#thread; springtime

[bouquetofgarnets]

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Create a stunning cross-stitch masterpiece with this serene garden bridge design! Featuring a picturesque stone bridge over a gentle stream, surrounded by vibrant flowers and lush trees, this pattern is perfect for nature lovers and embroidery enthusiasts alike. The calming colors and intricate details make this piece a joy to stitch and a beautiful addition to any home décor.

[machabre]

me in a perfect world where the seasons are just autumn then winter then autumn again

please can it be autumn again

[breelandwalker]

I'm starting to question how much the "old" pagan costumes and festivities were indeed about fertility, sex, etc.

Ronald Hutton claims that there is no evidence in history that the maypole was saw as a phallic symbol, for example. And there are other possible meanings. But you usually just read in books as a matter of fact that it was a phalic representation and the dance around was about fertility etc

I recently read the witche's bible because I was curious about traditional wicca rituals and there is suuch a high focus on how every single costume or holiday was about fertility and sex that honestly it makes me wonder, how much it was indeed about those things and how much is just the interpretation of modern people like Gardner making it about those things

You're hitting the nail on the head without even realizing it, Anon.

SO much of what we think we know about "old pagan customs" comes from books written by Victorian-era occultists. And if there is one thing to be said about Victorian-era occultists, it was that they were horny as FUCK. (And the Edwardians weren't any better.)

These people went around rubber-stamping FERTILITY in big red letters on anything to do with goddesses or springtime or even the most passing reference to pregnancy, childbirth, midwifery, or babies. Literally any excuse for ritual nudity or a sacred orgy. And no, that is not satire. Or a euphemism.

The other thing that can be said about Victorian-era occultists is that quite a lot of them were history buffs and very prolific writers. (If you look at the roster of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn and their regular guests, it reads like a Who's Who of the writers of fantastical fiction and poetry at the time.) So the result of that is a whole lot of literature about folklore and "ancient pagan customs" written by people who were filtering what little historical information they had at the time through the lens of their own opinions and those of their colleagues.

(It's worth noting that that "lens" often consisted quite heavily of free-associated ideas not supported by history or things they completely pulled out of their own asses. Leland's "Aradia" is a good example of the "Ancient Sacred Text Given To Me By A Real Witch Who Totally Exists And I Definitely Didn't Write This Myself And Make Up This Claim For Clout" genre.)

Quite unsurprisingly, a lot of these beliefs got absorbed into the roots of the modern witchcraft movement a few decades later, since those were the popular resources available at the time and the same generally-prevailing opinions and biases were still present. So this started WELL before Gardner and his coven were on the scene. They just picked up the thread.

And as we all know, once there's a generation or so of removal from the founding beliefs of a movement, people tend to take the older texts as gospel, regardless of how flawed they might be.

See Also: We Still Have To Talk About The Witch-Cult Hypothesis Because Margaret Murray Wrote The Encyclopedia Britannica Entry On Witchcraft And It Wasn't Updated Until The 1960s.

See Also: We Still Have To Explain The Difference Between Historical Fiction And The Historical Record Because Of The White Goddess And The Mists Of Avalon.

See Also: We Still Have To Talk About The Burning Times Myth Because Raymond Buckland Made That Stupid Fucking Documentary.

See Also: Why The Hell Is Anyone Still Recommending Silver Ravenwolf.

Anyway, the short answer is that yes, your impression is correct, and I'm glad you're reading Hutton and forming that practical context for the witchcraft/pagan literature and media that you encounter.

Keep honing that bullshit detector and best of luck!

[deepspacenova]

when winter meets spring

➻�� ABOUT: zayne x gn!reader | 900 words

I needed some whimsy in my life so here's a little drabble in which Zayne is a winter sprite who falls for a springtime faerie. Inspired by the Spring and Flowers event and @mythblossoms who planted this idea into my head xx

The first time he saw you, the snow was melting. Clinging to the edges of the awakening soil, exhaling its final whisper of frost across roots and buds that were ready to bloom.

He was behind the trunk of a beech tree, half-veiled by the smattering of unfurling leaves as Winter took His final breath and Spring exhaled Her first. He wove some final threads of hoarfrost into the bark as his power dwindled with the change of the season.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about your form when he caught the flutter of your movement. Like any Spring faerie, the snow hissed where the warmth of your bare feet touched the earth, retreating in small rivulets of water. Undoing the work of his people with each step.

That is, until you caught the sun's eye too.

He could almost see the icy blues and greys of winter washing away as the rays painted your skin with deep pinks and reflective golds and soft greens.

And your movement. It was nothing like the frantic faerie buzz he'd previously caught glimpses of. Instead, you moved with a soft reverence, taking the time to listen to the soil's murmurings. Gently coaxing it back from slumber.

Zayne went still as the last of his magic threaded through the bark beneath him. The frost glimmered and faded almost instantly, surrendering to the sound of your voice with him as the air shifted and filled with the scent of damp earth and flower petals.

It was the first time in his existence that he breathed that scent in without fear.

That's when he should have vanished, retreated to the wind-scoured peaks where his people went each year. Winter Folk were not meant to see Spring Folk. It was an unspoken rule, reinforced by the divine and etched into the fractals of each snowflake.

But you were something bright. Something alive. Something warm. Everything he was not.

And you were staring back at him.

Your curious gaze caught his. And.. there was no trace of fear. Only curiosity. Perhaps you, too, weren’t meant to see him?

Still, neither of you looked away. And then, you smiled. He couldn’t remember the last time someone smiled at him without shivering.

“You’re still here.”

He didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. His throat, used for the howling of winter winds and the hush of snowfall, tightened against the unfamiliar warmth. Then, with a voice hoarse from disuse, he rasped, “I shouldn’t be.”

You stepped forward, and the world softened. Flowers opened behind you in your wake. Wildflowers, shy and colourful, bloomed where your skirt brushed the ground. "Who are you?"

He hesitated. Names were sacred to Astra. Identities, even more so. But he unfurled his palm, where a dusting of ice flecks still danced, and let them rise into the space between you. The frost shimmered until it morphed into a shape. A jasmine bloom, delicate and symmetrical. It hovered for a moment, glowing faintly. Then , he let it drift into your palm.

You stared at it with a mixture of wonder and understanding.

“I see,” you said softly.

In the second it took for your hand to close and re-open, the jasmine was brought to life, a flower with veins and petals. It started floating again and, before he realized what was happening, tucked itself into his hair without re-freezing.

And that's when he felt it: the pull, the beckon of the mountains. Winter's thaw was complete.

“I have to go,” he said, backing away a step. Hoping each word conveyed the depth of his regret. Already, the frost in his veins began to retreat.

His time was over.

Your expression faltered slightly, but changed to determination just as quickly when you extended an open palm toward his clenched one.

“Will I see you again?” you asked.

He wanted to say yes. But a sprite cannot lie, and an elusive promise was cruel.

Zayne stared at your outstretched hand, fingers painted in morning light and the hues of things he could never hold without destroying them.

“I don't know," he said quietly. "When I fade, I don’t remember."

Your brow furrowed, eyes scanning his face as it continued to disappear before you. “I’ll remind you,” you said simply.

The words struck something deep in him, something buried in permafrost and forgotten lifetimes. He reached out then, cold fingers grazing your palm. You didn’t recoil at the shock of cold. Instead, your hand folded gently around his.

When Zayne disappeared into the ether of winter, the jasmine in his hair was still alive.

And so it begins.

Every year, he waits for the last frost, silent and watchful. Every year, you arrive before the thaw, humming to the soil.

He never asks why you come early. You never ask why he lingers.

Because you both know what you have isn't meant to exist.

He is cold and silence and endings. You are warmth and laughter and beginnings.

But in that sliver of time each year between the melt and the bloom, the changing of seasons hesitates.

[love-lilacs]

this version of you | frank langdon x reader

Frank hasn’t let go of your hand, but his eyes flicker between them and the sidewalk in front of you, uncertainty threading through them. You feel the pulse of it—the space between what has always been  “friends” and the new possibility of something more.

His thumb brushes the back of your hand, just once, but it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine. You try to ignore it, but the tension is too much to ignore now. It’s there in the way his glance flits to you.

warnings: angst angst and more angst. i finished the pitt and this is what came of it. frank and his wife are divorced and have been separated for some time. drinking. feewings.

word count: 3.0k

Day shift was finally ending.

“You alright?” you ask Frank, nudging his shoulder with your own. Truthfully, you wouldn’t be able to move him if you tried. You’re not dainty by any means—four years of Emergency Nursing have ensured that you can hold your own—but Frank is his own beast. He’s sturdy; you know he likes to lift and run at least three times a week, working off adrenaline from long stints in the emergency room.

He shrugs, pulling his old crimson Harvard hoodie over his head. “Oh, yeah, stellar. My ex-wife has my son, and after a stressful shift of saving lives, I get to go home to an empty apartment.” His tone is dry, sarcastic, and beneath it all, you know something inside him is bitterly hurt by the turn his life has taken.

You close your locker—albeit a bit more loudly than probably necessary. “Come on. Me, Mel, Santos, and Robby are going to grab drinks. Your attendance is mandatory.”

He glances sideways at you, shouldering his backpack. “Mandatory, huh? Sounds like I don’t have a choice.”

“You don’t.” You smirk, mirroring his action and slinging your own bag over your shoulder. “You’re broodier than normal, and Robby said if you get any grumpier, he’s going to send you to gastro for an ulcer check.”

“I’m not brooding.” He scoffs. You don’t answer, only peering at him out of the corner of your eyes, a smirk tugging at the side of your lips. 

The two of you exit into the fluorescent-lit hallway and towards the cool night air. Behind and around  you, the E.R. hums, a never-ending blur of motion and crisis. Just another Thursday. 

“You know,” You say carefully. “you don’t have to pretend like everything is fine all the time.”  

Frank stays quiet for a beat, gaze fixed ahead. “I deal with it. That’s enough.”

That silences you. You’ve seen the storm that brews at Frank’s edges. That passion and drive within him. The storm brewing beneath the surface is relentless and all-consuming. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. It’s what made you soft for him all those years ago, when you had gotten your first job out of college and he started his residency. You both were young, and those late nights and long hours built a bond between you. But Frank had Abby, so you shoved your heart’s desires down to your core, settling for an easy friendship instead.

Frank stops in front of the exit doors, pulling it open for you. “Let’s go. I’ll even buy your first round.”

The grin that splits your face is easy, unforced. “Now you’re talking.”

As you step into the dark Pittsburgh night, cool air greets your skin, a springtime promise of green and flowers coming soon.

The bar is one of those low-lit neighborhood places— wood-paneled walls, baseball and Stanley Cup Playoffs playing on the T.V., the smell of overly sweet liquor and smoke clinging to the air so tightly you’re sure no air freshener could possibly rid the scent. The crew has claimed their regular sticky booth in the corner: Santos is already halfway through a beer, Mel’s nursing something bright pink and looking around as though she’s late for something, and Robby’s telling a story that involves far too many hand gestures.

You slide into the booth across from them. The day’s stress lifting off of your shoulders as you settle next to your friends. Mel immediately brightens. “Long time no see!” 

“We see way too much of each other for people that don’t live together.” You tease, settling down. Abbott grumbles something incoherent from Robby’s side. 

“And you love us anyways.” Whittaker smiles; the boldest he’ll get. 

Frank sits unceremoniously next to you, placing your usual bottle of Angry Orchard Cider in front of you. 

“Hey, he lives!” Santos snarks, a Cheshire Cat smile splitting her face. “Didn’t think Langdon ever left the hospital unless he was dragged out.”

Frank lifts his bottle in a mock toast, “Guess I make exceptions.”

Mel eyes him, skeptical. “You good?”

Frank shrugs, takes a sip. “Define good.”

The table quiets for just a moment, just long enough for the silence to get a little heavy—before Robby jumps in. 

“Alright, enough feelings. Did I tell you about the guy who came in and tried to convince us that he “fell” on his Batman figurine?”

Laughter bubbles up around the table, the prior conversation slipping away and into the din of the bustling bar. Even Frank manages a smile as you tilt your head ever so slightly so that your cheek brushes his shoulder. When he looks down, he can see the way your lips pucker at the bottle opening and your eyelashes flutter contentedly. Something warm and fluttery settles in his core. Something he hasn’t felt before. 

