#unless I imagined it which is entirely possible...

[frelmidja]

the promised ectoloader lineart!!! goddddd I love them so much ♥♥♥

[fluffylino]

loner ! minho - drabble

you've observed him in your classes. he's hot. he's always by himself. little did you know he was fascinated with you too...

-contains mature themes (risky sex oops)

minho's in your class. he's there almost for every single lecture. never skipping unless he didn't show up to uni.

theres something about him that makes your heart race. maybe because you were just like him. the silent ones in the class who mostly sat right at the back where you could be at peace and avoid most interactions.

somehow the two of y'all never sat together, sometimes sitting on opposite ends of the small class or maybe on the bench infront. you watch him at times whenever the lesson content gets boring. taking in the sight of him paying attention.

was he really paying attention or was he just lost in his thoughts?

were you ever in his thoughts?

did you ever make an appearance in his mind?

.

.

its a long day. back to back lectures since 8 in the morning and you're tired. this time your class was being held in a small private classroom that nearly no one knew about except the people in this specific class.

neatly taking off your shoes outside the carpetted stairway.

noticing the larger pair of combat boots that are tucked away from all the other shoes.

mindlessly you keep your shoes near his. because he had mindlessly been doing that for the past few weeks. placing his shoes next to yours.

silently entering the class, only to realise you had losf track of time in the canteen. 10 mins since your class had begun and here you were.

heart thumping nervously at all the eyes on you, as you quietly scutter to an empty chair. the teacher has made all of y'all sit in a semi circle. for more integration and freedom.

and you find yourself seated directly across minho. taking in the sight of him entirely as your professor absentmindedly continues talking about something.

your eyes can't help but trail down to his hands. watching him crack his knuckles and adjust the rings he wore on his digits.

the black shirt complimenting his physique and his leisure way of sitting making your stomach churn with arousal.

why were you finding him so ravishing today? seeing him so upfront worked wonders on your imaginative brain.

blinking slowly as you thought of how his fingers would feel against your body. maybe even between your legs...

blushing heavily when he glances at you briefly. and from the corner of your eye, you swear you see him hide a smirk.

.

.

class is over and you're about to leave when you feel a gentle hand on your shoulder. and you're quick to turn around.

masking on a kind smile which immediately falters.

"wait back with me..." its him.

bag slinging across his shoulder as he stands beside you. quietly waiting for everyone to leave. with a long stride, he closely the door of the classroom. latching it smoothly and for a second you think he's uncomfortable with you.

what if he noticed how obvious you were.

"u-uh is everything o-okay?" you mumble, taking a few steps back when he stands in front of you. minimizing the gap as much as possible.

"i don't know, you tell me..." he lets out, tilting his head with intent. your mouth opens and closes. going speechless and every single coherent thought escaping your mind.

"...i d-don't know" you stutter unconciously. struggling to maintain eye contact with him. looking anywhere but at his eyes.

"do you...." he starts off. clearing his throat before looking at the latched door for a second, turning to purse his lips at you in a somewhat shy manner.

your bag sliding off one of your shoulder's and falling on the ground with a soft thud when he holds your chin.

making you look up at him the whole time.

"do you want to eat ramyeon...with me?"

minho whispers. purposefully leaning closer to breath heavy on your parted lips. your own breath shaking as you unconciously refuse to create a gap between y'all.

"or am i just eye candy for you?" he adds with a playful tone.

"no! i mean...n-no. you're more than just...that"

you mumble, cheeks heating up furiously. eye candy? that meant he knew you were watching him.

"well this eye candy's wondering if you just wanna keep staring at him or instead do something about it..."

.

.

.

"is this what you were dreaming of"

minho whispers huskily, hand stuffed down your pants. pulling you higher up on his lap. fingers tracing over your cunt. your nervousness dying down when he touches you like he's meant to be the only one touching you so intimately.

"m-sorry" you whimper. feeling concerned with yourself for imagining such vile things. filthy dirty thoughts during innocent moments.

"no baby, this is what i dreamt of too"

rubbing his middle and ring finger up against your folds. teasingly feeling up your clit. knowing that this was the first time you'd let anyone touch you like this.

"dreamt of dirtier things...so fucking filthy"

slipping his digit past your entrance and you keen. stomach burning with the unfamiliar intrusion.

"thought of you riding me on one of these stupid chairs" minho breathes out. curling his digits upwards to rub your walls. grunting when you grind down on his fingers.

"m-me too...wanted to ride you...want to ride you"

you gasp out, covering your mouth at the risks y'all were taking. an empty locked classroom.

"your s-shoes" and he smiles.

"you noticed. couldn't get over the size difference"

he teases, pulling his fingers out to lick them seductively. deciding to draw fast rough circles on your clit. stimulating the bundle of nerves so fast that you shake in his hold.

"don't you have class?" he asks, knowing damn well that right now class was the last thing on your mind.

"i have you." you moan, praying that luck ws on your side and that you'd get the time to taste him...

.

.

.

.

.

inspired by the dream i had last night AAAAAAA im screaming without the s-

[bbokicidal]

Decadent & Dreamy | Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough

Allow him to indulge in that which is your elegance.

BangChan ☼ Smut ☼ Mentions of sex (PinV, oral, anal, etc.), Lingerie/Heels etc, Skinship ☼ The post that started it all

Chan | Lino | Changbin | Hyune | Jisung | Felix | Seungmin | Jeongin

Hot Fudge - A sexual fantasy of his

... I'm going to be the one to say it, I think he really wants to at least have you call him daddy just ONCE in bed. It doesn't have to be 'daddy dom baby girl' or whatever, he just wants to hear it come out of your mouth because it feeds his need to breed you and make you a mother above all else. He's not going to bring it up, though, out of fear of being incredibly embarrassed at the chance that you might reject the idea and shoot him down hard. He's worried you'll be disgusted by it so just.. be gentle with him, yeah? (Or he might not be so gentle with you.~)

Caramel Sauce - What he watches/listens to/indulges in to get off

Often indulging in videos rather than reading or just using his imagination, he takes the easy route and just uses certain easy-to-access websites. He likes videos that aren't poorly scripted but sometimes does watch those types because they're silly to him; Really though, he's here for the audio. He likes the visual but when he's close to tipping over the edge he just lays his phone against his chest and jerks his hips up into his hand until he makes a mess all over his stomach.

Strawberry Drizzle - Something non-sexual that turns him on

He loves when you touch him. A quick grab of his arm to slip by him, a little tap on his side to get his attention, a hand on his thigh to push his legs away so you have room on the couch. Gentle touches, really, are enough to make him eager to get at you. He just really, really loves the physical affection and even when it's not something suggestive it's still going to be enough to get him wiggly and teasing right away.

Chocolate Chips - If he's interested in threesomes/orgys

He's not too particularly interested to be honest, but if one of the guys asked him about you or if you'd be open to trying something out he probably wouldn't say no - specifically to Felix or Minho. He has had dreams about sharing you with the entire group though. ~

Peanuts - His favorite position

Chan's favorite position, hands down, is hitting it from behind. So doggystyle, I guess. That's the position that really allows him to hit it deep, hit it hard, hit it fast. If he's feeling really nasty then he'll probably put you in a mating press.

Candied Almonds - His favorite location to be intimate

He just prefers the bedroom for simplicity - he's just a simple guy like that. But he will NOT say no to you coming to pay him a visit in the studio. Why would he turn that down?? He'd be an idiot to say no to some head while he works!

Whipped Cream - What he prefers his partner to wear during intimacy

He doesn't really have a preference! Ultimately he wants you to be as comfortable as possible and that's all that matters to him. If you like lace? He loves it. You want to wear a more costume-esque outfit? Period, he'll go with the vibe. You wanna wear nothing? Even better, easy access.

Marshmallow Topping - Where he likes to be touched

Anywhere, he's so touch deprived all the time, which is why he's so clingy towards some of the members who are okay with physical touch. He likes to be held in any way possible, but he does sort of prefer just.. simple physical touch, like little backhugs or holding hands. God, he loves holding hands!! Please hold his hands while y'all have sex. <3333

Cherries - His favorite toys/If he likes using toys

He doesn't like using toys simply because he gets off on the knowledge that his cock, alone, is enough to make you squirt. I said what I said. (Unless it's like.. a cockring, then he might use it.)

Coconut Flakes - How he likes it (soft/rough/etc)

Honestly, he's a softer guy. But if you really, really need him and you've been begging for it or maybe teasing him all day, then he'll be rough. Chris seems like a needy guy but to be honest, if he's really desperate and you aren't around then he'll just jerk it to get off. He likes taking care of you and he likes making sure he's taking his time and hitting as deep as possible just to hear you whine, because then he knows he's doing something right.

Sprinkles - His favorite part of your body

Chris loooooves your thighs because they're perfect to knead when you sit together. He always has to have something on/in/around his hands because he's constantly moving, constantly fidgeting; And your thighs are so perfectly holdable, grabbable, squeezable.

Oreos - His favorite intimate act (oral/vaginal/etc)

He honestly just prefers sex; Vaginal, anal, oral, whatever the Hell you choose for the evening because he will answer your every beck and call. If you tell him to lay down and take it like a good boy he isn't going to argue, but if you ask him to completely ruin you and destroy you until you're shaking and crying - he'll happily do that, too. (He does love oral tho.)

M&Ms - An instant turn on for him

He loves when you wear heels. He knows it's probably not the best for you and you might end up feeling sore at the end of your date because of them - but by God, if you find a pair of platforms or something that you can walk in for hours and not feel horrible after, ugh. He loves a pretty lady who can confidently stride in heels. Don't ask me why, I just make the rules here.

Reeses Pieces - His favorite act of foreplay

Anything related to touching; Running his hands down your sides and feeling over your curves, when you push your fingers through his hair (which he REALLY loves because of how good his hair feels & looks recently) or when you feel over his body and grope at the muscle like it's oh-so-attractive to you. (Because it is, and it should be. Duh.)

Pretzels - What position he oftens takes in bed (top/bottom/vers)

Chan's a pretty verse guy. He's alright doing whatever to please you, to be honest, but he is absolutely a service top at heart. He gets off on knowing he's making you feel good and honestly if you came and he didn't, he'd be fine with it. (But he does, because he's sensitive.)

Graham Crackers - His favorite part of his own body

This pairs well with the strawberry drizzle because his favorite part is most of his body - other than his face. He's been loving his hair lately and has been styling it more up and out or up and back, slicking it, using product when allowed. He likes his arms because now he's strong enough to lift you with ease, he likes his torso because it's defined but not too much so and he still has softer sides that are holdable and warm. He likes his thighs because of the definition after a hard work out and recently, he's also taken a liking to his hands. He loves a lot of his body, which - we can really only be happy about. He's starting to love himself as much as we have loved him for years.

Sea Salt - A roleplay scenario he wants to try

He's not super big on roleplay scenarios but if he had to indulge in one, he'd probably do something related to... a certain video game he really, really likes. He'll just be himself and maybe you can dress up for him as one of his favorite pretty ladies. <3

Popping Pearls - How he sexts/If he sexts

He's honestly way too busy to even think about sexting. The most he's ever given you is a few sexually charged messages while he's out of the country for work and he misses you pretty bad; But he's above sending nudes. He doesn't think they're bad, he just thinks most dick pics are kind of ugly. (And he's right.) But if you ask nicely he will absolutely send you pics of him after working out and that's like.. basically a nude for us, is it not. LMAO

[englishisaboutconfidence]

Coworkers, Clubs, and Confessions

It's Monday and the start of another amazing week of working and getting older. You were entering your mid twenties and all you could think about was how you were getting older way faster than you were getting your life together. While you weren't necessarily a failure, you also weren't , in your mind, someone who had their life even mostly put together. You worked as a Data Analyst at a mid size logistics company. It wasn't even close to a glamorous life but you made enough and had enough growth opportunity to keep you around. You also had a few good work buddies you were able to chat with while at work so at least work wasn't a complete drag. You had gotten in a little late this morning so you had been working to get all caught up from the weekend so you didn't notice someone sneak up behind you.

"What's that?" You hear someone quietly ask. Startled, you look to the left and are immediately met by the beautiful face of Yoo Jimin aka Karina who you had known since you both started at the company 2 years ago. "Oh this, I'm just working on the Bank Reconciliation for Month End for one of your companies" you replied. "Yep, not for me at all. How was your weekend Y/N?" Karina asked. You told her about your weekend and asked about hers. After talking for a bit, she casually asked if you wanted to get drinks with her and her friends that weekend. "Yeah, I'm down. Just let me know where and when" "Perfect, let me get your number so I can text you the details later" she cheerily replied.

Throughout the week, you and Karina chatted off and on in person at work and over text. While you had worked together for 2 years, you and her had always been work friends at best. You barely spoke to anyone at work for your first year while she went out of her way to form relationships with as many coworkers as she could. Being the same age and entering at the same, made you a perfect target for this approach so after a while you and her actually became close (mostly through her own determination to form friendships with as many people her age at work as possible); but you and her had never talked or hung out after work, unless it was a work event, before now. You were nervous the entire week because you had know idea of what Friday night would look like. Obviously Karina was beautiful and an amazing person so you naturally were attracted to her when you first met, but you were also you so when you met her you immediately put yourself in the friendzone (or at least you did your own mind so you never would think of trying anything) because you knew it would only end in rejection.

Friday night came and you were going to meet Karina and her friends at this club called "Blarneys". You were much more of nerd than anything else so you had thrown on your one good "going out" fit which included a basic black bomber jacket, gold chain, light grey t shirt, and black jeans. You texted Karina that you would be there in 5 and she told you that she and her friends at a booth in the back corner of the club in the VIP section and to drop her Karina at the door. Arriving and getting into the bar purely cause of the bouncer recognized her name, you made your way through the club and to the VIP section. Noticing you first, Karina excitedly jumped up and yelled out your name. Hearing your named called you looked around and found Karina doing small little jumps up and down. Seeing that it was Karina, you smiled at her and were giving her a polite nod when you noticed exactly what she was wearing. She had a tiny silver tank top that showed off her midriff and looked like it was holding on for bare life trying to keep her tits contained and a matching skirt that barely covered ass. Her little jumps didn't help your imagination with how it caused her top ato be strained even more. Waving you in, you sat in the empty spot next to Karina and said hi to her three friends. "Hi I'm Y/N. I work with Karina". "Hi, I'm Giselle" the one with the pink her replied. "Hi, I'm NingNing". the one with the jet black hair replied. "And I'm Minjeong but you can call me Winter and I'm Karina's best friend" the blonde one replied. "It's nice to meet you all. I've heard some stories about each of you but its nice to put faces to the names" you responded. "Awesome, now that you all have met. Lets do shots" Karina exclaimed.

