankets are so warm. Maybe if you just... rest for a minute...

You vaguely register him cleaning himself up, but you're already half-asleep when his voice cuts through your haze.

"Hey, don't you dare think I'm letting you get all my shit dirty."

You manage a grunt and scrunch your nose. Why is a man talking?

"Fucking hell." He sounds exasperated, but his touch is surprisingly gentle when he starts wiping you clean. You just lay there like dead weight because seriously—moving is not happening right now.

The evidence of your activities dealt with, you hear him toss the wipes aside and settle next to you.

The silence that follows is nice.

Comfortable.

You burrow deeper into his blankets, letting his scent wrap around you like a cocoon, and you're this close to blessed unconsciousness when an agitating, grating noise ruins it again.

"Hey." All firm and authoritative like you give a shit right now. "Remember you gotta be up before dawn. We can't have anyone getting the wrong idea."

You heave the longest, most dramatic sigh of your life.

"I know. I will," you mumble into the blankets, already turning away from his voice.

Like, you get it. No sleepovers allowed. But also? Shut up and let you enjoy your post-orgasm coma for five fucking minutes.

He nudges you again, more insistent this time. "I'm serious. No misunderstandings, alright?"

God, why does he have to be so paranoid about it? This is just sex—no strings attached, no rules broken. You're not some lovesick teenager who's going to get the wrong idea from a hookup.

"Then set up a fucking alarm or something, alright?" The words come out sharper than intended, but you're too fucked out to care. "I'll wake up and get out, just stop being so damn annoying."

The silence that follows is almost funny. You can practically feel his surprise at your tone. Then he exhales—that short, irritated huff that means you've actually managed to ruffle the great Chief Jeon's feathers.

"Fine." He sounds... sulky? The mighty assassin, sulking. You'd laugh if you weren't so desperate to sleep.

The blue light from his phone briefly illuminates the tent as he sets the alarm. When he settles back down, you can feel him giving you one last look—probably questioning his life choices.

Whatever. You burrow deeper into his blankets, which smell unfairly good. The tent falls quiet except for your breathing and the distant sounds of the camp.

You're pretty sure he'll actually wake you up. That's just how Jeon is—stupidly reliable even when he's being an ass about it.

So you count on it.

And the last coherent thought you have before sleep claims you is that his blankets are way too comfortable for someone so annoying.

goal: 200 notes

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© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[theonion]

Citing the results of an exhaustive five-year inquiry into the source of the outbreak of social isolation currently plaguing the United States, the Department of Health and Human Services declared Wednesday that Dayton, OH–area loser Bill McCraw was patient zero in the national loneliness epidemic. “Through extensive contact tracing, we’ve confirmed the epidemic of loneliness that has now spread to approximately half of American adults originated with one sad sack 32-year-old,” said Surgeon General Vivek Murthy, adding that the feelings of disconnection and despair gripping the nation began in 2019, when McCraw moved to the Midwest and quickly infected thousands in his vicinity with a forlorn sense of detachment against which they had no natural immunity. Full Story

[meazalykov]

venom

catarina macario x f!reader

warnings: racial and sexual harassment targeted at reader during the london derby. angst. implied woc reader

the hallowed grass of stamford is where you step onto. the air is thick with the match of chelsea versus arsenal. the crowd’s screams crashes over you like a tidal wave, a sea of blue and red scarves rippling in the stands.

you’re the name on everyone’s lips after last week’s demolition of liverpool, where you buried a hattrick in an intense 3-2 match and danced your way into the headlines. tonight, they expect you to be the supernova, the uncontainable force to lead chelsea to glory in this rivalry clash. 

your girlfriend, catarina, lines up beside you, her dark hair with those beautiful blond highlights are pulled tight in a ponytail, her eyes sharp with focus. you exchange a quick glance after the starting eleven pictures are taken… its professional, steady. 

the whistle blows, and the first half ignites.

it’s perfection. the ball feels like an extension of you, bending to your will as you carve through arsenal’s defense. erin, your connector, threads a pinpoint pass to your feet, and you’re off, weaving between red shirts like they’re standing still. 

the crowd chants your name…“y/n! y/n!”...and you feed off it, your boots kissing the grass with every stride. sandy drifts wide, pulling defenders with her, and you exploit the gap, firing a shot that rattles the crossbar. 

the chelsea fans erupt, a wall of sound that lifts you higher. 

“keep the assists going, y/n!” keira shouts as she jogs back, clapping her hands as she points to you. 

sonia, your coach, watches from the sidelines, arms crossed, nodding approvingly as you dominate. the first half ends 1-0, your assist setting up sandy for the opener. you jog off for the break, sweat beading on your forehead, feeling invincible.

the second half kicks off, and for a while, it’s more of the same. the ball is glued to your foot, arsenal players lunging and missing. 

suddenly, a voice slices through the noise… it is grating, venomous, distinct in a way that makes your skin prickle. it’s coming from the arsenal end, a man’s voice, loud and deliberate. 

“oi, y/n!” he bellows, his tone dripping with malice. 

you try to shake it off, focusing on the play since it is just a random person, but he keeps going. 

“you don’t belong here, go back to france you coon!” the words hit like a punch, sharp and ugly, rooting you to the spot for a heartbeat. 

most of the time, you hear the banter towards you. however, the slur from that white man got to you. your breath catches, your selective hearing zeroing in on him despite the thousands of other voices. 

you glance toward the stands…a man, no older than thirty, his face flushed with beer and hate, leaning over the railing. 

“smile for me, sweetheart,” he yells, his voice slurring into something darker. 

“bet you’d look better on your knees!”

your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. the pitch tilts beneath you, the edges of your vision blurring. he’s close, standing in the front row by the goal, he is too close!!!! maybe twenty yards away, separated only by a thin barrier and a handful of stewards who don’t seem to hear him yet. 

your hands tremble, your chest tightens, and a cold sweat breaks out across your skin. you’ve seen this before… players like taylor at liverpool, vinicius back in spain… shit! even your friend and teammate lauren weathers racist storms…but it’s never been you. not until now. 

the fear is visceral, a creeping dread that he could be anyone, that he could follow you off this pitch, that he’s not alone in his hatred. you feel exposed, a target painted on your back, your skin color skin suddenly a beacon for his venom.

lucy’s voice snaps you back. 

“y/n!” she shouts, and the ball rockets toward you. you catch it on instinct, your body moving before your mind catches up. he’s still yelling…“go back where you came from!”...but you run, legs pumping, tearing down the right wing. away from him, away from that voice. 

your heart slams against your ribs, your breathing ragged, but you push forward, the goalpost looming ahead. you shoot, a desperate, angry strike, and the ball screams into the net, top corner, unstoppable. 

the chelsea fans explode, a deafening roar, but it’s hollow for you. no tricks, no celly, no cartwheel at the corner flag like usual. you stand there, hands on your knees, staring at the grass, the world spinning. 

you want to throw up. he’s still there, his voice a faint echo now. its too much.

your teammates swarm you, their arms around you, their voices a jumble. 

“what the fuck, y/n? what a goal!” ashley cheers, slapping your back. lucy pulls you into a hug, grinning. 

“you love to give me assists don’t you!”

however, your teammates feel the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your eyes dart toward the stands. 

“you good?” lucy asks, quieter now, her brow furrowing. you nod, but it’s a lie, and they know it. sonia’s watching from the touchline, her sharp gaze catching yours. she signals to the bench, and within minutes, she’s subbing you off. 

“maelys is in for you!” she calls to you, then turns to you as you trudge over. 

“sit down. take a breather.” her voice is firm but kind, and you collapse onto the bench, the weight of it all crashing down. six minutes left on the clock, but you’re done. 

a tear slips free, hot against your cheek, and you swipe it away, staring blankly at the pitch.

mia slides in beside you, her shoulder brushing yours. 

“y/n, talk to me. you okay?” her voice is soft, urgent. you shake your head, the words stuck in your throat. 

“no,” you finally choke out, “there’s a guy…arsenal end. he… he said shit. racist shit. he keeps calling me slurs then said something sexual. i don’t know, mia, i feel fucking sick right now.” your voice cracks, and her eyes widen, then narrow with fury. 

“what the fuck?” she hisses. 

“where is he?” you point vaguely, your hand shaking, “over there, red shirt with a group of guys. he is thirty maybe.” she nods, jaw tight, and flags sonia over. 

“coach, sorry to distract you from the game but we’ve got a problem,” mia says, keeping her voice low. you repeat it to sonia, every word tasting like poison….the racism, the leering threat. sonia’s face hardens, “we’re reporting this. stewards, security, the lot. chelsea doesn’t tolerate that shit,” she says, her tone steely, “you did good out there, y/n. let us handle it now.”

it’s meant to help, but it doesn’t. your stomach twists, your skin crawling with the memory of his voice. you should be stronger, shake it off, but you can’t. the final whistle blows…2-1, chelsea wins against arsenal and the crowd roars, but you’re already up, bolting for the tunnel. 

the locker room is a sanctuary, the noise muffled as you stumble inside, collapsing onto a bench. you bury your face in your hands, trying to breathe, but it’s shallow, panicked. footsteps echo, and you look up to see catarina, her face etched with worry. mia must’ve told her. 

