#monogram frame

[digitalcraftingart]

[starwarsandwine]

Inspiration for a medium-sized transitional master bedroom remodel with a carpeted gray floor, beige walls, and no fireplace

D Kannadasan Dkd

[reat13]

Miami Master Bedroom Inspiration for a medium-sized transitional master bedroom remodel with a carpeted gray floor, beige walls, and no fireplace

[blissfulflw]

G!p sugar mommy rina marathon sex and cockwarming in the end 👉👈

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･𝑆𝑝𝑜𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑠𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑖𝑠𝑒

Pairing- Yu Jimin (Karina) x fem reader

Genre- Smut

Word count- 4169

Warnings- 18+ interaction only, G!p Jimin, dom Jimin, age gap, marathon sex (multiple rounds), cockwarming, overstimulation, breeding kink, dirty talk, semi-public sex (apartment setting), body worship, NSFW

A/N: I just want to emphasise that CONSENT WAS THERE. In case I get cancelled!! 🤗 also I added font by accident again

You don’t hear the door open.

You feel it — the shift in the air, the low thud of expensive heels on marble, the silence that comes before the storm. A sharp contrast to the soft jazz still playing from the penthouse speakers. You sit up straighter in the velvet chaise near the window, heart thudding in your throat, smoothing down the silk robe she sent you — navy, monogrammed, nothing underneath.

Two weeks. That’s how long she left you. Two weeks of voice notes and teasing texts. Photos of her in tailored suits, sprawled across hotel beds with captions like “Wish you were here. On your knees.” She’d made you wait. Now she was home.

Yu Jimin — Karina, to the world — enters the room like she owns it. Because she does.

Hair slicked back from the cold, black coat tailored to her tall frame, heels clicking with purpose. You don’t breathe until she stops in front of you, shrugging off her coat, revealing the sharp cut of her blouse — undone just enough to make your throat go dry.

She doesn’t say hello.

Just lets her eyes drag over your body, slow and shameless. “You waited like a good girl,” she murmurs. Her voice is lower than usual, rougher from travel, like smoke and velvet all at once.

You nod, fingers clenching the edge of the chaise. “You said not to touch myself until you got back.”

Her smile is indulgent. Dangerous. “And did you listen?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

That earns you something between a hum and a growl. She steps closer, and suddenly her knee is nudging between yours. She spreads you open like it’s nothing, like she owns you — because she does.

“You look needy,” she whispers, brushing a knuckle under your chin. “All that waiting… all that patience… I should reward you. Or ruin you.”

You whimper, breath stuttering. “Please ruin me.”

Her hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “Oh, baby,” she says, eyes glinting. “I’m going to do both.”

The sound of your own heartbeat is deafening in your ears.

Jimin’s hand stays under your jaw, firm and possessive, as she leans in close — not to kiss you yet, but to savor how you tremble. Her presence alone makes your body ache. You can smell her perfume — amber and musk, faint but dominant — and underneath that, the subtle scent of her skin after a long flight.

“You look like you’re going to cry already,” she murmurs. Her thumb strokes your lip again. “Did you really wait like I told you?”

You nod, but she doesn’t move.

“I want to hear it.”

“I did,” you breathe. “Didn’t touch myself once. I wanted to be good for you.”

Her gaze darkens — with hunger, pride, and something dangerous.

“Oh, you’ve been very good,” she says. Her free hand ghosts over your thigh, pushing aside the robe you wore just for her. It slips open with a whisper of silk, baring you completely beneath it. “And I’m going to ruin you for it.”

You shiver as her palm cups the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. Her skin is cool from the cold outside — but the heat in her touch makes you burn.

She finally kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not slow. Not sweet.

It’s the kind of kiss that takes everything. Teeth and tongue and dominance. The kind of kiss that leaves you gasping, back arching into her as she presses you back against the chaise. She climbs over you with the smooth confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times — because she has. But she’s never kissed anyone like this.

Only you.

You moan into her mouth as her hand finds your center. Her fingers slide between your folds — already wet, already aching — and she lets out a low laugh when she feels how ready you are.

“Soaked,” she says, dragging her fingers up slowly, spreading your slick over your clit with lazy circles. “And I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

Your breath hitches. That word — cock — always makes you weak when she says it. Because she knows exactly what to do with it. Because you’ve dreamed of it inside you every night she was gone.

“I missed you,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Missed the way you make me feel.”

Jimin leans down to your ear, breath hot. “Then you’re not sleeping tonight.”

She kisses down your neck — biting just hard enough to leave a mark — as her fingers keep moving, slow and precise. Her other hand unbuckles her belt with one smooth motion. You barely get a glimpse, but the bulge beneath her tailored slacks is unmistakable. Big. Thick. And strapped tight against her skin in a way that always makes you dizzy when she uses it on you.

You reach for her, but she grabs your wrist and pins it above your head.

“No,” she says simply. “You don’t get to touch yet.”

You whimper, thighs twitching. “Please…”

Jimin smirks against your throat. “You beg so pretty.”

With practiced ease, she frees her cock — thick and veined silicone, secured against her hip — and lets it slap against your thigh. You gasp at the weight of it, the promise of it. It’s not just about the physicality — it’s the way she uses it. Like it’s hers. Like you’re hers.

She strokes it once, deliberately slow. “You’re going to take this all night. You understand me?”

You nod, dazed. “Yes, Jimin.”

A growl escapes her throat — low, feral, possessive. That word lights her up like nothing else.

She doesn’t waste another second.

With one hand still holding your wrist above your head, she lines herself up with your entrance and sinks in — slowly, torturously — until she’s buried to the hilt. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry as you stretch around her, your whole body shaking.

“F-fuck—!”

Jimin hisses through her teeth. “So. Fucking. Tight.”

She stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel just how deep she is. Then her grip tightens on your wrist, and her hips pull back — before slamming into you again, hard enough to make the chaise creak beneath you.

You moan loud and unfiltered, and she eats it up.

Her rhythm starts slow but punishing, hips driving into you with precision. Each thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat. She watches you unravel, eyes dark with pride and desire.

“This is what you waited for?” she pants. “All those lonely nights in bed, thinking about my cock filling you up?”

“Yes— yes, Jimin, please—!”

Your other hand claws at the sheets, nails scraping uselessly as she pounds into you without mercy. She leans over you, one hand fisting in your hair to keep you in place, the other holding you open like you’re hers to wreck — because you are.

And you don’t want her to stop. Not ever.

The way Jimin fucks you is clinical at first — deliberate and controlled, like she’s making a point. Like she wants you to remember the shape of her even after you can’t walk tomorrow. The force of her hips never falters, each thrust sharp and deep, like she’s carving herself into you.

You can’t even form a full word — just broken gasps of her name.

“Jimin—please—fuck—too much—”

“Too much?” she echoes, mocking and soft. Her lips brush your jaw as she slows down, just slightly, and grinds deep enough to knock the air from your lungs. “But you begged for this.”

Her hand finds your throat, not to squeeze — just to hold, a reminder of her grip on you, of how small you feel under her body, under her control.

“You said ruin me, remember?” she whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Don’t start crying now, baby.”

She rolls her hips again, slow and grinding, making sure you feel every inch of her cock stretching you open. You claw at her back now, desperate to hold onto something, anything — but she just laughs under her breath and changes angles.

You choke on a sob.

“That’s it,” she coos. “Right there, huh? Feels too good now?”

Your eyes flutter shut, tears brimming from overstimulation already — and it’s only been one round.

But Jimin is relentless.

_____

Twenty minutes later, your robe is somewhere across the room, the chaise long forgotten. Jimin’s taken you to the floor, on your stomach now, face buried in the plush rug, ass in the air.

She mounts you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other on your lower back, pressing you flat while she pounds into you — deep, fast, merciless. The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room along with your broken moans and her ragged breathing.

“You hear that?” she pants behind you. “That’s your pussy dripping down my cock. You’re soaking me.”

“Fuck—Jimin—I can’t—!”

“You can,” she growls. “You’re gonna come for me again. And again. I’ll keep fucking you until you pass out from it.”

You feel like you might. You’ve already come twice, body wrecked and trembling, slick running down your thighs, your muscles shaking from how hard she’s holding you down. But the friction is addictive, her voice in your ear more powerful than anything else. The dirty praise, the quiet groans, the low curses in her native tongue — you’d drown in it if she let you.

And she wants you to drown.

She flips you again, hauling you into her lap now, facing her. Her arms wrap around your waist and she lowers you down, spearing you slowly on her cock again, bottoming out with a groan.

Your thighs tremble around her, muscles exhausted, and she kisses you through your gasp — not gentle, but slower now, dragging your body against hers like you belong nowhere else.

“Look at you,” she murmurs into your lips. “So wrecked. Barely able to sit up.”

“Y-You keep… fucking me full…”

“You love it.” Her tongue brushes your bottom lip before her teeth scrape gently. “You love when I don’t let up.”

She fucks up into you now — slow, controlled, devastating. Each thrust is a full drag-out and push back in, her hips rolling with maddening precision. You clutch at her shoulders, moaning into her mouth.

“Come for me again,” she whispers. “One more. Be a good girl.”

Your body obeys. It doesn’t matter that you’re exhausted. That you’re already trembling from the inside out. You come again — gasping her name into her throat — and she holds you through it, not stopping, not even letting you think.

Somewhere past 3 a.m., you’ve lost track of how many times she’s taken you. You’re in her bed now, face down in the pillows, cheek flushed against silk.

She fucks you from behind again — slower now, not from gentleness, but from complete control. Her hand rests on your lower back, holding you down, guiding your hips back to meet every push of hers.

Your voice is hoarse. “Jimin… I can’t—can’t even think…”

“That’s the point,” she says softly. “You don’t need to think. Just take it.”

You whimper, body twitching.

“You’re so fucked out,” she murmurs, and there’s something tender under it now. Her pace slows even more. “You gave me everything tonight.”

You nod weakly.

“I’m going to let you rest now. But first—” her cock sinks deep and stays there “—you’re going to keep me warm.”

You groan helplessly as she stills inside you, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, pulling you close until her chest presses to your back. She exhales like she’s finally satisfied.

You feel her cock pulsing inside you — not moving, just staying there, filling you, claiming you.

“You’re perfect,” she whispers into your hair. “So fucking good to me.”

You murmur something incoherent, too exhausted to reply properly, and she kisses your shoulder.

“Sleep,” she says. “I’ve got you.”

_____

You wake to the sound of her breathing.

Slow. Even. Almost peaceful.

It’s the first thing you register before you realize you’re still full — her cock still buried deep inside you, warm and snug, like it never left. Like she won’t let it. One of her arms is draped heavy around your waist, and her face is tucked into the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin.

She hasn’t moved. Not all night.

You’re sore — everywhere. Your thighs ache, your voice is raw, and the space between your legs is a throbbing reminder of the hours she spent using your body like her personal obsession. And still… she’s inside you. Not thrusting. Not teasing.

Just holding.

You shift slightly, and the movement makes your breath catch — she’s so deep. You squirm instinctively.

“Don’t,” Jimin murmurs, voice thick with sleep and control. Her hand tightens on your hip. “I’m not letting you go yet.”

You melt at the sound of her voice — husky, lower than usual, touched with possessive exhaustion.

“I’m too full,” you whisper, throat hoarse.

“I know.” She presses a kiss to your shoulder blade. “You’re doing so well for me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then her hand slides up your stomach, slow and reverent, until her palm rests just beneath your chest. Her body molds against yours like she was always meant to be there.

“I should be asking if you’re okay,” she murmurs after a moment, quieter now. “I pushed you hard.”

“I liked it,” you reply, eyes fluttering closed again. “I like being yours.”