—

“You don’t have to be ‘on’ with us, you know,” you say quietly.

You and Frank have drifted away from the others. The buzz of background chatter fills the space, but neither of you have been talking for a while. He nurses his third beer, watching the bartender cut limes with surgical precision. The two of you have the sides of your legs pressed together despite the large amount of space the bartop offers. Frank is unbelievably warm and you can smell the last bits of cologne and laundry detergent that cling to him.

He doesn’t look at you. “Saying it out loud won’t change anything.”

You lean against the bar, facing him. “No, but maybe it stops it from eating you alive.”

Frank scoffs. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” you say. “But for how long?”

That lands. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at the glass in his hand like it might solve something.

Then, finally: “You’re not wrong. But I don’t know what to do with ‘right’ anymore.”

It’s the most you’ve gotten from him in weeks. Perhaps stupidly, you push it. “It’s not a crime to feel things.”

"Yeah, well... feelings don’t really fix much, do they?"

Frank glances at you briefly, then looks back down at his drink, voice growing lower. 

"But I guess everyone has their moments."

Frank shifts, elbows resting on the counter, his gaze flicking to the door, then the window. Outside, it’s started to rain, tapping lightly on the glass, like the world itself is breathing. You find comfort in it as the bar behind the two of you begins to empty. Mel wraps you in a hug, Santos squeezing your arm, and Robby wishing you and Frank a good night as they brave the rain. 

You don’t want to break the moment, but you can’t help it. "You ever think you could just—stop?" you ask, the question hanging there between you both.

Frank doesn’t answer right away, his thumb running absentmindedly along the lip of his bottle. His jaw tightens for a moment, like he’s weighing the words, but when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, almost hesitant.

"Sometimes," he says, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "But I don’t know what to do if I did. I don’t know how to breathe without it all."

His words feel raw, more honest than he’s been in a long time. The air between you thickens, and it’s hard to ignore the way his shoulders seem to slump just slightly, like he's giving you a glimpse of the side of him that’s usually hidden.

You lean in a little closer, your voice low, careful. "You don’t have to be that person. The one who keeps everything running."

Frank finally looks up at you, his gaze intense—searching, maybe—like he’s seeing you for the first time. His blue eyes soften for just a second before the walls harden back into place.

"You think I have a choice?" he asks, voice a little rougher now. “It’s what I’ve always been and I just- I don’t have that anymore.” 

You hesitate, feeling the weight of the question in the pit of your stomach. You want to reach out, to close the distance between you both, but the moment feels fragile. It’s too soon. This version of Frank isn’t yours. Instead, you settle for a quiet, honest answer.

"I think you do," you say softly, eyes holding his. "But it’s okay if you don’t want to. Not yet."

Frank’s breath catches, and for a long moment, the two of you are locked in that quiet space, neither of you speaking, but both of you feeling everything in the silence. It’s as if everything that’s unsaid is hanging between you, suddenly too real to ignore, too important to push aside.

Finally, Frank shifts, a chair behind him scraping softly against the floor as he leans in slightly—closer than he’s ever been, closer than you expected. His eyes flick to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. Your lips part, breath catching. 

"You’re something else," he mutters, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It's the first real smile you’ve seen tonight, and it hits you like lightning, hot, white energy reaching down to your toes

Your heart skips a beat. You want to say something—anything—to keep this moment from slipping away, but the words catch in your throat. Instead, you simply let the quiet between you deepen. 

Too soon, he pulls away, leaving you a flushed mess in front of him. “Let me walk you home.”  

You nod, finishing off the last of your drink as if it could possibly make your forget exactly what just transpired between the two of you.

And then, without thinking, you reach out, just a little, your hand brushing against his. It’s a small gesture, but the contact feels electric. He doesn’t pull away, and when you look up, his eyes have softened again, something unspoken passing between you.

His voice drops lower. "Don’t do that. You know what happens when you do."

You can feel the tension, the unacknowledged weight of what’s been building up between you both for so long. But tonight, the words are no longer necessary. Instead, it’s in the way your fingers linger on his, the way his breath seems to hitch just slightly when he looks at you again—closer, too close to be just casual.

For a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter. Not the patients, not the work, not the endless chaos. Just the feeling of being here—together, in this quiet space you’ve created, where everything else can wait. 

Frank squeezes your hand once. “Ready to go?” It’s not a question. He knows you are. But he still checks, ensuring you know exactly what he’s going to do next.

The air between you both feels thicker now on the walk, charged with something unspoken. Frank hasn’t let go of your hand, but his eyes flicker between them and the sidewalk in front of you, a nervous uncertainty threading through them. You feel the pulse of it—the space between what has always been  “friends” and the new possibility of something more.

His thumb brushes the back of your hand, just once, but it’s enough to send a shiver up your spine. You try to ignore it, but the tension is too much to ignore now. It’s there in the way his glance flits to you. You stop in front of your apartment building, facing each other. 

The rain has slowed now, small drops that hit your clothes, but not enough to leave a wet mark. They dry before the next one hits. 

Frank’s voice comes out quietly, hoarse, like he’s fighting something, pushing it down. "You don’t know what you’re doing to me, do you?"

You swallow hard, the words getting stuck in your throat. But you don’t pull away. Instead, you press your fingers against his, just enough to show you’re still here. “Maybe I do.”

His gaze sharpens, like a challenge in his eyes. His fingers twitch against yours, but he holds back, still caught somewhere between wanting to pull you closer and keeping his distance. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the space between you so close you can feel the heat of his breath against your skin.

You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you lean just a fraction closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. Your heart beats a little faster now, conflict pulsing in your core. Years of yearning finally culminating in this moment. It’s all been a dull drone, a bruise that only hurts when you press at the right angle. 

You shift on your feet, your face so close to his now that you can count the tiny flecks of gold in his stormy eyes. The quiet between you is heavy, pulsing with every breath. Your fingers move, brushing against his again, and this time, there’s nothing tentative about it. He raises his other hand, brushing his fingers over your cheek bone with a butterfly touch. 

It’s a fairytale moment. Years of wanting him, loving him, for all he’s truly been. Not the charade he puts on for everyone, not the excruciating effort he felt he always to put in for Abby just so she might feel even a fraction of love for him. It’s every damn daydream you’ve had finally coming true. It’s real, it’s warm, and as his lips finally finally brush against yours- 

It’s not right.

Because this version of Frank doesn’t belong to you. This version of Frank is aching and lonely, looking for whatever comfort anyone can provide him. You can’t be the one to warm his bed tonight, hoping he’ll be there when you wake up. You don’t think your heart could take it if he wasn’t. 

Despite every alight nerve in your body begging you to stay, your eyes flutter open.

You pull away, just a fraction, just enough to break the spell. Frank blinks like he’s waking up from something he didn’t mean to fall into. His hand is still on your cheek. Yours is still wrapped around his.

“I can’t.” You breathe, heart shattering as the words leave your lips. “This version of you doesn’t belong to me,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Frank doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe. “What the hell does that mean?”

You step back, forcing space. The air feels colder immediately, no longer comforting. “It means this—whatever this is—you’re not here because you want me. You’re here because you’re tired. Because you’re lonely. Because you’re drowning and I just happen to be here.”

He flinches. The words sting, even if he knows they’re true.

“That’s not what this is,” he says firmly, but it’s too defensive, the same tone he uses when advocating for a stubborn patient. 

You meet his eyes. “Isn’t it?” You ask weakly.

Frank takes a breath like he’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, he just scrubs a hand down his face, tense and restless. “So what, you want me to pretend I don’t feel better when I’m around you? That I can’t finally fucking breathe when I’m around you, even just sitting there, not talking?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” you reply, tears welling in your eyes. “I know you’re carrying a lot. I’ve seen it. I’ve felt it. But you can’t dump it all at my feet and then kiss me like it doesn’t mean something, like it’s just another release valve.”

Frank steps forward. Just one step. Close again. His eyes are dark, unreadable. “And if it does mean something?”

Your breath catches. “Then maybe figure out what that something is before you ask me to jump with you. I can’t do it. I’ve- I’ve wanted you for too long.”

The silence between you stretches, taut and heavy. Neither of you blink. Neither of you breathe. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, like he's afraid it’ll disappear if he turns away too fast or says something too quickly.

“I didn’t plan this,” he mutters. “You know that, right?” He says it like a vow, and you know, you just know, that it’s true. 

“I know,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it fair.”

He looks down, thumb absently rubbing at a scar near his knuckle. You’ve seen him do it in the E.R. when things get tense. You’ve never told him you noticed. You’re not sure he could handle being seen like that right now.

“You think I’m using you.”

You hesitate, a lump rising in your throat.  “I think you’re using this—the quiet, the closeness, the way it feels easier when you’re with me. And maybe that’s not the same as using me, but it’s just not something I can do.”

Frank nods once. Slow. Measured. And then he lets out a laugh, low and bitter. “You’re probably smarter than me.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No,” he says, stepping back this time. “But it explains why you’re the one walking away.”

“I’m not walking away.” You snap, clenching your fists. 

“Aren’t you? When was the last time you took a risk? You’re so scared to get hurt that you won’t do anything that could possibly lead to something you want.” He says it factually, sharply. You’ve hurt him, you know that, and he’s reaching for whatever he can to make you feel how he does. 

You blink, stunned by his words. In all your time together, he’s never said anything so cruel to you. 

“Whatever.” His eyes are still locked on yours. His shoulders are still hunched. “I wanted you. As you were then, as you are now.”

You almost stop him. You almost say something—anything—to soften it. But you don’t. Because this needs to hurt, or it won’t mean anything later.

He turns toward the street, pausing under the glow of the flickering streetlamp. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders hunched forward like they’ve finally caved.

Something breaks inside you, realizing he truly is leaving. “Frank-”

“I’ll see you around,” he calls without turning.

And then he’s gone.

You don’t go inside right away. You stand frozen on the stoop, feeling the place where his hand had just been, the warmth fading from your skin as the tears finally fall.

[realmyths]

Persephone nods along to Nico's words. She would like to help him get somewhere comfortable to sleep. "Can I help you get somewhere comfortable? Somewhere you can rest?" She asks, not wanting to force anything. He seems very tired, and almost about to fall asleep right then and there. But hopefully he can hold out a bit longer.

When he mentions that taking a nap would be better, Persephone smiles softly. "Then rest. Take a nap. I'll be here, making sure no one bothers you." There is a grassy area that Persephone gestures to, where Nico could lie down under a tree. Persephone will happily watch over him until he wakes up, wanting to make sure he is safe. Persephone's never had any siblings, but if she did, she would like to think she would look out for them to the best of her ability. So she will look out for Nico. After all, it's the right thing to do. And found family counts , at least in Persephone's view. Of course, she doesn't know how Nico would feel about the matter. But now is not the time to ask. He needs rest.

Persephone will be happy to help in whatever way she can.

Even with the strongest will possible, usually, he would been already fainted inside other circumstances. It would be a lesson for another day: not pushing too much that cord, if he wasn’t sure if he would have enough energy for handle immediate physical consequences that would coming next … Firm hands searched to anchor himself inside the reminder that phone shouldn’t been used, and last place he needed to be was a MORTAL hospital. Sadly, as far his previous experiences go, he was rarely the boy sending an emergency Iris because he misunderstood the manner, he should have handled the situation! Besides, it won’t be the first time he was offering himself a nap in middle of nowhere for simply not having energy anymore. Inside remembrance of Persephone presence by the sound of her voice --- still emotionally confused by her name, for constantly thinking of the goodness she was named for … and feeling somewhere a dread if his father interfered in one way or another --- as he would need to put efficient words in a short time. ❝ Sleep … bed … somewhere … to … sleep …❞ He wasn’t in ability to expressing a complete sentence, but needed to making himself understandable before welcoming the big darkness of nothingness for a while. He couldn’t explain right now, as his eyes couldn’t remain open at the moment without turning inside a dramatic blur that will turn off his consciousness, this wasn’t the first time it happened to him. He honestly wished he was enough away for not the sixth sense of Solace feeling he overtired himself again --- though, usually, away he was of Solace, closer he was of the darkest corners of his father … when, he would prefer to been lectured once more by Solace than experiencing one disappointing feature of his father … when good question would be his position into the timeline actually. This was enough, as he managed to smile a little meanwhile his consciousness almost fades away, to forcing upon his words. ❝ Not outside help … taking a nap for be better … ❞ He wished this was the clearer sentence, because his physical body couldn’t handle the forced effort right now.