4 shots later, which was a lot for you since you were a lightweight, you were buzzed and idly chatting with Winter while the other 3 danced. "You know, I like you. I'm happy that you're the one Jimin-ie has a crush on" Winter drunkingly slurred. Since you were a bit drunk, you weren't sure you heard her right. "Oh shit, I wasn't supposed to say that. Ohhhh noooo, Unnie is gonna be so mad. Don't tell Jimin-ie I told you kay?" She asked. "Huh" you confused you replied. "Exactly" Winter replied. 10 seconds later, you see Karina stumbling back to the table. "Done with dancing?" you asked. "For now yes, Y/N I need your help." she replied. "What's up" you asked. "There is this weird guy who keeps staring at me on the dance floor. I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend". "Uh, I mean sure, but what do you want me to do". "Just come with me and follow my lead" Karina replied while grabbing your hand and dragging you onto the dance floor. Placing your hands on her waist, Karina turned around and started grinding on you in the middle of the dance floor. Confused and not sure how to act, you tried to ask her about where the weird guy was; but instead of replying, Karina forced you to pull her closer and started to move your hands up and down her exposed sides and on her abs. Feeling yourself harden against her ass, you hoped she didn't notice and it seemed in like she didn't notice anything. Instead, each time you felt your hard on brush against her ass, she backed her ass into you more while making sure you held on tight to her. After a few songs of grinding, Karina spun around and whispered into your ear "I still see him staring at me and now us. Time for the next step." Confused you looked at her and just saw her give you a smirk. Seconds later, your senses were overwhelmed by the feeling of Karina's lips on yours. Losing focus, you melt into the kiss. Feeling your resolve waver, Karina deepened the kiss and moved your hands from her waist to her ass. Falling into your drunk and lust filled desires, you start to grope Karina's ass while she subtly to thrust her clothed cunt against your dick. Needing to resupply on oxygen, you two break apart. Catching your breath, you look at Karina confused. "Don't think, just follow my lead and feel" Karina softly asked you. Seeing you nod in confirmation, Karina grabbed your hands again and led you back to the booth that Winter, Giselle, and NingNing were once again sitting at.

You two sat down and Karina snuggled into your shoulder before ordering more shots. Acting like they didn't notice, her friends started chatting to you and Karina like everything was normal. After another 3 shots and another 30 minutes of hanging out, Karina said she was thinking about heading out and asked if you could walk her home. Being the gentlemen that you were, you agreed to. After saying your goodbyes, you two headed out of the club and to Karina's apartment. While leaving the club, Karina grabbed her hand and kept holding it the entire way home. Not wanting to fuck whatever this was up, you just continued to follow her lead (although there wasn't much of an inner conflict as buzzed you was very prone to being led by others). Eventually you arrived at her apartment, after unlocking her door while still holding your hand, you were expecting her to let go, say goodbye, and you would be on your way home. Instead, after unlocking the door, she pulled you inside just like how she pulled you onto the dance floor and guided you from the club to her apartment. Closing the door, you turn and are met by her lips once again.

Aggressively pulling you into her bedroom and falling onto her bed while still making out. You eventually break free of her lips and look down at her messy hair, smudged makeup, and swollen lips. Your eyes then drift a little further and you find yourself staring at the amble amount of cleavage that the tiny excuse of a top she has on gives you sight of. Seeing you stare, she smirked and said "you want to see my tits dont you?". Unable to talk, you just nod your head. Seeing you nod, Karina slowly takes off her top and reaches around slowly to unhook her bra. With her top off and your hands unhooking her bra, you anxiously await the reveal of her glorious tits. Hearing the click of the release, you get ready to see her tits to be out in the open only for the bra to fall slightly before being stopped. Getting blue balled from the sight you were anxiously waiting for, you give off a sad groan. Hearing this, Karin's smirk grows bigger and she says "If you want to see my tits and to fuck me, you have to answer 1 questions truthfully. Why haven't you made a move on me?". Even while drunk, this question still gave you pause. Taking a second to build up the courage, you respond "A few reasons: 1) I don't want to mess up our friendship 2) I don't want to make cause our work relationship to become weird. 3) You're you and I'm me. Even if I did ask you out, you would almost 100% say no because your extroverted, fun, and great at developing relationships with people and I am introverted, awkward, and bad at all the small little things that make people like someone and 4) Because of that, I put you in a box after initially meeting you where I can never develop feelings because I know there will never be a chance of us being together so I rather just only ever think of you as a friend. Hearing this, you see Karina develop a slight scowl before saying "Well you're an idiot because I do like you and I thought you were cute when we first met and began to fall for you." "Wait Really?" "Yes and now that I have heard your reasons, I'm a bit fucking angry so here is what is going to happen. I am going to let my bra fall. You are going to tear off my skirt and panties. Then we are going to fucking like bunnies until we pass out and then tomorrow we are going to have some morning sex, shower, then go to brunch as a couple then a movie and finally going to come back here where you are going to fuck me into oblivion again. Okay?"

Once again, unable to form a sentence, you just nod. Seeing that, Karina lets her bra drop and you instantly assault her tits with your mouth. Swapping from tit to tit, you suck and massage her boobs until she is a moaning mess. After letting you make out with her tits for a while, Karina eventually tore you off her tits and reminded you what else you needed to take care of. You slowly peeled her skirt of her and were met by the a tiny black thong that barely covered her cunt. Sliding that off of her as well, you finally come face to face with her shaven pussy. You dive right in and start feasting on her like a starved man until your face is covered in her sweet nectar. Feeling her orgasm approaching, Karina pulls your face back up to eye level before pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. After making out and humping each other a bit, Karina pulls her lips away from you. "It's time for the main even" Karina whispered into your ear. You then move yourself over her entrance before looking at her to confirm that this is what she wants. Meeting your eyes and giving you a head, you capture her lips with your own before burying yourself in her cunt. It took everything in your power to not cum right from entering her. Giving her a few seconds to adjust to you, you start to pound into her without abandon. Feeling your both of your orgasms approaching you try to pull out of her before it's too late, sensing this Karina locks her legs behind your back and pulls you even deeper in her pussy saying "Don't you fucking dare pull out. This cock is mine and I want it filling me with load after load of your cum." The combination of her dirty talk and you being buried inside of the tightest cunt you think known to man, you start to fill her with your Cum. The feeling of your cum filling her pushes Karina to orgasm as well. With your cock acting as a plug, your combined cum fills Karina's womb so much that some starts to overflow and seeps out of her cunt and past your cock and onto her bed. Exhausted you two collapse and start to pass out; but not before you are able to flip over so your on your back and Karina is laying on your chest. You two then are knocked into sleep with your cock still acting as a plug keeping your combined loads locked in Karina's womb and your cock sheathed in the warmth of her cunt.

[littlemissshifter]

There is no 'imagination'.

Someone needs to tell you this but everyone is too busy struggling between the two so I'll do it. Reality is the only thing that exists. It just exists differently in different planes.

In the 4D we call it Imagination but honestly it's not really something we're 'imagining', it's reality somewhere out there. IT IS reality in your head as well even if you don't believe it.

When you 'imagine' something you're not making it up. Creation is already finished. You're choosing a particular reality. A particular thought. A particular outcome. Because everything has already happened. Think of your mind as a dress up game. There are cloth options (thoughts/realities) in different clothing sections (related to the thing you want). You are combining clothes from those sections to get your desired outfit (desire/outcome).

Imagination is what reality is called in the 4D plane. Imagination is a different name for reality. They are the same thing with different names. This is why we can also say that reality is just an imagination or 'everything is in the mind'. Everything was one all along.

This is very different than saying reality mirrors/reflects imagination. Yes imagination exists sure blah blah blah but it's just a different name for reality. It's something that you haven't physically experienced yet. It's not actually in your head in a way that it's not real. Everything in your head is a very real reality in the multiverse. A very real outcome. Just not yours right now in the present (unless you choose it).

I don't think you get it. Let me explain again. Imagination does not exist in a way you think. Your every single thought, the images in your head, your 'fake' scenarios, your 'fake' arguments, literally anything you can think of or feel inside your head is real. Maybe not here maybe not right now. But it is real in a reality 'out there' which is basically just inside your mind, because the mind is the multiverse.

You are choosing the scenario, the thought, the image from infinite realities out there (in the mind) with infinite possibilities. Like you choose a scenario to happen in your dr except here it has already happened. Everything has already happened. That is you connecting yourself to different realities in the multiverse. The mind is connected to every reality that is existing because it exists inside the mind. That's why it's said that you are the universe. Because YOU ARE. Continuosly shifting, changing, choosing from the mind. You are existence.

Before anyone says something dumb like imagination/4D plane is the true reality I'll explain that every plane is a true reality abiding by their own unique set of rules. There is no true reality to you in your perspective except what YOU decide to BE. You exist in every plane. Your existence in every plane abides by it's rules. Unless you decide to change the rules of your existence.

You can be a 1D object. A line.

You can be a 2D object. A map (if you wanna add spice to it then a talking map.)

You can be a 3D object. A ball. (You already are a 3D being.)

You can be a 4D object. A hypercube.

And so much more. Everything is energy. You're probably a rock in a different reality/universe. Maybe a line in a world of paper. Or a talking ball. Or just a ray of light. Come on don't loose focus now. You're the entire universe what else did you expect?

We strayed a little from the topic here but like I was saying the mind is like a place where every single reality has a tea party. What you don't experience physically doesn't mean it didn't happen. In the mind reality is faster. Because everything is happening right now. The physical plane has a slow moving energy so we can 'experience' our life. Like I said everything happens a little different in different planes.

Everything is a reality (or different universes). It's like reality (you) in a reality (physical plane) which you can mould to your will because you are the reason why it (reality) exists. You are existence itself. Pure awareness experiencing the experience that already exists in you. Your mind. The void.

There is no innerman or outerman you're literally both. One's literally a different name for the other and vice versa. Stop looking for the middle ground when you are the middle ground. You are reason they even exist. Why? because only you exist. Everything that exists is the same thing which came from you with different forms, different names, different energetic pattern, different rules for each of them. That's why everything is connected.

Different realities are creating a reality you're currently living. Your own reality is a mix of many combined together moment after moment so you can experience things in the physical plane.

The reason imagination was even popularised as something that creates reality is because people thought that to experience something we have to 'imagine' it first. But they're wrong. They were doing the right things but intercepting it wrong. We don't imagine anything. We live it the moment we even think about it. Everyone is understanding it now. Imagination is not reality. Nothing was ever imagination in the first place. Everything inside your head was always real.

Reality is fluid. Human beings are fluid. They are both free flowing energies. We pass through different realities the same way different realities pass through us at every moment. Remember folks, shifting is your nature.

Everything is and will always be a reality existing in the multiverse.

Let me decode some popular quotes for you to understand.

- The universe is mental.

Meaning: Everything exists is in the mind because every reality exists where it was created by pure awareness, hence the mind. Realities are expanded outwards through us, chosen from pure awareness experienced through the heart (the knowing/feelings) which exists in your physical body. Which further exists in the mind because it was also created by pure awareness.

Confusing? Well because pure awareness, the mind, realities and us are the same thing expressed in different ways. Like I said everything is connected.

- As within, so without.

Meaning: This one is quite obvious. What we see on the outside of us is also inside of us. I explained all that in this post and my reality is YOU post already.

There is no imagination. Reality has always been the only truth.

I've been working on this post for 2 days hope y'all understood atleast a little. I'm super tired can't wait to just pass out right now. Ignore any typos please and feel free to ask any questions!

[zstartrixxx]

𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 '𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐔, 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍'.

ʳᵉᵐᵐᶦᶜᵏ ˣ ᵛᵃᵐᵖꜝʷᶦᶠᵉ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: If being loved by a vampire means carrying eternity within you, what you have with Remmick is incarnate: his poison lives in your flesh, you are blood of his blood, a creature of his making. And because you are a part of him—a fragment that broke free and passed into you, sometimes even a sliver of his ancient soul trapped inside that dead body—everything you feel, he feels, and vice versa. Fleeing the imminent extinction of these lands, you and Remmick seek refuge in each other once more, bound together. Eternally, for he would never let you sever this tie—unless he were dead. Past and future memories knot inside you. Here, now—all blood and teeth—you fuse with your maker, your sacrament, your eternal groom. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: this particular piece was a deeply interesting and special writing experience for me: not only did i get to explore the hivemind concept, but i also played more freely with language and the essence of remmick as a character. so let me make one thing clear: it’s never my intention to distort the film’s canonical portrayal, but rather—through poetic license combined with the possibilities of fanfiction’s universe, PLUS the way i’ve absorbed and interpreted the character—my version of remmick (at least in my fics) might not be as literal as the original script. that said: here we have this scenario with a wife, which i initially imagine takes place before the film’s events, but the specifics of when, how, and where she was transformed are entirely up to your interpretation (before his arrival in the us in 1911? somewhere between the early or late middle ages? the modern era? europe, asia, or africa... let your imagination run wild ;) i’ve also paraphrased/incorporated certain very specific lines and moments from the film. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +16 CONTENT. i think there's a lot of angst here and reader melancholy, so keep that in mind. use of some words in gaelic, i had to resort to good old google, if there is something wrong please tell me. remmik here it's (super) protective, almost toxic; hivemind concept explored, lots of internal dialogue, some gore (explicit description of blood and bruises), vampirism (blood consummation), and a slight sexual innuendo thrown in. 𝐖𝐂: 6k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖬𝖨𝖢𝖪 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"turn to me, and love me like you lacerate; just hold me down like i don’t need air." (air, shedfromthebody)

Your skin burned like Hell itself, which was kind of funny to think about: back when you were human, you loved spending your days under the hot sun, lying on the grass in the late afternoon and gazing up at the cloudless sky, where strange shapes would form just for you. You wasted away the days at the lake, naked, floating between water and sunlight, between cold and heat, simply existing.

Now, all you could feel was the searing pain ripping through your skin, sizzling in your ears like meat in a frying pan. Weak, you tried to run, but your legs wouldn’t obey, and your feet tangled with every step across the dry land, scattered with dead corn leaves. The rustle of the leaves irritated you, but what truly drove you mad were the screams echoing from behind, drowning out any coherent thought, merging with the heavy air that entered your lungs that no longer breathed. And that felt like a death sentence: not only the sun was paralyzing you, but also the distorted sounds that confused you, like a wounded animal, utterly disoriented.

You stopped in the middle of the cornfield, glancing around, trying to stay grounded, trying to reconnect the thread of thought between the two of you, searching through the suffocating haze for Remmick’s voice, calling him with panic and urgency, desperate for him to come save you. You looked at your shoulders: raw, scorched, smelling the acrid scent of burnt flesh rising from your own body. You shut your eyes, trying to find him, your voice lethargic: “Remmick… Remmick.”