Jimin exhales into your skin like your words cracked something open inside her. Her fingers trace soft circles over your stomach now, grounding you gently, her cock still buried inside you with a kind of claiming that doesn’t need movement.

“You are mine,” she whispers. “I think about that too often.”

You hum at that — half-asleep, completely wrapped around her energy.

She lets you rest like that. A full half hour passes before she moves. Slowly, she pulls out, and you gasp at the drag of it — at the emptiness, the stickiness, the soreness left behind.

“Shhh,” she soothes, brushing your hair from your face. “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you now.”

She carries you — carries you — to the bath she drew while you dozed in her arms. The warmth is a balm, easing the ache in your muscles, washing away the evidence of how thoroughly she ruined you.

Jimin sits behind you in the water, her legs cradling yours, a washcloth in her hand. She doesn’t rush. She cleans you like she’s unmaking all the mess she created, kissing your shoulder between gentle swipes.

“You’re too good to me,” you whisper.

“No,” she murmurs against your neck. “I’m just matching your devotion.”

By the time you’re wrapped in one of her robes and curled against her in bed again, the sun is already bleeding into the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Jimin cups your cheek, tilting your face up. “One more before you sleep.”

Your eyes widen, and a shaky laugh slips from you. “You’re insatiable.”

She grins lazily, gaze dark and soft all at once. “You knew that when you signed up for me.”

You straddle her again, slower this time. It’s not about dominance now — not exactly. It’s about closeness. Connection. Her hands rest on your hips as she guides you down, filling you once more, inch by inch.

You sigh into the stretch, already oversensitive, but you welcome the burn.

This time, she doesn’t fuck you like she owns you.

She makes love to you like she can’t breathe without you.

Her hips roll into yours slow, controlled, her eyes locked to your face the entire time. You grind against her, moaning into her lips, every nerve raw and exposed. Her hands hold you steady, her voice low with praise — you’re so good, so tight, I’ll never get tired of this, of you.

You come with her name on your tongue and her arms around your back, your whole body shaking again. She follows, hips pushing up, cock twitching deep inside you as her moan dies in your mouth.

She holds you through it, and afterward, when you collapse onto her chest, boneless and blissed out, she presses a kiss to your hair.

“No more flights,” you murmur sleepily. “Stay here. With me.”

“I’ll cancel the next one,” she says without hesitation.

You smile against her skin. “Spoil me.”

Jimin chuckles, smoothing her hand over your spine. “That’s all I ever do.”

_____

You think she’s finally done with you.

Your body is spent, flushed and aching in all the ways that make you feel both alive and completely hollowed out. Jimin has taken everything — your voice, your strength, your thoughts — and now she lies beneath you like she could rest. Her hands, warm and wide, trace lazy patterns on your bare back as your breath evens out.

And then you feel it again.

The slow rise of her cock inside you.

You’re still on top of her, straddling her hips, her cock nestled inside your pussy like it’s right where it belongs — but now she’s growing hard again, and your heart starts thudding in your chest like a warning bell.

You stir a little, blinking through the daze. “You’re hard again.”

Jimin doesn’t open her eyes — she just smirks, smug and slow, her fingers squeezing your waist. “Mm. I never said I was done.”

You try to push up, maybe to say we need a break, but your body betrays you — you roll your hips instead, and the friction drags a gasp out of both of you.

Her eyes snap open.

And everything in her gaze is hunger.

“You feel that?” she murmurs, voice dropping into something dark and familiar. “You’re still wet. Still clenching around me like you want more.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she shifts her hips upward — and the friction makes you cry out.

“Thought so.”

She’s not moving fast. Not yet. She’s still buried inside you, but now her hands are gripping your hips, and she starts guiding you in slow, deep grinds. Every movement sends her cock rubbing against the tenderest part of your walls — the place she’s found a dozen times tonight and never let up on.

“Jimin—” Your voice is a ragged plea. “I… I can’t—”

“You can.” Her voice is steady, solid, like a command carved in stone. “You think I don’t know your limits by now?”

She sits up without warning, chest pressed to yours, mouth at your jaw. One arm snakes around your back while the other guides your hips in slow, rolling motions — up, down, up, down — her cock staying deep inside you, never leaving your warmth.

You’re crying before you even realize it. Not from pain. From how full you are. From how good it feels to be used even after your body gave up.

“Jimin—”

Her mouth finds your cheek, your temple, your neck — soft kisses, almost at odds with the way she controls your body.

“You’re beautiful like this,” she whispers. “Completely fucked out. Crying. Still riding me.”

“I’m— I don’t even know if I’m coming anymore,” you stammer.

Her hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair. “You are. You’ve come every time I’ve told you to.”

You sob against her shoulder, overwhelmed and wrecked.

“I’m going to stay inside you,” she whispers. “Until you beg me not to. Until you forget what it feels like to be empty.”

You grind down again, helpless. Her cock pulses inside you, thick and throbbing, and she takes it slow — deep thrusts with just enough snap to make your body jolt, to keep your pussy fluttering around her.

“Look at me,” she says.

You do — and the eye contact knocks the wind out of you.

Her eyes are heavy-lidded, almost soft. Her expression is nothing like the usual smug CEO or cocky tease she gives the rest of the world. This version of Jimin is terrifying in how intimate she is — like she could ruin you with nothing but her stare.

“I don’t care what happens tomorrow,” she says. “I’m not leaving this bed. You’re going to stay right here. On my cock. For hours.”

You moan, voice breaking. Your orgasm takes you off guard — again — rippling through your overstimulated body in a raw wave, and she doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t let you down easy. She keeps fucking you through it, keeps your body writhing on her lap while your eyes roll back.

Your voice is gone.

Your hands shake.

And still, she whispers: “One more.”

_____

Half an hour later, your body finally gives out.

Jimin pulls you into her chest again, cock still nestled inside you. Her fingers stroke your back, calming you, easing your trembling muscles.

“No more,” you whisper hoarsely. “I’m done.”

She kisses your forehead. “You did so well.”

You can’t respond. You’re already drifting.

And this time, when you fall asleep full of her, she doesn’t move. She just holds you like something precious — like something no one else gets to touch.

_____

You don’t know how long you’ve been asleep.

Only that you wake up feeling heavy — not in a bad way, but like you’re anchored to something real. Safe. Warm. The kind of weight that means someone’s holding you, wrapped around you, too unwilling to let you go.

Jimin is still there.

Her arm rests beneath your neck, the other draped across your middle, palm splayed wide across your stomach like she’s still protecting you in your sleep. Her breath is slow against the back of your shoulder, deep and even, her chest rising with each exhale. The room is quiet. Still. Dim with morning shadows.

You shift slightly under the blankets, and her grip tightens instantly.

“Mmm… don’t move,” she murmurs, voice sleep-rough and hoarse from hours of low groans and gasped commands. “Still inside you…”

She is. Her cock is softened now, but still snug, still nestled deep between your thighs like she belongs there.

You murmur, “You’re so warm…”

“You’re so mine,” she replies, pressing a sleepy kiss to the back of your neck.

It’s not a tease. Not possessive in the way she usually says it. Just… truth.

You turn slowly in her arms, limbs aching but pliant, until your face finds the hollow of her collarbone and your fingers curl over the firm muscle of her chest. Jimin hums softly, shifting with you, her arms tightening around your waist.

There’s no rush. No lingering arousal.

Just the quiet hum of skin against skin, bodies molded together under the weight of silk sheets and exhaustion.

She breathes into your hair. “You feel okay?”

You nod into her skin, your voice still ragged. “Sore. But good.”

Jimin smiles. You feel it more than see it. “You were amazing.”

“So were you,” you whisper.

Her fingers trail softly down your spine, barely grazing your skin, until they settle at the small of your back. She holds you there, grounding you with nothing but her touch.

“Did I go too far?” she asks quietly.

You shake your head. “No. I… needed it. I needed you like that.”

Her voice drops lower. “You can ask me for anything. You know that, right?”

You nod again, your lips brushing her collarbone. “I know.”

Another beat of silence. Then—

“I canceled my flight,” she says.

You blink. Pull back just enough to look up at her. “You what?”

Her eyes are still half-closed, but there’s no sleepiness in her gaze now — only something raw and steady. “I’m not leaving you today. Or tomorrow. I’m not going anywhere until I have to.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest.

“You don’t have to cancel things for me—”

“I don’t have to,” she interrupts. “I want to. I don’t want to wake up without you in my arms.”

The air between you stills. Softens.

She kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your lips.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” she murmurs. “I touch you and I can’t stop. I see you and nothing else matters.”

You let out a small breath. “Stay. Just like this.”

She nods without hesitation. “I will.”

You bury your face in her chest again, and her hand finds yours beneath the blankets, fingers lacing with yours. The smallest touches — her thumb brushing yours, the quiet exhale of her breath against your scalp — are the most intimate things in the world.

No sex. No teasing. No hunger.

Just her holding you like she never plans to let go.

The last thing you hear before sleep pulls you under again is her voice — quiet, possessive, almost reverent:

“Mine.”

[xinganhao]

cherry on top 🍒 mafia boss!seungcheol x reader. (3)

being in a situationship is already pretty hard. being in a situationship with a petty mafia boss who has never dated before? much, much harder. previous chapter + masterlist.

💰 Expense report filed by mafia financial officer, Lee Seokmin

SUBJECT: Personal Expenditures – S.Coups re: Civilian Target

CATEGORY: GIFTS / SURPRISES

Custom Silk Scarf (Monogrammed with "S.C.") – $1,350.00 └ Ordered from Paris boutique. Civilian target wore it once, commented: "It's soft, but why is his name on it?"

Limited Edition Vinyl Record (Frank Ocean – Blonde) – $880.00 └ Gifted after argument #7. Civilian target was seen smiling while playing track 14.

Midnight Ice Cream Delivery – From Rome, Italy – $4,700.00 (incl. private courier) └ Civilian target said: "You could've just gotten Häagen-Dazs." Boss replied: "This has basil. It’s romantic."

CATEGORY: DAMAGE CONTROL / APOLOGIES

Floral Arrangements (x12) from 12 Different Florists – $2,160.00 └ Delivered over 48 hours post-miscommunication re: "flirting waiter" incident. One bouquet was left untouched in the hallway. The rest were used as Instagram story props.

Therapist Retainer (Anonymous Booking, Civilian Target) – $3,000.00 └ Civilian target has not claimed these sessions. Boss insists it's "just in case she realizes she needs help processing me."

Reimbursement for Civilian Target’s Broken Mug (accidentally knocked over during jealous argument) – $25.00 └ Mug was shaped like a cat. Boss replaced it with an expensive glass tumbler. Civilian target was not amused.

CATEGORY: SMALL & QUESTIONABLE EXPENSES

Custom Engraved Bullet Pendant ("So You Think I’m Scary, Huh?") – $300.00 └ Intended as ironic gift. Civilian target laughed, wore it once to annoy him. Boss framed photo.

Spotify Premium (Family Plan – Only One Member) – $15.99/mo └ Boss created 17hr playlist titled "if i die it’s her fault but i’d still thank her." Civilian target unknowingly listens to it often.

Gluten-Free Baking Class (Online, Gifted to Civilian Target’s Aunt) – $220.00 └ She mentioned her aunt wanted it. He took notes. Civilian target unaware of mafia-funded culinary education in progress.

Donation to Shelter Where Civilian Target Volunteers – $5,000.00 └ Made anonymously. Boss requested they name a puppy after her. They did. Civilian target unsure why a rottweiler named "Beloved" exists.