He needed to shut down.

[baddiewiththebook]

Over the Years | e.m x reader [18+] | p. 12

-> The origin story of Eddie Munson, and how he fell in love with the worst person he possibly could - his best friend.

-> eddie munson x you (she/her)

-> friends to lovers, slow burn, angst

-> warnings - strong language, suggestive themes, smut [18+]

-> <-

September 1983

Strands made up of perfectly woven thread laced in deep desire of longing and hope. Fresh spring water dances down the rocks wetting them with her tongue. The ocean is somehow bare.

It’s like one day you fall ill. A sickness so terrible that no doctor knows what to do - there’s no medicine to cure this. Falling deeper into a pit of self-distraction, Eddie rolls onto his back. The only comfort he has is the tattered blankets that are too thin to keep him warm. A set of headphones drape over his head with music drowning out his deepest thoughts. Or, so he thinks.

With these headphones, Eddie spends less time worrying about you. What you’re doing? Who you’re with? That’s bullshit. Eddie knows who you’re with.

A viper bites at his leg when he’s not watching. Venom consumes him, and Eddie is now frowning once again. The way Eddie thinks of Gareth is poison enough.

Don’t get him wrong, really. Somewhere. Buried deep below. Way below. Way way below. There has to be a single drop of joy that you are happy.

Eddie tries to sort through the millions of pieces to the puzzle. Of course, he’s blurry to all of the signs that Gareth even showed a slight interest in you. Things begin to make more sense when Eddie finally understands why you’re much more giddy about coming to band practice at the least.

It’s his mistake to ask of you to get along with Gareth in the first place. His friend. Or, was he? Whatever. Gareth better not mess up this relationship he has with you. What’s worse? Him being with you? Him breaking your heart?

Eddie’s stomach flops around like a dead fish. That's about right. He hasn’t eaten much today - if anything at all. A bit too consumed by thoughts of you. The idea of eating makes him queasy.

When the cassette tape stops, and his music pauses, Eddie is agitated. He peels open his eyes for the first time and blinks away the crust built up in the inner corner of his eyes.

There’s a hum that doesn’t come from his headphones. A tapping. A heavy thudding.

Eddie pulls off his headset, and the banging on his front door gets only louder. Whoever it is would learn a hard lesson in “going away.”

Visitors are less than welcome at the Munson trailer. Aside from the select few of his favorite people, Eddie hates when people come to the door uninvited. The religious nuts have got to stop harassing him and his uncle. They won’t join any sort of cult leadership that they are apart of. No amount of pamphlets and pleading would persuade either Eddie or Wayne to join their “congregation.”

The whole concept of church baffles Eddie. They’re organized leaders, so call them that. Their beliefs are there to control the masses. The communities swarm at them like bees to pollen on the flowers of springtime - just to be told what to wear, where to go, and who not to talk too.

Organizations like that are where Eddie Munson wants to be least of all.

Don’t get him wrong, Eddie won’t denounce religion in its entirety. Jeff goes to church on Sundays, after bouncing up and down on a guitar in Gareth’s garage the night before. Metal music is in his blood. The religious thing finds a home there too. Jeff isn’t crazy like the others. Eddie has learned to have some respect for God, only because Jeff begs Eddie to not speak too harsh on His name.

Eddie can respect a man, who stands for what he believes in.

“Alright, alright!” Eddie curses at whoever is on the other side of the door. He lets them get in a few more trashes on the front door, before he’s sure they’re not just going to go away. Then, swings the front door open.

On the other side, you’ve flinched back a few steps. Eddie is in one of his moods. Now, you expect the crassness only because that’s how he always answers the door. However, Eddie isn’t particularly peachy since he found out that you’ve been seeing Gareth a few nights ago. It’s not as though you weren’t going to tell him, right?

You’ve already told Gareth that you’ve made up your mind, and you’re going to speak to Eddie today. Gareth would rather you give Eddie some space - seeing as he tracked him through a parking lot and had almost gotten ran over by him last night.

The core of you knows that Gareth is right. Usually, after a few days of Eddie being pent up and angry over something, he’ll calm down and the theatrics will pause for a moment. This is different. Eddie is hardly ever upset with you. You don’t know how to react. A part of you wants to curl up in a ball and sob. The other part is thinking too logically, and demands you stand at his porch and bang on his door until he answers.

Eddie hates how stubborn you are because he is just as stubborn. Only when it comes to you, Eddie will quickly change his mind at the site of your trembling jaw, and your glossy eyes filled to the brim with tears that are just about to break the dam and flood the surface below. Boy, if that dam breaks. It just might not stop!

“I’m sorry?” You’re apologizing, but it comes out more as a question than anything else. Again, you’re whimpering like a lost pup searching for it’s mommy.

Eddie doesn’t take much to fold onto you. Over you. He envelopes you into a tight hold without much to say. The way his eyes roll back into his head tells you everything you need to know.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he hates the way he caves so easily for you. Every word that ripples off of his tongue is just an admission to what he already knows. Then, he adds (stupidly), “Gareth is- nice.”

There it is. The fully guilty conscience that sucker punches him in the gut. In spite of being completely and totally jealous of what Gareth has to dangle in front of him, Eddie also knows that out of all of his friends - you just have to pick the nicest one.

Eddie can feel your smile across his chest. The dimples. The blush. You push him away a bit harshly, and gasp.

“You’ve never said anything nice about my boyfriends before.”

“Your boyfriends before were assholes,” he’s not shy to share that opinion.

You point a finger to his chest, “admit you like Gareth.”

“I never said that.”

“You said he was ‘nice.’”

“He’s better than, Ricky,” Eddie snorts.

“Who?”

“Er- Rodney.”

It is in that moment, where you're sewn up and dry from tears, that Eddie decides love is a bitch. He can't help, but adore your fresh rosy cheeks. The way your mouth blabs. Only, he wishes you would talk about him that way.

-> <-

October 1983

Eddie is already headed down a slippery slope. This last hour, his teacher has informed him that if he keeps slacking off that he won't be getting a passing grade. Eddie's flunking his math class. So, he missed a math quiz or two? A few homework assignments?

It’s his last year in high school - a senior. Wayne spends most of his time putting pressure on Eddie by speaking of nothing, but a graduation party with all of his friends. How could he possibly disappoint his uncle?

“Hi, baby.”

There’s that rancid nickname again coming straight from your mouth. This follows a wet smacking sound when Gareth kisses you. Ugh, has everyone lost their decency?

Eddie should have put up boundaries when you came to him that day. Rule one; no making out in front of him. Rule two; Eddie theorizes as a wide spread grin stretches across your face; Gareth isn’t aloud to be funny.

Slamming his textbook shut, the crowd at the lunch table jumps.

“Rough morning?” Gareth asks.

There you go laughing again. Head tilted to the sky - Gareth basks in this.

-> <-

December 1983

Trees are bare of their leaves. The hours in the day that are bright become next to none. Eddie still finds time to work on his truck, before nightfall. The break pads are in need of replacement, and he should also be changing the oil too.

Eddie would rather wrestle with his car in the dead of winter where his fingertips could frost off, than to deal with the hot heat from summer time.

Besides, it hadn’t snowed yet.

In the afternoon, Eddie was hoping to see your car pull in the driveway. It’s Christmas Eve. The least he could do is hand you the gift he’s gotten you. Like every year, Eddie takes the time to splurge some extra cash to get you exactly what you want.

Eddie toys with the bow atop the messily thrown together wrapping paper. The reindeer are smushed together awkwardly next to each other. But, they’re all still smiling. Eddie hopes they don’t mind. It’s the same paper Eddie uses every year. Every year, he’s getting a bit worse at wrapping gifts than the year before that.

You don’t declare any sort of discomfort by the way he wraps the gifts. If anything you find the attempt quite charming. It’s tradition to each give your gifts on Christmas Eve; and it has become tradition for you to come to his house for dinner.

Your mom hasn’t been home much.

As per usually, Eddie gifts you another journal. Something for you to do, other than sit around waiting for the rainbow to come after the rain. Maybe one day, you'll show him what you've filled in those pages with. He hasn't asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches himself glimpsing at the other gift he has sitting on top of his dresser. It’s too late for you to receive this now. Out of sight out of mind, Eddie decides it’s best if he shoves the little box inside of his socks away from the world. The charms jangle against the metal chain, as he pushes that tiny square box as far back as he can.

It’s forgotten about for now.

-> <-

(February 1984)

tags -> @leelei1980 @sheneedsrocknroll92 @jesuisbuginette @starrywhitenight @meetmeatyourworst @munsonburn3r @5tud10-54r4h @pvdulmol @loveryanax @am0iur @naatggeo

[kuronarnze]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 !

☆ my favs !!

Oneshots !! (Oldest → Latest)

⊱ Nostalgia in his bangs || ft. Itoshi Sae

⊱ Study sessions & stolen glances || ft. Itoshi Rin

⊱ Je Te Trouve Mignon || ft. Charles Chevalier ☆

⊱ Smile for me || ft. Kurona Ranze ☆

⊱ Warmth in the cold || ft. Kiyora Jin

⊱ Springtime snuggles || ft. Nagi Seishiro

⊱ "Ich liebe dich" || ft. Michael Kaiser ☆

⊱ A failed attempt at romance || ft. Isagi Yoichi

⊱ My only bestfriend || ft. Bachira Meguru

⊱ Shark brain || ft. Kurona Ranze

⊱ Unusualness. || ft. Charles Chevalier ☆

⊱ Not yours to break || ft. Alexis Ness

⊱ Behind the golden mask || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ The one who could tame the best || ft. Shidou Ryusei

⊱ All i want is you || ft. Mikage Reo

⊱ "Just like him" || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ Playful remedies || ft. Karasu Tabito

⊱ "Bridges, not walls" || ft. Karasu Tabito

⊱ "Say it again" || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ Through your eyes || ft. Yukimiya Kenyu

⊱ A place to belong || ft. Hiori Yo

⊱ "Congratulations, its yours." || ft. Oliver Aiku

⊱ Through his eyes || ft. Niko Ikki

⊱ Game changer || ft. Oliver Aiku

⊱ Possesive King || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ Faster than fate || ft. Chigiri Hyoma

⊱ Chasing shadows you || ft. Otoya Eita

⊱ More than hero || ft. Kunigami Rensuke

⊱ Mine || ft. Karasu Tabito

⊱ "Not annoying" || ft. Kurona Ranze ☆

⊱ "You're home, right?" || ft. Itoshi Sae ☆

⊱ Tangled in you || ft. Karasu Tabito

⊱ Happy birthday, Mon Soleil || ft. Charles Chevalier

⊱ Offside feelings || ft. Isagi Yoichi

⊱ Golden goal || ft. Bachira Meguru

⊱ Dreaming in melodies || ft. Nagi Seishiro

⊱ Public secrets || ft. Itoshi Sae

⊱ Kaiser's new obsession || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ Harmony in motion || ft. Mikage Reo

⊱ "Too cute to handle" || ft. Kurona Ranze ☆

⊱ what goes around pt. 1 // pt. 2 || ft. Itoshi rin Itoshi Sae ☆

⊱ Lost puppy || ft. Kurona Ranze

⊱ Three little stars || ft. Itoshi brothers & Reader ☆

⊱ "A little sunshine" pt. 1 // pt. 2 || ft. Bachira Meguru

⊱ The weight of a name || ft. Mikage Reo

⊱ "Always yours" || ft. Itoshi Rin

⊱ "The only one" || ft. Michael Kaiser

⊱ "P.S. I love you" || ft. Itoshi Sae ☆

⊱ "Smiles, stripes, and Serendipity" || ft. Charles Chevalier

⊱ "Red thread, red scarf" || ft. Michael Kaiser ☆

⊱ "Te amo, Idiota" || ft. Itoshi Sae ☆

⊱ "always been you" || ft. Itoshi Rin ☆

⊱ "Yours, forever" || ft. Mikage Reo

⊱ "sharks, sharks" || ft. Kurona Ranze

⊱ "Pretty colors, pretty you" || ft. Shidou Ryusei ☆

⊱ "Handle with care" || ft. Charles Chevalier

⊱ In Case You Didn’t Notice || ft. Itoshi Sae ☆

⊱ “How Could You Not Notice?” || ft. Itoshi Rin ☆

Headcannons !