Your vision began to darken, your body no longer felt like your own—it felt like it was floating, detaching, as if your soul—or what was left of it—was slipping out of you. Just like you’d felt a piece of yourself dying the last time you glimpsed sunlight through your human eyes, maybe ceasing to exist in that land would feel the same. All you had to do was slowly close your eyes, embrace the darkness once again, surrender to the searing fire that would extinguish you—and that would be it. You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the mighty sun before you: scorching, like your mother’s hugs, your grandmother’s kisses. Like Remmick’s grip when you were still human. Your entire body burned, tiny flames piercing through you, tears of blood trickling from your eyes. How long had it been since you felt even remotely human? All you had to do was give in, speak the one name that echoed in your mind, etched into your blood.

Remmick.

In poison and blood, within you. He was you and you were him. Remmick.

‘—Remmick, if you can hear me one last time, know that I—’

“Got you!” his voice came, rough and wounded, behind you. Firm hands grabbed you by the waist, your body partially covered by another, pressed against Remmick’s rigid frame. He whispered against your ear: “You’re safe, mo chroí (mu khree / my heart). Come with me.” He pulled you even tighter against his scorched body, shielding you like a protective shell, guiding you with quick steps into the heart of the cornfield. In the distance, the furious screams of some villagers echoed behind you. But despite the world turning into hell around you and everything seeming like the end, you felt safe in his arms.

Remmick looked back, staggering, using his sharp senses to search for any possible escape for the two of you. His left eye was swollen from the punch he took, combined with the sun’s deadly effect, and even with limited vision, he managed to find a way out from the horde chasing you.

You couldn’t stay upright. The sun’s weakness made it feel like your bones were nothing but dust beneath your scorched flesh. Tears of blood stung your eyes and soul, or whatever was trapped inside that immortal body, sharing a collective mind with Remmick and so many others before you. It longed desperately to escape this life and finally rest. But Remmick wouldn’t let that happen—oh no, let the pagan gods or the Christian God himself punish him with the harshest tortures if he did. You could feel that wrathful pain mixed with ancient rage flowing from him, harshly projected in flames and poisonous blood from him to you, as he nearly threw himself on top of you like a (scorched) leather jacket just to protect you. Madness. The voices grew longer, more indistinct, the hateful chorus fading, as Remmick, with his one good eye, searched for shelter.

Then, as if by magic, fate, or just the luck of some devil who still wanted to see you both wander through God's vast lands, there it was—a house beyond the edge of the cornfield. The perfect shelter. ‘Living food, darkness... —Remmick, don’t get your hopes up.—’ you thought back, replying to your creator’s voice with a sarcasm that didn’t quite match the moment. As always, he laughed—loudly, though the laugh came with dry, desperate gasps. He laughed. Even all fucked up, more than you, sizzling in pain and crying in despair to stay alive, he still found humor in his own misery.

“You’re getting real cheeky, huh, my little thing?”

“You’re the one who taught me to be like this, Remmy,” you managed to say, despite the bitter taste of blood rising in your throat—extremely unpleasant when it was your own blood boiling inside you. Remmick glanced over his shoulder, noticing for now that you were safe. He looked forward again, at what seemed like a mirage of a desolate wooden shack, dark, with the door and windows shut. It looked uninhabited to you. ‘—Love, don’t be so hopeless. Of course, there’ll be someone in there to be dinner. Or rather, lunch, given the time.—’ his voice cut through again, tugging you sideways, his hot and battered hand grabbing your forearm, where deep layers of your dermis were starting to show, making you let out a faint whimper. Remmick gave you an almost hurt look, immediately releasing his grip.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“It’s fine. What’s a squeeze compared to almost melting under the sun, right?”

“You’re something else...” he muttered in disbelief, though his voice was laced with distress and anguish—a soft hint of the pain he was enduring. —If he died, you’d go with him by extension, in the worst possible way.— That was what was running through his disturbed mind, making you wonder whether you’d ever have a happy ending under those conditions. Remmick quickened his pace, and you followed beside him, feeling like the path to the house was more of a road to Hell than a material refuge. You were starting to believe it was a mirage and the Devil was waiting on the other side to welcome you both into his lap. ‘—Pathetic, darling. Pathetic.—’ ‘—Just like you, sweetheart.—’

Remmick ignored your retort, dragging himself up the steps, changing his expression as he began to shout for help. A wounded animal, fatally injured, a hoarse rasp clawing out of his throat, begging for help, pounding on the door with force. The sun’s haze was poisoning him—and therefore you—draining what little strength was left, forcing your bodies to absorb the foul smell of rotting flesh; even if your lungs didn’t breathe, they still had the cursed privilege of smelling. And even as supernatural beings, defying all human logic, you were still condemned to be inside those fragile bodies, exhaling the scent of flesh, blood, bone, thick saliva, venom, and a unique perfume your walking corpses carried. Not decay, but something more… floral? And that specific scent, like night-blooming jasmine in a graveyard or a dried rose in your garden, grew stronger as the mortal flesh imprisoning your immortal soul deteriorated.

Remmick kept pounding on the door and maybe—just maybe—with a little more effort, he’d become the first vampire to break the universal law by forcing his way in without being invited. He looked at you, distressed, his expression one of real pain. You pulled away from him, walking to a window layered in thick dust, wiping it with your palm. The cold, gritty surface scratched your sensitive skin even more. You peered inside and confirmed: ‘—There’s no one. It’s empty.—’ Remmick looked at you, almost dumbfounded, hearing your inner voice. He turned to the door, where simply twisting the doorknob opened it. The air inside was cold and stagnant, dust and mold, old wood and moth-eaten fabric, with an unwelcoming scent—but still, it carried that unmistakable smell of an uninhabited place. No human warmth or familiar energy.

Remmick was so relieved he dropped to his knees, like a devout soul who, tired of resisting sin, finally accepts divine punishment in good faith—arms open, body surrendering as he let himself fall into the house. You stood beside him, watching with a mixture of mercy for the poor wretch who was suffering, and with that sharp pain—hating, in a way, to share with him the memory and the collective sense of it all, because his pain was also yours.

Remmick crawled inside. You followed him, on your feet—weak, but standing. You looked one last time outside, toward the distance beyond the cornfield, where, by some divine mercy, those who had hunted you seemed to have gone. Just above, the burning afternoon sun pulsed like a condemning god, seated upon his sky-blue throne, mercilessly casting down his punishments upon you, poor wicked creatures.

You shut the door with a long groan, echoing the moan of the vampire now lying delicately at your feet—a strange sound between a whimper and the whine of a frightened dog. His hands were stretched above his head, face pressed to the floor, writhing from side to side, somewhere between fragile and furious at being forced into such a wretched state.

Through your mind, you could feel him tearing:

‘—These monsters will pay. As soon as the sun sets, I’ll hunt them one by one, haunt them in their homes, show them my wrath and my cruelty. Blood, blood… blood.—’

Your mind was now lapsing into a time far older than you, to a moment when Remmick’s humanity had been broken by the vampire’s curse—when the strangers came and took his land, his name, his faith. His prayers were converted, and all he saw before him were silver crosses and plaster Jesuses while he was taught the Lord’s Prayer. All of it disturbed you deeply. He clung so tightly to his roots that it made you feel everything: the fire of the scorched land, the spilled blood, the faithful ones he later killed one by one, the lands devastated by plague and by gold.

You closed your eyes, trying to impose your memories over his—to interrupt the bond that was bigger than either of you. You tried to think of blooming gardens bathed in sunlight, lazy afternoons of picnics and reading under trees, nights of endless dancing and joy.

Remmick stopped thrashing. His shoulders stilled, and his whimpers faded as he was slowly filled with his own memories, gradually regaining his strength and sobriety. He propped himself up on his arms—once feeble and lethargic, with bones eroded and flesh still scorched by burns—then raised himself and looked at you, a crooked smile forming on his lips:

“You’re always taking care of me, a aingeal.” (ah ang-yal | my angel).

“I was just trying to make you stop with those nightmares disguised as memories. I’m aching all over.” Your voice was somewhat harsh, despite your weakness, as you leaned your body against the wall, between the door and the window, where dust managed to dimly filter the sunlight. You were safe from the condemnation of the light.

Remmick rested his head. A look of sadness, lit by the darkness in his pupils, stirred something in your heart that no longer beat.

“I can’t let go of who I once was… even after all these years, there are pains that scar between our flesh and our soul, binding us to them forever…”

“I know. I know—” you smiled, somewhere between honesty and levity, trying to stay upright, feeling your body pulse and bleed, crying for healing. Remmick was in considerably better shape than you, even in his sorry state—his cotton shirt filthy with mud and dust, torn and bloodied from burned flesh; his pants tattered, shoes worn through, one bruised eye set into cadaverous skin with a polished hunger. He was enduring. The dark gifts made him far stronger than you. “—I’m just not in the best condition to relive those pains with you, not when mine are a little too real right now.”

Remmick nodded, drinking in your words, staring at you with glowing, coppery-red eyes—dim yet luminous—finally seeing your pain. His face twisted with worry and a flicker of anger as he staggered closer:

“Mo ghrá geal” (muh grah gyahl | my bright love), “they really hurt you, didn’t they…”

Then, Remmick recalled the grim scene when one of the townsfolk had found your hiding place—a house just as old and decrepit as the one you now sheltered in. The two of you were lying there together, side by side, entwined like tragic lovers, waiting for death—and maybe that had been part of the attraction, for just a few more seconds in that eternal rest, and you would have had a truly tragic end. Remmick remembered the moment the light from a blocked-out window was smashed through and the burn that followed. He opened his eyes instantly. You were still locked in your unshakable sleep when they grabbed you by the arms. He had fought men wielding torches and harvest tools. Then you saw it through his eyes: your body being pulled away—a blur. And you felt his fear and desolation as he fought off the frantic villagers to try and save you.

Then the man’s voice rang out again, clear and strong, a wounded hand touching your face with surprising gentleness:

“We almost didn’t make it out of there… If it had been closer to sunset, not a single one of those bastards would’ve made it—”

“Remmick.” His name traced your lips and tongue, thorny like the man himself. “They’re not to blame for acting the way they do—just like we, flawed murderous animals, once acted. They too have the right to want to destroy us. Wasn’t it you who taught me that human truth? That’s how we lived before we perished. That’s how we’ll go on existing, as long as we do.”

“Existing.” He clicked his tongue, and a sudden shadow passed through his eyes. For a second, his mind grew too clouded for you to read, to hear—but the visceral rage boiling in his venomous blood, oh, that you felt, bitter as it burned your dry throat. Dryness began to crack your lips. It weakened your warm body even more and made you feel the dark delusions start to crawl through the corners of your mind; that’s what happened when you weren’t fed—no matter how exceptional your self-control was, and even if you could resist without the human liquor for days, when you were in that state of true death, your body nearly collapsed.

Remmick dragged his pitiful, suffering gaze across your face. Around your minds, words in ancient Gaelic spun like ancestral chants—he was thinking about something beyond you.

His hand slid up to your face, grabbing your hair from behind, gripping it as he gently pulled it back, exposing the soft, burned, but still velvety skin of your neck. The cradle of your sacred blood—from where he had once drawn your human warmth into himself and given you, in return, the venom that turned you into him. And even though your heart no longer beat as before, when he first heard it, and your blood wasn’t warm enough to quench his thirst anymore, it was the vampire’s opium.

Remmick always thought of that comparison when he grazed his fangs lightly against your skin before penetrating it to anesthetize himself in your ecstasy:

‘—Your blood was sweet and warm when your heart throbbed between your ribs. But now, with my lymph and the poison of my being, it tastes better—bittersweet, undead. Our blood.—’

It made you moan and whimper.

Your hands pressed against his chest, palms open, trying to push him away from you:

“Remmy, are you sure about this?” you looked at him uncertainly, trying to find in him the assurance for the act.

Remmick didn’t answer you with words—not the kind spoken aloud:

“As weak as we are, there’s no one here, my love. Either we drink from each other, or we die like strays in this godforsaken place. Feed on my blood before you cease to exist…”

It wasn’t a request anymore by the time he was already pulling you closer to expose your neck, pressing his rough lips and sharp teeth against you, piercing the skin like needles.

Remmick held onto this belief that he didn’t need to ask much of you, because as you were one mind, everything he wanted was what you desired too.

Your eyes closed as you felt your flesh torn by his fangs—hard against your skin, like a stiff piece of leather being pierced by a sharp knife—until it reached where the blood, crawling weakly through your body, began to emerge in thick sobs, filling his mouth with your syrupy, bloody liquor. You were consumed by the burning and the sensation of ecstasy the act gave you, your body floating in the hands of the man who groaned with primal pleasure at being nourished by your life source.

Remmick also held the belief that since you carried his seed—that divine-profane gift of eternal life within your blood—through the consummation of acts and the laws of an ancient soul, you were part of a whole that pulsed with life. His life, yours, and those who would come after you both, all connected through that cursed and blood-stained lineage.

You squirmed restlessly in his hands. His claws were already out, tangled in your hair, scratching your waist as he held you as close as possible, bound to his pleading kiss.

Remmick whispered to you in thought:

“Mine, mine, mo mhianta (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), my life, my blood…”

—like a prayer, a rosary he recited bead by bead, his body burning as he inevitably felt his venom enter you. 

“Remmick—” your voice was pure wine of death, your nose the iron scent of flesh, your mind a stupor of souls that preceded you, strange voices you had learned empirically, faintly recalling the vampire Remmick who crushed you between teeth and acid; “—I think that’s enough, my love.”

Remmick let out an exasperated groan that vibrated against your mark, sucked a final portion of blood vigorously, licked the flesh slowly, then rose, revealing his face intact and free of wounds, his chin smeared with your crimson iron honey, eyes shimmering like copper pearls between iron and bloodlust. He smiled at you—there was heavy panting from paused lungs, a fresh breath, an almost spiritual renewal of his being.

“You are so delicious, blood of my blood, that it’s impossible not to want to drain your last blessed drop.”

He laughed—cursed and amused—raising his wrist to his own lips, biting it as if biting a pomegranate that exploded between his teeth, flesh and juice dripping at the corners of his mouth already stained with your blood; he extended his open wrist to you like bread to the dying, an offering to his god, waiting with generous eyes burning in the insane passion of his soul for yours.

His mouth salivated with the yearning to take it for himself, to drink from that wine that intoxicated you once and every time you drank it—in nights of lust where you feasted on the delights of the flesh, it intoxicated you.

There were sparks in your chest that burned from Remmick’s venom in your body, making you remember when he took you for himself, forever; Remmick appeared like a chorus behind you, chasing you through the darkness of forests and ancient buildings, ruins of nights wandering without meaning, inviting you to let him enter you repeatedly, giving him what he wanted, feeding the beast with your youthful joy, the beating heart—that which he had lost centuries ago, perhaps millennia. Life.

And once, proving that his love for blood and pain was greater than all lust or pleasure given to you, he offered you his ultimate love: he penetrated you with teeth and curses, buried memories imposed on you, suffocating you, watching you die before him, rot like a flower once beautiful and vibrant, now dry and hardened. Watching you rise with bright eyes and his bestial thirst, laughing and dancing with him, celebrating your new self. Or was it a piece of him, while you were trapped between so many layers of the one who created you?