“y/n,” she says, dropping to her knees in front of you, “mia said….what happened? talk to me, please.”

you shake your head, trying to shove it down, to lock it away. 

“it’s nothing,” you mutter, but your voice wavers, betraying you. she grabs your hands, her grip firm. 

“it’s not nothing. look at you—you’re shaking. tell me.” the dam breaks, and it pours out. 

“this guy in the stands… he kept calling me slurs, cat. he s-s-said i don’t belong. then he said i’d look better on my knees, smiling for him. it was so loud, so close. i was scared, i—” your voice cracks, and you gag, the nausea surging. 

catarina’s eyes darken, her jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle twitch. 

“and you didn’t tell me at that time?” she spits, “that stewardess better find him before i do my fucking self.”

“i just wanted to play,” you whisper, tears spilling now, “i scored, and i couldn’t even feel it. i’ve seen this happen to players like lauren, and i’ve defended her each time but me? i didn’t think…” she pulls you into her arms, her embrace fierce, protective. 

“you’re safe now,” she says, her voice softening but resolute. 

“he’s not getting near you. the club’s on it…sonia’s already escalating it. chelsea’s got your back, okay? i’ve got your back.” you cling to her, your face pressed into her shoulder, her warmth grounding you as your breathing steadies. 

“i hate men,” you mumble, half-sobbing, half-laughing. she chuckles, a low, bittersweet sound, her arms tightening around you. 

“yeah, i can’t argue with that right now,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “but you’re stronger than him, y/n. you hear me? he’s nothing.” 

the next morning, chelsea’s official response hits the airwaves. you’re curled up on the couch in your flat, a mug of tea cooling in your hands, when the statement pings on your phone. 

catarina’s beside you, scrolling through her own feed, and she nudges you gently. 

“they’ve sent it to the group before they put it out,” she says, nodding at your screen. you open it, the words stark and formal against the bright white background: 

“chelsea football club is aware of the unacceptable harassment directed at our player, y/n l/n, during last night’s women’s super league match against arsenal at kingsmeadow. we condemn all forms of discrimination and abuse in the strongest terms. the safety and wellbeing of our players is our utmost priority, and we are working closely with the relevant authorities and stadium security to identify and take appropriate action against the individual responsible. such behavior has no place in football or society, and we stand united in ensuring that our club remains a welcoming and inclusive environment for all.”

it is the standard script with condemnation, action, unity. it gives you relief, maybe, but it’s tangled with the lingering sickness of that man’s voice.

the days that follow are a slog. you’re not used to this violation. you’ve heard the stories, seen the headlines about other players but it’s always been distant, something you could sympathize with but never truly feel. 

now it’s yours, and it’s heavy. you wake up the next day with a pit in your stomach, his words replaying like a broken record. you try to push it down, to focus on training, but your legs feel leaden, your focus fractured. 

“you okay, y/n?” naomi asks during a passing drill, her brow creasing as you fumble a simple touch. 

“yeah, just… tired,” you lie, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. she doesn’t push, but you can tell she’s not convinced.

at home, you’re quieter than usual. catarina notices, she always does. 

“you know that you don’t have to pretend with me,” she says that night, sitting across from you at the kitchen table, her hand reaching for yours. 

“i’m fine,” you mutter, staring at your untouched plate of pasta. 

“just need time.” time feels slow, sticky, like wading through mud. you skip social media, knowing the comments will be a minefield…some supportive, some from arsenal fans being vicious…and the thought of seeing his words echoed by faceless trolls makes your skin crawl. 

you shower longer than necessary, as if you can scrub the memory of his voice off you, but it clings like damp rot. sleep is fitful, your dreams jagged with flashes of the stands, his angry face leering through the crowd.

it takes two days…two long, heavy days before the fog starts to lift. you’re at cobham, lacing up your boots, when catarina jogs over, a small, triumphant smile tugging at her lips. 

“got news,” she says, dropping onto the bench beside you. you look up, wary but curious. “what?” she leans in, her voice low and steady. 

“they found him. banned him. lifetime ban from any chelsea and arsenal matches…home, away, women’s, men’s, the lot. he’s done.” your breath catches, a knot you didn’t realize was there loosening in your chest. 

“really?” you whisper, needing to hear it again. 

“really,” she confirms, her hand squeezing your knee, “security matched him to cctv, got his ticket details. he’s not stepping foot near us again.”

relief floods you, sharp and sweet, washing away the grime of the past forty-eight hours. you turn to her, throwing your arms around her neck, and she catches you, pulling you close. 

“oh my god,” you breathe into her shoulder, your voice trembling with the weight of it lifting. 

“it’s over.” she hugs you tighter, her chin resting atop your head. 

“told you we’d handle it,” she murmurs, “you’re safe, y/n. well, you always were with me but he’s gone.” you pull back just enough to look at her, her brown eyes steady and warm, and you feel the last tendrils of fear unravel. 

“i was so disgusted cat,” you admit, quieter now. 

“i know,” she says, brushing a thumb across your cheek, “but he’s nothing now. just a coward who’s out of our lives.”

[stellas-and-tonitruses]

Everything we know about Project Apple (and, by extension, Anya's past) thus far

thought i'd compile all of that now while endo's on break Just In Case the next chapter happens to start anya's backstory (i don't Think it will but endo likes surprising us LSDFKLFS)

important disclaimer that project apple and the organization in charge of anya's experiments have not been confirmed to be related! there's evidence that they have things in common, in particular employees, but that's our only real connection between the two thus far. still! worth looking into

more under the cut!

so, starting very strongly with the very first mention of anything related to the project: anya's introduction in chapter 1

despite her being a main character, we know very little about her past at the moment, and this little blurb at the beginning makes up a very big portion of what we know.

things to note here:

as an experiment, her name was "Test Subject 007". important to note that the notation differs between her and bond: she was Test Subject 007, bond was Subject 8, no zeroes in there;

she had been made thus by accident, the phrasing itself implying quite heavily that she was just a normal child before said accident (but this is the translation! i don't know japanese so i can't cross-reference with the raws to clarify if the phrasing changes anything, but the fanbook uses the word "gained" to describe her powers too);

because her mind-reading is an unintended consequence, that means the scientists were presumably not, at least initially, trying to achieve cognitive enhancements in humans, and were instead trying to achieve something else, whatever that might've been;

she escaped from the facility and then moved from institution to institution, looking for a family.

so, crucially, through this little introduction we learn that there is an organization, government-funded or otherwise, that is or was conducting human experiments for unknown purposes. we also learn that whatever family anya had prior to being involved in the experiments is more than likely unreachable, at least as far as she knows, and so she has settled for finding a new family to take care of her instead.

in terms of the facility itself, here we see they clearly drilled it into her that she can't ever reveal her secret (and the darn plush is there too -- in the anime it's even more emphasized, as you can see in the gif i made)

through her reminiscing though, we get our very first look at the scientists that were in charge of her! they're in the gif above but here they are in the manga too. it's so interesting that the anime actually shows their eyes behind the glasses though, fascinating choice.

the insistence on world peace is important, as it explains her own personal obsession with it and shows that it's not just because of twilight's own focus on preserving the peace. i also don't think twilight ever really talks about "world peace," only about "preserving the current peace between westalis and ostania" -- anya seems to be the only one talking about WORLD peace (even in the very first scene where either of them mention it in proximity to each other in ch 1, loid says "understanding the other party is the first step towards peace" and anya's interpretation is "understanding me makes world peace?") but take this with a grain of salt because i might be wrong! going through every single mention of peace in the story just to fact check this one little trivia fact is a bit much i think so i'm not doing it JSDFKLSD

but yes

remember mr hair strand and baldy, we'll see them again. not her though, ig she wasn't in charge of bond

now, fast-forwarding to chapter 19, we finally get a name and a premise for the experiments:

"but oana," you might say, "this is talking about animals only! how do we know it's the same project as anya's, which involved human experimentation?"

i don't think it is, is the thing! i think it's related to the experiments anya was a part of, which is evidenced by the same scientists being featured in project apple too, but there's more going on that we don't know about. there wouldn't be such adamancy on keeping the two separate in every official mention of them if they were just the same thing, imo!

back to the evidence, we learn that the project, conducted and funded by the previous ostanian regime (meaning donovan's related to it one way or another, since he was prime minister), was marked by franticness and desperation -- a prime place for accidents like anya's telepathy and bond's future vision.

we also learn that the project was sacked by the new administration and that the former test subjects ended up on the black market.