⊱ When you force them to drink homemade herbal tea || ft. Chigiri hyoma, Yukimiya kenyu, Michael Kaiser, Itoshi Rin

⊱ Mini you & mini me || ft. Kurona Ranze, Itoshi Sae, Isagi Yoichi, Charles Chevalier, Julian Loki (he's very ooc here tho), Mikage Reo.

⊱ How the bluelock characters handle jealousy || ft. Kurona Ranze, Itoshi Sae, Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Rin, Shidou Ryusei

⊱ Blue Lock boys with a s/o who is a horrible chef || ft. Itoshi Sae, Itoshi Rin, Isagi Yoichi, Michael Kaiser, Kunigami Rensuke (before wildcard), Shidou Ryusei. ☆

⊱ Blue lock boys with a reader that is a Gordon Ramsay-Level Chef || ft. Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou Ryusei, Nagi Seishiro, Mikage Reo

⊱ When you confess your feelings into a song for the bluelock boys || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ Blue lock boys with an s/o who's loved by all animals || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ Figure Skater!Reader x Blue Lock Boys || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ BLLK Boys dealing with cuteness aggression for their s/o || ft. Kurona ranze, Itoshi sae, Charles Chevalier, Itoshi rin, Isagi yoichi, Shidou ryusei ☆

⊱ Bluelock boys + s/o watching a horror movie together || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ Bllk boys with a romance angst addict reader || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo ☆

⊱ BLLK boys x esports reader with bad eyesight who’s a famous gamer & loves gaming || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ BLLK Boys and Reader who actually scores against them & won’t shut up about it || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Mikage reo

⊱ BLLK boys x pro volleyball player reader (who accidentally spikes the soccer ball) || ft. Isagi yoichi, Itoshi sae, Itoshi Rin, Shidou ryusei, Michael kaiser, Bachira meguru ☆

Drabbles !

⊱ thinking of... Itoshi Rin wearing a compression shirt !

⊱ Thinking of... Having a beach date with Kurona ranze ☆

⊱ Thinking of... Itoshi Rin after a busy day

⊱ Thinking of... Clingy tired Itoshi Sae ☆

More coming soon...

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

[wwilloww]

sh. | chapter twenty four | pjm

PAIRING ot7 x reader RATING Explicit. 18+. GENRE smut. fluff. angst. nonidol au. wildnerness au. roommates au. friends to lovers. SUMMARY Six months of quarantine have kept you apart. Somehow the distance sparks something new in each of you: questions, unfinished conversations, threads once chased now left cold. So when your roommate invites you to come with him to a mysterious house in the mountains with your friends, how could you even think of saying no? WC 5.8k

WARNINGS AND TAGS semi-public sex. penetrative sex. aftercare. angst.

AN hey ;) missed you. thank you to @sugalaritae for helping me with this chapter. thank you to each of you for the continued support.

← || series m.list || →

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR: THE SHADES ARE DRAWN

When you think of joy, you think of the color purple.

For a long time, you didn’t like the color purple. You found it garish. Didn’t love the associations with royalty, that a color could belong to a class of people defined by something as fickle as wealth or birth. 

But like many things in your adulthood, the color purple eventually grew on you. You had to admit: the soft gentle violet of a sunset—the color that dances between other colors, here a moment, gone the next—it was thrilling to chase it through the sky as the light sank low on the horizon. And you also had to admit that baby-soft lilac color, doting on the first flowers that pressed up through the tough winter grounds in early springtime, reminded you that winter does end. Warmer days do come. And finally, when you realized purple felt like a memory visiting you again, sweet and warm, you simply couldn’t withhold your affection for the color any longer. 

Purple reminded you of the flickering feeling of life beneath Hoseok’s skin as his hand clamped down on yours above your head as you touched each other in the early hours of the morning all those days ago, a bead of sweat perched on the bridge of his nose as he thrust into you, the quiet sounds of sleep rising from the friends sprawled around you in the living room— 

You shake yourself back to reality. 

For someone who’s getting fucked pretty much everyday, you sure do daydream a lot about getting fucked. 

But joy—purple—lilac, whatever: that color has been flirting at the edges of your reality these past few days. After your conversation with your friends about the difficulty of the early days of quarantine, a weight feels lifted off your shoulders. It had felt like you were hiding some kind of secret—or even yourself—away from the people who loved you most. You hadn’t realized how guilty you felt about that until the truth had been revealed. And since telling them about your struggles with mental health, not a single member of the household had treated you any differently, like you were broken or wounded. Instead, you noticed them coming to sit with you and talk with you about what happened, how they can help. They asked you questions, they wanted to know what it was like. But that you don’t mind. 

On top of that, things with Hobi have been so easy. 

Things have been easy with everyone. 

Since your time spent with Jimin the night after the bonfire, you had felt a kind of kinship with him. Shared glances across the dinner table, even when Hoseok’s hand is wrapped around yours beneath the table. Jimin seemed to hover closer, gifting you with little touches, his hand on your lower back while you wash the dishes, plucking a hair off your lip before dinner with a small smile. Small moments of laughter, an inside joke about underwear, shared with a whisper in your ear when no one else can hear. 

But despite that proximity, you also can’t help but notice that despite your new casual ease with him, since the bonfire, he has seemingly pulled back from the others. At the dinner table, he’s quieter. When you all are cleaning or taking care of household chores, he’s much less directive than he usually is. He had even forgotten about his promise to make you come the day after your last romp. But when you remind him , a cheeky smile on your face when he comes in after a hike (and fail to mention that Hoseok had made you come several times in the wee hours of the morning), he grins and pulls you deeper into the house, away from the prying eyes of your six shared housemates. 

Jimin is kissing down your neck in the hallway after dinner one night—you make a mental note about how he loves to kiss you where anyone can stumble upon your intertwined forms—his hands slipping under your shirt, down your leggings. You gasp when his fingers tease at your folds. You can tell he’s going to take his sweet time with you. 

“Jesus, can we just fuck for once?” you gasp into his mouth as his index finger slides inside you. You don’t even bother to lower your voice. “I’m wet enough, I need you. No more games.” You give him your best doe-eyed plea.

He hesitates, deciding if he wants to drag things out for his own fun or give you what you want. “Is that what you want? No games, no waiting, just me?” 

“It is,” you say, trying to keep the sexual frustration from making you sound too whine-y. 

“Then that’s what you’ll have.”  

He doesn’t even bother to take you to his bedroom. There, in the hallway, where anyone might find you, it’s fast and hasty work, pulling your top off, shimmying your pants to the floor.  Jimin too, makes quick work of his button-down, while your gaze traces over his torso, the tattoo right above his ribs, and the little happy trail that leads exactly where you want to go. 

“See something you like?” Jimin asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Always,” you say, capturing his lips for a kiss that, after the fact, feels wonderfully—wonderfully?—domestic. Slow and gentle and warm. Time slows. The air stills. Then, the pace shifts again and your mutual clothes are tossed hither and thither across the hardwood floors of the hallway and your greedy hands reach for one another once more. 

Undressed now, Jimin flips you so you face the wall, your hands pressed against the cool plaster, your back to him. He steps between your legs, using his foot to push them a little further apart so he can fit between them. His hand comes down to your lower back, pressing ever so slightly so that you arch into him, pressing your ass back just enough to meet the hard flesh of his cock. 

You gasp as it meets the slickness of your center, the burning warmth of him sending shivers down your spine. 

Does this ever get old? 

He doesn’t tease you much this time, just glides his cock through your folds to collect the moisture there, uses one hand to spread it across his dick, and begins to press in. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Me inside of you? Filling you?”

“Yes, Jimin, god yes.” 

He slides home, his cock spearing through you, the head of it tugging at your walls, which tighten around him. He grunts, and you drink up the sound. Jimin, to your previous surprise, wasn’t the most vocal in bed, but today something seems like it’s loosened inside of him, and sounds of pleasure begin to fall from his lips as he fucks you. 

He’s thick inside of you, and your fingernails dig into the wall as you search for something to hang onto as he rams into you at a quick and desperate pace.  

“I knew you’d like it,” he says. “Fucking where anyone can see you, anyone can walk in and find you writhing on my cock, calling out my name.” 

“Yes, yes,” you pant. 

It’s true. 

There’s something about the risk of it all. The thrill of not knowing. The high of being fucked by one man only to have another walk by and want you just as much. 

“Op!” 

The note sounds from the end of the hallway, and you tilt your head just enough to see Jin standing at the entrance, a pan of steaming muffins gripped between two large oven mitts. He seems to be on his way to do a round through the house, offering baked goods like a trolly cart lady.

What timing.

His gaze roves over your joined bodies, drifting downward to where Jimin’s cock is plunging into you. He lets his stare linger. You warm beneath the blatant attention, his obvious interest in what’s happening before him. You can see him hardening through his jeans. 

Then, he clears his throat, stands a little straighter. 

“I’m going to assume you two don’t want muffins.” His voice is low, smooth, and sweet like pastries. There’s a kind of even-tempered curiosity, backed by his usual confidence. 

Jimin’s pace doesn’t cease, doesn’t falter, despite the intrusion. It’s like his movements are saying, you’re all his, and no one else’s. And not even the temptation of a fresh-out-of-the-oven blueberry muffin or a very broad shouldered friend of yours can take that away from him. 

“Maybe later,” Jimin grunts. 

“Later, yeah,” you gasp as Jimin grinds into you from behind.

Your cheeks are warming from the mix of Jimin’s ministrations and Jin’s near-casual but definitive interest in your coupling. Jin watches like he’s taking you in, and behind his calculated gaze, you can see his mind spinning, figuring. Perhaps he’s imagining himself joining your pairing, but more likely than not, you think he’s thinking up a new way to tease you later—with a laugh at the end of the sentence or with his fingers inside you.

You’re trying to hold back a whine and simultaneously hold onto any last bit of dignity you might have remaining. Though, when you think of it, every day that goes by you believe you might have less and less. But who is chasing dignity these days anyways? When the world has stopped spinning entirely?

Jin catches the small sound of pleasure that finally eeks out of you and he smirks, his eyes flicking from where yours and Jimin’s body’s join up to your eyes. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. But you understand. He doesn’t want you to look away. There’s something even more indulgent in this gaze, his eyes meeting yours. Though he’s no longer looking at your sex, you somehow feel even more naked: your pleasure, bared to him, and his pleasure, taken in yours. 

Though the small gesture has dropped your mouth open as new sounds of pleasure emerge, though you’re now gasping in surprise as Jimin pushes deeper and Jin holds your gaze—you feel more present than ever. Alive—like your lungs are full, like you’re breathing fresh air. 

As Jin reached down to adjust his belt—it’s just a flicker of movement as he adjusts his now hard cock—you understand the promise in Jin’s eyes. You. Me. Soon. 

“I’d ask to join you all,” Jin says, again, even-toned. You clench around Jimin, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed, as he chuckles from behind you. “But I have more pressing matters to attend to: Taehyung is hangry.” 

Jimin nods behind you, his hips still hammering into you. 

“‘Course.” 

“Well. It was lovely chatting. I’ll leave you to it. Maybe I’ll catch up with you again later.” He sends you a directed wink. 

Your heart skips a beat at the thought. Since the orgy, you still hadn’t spent any one on one time with Jin. Or Taehyung, for that matter. You wonder if there’s meaning in the distance between you three—or if you’ve merely been distracted. After all, how are you supposed to reasonably split your time between seven very horny, very lovely men? 

“Uh—uh—y—eah.” Your voice is jolted from you in time with Jimin’s thrusts. “Please.”