CATEGORY: UNAUTHORIZED PERSONAL SPENDING

Rental of Entire Rooftop Restaurant for "Casual Talk" – $12,000.00 └ Civilian target refused to show up. Ate ramen alone at home. Boss sat through three-course meal with two phones: one for business, one specifically for her texts and calls.

Suit Tailoring (New Lapels for Better Hug Experience) – $900.00 └ Boss: "She said my suits were stiff. I made them hug-friendly."

Jet Fuel Surcharge – Roundtrip to Seoul, 3 hours total visit – $15,700.00 └ Purpose: "To see her smile."

TOTAL EXPENSES TO DATE: $49,250.99

RECOMMENDATION/S: Immediate financial intervention or a mandatory sit-down with Boss regarding boundaries, budgets, and basic human dating behavior.

👂 Surveillance transcript filed by mafia soldier, Chwe Hansol

DATE RANGE: ███████████-███████████ LOCATION: Civilian Target's Apartment, Unit 13S BUG #7: Living Room Lamp (Active)

TRANSCRIPT 001 – 23:43 HRS

S.COUPS: Why is there a toothbrush that’s not mine in your bathroom? YOU: Because I live here. And sometimes people visit me. It’s called having a life. S.COUPS: Who visits you? Give me names. Socials. Blood types. YOU: You are so exhausting. [SOUND: Footsteps. Fridge opens.] S.COUPS: Don’t change the subject. That toothbrush has a blue handle. Blue is a masculine color. YOU: Oh my god, are you jealous of a toothbrush now? [SOUND: Prolonged silence. Soft muttering.] S.COUPS: ...It’s suspiciously ergonomic.

TRANSCRIPT 004 – 07:12 HRS

YOU: Why are you folding my laundry? S.COUPS: Because you do it wrong. YOU: What does that even mean? S.COUPS: You mix textures. Cotton with wool. It’s chaos. This is what chaos feels like. YOU: You literally blow up cars for a living. S.COUPS: Yeah, but strategically.

TRANSCRIPT 008 – 14:09 HRS

YOU: Why is there a bag of gummy bears on my pillow? S.COUPS: You said you liked them. YOU: Once. In passing. S.COUPS: I take notes. On everything. You also like your coffee with oat milk and you talk in your sleep about octopus documentaries. YOU: That’s creepy. S.COUPS: It’s called “caring.” YOU: It’s called surveillance. [SOUND: Muffled laughing, presumably from YOU.]

TRANSCRIPT 015 – 00:03 HRS

YOU: Did you pick a fight with your own underboss because he liked one of my photos? S.COUPS: He put a heart and a fire emoji. That’s a double reaction. It’s aggressive. YOU: You are so—so emotionally constipated. S.COUPS: You say that like it’s a bad thing. YOU: It is a bad thing! [SOUND: Struggle noises, unclear. Presumed YOU threw a pillow at S.COUPS and he retaliated by tackling YOU on to the couch.] NOTE: Possible physical altercation turns to intimacy. Redacted for discretion.

TRANSCRIPT 017 – 01:26 HRS

YOU: Stop staring at me. S.COUPS: I’m memorizing your face. Don’t make this harder than it is. [SILENCE FOR 13 SECONDS.] YOU: ...Why is there a tiny blinking light in my lamp? S.COUPS: Oh no. YOU: Did you seriously bug my apartment?! S.COUPS: Okay, first of all, you’re being very judgmental right now. YOU: Because you’re a lunatic. S.COUPS: I'll give you one guess as to whose fault is that. YOU: Take the damn bug out of my lamp, you psycho! NOTE: S.COUPS neglected to turn bug off. Argument ensued; redacted for discretion. Intimacy ensued. Also redacted.

END OF AVAILABLE TRANSCRIPT. ADDT'L NOTE: REQUESTING TO BE MOVED OUT OF SURVEILLANCE DIVISON ASAP.

📓 Therapy session notes filed by Dr. Boo Seungkwan, licensed psychiatrist affiliated with ████████ Syndicate

SESSION: 3rd of prescribed 10-week cycle

INITIAL OBSERVATIONS: Patient arrived precisely on time, wearing a tailored black suit, slightly wrinkled as though he'd been pacing before arrival. Hair unkempt, hands clenched for most of the session. Eyes noticeably tired. Declined water. Brought a half-eaten bag of gummy bears, claiming "They calm me down. She likes them too."

Presented with guarded posture, alternating between overconfidence and sudden emotional vulnerability. Exhibits hallmark signs of high-functioning control dependence, paired with emotional suppression and limited interpersonal processing tools.

SESSION THEMES

1. Obsession with Control: Patient admits to bugging the civilian target’s apartment ("It was for her safety") and maintaining a detailed log of her daily habits. Claims these measures are a form of care. When asked what he fears would happen without this control, he replied, "She might stop needing me."

Expressed frustration when civilian target expressed autonomy: "She does things without telling me. Like she has a life or something." Tone was sarcastic but undercut with genuine confusion.

2. Difficulty Processing Emotions

Patient struggles to name his emotions beyond anger and protectiveness. When prompted to describe how he feels when civilian target smiles at him, he paused for 47 seconds before muttering: "Like I'm about to combust, but in a good way?"

Displays discomfort with perceived emotional weakness. Used humor and territorial possessiveness to deflect.

Quote: "She called me emotionally constipated. That's unfair. I feel things. I just don't show them. I'm not a chihuahua in a sweater." (Analogy unclear.)

3. Devotion to Civilian Target

His attachment is intense and deeply internalized. He referenced at least eight specific events he organized to make her life easier, ranging from "tailoring suit lapels for better hugs" to "funding her aunt’s gluten-free hobby."

Refers to her as "the only thing that makes me think twice before pulling a trigger."

Appears to be undergoing identity shift: from feared mafia boss to a man attempting—often poorly—to be emotionally available. Indicates willingness to grow, albeit via unconventional and often unhinged methods.

Notable Quote: "I don't know what being a boyfriend means. But if it means checking all her windows are locked and ordering her ice cream from Italy when she's sad, then I'm already trying."

TREATMENT PLAN

Begin cognitive restructuring around concepts of emotional intimacy vs. surveillance.

Introduce grounding techniques for obsessive behaviors.

Assign weekly "emotional vocabulary" journaling.

Strongly recommend cessation of all illegal tracking devices.

PROGNOSIS: Patient displays exceptional loyalty, obsessive commitment, and a deep desire to improve for the sake of the civilian target. Progress will be slow, as foundational emotional processing tools are underdeveloped. However, signs of potential are present.

Patient left session saying, "Don't tell her I cried. But also, maybe do. I don't know. What would make her like me more?" Then insisted that I forward these notes to her, threatening to cease sessions otherwise. Will have to consult with mafia leadership.

DIAGNOSIS: High-functioning attachment disorder with control dependency and romantic maladjustment. Currently treating with compassion, sarcasm, and an iron will.

NEXT SESSION SCHEDULED: ████████

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[whencyclopedia]

Book of Kells

The Book of Kells (c. 800) is an illuminated manuscript of the four gospels of the Christian New Testament, currently housed at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland. The work is the most famous of the medieval illuminated manuscripts for the intricacy, detail, and majesty of the illustrations. It is thought the book was created as a showpiece for the altar, not for daily use, because more attention was obviously given to the artwork than the text.

The beauty of the lettering, portraits of the evangelists, and other images, often framed by intricate Celtic knotwork motifs, has been praised by writers through the centuries. Scholar Thomas Cahill notes that, “as late as the twelfth century, Geraldus Cambrensis was forced to conclude that the Book of Kells was “the work of an angel, not of a man” owing to its majestic illustrations and that, in the present day, the letters illustrating the Chi-Rho (the monogram of Christ) are regarded as “more presences than letters” on the page for their beauty (165). Unlike other illuminated manuscripts, where text was written and illustration and illumination added afterwards, the creators of the Book of Kells focused on the impression the work would have visually and so the artwork was the focus of the piece.

Origin & Purpose

The Book of Kells was produced by monks of St. Columba's order of Iona, Scotland, but exactly where it was made is disputed. Theories regarding composition range from its creation on the island of Iona to Kells, Ireland, to Lindisfarne, Britain. It was most likely created, at least in part, at Iona and then brought to Kells to keep it safe from Viking raiders who first struck Iona in 795, shortly after their raid on Lindisfarne Priory in Britain.

A Viking raid in 806 killed 68 monks at Iona and led to the survivors abandoning the abbey in favor of another or their order at Kells. It is likely that the Book of Kells traveled with them at this time and may have been completed in Ireland. The oft-repeated claim that it was made or first owned by St. Columba (521-597) is untenable as the book was created no earlier than c. 800, but there is no doubt it was produced by later members of his order.

The work is commonly regarded as the greatest illuminated manuscript of any era owing to the beauty of the artwork and this, no doubt, had to do with the purpose it was made for. Scholars have concluded that the book was created for use during the celebration of the mass but most likely was not read from so much as shown to the congregation.

This theory is supported by the fact that the text is often carelessly written, contains a number of errors, and at points certainly seems an afterthought to the illustrations on the page. The priests who would have used the book most likely already had the biblical passages memorized and so would recite them while holding the book, having no need to read from the text.

Scholar Christopher de Hamel notes how, in the present day, “books are very visible in churches” but that in the Middle Ages this would not have been the case (186). De Hamel describes the rough outline of a medieval church service:

There were no pews (people usually stood or sat on the floor), and there would probably have been no books on view. The priest read the Mass in Latin from a manuscript placed on the altar and the choir chanted their part of the daily office from a volume visible only to them. Members of the congregation were not expected to join in the singing; some might have brought their Books of Hours to help ease themselves into a suitable frame of mind, but the services were conducted by the priests. (186)

The Book of Kells is thought to have been the manuscript on the altar which may have been first used in services on Iona and then certainly was at the abbey of Kells. The brightly-colored illustrations and illumination would have made it an exceptionally impressive piece to a congregation, adding a visual emphasis to the words the priest recited while being shown to the people; much in the way one today would read a picture book to a small child.

Continue reading...

[thekims4]

Y2K Outfits Lookbook #2

Hair 1, 2, 3 / Skin 1, 2, 3, 4 / Eyebrows / Eyes / Eyelids / Eyeliner / Blush / Lips

Clothing - Top

Puffer @bodybyvasquez

Micro Outfit (Jumper) @busra-tr

Zipper Cardigan @asansan3

Clothes Set-298 (Jumper) @busra-tr

Knit Sweater @babyetears

JC 02 Basic Jacket @seoulsoul-sims

Clothing - Bottom

Spring Casual Outfit Set - Skirt @rimings

Mina Mini Skirt @belaloallure3

Mini Skirt @chloem-sims4

DSEL Skirt @sunberry-sims4

Belted Long Denim Skirt @backtrack-cc

Acc

Button Octagonal Beret @eunosims

Airpods Max @miro-sims

Valentino VLogo Signature Squared Acetate Frame @bradfordsims

Zinare Earrings @suzuesims

Chalet Necklace @christopher067

Countdown Necklace @pralinesims

IVE - I AM Choker @rimings

Cheria Rings @pralinesims

Mia Rings @arethabee

Fingernails Polish 7V @magic-bot

Balenciaga Emo Bucket Bag @bergdorfverse

Goth Backpack @madlensims

Prada Re-Edition 2000 Mini Bag @bradfordsims

Classic Tights @magic-bot

In Bloom - Rosalie Tights @oydis

Monogram Tights @serenity-cc

Hyein Seo Long Pile Socks @charonlee

Shoes

Charm Duo Boots @madlensims

Dusk Diva Boots @madlensims

Leather Boots 633 @shakeproductions

Norae Loafer @mmsims

Pose

@helgatisha Hongzo @roselipaofficial

[becertainlust]

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is whispered about with the kind of reverence usually reserved for legends—think Galliano meets Alexander McQueen, but darker, smoother, and infinitely more elusive.