And yet there you were, looking at him with veneration and anguish, taking his wrist with your misshapen fingers, claws that extended in excessive knots, placing your mouth against the torn hole that poured that offering of his flesh.

Oh, Remmick had your flavor too.

Sweet death he exhaled, primal sex and poisoned wine.

Feeding you slowly, bringing through that damned mortal sap your salvation.

You felt yourself revive, whining softly against his wrist, looking with complicity as Remmick watched you with the pleasure of pleasures on his face: parted lips, arched brows, eyes sparkling with desire and ardor. You smiled back, returning that passion, a hiss escaping from his mouth, pleasure bending between the memories shared through blood. His mouth detached from the bite’s embrace, a dull snap of flesh pulling away, the vampire’s blood dripping in sticky, thick drops like a whip on the wooden floor, a small pool of that iron blood separating you both.

He tilted his head back, satisfied, with a jubilation of pearl-ruby teeth, saying full of himself:

“Now we’re better!” He laughed between his teeth, while you felt his blood slide through you, healing the stigmata on your skin, slowly and pleasurably renewing you—him crawling between your bones and flesh, burrowing deeper into you as he pierced you with those eyes.

Remmick drew closer, your hands returned to normal, fingers caressing your now-soft skin, leaning down to kiss your lips with the sweetness of his honey staining them crimson, whispering through your mind:

‘—All we need now is rest, and once night falls, we can celebrate this moment together.—’

Eternal promises. As always, typical of him.

You welcomed him with open lips, tongue caressing his, you and he merging—blood and saliva, venom and the growls from the depths of your thirsty throats, your hands tangling into each other, desperate grips of bodies that loved each other through finite eternity.

…

In your dreams — or in that cathartic state of complete darkness of rest — all you had in your mind were the outlines of dreams of humans who had wandered through the eternities beside Remmick. You were a peasant in Irish lands, an English priest with golden teeth, a mathematician in Arabia, a physician from Prussian soil, a single mother prostituting herself in the streets of Whitechapel; everything and everyone. You were a pagan elder turned faithful parish priest. A hopeful young woman turned the vilest of executioners. Everything and everyone — and him.

Him.

Emerging in red, blue, purple, and black, from the shadows, blood dripping from his chin, stealing souls and stories like a devoted collector, a historian digging through pages and pages for what might fill his own gaps. Remmick pulled you by the hand like a savior — or a beast. That blurred in the shadows and forms, as he brought you into the light.

The light of consciousness, of being awake, of knowing night had finally fallen and you could once again wander among humans.

You opened your eyes with a sharp blink, seeing through a timid penumbra lit by a single candle — who knows where the hell Remmick had found it — exhaling, while he gently caressed your face, the tip of his finger tapping lightly against your nose, a serenity on his face that, under the warm golden light, almost seemed human. You smiled, rubbed your eyes, and let out a vocal exhale — a human habit you’d kept not to feel so detached from your nature — wetted your lips, surprised by the nudity of the man sitting at your side on that old bed, hard mattress, rickety frame that had served perfectly for your rest.

At the window, beyond the drawn curtain, a few wooden planks nailed to keep sunlight out were now opened, allowing the pale-silver glow of a Full Moon to shine on you. Between the bluish-gray mingling with the candle’s yellow-red, his slender and muscular body — shaped by the years when he was just a man of the land, using his bare strength — stood naturally before you.

His face, smiling at you tenderly, was damp, drops of water clinging to his nose, ears, and chin. A scent of dried flowers and soap wafted from his pale skin. His voice was soft:

“Come with me, a aingeal,” (ah ang-yal | my angel), “let’s take a bath to wash off this infernal day.”

Laughter spilled from both your mouths — irony mixed with ease — as his hand gently pulled you up, guiding you barefoot across the wooden floor, echoing down a narrow hallway toward what must have been the bathroom. Remmick nodded toward the wooden bathtub. Beside it, atop a chair, several candles were stuck upright with their own melted wax, casting a flickering light beside the moonlight that poured silver through the window.

“I cleaned it a bit before using, fetched some water from the well, and luckily found some flowers and a dried-up bar of soap lying around. Seems like the people who lived here left in a hurry — there’s still canned food and clothes in some closets. Let me help you!”

He placed the candle on the chair and undressed you, slipping off your dress and tossing it aside, smiling at your nudity, placing his hands at your waist as if admiring a statue sculpted by his own hands — a creation of his creation.

“Sit down. I’ll bathe you...” he said in a velvet tone, guiding your body into the cold water, which wrapped around your skin as he began to rub it with water, fragrant flower petals, and diluted soap.

And there you sat, still, watching him care for you — though you knew well what he was thinking.

‘—The hunt, the revenge against those who inflicted pain on us and—’

“Remmy…”

Your hand found his, pulling him from the depths of his thoughts, gripping the hand that tended to you, “...stop, at least for now. Just think of something else.”

“What else could I possibly think about?”

“In other things, I don’t know, think about music, about dance, about me...”

“I don’t need to think about those things because they’re already in me, darling. It’s almost a pleonasm, as that old professor we ate once said, remember?”

“The one we ate? What an absurd thing to say!”

“Sweetheart, seriously?” Remmick tilted his head to the side, a mischievous little smile playing on his lips. He stopped rubbing the dried blood off his neck to look at you with cynicism. “You, of all people, who loves sinking your teeth into those juicy necks that show up for us!? You, blood of my blood, my own creation, poison of my poison who...” he paused, narrowing his eyes, his voice coming out in a thin whisper, “loves sinking those pretty little teeth of yours into the most unusual places!?”

A daring finger touched your lips, slipping between them, lightly scraping your canine with its nail. You stared at him calmly, studying him in that unashamed nakedness, amused by you. Rolling your eyes, you pushed his hand away from your mouth.

“Pathetic. That’s what you are sometimes.”

“I love you too, my darlin’.” He chuckled through his teeth, returning to wiping the bloodstain from his skin, focusing on the act. Even in that silence made of voices loudly spoken, your minds were speaking through images, memories flowing back and forth in a stream of consciousness, undulating like the water that surrounded your body, tracing that eternal conversation you both had. Deep down you knew he wanted to go out hunting, to get drunk on fresh human blood, and then return to this shelter, take you in his arms and possess you in the most animalistic way possible. But on your end, you still felt his venom lingering through your body, the blood that had served as both nourishment and healing still casting a haze over your senses. Ancient blood from someone who had lived so long it carried stigmas. Strong, dense, defiled, concentrated.

Remmick finished scrubbing you, stood up from your side, and left the room, staying outside for a few minutes, leaving you immersed in the water and the moonlight. Thinking. For a moment, your mind seemed to detach from his, floating through the corridors of your own being—you saw yourself among humans, walking barefoot, feeling that burning thirst in your throat, the bile of anger tormenting you even as your melancholy made you ethereal; sucking foreign blood, capturing life stories for yourself. Remmick reached out a hand to you—a claw—with the ghastly smile of all the dead, always whispering to you: “Mo mhianta” (muh vee-an-tah / my desire), in your mother tongue. Remmick… Remmick. The one who created you and now was you too, part of your desires, part of your life, part of your soul. Would you ever be able to break away from that guiding thread? From the one who offered you both death and life? Would you be able to disconnect and be just… you?

Remmick emerged from the darkness of the house, carrying a bundle of clothes in his hands, wearing a pair of soft-fabric pants, his torso still bare. He smiled with those secrets he could hide from you between his lips:

“No, I believe that if one day you no longer belong to me, I’ll probably be dead.”

“Reading my thoughts again?”

The question was practically rhetorical, laced with a certain bitterness you couldn’t hold back. Standing before you, the vampire handed you the clothes.

“I am them. Even when you try to escape through the corners of your thoughts, I’m there.” Remmick smiled, sharp teeth glinting, a suggestion shining in his eyes like a beast ready to kill.

“Come on, love, the night is a child crying to be fed.”

“Smartass,” you hissed through your teeth, rolling your eyes. When you rose from the bathtub, your eyes suddenly caught sight of two figures approaching in the distance. Remmick didn’t even need to be warned—he was already spying from the corner of the window, his thoughts starting to hiss like a rabid wolf growling, thirsty for blood and slaughter. He turned his face toward you, a sharp smile while his eyes tiled the blood of the defeated. His tongue was a blade between needle-sharp teeth:

“We shall have a special feast, my love!”

…

The house was dark.

Its scent was of dust and stagnant wood, dry and moldy. In the background, you could catch the smell of melted wax. No noise. When that couple stepped into the house, shotguns in hand, eyes wide with fear, all they wanted was to play heroes for the little town—hunt the monsters that had been parasitizing the area and receive applause for their brave deeds. Fueled by fear and pride, they wanted to hold in their hands the heads of those two who had earlier been hunted and, for some reason, had disappeared; and there they were, in that shack abandoned for weeks—maybe months—eyeing each other with unease.

The woman said, glancing around the first room, a lantern serving as a flashlight:

“I don’t think it was a good idea to come here at night…”

“Nonsense, woman—we’ll catch those monsters before they go messing around with anyone else,” the man shrugged, walking toward the hallway, the woman right behind him—until she heard a little noise beside her, at the open door.

The man kept walking, oblivious to his wife, heading toward the back of the house, finding a side room with its door ajar—he pushed it open the rest of the way with the barrel of the shotgun, the wooden door creaking slowly, revealing a bed.

And a woman lying on it, back turned. Naked.

A shiver ran down his spine, his breath grew heavy, heart pounding against his ribs, and beyond all that, a wicked voice called him to approach her—that nest of lust and desire. Ignoring his partner, he let curiosity and depravity take over. He lowered his weapon, step by step, now close to the woman’s body, his hand trembling as it reached toward her, while the other held the lantern swaying noisily at his side, its yellow light flickering across the sleeping body.

“Have mercy on me!”

A high-pitched scream came from deeper in the house. The man startled and turned, dropping the lantern to the floor, where it shattered and sparked into flames. He raised his weapon again, spinning around—only to find a man behind him.

Eyes glowing with an inhuman red glint.

A macabre grin stained with blood painted his chin, his neck, his bare chest.

A rustle behind him made his knees weaken with fear; a cold gust of air fed the fire now licking at the wooden floor. He looked over his shoulder and saw you awake—eyes just as luminous as the monster in front of him, thick saliva dripping from your chin.

As he tried to scream, a hand clamped over his mouth—metallic blood flooded his tongue.

A tear welled up in his eye.

The vampire’s voice in front of him rasped out, bestial and raw:

“Shhhh… Shhhh… Don’t cry now. Didn’t your mother teach you it’s wrong to mess with someone else’s woman?”

And he laughed—demonic—gripping the man’s throat, nearly choking him, as you remained behind, salivating for the living blood pulsing through his arteries. Remmick looked at you from the side, tilting his head, his voice undulating between the three of you like a serpent shaking its venom:

“Darling, your wife was delicious! I hope you taste just as good for my wife!”

The man screamed with all the air in his lungs, while Remmick offered him up like an animal for ritual slaughter—offering him to you. And you took him from behind, draining him with the ease of mortality—no pity, no hesitation.

Remmick watched you with affection and admiration, something growing inside him with the euphoric pleasure of a successful hunt. When you finished draining the man, his corpse now at your feet, he held out his hand to you.

You took it, letting him lead you out of that room to the front of the house, where the open door allowed the silvery light to touch your naked body, your face covered in scarlet—just like his. Remmick cupped your face in his hands, looking at you with his soul reflected in your eyes:

“My girl, how do you feel?”

“Perfect. Just a little… overwhelmed. I think it’s the thrill of the hunt.”

“Good—” he murmured, leaning in to capture your lips in a wet, filthy kiss—saliva and blood, soft tongue brushing pearly teeth. When he pulled away, a string of bloody spit still connected your mouths.

“—'Cause now, you’ll let me take care of you, darlin’. The way you deserve.”

You felt him penetrate you through the soul, his hands pulling you close into the kiss of the dead upon your lips, speaking to you through your minds:

‘—Let me take care of you, darling, let me take care of you, let me show you how good I can be for you…—’

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: maybe it deviated a little from the initial concept of the request (idk), but this one was by far one of the fanfics with Remmy that i enjoyed writing the most, it's side-by-side with my fanfic involving priests, religion, Christian guilt, vampirism, remmick and other little things…

[puprdou]

give me the twst hcs, I might be getting into tr but you're not escaping twst while you're with me!! idk it can be malleus, leona, riddle, the tweels, idk, anyone will do 😒😒

m finally getting to this request wifey!!!! i’ll do the characters you listed then~ seriously i have not been in a writing mood big sighs...... m getting back into writing though i think^^ m just gonna do sfw ones cus you didn’t specify if you wanted smutty hcs or just sfw ones!!

imagine malleus draconia who just loves it when you touch his horns. he never lets anyone play with them, ever touch them, but when you do it, it feels utterly heavenly. he melts in your hands when your nimble fingers stroke the ridges, thumb pressing down on his forehead scales.

imagine malleus draconia who, when you wanted to paint his nails for the first time shortly after dating, had to tell you that his nails are just naturally black thanks to his draconian genes. this, however, only fueled your desire to paint little designs on them, which he let you do, of course.

imagine malleus draconia who’ll act more like a kitten than an intimidating dragon when he’s with you. the way he nuzzles his cheek against you, nearly purring at your little pets and headpats is the most adorable thing ever.

imagine malleus draconia who’s incredibly awkward at first, never really knowing what to do or if it was okay to get close. but, after awhile of dating, he eventually got clingier. and when i say clingier, i mean he clings to you like glue 24/7.

imagine leona kingscholar who can’t sleep unless your in his arms. by this, i mean whenever your in class, he will throw you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and take you to his usual napping place in the garden so that he can sleep.

imagine leona kingscholar who gets grumpy whenever your laughing and smiling with the other boys at the school. he’ll growl at them, pouting and burying his face into your hair as his tail wrapped around your thigh, clinging to you. he’s a possessive little lion.

imagine leona kingscholar who loves it whenever you watch him train for spelldrive. he’ll make sure to show off and flex whilst training with ruggie and epel, just to hear your praise and recieve kisses afterwards for doing such a good job. does he do this on purpose only to act nonchalant afterwards? yes, yes he does.

imagine leona kingscholar who’ll buy you the prettiest clothes, and any kind of jewelry you could ever want. he especially loves buying you clothing styled from his hometown, as he personally thinks it looks beautiful of you. but, he’ll never match with you, no matter how much you beg, so it’s no worth asking.

imagine riddle rosehearts who loves when you feed her sweets made from trey. especially if the two of you are on a picnic on a no-school day, she’ll practically just wait as she sits so cutely on a picnic blanket, legs tucked under her for you to feed her.

imagine riddle rosehearts who sparkles so brightly whenever youre with her. it’s like she forgot all of her trauma, her entire past, whenever she looks into your eyes, shining with nothing but love for her. she feels safe when she’s with you.

imagine riddle rosehearts who always has to adjust your bow/tie before classes begin, and tidy up your uniform. sure, you had woken up late and were in a rush, but she forbid you to go to class looking like such a mess.

imagine riddle rosehearts who was unsure about recieving physical affection at first, since she had so little of it when she was young. she usually stiffened at the beginning of your reationship with physical affection, and she was quite stubborn in admitting she loves you.. but, deep down, she truly did, more than anything.

imagine floyd leech who gets pouty whenever your away, being forced to work at the lounge by azul instead of just being able to cuddle and suffocatingly cling to you for every second and every hour of the day. how can he possibly be without his shrimpy for so long?

imagine floyd leech who loves biting you. he says that its his way of showing his affection and his love for you, but in reality, you know its just because he loves seeing the marks he leaves all across your neck and your shoulders from his sharp teeth.

imagine floyd leech who pulls you into the water with him whenever he’s swimming, solely to see you soaked. he thinks you look like a wet cat, and he thinks it’s just adorable.

imagine floyd leech who loves sneaking up on you to scare you. he thinks its so funny, the way you jump and yell at him for scaring you, all flushed in the face and embarrassed all from a small ’boo!’

imagine jade leech who, for some reason, always has an eye on you. is it creepy? yes. does he care? no. you could just be in class, or maybe you could be in your dorm, or maybe at your clubroom, and he’ll just randomly appear behind you out of nowhere. it scares you each and every time, yet he finds it amusing.

imagine jade leech who, and don’t tell azul, but gives you anything you wish from the lounge for completely free. you can stay there as long as you want, order anything you need, and he won’t even charge you a dime.

imagine jade leech who loves boasting to you about the mushrooms he found on his last hike up the mountains. it always surprising you how flustered he gets whenever you actually know what he’s talking about, however. his cheeks get flushed and his eyes sparkle with excitement.

imagine jade leech who often will drag you alone with him into his room, solely to cuddle you and give you kisses. behind closed doors, he’s a lot more affectionate and baby-ish than he seems behind that scarily charismatic facade he puts up.