(this makes it very important, imo, to learn when anya escaped the facility vs. when the project was sacked. it's clearly no longer in function, but while we've heard nothing from them thus far, i'm willing to bet the shady dealings around the desmond group are NOT related to the war, as W.I.S.E. has been led to believe, but rather to reignite project apple. that is speculation however so i'm going to refrain from theorising much on why the desmond group is focused on acquiring pharmaceutical companies!!)

ok speculation tangent over, back on track

so, that's already a decent amount of info! but moving to chapter 22, when bond is finally home, and we finally see some familiar faces

behold! baldy and mr hair strand!

and 2 other guys we don't know but will see again in another bond flashback!

that's 2 out of the 3 scientists we've seen thus far from anya's own time as subject 007, confirming that there IS a connection between anya and bond's experiments, regardless of whatever the project anya was a part of might've been named.

this is also the chapter in which we learn that bond himself was subject 8 (or, if we take it from the fanbook, subject #8. still, diff notation from anya!)

in chapter 31, we learn an interesting tiny piece of trivia. we don't get any further info on it, but it IS mentioned as something that is known by W.I.S.E.:

ostania is rumoured to have done human experimentation! and W.I.S.E., and by extension loid, are aware of that.

do i know how them knowing may be important later? not really!

the next droplet of info we get is in chapter 40. we see that project apple had collaborators that are still functioning unhindered.

of course, born industries is only rumoured to have been involved with project apple, but regardless of whether or not they actually were, the rumour itself implies that the project likely pulled scientists from various other companies' R&D departments.

(this makes the desmond group's acquisition of glooman pharmaceuticals shadier, but anyway)

as a side note, twilight is emoting so much at just his wrong assumption that bond is seeking revenge against the scientists. imagine how he's going to react when he finds out about anya JKSDFKLFSD

and now aaaaall the way in chapter 58, we see the bald guy who anya also knows, the two scientists from bond's previous flashback, and one whole new guy!

and thus ends our current knowledge of it all!

the only other thing worth discussing is anya's knowledge of classical language

but plenty people have already discussed these scenes, especially recently, so here are some links: 1 | 2 | 3

the only thing i can add is that i'm fairly certain that classical language is a lot more likely to be latin than old english, because it's a very common language to learn in school (in europe at least, and ostania is based on east germany so it makes sense to me. i learned mandatory latin in school for a few good years too, even if i wasn't that good at it lol) and because one of the most common modern usages of latin are in medicine and science, it would make sense that she'd be better at it due to exposure.

a possibility is also that the scientists would think in latin to conceal their thoughts from her, and that's how she ended up learning so much. she's not fluent in latin, she's just well acquainted and that cicumstance would explain the how.

BUT THAT'S SPECULATIONNN

also i don't think "ANIA" is an acronym, nor do i think anya's been misspelling her own name out of lack of knowledge. "ania" is a polish diminutive of anna and an alternate transcription of Аня, so i think it's far more likely that anya isn't ostanian or westalian than it is that her name comes from an acronym.

now,

TL;DR!

what we know about project apple (and the "mysterious organization"):

project apple was funded and conducted by what appears to have been donovan's regime and, from what W.I.S.E. knows, aimed to create highly intelligent animals for military purposes;

W.I.S.E. is aware that ostania is at the very least rumoured to have dabbled in human experimentation;

the project is presumably no longer on-going, though it is likely there are efforts behind the scenes to revive it;

it is rumoured but not confirmed that project apple had collaborating companies that are still functioning perfectly fine;

the same scientists who were in charge of bond were also in charge of anya, signalling that there is a very significant connection between project apple and the "mysterious organization;"

based on what they were telling anya, they were/are very focused on "world peace";

their experimentation methods include but likely aren't limited to electrocution.

and what we (vaguely) know about anya that relates to this:

she is at the youngest, 4 years old, and at the oldest, 5 nearing 6. we don't know her real age, all we know is she definitely lied about being 6;

she is very fixated on specifically world peace while twilight is focused on peace between ostania and westalis. the scientists are the very first we see talking about this, so it's likely their fault;

she is unreasonably well acquainted with classical language;

she has escaped the facility at LEAST 1 year ago;

and, one tidbit from the fanbook (page 29): "Anya has been reading minds for as long as she can remember," implying that her memory of a life before the lab is muddy at best and absent at worst.

that's all we know that i know of!!

if you got this far, thank you for reading :D hope any of this was interesting or sparked any theories >:] have a good day!

[princesspetticoat]

The Muse of Her Ruin

Artist Modern AU: Chapter 1/? — Caramel

Summary:

Los Angeles was supposed to be your perfect canvas, but the struggle to make it leaves you feeling burnt out – until Agatha Harkness paints you into her world.

In her hands, you’re more than an artist, and she knows exactly how to mold you into her newest masterpiece.

Tags:

agatha!reader, age gap, mommy kink, slow burn, mean!agatha, possessive!agatha, AU: Art world of Los Angeles, portrait of a witch on fire, reader is babygirl, the witch wears prada, sugar mommy vibes, slight Rio/reader but only to make Agatha jealous, agatha can’t beat the AI allegations, dacryphilia, eventual smut, angst, MDLG, bratty bottom, BDSM, praise kink, degradation, strap-ons, anal, dub con, slight piss kink, squirting, power dynamics, possible memory loss and magic maybe idk, kitten play, electrostimulation, humiliation, overstimulation, exhibitionism for the art, let the bodies hit the floor, more tags later because i’m sure i’ll find something else to be foul about

Links: Twitter | AO3

Chapter 1: Caramel

It isn’t the first time a beautiful woman has stopped you in your doom scrolling on the internet. You’ve had your share of rabbit-holing through Instagram profiles, tagged photos, your finger hovering over the DM button with a wave of confidence that only comes when you’ve had a drink or two in your system.

But this woman, this one comes with an extension of discovery.

Just by googling her name, a thousand articles pop up. Art piece installations cascade every website, timeline, and city cultural journal. Jesus, then the red carpet photos multiply as the SEO of your web browser catches on to your sudden enthrall of dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

Oh, and the hashtags. #WitchyArt #HarknessAndDesire #CursedCanvas. Layers of art plummet before you, most requesting to select if you’d like to view the art or not because of its lewd nature, violating community guidelines.

#AgathaHarknessUnveiled

A public invitation to forbiddenness. You’re intrigued.

Then more pictures of her show up, next to her work, her models, famous celebrities that you never knew were part of the same circle. You realize you’ve been following her art closely for years, and had even gone to one of her art installations at the LACMA a couple years back.

She has no social media and you quickly piece together why you haven’t been able to put a face to the name until now. The Agatha Harkness.

You curse yourself for living and breathing on Instagram, reading little excerpts about her pieces here and there, never proceeding past searching her name up one single time after seeing her most famous artwork grace the official Broad Museum verified account:

The Unbound: Agatha Harkness - A Palette of Desire contemporary collection of ‘22.

Ask AI or Search: Agatha Harkness

…

However, you were met with the reflection of: ‘⚠️ zero search results found’ staring back at you on your phone screen, and that was that.

Now, you pull open your ‘Painting Inspo’ Pinterest board to see a piece of hers pinned neatly between other modern art you admire. The pin is plainly titled and paired with a now-purple hyperlink to an article, with one of the most commanding portraits of her in a suit, standing sharply next to her work.

It had all been right there, connected, laid out before you. You scold yourself again. You could’ve been in this woman’s circle the moment you moved to Los Angeles. Only now she’s magically moved from your subconscious to reality.

All it took was a simple Google search to be completely floored.

Right place, right time, you think, as it were. Originally, you were filtering through junior-level marketing positions, revamping your resume for the umpteenth time. Waitressing just wasn’t cutting it anymore, you needed a big girl job. Even if you didn’t have the experience.

And, to be honest, people really do act like that in Los Angeles. Customer service is nothing short of unbearable.

You’d huffed and slammed your laptop, tired of the almost-hour it took to submit one clean job application, flopped on your bed, and began the inevitable doom scroll.

And there she was, in all her glory. Featured in one major headline that caught your eye (apart from every photo ever of her maddeningly hypnotizing smile).

Grand Opening of the Harkness Collection, March 2025 — DTLA, Seeking Social Media Manager Position.

You could do it, you think.

The link to apply for the position already looks infinitely better than the bland, morose copy/paste templates thrown around every typical job website like a hot potato.

This just might get your foot in the door.

You’ve painted your whole life, always the kid doodling in the corner of your notebooks in class. You’ve done your fair share of moronically smacking people with your big art portfolio at the end of each year in high school when you rounded corners.

Art school in Portland had its ups and downs. Your father used every last penny he had to see your dreams come true, and your mother hated you for it. Blamed you, even, for sucking his wallet dry. But it was of his own accord to pay for tuition, and you had nothing else to show for it. You had a real talent.

At least, that’s what Mrs. Montgomery had told you.

Your art teacher for grades 11-12 was someone who was stern but had a mother’s touch. You really only knew the stern part back home, and then some, after the divorce.

But Mrs. Montgomery not only put you on a pedestal, she really critiqued you. She actually pushed you, improved your skills and adorned her Letter of Recommendation to your chosen college with accolades of admiration you couldn’t possibly achieve from your own mother.

If it wasn’t obvious already, you were completely smitten. And you know what else? You could trust her as far as you could throw her.

The after school meetings, the one-on-one sessions after class to help finish up an end of the year project. Anything to get a sliver of praise. Anything to prevent the bus ride home.

After college, though, you moved to Los Angeles in hopes of joining a gallery or an art community. You got sucked into the limelight, the overbearing and overwhelming nature of the city of angels. Everyone seemingly looks better than you, doing more than you, everyone trying to prove themselves somewhere. Nothing felt real.