He didn’t go to fashion school. He didn’t intern under anyone. He emerged out of nowhere—an underground gem of a debut show held in an abandoned cathedral in Florence. Ten looks. Ten models. Candlelit. Every piece hand-stitched, laced with real silver thread and monograms only visible under moonlight. People thought it was a myth until Vogue Italia dropped an exclusive feature titled:

“The Lingerie Saint Has Arrived.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is more than a designer — he is an artist of intimacy, a storyteller through silk, lace, and silhouette. With every piece he creates, Suguru weaves emotion into fabric, tailoring not just to bodies, but to souls. He believes that beauty speaks many languages — and his mission is to make women feel beautiful in all of them.

From Tokyo to Paris, Lagos to São Paulo, his creations have turned runways into temples of self-love. Each design is a love letter to femininity — powerful, soft, wild, sacred. His talent quickly caught the attention of the world, landing him on magazine covers, international talk shows, and fashion panels. But despite his meteoric rise, it’s his humility and warmth that continue to captivate everyone he meets.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who is so deep in the art medium pulling ethereal designs that catches many off guard and cause him to rise above the rest and whose inbox is flooded with an offers to take the creative directors seat by various fashion brands. He has a right to become picky but in the end decides to establish his own name.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who attends events after event, never growing tired of meeting new faces and hearing fresh ideas and conversing with new people. Quite the extrovert in the midst of his interests. God forbid he's actually excited 'You're really a conversative person Mr. Suguru' the interviewer giggled and he would have the prettiest smile that the viewers would gush much about across the media #suguru'ssmile trending for an entire month.

Lingeremaker! Suguru who when he sees you—you, gliding effortlessly through the chaos of the room, framed by golden light—who stops dead in his sentence brows knitting in frustration, hushing up the white haired model, that never seems to learn the word silence at crucial times Gojo screws his face up as Suguru claims he can't see you properly as he yapped on. 'who is that'

With a raised brow he pushes his hand away from his line of vision, 'Marketing agent, one of the best in the fashion world' he would whip his head back to Gojo in disbelief 'not a model?' Gojo would scoff throwing his hand around the male 'what you like what you see, I can set you up"

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who rejected Gojo's help, downplaying his interest in you on the spot. But he should have known better than leave his personal sketches and scribbles around his studio unguarded mentally punching himself for not storing latest works higher and further from his lanky ass.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who later that night, long after the champagne glasses clinked and cameras dimmed, he’d find himself at his sketch table again, candles flickering, Gold thread unraveling beside him. Your silhouette haunts him. Not in a ghostly way—but in the kind of way muses do.

Pages fill. The collection changes. The theme shifts from “Divinity” to “She Who Walks Like Daybreak.”

When asked on a French morning show what inspired the shift, Suguru simply says: “I saw someone who reminded me that beauty doesn't beg to be seen—it just arrives, and the world rearranges around it.”

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who receives a message for Gojo late at night as he is sorting his pallet for the collection, 'i told you I got your back' which Suguru responds with a question mark before concluding that he was weird for the gazillion time shaking his head then turned his attention back to his computer screen, the soft light lit hitting his face.

Lingeriemaker! Suguru who the next morning would be woken up by his blaring door bell throughout the condo and when he switches on his camera and see's your face his eyes, done pops out of his head. 'what the fuck'

thinking of making this a fully fleshed fanfic series with smut on both ao3 and here.

[mythrilthread]

И нет конца паломничеству by An_Owl_Of_A_Witch

My second (and third) K118, and I feel like I’m getting a hang of this binding type.

The story is a Person of Interest Medieval AU, so I went with a manuscript-esque vibe.

🌈 The cover is black bock (? sheep leather) with the title hand foiled in gold. The spine has three faux cords.

🌈 French double core endbands with a rainbow ;) to echo the illustration.

🌈 Fancy title page has a lightly edited public domain frame, for interlude headers I used a vintage monogram plate, and then used my new iPad and the powers of Procreate for good and drew a manicule (the little hand pointing at the author’s notes) and a square frame to match the monogram plate.

🌈 A linocut of a corvid (I needed a rook but settled for a cute jackdaw) marks each blank page (I started each chapter on the right page, so they were a handful of those).

🌈 The author helpfully included a whole reading list with the sources of their historical research, so I checked all the links and made them into a fancy QR-code pattern.

🌈 This edition also features a very special surprise - a poem by @agest inspired by this very story.

P.S.: I also made the rosary used for the photos, it’s a gift for a dear friend.

[cobalt-and-other-things]

So my favorite running joke in Phineas and Ferb is that every time Doof, Monogram, and Perry are in the same frame, there is a grand total of 5 brain cells. And the platypus has them all.

[decvyed]

A'JREAM SET FEAT. PDG

The Desolate Set in collaboration with @pdgsims is now live. As always, I've included both in-game and blender versions for maximum versatility. A'Jream Set from PDG The Drop: Hardcore Galliano Silver Star Chain Mini Skirt 8 Swatches - Female Frame - Bottom Category - Specular Map for Shine Logo Detail Denim Sandals 12 Swatches - Female Frame - Shoes Category - Custom Elevation - Decor Version - Specular Map for Shine Logo Detail Satin Sandals 24 Swatches - Female Frame - Shoes Category - Custom Elevation - Decor Version - Specular Map for Shine Tall Monogram Logo Boots 6 Swatches - Female Frame - Shoes Category - Custom Elevation - Decor Version - Specular Map for Shine A'Jream Set (Blender Version) HQ Texture Maps - Female Frame - Rigged Logo Detail Satin Sandals (Standard Version) 6 Swatches - Female Frame - Shoes Category - Custom Elevation - Decor Version - Specular Map for Shine New Mesh • Med-High Poly • HQ Texture • BG Compatible • Young Adults to Elders • All LODs • Custom Thumbnail • Disallowed for Random Base Mesh Credit: Alok & Junaid Base Body Credit: @magic-bot DOWNLOAD Terms of Use:

Conversions are not allowed regardless of the gaming platform

Do not reupload, edit, recolour, redistribute or claim as your own

Alternate Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/131861362 More Decayed: Instagram • Pinterest • Simsfinds

[littleslaywrites]

silent night | spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer and you celebrate your first christmas as parents

word count: 1.7k

cw: pure fluff

The house was quiet for once. Both Spencer and Laurence were asleep, and you probably should be, too, but you couldn’t help but indulge in the moment. You had just had your first Christmas with Spencer as a family of three. Spencer had his arms wrapped around you and his face buried in your neck, the colored lights outside shining through the blinds and reflecting on his brown curls. You could hear his steady breathing in your ear. 

Laurence was too young to understand the holiday, but that didn’t stop you two from spoiling him. The gifts under the tree had piled up as the team pampered your new baby. He’d been born in early November, so you’d assumed that all of his gifts would double as Christmas presents. You should’ve known your friends would never let that stand, simply giving him twice the gifts. Garcia and Rossi had been the main culprits, the back of their cars piled high with gifts when they came to visit. That being said, the rest of the team was also guilty of pampering your family. Emily said that Laurence was the whole team’s grandchild, since everyone had basically seen Reid grow up at the BAU. 

When you woke up that morning, Spencer was already awake, the smell of cinnamon rolls drifting through the house. You had been awake late last night to feed the baby, and Spencer turned off your alarm to let you sleep while he cooked. He didn’t cook much, but he could manage putting the premade rolls onto a baking sheet. He’s washing the tray when you come in. He beams at the sight of you, even though you can only assume that your hair is a rat's nest and the dark circles under your eyes are more noticeable than your eyes themselves. 

“Good morning,” he says, frosting a cinnamon bun. He hands it to you, and you take it, savoring the sweetness. Washing his hands, he says, “I thought we’d wait to open presents until Laurey is up.”

You hum in agreement, too caught up in your breakfast to pause to speak. The two of you sit at the stools along the kitchen counter, silently enjoying your breakfast. Silence has been a common theme recently. When Laurence was sleeping, you did all you could to keep him asleep. Beyond that, it seemed like you didn’t have to speak to Spencer to be heard anymore. You two had gained an understanding that was beyond any words you could say. 

Halfway through your meal, Laurence’s cries tell you he’s awake. Spencer insists on getting him, wanting you to finish eating. 

You’re washing your plate when he comes out with the baby in his arms. The picture makes you smile, Spencer’s large frame practically swallowing Laurence up. You walk over to greet Laurence as he yawns. He’s stopped crying, comforted by his father’s presence. The three of you make your way to sit under the tree. You’ve been dying to open the gifts, even though Laurence won’t know what they are.

The first you open is from Penelope, a large gift bag. You pull out plushie after plushie. An elephant, dinosaur, koala, sheep, giraffe, and a monogrammed bunny. Spencer holds the bunny up to Laurence. “I think he likes it,” Spencer says, Laurence’s eyes trained on the soft toy. 

Next are small boxes, also from Garcia, all full of tiny outfits. She insisted on getting clothes, despite your warnings that he’d grow out of them. She’d told you that pictures of him in the outfits were worth it, even if they only got worn once. Unwrapping one of them, you hold up a onesie that reads “Future Genius”, making Spencer laugh softly.

You move on to a tall gift from Morgan, pulling the paper off to reveal a stack of baby books. “Maybe he’ll be a reader like you,” you say, holding up one of them. Spencer smiles at the thought, picturing bedtime stories and a library that grows along with your son. 

Then you start to work on Rossi’s pile of gifts. You unwrap the soft, plush fabric of a baby blanket, its pastel blue matching Laurence’s nursery perfectly. Your heart swells with affection as you run your hand over the embroidery of your baby's name. Another is a kit for making a mold of the baby’s hand and foot prints. “We should preserve these tiny hands before they grow too big,” Spencer says, Laurence’s palm wrapping around one of his fingers.

You pull a small box from Emily, opening it to reveal a tiny glass ornament shaped like a snowman. It reads “Laurence's First Christmas” and has a tiny picture of him above the writing. You hang it up on the tree, the ornament joining the ones you’d collected throughout your relationship with Spencer.

Finally, you get to JJ’s, a photo album with your baby’s name in cursive on the front. You flip through the pages. It has spots for his milestones, a record of his first year. Spencer loves it, as he keeps physical albums instead of storing pictures on his phone.

Laurence is back asleep by now, but Spencer decides not to bring him back to his crib, even if his arms are starting to get sore. “You are so loved, Laurey,” you say, leaning over to whisper to his sleeping form. You feel overly spoiled, knowing there’s no way to pay the team back for all their generosity, both in their gifts and their support. 

“Open that one,” Spencer says, nodding at a little box with a bow on it. He’s smiling, anticipating your reaction. He truly knows you better than you know yourself, so you know you’ll love whatever he got you. You raise the lid of the box, finding a necklace with three small stones on it. “It’s our birthstones,” he says. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “Help me put it on”. He hands you the baby so he can help, closing the clasp while holding up your hair. You thank him, keeping Laurence in your arms so Spencer can open his gift. You got him sweaters and a stack of photos. 

“I should’ve put them in an album, but I never got around to it,” you say. You’d been so busy with the baby that you hardly had time to wrap anything.

“It’s perfect.” He leans in to kiss you lightly, maneuvering around where Laurence lays in your arms. “You already gave me the greatest gift I could ask for,” he says, running his thumb through your baby's sparse hair, admiring how his tiny eyes flutter as he sleeps. 