As he turns, he refuses to take his eyes from yours, a pleased smile lighting on his lips. For a moment the shared gaze reminds you of something far off, yet familiar: something from the world that has come to pass you by. Perhaps it reminds you of the feeling of meeting a stranger on the street or in a crowded bar. The spark of recognition, of seeing someone new light up with something old: desire. He wants you. And now, more than ever, you want him. He knows this, and it’s what makes him smile.  Jin disappears again, and you’re left with nothing but Jimin’s hard cock pounding into you. He leans closer, pressing his pouty lips against your ear to whisper, just to you: 

“You were so good, baby, you didn’t even ask me to stop when he came by,” Jimin grunts. “You just took it like a good little kitten. Did that feel good? Having him watch me fuck you?” 

You don’t say anything, just whine as he continues to fuck you, harder now, his balls slapping against your clit. With each hit you feel a spike of pleasure flood through you. It’s enough to make you, somehow, even more needy than you already are, but not enough to satisfy you fully. 

“I watched the way his eyes went down to where I’m fucking you. I know he was imagining himself inside you. How does that feel? Knowing he wants what I have?”

You moan.

“Answer me,” he says, one of his hands winding around your throat. He pulls you up so your back is pressed to his front, and he’s squatted slightly between your legs, thrusting up into you. It’s an animalistic, needy positioning, and you feel lightheaded with it all. 

There’s a kind of possessiveness in Jimin’s language that feels brand new. He’s hitting that soft spot inside you with each thrust and it feels so good it almost hurts. As the ache and pleasure melt together, you can’t help the burning building in your belly, flashing with white light with each of his thrusts. He slips his hand around your front, fingers toying with your clit. 

“Fuck—It feels so good, Jimin.” 

“You’re in a house full of men who want you, who would fuck you like I’m fucking you in the middle of the hallway, in the kitchen, in the pool—wherever they could get you if they got the chance. How does that make you feel?” 

It makes you feel a thousand things. But all you manage to speak is: 

“Wanted.” 

“Good. Because you are.” 

There’s something about those words that hit an entirely different soft spot—one in your chest. Your heart aches, but your attention is quickly pulled away. You clench around him and he moans in your ear. His pace quickens, grows harder. There’s a desperation to him you haven’t seen before. Like he needs this. Like he needs you. 

The thought is enough to push you over the edge and, hands falling forward to brace your fall against the wall, you suck in quick gasps as your orgasm rockets through you. Knees wobbling, you clench tightly around Jimin, a movement which prompts a growl and a moan from him as his pace stutters. 

“You want my come? I know you do, I know you do—“ 

He presses himself against you, filling you from the inside. He holds himself there, his grip tightening around you. You’re coming down from the height of your orgasm, your body warm and ringing in sensation as he fills you up, hips pumping ever so slightly. 

He murmurs against your neck, slumping forward. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, his front pressing to your back, sweat mingling, breaths synching—the only sound in the long hallway. You hum as your skin cools from hot to warm against his, as his hands trace over your body. Finally, he pulls out. You can feel his come shift inside of you. 

“I like when you’re full of me,” he pants, slouching against the wall next to you. “Keep me inside.” He pats your pussy, where his come is beginning to slip out and down your thigh. 

“That’s what all of you say,” you giggle, but in reality: you like it too. It makes you feel marked. Wanted. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Jimin says, pulling his pants on, and, throwing his shirt at you to cover up (as if now, of all times, is the proper time to dress yourself). He leads you through the house back to his room after scooping up your belongings. You hastily button the shirt—well, two of the buttons—and follow after him. Without looking behind at you, he reaches behind him, his palm opening, fingers spread wide: an invitation for you to hold his hand. You take it. 

You pass Yoongi in his studio. He glances up at you from his work, his hand half lifting to say hello before he realizes the state of you and Jimin: sweat-studded, warm, and marked all over by sex. His hand freezes. His eyes lock on Jimin. You’re not sure if you’re imagining it, but you think you see Jimin falter for half a second, before leading you on. No words are exchanged, just that long, long glance. 

When you arrive in Jimin’s room, all the blinds are shuttered and the bed is unmade. It’s a little unlike Jimin, you think. But while he struts to the ensuite bathroom, you tread toward the windows, tugging on the blinds so that the windows pop open to reveal the mountains washed in nightfall. As you watch the moonlight shift over the rolling terrain, something in your chest shifts, opens. This view never ceases to make you feel at peace, you think, as your breathing slows and your body relaxes. There’s not a place on this earth that you’ve visited that makes you feel the way looking at the mountains does.  

Jimin announces his return with a slight cough and holds out a washcloth to you.

“Want me to do it?” he asks.  

“S’ okay,” you reply and take the washcloth from him, reaching between your legs and wiping yourself down. “I thought you wanted me to ‘keep you inside.’”  

“Sometimes I say things just because they’re hot,” Jimin says, as he makes his way to the bed and flops down. “And sometimes I say things because it’s important to be hygienic.”

You watch him for a moment. Your gaze catching on his movement, off somehow: his weary eyes, his tired limbs. 

Since you initially arrived at the house, you had been the receiver of the most delightful aftercare you’d ever been privy to, even with your more experienced sexual partners of previous years. There was something about a friend who knew you, really knew you, that added a personal and knowing touch to satisfy the physical and emotional aches that followed sex. 

But as you look at Jimin, you realize: when had he ever received that kind of aftercare? You were so wrapped up in your own experience, that you had forgotten to check in with him. He opens his arms, inviting you into bed with him, inviting you into his embrace.

“Hold on,” You say, holding up a hand. “I have to take care of something. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be back—In the meantime, close your eyes a little?” 

Jimin nods. A little smile flickers at the corner of his lips. But he lets his head fall back onto the pillow and his eyes flutter shut. You can’t help but stare for a moment too long before you’re turning on your heel and skidding through the hallways, past Yoongi’s studio—empty now—past the spot where just minutes ago, you’d been fucked against the wall. You don’t pause. 

You’re on a mission. 

You stop by the kitchen first, surprising a closely pressed Namjoon and Yoongi, who break apart when they notice you entering. 

“Oh, sorry—” Namjoon hastily apologizes. “I mean, I’m not sorry—I mean, welcome.” 

“Welcome?” Yoongi raises a questioning eye. 

“Yes. Welcome to the kitchen.” Namjoon answers, opening his arms wide in an awkward reception.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, grinning. “Proceed.” 

“We weren’t doing anything,” Namjoon says, perhaps a little too quickly. You look between the two. You notice how Yoongi’s hand is immediately next to Namjoon’s, his fingers flickering, as if yearning for touch. And Namjoon’s foot is halfway between both of Yoongi’s. Perhaps they weren’t doing anything, but it’s clear that that statement wouldn’t be true for long.

 But you just smile and gather your intended materials and set off, knowing they’re both watching you and your half-covered ass as you leave the kitchen.

Next, you head to the master bedroom, the room where Hobi (and sometimes you) have been sleeping. You traipse into the bathroom, rifle through the cabinets. 

“What are you doing?” a voice calls from behind you. 

“Hobi.” You smile, turn, and step towards him, pressing a kiss to his surprised features. 

“Are you staying here tonight?” There’s a bright light of hope dancing in Hoseok’s eyes. 

“Ah, I dunno,” you say truthfully. “Probably not. I’m just getting some things for Jimin.” 

“Oh. I see.” You can’t help but notice the little note of disappointment in his voice. “Tomorrow? Can I have you tomorrow?” 

You grimace at his choice of words. 

“Sorry—can I steal you away tomorrow?” 

You nod, pecking his cheek and gathering your materials into your arms. 

“Tomorrow.” 

You leave Hoseok in the bathroom with your second set of materials and hurry back to Jimin’s room. 

“Okay, okay! I’m back!” You call from outside the door. “But close your eyes! Don’t look!” 

You can hear the peals of Jimin’s light, sleepy laughter echoing out from the bedroom. 

“What on earth are you doing?” 

“It’s a surprise! Are your eyes closed?” 

“Yes!” 

With your foot, you push open the door and creep inside, slipping quickly into the bathroom where you deposit all of your goodies. You quickly set it up, but Jimin is impatient, calling every other minute from the bedroom, checking if you’re ready yet. You shoo him off enough times, until finally you’re ready. You give your project one final look-over, and with a satisfied nod, open the door. 

You slide into the bedroom and pull him from the bed, pressing your hands over his eyes as you shuffle him to the bathroom door. 

“Okay… now, open!” 

You release Jimin from your grasp and let him take in the scene of the bathroom. For a moment, he’s entirely silent. Then he says: 

“What is all this?” 

“It’s for you.”

Before him waits a steaming bubble bath and a little tray filled with snacks and a hot mug of tea. Soothing, spa-like music croons from a small speaker. You’ve laid a freshly laundered bathrobe near the tub too, but it’s just then that you notice he has his own, hanging on the door behind you.

“I mean I hope so,” he chuckles. “But really, what is it?” 

“Aftercare,” you say. “You’ve been so good about checking in and taking care of us, and I wondered—I didn’t know if anyone was doing that for you. I wanted to do that for you.” 

Jimin grins and turns back towards you. He wraps you up in a hug, before pulling back enough to kiss you. 

“Thank you.” 

There’s a softness in his eyes you’re not used to seeing. 

When you undress Jimin this time around, there’s nothing sexual in the act. And that kind of scares you. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you undo his pants and slip them off, and is silent as you help him into the bath, though he groans indulgently at the feeling of the steaming water meeting his skin. He sinks in, up to his shoulders in the deep tub filled with bubbles and bath perfumes. 

“This is perfect.” 

You settle behind him, on the outside of the tub. “Can I wash your hair?” 

“Really? You want to?” 

“Yeah.” 

“No one’s done that since I was a kid.” 

You smile. “Really? Then it’ll be my little gift to you.” 

“This is more than a little gift,” Jimin says, swishing his hand through the water to point to everything all around him that you’ve set up. And then more quietly, “It’s almost… romantic,” he muses. You stiffen at the words, and if he can sense your discomfort, he continues, “It’s just… nice. Kind. Good. Thank you.” He twists towards you, grabbing your dry hands in his wet ones. “Thank you. Really.”

You smile at him and twist his shoulders back so he’s facing forward once more. 

“Now. Let me take care of you.” 

You settle behind him and roll up your sleeves, grabbing the bottle of shampoo and squeezing some into your hand. You lather it up, enjoying the silky smooth glide of the liquid between your palms before massaging some into his hair. You’re careful, gentle, with your movements, fingertips circling on his scalp. His inky black hair parts like a dark sea between your fingers, and you soon get lost, mesmerized in the repetitive action. When he groans softly, the utterance pulls you back to the present, and you can’t help but think it’s one of the sexiest sounds he’s made. 

When you’re done lathering up his hair, you reach for a cup, dipping it in the water. 

“Tilt your head back,” you guide, and he does, exposing his neck and the round bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. You see the strain, so you reach with your hand behind his head, tangling fingers in hair, and hold him firm.  Carefully, you pour the water over his hair. A steam of suds run and sink into the field of pinkish bubbles. 

“Hmmmm,” he hums as you repeat the action, and you watch as his eyes flutter shut and his shoulders loosen, dropping. It’s been a long time since you’ve seen him this relaxed. It makes you smile, thinking that you’re the one doing all this. Maybe you do enjoy being in control more than you thought.

When you’re done with his hair, you stand and wipe your hands on a towel. 

“Well. I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy your bath—“

A hand wraps around your wrist. 

“Don’t go.” 

“What?” 

“Don’t go. I’d pull you in right about now if I wasn’t worried about you slipping and getting a concussion.”

You laugh. 

“Join me,” Jimin says. “There’s plenty of space for both of us. And I bet you need it as much as I do.” 

You eye the bathtub. He’s right in both regards. The bathtub is huge, still steaming, and your body is yearning for a nice long soak right about now. 

“But I want this to be about you,” you say. 

“It can be about me. And what I want right now is for you to join me.” 

“Ha, fine.” You nod, and begin to unbutton the shirt he’d given you. Carefully, you slip into the bath, settling at the other side of the tub, directly across from him. 

He presses his toes to yours. Smiles at you. 

“Thank you for this. Really.” His foot pushes against yours, almost playfully. 