You felt like a failure.

Email threads to galleries went stale and not to mention renting out studios could carve a hole into your credit card. It’s been three whole years since moving here after college, stuck in the same job you started with. The only real friend you made was from college, Oliver, who really was the one who dragged you out to California in the first place.

One friend, one lame job, one-room studio apartment, and no art to show for it. You start to think that this dream was meant to fizzle out and you’re supposed to become another cog in the wheel of Capitalism just like everybody else.

Whatever. You craft a partially-truthful resume, and an overzealous cover letter.

Somewhere in there you lie about managing a social media page for a cafe that doesn’t exist, and that you’ve worked with a few semi-recognizable artists in the industry as their interns. Right.

But for the record, this is working for Agatha Harkness. You’ve got to make it look like you’re somebody. You imagine yourself at her side on those red carpets, getting to pick her brain about all the art she’s created. You’ll get to show her the paintings you made, she’ll praise you, you’ll blush, and you’ll fall pathetically under her spell. Fuck.

Do you want the job or do you want her?

You suppose wanting both isn’t selfish. It’s ambitious. And you’re sick of circling around a realm that’s just out of reach.

You look at the unfinished canvases stowed in the corner of your apartment, the murky ‘mystery soup’ graying in several mason jars that scatter your work area. The dried paint, the tubes of acrylics strewn about. You can’t even remember the last time you painted.

If a hot, older woman was the motivation to be the artist you were always meant to be, then fuck it. You hit ‘submit’ on the application and sigh, closing your laptop with a better feeling of finality than the first time.

You never really get your hopes up about a job position, but for the rest of the day you find yourself tapping away anxiously, your mind scattered with the possibility of Agatha Harkness, of all people, becoming your boss.

————————————

The next morning you’re disruptively awakened by the buzzing of your phone. You begrudgingly hit ‘accept’ on the unknown number and pick up the line.

“Hello?” you answer and do your best not to sound utterly corpse-like.

“Hi!” a sweet voice greets you from the other end, “my name is Jennifer Kale, calling about the social media manager position for Ms. Harkness. Is this —?”

“Yes,” you shoot up, now seated in bed and exclaim before she can even finish her sentence. “This is she.”

She goes on to tell you how impressed she was with your resume and your expert copyright. You did always have a way with words, you forget how powerful they are as a way to get you exactly what you want.

“I saw in your CV that you have your work displayed at a cafe in Echo Park, is that right?”

You tell her of the few pieces you have displayed there and how you’ve made good friends with the owner. Jen mentions she’s relayed your portfolio, website, and resume to Agatha already and your breath instantly hitches.

She then goes to say that Agatha would like to personally meet you at that cafe for an interview. Tomorrow.

You nod and stutter a quick ‘yes’ into the speaker, forgetting you were on the phone at all. Lost in the possibility — no, actuality — of meeting Agatha.

After exchanging times and contact information, the line clicks blank and all the roaring thoughts begin to pour in. The anxiety, the expectations, the thought of being examined, let alone perceived by this powerful woman.

Your stomach kind of flutters at the thought, though. Her domineering presence picking you apart until you tell her exactly what she wants…and then she’ll hire you.

The confidence you feel mixed with the sheer horror of pretending you’re more than you say you are. You hope she doesn’t see through the lies.

But then again, so many people in the world have jobs they aren’t qualified for. They don’t even know what they’re doing, especially bosses and CEOs. So you’re sure Agatha can appreciate a little ‘fake it til you make it’; particularly from someone who really wants this.

————————————

You arrive infinitely early to the interview in the car you never use since everything in Downtown LA is right outside your apartment door.

The parking was the biggest hurdle but you gave yourself ample time to prepare.

The sun beats down on you as you exit your car, despite the crisp air of the early Spring morning. You shuffle down the hill to the sprawling city strip of hipster cafes, vintage thrifts, and mom ‘n pop shops. Your favorite cafe is squished between them, a true hole in the wall.

One of your favorite baristas greets you from behind the counter when you walk in. It looks like you beat the morning rush, everyone already taken to their seats, noses pressed to their laptops in concentration.

You order your favorite iced latte and wait at the bar, albeit with impatience. The barista questions your nervousness and you lean in with excitement.

“I have an interview,” you smile.

“Here?!”

“Yes, here, well — not here here, but yeah. It’s with one of the most well known artists. She’s…fascinating.”

And you gush over her for a moment, her art, her looks, the job position, while periodically checking the clock that sits behind the espresso bar, like, every five seconds.

You notice their smile grows wider as you wrap up your story, handing you your latte. But what you don’t notice is the person who just walked in, approaching the next spot in line.

“Have a great interview,” the barista dazzles in a cheeky whisper, eyes flitting to someone behind you.

Your realization hits when you turn and your latte hits her, square in the chest.

The cold liquid clashes between you two as you bump into each other, the cap coming clean off, with bits of ice clattering to the floor.

“Oh my god I am so sorry,” you babble, reaching for napkins and grabbing a fistful from who knows where.

You scramble to wipe up the mess, avoiding eye contact as Agatha steps back to examine the huge spot now staining her crisp white shirt. She can’t even get a word in before you scurry to the bathroom.

How stupid can you possibly be?

You beat yourself up in your thoughts as you gather yourself, and, clumsily, several ice cubes that managed to fall into your bra.

With a wet paper towel you clean the coffee off your front as much as you can before taking a deep breath, fixing your hair in the mirror and hoping when you step out of the bathroom, she’ll still be there waiting for you.

The bathroom door teeters and squeaks awkwardly as you push it open. You survey the cafe lobby and find Agatha opening a notebook and pulling out papers, and your resume.

You don’t think she realized you’re the one she’s supposed to interview. And you can’t even weigh what scenario would be more embarrassing.

You slide into the chair across from her, snaking your bag down to the floor and pulling out your own resume copy. You notice her blouse is completely drink-free and it catches you off guard. The coffee stains on your shirt are terribly evident despite your efforts in cleaning yourself up.

“You should’ve written your name as Caramel at the top of your resume,” she states while still looking down at the paper. Oh, of course she knows it’s you.

Looking down at yourself you realize there’s a streak of caramel syrup dripping down your cleavage.

Your eyes flick to hers, and she’s looking at you now, for the first time. There’s a long beat that clenches your throat and you forget how to speak.

You know her eyes are blue but holy shit, they’re palpably blue. And they hold yours in suspension, her gaze lingering for a moment too long before returning to her paper.

Your cheeks warm with a feverish blush, and you take a napkin to wipe the syrup away, leaving your skin sticky and shiny.

Her eyes move to your cleavage again as she shifts slightly in her seat, adjusting her stature. She scans over your resume agonizingly slow now and this long gap of silence has your nerves bubbling.

Maybe it’s a good thing the coffee spilled, because you’re sure the caffeine would give you a panic attack right about now.

“It doesn’t state in here that you use condiments as a painting medium, so, tell me your process,” Agatha jokes, but her tone is blunt.

You breathe a laugh and smile anyway, wanting to squash the awkwardness and tension so badly. Taking a second, you muster up an ounce of courage. You have to prove yourself now after this train wreck.

“I could probably use caramel as a medium,” you shrug, meeting her stark gaze again.

Agatha quirks one brow, egging you to go on.

“It’s got a similar consistency to a fast dry. Could probably even be worked into a glaze too. It could make a really nice maple color over some oils. I work with acrylics, watercolors, too, but it probably would leave paintings like that,” you take in a ragged breath, your mind catching up to just how stupid you sound, “…sticky.”

She smiles for the first time, a wicked smolder perking the corners of her lips. Amusement flares in her eyes, and you swear you can almost see them darken.

“Your skills?”

You take a deep breath before you begin, grounding yourself. “Time management, organization, I’m ambitious and work well with others. I also have really good memori –”

“You know,” she dawdles, “none of your references called me back,” she states, practically disregarding the answer to her last question.

Your mouth parts in silence.

“Oh,” is the only pathetic word you can assemble. “That’s weird,” you breathe, thoroughly fucking failing.

“I’m sure they’re all busy artists.”

And you just know she’s seeing right through you.

“But…your copywriting is very good. I’ve seen your social media, your website, you’ve got a way with words, hon.”

Your neck and chest must be as red as your face now. But the way she looks at you, blue eyes dark yet twinkling with intrigue, you’re blushing for an entirely different reason.

“Thank you,” you manage, and you give her a truthful look that you really need this, that you really want this. Because you just want something to go right for once in your life. You need to find your purpose again.

It’s like she can hear your thoughts as she studies you. It’s hard to look away when you meet her eyes again. As if she’s holding you in the palm of her hand, weighing you, rolling you between her fingers, testing to see if she should clench and squeeze the dream right from your heart.

“You know, I don’t normally meet with artists in this circumstance, or even in such a…sticky manner.”

And you blush for the millionth time.

“But I’d like to test your writing skills. I’m hosting a live painting session this weekend that I want you to come to and write a little mockup article for. If I dig it, you get the job, sweetheart.”

Her words drip like honey, the opportunity laid out before you, sounding sweet to your ears. It’s almost unbelievable.