At the bottom of the pile of gifts, you find a small envelope addressed to Laurence. “I know he can’t really appreciate anything right now,” he says as he picks it up, “so I wrote something for him to open when he’s a little older.” He explains that it details all his thoughts and emotions from Laurey’s first month, Spencer planning on giving it to him on some special occasion when he’s older. 

You smile at the gesture. You’d never imagined that you could be so overwhelmed with love. Spencer had loved you more than anyone ever had, showering you with his affection since your very first date. Somehow, he managed to love your son even more. He’d been attentive and caring, albeit a bit protective about the two of you. Often you found yourself thanking the universe for bringing him into your life, as you couldn’t imagine a more perfect father for your child. 

Laurence fusses a little, and you decide it’s time to return him to his nursery. Spencer takes him back, rocking back and forth to calm his cooing.

The sound of the radio playing “Silent Night” fills the room, and for a moment, you’re transported back in time. It’s the song Spencer played the first Christmas you spent together, one of his records being a Christmas album. You remember how shy he was, how you had to convince him to buy a real tree, but now, with Laurence in his arms, you see how much the two of you have grown. 

There's a quiet smile on his lips, an expression you've come to know as his thinking face. You stand slowly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I never thought I’d have this,” Spencer whispers. 

You kiss him on the cheek. “You’re an amazing dad, Spencer.” He smiles, eyes glistening with happy tears. He keeps saying becoming a father has made him soft, every little thing his child does bringing him to a whimpering mess. Last week, Laurence had lifted his head for the first time, and he joked that he cried more than the baby does.

Placing a small kiss on your forehead, he takes the baby away. You watch them walk off, gently sitting down on the couch and savoring the warmth of the fireplace.

The rest of the day is business as usual, the two of you taking turns caring for Laurence. In between, you watch festive movies, resting while you can. Spencer holds you tight as you watch It’s a Wonderful Life. “Here’s to my big brother George, the richest man in town,” one of the characters says. He smiles, and with your head on his shoulder and his baby sleeping in the other room, he feels quite rich himself. By dinner time, the two of you are exhausted enough to resign to ordering takeout. You pair a pizza with hot chocolate, as traditional as you can manage.  

As the day fades and the house becomes bathed in the warm glow of the Christmas lights, you fall asleep on Spencer’s shoulder. He carries you to bed, gentle to avoid waking you during one of your rare moments of rest. He still holds you like you’ll break. He’d researched the impacts of birth on the body, doting on you even when you protested. At this point, you could only assume he’d never give it up, forever treating you like you were made out of glass. 

You wake up sometime in the middle of the night, savoring the silence. At some point, Laurey will cry, needing to be fed. But for now, there’s nothing but the feeling of your first of many Christmases as a family and the love you have for your two boys.

[spindrifters]

I've been doing battle with my internet all day to get this up for Lynxmas. I would not be bested!! I refused and I persevered!! So a very happy birthday from me and the rowdy 11 year olds to our favorite barwench humble forest cat @lynxindisguise!!

There’s a peculiar shuffle to sharing one’s room, a frenzy of activity when it comes to four boys squashed into a rather small circular dorm that puts Remus—not only used to the solitude of his own little cottage bedroom, but raised without so much as a single other child his own age for at least ten miles in each direction—decidedly on edge.

It’s a continuation of the chaos from the welcoming feast, where the newly-sorted Gryffindor boys had quickly found their stride and accompanying role in the ecosystem. James and Sirius, no longer competing over who could eat more chicken thighs but still loudly trying to one-up each other’s boasts about feats of accidental magic. Peter, scrabbling to get a word in while his eyes gleamed with excitement each time one of them noticed. And Remus, the impulse to join in the fun warring with Dad’s gentle word of warning before he climbed on the train earlier in the day—can’t be too careful, lad.

He pushes that to the side, focusing instead on finding his plush grindylow Raccoon at the bottom of his trunk. It’s a poor replacement for Jeff, the very real grindylow who lives at the bottom of his garden pond and who he already misses something fierce—and he is not going to let the other boys see that he brought a stuffed animal with him to school, thank you very much—but still. It helps to know that Raccoon’s there. It helps to know he'll have at least one friend at school.

Because Peter’s nice, but he and James are already friends from growing up, and Sirius and James… Well, he supposes they mean well, but with their shining black shoes and posh accents and the way they barrel loud and bright through a conversation like nothing in the world could touch them, Remus can’t help but be intimidated. For Merlin’s sake, Sirius has silver monogrammed cufflinks on the sleeves of his school uniform. Even if Remus does manage the courage to ever string more than two words together in front of his new dormmates, he can’t imagine they’d ever want to be friends with someone like him.

There’s a flash then, followed by a bang, and Remus becomes briefly distracted by a whirling firework escaping from James’s trunk. There’s laughter at that, a slight salve to his fluttering, nervous gut when the other boy winks at him from behind square-frame glasses, but then James turns back to say something to Sirius instead and stops. He gapes.

“Why are you wearing a dress?”

“It’s not a dress,” Sirius sniffs, looking affronted at the very idea. “It’s a nightshirt.”

Well, whatever it is Sirius has changed into while the rest of them weren’t paying attention, it certainly looks like a dress. It’s white, and ankle-length, and buttoned all the way up to just beneath his chin. Also, it’s frilly. Very frilly. If anything, it looks like something out of Ma’s old and battered copy of A Christmas Carol, like he should really have a long nightcap and candleholder to go with it.

Remus can’t help it. He snorts.

Sirius snaps his gaze over, steel grey eyes boring holes into him, and Remus wants to melt into the floor beneath his feet. “Well, what do you wear to sleep, then, if it’s so funny?” he snaps.

“Not my gran’s nightie,” Remus replies, feeling he ought to be congratulated, actually, on such a witty remark. Only Sirius’s eyes flash at that, and immediately his jaw clamps jaw shut.

But then James is cackling, and Sirius seems to take in his new dormmates for the first time since they all began changing for bed. James, in a vest and Quidditch shorts. Peter, in a matching set of broomstick-patterned pyjamas. Remus, in a pair of joggers and the oversized green jumper that still smells like Dad. A red flush creeps up Sirius’s pale cheeks. “Oh.”

It occurs to Remus then, that this wasn’t at all what he wanted, either. He didn’t want to make Sirius feel bad about it. He hadn’t wanted to embarrass him.

So it’s a poor offering, maybe, but he finds himself digging out another jumper—orange, this time, but a nice soft one, and not too oversized or nubby—and says, “D’you want to borrow it?”

A moment passes, then two, and then Sirius is smiling wide. “Cheers, Lupin,” he says, a shine in his eyes of something Remus doesn’t quite know how to place.

In future days he’ll come to understand that that look is the surefire sign of Sirius about to do something that’s not the done thing—not by pureblood standards, anyway, whatever the hell those are. All he knows right now is that Sirius isn’t yelling at him—or worse, ignoring him—and then James is throwing an extra pair of Quidditch shorts at Sirius’s face and saying no one wants to see his skivvies, and then Peter is breaking out a massive bag of Bertie Bott’s to share, and maybe it turns out that Remus can have friends, actually, after all.

[ahqkas]

♯ HIRAETH ; james patrick march

PAIRING! james patrick march x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! hiraeth (n.) — a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

WORD COUNT! 6.8k

WARNINGS / TAGS! angsttt, reader is described to have hair, mention of love making + lmk of more if found !

NOTES! found a collection of podcasts that reminded me a bit too much of james , this work is inspired by dangerously yours’ masquerade !! all the credits to the devider below belong to @/menschenopfer

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THE YEAR WAS 1927, AND LOS ANGELES WAS A CITY OF DREAMS, BEAMING WITH AMBITION, GLAMOUR, AND DARKNESS OF ITS OWN. The Hotel Cortez, with its imposing façade of carved stone and gleaming brass, towered over the busy streets below. It was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where luxury met mystery, and where secrets were buried deep within its intimidating walls.

The heavy doors of the hotel creaked open, and in stepped a woman whose presence commanded attention. She was the very meaning of old-world elegance, a figure that seemed to have stepped out of the newest magazine. Her [color] hair was styled in gentle waves that framed her face, and her eyes, sharp and enigmatic, glimmered with a secret knowledge. She wore a tailored traveling dress of navy blue, the fabric clinging to her form in a manner that was both modest and alluring. A black cloche hat sat atop her head, its wide brim casting a shadow over her striking features.

As you crossed the marble threshold, the polished floors beneath your heels echoed with each deliberate step. The hotel lobby was a grand room of the hotel, adorned with chandeliers that bathed the space in warm, golden light. The walls were lined with dark, rich wood paneling, and the air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering aroma of fine cigars. Guests shuffled around in the lobby, their conversations a murmur of excitement, but their eyes discreetly turned to the striking woman who had just entered.

A hotel worker, dressed smartly in a bellboy uniform of crisp white and black, approached you with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to catering to the wealthy and powerful. He couldn't help but be taken aback by your appearance, the way you moved with an effortless grace that seemed to belong to someone your status.

"Good evening, madam," he said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity. His eyes darted briefly to your luggage — a single, exquisitely crafted leather bag, monogrammed with the initials that possibly belonged to you.

Without pausing, you handed him your smooth gloves, your tone cool and commanding. "Have my bag sent to Suite 81," you instructed, words clipped and precise.

The bellboy hesitated for only a moment before snapping to attention. "Yes, ma'am!" he replied, taking the bag with both hands as if it contained something made out of glass, something precious. He hurried off toward the elevator, casting a final, awed glance back at you.

You continued your way through the lobby and a low hum of conversation followed after you. Guests and staff alike seemed to recognize you, though none dared to approach you directly. Your reputation, it seemed, followed you as well.

"Good evening, Countess [Last name]!" came a cheerful greeting from one of the hotel's attendants, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache who had seen many notable figures pass through the Cortez's doors, but none quite like you.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, your lips curling into a polite smile that did not quite reach your eyes. "Good evening," you replied, voice smooth and cultured, with a hint of an accent that spoke of faraway lands.

The attendant bowed slightly as you passed, and within moments, another voice, this time a younger woman in the concierge uniform, echoed through the lobby. "Welcome back, Countess [Last name]!" her voice was filled with genuine warmth and you didn't understand where did this come from.

The evening had settled over Los Angeles. The grand dining room of the hotel was appearing in art deco luxury, with its dark wood accents, gold-leafed walls, and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the tables set with fine china and silverware. The clinking of glasses and soft murmur of conversation filled the air and created something nostalgic to your heart.

You entered the dining room with the same air of composed grace that had marked your entrance into the hotel. Your eyes swept the room, taking in the diners who were engaged in their meals and conversations and you felt a pang of jealousy upon the sight. Their lives were so normal in comparison with yours.

As you approached the maître d's podium, the head waiter, a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, stepped forward. He recognized you immediately, the elegant Countess, and inclined his head in a deep bow.

"A table for one, ma'am?" his voice was practiced with the ease of someone who had served wealthy guests for years, though there was a slight quiver in his voice — perhaps a trace of the unease that always seemed to accompany you.

You, with your face expression as unreadable as ever, allowed yourself a brief pause before responding. Your eyes flicked past him, scanning the room once more, searching for something — or rather, someone.

"Is . . . James Patrick March dining?" you asked, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something that hinted at more than just casual interest.

The maître d' hesitated only for a heartbeat before answering, his gaze following yours toward the far end of the room. "Oh, he's at the table by the window, ma'am," he replied and a hint of curiosity crossed his tone as he gestured subtly toward the large, arched windows that overlooked the city's nightscape.

There, seated at a table clothed in the soft glow of candlelight, was James Patrick March. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie that was just slightly loosened, giving him an air of a casual someone. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the way he glanced through the room, as if every detail, every movement was a piece in a grand, invisible game. A game that belonged to him. His dark hair was slicked back, and his piercing eyes, though cast downward at the moment, seemed to take in everything around him.