You sit in silence for a long moment. His head lolls back against the wall of the tub, and you watch him. He’s so beautiful like this: resting, relaxing. When you reach out towards him to run a hand across his leg, inching higher, he grabs your hand and stops your movements. He intertwines your fingers together, and there’s a small bolt of panic when you realize this moment isn’t intended to be sexy. It’s just supposed to be the two of you. You ease your thoughts by reminding yourself that this is just your friend. Your friend, naked in a bubble bath with you, his hand caught in yours. So you shift your attention to him, instead.

There’s an ease around him that you haven’t seen in a couple of days. On one hand, you don’t want to spoil the moment, but at the same time, you can’t help but speak up. 

“You know, I can’t help but wonder,” you begin, swirling a hand through the bubbles. “When we were having that discussion the other night, around the fire. When I shared—That there was a time when I, um, didn’t want to be here anymore.” You’re not sure why the words are suddenly heavy, difficult to get out. But you continue. “And you were there, and you looked so incredibly sad, like what I was saying meant something more to you. More—like—” You brush your hand across your face. “Goddamnit, I don’t wanna assume—and I can’t get the words right. Like it meant what it meant to me.” None of your words are making sense. You try again. “That it meant something personal to you. But then you never said anything. During the conversation, you never said anything at all.” 

Jimin looks down. Blinks. He lets go of your hand. His mouth twitches like he’s going to say something, but then he presses his lips together. 

“I, um.” He trails off. 

“It’s okay,” you say hurriedly. “We really don’t have to talk about it. I’ve just been noticing you pulling away a little more since then. How quiet you’ve been. And the shades in your bedroom. They were drawn.”

“The shades?” Jimin’s brow presses in confusion. “What do the shades have to do with anything?” 

“When I walked into your room there was something off. The room was so dark. Maybe it’s silly. Maybe I’m just making assumptions though—” 

“What?”

You take a breath and steel yourself. Out with it. 

“It feels like you’re pulling away.” 

Then, you hold your breath as you wait for him to reply. There is a long moment where you fear everything will shatter. And then he laughs, but there’s an edge of tension, like a chord pulled taut, ringing through the usually twinkling sound.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up,” you say quickly.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I should, I mean, I probably should talk about it. It’d probably be good for me. But I don’t want to just unload on you. I don’t just want to leave you with all… this.” He motions to himself with a circular motion. 

You reach forward, and grab his hand again. Give him a little squeeze.

“All this—“ You motion to him in the same manner. “Is exactly everything I want to deal with.”

“It’s too much,” he smiles sadly, splashing his hands in the water, not looking at you.

“You’re not too much, Jimin. Your feelings aren’t too much.”

He sighs. 

“Thank you. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way—but, thank you.” You two share a long gaze before his shoulders slump and he leans forward, resting his head in his hands. The water stirs around him. “Where do I even begin?”

“I dunno. At the beginning?” 

He nods, and you watch as his gaze shifts and he seems to go somewhere far away. 

“I guess the beginning was alright. Of quarantine, I mean. I thought there was a sense of freedom to it all. Not having to go into the office. A disruption in the routine. All expectations and plans and requirements taken off the table. Which felt like freedom. It was like suddenly no one was looking at me any more, no one was expecting anything from me except to just live, day by day. But then there was this anxiety that set in.”

You nod and he looks to you for validation before continuing. “Like I felt like I needed those things to be a person. The expectations, the shoulds, the pressure to go where, when, with who. I think I needed them feel like a person, or to feel like I knew where I was going. All of a sudden, all of the places and people and ideas and expectations that had shown me where I needed—where I should go—were gone. I was wandering my apartment in circles, going crazy, missing everyone, feeling like I was missing out on everything, even when there was nothing going on. And I knew the whole time that what I was feeling wasn’t real—but I couldn’t shake it.” 

You nod sagely. 

“I understand that. That sounds really difficult.” 

He nods blankly, and you can tell that it’s about to pour out. 

“And it sounds so stupid, but I missed sex. I missed sex so much.” 

“That’s not stupid, Jimin.” 

“It felt like a part of me was taken away. Like a huge part of the way that I communicate— it just disappeared. And I was left with nothing. I thought you guys would laugh if while you all were baring your hearts to each other, I was just sat there like, ‘I missed fucking.’ That it would be offensive to compare it to what all of you were going through.” 

“Jimin, whatever you were going through, we want to hear. We wouldn’t have laughed.” 

“Maybe you should have though.” 

“C’mon. You can’t just sit here and say that being stripped of your entire social life, the way you connect to people, to the world, you can’t say that loss is worth laughing at.” 

Jimin is silent for a long moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” 

“I mean, everything, everything disappeared. I feel like what you’re describing isn’t just about sexual gratification or getting your rocks off. It’s everything. We went from this world where, living in the city, every day is full of these little bumps with strangers, right? You go to the grocery store and flirt with the girl by the oranges. You go to the bar and you hear about someone’s breakup, and then you make out with them in the bathroom.” You get Jimin to crack a smile at that—remembering together. “We lost so much. The sex. The flirting, sure. But there was something else, too. The connecting with strangers. The connecting with people we loved.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sex is important, but what you’re describing is connection. Direction. Your whole world changed. How can you say that that’s not a huge loss?” 

Jimin finally looks at you. He blinks. He stays silent. Then: “It was so lonely. I was so lonely.” 

“Of course you were.” 

“I think I didn’t know who I was without sex.”

“Don’t you think it goes a little deeper than that?” 

“I didn’t know who I was without all the relationships in my life.” 

You nod. You understand. What you say next almost surprises you. “I don’t think we’re meant to know that kind of thing. I don’t think we’re meant to be so distant from everyone.” 

He nods, then says, “Then why do you make yourself so distant?” 

Oh.

Fuck. 

“We’re talking about you, Jimin,” you say quickly. 

“We’ve talked about me. We can talk about you too.” 

“I don’t want to—“ 

When Jimin says your name, it rings right through you. It quiets you. It sends you somewhere soft and silent. You sink down in the water, letting it come up, just above your nose. You look at him from that level, that quiet piercing gaze going right through you. He just waits. And waits. When you can’t hold your breath any more, you push up, letting the water glide off you. 

“I don’t know, Jimin,” you say, finally. “But whatever it is, I don’t know what to do with it.” 

← || series m.list || →

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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🔆 want to read more stories?

[porcelain-feather]

Many years went by after the Princess had been remade. Most of the time, she went about maintaining her small estate, building upon what she had one brick at a time. Many nobles would look down their nose and scoff at such meager holdings, especially one without any maids or servants to speak of, but to the Lady it was home. She had made a few key connections to other local nobility that gave her a foothold here, but just enough and nothing more.

Then came the day when a maid arrived who did not serve any known acquaintance. For that matter, she did not serve anyone at all - it was as if she had come into existence there on the Lady's doorstep mere moments before the door was opened. She bowed politely, and though she did not speak, she explained in writing that she had come to aid the Lady with her services. Given her current status, the Lady was in no place to decline such eager and generous help, and so she took in her first maid. Little did she know that this was not a maid, not truly - it was a Witch shaped like a maid, and now she was hidden in plain sight.

Over the years, the Lady's glamour had frayed at the edges and begun to fall away in pieces. She had noticed that there were some oddities about herself, but mostly ignored them rather than investigate further. Her heart still beat, so surely everything must have been fine enough. The new Witch politely and privately disagreed with this - most Witches are burdened with a crippling inability to leave well enough alone - and decided that with each passing week, she would tug another thread loose and wait to see what happened. One at a time, like a puzzle played in reverse, she made her moves and waited to see how long it would take for the glamour to completely unravel and reveal what truly lay beneath. One month, two, three…

The ninth month was the final move in this game. Suddenly, the magic fell away and the Lady saw herself for the first time as she truly was: not a human, but a Doll with pretty porcelain skin and bright eyes. A pair of black feathered wings unfurled from her back like a flower blooming in springtime, and most curiously of all, her heart continued to beat steadily in her chest despite the fact that a creature like her certainly did not need one of those.

After a moment of surprise, the shock set in and sent the poor thing scrambling away from the mirror in fright. She looked down at her hands and saw the ball joints, the glassy sheen of ceramic, and most of all, the truth of what she was. When she raised her eyes to the mirror, she saw a second truth - her loyal Maid was, in fact, a Witch all this time. Though she had no voice to speak with, the look in her eyes spoke volumes for itself.

Now you see the game, my Lady. It is your move~

[fiercynn]

palestinian poets: rasha abdulhadi

rasha abdulhadi is a queer palestinian southerner with long covid who cut their teeth organizing on the southsides of chicago and atlanta. rasha's writing has appeared in speculative city, liminality, strange horizons, shade journal, mizna, room, itap| magazine, beltway poetry, and lambda literary. their work is anthologized in essential voices: a COVID-19 anthology, unfettered hexes, halal if you hear me, stoked words, and luminescent threads: connections to octavia butler. rasha is a member of justice for muslims collective, the radius of arab american writers, and alternate ROOTS. their small book of poetry is WHO IS OWED SPRINGTIME (neon hemlock press). you can find rasha on twitter.

RASHA'S CALL TO ACTION

"rasha abdulhadi is calling on you, dear reader, to join them in refusing and resisting the genocide of the palestinian people. wherever you are, whatever sand you can throw on the gears of genocide, do it now. if it's a handful, throw it. if it's a fingernail full, scrape it out and throw. get in the way however you can. the elimination of the palestinian people is not inevitable. we can refuse with our every breath and action. we must."

IF YOU READ JUST ONE POEM BY RASHA ABDULHADI, MAKE IT THIS ONE

"Casting Runes" was originally published by fiyah literary magazine in the palestine special issue, which was curated, edited, illustrated and comprised entirely of palestinian creators, in december 2021. the collection was edited by guests nadia shammas and summer farah, and featured cover art by leila aboutaleb.

if you have the means, you can purchase the e-book of the fiyah lit palestine special issue for USD $5.99, the proceeds of which go to medical aid for palestinians.

OTHER POEMS ONLINE THAT I LOVE BY RASHA ABDULHADI

Rabbits at lambda literary

Picking up Rocks at split this rock (also read aloud)

Dad's Combs at beltway poetry

Table of Contents for a Manual of Pandemic Response Protocols at poetry.onl (also read aloud)

Safe Harbor in Enemy Homes at get lit anthology

Build the Graves at the deadlands

How to Build a Dad Out of Bricks at electric lit

[helvegen-s]

Rage, rage | seven

index

Pairing: Azriel x Hybern!Princess!OC

Summary: Nimue was a gift for the King of Hybern. His shining jewel, the perfect heir. However, she is clear about who the villain of the story is. When she saves her father's enemies from a tragic end, she realizes that now it's the Cauldron who has a gift for her: a mate.

Warnings: I think none, just some bantering and fluff towards the end

A/N: here is where the good shit starts...

Nimue had started spending more time outdoors. She sat on the balconies of the house, in the garden, in the outdoor patio, and she enjoyed the fresh air. She loved feeling the wind on her skin, in her hair, the chill as the sun set.

However, there was a shadow looming over her.

She was enjoying her new life, her new freedom, but she knew that at some point all of that would have to change, that she would have to return to reality.

She was sitting in the garden, in a chair, with her eyes closed and letting herself be carried away by the sensation of the sun on her skin when suddenly she felt it.

She felt something in her mind open up, and her vision was blinded from inside her skull. When she opened her eyes, she didn't see the trees and rose bushes in the garden, she only saw white.

She didn't panic, as that light was the same one that surrounded her when she was inside the Cauldron. It was him, trying to tell her something, to teach her something.

So she clung to the chair's armrests to stay anchored to the earthly plane and let herself be carried wherever the Cauldron was dragging her.

She saw herself in the middle of a path. In front of her, green meadows and lush forests. There was something there that made the greens of the leaves seem livelier, that made the blue sky shine brighter.

When she turned around, trying to take in all her surroundings, she found a beautiful mansion behind her, where the path she was on ended. The house was neglected, but still, its charm made Nimue feel drawn towards its interior.

She supposed it must be the Spring Court, as it matched the brief descriptions Feyre had given her when telling her story.

And then she saw it.