“Wow, thank you so much Ms. Harkness,” you fawn, beaming a smile.

“Agatha,” she says warmly, holding out her hand for you to shake.

You hesitate for a moment before taking her hand in yours, her slender, delicate fingers just barely grazing the inside of your wrist. Something flutters in your stomach at the contact, like a chemical reaction right in your core.

The embrace is subtle, but it carries the weight of something more than just a job, more than just a task she’s asking you to complete. You tug your hand away, but the air between you stays charged.

“I won’t let you down,” you exhale earnestly.

Agatha blinks at you slowly, that smile never faltering, “good girl.”

She rises now, collecting her papers and notebook, storing them inside a black tote bag. “My assistant will be in touch.”

You absentmindedly nod to her, feeling her presence leave, with the click of the cafe door echoing in your ears. You’re completely dumbfounded. What just happened?

Did you actually manage to fake your way to the top? You have a real shot now at getting this position. And the way she looked at you, like she just knew what you were capable of?

Her request is simple, just a mockup article. Nothing truly serious. The significance of her words, though, make your heart race. The heady mix of exhilaration and nerve wracking anticipation makes you dizzy at the thought. And her praise.

Good girl.

You’re completely slack-jawed at the thought of it again. You just know you’re in for something more than just a mere task.

Whatever she wants from you, you’ll give it – willingly, completely, without question.

[with-my-calamitous-love]

BAREFOOT IN THE KITCHEN / SACRED NEW BEGINNINGS

shouto todoroki x reader

shouto makes a mental checklist of all the things he loves about his home. (you.)

inspired by cornelia street

houses and homes are two different things for many different people.

for shouto, a house was simply a structure that sheltered the most personal details of ones life. the family, the fights, the scars… a house was a place he was forced to be in, forced to grow up in. it was never happy for him.

and shouto knew his childhood house well, as if there were key signs that warned him of incoming disaster. the stillness of the house, even the old floorboards refusing to move. the sudden change of tension in the air the moment the front door opens. the lack of his siblings laughter, all hiding away from him.

the worst kinds of hurt come from the people who should be protecting you.

so he’s hesitant when it comes to getting close to people. his worst fear, now as an independent pro-hero, is going back to one of those still, tear-filled houses.

and you can’t blame him. he doesn’t know what a home is, at first.

1) home is your apartment.

first, shouto learns that home is going to your apartment after work, because he knows your fridge is actually filled and you’ll have clean towels for him to dry off. as self sufficient as he may be, he’s a youngest child at heart. that means be loves to have people to lean on- though they’re far and in between.

as he drives through the city, its as though the street lights point him in your direction. he’s completely mystified, wanting nothing more than to seek your refuge. he barely has a chance to fumble with his keys before you’re already opening the front door for him, as if you just sensed his presence.

“how was work?” he asks you, wrapping his arms around your waist while you cook food on the stove. you love him when he walks out of the shower, wearing nothing but his black sweatpants with a loosely tied jaw string. his perfect muscles are glistening with water, and his hair smells like your shampoo.

he hums as he listens to you, clinging with zero interest of letting go. he loves this, and loves coming home to you after gruelling days at work. sure, his house was bigger, maybe more lavish with unreasonable monthly rent, but all of that doesn’t compare to your laughter at his shitty jokes. it pails in comparison to your favourite mug and the specific way you take your coffee. its the mundane things that make you so beautiful to him.

2) home is your cooking.

he’s used to running on an empty stomach. he doesn’t pay too much attention to his self care, despite his status and previous training. he simply just doesn’t have the time to sit down and have a proper meal, not when he has to work hard and maintain his rank.

all of that changes, however, when you begin your ritual of making soba for him every friday night. at first, he’s confused- not that its incredibly hard to make, or that it would take you that much time- no. he’s confused as to why you did it specifically for him. i mean, sure, you two are dating, and it was a really sweet gesture, but it was also so personal. you could have surprised him with flowers, or treats, or lacy lingerie, but instead you crafted the dish he loves so much.

and it tastes so good.

“your mom told me its your favourite.” you sheepishly admit, referring to the phone call you had with rei earlier. “did she?” shouto smiles, slurping up that last piece of soba eagerly. it makes him warm, knowing that you actively talk with his mom, even when he’s not around.

and she loves you, because you’re an extension of who shouto is. and he will proudly announce that to his family, wanting to share that love with others too. he wants to thank you not just for the food, but for everything else too. though he can’t quite grasp just everything you’ve done for him.

3) home is your smile.

its a no brainer that shouto has money. he grew up rich, and has become one of the most successful pro heroes to date. he loves to spoil you, because he loves seeing the way your eyes light up when he hands you a bouquet of your favourite flowers or that new book you’ve been raving about.

he’s also a man of style. he loves to buy quality clothes and comfortable fabrics, obviously for himself but more so for you. he loves seeing that the jacket around your shoulders is his, walking around in the autumn air.

“you’ll get cold.” you almost whine, but fail to make an actual protest as he leaves his long trench coat around your shoulders. you love the smell, his cologne on your skin. shouto just smiles- he’s never really been impacted by temperatures too much anyway. “its alright, beautiful. it looks better on you, anyway.”

he loves to see you basking in the summer sun, walking through the subtle crisp of autumn leaves, spring pollen making your nose scrunch up adorably, or the way the snowflakes sit on your eyelashes. he loves you all the time.

or the fancy dates he takes you out on, long nights of drinking and laughter. and he’ll happily call you two a taxi, hoping that the person on the other end of the line can excuse his happy-intoxicated slurs. you two sit in the backseat, drunk on something stronger than the drinks in the bar.

“you’re so cute when you’re drunk, love.”

“you’re -hic!- just as drunk as me, sho.”

“am i?”

he’s also the type to almost forget your address when the driver asks- he’s way too drunk, half off of the alcohol and half off of you.

4) home is your arguments.

familial arguments aren’t a new thing for shouto. he’s used to it- the tears, the yelling, the scars that cut deep. but for the first time, maybe ever, he doesn’t want to back his bags and leave before you even know he’s gone.

he finds himself wanting to stay, wanting to make things right. he’ll distance himself, let himself cool off before going to talk with you. he doesn’t dare to say the wrong thing, to let something slip at the heat of the moment. he needs you to know that he loves you not just through every kiss, but through every argument too. he’s here for the good and the bad.

he hates seeing you cry. your pain, the person he loves more than anything being in pain is a kind of heartbreak time could never mend. he’s terrified if you ever walk away. you’re the one person he can’t lose. absolutely not.

“i’m sorry, gorgeous.” he hums, laying down on the bed next to you. he makes it impossible to stay mad at him, for whatever has happened. you just sigh, any traces of anger disappearing when he touches you, pulling you in and forcing you to look at him. he has puppy dog eyes and doesn’t even know what they do to you- and it drives you insane. “i’m sorry too.”

you don’t say anything else, but you opt to leave a sweet kiss on the tip of his nose before drifting off to sleep in his arms. in the morning he’ll call in sick for you and bring you your coffee in bed. it doesn’t matter how stupid, how petty or how hurtful the argument was- you two will make up.

5) home is the memories you’ve made.

shouto can’t dance. and for a man who is supposedly good at everything, you find that absolutely adorable.

“am i doing this right?” he asks, holding your waist close to him as the two of you sway together. the lights are off, the soft glow of the refrigerator light illuminating the two of you like a snow globe, round and round.

you nod reassuringly, the sounds of some american singer playing on the radio. both of your bare feet creak beneath the wooden floorboards, as if the house itself was humming along to the tune.

this is your religion. and this is a sacred new beginning for shouto. the first house he had ever felt was home.

“i love you.” you whisper, getting on your tip-toes slightly to kiss his jawline. “i love you so much, darling.” he hums back, vowing to remember this moment forever.

6) home is wherever you two are, together.

he never wants to lose you. he physically, cannot lose the floorboards, the streets, and the home he’s loved you on. he’d never walk these streets again. if they don’t lead to you, they don’t lead home.

[lovelynim]

Fanfiction

Zenless Zone Zero - Asaba Harumasa (feat. Reader x Harumasa)

A/N: I don't even know where I start to explain the idea behind this one. Well, fanfics are canon in ZZZ and Harumasa is aware his fans write fics for him so... yeah.

Summary: Harumasa is reading a fanfic at work.

Word count: 1844 words

Harumasa sighed, slouching in his chair while the report pages rested empty on top of his desk. There was still about two hours before he could finally clock out and his body simply refused to waste its energy on filling those insufferable documents.

He already had to risk his life fighting ethereals, exploring hollows and doing medical check-ups, why did he also have to worry about explaining how any of those went? Why did it even matter in the first place? They just happened, weren’t the higher ups glad enough that he saved the day?

“Asaba-kun,” a cold, firm female voice came from behind him, making Harumasa jump in his seat and sit back up straight, dragging him from his thoughts back to reality. “Are you making progress with your reports? It would be troublesome to request another deadline extension after a two month delay.”