© 2025 𝐏𝐔𝐏𝐑𝐃𝐎𝐔, all rights reserved. please do not copy, modify, steal or translate my works onto other social media platforms.

[mariasont]

Strictly Medical Reasons - S.R

it started as concern. a few check-ins, a handful of visits, just to make sure you were healing. but somewhere along the way, the line between duty and something deeper blurred, and spencer wasn't sure he wanted to redraw it.

pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: gn!reader, flirting, mention of some undescribed rescue (imagining it wasn't too much trauma because there is too much flirting going on lol), reader has stitches, pre-relationship pining, definitely blurring some unhealthy attachments, mild codependency?, injury/wound care, but this is all fluffity fluff wc: 1.9k request: here

It was supposed to be procedural.

Another life salvaged, another story neatly archived. He had done this before, so many times, in so many places, that the specifics bled together, watercolors smudged by the passage of time. Their faces softened into abstraction, names reduced to reference, tucked away for when necessity dictated. That was the nature of it, the job. He helps, he leaves. They move on, and so does he.

Except this time, he hadn’t.

It didn’t hit him in the moment. Not when the case wrapped up, not when he boarded the jet, not even when he returned to his apartment. It wasn’t until much later — until he was supposed to be focused on a book he had read three times before, until he was staring blankly at his own notes without processing a single word — that he realized he hadn’t moved on. 

He could still remember the exact shade of your shirt, the way the material had wrinkled when you crossed your arms, the way you had cracked a joke, not forced, not out of shock, but because humor was your instinct, the same way facts were his.

The logical part of him knew this was excessive. Maybe even bordering on inappropriate. Checking in once? Reasonable. Twice? Understandable. But five times? Six? He wasn’t even sure anymore. Somewhere between the habitual morning texts and the I was just in the area visits that were only technically lies, he had lost count.

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just about your well-being and started becoming something else entirely, something he didn’t want to analyze too closely. Because even if he did, the compulsion remained the same, his fingers hovering over his phone, rereading messages for subtext that probably wasn’t there, scanning your voice for micro-inflections, subtle hesitations, anything.

It was crazy. For someone who spent his life dissecting human behavior down to its most fundamental parts, Spencer found himself struggling with the most basic equation of all: what was it about you that had rewired every rational impulse he had?

“Dr. Reid?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I can take these stitches out myself?”

Spencer’s response time dragged as he attempted to process whether or not you were joking. There was no sound reason for you to even consider that,removing sutures too early could lead to dehiscence, increased risk of infection, and possible hypertrophic scarring. He ran through a dozen potential responses, none of which adequately conveyed the "are you out of your mind" sentiment currently flooding his system.

“What?”

“My stitches. They itch like crazy,” you complain. There’s a rustling sound, a shuffle of movement, then a sharp inhale, like you’ve pressed too hard. He stiffens. “I know they said to wait, but it’s been — what? A week? That’s long enough, right?”

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, it’s not long enough. And unless you’ve recently acquired a medical degree I don’t know about, you should absolutely not remove them yourself.”

A small, defeated sigh. He didn’t have to be there to know what you were doing, absently picking the edges of the injury, mind already debating whether to listen to him or your own impatience. He knew exactly how your brain worked. Possibly too well. 

“Okay, okay, doctor.” Your voice now had a teasing lilt, dissolving his irritation like sugar in tea. “I’ll keep them in. For now.”

He should have told you to go to urgent care. It was exactly the kind of advice he would give to anyone else. He even opened his mouth to say it.

But urgent care meant you’d be sitting in a cold, sterile room, and Spencer already had all the proof he needed that you did not handle pain well, so he could only imagine the absolute scene you would cause the second the doctor so much as touched you.

You had made it through an entire armed standoff without a scratch. You had been fine. Perfectly fine. And then, the second you were safe, you tripped over your own feet on the gravel, went down hard, and immediately announced, “I think I’m dying.”

(You weren’t. It was a two-stitch injury. He knew that. You knew that. But that hadn’t stopped you from squeezing his arm like you were bracing for war.)

So yeah, he wasn’t about to subject an innocent nurse to that level of unnecessary suffering.

“...I can come by and take a look.”

He hadn’t told anyone he was leaving and hadn’t bothered with excuses of half-hearted justifications. You had agreed without hesitation, voice light, pleased, and before he could even process what that meant, what it meant that you wanted him there, the call had ended and his coat was already on, his body moving as if his mind had no say in the matter at all.

Which was how he ended up here.

At your door, eyes drawn, as always, to the welcome mat. Stay Awhile. Too sentimental. A little too on-the-nose. The kind of thing he would generally dismiss with a passing thought, another surface-level attempt at warmth, mass-produced and impersonal. Except lately, it was starting to feel like a directive. 

Before he even knocked, the door swung open. He froze, fingers still half-curled into a fist, blinking as if he had somehow miscalculated the timing of reality itself.

“Hi.” You stepped back without hesitation, the invitation clear.  “Come in.”

Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, thrown by the fluidity of it all.

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess,” you added, pushing the door behind him. “I had to work online today, and, uh, turns out, when you don’t have to leave the house, basic organization becomes more of a suggestion than a rule.”

His eyes skimmed the room, cataloging the so-called mess. A blanket, half-draped over the couch, slumped like a figure in mid-collapse. The pillows sat uneven, as if they had been rearranged in restless indecision. A coffee mug, streaked with the last remnants of caffeine, stood beside an open laptop. A pair of socks had been cast aside in the corner.

Mess, you had called it. He fought the urge to tell you that, statistically, people who lived in slightly cluttered spaces tended to be more creative. Somehow, he figured you already knew that.

His gaze tracked downward, instinct eclipsing intention.

The stitches were still in place, neatly spaced, and there were no signs of infection. So far, so good. But the skin surrounding them was angry, irritation blooming in uneven splotches where your fingers had worried the flesh.

“You’ve been scratching them.”

Your eyes flickered toward your arm, then back at him, guilt tucked behind a small, lopsided smile. “Not badly.”

Spencer sighed as he set his bag down with a thump. “Sit on the counter.”

“What?”

“The lighting’s better,” he muttered, already making his way toward the kitchen. “And I’d rather not crouch on your floor to assess how much damage you’ve done.”

You hopped up without argument, legs swinging as you grinned at him. “Do I get a lollipop after this check-up?”

Spencer stepped between your legs, hands settling lightly on your knee for balance. He hadn’t really thought this through, how close he’d have to be, how your leg would brush his hip, how he would be able to smell faint traces of your shampoo. 

He exhaled a dry laugh. “I don’t know. Do you think you deserve a reward for actively making my life harder?”

“Sounds like a you problem, Dr. Reid. If you weren’t so obsessed with checking up on me, you wouldn’t even know I was doing anything questionable.”

Spencer sighed, tugging on his gloves, the latex snapping against his wrist like punctuation.

“You make an excellent point.” He pulled out the disinfectant next, carefully flipping the cap open. “An annoying one, but an excellent point nonetheless.”

Because if he didn’t check up on you, he wouldn’t even know about the irritated stitches. He also wouldn’t know that you never make it through a full cup of coffee before it gets cold, or that you always read the last page of a book first, just in case, or that you leave the bathroom light on when you get up in the middle of the night because you hate walking through the dark.

He wouldn’t know you, not in all these strange, fascinating, tangled ways. And for some reason, that thought startled him more than it should.

When you started, Spencer barely had the cotton pad against your skin, “So I was reading this article about how — ow!” You flinched, shooting him a glare. “That stings!”

Spencer pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a laugh. “I did bring a numbing agent, but I figured you’d want to tough it out. For, you know, bragging rights.”

You huffed, lips turning into a tiny, reluctant pout. “Yeah, okay, I’m fine.”

Spencer’s grip on the cotton pad faltered just slightly before he recovered. He shouldn’t find that cute. He shouldn’t. But he absolutely did.

He continued cleaning, carefully blotting at the wound. Another wince. Another barely-contained reaction.

“Tell me about the article.”

“So, I read this study about how humans actually need physical touch to regulate their nervous systems.”

Spencer hummed in acknowledgement. “I’ve read about that. Social bonding releases oxytocin.”

“Right!” you winced, inhaling sharply through your teeth before continuing. “And it’s not just romantic, like, even casual touch can lower stress levels. They did a study with people holding hands and — ow — measuring their cortisol levels. Turns out, human contact makes everything more tolerable.”

Spencer’s brain decided right then to process every point of contact between you. 

Statistically, you weren’t wrong. Scientifically, it was a well-documented phenomenon.

“Interesting,” he said, clearing his throat. “Sounds useful.”

He could cite three separate studies off the top of his head, break down the neurochemical pathways, and explain in excruciating detail why humans physically needed each other. But he liked the way you described it better.

“You saying you wanna hold my hand, Spencer?”

The antiseptic pad definitely didn’t need as much pressure as he just applied. “You’re very chatty for someone in pain.”

“You act all put out, but you keep showing up. What does that say, Dr. Reid?”

“That I’m too intelligent to believe in lost causes, but not intelligent enough to avoid them” Spencer rolled his eyes as he pulled off his glove. He patted your thigh lightly before stepping back. “Alright, all done. Try to behave so I don’t have to do this again.”

You clutched your chest theatrically. “Are you saying you don’t enjoy our little quality time sessions? That hurts, Spencer.”

He busied himself with picking up his bag. “I’m not dignifying that with a response.”

You hopped down from the counter, and Spencer instinctively reached out, like he thought you might be unsteady, like it was his job to ensure you didn't wobble. His hand brushed your arm for a half a second before he caught himself and pulled away.

“Text me if anything looks worse.”

“What, so you can rush over again?”

His ears tinged slightly pink. “Just… let me know if you need anything.

You softened, nodding. “I will.”

As he stepped outside, Spencer pulled his phone from his pocket, half-expecting, half hoping, to see a message from you before he even made it to his car. He shook his head at the thought, at himself. This was becoming a problem. A habit. An inevitability.

And despite knowing this, here he was, already running through excuses in his head for why it would be perfectly reasonable to check in again tomorrow. Strictly for medical reasons, of course.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[horizonx101]

How to actually shift

Tldr- persist in the affirmations that you wake up in your dr every morning or thoughts that mean the same thing, no matter what the physical world is showing you and do not waver 🪐

—————🌑—————💫

Shifting, believe it or not, is actually the most simple thing in the universe- you have been shifting for your entire life. What do I mean by that? Shifting isn’t some supernatural power that you have to be chosen by another force and then do 200 different methods or it won’t work. Shifting is the exact same as manifestation- when you manifest, you shift to a reality where you have that thing. When you shift, you manifest a certain reality that you have chosen. You shift whenever you assume something to be true in your reality. For example, you may assume that people dislike you- even if there is no evidence. As a result, you shift to a reality (or manifest a reality) where people dislike you. This is called Law of Assumption and you are doing this all the time whether you’re conscious of it or not. Think about your life, what has been a pattern for you? Have you been consistently unsuccessful in shifting? This is because you have a belief, a dominant assumption that shifting is difficult for you or that failure is normal to you.

—————🌒—————💫

The subconscious

There are two parts of your mind- the conscious mind, the one that you are aware of, and the subconscious mind. The subconscious mind defines your 3D, using your conscious mind (daily thoughts) to know what to project into the physical world. Your subconscious has no senses, it can’t see, hear or feel anything, which is why it relies on your conscious mind to tell it what is true and what is false. Therefore, your subconscious mind cannot deny anything you are telling it- which is why you can manifest anything. If you have negative beliefs that you have persisted in for years, you can change this with repetition of favourable affirmations, for example ‘manifesting has always been easy for me’ or ‘I always shift instantly and it is completely normal for to get what I want’. Your mind doesn’t like change, it likes patterns which is where resistance comes from. Your mind has only ever known struggle in shifting, since that’s what you have been telling it consistently- therefore you will get doubts and opposing thoughts. However, you decide what it true because the physical world IS your dominant thoughts. As soon as you decide you have shifted, you have shifted, doubts cannot do anything unless you give them power and worry about them. Whenever you get opposing thoughts, persist through them. Affirm things like “What are you talking about? I literally woke up in my desired reality” and “No, shifting is easy, it the easiest thing in the world”- exaggerate your affirmations. Eventually, your brain will adapt to the pattern of shifting being simple and easy for you- which is what will then reflect into the 3D. This doesn’t need to take loads of time, just affirm ‘doubts don’t exist’ and repeat that thought to saturate your mind.