Under the huge entrance gate, she saw them, all of them.

She saw Jurian, she saw Dagdan and Brannagh, her hateful cousins. There in the midst of all that splendor and springtime radiance, the human and the two twins exuded a poisonous and black aura that tainted the air around them.

She wondered if that's how Azriel and the others saw her, and she felt a pang of disgust towards herself in her chest.

Azriel, standing in the middle of the kitchen with a cup in his hand, felt the same pang in his own chest.

He immediately became alert and pulled and pulled on that invisible thread. He felt Nimue's presence on the other side, but there was something strange. As if she also wasn't there.

He set the cup aside, not caring if it fell to the floor or not, and hurried out of the kitchen. He first looked in the library, where he knew she spent most of her time.

He knew, clearly, because it was his duty to watch over her and make sure she didn't have any hidden intentions.

Just because of that, nothing more.

When he decided to peek into the garden, there she was.

The princess, taking one last look to identify Tamlin and Lucien, let herself be dragged back to Velaris, to her new home.

She came to her senses, and in front of her was Azriel.

"Hello."

Azriel didn't say anything. He just looked at her, in silence, watching as the girl got up from the chair and walked towards him under the sunlight.

There, in the light, she seemed to shine with her own light.

He took a couple of deep breaths and tensed his body completely. Involuntarily, his wings spread behind him, and he could see his own shadow projected on the ground.

Alright, perfect. We have to impress her.

He wanted to smack himself.

After what had happened the other day at the training ground, after letting himself go so unconsciously, Azriel's shadows had completely betrayed him. They spent the hours of the day chasing Nimue around the house, whispering in his ear everything the princess did or didn't do, telling him that she wore a very pretty dress, or that she had perfumed herself with a small bottle of cologne that Feyre had given her.

He had been avoiding her for days, now more than ever, after the ridiculousness he had made in front of Cassian.

Oh, Cassian. He had made sure everyone in the house knew, and he had also made sure to embarrass Azriel on the subject.

And now, after days, their encounter couldn't happen any other way, with his body disobeying him again, his wings spreading like a bird's, his body tensing every muscle to pretend.

He looked like a foolish teenager trying to impress the girl he liked.

Nimue gave him a warm smile, so warm that Azriel could swear his heart was melting in the middle of his chest.

"I haven't seen you in many days."

Nimue knew he had been avoiding her. Nimue knew Azriel's shadows followed her around the house. She also knew that something had changed within the male, because she felt it through the bond. She felt a small burning spark, amidst all that anger and rage boiling inside him.

"I've been busy. I have a job, even if it doesn't seem like it."

Azriel reconsidered the option of smacking himself.

Why was he like this with her? Why couldn't he manage to give her a kind word, a good look, a nice smile? Just like everyone else in his family did.

However, Nimue's own smile didn't falter.

"I know," she simply said. She continued to look at him a little longer, with all that curiosity in her face that only made Azriel soften even more.

And so they stood, in silence, facing each other for a while longer without really knowing what to say. Simply internalizing each other's presence. Until Nimue remembered the pressing matter.

"Oh, I have to talk to Rhysand. Things are moving fast in Spring.”

"Wonderful. So now it's not just Tamlin, as if that wasn't enough, the damn Jurian is with him in Spring too. And you're telling me you have two sadistic and psychopathic cousins there as well?"

Rhysand immediately wanted to tear his hair out. Everything was slipping out of their hands. They had found a quick and discreet solution to all of this, to prevent a greater evil, and things had gone awry. He was grateful for the help Nimue had unconditionally provided, but welcoming the princess into their home had only put a target on their backs for the King of Hybern.

"I can help, Rhysand. Let me go there, and I'll take care of slowing down all their plans."

The High Lord hesitated. He could feel Feyre's gaze on him, the expectation she placed on his decision.

"Nimue..." Rhysand didn't know how to say it tactfully.

He glanced around the room, where everyone had gathered to hear what the princess had to say. He observed Azriel carefully, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looking as though he might bore a hole in the floor with his restlessness.

Azriel didn't want to let her go to Spring. It was suspicious, too risky. The perfect opportunity for her to betray their trust, to join forces with her cousins and the traitor Tamlin and end everything in Prythian, just as her father wanted her to do.

He wanted to trust her, but her eagerness to convince them to let her go, to let her go with the enemy...

"No," said Azriel. He stepped forward, imposing himself in the atmosphere of that meeting, and everyone looked at him. "We can't let her go, it's risky and dangerous. We still don't know what her intentions are or what will happen if her family convinces her to return.

"Don't talk about me as if I'm not here in front of you." With her sharp teeth fully visible, ears laid back and pinned to her skull, Nimue looked like a stray cat about to attack. The embodiment of rage. "I've been in this house for almost a month, living with you all and earning your trust. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it in Hybern to save myself all this time, I wouldn't need to convince you of anything if my goal was to win the war for my father. I would simply kill you, and there would be no war to win."

Everyone remained silent and surprised at the princess's sudden outburst of fury. The sweet and innocent girl they had come to know over the past month had disappeared, and in her place, a furious beast stared at each of them one by one.

"I made it clear from the beginning. You need me. Let me fit into your plans and help you, or I'll burn everything down regardless of what stands in the way: High Lords or kings of Hybern."

Rhysand immediately became alert, ready for anything, as did the entire Inner Circle.

"Calm down."

"I'll calm down when you understand that I'm not a helpless child, nor a mere spy. I'll calm down when you understand that I'm a weapon made for war and that I have no reason to wish you harm," Nimue breathed. She did her best to dissipate her anger, to let it flow and evaporate through every pore. "Unlike the father who imprisoned me for twenty years and intends to ravage the entire world, I wish no harm upon you."

Azriel, with his hand on the hilt of his dagger, felt the heavy atmosphere of the room dissipate slowly, as Nimue glanced at each of them one by one, pleading for a vote of confidence. He felt the sorrow of the female in his own chest, raw through the bond.

Sorrow, because even though Nimue believed she was finding her place, she felt so hard to love, so hard to accept. They saw her as a monster and a threat wherever she went, and there were times when, despite her efforts to fight against that stigma, she only reinforced it. Like at that moment, when faced with the rejection of these people, she had reverted to her old self, the one who bared her teeth and threatened others.

In a final desperate attempt, she turned to Azriel, "Please, I beg you. Give me this chance and take action against my father and his madness."

Azriel looked at her, holding his breath and fighting against the instinct to fall to his knees and give the pleading female whatever she wanted. It was so difficult for him to fight against his instincts that he had to close his eyes and then look at the ceiling, avoiding Nimue's eyes, who knew what she was doing with all the rationality Azriel could have.

Rhysand broke the silence with a long sigh.

"Okay," sighed the High Lord. There was a moment of silence in which Azriel supposed he would be speaking mind to mind with Feyre. "The only condition is that Azriel goes with you and ensures that everything goes well."

"Okay. When do we leave?"

Azriel gazed enraptured at his lifelong brother, his High Lord.

"Pardon?”

She was sitting in one of the armchairs in her room, her gaze fixed on the stars shining in the sky. She counted them, searching for the constellations that Amren had taught her in those books, memorizing their names. She felt nerves on edge, anticipation for the next day, for her parting to the Spring Court boiling deep within her.

Finally, she felt useful. Finally, her twenty years of waiting were leading her somewhere. Although she found herself on the opposite side of the fight than she had imagined, she felt that was where she belonged.

In her reverie, she felt a tug in the middle of her chest. The door to her room opened on its own, as if a gust of wind had pushed it, as if the house itself were urging her to go. Nimue shivered and decided to follow that pull, that sensation she received with open arms even if she didn't want to, even if she tried to resist it.

Azriel.

She followed the bond through the corridors, blindly, opening doors and ascending to the attic of the house. There, she climbed out of one of the windows and onto the roof of the house.

In the darkness of the night, illuminated by the half moon, Azriel was sitting on the black tiles, his face tilted towards the sky and his eyes closed.

Nimue didn't utter a word, didn't move a muscle, by the Mother, she didn't even breathe. She stayed still, observing every angle of that male's face, how the pale light of the moon illuminated his dark skin, how his raven hair shone like the purest of onyx. She remained silent, afraid he would notice her presence and chase her away barking, as the only communication between them was usually to insult or annoy each other.

Nimue looked at him and looked at him. She looked at him so much that she thought she was going to cry, until Azriel let out a sigh.

"Are you going to come closer or are you going to stay there all night?"

Nimue flinched, but quickly crawled over to where he was, sitting beside him at a prudent distance and pulling her knees to her chest. She felt her nose and cheeks reddened by the cold, her fingertips growing numb. But she didn't mind, as that made her feel alive.

"Are you nervous?"

She mulled over the response for a couple of seconds, still gazing at the stars.

"Yes," she turned to look at Azriel only to find the male's gaze already fixed on her, a relaxed expression on his face. "And you?"

"Only a fool wouldn't be."

They fell silent for a while longer, Nimue's gaze on the city below, Azriel's on the beautiful female beside him.

He couldn't stop looking at her. When he tried, his gaze involuntarily returned to her figure. He focused on every little thing, every tiny detail he could see: the waves of her white hair, the messy half up she wore, how the smile seemed so natural on her face that even though she tried to hide it, it always came back.

His shadows seemed awfully and suspiciously quiet that night, leaving room for his not so quiet thoughts.

Suddenly, she raised her hand, pointing at something in the middle of the sky.

"I never knew what that constellation was called, but it's the one I observed from the few windows I saw in the Palace. Every night I looked at it, counted the stars, drew it on every piece of paper I laid my hands on."

Azriel followed her finger, unable to contain his smile when he saw what she meant. He leaned back, lying on the tiles and letting his weight fall on his elbows. Nimue turned to him, that curiosity and fascination typical of a child discovering the world shining in her eyes, and Azriel felt a stab of anger.

His mate, who had spent the twenty years of her life locked in a Palace, was nothing more than the puppet of a bad man. And only now she was lucky enough to see the world, to be fascinated by all those things that he considered so mundane and ordinary that he overlooked them day after day.

"Here we call it the Promise constellation, but in other courts they call it the Lovers' constellation. Under it, many couples in Prythian swear eternal love. They celebrate their weddings and engagements at night and swear their vows under the light of those stars." Azriel looked at her cautiously, waiting for any reaction from her.

But Nimue only turned her gaze back to the stars, a lump in her throat. It was beautiful. Swearing eternal love to someone...

In all her existence, she had never imagined that there would be room for love. But she allowed herself to dream for a second, just one second, about how it would feel to love and be loved.

Azriel felt his emotions mix with Nimue's, felt so many things at once that, careful not to let the female see him, he brought his hand to his face to wipe away the tear that was sliding down his cheek. It was brutal, feeling all those things as if it were the first time, because it certainly was the first time Nimue felt them.

"How beautiful..." the princess whispered.

"Yes, it is. It's beautiful."

Nimue looked at him again, the purest of smiles on her face, and with a quick movement, she took Azriel's hand between hers and brought it to her lap, causing Azriel to be surprised by the gesture.

"You must learn to trust me, no matter what it costs. From my heart and under this constellation, I swear loyalty to you, I swear I will do everything I can to win this war and make sure nothing goes wrong. I swear with all my soul that you can trust me, that I am worthy of your trust."

Azriel was stunned, speechless, a look of complete surprise uncommon on his face. With his gaze lost in their joined hands, he couldn't help but notice the scars contrasting against Nimue's pale skin, and how well their hands looked together. So contrasting were their skin tones, yet so accomplice in the marks of their past. He sat up, and with his other gloved hand, he embraced Nimue's.

"And I swear I will learn to trust you, blindly."

Intertwining between their fingers, a tattoo in the shape of thorn branches began to stain their skin, bearing witness to the promise they had just made.

And with only the stars as witnesses, Azriel and Nimue held each other's hands, looking into each others eyes, staring into each other's souls.