“D-deputy chief, you scared me!” Harumasa whined softly, his hand pressing flat against his chest while he looked up to Yanagi with puppy-like eyes. “Of course I’m making progress, but it’s just so har-”

“Good,” Yanagi nodded with a smile, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder, “I’m sure you can make it up for all the reports behind the schedule, Asaba-kun,” she added before walking away to pay some mind to whatever matter was going on with Soukaku and Miyabi.

‘So mean!’, Harumasa thought, how could the deputy chief of all people not even bother to offer him some help with that endless pile of work? He frowned, resting an elbow on top of his desk and his head on top of his hand. Well, there were still two hours, right? He could kill off some time and do that report later…

He reached for his cellphone, which was just by the side of the pile of work he was trying so hard to ignore, and mindlessly moved his thumb around the screen, drawing an arrow and unlocking the device.

Browsing through the interknot shouldn’t be that much of a big deal to most people, but things may get a little interesting when you have an army of restless fans that are chronically online, to say the least. It was still a little hard for him to believe what kind of thing his admirers would do and create: drawings, banners, edits of his fights’ footage with upbeat songs, and even fictional stories… Now that he thought about it, Harumasa was probably the one inside the Section 6 that paid the most attention to these contents: Yanagi usually brushed them off with a polite smile, not even daring to give them a second look; Miyabi didn’t understand the concept behind people’s admiration towards her; and Soukaku only cared about the gifts she could eat.

Still, while being popular could be a little troublesome at times (like when he was trying to sneak out with a certain proxy), having a legion of followers would come handy at boring moments like this. After all, Harumasa knew there would always be something to entertain himself with.

“Masa-masa enthusiasts explain why he is so cute; Check it out!”, “Ten things you didn’t know about Asaba Harumasa!”, “Harumasa caught secret dating?!”, “Harumasa spotted at the Lumina Square! See more pictures here”...

Harumasa rolled his eyes, scrolling past all the posts he deemed dumb. Why was the tag with his name filled with so many weird articles anyway? Where was the good stuff at? He let out a quiet groan, continuing to search for something that actually deserved his attention.

He continued to search, post after post, article after article, photo after photo. After a couple moments digging throughout the interknot, a post from the “Archive of Our Eridu” caught his attention. Finally some good fan made content, Harumasa through, smirking slightly as he clicked the link and opened it.

“‘Harumasa/Reader’, huh..?” He mumbled, shifting in his chair as his eyes moved past the tags, skipping the summary and the author’s notes to finally get to the actual story. 

‘You watch your captive slowly regain his consciousness, his muffled groans barely making past the improvised gag and his limbs’ moving restrained by the tightly tied ropes’- Harumasa arched one eyebrow at the content and its form, remembering one of the fanfic’s tags. 

Right, this should be someone else’s point-of-view, which means… the said ‘captive’ was him? Wait, how was he supposed to read it if he was doing both roles? 

Harumasa frowned, shaking his head. Probably the author never expected him, of all the users in the interknot, to stumble upon this. Still, he should probably just think of ‘reader’ as a different person while reading it, that should make things easier for him to understand and get through the text. 

So, back to it…

It was a straight forward setting. The reader in question was playing the role of some sort of criminal organization’s leader while Harumasa played… well, his own role. For some reason, the author skipped the previous events that led to the current scene - Harumasa assumed that would be too much context - and the first paragraphs described some sort of… interrogation? At least, that’s what it sounded like.

“Heh, am I going to fall in love with the bad guys here..?” Harumasa giggled with the thought, surprisingly amused as the reader threatened and tried to intimidate him. “They are making me sound so stubborn here…”

Harumasa continued to read, flinching when the reader snatched the tape off his lips, imagining how much it would sting, and even unawarely mimicking his reactions described in the story: parted lips, half closed eyes, erratic breathing…

‘We already took care of your colleagues. No one is coming to save you, Asaba, you better speak’, he shifted in his seat at that line. ‘Hah, even better. Do your worst, you’ll get nothing from me’, was he actually this sassy? And what’s up with the attitude? Harumasa shook his head, rolling his eyes at the cliché threats from the reader. Maybe he did set the bar too high for some amateur stor-

‘Pain? Who said anything about hurting you, my dear Asaba? I have my own methods of making you talk’, oh? Was that the beginning of the steamy parts? Harumasa looked around the office, making sure Yanagi was still in her seat before continuing his reading.

Being caught reading this kind of stuff would be even worse than getting caught slacking off. Gladly, Soukaku seemed to be doing an amazing job at keeping the deputy chief busy. 

Alright, time to resume it.

‘What?’. ‘Ah, Asaba… I’ve always been fond of you, I could never bring myself to hurt that pretty face of yours, but… I still need to make you talk, right?’ He could feel his cheeks warming up a little, imagining the scene a bit beyond what was written. 

Ah, this better not be something weird awakening inside him, Harumasa thought.

There was still no action. The story only described how the reader walked around him, wandering in the room and circling the chair he was tied to while explaining to Harumasa the roots of their affection for him. Still, Harumasa couldn’t help but to feel his heart beating a little faster with anticipation - both as the audience and as a form of sympathy towards his character.

The next part had Harumasa leaning more and more on the edge of his seat, going an inch forward with each word read. The description mentioned something like the reader sitting at Harumasa’s lap, popping his shirt’s buttons open one after the other and pushing his shirt away, exposing his bare chest.

‘Get your hands… off me, you f-freak!’. “Why? Are you nervous? Feeling shy? Maybe there is something stuck at the back of your throat? Let me get it out for you’.

Harumasa felt a shiver run up his spine, regretting ever underestimating one of his fan’s work. The description had him wrapped around its finger and even he himself couldn’t figure out what was so good about it - neither what made it sound so awfully hot.

‘You began to drag your fingers around his toned midriff, circling his navel before teasing his sides. You watched Harumasa tense up, sucking in stomach, trying to avoid your touch. You chuckle, fondly, tickling the edge of his waist.’

So this was the torture they had in mind? Tickling? Harumasa looked up, lowering his phone for a moment and contemplating the idea. Unexpected, yes. Unwelcomed? Not sure. He couldn’t really tell if he was ticklish - was there ever a time for him to figure it out?

Of course, the lack of this confirmation didn’t stop this fan, it seemed. He should probably leave a like in their work for the effort - finding a piece of information that Harumasa himself wasn’t aware of. Heh.

But, back to the fanfiction… Why was it making his heart flutter? Or, even better, why was he struck by the imaginary feeling of it?

He could feel a ghost-like sensation roaming his body. Unconsciously hitching his breath, brushing a hand over whatever spot was mentioned to get rid of the phantom feeling and even catching himself smiling at nothing but his own thoughts.

‘Harumasa laugh helplessly under your hands. You dig your finds under his arms, squirming your way past his defenses despite his efforts into clasping his elbows to his torso. He throws his head back and you can’t help but to give his neck a little tease’.

“...w-what kind of freak would be into this stuff?” He groaned quietly, pouting while his cheeks felt warmer than before. Harumasa even lifted his hand - after hesitating a little, for some reason - to rub his neck, trying to shift his attention from the nonexistent sensation.

Stomach, side, neck, ears, thighs, knees, waist, feet, back… even his hands! How many words did that fanfic even have?!

Harumasa crossed his legs before leaning back into the chair, his breathing quickened for some reason. “A-ahm, does anyone mind if I turn on the AC?” Harumasa whined sheepishly, hooking a finger around his collar to loosen it.

“No, go ah- Asaba-kun, are you feeling alright?” Yanagi asked, furrowing her brows slightly with concern. “You actually look sick, do you need me to-”

“I-it’s fine, deputy chief,” Harumasa sighed, wiping a drop of sweat from the side of his face and fanning it with his hand. “Just a little… overwhelmed, I’ll be fine,” he pulled out a forced smile, making Yanagi nod despite the doubt.

He should stop reading these things at work…

Brr, brr.

Wise lifted his head from his pillow, turning around and giving his attention to his phone instead of trying to sleep. Reaching out to it, taking him less than a couple swipes to check the reason behind the noise. 

[A guest left ludos on Harumasa’s Interrogation], read the e-mail. Wise shrugged, placing his phone back on the table. Well, at least something was doing numbers, unlike this commission he was stuck at… but he should be able to do it after a good nap!