Your gaze lingered on him, breath catching slightly as the history the two of you shared played out in your mind — something you've never been able to erase from your memories. Your hand tightened around the strap of your formal handbag, the storm of rage already forming inside you.

"Thank you," you murmured to the maître d', who, sensing that his services were no longer required, bowed once more and stepped aside.

With a final, steadying breath, you made your way across the dining room, your steps measured and elegant, drawing the eyes of more than a few guests who wondered at the purpose of your approach. You moved with the grace of a woman who knew how to command a room's attention without asking for it, but there was also a tension to your movements, a barely concealed edge that hinted at the true intentions of your visit.

As you neared the table, March's dark eyes lifted from his glass of alcohol, catching yours in a gaze that was both intimate and unreadable. He leaned back slightly in his chair and a slow, amused smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched you approach, as if he had been expecting you all along.

"Countess [Last name]," he greeted you, his voice smooth and rich with a hint of that accent you both despised and adored. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You met his gaze evenly, your own smile small and controlled, but there was a fire in your eyes that belied your calm exterior.

"Mr. March," the way his name rolled out of your mouth shouldn't sound so lovingly. Your voice was steady, though your heart raced beneath your play. "I believe we have unfinished business."

March remained seated, watching your every move with the sharp, predatory gaze of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The slight smirk on his lips hinted at his appearing satisfaction. He knew you’d show up, let it be few weeks or decades.

"If some kind fate wishes to send a beautiful lady to dine with me, I can only be grateful," the man said, his voice smooth and low, rich with the charm of someone who was well aware of his power. "You will do me the honor, won't you, ma'am?"

For a brief moment, the tension between the two of you hung in the air, taut and electric, as you studied him. You were fully aware of the game you were playing, the dangerous dance of wit and will, and you had no intention of backing down. This game would be his loss.

Finally, your lips curved into a small, controlled smile, one that spoke of your own understanding of the power dynamics at play. "I should be delighted," you replied, voice carrying the slightest edge of irony as you accepted his invitation.

March's smile deepened, pleased with your response. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him, a silent invitation for you to join him. The man poured a glass for you, the wine a deep, blood-red, before filling his own. He lifted his glass to you in a toast and his eyes never left yours.

"To fate," he said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. "For bringing such a captivating companion to my table."

You lifted your glass, clinking it lightly against his. "To fate," you echoed, gaze steady as you sipped the wine, the taste of it rich and complex on your tongue. It's been a long time since the last moment you tasted the sweet blood.

For now, the dance would continue.

And as you looked into James Patrick March's eyes, you couldn't help but wonder who would lead, and who would follow.

"What would you like for dinner?" his voice always seemed smooth, and you never knew if it was because of the accent or for the fact that he knew exactly what he wanted. A hint of amusement danced in his dark irises.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "What does the owner of this hotel eat? Pheasant wings and peacock breasts?" you inquired, tone playful yet edged with a subtle challenge. "And — what do you usually eat?"

His grin widened. "Ah, the usual fare for me tends to be quite varied, though I do have a penchant for the extravagant," he admitted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke and you knew his words hinted at something else as well. "But I find myself quite curious about what a countess might prefer."

Your gaze never wavered as you answered, your voice carrying a hint of wry humor. "Almost anything," the simplicity of your answer was belied by the layers of meaning beneath it.

The man's eyes sparkled with interest as he absorbed your response. He seemed to consider those words carefully before responding, his voice warm and teasing. "Well then, how about roast beef?" he suggested, his tone both casual and deliberate, as though he were making an offer that was both grand and intimate.

Your smile deepened and a glimmer of approval appeared in your eyes. James Patrick March had always had a rich taste. Especially in alcohol and women. "Roast beef sounds delightful," you agreed. "I appreciate your choice, Mr. March. It seems fitting for the occasion."

March signaled to the waiter, who had been hovering discreetly nearby, and relayed the order with a casual wave of his hand, all while his eyes never left yours. The waiter nodded and swiftly disappeared, leaving the two of you alone once more, the soft murmur of the dining room the only sound accompanying you.

With a slow, elegant movement of his hand, March poured himself another glass of wine. "I must say, Countess [Last name], it's a rare pleasure to share a meal with someone who possesses such . . . discerning taste," he said, his voice laced with both sincerity and a hint of irony.

"And it's a rare pleasure to find myself in such intriguing company," you replied to him, tone both warm and enigmatic. "I trust the evening will prove to be as engaging as the company."

March chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you with an almost predatory satisfaction. "I have no doubt it will be," he said, raising his glass in a toast once more.

The night sky was a deep shade of deep indigo, flickering with countless stars that twinkled like diamonds scattered across velvet. The air was warm, with just the faintest whisper of a breeze, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine through the open balcony doors. The Hotel Cortez stood silent and still, its grand exterior bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, casting long, gentle shadows across the marble floors.

You stood on the balcony, the city of Los Angeles sprawling out beneath you like a sea of lights. Your gown, a delicate shade of silver that shimmered in the moonlight, flowed around you like liquid silk. Your hair was loose, cascading over your shoulders in waves, and your young face, bathed in the soft light, was a picture of pure satisfaction.

Beside you stood James Patrick March, his tall figure intimidating yet relaxed as he leaned against the ornate railing. His gaze, however, was not on the city below, but on the woman at his side. There was a softness in his eyes, a rare gentleness that few had ever seen, let alone inspired. In this moment, all the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you.

As you stood in comfortable silence, a sudden streak of light blazed across the night sky — a shooting star, burning its brief path before vanishing into the darkness. March, ever so observant, turned his gaze upward, his lips curving into a smile.

"Look, [Name], a shooting star," he said, his voice filled with a boyish wonder that was rare for him. He turned his head slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes reflecting the faint starlight. "Did you wish?"

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the star, you blinked and looked up just as it disappeared. Your expression softened, a faint smile touching your lips, but there was a wistfulness in your eyes as you shook your head slightly.

"Oh . . . I didn't have time," you admitted, voice tinged with a hint of regret, as though you had missed an opportunity that would not come again.

James' smile didn't falter, though there was a subtle shift in his expression — something deeper, more thoughtful. He stepped closer to you, his presence warm and reassuring. "And there is something you wish for," he said, more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it falling from your own lips.

Your smile faded into something more serious, your eyes searching his as though you were trying to decide whether to speak the truth or guard your heart. But in the end, you could not lie to him — not in this moment, not when you felt so safe, so completely at peace by his side.

"Yes," you whispered to him, barely more than a breath.

March's gaze softened further. He reached out with his hand and gently enveloped your own in his, the skin of his palm warm and grounding. "What did you wish?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, as though the words were meant for your ears alone.

You hesitated, the answer so close to escaping, yet so difficult to say. Your heart ached with the weight of it, with the knowledge of the life you wished for but could never truly have. Looking down at your joined hands, your fingers lightly curled around his in response to his question, and then back up into his dark eyes, which were watching you with such intensity, such sincerity. They seemed a lot darker now, under the night sky.

"I was wishing that we were two other people," you finally confessed, your voice filled with a quiet longing that spoke of dreams unfulfilled. "Two people who need not say goodbye."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning. You could not bear the thought of losing him, of this moment being just a fleeting memory in the string of your lives. The depth of your love for him was overwhelming, a love so pure and untainted by the shadows that would later consume you.

James stepped even closer, his hand gently moving to cup your cheek and his thumb brushed tenderly across your skin. "Perhaps it can be that way," he murmured. March bent his head, his lips hovering just above yours, as if the very act of kissing you might seal the promise he was making. "Perhaps we can be those people, if only for tonight."

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, heart pounding in your chest as you searched his eyes for the truth in his words. And this time, you allowed yourself to believe it — to believe that the two of you could escape the world that would inevitably tear you apart, that you could be just a man and a woman, free from the burdens of your lives.

You were the one to close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and filled with all the love and hope you held in your heart for him.

And for that night, under the watchful eyes of the stars, you were just two people who did not need to say goodbye.

The present moment was completely different to the warmth and tenderness of the past. The air in the room was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in every crack of the Hotel Cortez. The grand suite you occupied was dimly lit, the once-gilded decor now seemed dull. Outside, the night became alive, the city's lights a distant blur beyond the heavy curtains, but inside, the atmosphere crackled with the remnants of an argument that had yet to reach its peak.

You stood near the window, your back to the room, while you stared out into the darkness with attention that wasn't really there. Your once vibrant spirit now seemed dulled by the weight of time spent in this cursed place, your elegance marred by the sorrow etched into your features. The memories of what had once been — of the love you had felt for him — were a distant echo. His betrayal hardened your heart.

Behind you, James Patrick March paced around the room restlessly, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges. The man who had once been a picture of controlled arrogance now seemed almost desperate, his eyes locked onto your figure as though you were the only thing grounding him to this world. His tailored suit was as impeccable as ever, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a strain in his voice that betrayed the depth of his emotions.

"[Name]," he began, and his voice was urgent, almost pleading as he tried to bridge the growing wall between the two of you. "I offer you the three things most dear to me: my heart . . . my hotel . . . and my dream."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of promises that no longer held the meaning they once did. He took a step toward you, his hand outstretched as if to pull you back to him, to recapture the love you had shared before everything had gone so terribly wrong. Before his mistakes happened.

But you remained unmoved, back still turned to him, posture stiff with resolve. The pain in your chest was such a familiar ache, one that had become a part of your very being, but you had long since learned to live with it. Now, it was a shield, protecting you from the man who had once held your heart so completely.

"You are too generous —" you began with your voice full of coldness, as if you were speaking to a stranger and not the man you had once loved with every fiber of your being.

"[Name], you must listen to me!" March's voice cracked with desperation as he allowed himself to interrupt you, his frustration spilling over. He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity. "Since that first hour we met, I've been completely yours. There's never been anyone else for me . . . There never will."

His confession, raw and unfiltered, was the truth — at least, the truth as he saw it. To him, you were everything, the only light in the endless darkness that had become his existence. He had built this world all for you, and now it was slipping away, crumbling before his eyes because he could not reach you, could not find a way to make you understand.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. The words he spoke were like daggers to your heart, reopening wounds that had never truly healed. You had once believed in his love, had once shared his dreams, but that time had passed. What had once been your shared world was now a shattered illusion, a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain your composure, but you felt the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "Please don't say any more. There are worlds between us, worlds that can't be bridged with words."

Your gaze bore into his, pleading for him to understand what you could not bring yourself to say out loud.

"You are dead. And I am me."

He was trapped in this hotel, in this half-life of his own making, while you remained bound to the world of the living, a world that he could never truly be a part of. The love you had once shared, as powerful and all-consuming as it had been, was now nothing more than a painful memory.

March stood frozen, the weight of your words crushing the last remnants of his hope. He had always been a man who believed that he could bend the world to his will, that nothing was beyond his reach if he desired it enough. But in this moment, he was confronted with the one thing he could not control, could not change — the inexorable march of time and the finality of death. Was he really though?

His expression was a mix of anguish and determination, the usual smoothness of his demeanor shattered by the knowledge he had carried for so long. This was a truth he had avoided speaking aloud, perhaps out of a twisted sense of mercy, or perhaps because he could not bear the thought of breaking you more than it was needed. But now, the time for silence had passed.

"You said one night that you wished we were two different people," March began to remember, his voice low and measured. His eyes never left your form. "I think you may have that wish, [Name]."

His words seemed to hang in the air. For a moment, you did not move, your mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind them. You felt your brows furrowing in confusion, the flicker of doubt that had long been buried now rising to the surface.