Taglist:

@lilah-asteria @agentsofsheilds @leptitlu @just-here-reading @glitterypirateduck @saltedcoffeescotch @krowiathemythologynerd @donttellthecats @annblvd @annamariereads16 @crazylokonugget @smoooothoperator @bookwormysblog

[exo-raskreia]

hey.... i wanna know your honest Thoughts on the jjk ending? Give a rating out 10. Honestly i'm ranting. I mean the good things in the chapter were sukuna's conclusion, the flashback with gojo , queen utahime being alive yay and the nice art with everyone at the end. Usually i would wait for a story to finish before ranting/judging but my god this kinda sucked. I don't want to be too critical but god I am just disappointed and kinda mad. Overall it is an okay/mid manga ;). Gege is not worst writer but ughh. Aot or mha sure they have their flaws but my god..These should never be compared to THIS. so now we could really say that gojo stayed south. With the full chapter, this does not change my opinion cause it still kinda sucks overall even with the whole north vs south meaning. Nothing really changed in the society or lessons maybe except for yuji and sukuna. The kiddos all really went back to missions huh after everything. I have alot to say with relationships and bonds, wasted potential on many aspects but that is a whole other discussion. i totally understand we can't write a backstory for every single character but that is not what i am insinuating here and yes there should be room for a little literary interpretation . That a whole different topic... Anyways I agree with alot your rants. i would like to hear your opinions. In the end we never got to see a gjhm flashback unfortunately. Ok so let say gojo is dead dead I find it hard to believe no was like remembering or acknowledging not even his comrades ( examples shoko, utahime etc_ or the students (i mean i am pretty sure these characters would but i would like to SEE it you know) and so many hints were gearing for gojo's revival but it is meaningless... and was used for pr ngl that's sad. Maybe the anime would do better at some aspects but i will be salty anyways. i will see uta's dance ;) animated so that i looking forward to and ig the maki's massacre. it looks like it's open ending but really!? They are some loop holes but HEY FEAR not we will probably see answers to our questions in the q&a segment! sigh. I lowkey do not want a "jjk part 2" it is draining. Gege when i catch you. I think gege intended this story to be short oh well. I have alot to say but this gonna be a novel lol. Sorry for errors i was in a moment and i hoped you understood what i wanted to say. Hope the gojohime fandom would not die and looking forward to see some nice content.

Thankyou

I already went on a mini rant here. If I have to rate the ending, I'd say maybe 2-4 out of 10?

JJK really did turn out kinda mid. It has an easy anime to get into (the anime carries it mostly 🫣), to recommend for newbies, but that ending will make one hesitate to recommend it now. Maybe wouldn't even bother to.

I'm also disappointed & mad. I don't even wanna consider that Gojo is fully dead (cuz Gege went about it so terribly). Gege skipped Gojo's whole month after his unsealing then killed him off-panel a few chapters later. The north & south thing was pointless. We didn't even get to see Gojo make a choice. There were so many hints about his potential revival but they amounted to nothing.

Summed up in this image:

This Tweet sums up the terrible mishandling of Gojo's character too 😡. This other short thread pretty much says that his "death" didn't make sense for Gojo either; accepting to stay at the airport is him regressing to his teen self. It doesn't properly conclude Gojo's character arc at all. He was meant to MOVE ON from the loss of his "springtime of youth" & continue to strive for a better future with his comrades & students; the future that HE DREAMED OF 😤 (oof, don't wanna rant further on Gojo; don't wanna make this longer 😅).

Honestly, the fan theories made the story seem much better than it actually was. At least with this ending, people can finally start seeing & admitting that Gege isn't a great writer. I've certainly never thought he was 😒; I once went on a rant here about most issues with this manga, one of them being how terribly fast-paced it is. This story is the definition of wasted potential. So many missed opportunities.

Whatever Gege comes up with for the databook, it'll be infuriating. He'll try to fill in the plot holes but man, I don't think it'll be satisfying. He might not even answer the burning questions everyone has (just like Kub0 never answered everyone's burning questions about the Bl3ach ED, or more like, no one dared to ask. Maybe he himself didn't allow those questions for his interviews 😒). Hope ppl don't give him any more money, especially cuz he's still milking Gojo, such as with that Hidden Inventory movie no one asked for.

I kinda wanted a Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 1 ending (lol) & then on to the supposed JJK part 2, esp cuz of this sketch here but Gege fumbled hard.

Wonder if Mappa could deliver but we'll see. I only care about GojoHime's 200% Hollow Purple now. Gege made me lose most interest I had for other things getting animated. Just thinking about that ending will mostly ruin my experience... 😞

I also hope the GojoHime fandom continues to thrive. We've always lived off of crumbs... Hope ppl continue to make headcanons, fanfics, fanart, etc... I wouldn't want ppl to leave such a beautiful ship with so much potential 🥺 (I've been thru this type of thing before with Bl3ach, so despite the disappointment, I've stuck around in my ship fandoms only. I don't engage with anything else in that series. Another beloved series of mine also ended terribly but unfortunately, the fandom kinda faded or became inactive cuz it's a manhwa 🥺; if it at least had a proper anime adaptation, then...).

Let's stay strong, GojoHime fam! 🥹❤️‍🩹

[bullet-prooflove]

The Detective & The Professor: Endeavour Morse x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @caffeinatedwoman @lieutenantcrosby @to-grow-in-and-to-love @gwyn73

Companion piece to:

Next Time - Morse doesn't expect to meet his soulmate on the lawn at Oxford.

California Dreaming - Morse wants to discuss the night you spent together.

You look beautiful tonight. A vision in a black and white jumpsuit, one that closely resembles his own tuxedo. Your mouth is a slash of red, your eyes winged with a dark liner that makes them glitter like the finest jewels in the Ashmolean Museum.

You wear your hair in a half up, half down style, revealing a slender throat adorned with an ornate onyx and silver choker. It covers the mark he left on your skin earlier today, the one he made when he bit down on the side of your neck, repressing the sound of his climax as you made love inside your classroom.

Already there’s a stirring inside of him, a rush of heat that blossoms in his groin as he meets your gaze.

“You scrub up well.” You say as you step towards him, your lips brush his cheek and the scent of your perfume floods his senses, something fresh and luminous that reminds him of dewy springtime mornings.

“And you are stunning.” He says tucking you underneath his arm, holding you close. “The most beautiful woman in Oxford.”

“You flatter me.” You say with a sincerity that’s visceral. He realises in that moment, that a woman like you doesn’t hear too many complements. They aren’t often given to ones who defy convention.

He ignores the looks the both of you draw when you step through the stone entrance and into the outdoor space they use for the symphony. Oxford scholars are a gossipy sort. He gathers you’ve not taken a lover for a long time and of course, he has a bit of notoriety since the arrest of Felix Lorimer.

The Detective and the Professor, it’s all anyone can talk about in the weeks that follow. They discuss the night the two of you spent underneath the stars, your cheek resting on his shoulder as you were serenaded by the best musicians in the country, your fingers threaded with his.

He becomes a permanent fixture in your world after that, an attentive partner, an formidable opponent, an intuitive lover. Your debates are legendary, each one long and spirited, often ending with a fond smile as he proclaims how impossible you are before he makes love to you on a bed that’s never known it, not before you.

The good old boys are up in arms over the whole thing, they’ve been taking shots at you for years without so much as a hand up your skirt and the women titter because there are rumours about Morse, about the fact he has a medal, one for undisclosed services to the crown.

“We keep going on like this I’m going to fall in love with you.” You warn him one evening when your tangled up in bed together. His arm is looped around your waist, keeping you gathered up close, your legs entwined with his.

“It’s too late for me I’m afraid.” He tells you, his thumb ghosting over the blush of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[anniebeckcalla]

❀dandelion: springtime with nct dream [part three]

:𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧// 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐤𝐲// 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐞// 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬:

non-idol au. wc:n/a. cw:fluff

calla's note: thank you so much for the support towards this series! I will work on the masterlist so that you may be able to find all the work in the right place! more is on the way!

❀ haechan~

A cool breeze gently whispered through the air, rustling the grass in the daisy paddock and settling on your bare shoulders, leaving little goosebumps in its wake. You shuddered slightly, but you were so occupied with struggling to thread one daisy stalk into another that you didn't do anything to remedy the matter.

You couldn't help feeling quite guilty - Haechan, who was sitting in front of you, had already made three daisy chains and had placed them around your head and neck as accessories. He was already working on a fourth one, insisting that he wanted you to have a bracelet to match. You wanted to make a chain for him in return, but you simply could not get your fingers hooked around the flimsy stalks. Every time you thought you had succeeded, the little green stems would bend and split, staining your fingertips with sticky sap.

Haechan observed your silent struggle with pity. All he wanted was to use his skills to decorate you in the best way possible, and while he was touched to see you trying to return the favour, he didn't want you to struggle in his name. “Here, you do it like this,” he said gently, taking your hands in his and guiding the daisy stalks to your control. You could barely speak for how shy you felt, and a wave of embarrassment washed over you when you saw how easy it was to thread the daisies together. “Thank you,” you muttered. “Um, it's for you.”

Hacehan chuckled softly. “Oh, no. You deserve it, especially as it's your creation.” Despite your muffled protests, he looped the daisy chain around your wrist. “There, you look beautiful!” Suddenly, Haechan noticed the increasing goosebumps on your arms. “You're freezing,” he remarked.

“No, I'm not,” you blushed, taken aback that he had noticed.

“Yes, you are. Come on.” Without hesitation, Haechan scooped you up in an embrace, his warm body melting away your shivers. He placed his head atop yours, strong arms around your waist. Usually, you would have squirmed away, but you were so jaded and flustered by his small act of chivalry that you leaned into his caress, your hands clasped around his middle.

No amount of daisies or spring breezes could affect you now..

❀~renjun

Painting outside had brought about consequences that were a double edged sword.

The clouds hung low in the sky, dark, menacing, and ready to spew water at the slightest provocation. Despite this, you and Renjun sat outside in the garden with canvases and watercolour paints, with Renjun claiming “it was sunny earlier on.”

Usually, you two liked to do your painting sessions with an objective. Today, you'd decided that you would “paint something that reminds us of each other.” (Renjun's suggestion). Right now, you sat opposite Renjun with your canvas in your lap and paintbrush in hand, creating what you had intended to be a fox. You couldn’t help it. Renjun reminded you of a fox - he was swift, he was solemn, and he was handsome. He had a very mature air about him. You were confident that he would approve.

However, despite your best efforts, what you had wanted to be a fox was just a splodge of colours, the proportions hideously out of place, tail looking like an orange tree trunk, ears looking like dinner plates. You tried to fix it, but the more you added on, the worse it became. More paint landed on your hands and arms than on the canvas.

“I'm done with mine.” Renjun held up his canvas, eyes sparkling with pride. On his piece was a large moon in a midnight sky, all the right colours mixing together to make it look entrancing. “I see you as moon,” he explained. “I see myself as the waves, and scientifically, the moon controls the waves, and in a way, you control me to be a better person.”

He looked so delighted that tears sprung to your eyes when you glanced at the absolute rubbish that you had to offer him in return.

Suddenly, you felt a plop of water land on your nose. Another plop landed on the canvas in front of you. More plops fell down all around, and somewhere in the distance, your heard a rumble of thunder.

The rainstorm had finally arrived.

You both scrambled to pick up your painting equipment and ferry it inside, but due to the merciless precipitation, there were victims. One of the charcoal blocks was absolutely waterlogged, the painting mat was soaked through…and your painting of a fox was ruined beyond repair.

Once all were safely inside, Renjun held the canvas up sadly. “What was this meant to be?” he questioned. “A fox,” you replied quietly, eyes on the floor in shame. Renjun set the canvas aside and pulled you into a hug. “Really? But I love foxes! You really think that I'm like my favourite animal, y/n! I love you so much!” You hugged him back tightly. Over his shoulder, you looked out of the window and mouthed a silent “thank you” to the spring rain that had ruined your atrocious work.

Now, there was a chance to start afresh and give Renjun what he truly deserved.

[elodieunderglass]

I finished patching up a giant hole on my jeans using sashiko mending last night! I didn’t have any denim I wanted to cut up so I used an old ripped pair of jeggings, but it fucked up the mending, and last night I cut up a bigger square of the jeggings and sewed it onto the inside of the jeans, so it should hold better and not have any uncomfortable threaded bits rubbing my leg now! Is that worth an egg for Killian?

TWENTY-EIGHT. i love the energy of springtime mending, repairing, and making new.