[ddarker-dreams]

mini love report — gojo satoru

relationship health diagnosis — 70%*

symptom one — permanent honeymoon phase

he's obsessed with you an (ab)normal amount and makes it everyone else's problem. satoru loves seeing how many compliments he can get in before you're swatting him away from embarrassment. he'll capture your wrist, smother your pulse in kisses, then continue his praise. it's not always suave either. he alternates between having decent game and coming off as cringe. you have no idea how he says half the things he does.

satoru gushes about you to everyone. poor ijichi, mortified higher-ups, the elderly lady sitting next to him on the train; no one is safe. his chest swells with pride every time he remembers that he managed to pull you. it doesn't matter if you're teenagers sharing your awkward first kiss or if you've been married for decades, he'll be singing your praises until the end of time.

symptom two — weirdly possessive

satoru isn't possessive in the traditional sense. when others encroach on you, what troubles him runs deeper than simple jealousy. his smile becomes strained and he physically inserts himself between you and the offending party. you're then whisked away, regardless of how rude the abrupt departure comes off. this isn't limited to instances where you're being flirted with outright.

it's actually amplified when the other person holds some unique position in your life that's exclusive to them. satoru prides himself on the fact no one knows you better than he does. so it's disconcerting when another person has access to information and memories entirely detached from him. he's overwhelmed with the urge to prove you belong to each other — no one can come close to the bond you share. this acrimony lingers even after the interaction ends.

gojo satoru is a greedy man. he might not be the type to insist you cover up if your outfit is revealing, but he does experience this antipathy toward people who fulfill a niche he can't.

symptom three — obnoxious

you deserve a reward for putting up with him honestly. he wasn't wrong when he described himself as having a terrible personality. while it's rarely malicious, he isn't the most considerate person when it comes to others. he'll speak what's on his mind without a second thought. zero filter. if you're around, he's a stunning 10% nicer so you'll chew him out less. the number could be higher but he finds that disciplinary side of you hot. this is a direct admission from him.

he likes your attention and will pursue it relentlessly. as he grows up, he slightly improves this habit. or, to be more specific, he hides it better. he feels he's way more interesting than whatever book or video game you're playing. shooing him off so you can get stuff done is a commonplace occurrence. on the upside, when trudging through chores, he helps with the passion of a thousand suns if it means having you all to himself sooner.

primary area of concern

satoru's seemingly infinite (heh) supply of pep often doubles as a shield to deflect uncomfortable emotions. he isn't one to linger on negative events, the pace in which he seemingly moves on is concerning. the innerworkings of his mind are shrouded in mystery for such an open individual. getting him to open up about his fears or past hurts is almost impossible. he won't dodge your inquiries outright, that'd prove too suspicious. he'll throw a few crumbs your way and hope that's enough to satiate your worry.

the word vulnerability isn't in his vocabulary. this isn't owed to a lack of trust on his part — if anything, the care he holds for you makes it tempting at times. however, taking that first step toward opening up is daunting. you'll have to be patient with him. if it doesn't pertain to your relationship, it's unlikely he'll have an extensive heart-to-heart about the specters haunting his mind. rather, those aforementioned crumbs become more substantial. a late-night conversation will unexpectedly veer toward a sensitive subject.

it'll be fleeting. you don't have to shower him with platitudes, simply grab his hand and squeeze. it's an unspoken message that he isn't as alone as he sometimes feels.

prognosis

gojo satoru can be too blunt, he struggles with emotional intimacy, and he's shameless in getting what he wants from you. he's a mess but he's your mess. you don't revere him like a god among men, you make him feel human. you're his best friend, his soulmate (he keeps the latter description to himself, it's one of the few sentiments that embarrasses him). he'd do absolutely anything for your sake. when you enter the room, it's like everyone else ceases to exist. he brightens up and chases after any laugh, smile, or flustered expression he can get.

he believes meeting you altered the balance of the world more than his own birth.

*the universe has tried (and failed) to wrench you apart (0-20) your friends are praying that you'll break up (21-40) 'well it could/has be worse' bargaining mindset (41-60) a lil messiness as a treat (61-80) pure and wholesome (81-10)

[natalyarose]

𝓛𝓾𝓷𝓪𝓻 𝓝𝓪𝓴𝓼𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓼 - 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓺𝓾𝓮 🌙

Originally, I was going to do a short write-up on one character who's Nakshatras made sense to me, but this turned into an extensive piece on the mystical, mysterious nature of Moon ruled Nakshatras lol. I hope this is enjoyed & without further ado, ima delve into this. 💕

Now to put it plainly, Moon ruled Nakshatras are lunatics. I'm allowed to say it lol, but seriously. Lu-na-tics. but that's okay! In fact, it's great; a bit of lunacy is an asset in art & anything that requires outside of the box thinking. The Moon is often associated with purity; but in a sense to be pure is to welcome any and all whims & emotions without judgement.

Running into the wild ocean at 3am solely because you felt like it? Okay! (my Shravana stellium mum lol), frolicking in the woods with no rhyme or reason? Sure! Making daisy chains and thinking about chai lattes lol (Moon = milk, lunar people often love milk drinks) instead of focusing on your assignment? Yup. Dating some guy who's known to be trouble because you 'feel there's something more to him'? Mm..

The Moon rules over all that is mystical, whereas Mercury rules over the cerebral realm. This is why Ashlesha tends to be a very mystical Nakshatra- it's placed within Cancer (Moon ruled) but is a Mercurial Lunar Mansion. In Ashlesha, there is a union between unexplainable intuition & sharp intellect. It is said that Ashlesha natives if they apply their focus correctly, would be the first to uncover the secrets of our world.

The Moon is a blank canvas; readily available for anybody to project their energy onto. Moon seldom clings to an identity or persona, it just 'is'.

in Rohini, there is this sense of 'nakedness' & a lot of vulnerability. Themes of unbridled imagination, sensitivity, pleasure seeking & creativity come through, and there is a lack of boundaries being lunar yet co-ruled by Venus; a planet pertaining to relationships. Rohini really needs some form of external structure, but at the same time thrives on lunar fluctuation and instability. It is why the creativity in Rohini is so immense and there is constant growth.

In Hasta, we see the co-rulership of Mercury, being in Sidereal Virgo. Hasta is where the Moon realises that it is not always safe to be completely receptive and vulnerable, therefore becomes shrewd and learns to be a little more pragmatic & purposeful in the way they express themselves. For this reason, you'll find Hasta slightly less represented in this 'wild feminine' archetype exploration, though some Hasta natives still very much embody this energy. Hasta; similarly to Ashlesha focuses on being conservative & logical in the face of internal lunar fluctuation.

In Shravana, we see lunar energy matured- the co-rulership of Saturn provides the structure, discipline and boundaries the Moon needs to thrive. I find that while Rohini is very maternal & associated with motherhood, I tend to see Shravana as THE mother. The stability Saturn provides makes for this ability to nurture & listen but still instil some sort of routine or restriction, which is necessary in motherhood. A friend of mine noticed that Saturn Nakshatras (think of Pushya, the other Moon-Saturn Nakshatra) are strongly represented in themes of motherhood due to the fact that children thrive when there is (gentle) but definitive limitation. Rohini's style of nurturing is very free form and full of sweetness & virtually zero judgement.

The beauty of lunar people really shows in how comfortable they are with change. I've noticed Moon ruled people retain their youth and tend to age very beautifully partially because they are so in tune with feminine cycles and are not as resistant to change. This isn't surprising as Moon is connected to the face & traditionally holds associations with fertility and youth. Moon Nakshatras embrace flow, embrace change, so they move into every phase of life with grace.

Random note: I've always suspected this but I just saw this on TikTok the other night to confirm- research shows that people who have a lot of pimples or oily skin, tend to age much better due to that extra oil. As mentioned, Moon rules the face & also relates to water- I've noticed & it has been written that people with prominent Moon influence will be more susceptible to acne & weight fluctuations due to the water/fluid connection. A lot of people who age remarkably well tend to have a Moon Nakshatra somewhere (and people who look older even from a young age are often Saturnian; Saturn Nakshatras falling opposite to Moon).

A lot of people mistake lunar individuals for being 'dumb' and ditzy, but there is a certain wisdom in the madness as you will find in the examples I'm using today :)

𝒜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓎𝓈𝒾𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝒜𝓊𝓃𝓉 𝐸𝓁𝒾𝓏𝒶𝒷𝑒𝓉𝒽, '𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒢𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉' - 𝑅𝑜𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒾 𝒮𝓊𝓃, 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝐻𝒶𝓈𝓉𝒶 𝑀𝑜𝑜𝓃

I watched 'The Great' a while back and I couldn't get over how strongly the actress; Belinda Bromilow portrayed Rohini energy! I looked up her chart after watching, & as per Galactic Center mid-mula ayanamsa she is indeed a Rohini Sun native, likely with Hasta Moon; only amplifying the lunar influence.

There are many reasons, but what really tipped me off was how as a character, despite being an 'older woman' she really comes across so youthful and full of this magical, fanciful zest for life. I also find her gorgeous!!

I ADORE her character, she is so funny & light without deviating from the overall intensity of the show.

In 'The Great', Aunt Elizabeth is this 'strange', mystical, offbeat woman with a lot of unconventional wisdom. She's a woman who talks to butterflies and other creatures, has all of these 'wacky' witch-esque remedies that work, and has no shortage of odd, seemingly random one liners that often veil deep metaphors.

She often would be seen in the show comforting the main characters & acting as a trusted, empathetic maternal figure/guide. Simultaneously, she was viewed as somewhat insane & often used that perception to her advantage (her Hasta Moon reflecting the calculated side of Moon). Her character is extremely loving, able to look past the faults of others and show softness and compassion to people considered 'unlovable'. One of her notable roles as a character being Peter's (the barbaric Emperor who reigns with cruelty's) aunt who was really more of a maternal figure to him than his real mother, who was cruel much like himself.

She's in a sense, everyone's comfort, the woman in everyone's ear (very Serpent yoni too).