"But what do you mean?" you asked in a quiet voice, almost trembling. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at you, that sent a chill running down your spine. It was as if the ground beneath you was beginning to crumble, threatening to pull you into an abyss you had refused to acknowledge.

James stepped closer, his gaze softening as he saw the uncertainty and fear in your eyes upon hearing those words. The man who had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to manipulate and bend others to his will, now stood before you, stripped of all secrets. He could not protect you from this truth now, could not shield you from the reality that had been so carefully hidden away by him.

"[Name]," he started gently, as if to not scare you any more, "you are not who you think you are. You've been living in denial, clinging to the idea that you are still part of the world of the living."

You recoiled slightly, with your heart beginning to race as a cold dread settled against your rib cage. Your mind fought against his words, refusing to accept what they implied. You had always felt different, out of place, but you had attributed it to the strange nature of the hotel, to the dark energy that seemed to carve every corner of it. Not this. Never this.

"No . . ." you whispered, shaking your head as if that could wake you up from the nightmare that was taking shape before you. "No, that can't be true. I'm . . . I'm alive, James. I'm here."

The man's brows furrowed in sorrow and what seemed like guilt, his heart breaking for you when you struggled to hold onto the last shreds of your denial. He reached out, gently taking your hands in his, his touch warm but offering no comfort from the truth he was about to reveal.

"You are here, [Name]," he said softly, "but not in the way you believe. You died, my love . . . years ago. You've been here, in this hotel, ever since. Your spirit, your essence — trapped, just like mine. But unlike the others, you've refused to see it. You've built a world around yourself, a world where you still believe you can leave, still believe you can live."

The room seemed to spin around you, the walls closing in as the truth clawed its way into your consciousness. You tried to pull away from him, tried to reject the reality he was presenting, but his grip on your hands was firm, grounding you even as everything else fell apart.

"No . . . no, that's not possible," you insisted still, your voice rising in pitch as panic began to take hold. "I'm not dead, I can't be. I'm . . . I'm real, James. I'm standing here, talking to you."

"Yes, you are," March replied, his voice steady and calm, though his own pain was evident in his eyes. "But you're not alive. Not in the way you think. This hotel . . . it's a place where the dead linger, where they cannot move on. You've been here with me all this time, believing you were still part of the world outside, but the truth is . . . you're not."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of his words began to sink in, your carefully constructed world shattering around you. You could feel the coldness creeping into your bones, the weight of your existence pressing down on you like a leaden shroud. It was as if you were seeing yourself for the first time — truly seeing — and what you saw terrified you.

"But . . . but how?" asking, your voice broke as you looked up at him, searching his face for answers, for anything that might make sense of this horror. "How could I not know? How could I . . . how could I forget?"

Your past lover's expression was filled with sorrow as he gently cupped your face, wiping away the salty tears that spilled down your cheeks. He had never wanted this for you, never wanted you to suffer as he had, to be trapped in this purgatory with nothing but memories and regrets to keep you company.

"You loved me," he stated simply. "You loved me so much that you couldn't bear to let go, even in death. Your love for me, your denial . . . it kept you here, in this place, unable to see the truth. But now . . . now you know."

You were his. Perhaps you had always been. And now, as the truth of your existence settled into your bones, he knew he could not let you go, even if it meant holding onto a ghost, a shadow of what the two of you once were.

Gently, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still cradling one of your cheeks. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face paler than usual, but in that moment, you were still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The love he had felt for you had not waned, even in death; if anything, it had only grown stronger, more desperate.

"You may as well take my heart, [Name]," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's already full of you. You walked into it the day we met."

A blink was all you managed to give. You had felt his love from the beginning, had known how deeply he cared for you.

"You're a fool, James Patrick March." There was no anger in your words, only a sorrowful resignation. You knew what he was trying to do, knew he was trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. But there was no future for the two of you — not in this twisted world, not in this half-existence.

He smiled sadly, a flicker of the old charm that had once captivated you. "Oh, but isn't any man who falls in love?" He ran his thumb gently across the apple of your cheek, wiping away the last traces of your tears. "Do you know what you are to me? You're something to believe in again. You're the type of person that had ceased to exist for me — a fine and honest woman."

His words were like a knife twisting in your heart. The depth of his feelings, the sincerity in his voice, all served to remind you of what you had lost, of what could never be. You wanted to believe in his love, to find comfort in the fact that he still saw you as something pure and good. But the truth was that you weren't that woman anymore, and perhaps you never had been.

"Oh, my darling. You're such a child.”

James' face fell, the hope in his eyes dimming as he saw the resolve in your posture, heard the finality in your voice. He had feared this moment, the moment when you would push him away, when you would reject the only thing he had left to offer.

"Take your foolish little dream in your heart and go," you continued with your final decision and your voice broke on the last word as you fought against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm your every sense. You wanted him to leave, to take his love and his dreams and disappear, because you knew that if he stayed, you would both be dragged down into the darkness that surrounded you.

You didn't need to turn around to know he was still there. You could feel him, like a shadow that never left your side.

"What is it? What's wrong, my dear?" his voice was gentle, almost tender, but you could hear the underlying concern.

You wanted to lash out, to tell him to leave you for good, to demand that he let you be. But the words caught in the back of your throat, tangled with the truth of what you felt — what you had always felt for him, despite everything.

"You know nothing about me," you said, voice shaking with frustration, but also with a hint of despair. "You've known me only three weeks!"

March blinked, caught off guard by your statement. Three weeks. Had it really been so little time? To him, it felt like an eternity, and at the same time, like no time at all. Every moment with you had been etched into his mind, as if you had always been there, a part of him that never left.

"Three weeks?" he repeated after you. "[Name], I've known you all my life."

"All your life?!" the words were nothing but a distant echo, incredulous. How could he say that? How could he claim to have known you, when you yourself barely understood who you were anymore?

James took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. He could see the turmoil in your gaze, the confusion and doubt that swirled around you like a storm. But he had to make you understand — had to make you see what you meant to him, what you had always meant.

"It's true," he insisted, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "I've seen you in a thousand plays, read you in as many books. While I've heard beautiful music, I've thought, 'She'd like that.' I've looked at flowers and known that one day I'd give them to you."

To him, you had always been there, in his thoughts, in his dreams. Even before the two of you met, you had been a part of him, an ideal, a vision of something pure and beautiful in a world that had long since lost its luster.

Your breath caught in your throat as you listened, heart pounding in your chest. You had heard words like these before — sweet nothings whispered in the dark after you've made love, promises made and broken — but this was different. There was no lies in his voice, no empty flattery. He truly believed what he was saying, and that sincerity shook you to your core.

But it also terrified you. Because you knew that if you allowed yourself to believe him, to accept the love he offered, there would be no turning back. You would be lost to him, bound by the same chains that held you both to this place.

"James. . ." you began with your trembling voice as you struggled to find the right words. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't real, that what he felt was just another illusion, another trick of his twisted mind. But even as you thought it, you knew it wasn't true. His love for you was truly real — so real that it had brought you back, kept you from moving on.

But was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

You felt a cold sweat on your skin as you grappled with the turmoil building inside you. The love you felt for James was undeniable, a force that had bound you together in life and in death. But with that love came a profound sense of duty, a discipline that you had clung to as a way to maintain some semblance of control over your fractured existence. Now, that discipline was being tested in a way you had never imagined.

The man himself could see the conflict in your eyes, the way your emotions warred with your duty. He had always admired your strength, the fierce determination with which you had approached everything in your life. But now, he wondered if that strength would ultimately be the thing that tore the two of you apart.

"If I betray you, I betray myself," whispering, your voice trembled with the weight of your confession. You had always prided yourself on your unwavering commitment to your principles, to the discipline that had guided you through even the darkest of times. But now, standing before the man you loved, you realized just how fragile that commitment had become, all because of him.

"If I betray myself," you continued, "I betray my discipline. My discipline is very dear to me."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You had built your life around that discipline, around the principles that had defined you. It had been your anchor, your guiding light in a world that had often seemed dark and chaotic.

"Dearer than I?" James' voice was soft, almost pleading. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the way you fought against your love for him with the discipline that had been the foundation of your existence. He knew that he was asking you to choose between two parts of yourself, and the thought of losing you because of it was almost too much to bear.

You looked up at him, heart breaking in million pieces at the vulnerability in his voice. You had never wanted to hurt him, never wanted to put him in a position where he had to question your love. But the truth was, you were questioning it yourself. Not the love itself — no, that was as real as anything you had ever known — but whether you could truly allow yourself to give in to it, to let go of the discipline that had defined you for so long.

"No," you whispered into the dark while the soft breeze blew past you. "No, not dearer than you. But I must leave."

James Patrick March stood there, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you like a death sentence. You were leaving him — this time, forever. The love you had shared, the bond that had once seemed unbreakable, was now shattered, and there was nothing he could do to stop you from disappearing into the void where he could never follow.

For a moment, he said nothing, his heart a cage of grief, anger, and desperation. He had always prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain calm and in control, even in the face of the most dire situations. But now, with the woman he loved standing before him, ready to walk out of his life forever, all that control began to crumble.

"You gave me your heart, you know?" James finally spoke, his voice low and strained, as if each word was being torn from the depths of his soul. "And now you'd like me to hand it back to you, whole again. But I won't."

You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, but you held your ground, soft eyes betraying the sadness that mirrored his own. You had made your decision, but it was clear that it was one that pained you just as much as it pained him.

"You will live a long time yet, [Name]," the man continued, his voice growing stronger, more resolute, as if he were steeling himself against the inevitable. "An eternity without me."

He paused for a moment, hoping to find any sign that you might change your mind, that you might see the madness in what you were about to do. But there was nothing — just the same quiet determination that had always been a part of you, the same unyielding strength that he had fallen in love with.

"You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will, for an instant, bring me back to you. But it won't. You will find moonlit nights strangely empty," he went on, his voice now a haunting whisper. "Because when you call my name through them, there will be no answer."

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. James felt a sharp pang in his chest, a sense of helplessness that he had never known before. He was losing you for real, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Always your heart will be aching for me," he said, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions. "And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing."

He took a step closer, reaching out to gently lift your chin so that your eyes met once more. The pain in your gaze was almost too much for him to bear, but he held it, wanting you to see the truth in his own eyes. He wanted you to feel his own pain.

"But know this, my dear," the whispered affection left his lips so naturally when it came to you and that was why it all hurt too much. He'd never change. "You may think you're doing the right thing, the brave thing, by leaving. But there will come a time when you will question it — when the loneliness becomes too much, when the nights grow too long, and the silence becomes unbearable. And in those moments, you will remember me. You will remember what we had, and you will wish, with all your heart, that you had chosen differently."

He let his hand fall away, stepping back as the finality of your decision settled over him like a blanket. There was nothing more to say — nothing that could change what was about to happen.

"You will never be free of me. No matter how far you run, or how long you hide. I will always be a part of you, just as you are a part of me."

You swallowed hard, tears now spilling freely down your cheeks again as you took one last look at the man you had loved with all your heart. The man you were about to leave behind.

"Goodbye, James," you whispered, voice breaking. "Goodbye."

And with that, you turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving James alone in the suffocating silence of the room you had once shared.

As the door closed behind you, the reality of your absence crashed over him like a brutal wave, and for the first time in his life, James Patrick March felt truly, utterly lost.

[mammalsofaction]

Oh!!!! Thank you for the response!!! :) I will try not to spam you with asks though, but now I'm also curious to know some of your theories! Perry, Perryshmirtz, or general PnF related!