—————🌓—————💫

The 3D and 4D

The 3D is your physical world, whereas the 4D is your thoughts and imagination. A key concept of Loa (law of assumption) is that your 4D, aka imagination, is your true reality. How? The 3D originates from your thoughts, it is simply a projection of your 4D. Therefore, the 4D must be your true reality. This is whatever you decide is true HAS to be true. A thought, when persisted in, HAS to reflect into the 3D, as that it the law. This is also why the 3D is completely irrelevant, circumstances do not matter whatsoever, because anything is possible. Anything you imagine is a possibility- what ever you DECIDE is true IS fact. Be stubborn in your affirmations- even if something is unfavourable happens, for example you don’t wake up in your desired reality, simple tell yourself that you woke up in your desired reality because shifting is easy. It has to reflect into your 3D eventually. And when I say eventually, I don’t mean that it has to take months or something- of course not! You control EVERYTHING which means that you either consciously or unconsciously decide how long it takes based on your beliefs. If you dominantly believe that shifting has to take years then it will take years because that is what you’re telling your subconscious. Assume that shifting is instant for you and persist in that affirmation. Things don’t have to take time!

—————🌔—————💫

Doubts

Doubts don’t have to do anything or mean anything- you give everything meaning. Decide that ‘I dont get doubts’ and ‘negative thoughts don’t manifest’ and that’s what will happen. Do not panic and spiral when you get an opposing thought- they are completely normal. You can literally just laughs at the thought, take a second to look at it and just be like “lmao what? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought I’m in my dr rn” and the thought will carry so much less weight, it’ll simply pass by just like a random thought. Treat it like how you would treat your mind randomly saying ‘the grass is purple and I was born last year’- you wouldn’t even acknowledge it because it’s just not true. Remember, anything you decide is true IS true, so doubts cannot do anything as long as you don’t give them the power to do anything.

—————🌕—————💫

I recommend Indigo Detry and Sammy Ingram on YouTube! They explain these concepts really well !!

[xmoriartea]

SVSSS!Sibling Transmigration 2: Electric Boogaloo

a continuation of this nonsense that ya'll seemed to enjoy

While Shen Yuan and Luo Binghe hold hands and jump into the abyss, Airplane is left holding no pizza with the sect on fire (and him-damnit. He could really use a pizza right now)

Shang Qinghua helped organize the Immortal Alliance Conference fiasco, but with his brother's guidance and Mobei Jun's shocking willingness to listen to both of them, Cang Qiong suffers only two losses that day: LBH and SY (none of the other major sects are so lucky, shifting even more power into Cang Qiong (and thus SQH/MBJ)'s sway as they planned)

Shen Jiu (named Qingqiu now ofc, but still Jiu-ge to SY) does not handle his part in this well at all. Did he shove LBH into the abyss? He would say no. He just maneuvered an awakening and unstable Heavenly Demon away from his brother. (Bro did NOT account for said brother to throw himself at LBH and basically take both their asses into the abyss. Not even Airplane saw that one coming tbqfh)

So yeahhh. SJ is not handling this well. While his brother is missing SJ qi deviates no less than two times which has Qing Ding and every peak lord walking on eggshells. No one mentions either of his missing disciples unless absolutely necessary around him. Unfortunately, he spends entirely too much time researching the abyss, tearing through every tome on the peaks

When the lords try to discuss a way to help SJ's instability, the mention of dual cultivation is floated once and while YQY is hand on the trigger to volunteer as tribute, the vehement refusal from SJ has YQY declaring it off limits without hesitation (there are some murmurs about this, but YQY takes pride in protecting SJ and shuts everyone down)

Airplane and SY know each other well enough that he knows SY would be devastated if something happened to SJ (he knows SY had siblings, that he misses them, that his heart aches twice for the family here and home and he won't let him come back to an empty bamboo house. Airplane knows the pain of an empty home and he will find something in his brain to fix it)

This leads to one tense conversation with SJ like "Look I know you fucking hate me but for SY's sake please just listen one time: your brother is coming home. I don't know how exactly, but we both know he's too stubborn not to" (this does not endear him to his villain son, but he would swear SJ glares a little less at him after)

There is then a Sun-Moon Dew Mushroom tier research saga but it's Airplane alone digging through tomes and notes and getting a little xianxia stoned to try and remember the obscure world building he created. (You know what he remembers? That's he created TOO MUCH world building shit while three energy drinks deep at 2am for any one man to remember!! Cucumber-bro get back here!!)

Meanwhile MBJ is playing a differently game entirely while every cultivator is stressed out of their minds. He's got a spy who is assisting him with power grabs that his father would never have imagined. He's courting a pathetic little mouse of a man. LBH is not a name that means anything yet. MBJ is THRIVING. Everyone else is in a drama and he's in a dating sim

And with two Shangs? The first time he does something too aggressive-demonic in his attempt to court a flailing sleep deprived Airplane, SQH is there to be like 'wtf do you think you're doing you beast?' Does SQH nearly get his ass beat for this insult to his king? Maybe a little bit. But!! Airplane gets woo'd! Without bloodshed!! (his own anyway. SQH picks his battles and cannot pry MBJ's desire to hunt big, rare game to prove his worth as a partner to Airplane which ofc leads to moments of the Shang brothers just standing over the corpse of some ancient-possibly-mythical beast just... in their living room on An Ding like 'wtf do we do with this? my king pls')

Of course, the plot finds everyone eventually. And however the fuck it happens, MBJ crosses path with a power-grabbing LBH, is forced to surrender to return home alive to his consort-to-be (MBJ is waiting for the MBJ title to be 100% his before cementing the courtship), becomes second in command to this brat, and goes home to his Shangs to lick his wounds (MBJ does not expect Airplane to shake his face and demand to know if there was a human cultivator with this half-demon brat and then demand to be taken to them if so when MBJ just 'wtf' stares)

Turns out, several years in the abyss even for the protagonist and a man who knows far too fucking much about abyss nuances for a human is still not an easy time Being human in the abyss? It's a dinner bell for every big monster that SY wants to just observe like the worst tourist. LBH cannot figure out why his shixiong keeps putting himself in danger like this (shixiong!! if you know the deadly thing is hiding in this swamp what if!!! we didn't!! go in the goddamn swamp shixiong!!!) But! That abyss knowledge is hard to beat. SY is able to guide LBH through safe routes and help guide him on his demonic journey (LBH ofc asks how his shixiong knows about any of this and SY panic changes subjects like a dozen times. Even in the back of LBH's head Meng Mo is like 'kid IDFK what this brat is but it's not normal and I need you to 1. understand that and 2. do not let him get away') And you know what is great for SY (and by extension LBH)? SY isn't juggling a persona that isn't his. He's allowed to come to terms with himself and his feelings on his terms. He gets to watch his white lotus LBH fight alongside him in the abyss and save his life and oh. OH. Maybe. Maybe he can have this? (SY being SY is still like PLOT EXISTS!! HAREM!! WIVES!! And look. He figures his own shit out a little bit, he's still a blind bastard. He doesn't notice how many wife plots he and LBH have stumbled into together, or how many LBH has skipped entirely. He can just be part of the harem, that's fine. He can live with that. Totally normal thoughts) LBH meanwhile can't even spell harem cause he only has eyes for this weird wonderful shixiong of his Given that the plot is a mess (happening, sure, but a MESS) they stumble into a new wife plot in the abyss (How was SY supposed to know full humans triggered nonsense plots down here?? It's not like LBH's human wives were ever down here with him!!) and so SY might be dying a second time. (Whoops! Whoops! Whoops! (Hey System? STFU if you have nothing useful to offer thank you!!!) But you know what could help this mortal cultivator trapped in the abyss? Demon qi. You know who has a lot of demon qi he doesn't know what to do with?? Best boy Binghe, that's who (they're both young and awkward and SY is dying and Binghe can't lose him. He can't be left alone again. It's declaration and promise and hope and when he kisses his shixiong he wills the transfer of qi between their lips and he can feel the way SY grows stronger in his arms with it) Let's just say that even when they clear the realm of the abyss that threatened SY, LBH still persistently insists that his shixiong share his qi mwah! (SY does not put up half as much complaint as he once might have over his sticky shidi) Also you know SY is going to find some horrific abyssal monstrosity and decide it's just the best and cutest most perfect and loyal pet (it's an honest to god nightmare and everyone they encounter is afraid of it and Binghe shoots it glares whenever it steals his shixiong's affections HOW DARE??) With SY's omnipotent abyss GPS sense and LBH sharing his excess of demon qi with SY, they're able to find Xin Mo, break the seal on LBH's powers, and then continue on his training montage (definitely too unstable to go back to the mortal realm early), also he has a fantastic anchor in SY at his side to soothe the Xin Mo urges and (don't ask shidi, pls he's begging) also teach him how to tame the sword

Cut back to several years of time passing, Airplane squishing his king's face, demanding to know about a human cultivator with this heavenly demon only for MBJ to (still face squished) say he wouldn't call the man at LBH's side human per se but if this is what his Airplane wants, he will take him with him to the meeting LBH has arranged for the following day (now please, let him pout and huff and receive head scritches)

Hey you know how people always get taken aback by Xie Lian being just absolutely filled with ghost qi??? SY is a cultivator, not a god, just a lad trying his best to follow that immortal master path, and he just spent SEVERAL years in the abyss and getting regularly dosed by HEAVENLY demon qi — this boy ain't right anymore, guys. He's definitely feeling some kind of demon-tier different™ after all of this and man is THRIVING because Now That's What SY Calls Lore

Please imagine heavenly demon LBH with a demon-touched SY holding demon court with their weird demon allies when MBJ shows up flanked by two totally human Shangs and the just.... the awkward staring these four members of Cang Qiong do at each other (LBH, oblivious to the spy on the mountain plots, just 'why tf is Shang-shixiong and Shang-shifu here??) (SQH looking at LBH and SY and just taking furious mental notes about these Developments and how this may affect his brother's safety) (SY and Airplane just seconds away from slapping the shit out of each other like cats in a bag just 'where the fuck have you been???' 'what have you done???')

Court gets to proceed as planned, but Consorts Shen and Shang make hasty exits together to figure out just what the fuck has been happening to Airplane's plot (There is minimal sibling-tier beat downs in the process and neither is free from sin)

Airplane explains that SJ is a mess and that they need to do something if SY wants to continue having a brother ('bro, he will go off the deep end soon if he doesn't find you but if he finds you like this BRO WILL GO OFF THE DEEP END!! DO YOU SEE THE PROBLEM??')

Their scheming gets them on the idea the Sun-Moon Dew Mushroom and between both their whipped demons, it's very easy to acquire it, cultivate it, and prepare it for SJ (ofc monster loving son SY shares some with a cute snake he sees, obviously)

SY sneaks onto Qiong Ding with their near ready science project and meets with YQY who is... not thrilled with the demonic influence all over his shidi's brother. But he listens, because end of the day they both care for SJ. SY can't risk SJ having another deviation if he sees him, so he entrusts YQY to present this fix to SJ: a way to repair his broken core and shed the scars of his past (ofc they both know he will be suspicious, but after doing his own research, he would take it in a heartbeat)

When SJ has a shiny new and powerful body, that's when LBH and SY return to the sect. No demon army, no attacks, no Huan Hua bs. Just two lost disciples making their return from the abyss. (There is much distrust. SQH plays his role as well as ever, siding with the other lords that certain tests must be passed to ensure they are not demons--- oh wait one of you IS a demon. and the other has been influenced by that one. Mhhh. Mhmmm. This is fiiiiiine)

SJ doesn't deviate! But he is! Mad! There is much yelling and shouting and disciples are made to run around Qiong Ding peak while every other lord just has to sit through the most chaotic family reunion.

But things can go back to normal from here right? Just casual transmigration, not plot threats? (System? System you're laughing. They're having a nice moment and you're laughing)

[maria021015]

Penpals - Part 1

Fred Weasley x FemHufflepuffReader

What happens when Fred’s new owl accidentally sends a letter meant for George to the wrong person? The mysterious recipient might just write him back. And it might end up being the best mistake Fred has ever made.

Part 2 out now.

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To: George (Or so he thought…)

Sent via Owl Post

Oi, George—

I’ve just had a brilliant idea for a new product and couldn’t wait until Madam Pomfrey decides I’m okay to tell you. Picture this: a quill that looks completely ordinary… until someone starts using it, and then - BAM! - it starts dramatically narrating everything they’re doing like an overly enthusiastic announcer at a Quidditch match.

Imagine McGonagall trying to give a lecture with her quill going, “Professor McGonagall is now frowning disapprovingly at a third year who clearly has no idea what she’s doing…oh, and there goes the eyebrow twitch!”

Anyway, we’ll call it Quill of Commentary. Think about it. We can tweak it to be snarky, romantic, heroic - the whole range. I’ll start prototyping this week. You handle the charmwork, I’ll wrangle the packaging.

Also, I may or may not have replaced Ron’s well with disappearing ink again. His reaction was magnificent. You’d think he’d check by now. Honestly, it’s too easy.

Write back when you can - though if you’ve already started testing that Puking Pastille variant again, do us all a favour and test it on yourself first.

Your better half (obviously),

Fred

———————————————————————

To: Fred Weasley.

Sent via Owl Post

Good evening Fred,

I’m assuming the intended recipient of this letter was your (admittedly far more endearing) other half, George.

Unfortunately for both of us, your letter has been sent to the wrong dormitory by your rather confused owl. Though I must say, your Quill of Commentary sounds like an intriguing invention. I must order one (once they’ve been thoroughly tested, of course).

As for poor Ronald, do take some pity on him. After all, I’ve heard he struggles to complete his work without the ink disappearing.

Kind regards,

Your anonymous letter recipient.

———————————————————————

To: The Mystery Mischief-Magnet Who Is Not George

Sent via Very Confused Owl

Well, now this is unexpected.

I must admit, I didn’t anticipate a response from someone with clearly impeccable taste in joke products. And yet, here you are, anonymous and delightfully cheeky. You’ve got me curious now. Not just because you called George the “far more endearing” twin (he’ll be insufferable if he hears that), but because you clearly have a sense of humour…and, dare I say, excellent timing. It does get rather boring being cooped up in the hospital wing.

You read the whole letter, didn’t you? Even the bit about Ron. That’s how I know you’re not a prefect - unless you’re the kind who enjoys a little chaos on the side. In which case, I’m intrigued.

Now, the question is: who are you?

Clearly a student. Intelligent, perhaps? Observant, certainly. Ravenclaw or the better half of Slytherin? Possibly Hufflepuff with a secret streak of mischief. And brave enough to write me back instead of chucking the letter in the bin. Could you be from my own house?

How about a trade? You give me a clue about yourself, and I’ll give you one in return.

Here’s mine: when I was five, I tried to charm Mum’s cooking pots into forming a marching band. It ended in singed eyebrows and a very cross chicken, but I regret nothing.

Your move, Mystery Girl.

Awaiting your next owl with great anticipation,

Fred (the clearly superior twin)

———————————————————————

To: The person who thinks he is the superior twin

Sent via slowly learning owl

‘Unexpected’ is the perfect word for the situation, for I also was not expecting a letter back.

I did indeed read your entire letter, and while I do not participate in (or wholeheartedly agree with) the rule breaking chaos you and your brother often partake in, I must admit it is entertaining for the rest of the student body.