Aunt Elizabeth doesn't condone or necessarily agree with Peter's evil actions, but she has this beautiful way of seeing the little boy in him and nurturing him no matter what (Rohini's combination of Moon & Venus creates a person who is capable of seeing the beauty in everything & everyone).

There is another strong plot point pertaining to her child who sadly drowned. I've noticed in media, Moon women tend to have strong plots related to their love for other people (children, spouses, etc.) not because they don't stand strong on their own, but because Moon women naturally devote to their loved ones.

Throughout the show, Aunt Elizabeth has this gentle persuasion that subtly influences the characters in profound ways. I've seen talk recently of Moon Nakshatras being manipulative, and in a way they most definitely are (for better or worse). The same way the Moon pulls on the tides & pulls the attention of humans & animals alike.

Hasta's more shrewd nature shows in Elizabeth's surprising ability to scheme and commit dark acts in order to achieve a bigger goal- even though the Rohini energy gives her this energy of being very kooky, 'off with the fairies' character.

Moon's manipulation can be very much this subtle, almost subliminal feminine influence. It reminds me of the saying, 'behind every powerful man is a woman'; meaning that a man who is powerful never stands alone. He never got there without the love, or at least the influence of a woman. Behind him there is a woman who nurtures him (be it his mother in childhood or his wife), subtly influences him, lifts his spirits, etc. Even if not, the fact of him even incarnating and being born in the first place is the work of a woman.

A memorable moment from the series that strikes me as very indicative of Moon Nakshatras tendency towards intense emotions & strong sensitivity is when Elizabeth is sitting in the carriage after witnessing the gruesome affects of the war in their region. She is eerily quiet on the trip home, until suddenly she calmly requests for the carriage to stop. She proceeds to get out of the carriage, and scream & thrash around intensely as catharsis for the pain & anger she felt for the horror she'd just witnessed. :(

More on Elizabeth, there is also this aspect of the story where she is a sort of nymphomaniac lol, having many lovers of any age/gender (Rohini doesn't discriminate lmao) and is forever tragically in love with her deceased lover Peter the Great (Peter's father). Peter the Great was a womaniser, but in a sense Elizabeth was his 'true love' which reminds me of Rohini's mythology being 'the favourite wife of the Moon'. He had many lovers and a great deal of power, but Elizabeth was the closest he had to a true love.

Elizabeth was shown multiple times to be very psychic- an example of this being her 'feeling it' & having a vision the moment Peter died.

In summary, this character is just such a glaring example of what an abundance of lunar energy manifests like (for better and for worse since she is a very multifaceted character). Speaking of which, the word 'multifaceted' in itself always makes me think of the Moon. The Moon has many faces/phases.

𝑀𝑜𝑜𝓃 𝒩𝒶𝓀𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒲𝒾𝓉𝒸𝒽𝓎, 𝑀𝓎𝓈𝓉𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝑜𝓇 '𝒮𝓉𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒'

A lot of public figures who have a pronounced reputation for being 'witchy', strange or mysterious/disconcerting/charmingly bizarre will have a prominent Moon ruled Nakshatra in their chart. Lunar people can really embody the archetype of being 'insane' or random. but lovable all in the same.

Kate Bush, Shravana Moon (Ashlesha Sun) I may do an independent post on Kate Bush's placements, but she is such a staple example of Moon Nakshatras & the 'wild feminine' witchy, strange but beautiful energy. Her music & music videos are full of symbolism, often pulling inspiration from obscure ideas and stories. Some people find her a bit 'weird', especially men but just as many women and men alike adore her. Very mleccah (outcaste) Nakshatra vibes. People are either inexplicably drawn to her and enchanted, or find her 'creepy'. ~I'll note that Kate is extremely Mercury influenced too, hence the much rounder face than the examples you'll see. Moon people tend to have rounded faces, but they are typically a bit longer than Mercury and have very prominent cheekbones.

Stevie Nicks, Rohini Sun Stevie Nicks is always remarked to be a witch. She never explicitly said this, but upon the release of Fleetwood Mac's 'Rhiannon', (a very witch-y song about the Celtic Goddess herself) the witch allegations began lol. Other than that, Stevie Nicks & Fleetwood Mac have always been associated with the hippy/spiritual/witchy crowd.

Helena Bonham Carter, Rohini Sun Helena has been known to often play 'bizarre', witchy or macabre characters, known to work alongside Tim Burton (also a Rohini native) often. Some of these roles to note are her as the Queen of Hearts and Bellatrix Lestrange; but there are countless that speak to the lunar wild feminine archetype. Beyond that, Helena is known to have a very eccentric dress sense off screen, people often remarking that she has all this money yet chooses to still be herself and a little strange.

Alica Keys, Hasta Moon, Shravana Sun I can't think of any overtly 'witchy' or 'bizarre' associations for Alicia Keys, but I wanted to include her because I feel like her sweet emotive face and gorgeous flowing hair is very reflective of her Moon dominance. She has the 'vibe'. She's also mentioned that she has a spiritual practice in her everyday life & references the divine feminine.

James Marsden, Rohini Moon admittedly, I only know him in two movies, but in both he is playing this kinda bizarre, theatrical, childlike character very indicative of Rohini energy. In 'Enchanted' he is the dramatic, vibrant and endlessly cheerful fairytale prince who breaks into song whenever he gets the chance. In 'Hop' he is this uninspired guy who lives with his parents and can't seem to get a job or find purpose. That is until he meets the easter bunny who'd run away from 'Easter Island' and didn't want to be the easter bunny anymore. He then proceeded to become the easter bunny himself- lmao. If you know about Rohini's relationship with sweets & children (not to mention Rohini natives typically having prominent front teeth like a bunny) this movie is very on the nose.

Kylie Minogue, Rohini Sun & Pushya Asc an Aussie legend I say. Kylie is another one who always embodied this very lunar feminine mystique, she actually sort of reminds me of Marilyn Monroe (Rohini Sun) in some photos of her in her youth. The witchy, eerie, 'haunting' vibe Moon people can radiate really shines through in her enchanting murder ballad 'Where the Wild Roses Grow' with Nick Cave (a Magha native of course). A personal favourite of mine.

Teal Swan, Shravana Moon Teal Swan is a famous spiritual 'guru' who is known to have extrasensory abilities. She is a controversial figure due to strange behaviour in her past & questionable things in her personal life. Some disregard her as a narcissistic cult leader for these reasons, but in my opinion even if that were the case, two things can be true- someone can have ill intent with the knowledge they possess yet still genuinely possess that knowledge. I find a lot of her content incredibly helpful and intuitive. Credit to @makingspiritualityreal for my learning about this- you'll notice that a lot of individuals with strong Lunar influence in their chart will have very light, translucent looking eyes indicative of their receptive, psychic nature. Even if the eyes are brown, they still will have a notably 'light', reflective, soft, crystal-esque quality. We see this with all of these examples, but Teal especially.

Amber Heard, Hasta Moon I was struggling to think of Hasta examples that fit this archetype since as I mentioned earlier, Hasta places a huge emphasis on gaining control over their own lunar nature. In Hasta there is less of a tendency to be 'wild and free' the way we see in Rohini & Shravana. However, I still see in Amber Heard's infamy a different expression of the lunar witchy lunacy. A lot of people regard her nature as 'insane', overemotional, very manipulative, bewitching people with her beauty, etc. This being said, I know I've definitely seen witchy-ish Hasta natives, I just can't think of any as readily as I can the other Moon Nakshatras.

Alanis Morrisette, Rohini Sun Just another woman in music who radiates that lunar, wild feminine, raw emotional energy. If you listen to her song 'You Oughta Know' and see the emotionally chaotic, passionate music video, you'll absolutely see what I mean!

Tori Amos, Hasta Moon another witch-esque phenomenal alternative artist. I just remembered to include her!! She's perfect for this list. Listen to 'Cornflake Girl'. and once again you'll see the lunar, feminine energy. Shania Twain & Kate Winslet are two more Hasta natives I thought of who embody this energy, but I can't add anymore pics to the post :(

It's worth noting that Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Alanis Morissette and some other artists are often piled together and referred to as being similar in 'vibe'. Mysterious, feminine, emotional, mystical, etc. I'd venture to guess that other artists in the same sort of creative realm have Moon ruled Nakshatras.

I just thought of Bjork, another artist who is compared to ones mentioned. She is Swati Moon, with Rahu in Rohini as the lord of her Moon!

One last thing I want to mention, is I've noticed that Moon women can sometimes be viewed as 'anti feminist' by other women despite the fact that a lot of the time, healthy Moon women are extreme symbols of feminine strength and courage to be womanly & emotionally vulnerable. It's kinda like some people see the beauty, the softness, the emotion and picture a girl flouncing around in frilly dresses catering to men. Needless to say, a shallow and ironically anti-feminist conclusion. That being said, lunar receptivity can definitely make Moon influenced women prone to doing a lot to cater to men, but I think it's a mistake to miss the wisdom in the 'frilliness' and fanciful nature of lunar natives.

Anyway as always, I could write forever, this one was super fun to do :) noticing and dissecting these patterns is such a magical thing.

I hope this was interesting to someone, lots of love! 💞💞💞