Yeeeeaaa, I noticed that a lot of stuff tends to be glossed over, both by Dan and Swampy. Even the characters themselves tend to hand wave stuff (prime example of this was when everyone but Candace refused to acknowledge how Perry could have come to Africa) 😆

I guess I wasn't sure if the replication machine was IN agent lairs. The way it's shown off, I kind of assumed it was at OWCA labs--- the analyser being their hats while the machine itself is in the lab type of deal. Although, your point about Perry having the highest level of clearance at the OWCA does imply that he could have just asked for this stuff to be installed in his lair, especially for Alpha level threats.

On the other hand, I'm iffy on whether OWCA knew about all of this. It's clear by the way Perry gives Phineas the key that Monogram doesn't know--- he waits for the call with MM to end to give the key to Phin and does so under the guise that he was following orders with no ulterior motives or intentions. Additionally, we know Perry isn't afraid to bend some rules (or break others) with him letting Stacy keep her memories, allowing Heinz his New Year victory, their BFF photos in his wallet, and saving those photos of himself and the boys.

So, I don't think it's too farfetched for Perry to set do all of this without directly involving the OWCA or even having his plan greenlit. But, it still leaves me wondering how he managed to do it. (As much as I would have loved the idea of Heinz helping, I do have to admit that it would have been too big of a risk for Perry to take. Even WITH the amnesia-inator being an option 😅)

Anyway, the whole scene where Phineas and Ferb go into Perry's Lair makes me SO goddamn emotional. Just... so bittersweet knowing that Perry can never truly tell them how he feels about them post-at2d because it'd mean being ripped away from them forever. Genuinely heartbreaking. And I won't lie, I definitely teared up seeing Phineas and Ferb come to the realization that Perry has always loved and trusted them, believing in them so thoroughly that he literally has them be the last line of defense for the whole world. It's a powerful moment and probably my all-time favorite scene from the movie 🥹

(Side note: I agree that Perry doesn't wholly trust the OWCA with Undercover Carl likely being the episode that kicked off this distrust. I'm now wondering if maybe we'll see more impact from this in the revival 👀)

Please forgive the STUPIDLY late response, ive had a lot on my plate and also i lost my first draft to this haha but still PLEASE spam away it gives me absolute life.

Actually yeah now that I think about it IS lowkey suspect about the key itself since, again, I'm pretty sure this is under the table and Heinz probably doesn't have anything to do with this. Perry does have some connections/blackmail though, with Monty (dating Vanessa), Pinky (close neighbour, different department, good with computers) and Carl DEFINITELY owes Perry with the amount of shit hes accidentally piled onto the Flynn Fletchers in his time.

After the whole mishap with Dennis breaking into his lair to reach HQ, evil Carl, being framed by clones etc.... I'm sure no one would blame Perry for wanting a spare access key he would want to keep on hand. Nobody would know his secret plan of giving it to his boys in emergency cases though. All things considered the spare key is do-able.

Also... Nonnie i get you like on a SPIRITUAL level. At2D is a meta sandbox DREAM. There is just so much to unpack and analyse politically, emotionally and relationships wise. Especially since it's SUCH a perry centric narrative which was SO rare before season 4. Like the reveal of Platyborg, Perry's identity reveal, the ongoing argument with Phineas the whole time... Thinking about the scene with Perry holding all of his most loved ones above the lava scene can send me into such an emotional spiral.

I cant remember what episodes start where, but Undercover Carl was probably his sign that OWCA can be an active threat to the Flynn Fletchers.

Come Home Perry was the ep that told us OWCA does NOT care about the closeness of an agent's relationship to their family.

Cheer Up Candace tells Perry that OWCA can VERY easily be persuaded to turn against Perry/lose faith in Perry despite everything Perry's done for the company.

Where's Perry and Phineas and Ferb Save Summer are the first two instances in mind that proves so much of OWCA can be dismantled from the inside and he cant trust that it cant happen again. (Hes right to think this, since it happens AGAIN in OWCA files)

So yeah there are SO many reasons why Perry doesnt trust OWCA when it comes to taking care of his loved ones. I really really REALLY hope that we get more Perry centric eps in the revival bc it is so juicy juicy 🧃🥤🧃🥤

[superconductivebean]

#1522: The Boards from Fig's Classroom

Welcome back to my usual ramblings about the in-game trivia, art and other visual curiosities scattered throughout the game. Today I found few things regarding the boards found in Fig's classroom and want to muse about them a little.

tags: @the-magiarcheologist @ozunafieldguide @endeavour12345 @girl-named-matty @storkteller

First image, the right board, from left to right:

The alchemical symbol for copper and Venus. Strangely resembles the version of it used by the band Soundgarden for the King Animal album. It's also been rotated at 90 degrees.

Omnia unus est, taken from the original poster or the derivative works; misshapen. Reddit user Voxx418 provided very detailed overview of the symbols seen on the poster, but the poster itself first appeared in 2013 and doesn't have a lot to do with the old manuscripts.

Unsure, as of now, what exactly this is, but it reminds me of the Robert Fudd's artwork Diagram of consciousness and this page from Giordano Bruno's book The Ash Wednesday Supper. Has to do with cosmology and mind, I suppose.

Second image, from right to left:

A bunch of astrological and alchemical symbols (from right to left; note that it's not obvious if the symbol corresponds with, let's say, mercury as quicksilver and mercury as planet): ? || metal / caput draconis || mercury? || ? || mercury ? ? ? || venus || chi rho? || ? ? || mars || steel || ? ? jupiter || ? ? || tin / jupiter || ? saturn || ? || pisces || lead / saturn || lead / saturn

A kelpie.

Third image (I'm ignoring the symbols this time; they're astrology and alchemy; similar block of symbols can be found everywhere else in the castle):

A sigil! Tabula Saturni, to be precise. It originates from Athanasius Kircher's monumental work Oedipi Aegyptaci. However, the tabula was likely taken from this image; the photo of the chalkboard from the Transfiguration classroom from the HP movies. Anyway. This particular tabula can be found here, page 72, along with the rest of the planets in their classical order (also known as Chaldean order, planetary order, Babylonian, and many more; it's ancient and if it sounded a little off—as in, why is Saturn 3?—that's probably why). What do they mean though? It's… complicated and I'm not sure I'm able to explain but briefly so: you'd want these magic squares to summon divine powers to aid you. I understand sending directly to Agrippa is setting forth for an adventure but the man knew tenfold better than I ever would. So, the chapter of the Occult Philosophy where he explains it plus a humongous book about magic squares with hundreds of them calculated for different deities and planets.

The monogram of the emperor Justinian (the lower) and… Holy Trinity (the upper).

Forth image:

A moonstone sitting in the centre of a circle that's been cut in half… Doesn't make a lot of sense, likely a bug caused the cut. Next.

Fifth image:

The long scroll's imagery is inspired by this frame (the images are identical bar the movie's version wasn't flipped back):

But then, these symbols again:

Not sure what they mean nor how to identify them yet. I recall seeing them in the Alchemy classroom. For now, I'll call them a WIP.

This is the Chaldean order diagram (rather distorted):

What's the symbol on the left?

That's an interesting question and a very silly story. Sit back, it's too much silliness for one standing.

How am I able to snipe all these things, might had you wondered? It's an intricate question. Evidently I'm busying myself with occult texts and imagery; lack of interest in practice of occultism slows me down as well as lack of interest in theology — the two are linked — but still. There is a certain corpus of text, famous and influential authors, and most importantly: the sense of continuity. I'm not nearly as erudite as I could be but navigating via learning the basics of who came up with what helps to determine, let's say, if certain symbology have been a recent development. Anyway and howevor. Magic, or magick, had become a very interesting subject to me and worst of all, it's logical. RIgidly, excruciatingly logical—after had been made familiar with the references it uses and refers to just to explain itself. Science of today left it all behind but should it mean we should or must abandon so much intricate, funny, cruel history and call it simply a whimsy.

Besides, I think I have cracked the artists' logic in how they picked all these images.

The answer is bluntly simple: they know magic is closely associated with certain symbology but they don't think it has an ounce of sense; or maybe they didn't have enough time to think how to weave with it because hermetic magic — Western magic — is an amalgamation of philosophy, theology and alchemy (and a lot more). Whichever was the case, I'm not satisfied with it for a reason as simple: if you absolutely have to work with something you have barely an idea about and you are not going to commit to it, perhaps it would be a wise decision not to put the result on the character's and hence the player's eye level. Especially when you did few visual quips here and there ( 1) at Falbarton castle, on the message board hangs a decree issued by the Ministry of Magic declaring the area unsafe for travels—and just underneath it, a letter, that reads "This isn't funny"; 2) if you doff everything and run around, all NPCs will have a line or two to remind you to change; 3) you can navigate the roads outside of the castle by going where signpost tell, and you'd often see Ministry's decrees and warnings for dangers in the area; 4) the entire mechanic of Ancient Magic is to be able to see the otherwise unseeable). Yet, the most obvious place everyone just might get stuck to—the boards at a school, at a place where you're certainly expecting at least some degree of systematisation—are riddled with drivel and or nonsense.

I'm harsh about this, yes. You'll understand why in just a few seconds.

During my excursions to the occult I commonly saw the same motif. A circle, something is drawn inside of it, especially in demonology. This is usually referred to as being Solomonic magic or its influences. So, when I saw this sigil, my immediate reaction was — Goetia!

Goetia demons are in great plenty but no sigil matched this drawing. The circle also looked strange, as if taken from some place else, but so scarce a detail only leaves you wonder if you'd be able to find any thing at all related to this drawing. Which you know for certain had been taken from somewhere — it must had been.

And I was correct.

But my search wasn't originally intended to lead me to find where this sigil is from. I tried to determine what were the symbols etched on the Harlow's wand. Few grimoires leafed through, all interesting in their own sense, and then, accidentally, without a call, this page just loaded and stared at me:

That's it, I thought, found it. Weird, that they had to flip it. To write a post about it I only ever needed to find the original manuscript, but I was only able to find its translation. The manuscript is called The Cambridge Book Of Magic, or CUL MS Add. 3544, and delves into the forbidden art of necromancy besides the topics of medicine, herb gathering, and apotropaic magic. I found the aforementioned page on an obscure forum where it was uploaded in the low resolution, so I thought, I needed the bigger resolution; I like to look at the details and trying to read the text without hurting my eyes too much; and you see, the original manuscript seems to remain undigitalised to this day, only the translation made in 2015 is available for viewing online. Which is, I'll say, is a tad bit sad, but ultimately, fine.

I did try to find the manuscript, though. Besides my own curiosity, it's better to have a clear source as it's clear the artists didn't take in the translation: that particular sigil doesn't appear there where you'd expect it to be. In the end, all links led to this article:

Understood I wasn't given any other choice, I clicked on the image, in hopes it would be of higher resolution. I encourage you to do the same right now, if you are able or can.

It's flipped. The website returns the image flipped 180 degrees. Here how it looks like:

I hope that now you understand why I am rather… upset about this, pun not intended. It's beyond lazy yet the approach simply befuddles me: instead of buying from shutterstock kind of asset stores, they chose the struggle of selecting and finding real manuscripts and on the internet of all places only to barely bother about its contents. Unnecessary efforts, unwarranted butchering.

Sixth image (from the same website):

The translations for the aforementioned spells and sigils can be found here.

Seventh image:

The symbol of copper / Venus scorches the Chaldean order and Theorem XVIII of Monas Hierogliphica:

I think there were more but these images were kind of specific to Fig's class and I wanted to see what they meant or referenced.

Given that Theory for Magic is taught to 1st years (Hogwarts Legacy does not comment on it at all; in Harry's time, he had this subject in his 1st year but not in any subsequent year), they're in for a crash.