As for your numerous questions - and assumptions - about me…

Well I’m not so keen to give myself up too easily. But I’ll play your little game as I am intrigued to hear more.

A cooking pot marching band sounds dreadful to the ears yet delightful to the soul.

I’m not going to make this easy for you, so you’ll have to pay close attention, but I’ve left a hint pertaining to my house somewhere in this letter. I wonder if you can find it? I await your response with eagerness.

From, your mysterious penpal.

———————————————————————

To: My Mysterious Penpal (who is either very clever, very bold, or both)

Delivered via Owl with a tendency to nip if ignored

I must say, you’ve got a flair for suspense. Subtle clues, a riddle in your words, and now. hidden symbols in the wax seal? You certainly don’t make it easy, but I suppose that’s part of the fun. Most people wouldn’t notice a badger tucked away like that…but most people aren’t me.

So. Hufflepuff, are you?

That narrows it down to roughly…a few dozen people. Brilliant.

You don’t strike me as the type who trips over their shoelaces in Herbology or forgets their wand in the loo. No, you’re one of the sharper ones, the type who sits quietly in the background but has already figured out exactly how many steps it’ll take to sneak out of the castle undetected. I like that. Calculated chaos. My favourite kind.

I’ll take your challenge and raise you: tell me the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done at Hogwarts. No need to incriminate yourself. Just a taste. I’ll even offer one in return:

Once, George and I bewitched every single toilet in the prefect’s bathroom to sing Celestina Warbeck’s greatest hits anytime someone sat down. McGonagall gave us detention for a month, but we got a standing ovation from the Gryffindor common room.

Your turn. And do feel free to make it as vague and infuriatingly cryptic as you like - I’m starting to enjoy the puzzle.

Yours in mischief and mystery,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: A not-so-mysterious man

Sent via Owl who is very polite thank you very much

I’m glad you were perceptive enough to pick up on my hint - Hufflepuff indeed. I fear your expectations of my house mates delve into stereotype. I promise we are not all blundering and forgetful. We are actually splendid at finding things.

Though your assessment about calculated chaos is correct. I, like most people, do enjoy a tad bit of mischief every now and then. Although more often than not I enjoy observing rather than partaking.

The most rebellious act I’ve committed at Hogwarts pales in comparison to your various achievements (which are heard about even deep down in the hufflepuff common room).

I’m afraid the story is not that exciting, but I did once hex that Slytherin git Draco Malfoy for running his mouth about what muggleborns he wanted to be attacked next. Not so brave of me to attack a second year who was two years my junior, but he did deserve it.

Perhaps you could convince me to be a bit more daring?

I believe you’ve asked two questions in a row, making my turn overdue. It’s all well and good to tell me of your various pranking feats, for which you are known for throughout the Hogwarts student body. But the real truth of who you are lies beneath all that. I’d like to dig deeper. Who is Fred Weasley, really? The boy behind the prank master. Tell me, what is something the rest of us don’t know about you?

Sincerely, your mystery hufflepuff.

———————————————————————

To: The Surprisingly Fiery Badger in Disguise

Delivered via owl who seems to like you more than me now (traitor)

Well, well, hexing Draco Malfoy, were you?

I take back what I said about you being the quiet type. That’s the kind of rebellion that earns you a secret round of applause in the corridors, even if the professors pretend not to notice. Trust me, I know the sound of a muffled cheer when I hear one. For the record, I’d call that brave, not cruel. Sometimes people need a reminder they’re not as untouchable as they think.

Now, as for convincing you to be more daring…challenge accepted. I’d wager there’s a whole world of untapped chaos lurking in you, waiting to be unleashed. And when it is, I’d like to be there to see it. Or possibly help. Definitely help.

You’ve turned the tables on me though, and fair’s fair.

Who am I behind the gags and firecrackers?

Well. Most people see the jokes and assume that’s all there is. Loud, laughing, a bit reckless. But the truth is: pranks are just another kind of magic. They’re distractions. Shields. Ways to twist something heavy into something light. And when things get too dark - too real - I’d rather make someone laugh than let them feel the weight of it all.

There’s something else not many people know: I actually like working late at night, when the castle’s asleep. That quiet, that calm, it’s when ideas come alive. The fireworks, the products, the laughter…they’re all born in the silence.

So there you have it. A little honesty from the Weasley with the wildest hair and the biggest plans.

Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold.

Now, I’ll trade you for another clue. You’ve got sharp wit and a hidden temper, but tell me: if you weren’t at Hogwarts, what would you be doing? No magic, no wands. Just you, out in the world.

Curious as ever,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: The boy behind the wild hair and nature

Sent via my new best friend

As far as vulnerability goes you certainly exceeded my expectations. Perhaps you aren’t as difficult of a book to read as I originally thought.

I’d always imagined your love and flair for the dramatic and fantastical was a way to seek attention and stand out among a family where I assume it would be easy to disappear, given there are so many of you. But your real reason is rather…endearing. In truth I find it quite admirable. We all need a little bit of light in the darkness, now more than ever with the recent attacks at the Quidditch World Cup. I’m happy that you are there to bring that light back into everyone’s lives at Hogwarts.

I enjoy working late at night in the dark and quiet as well. It is easier to think when the world is asleep. It brings a certain kind of peace that is hard to find at Hogwarts among the hustle and bustle. And do not worry, your secrets are safe with me. We Hufflepuffs are an honest and loyal bunch.

If I were to be out in the muggle world I imagine I’d like to go into healthcare. Learn how to help people, heal them. Though I suppose that’s not too different from what I want to do in the wizarding world.

What would you want to be if magic did not exist?

Equally as intrigued,

Mystery Badger

———————————————————————

To: The Healer in Hufflepuff’s Den

Delivered by an owl now carrying your letters with far too much pride (I think it’s showing off)

Well, that might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all term.

And yes, you’re not wrong about the whole “Weasley chaos” theory. It’s rather easy to become another blur of red hair and hand-me-down jumpers in a family like mine. So I suppose I turned up the volume a bit. Not to be seen, exactly, but to make something mine. George and I…we found our way by making people laugh. But you’re the first to look underneath all that and say it out loud.

That’s rather bold of you, Mystery Girl.

I like it.

And I especially like the sound of you being a healer. You’ve got the soul for it, I can tell from the way you speak. Thoughtful. Grounded. The kind of person who’d stay up through the night to make sure someone felt just a bit less alone. Magic or not, the world could use more of that. More of you.

As for me…no magic, huh?

That’s tough. I think I’d still want to create. Something loud and ridiculous and a little brilliant. I’d probably try to make jokes for a living. Maybe sketch things, invent weird little gadgets that no one needs but everyone wants the moment they see it. Something to remind people that life doesn’t always have to be so serious. That it can still be fun.

And if I’m being really honest…I’d want to make something that makes people remember me. Not for fame. Just so they smile, even for a second. Like, “That bloke Fred? Yeah…he was daft, but he made the world a bit brighter.”

So.

Another layer peeled back. Your move.

Next question, for you: If you could take me anywhere at Hogwarts - your favourite spot, your best-kept secret place - where would we go?

(And before you say the kitchens, I’m already quite familiar, thank you very much. The house-elves adore me.)

Yours, more intrigued than ever,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: Fred, the boy who made me smile today.

Sent via Owl that deserves to be proud

Your words were unexpectedly sweet for someone with such a roguish reputation. Perhaps your charm is why the ladies at Hogwarts love you.

Who knows, maybe one day you’ll be in need of my healing services, with all of your dangerous experimentations.

I could certainly see you as any and all of those things you described. It’s exceedingly honourable to simply want to make the world a better place with laughter - something so simple but something so often overlooked. I can tell you that your mission has succeeded today. I witnessed your little stunt in Herbology and while Professor Sprout may not have been impressed, I certainly was.

As for my favourite secret spot at Hogwarts…your guess was close. The kitchens are a close second, and the house elves have indeed told me about your midnight escapades. Though they may not have used the word ‘adore’ when describing you. Again, another secret of yours that I hold close to my chest. My favourite spot has to be the astronomy tower at dusk or sunrise. I love watching the colours that bleed across the sky. You’ll have to try it sometime.

And for my question, I heard you tried to enter your name into the Goblet of Fire this week and it ended in an unfortunate prunage of the skin and greying of the hair. Tell me, are you a handsome old man Weasley? But in all seriousness, why did you want to enter?

Looking forward to your response,

A smiling Hufflepuff

———————————————————————

To: The Hufflepuff Who’s Made This Whole Mad Castle Feel a Little Less Mad

Delivered by one very smug owl who now refuses to carry anything but your letters. I’m considering a name for him. Something noble. Like Earl.

You saw that, did you? The Herbology stunt?

In my defense, the Venomous Tentacula did not need to be that dramatic. I gave it a party hat, not a reason to attack. Though I suppose, in its own way, it was participating in the celebration. Of what, I haven’t decided. Tuesday, maybe. Or life. Plants are unpredictable like that.

And you, my mysterious healer, have a dangerous gift for making me grin like an idiot when no one’s watching. I’ve read your letter three times now, and I’ve got half a mind to find that astronomy tower this weekend just to see if the sky looks as lovely as you describe - or if it only gets that way when you’re up there.

Now, to your question.

Yes. George and I may have tried to skirt the age line around the Goblet of Fire. I’m not entirely fond of what happened. Mostly because I now know exactly what I’ll look like in seventy years, and frankly, I was hoping for a little less nose hair. But you asked why we tried, not how miserably it failed.

Truth is…it wasn’t about glory. Not entirely.

I mean, sure, part of it was the thrill of it - the chance to prove we’re not just class clowns. That we could do something bold and win. But also…I think I just wanted to shake things up. Show people we’re more than the punchlines they expect. That we can fight for something. That we will. The gold prize would have been nice too.

But maybe that’s a silly answer. Or maybe it isn’t. I suppose you’ll be the judge.

Now it’s my turn again, isn’t it?

Tell me this: what’s the one thing you wish people noticed about you, but never seem to?

No rush.

The sky will still be there when you’re ready.

Yours - still slightly grey, still quite proud,

Fred

———————————————————————

To: My still-grey Griffindor

Via Earl

I’ve grown rather fond of Earl, though I think he likes me even more. But that may have something to do with the extra fruit snacks I feed him.

I’m glad I’m not the only one reading our little secret letters with a smile on my face. My friends are starting to get nosy and ask questions. Don’t worry, I keep my lips shut tight about our secret conversations.

You should make a visit to the astronomy tower this weekend. I can’t promise I will be there but I may leave something for you to find. If you can, that is.

As for your reasons to enter the tournament, you needn’t concern yourself with what others think. It may not mean much coming from someone you don’t even know, but if you want my opinion, I think you and George are both extremely gifted academically. The spells and skills that are required for the level of magic used to execute your pranks and make your products is extraordinary. You are far more than class clowns.

Not many people do notice me to be fair, and the people who do don’t seem to like me very much. Of course I have my close circle of friends - Luna, Cedric, and now perhaps you?

Something I wish people did notice was that I may seem like a bitch, but I am seldom cruel for the fun of it. I simply have very strong personal morals that I hate to see broken. If there is an injustice I will do my best to right it.

As for this week’s question, Fred, will you be at the first task on Sunday? I want to know if I should keep an eye out for you in the crowd. Perhaps I’ll come say hi, though I imagine I’d be quite hard to point out in the crowd of girls who do so.

Well wishes from the hufflepuff who notices you.

———————————————————————

To: The Hufflepuff Who Notices More Than Most

Delivered by Earl, who now refuses to leave without a snack and a scratch behind the wing (I’ve created a monster)

You have no idea how tempting that astronomy tower invitation is.

I’d say you’re cruel for teasing it, but something tells me you’re the type who prefers the thrill of the chase to the prize itself. Which is very unfair of you, considering how terribly impatient I am. But all right, Mystery Girl. I’ll play your game. If I do find something up there, I’ll consider it a sign that I’ve earned a little more of your truth.

And thank you, for what you said about me and George. Most people laugh and dismiss what we do as silly, but you saw the work in it. The craft. That means more to me than I can properly write in a letter. I think you’ve got a habit of seeing through the noise, don’t you?

Now then.

You may not be the easiest person to spot in a crowd, but something tells me I’d know you if I saw you. You’ve got a presence, even in ink. I’ll be at the first task, yes. Somewhere near the front. Probably shouting something highly inappropriate and getting side-eyed by McGonagall. If you’re there, look for the bloke who’s too loud, wearing Gryffindor colours, and scanning the crowd like he’s trying to find something he’s not supposed to see.

Because I will be looking for you. And if you come say hi…I’ll know.

Not because of your house colours but because I think I’ll feel it. The way I feel it now, when your words show up in my hand and suddenly the world feels a bit warmer.

As for what you said, you’re not cruel. You’re fierce. Loyal. And maybe a little sharp around the edges. But only because you care more than most. People like that? They’re the ones worth holding on to.

Now, for your next question:

If you could ask me anything face to face, no matter how bold or personal - what would it be?

Yours until Sunday (and hopefully after),

Fred

[roselites]

a nonsense christmas / tyler owens x reader

summary: an unexpected snowstorm traps tyler owens with his workplace nemesis over the holidays. bonus points: there was only one bed.

content warnings: f!reader, allusions to smut

word count: 9k

author’s note: happy holidays! 🎄🎊🤶🏻🕎 i hope they were merry and bright and as stress-free as possible. thank you so much for supporting my three little fics. this is unedited, but i wanted to post it before i went out of town as a gift made specially for the glen girlies - i wrote it to bring you some december cheer. see you next year!

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Over the span of the last twelve hours you’d lost count of the number of times you’d muttered that sentence underneath your breath.

First, it was the office building in New York, where Tyler had the appointment right after yours at a ritzy funding agency. Then it was the airport, where you’d both flown standby and had a Wild West confrontation over the last seat on the plane, only for another passenger to volunteer their place in exchange for a travel voucher. (“It’s not like I’m in a rush to see my family, anyway.”) The woman manning the desk had given you both a look that said, “See, this is how an adult behaves,” which you thought was rich when the guy was clearly trying to cheat his way out of a Christmas dinner. Then, Tyler got assigned the seat behind you on the plane, and in keeping with his infuriating personality, spent the entire flight kicking your seat - or, I’m sorry, just trying to stretch his legs.

After landing, you’d raced to the same rental car company. The woman at this desk kept pointing out that the weather seemed dire and that a snowstorm might hit at any moment, to which you assured her that you weren't headed far—a lie—and glared at Tyler’s back before shuffling into the parking lot with your borrowed keys, hoping his heater would break or that an ex-girlfriend had broken into his house during his absence and left coal in his stocking.

It turned out that the woman at Enterprise was right. The weather was dire; your visibility was shot to hell after the first forty miles, leaving you to squint through the flurry-turned-blizzard, your knuckles white on the steering wheel as you inched forward in your seat, as though you could magically see through the storm if only you pressed your nose just so to the windshield.

After a while you gave up and started to admit that unless you wanted to turn into a human Popsicle, you might need a Plan B. You let out a weary sigh, listening to the weather report on the radio—“If you're safe and cozy at home, it's gonna be a white Christmas, folks, but if you're out on the road, I suggest taking cover and waiting it out for Santa Claus to slide down the chimney.”

You scanned the passing road signs for fast food restaurants, gas stations, and rest stops, even took a few exits just to be hit with NO VACANCY in bright neon reds, making mental calculations for the rest of your trip.

Home was still a long way off: three hours, after dark. Normally you’d power through with an extra-large coffee, but it was snowing, and your window to remain safely on the road was closing with every passing minute.

Dammit.

After the fourth failed attempt at finding lodgings, you sat in the driver’s seat with the heater on and called your sister.

She answered after a few rings. In the background you heard your nephew and nieces screaming their heads off in that kid way. God, you loved those little rugrats but they were undoubtedly a nightmare—you imagined Margo plugging up one of her ears and waving at them to be quiet. Of course, to no avail.

“Where are you?” she demanded, the accusation sharp in her voice. You knew to expect it, so instead of answering, “Well, hello to you too, I can’t control the weather, in case you haven’t noticed,” you went with a plain response, facts only.

“Somewhere in the middle of Benburg.”

“Where?”

“Exactly.”

You heard her sigh. “The snow’s getting pretty bad.”

“No shit.”

“Hey, don't ‘no shit’ me! I told you traveling right before Christmas Eve was going to be a nightmare.”

“And I told you I had no choice.”

She paused. There was whispering on the other end, an almost-silence that put your body on high alert until, finally, she said, “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Margo, no!”

Your protests fell on deaf ears. The phone was jostled as your mother took it and began to speak.

“Honey, are you almost here?”

Covering your face with your hands, you kept your voice light, knowing she’d be able to detect even the smallest hint of frustration, and then you’d have to put up with another round of “why on earth did you take a meeting in New York right before the holidays?”

“No, mom, I’ve still got a-ways to go.”

You pictured her narrowing her eyes, maybe placing a hand on her cocked hip.

“How long a-ways?”

“Less than two hours,” you lied.

It was absolutely more than two hours.

A pause. “Well, I guess that's okay.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Through gritted teeth and the voice of a demented schoolteacher, you added, “Mom, can you put Margo back on the phone now, please?”

“She wants to talk to you,” you heard her saying from a distance.

After some more jostling, you felt the caller change as you merged back onto the highway and left the motel behind.

“Marg, can you tell her to cut me some slack, please? I’m doing my best.”

“Ha!”

You glared at the console, hoping she could feel it over the phone.

“Gee, thanks! So much for the Christmas spirit!”

“Listen, when you have three kids, two dogs, a husband, all of your in-laws, your parents, and your stepmom breathing down your neck, I’ll have a little more sympathy.”

“Fine… But I promise I’m not leaving you in the lurch on purpose. My flight from New York got delayed, I had some asshole kicking me in the kidneys the whole time, and I can barely see a yard in front of me because of this storm—it’s not exactly a walk in the park for me either.”

No cigar; it was you who felt her glare over the phone this time. Clearly, her issues outweighed all of yours on this occasion, and knowing her sister-in-law, you were inclined to agree.

You added: “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You’d better.”

The wipers on your rented car worked overtime to clear your windshield. You were about to end the call to focus on driving when, up ahead, you saw the red and blue lights of a highway patrol vehicle stopping traffic.

“Oh shit,” you muttered under your breath.

“What?”

“The road is closed.”

“The whole road?”

“Yeah, Marg, the whole road.” She would've argued with you over your tone, except you cut her off with “Hold on—I’m being flagged down.”

A middle-aged man with a mustache came over to your car. He was wearing a fuzzy hat and holding a flashlight now that the purpling sky was fading to black. Without being asked, you lowered your window and shivered at the stream of icy wind that cut through the artificial heat.

“Evening, officer.”

“Good evening. Where’re you headed?”

“Sayre or roundabouts.”

“Rough night to be doing so. This road is no good, you're gonna have to turn around, find a place to wait it out for the night.”

Your heart sank. You knew Margo was listening to everything. By the time you made it home, your ledger would have a massive list in the red which she’d make you pay off somehow—by doing the dishes, playing horse with the kids, or worse, entertaining Kayleen, who would say as she always did that you really ought think about having children soon unless you wanted to get used to “a self-absorbed lifestyle.”

God forbid.

“Do you know anywhere that might have a last-minute vacancy?” you asked the officer, whose shiny name tag read HARRIS.

He scratched behind his ear, twisting his mouth in thought.

“Try the Sunnyside Inn. Back this way to Fairmont, right after the exit, left on Vail.”

“Thank you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Right. Merry Christmas.”

You put your window back up.

“Did you catch that?”

“Sounds like you're grounded,” said Margo. Her eyebrow must be arched because the judgment could be heard loud and clear—if you hadn’t gone to New York…

Well, there was nothing you could do about it now.

“It’s meant to clear up by morning. I’ll still be there long before Christmas.”

“You’d better be.” She sighed.

Your niece Haley was screaming out the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas” like a possessed banshee and giggling at what she knew must be an ear-splitting performance. You didn't know whether to be more horrified or amused; you remembered doing something similar when you were a child, back when you didn't have to worry about spreadsheets and grants and the trials and tribulations of flying Economy during the worst time of the year.

Margo must be thinking the same. Her tone sounded a little more sympathetic when she said, “Drive safe, and let me know when you find somewhere to spend the night.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Don’t get murdered.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try—do. Someone’s got to help me defuse the tension during Christmas dinner.”

“Me? Defuse tension?”

“Good point.”

After hanging up, you followed Officer Harris’s directions to the Sunnyside Inn. Wherever it was in relation to the highway, there weren’t any signs you could see from the road and it reminded you of a famous, albeit fictional, location where people did go to end up murdered.

You only hoped whoever was on duty at the check-in desk had zero resemblance to Norman Bates or you’d have no choice but to sleep in your car.

Ten minutes later, you arrived at a quaint little building like something out of a Hallmark movie with six parking spaces and no neon out front. The facade was fake stone, the ornamental bushes lining the circular drive covered in a postcard layer of fresh snow. The wooden sign read VACANCY and had an empty slot where the NO might go, which gave you the tiniest sliver of hope, tempered by the thought that a place like this might not pay the utmost attention to a detail like that, especially in the middle of a storm. All in all, it was the sort of place you stayed at when you had no choice, being off the beaten track, but it looked as well maintained as it could be given its age, which you dated back to the 70s because of its slanted roof.

You parked and got your suitcase out of the trunk, the wheels clattering and then coming to an abrupt stop when you saw a figure across the way doing the same with his black carry-on.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you called out.

Tyler Owens grinned. Even from here you could see the dimple on his cheek.

“Road closed?” he asked, still walking towards the entrance. You did the same, glaring as you tried to keep pace with him—no, tried to beat him to the front door.

“You know it is,” you answered, eyes narrowed, dashing the rest of the way just for his hand to reach the metal pull bar first. Damn his longer limbs.

With a smile, he opened the door and waved you through like a Manhattan doorman.

“Ladies first.”

“Wow, I didn't think you were remotely a gentleman.”

“What gave you that impression?”

You brushed past him into the heated lobby, pausing long enough for him to close the door so you could send him a pointed look.

“Oh, I don’t know… maybe your knee on my back?” you enunciated.

“I told you—that was an honest mistake.”

“Right.”

The Sunnyside had a single check-in desk that looked more like the host’s stand at your favorite restaurant than the counter at the cheapest Marriott, but it was decked in cute bells and garlands and baubles that glittered in the light. Behind it stood a woman around your age with straight, shoulder-length hair partially covered by a Santa hat.

As soon as she saw you walking in, she pushed the red strands out of her face and cleared her throat visibly before launching into a practiced spiel.

“Welcome to the Sunnyside Inn, where every day is sunny!”

She was smiling from ear to ear. The effect was a little like that of the creepy twins in The Shining and bah, humbug, were you not in the mood.

“Can I have a room for the night, please?”

You were made to feel guilty by the sudden fall of her face. But clearly Carol—you had to do a double take. Was her name really Carol? At-Christmastime Carol?—had gone to one hell of a customer service training program. Instead of letting your frown turn her smile upside down, she tacked it on with impressively greater fervor. The bell at the end of her hat rattled as she cleared her throat again.

“You’re in luck! We have one vacant room left in the entire hotel—continental breakfast included!”

“I’m sorry,” Tyler butted in, “did you say only one room?”

“Yes, er…” She looked between you, biting her glossed lip. “Is that a problem?”

“We’re not together,” you said, refusing to look in Tyler’s direction. 

Carol blushed. She was so pale that you thought it might be her actual blood you were seeing rising to her face and turning a shade of Veruca Salt. Or was it Violet Beauregarde?

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I thought—well… you arrived together.”

“We arrived separately.”

“That’s not what it looked like.”

She blinked owlishly. Your own face was heating up as you felt Tyler putting his hand on his hip and sending you a shit-eating grin. You wouldn’t hear the end of this. You could practically hear him bringing it up at a later date, saying, “You’d be so lucky.”

You felt your jaw lock and your dentist cry. Lips together, teeth apart! She’d obviously never met anyone like Tyler Owens before.

“I can assure you, that's what it is,” you said in a steel-laced voice.

Carol might be an A+ at the customer service thing, but you were an A+ at staring people down until they begged for mercy. The only person you knew who was better at it was Margo, and the only person immune to it—though it drove you crazy to no end—was standing next to you, all six feet of him, in a jacket with snow at the shoulders that had quickly melted and rolled off the fabric. Shoulders… his annoyingly broad shoulders, which you’d had occasion to see with more frequency than you would’ve liked, dressed in what Samantha, one of your colleagues, described as his “slutty little white tees.”

It wasn’t enough for him to be a perpetual thorn in your side, he had to be attractive too, thereby proving that there was no God or that, Whoever they were, they must have an evil sense of humor.

“I’m so sorry.” Carol hung her head. Her hat drooped, the glitter-paper trimming on her suit drooped—there was a high chance that she was actually an elf and you’d just worked your way onto Santa’s Naughty list. Come midnight, you’d be visited by the ghosts of all your ex-lovers and Sarah DeAngelo, your high school nemesis.

Meanwhile, Tyler swooped in like the big hero.

“No worries, I’ll just stay at the next place,” he said. “What is the next place?”

“That would be the Cozy Roadside! But they're all booked up, I’m afraid… It's the storm, you see. Everyone’s trying to hunker down for the night.”

“Right…”

Well, he was taking it better than you’d have done—though it was clear he wasn’t jumping for joy at the thought of turning around and trying his luck in the growing whiteout.

And that was if there weren't more road closures along the way.

“Are you sure you're not together? I’m just saying… it is the holidays.” Carol’s little damn bell jingled again. Could you be charged with assault if you snatched it off her head? you wondered.

You pinned her with a stare and she had the temerity to flinch like a little cartoon dormouse.

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning, it's a time to let bygones be bygones! You make such a lovely couple…” Her laugh was high-pitched, nervous.

You might have ruffled like an angry bird of prey. “We are not—”

“Absolutely not,” said Tyler.

“‘Absolutely’?”

It was the closest you’d ever come to seeing Tyler crack under the force of your EF5 stare. He looked sheepish, his hands in his pockets, giving a little hunkered down shrug that might have been read as boyish and kind of adorable to someone else.

“Listen”—turning to Carol before you could rip him to shreds—“do you know of anywhere I could stay until the roads open up again?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“What about the lobby?”

“I would if it were up to me, but it's against hotel policy. I could get a write-up.”

This hotel has a policy? You stopped yourself from blurting out the words. There was still a chance this Strawberry Shortcake of a person was one of Santa’s little helpers and, if you kept up being a meanie, you’d end up going to the Bad Place—the Bad Place being the seat next to Margo’s sister-in-law at dinner.

You sighed. “Does my room have a couch?”

“It has a chair,” Carol offered.

You exhaled through your nostrils like an angry bull—would the creature metaphors ever cease? Turning to Tyler, you held up a finger and said, “You’re gonna owe me big time,” and fished your wallet out of your bag.

You slammed your card onto the stand and waited for Carol to check you in. She took out a book from a little cubby and took down your name and ID number, then fiddled with one of those old-school credit card imprinters, the ones you had to use actual elbow grease to use.

“I can have extra linens sent up! And I’ll give you our Friends and Family rate—in honor of the season!”

You have got to be kidding me…

Tyler put his hand on your elbow, stopping your words.

“Thank you, Carol, you've been a real gem.”

Carol flushed again, preening under Tyler’s cowboy charm. I’m gonna be sick, you thought, grabbing your suitcase by the handle and wheeling towards the stairs before you could say anything else.

Your case banged against each carpet-covered step. Tyler was behind you, carrying his without sounds of trouble. You supposed that was a benefit to having arms the size of tree trunks, but you’d rather drop dead on this commercial grade floor than ask him for help.

To drown out the sound of the obvious weakness in your upper half, you adopted a high-pitched baby voice that was nothing like Tyler’s and said, “‘You’ve been a gem, Carol,’” just to mock him.

From Tyler came a huffed-out laugh. “Why, ’re you jealous?”

“As if. I hope your chair has bedbugs,” you called over your shoulder, arriving at the landing and looking for room 227. You unlocked the door without waiting, tossing your bag and coat onto the bed to stake your claim.

In the open doorway, Tyler paused to stare at the promised bit of furniture.

“Oh,” came out of his throat. “When she said chair, I thought she meant…”

You followed his gaze. Like Tyler, you’d pictured a dusty old recliner when Carol guilted you into sharing a room with him. The relic actually taking up space across from the queen-sized bed was a chair that might have come out of your high school principal’s office. The seat was covered in a similar material to the carpet, deep purple, not falling apart at the seams, but still just a chair.

Not in your wildest dreams would you think of making an enemy sleep on a thing like that. And here you were, poking fun at sweet, freckle-faced Carol… sweet, sweet Carol who had done you a bigger solid than you could’ve ever imagined.

Tomorrow at check-out, you were going to leave her a $50 tip. You might name your firstborn after her.

You looked at Tyler. He looked at you. The poor man was aghast, and the more he glanced despondently at his abode for the next eight hours, the funnier it got until you were cackling, actually cackling like a Disney witch.

You unzipped your suitcase and took out your toiletries bag, still laughing as you stepped into the room’s bathroom and sent him a little wave.

“Sweet dreams, Owens!”

Hell, it was Christmas—you’d be leaving Carol an even $100.

-

You made a point of taking your time in the shower, luxuriating both in the steam and the dejected look on Tyler’s face. A chair! An actual chair! After finishing, you took the robe hanging off the hook, figuring it was your prerogative as a lady, and opened the door just the tiniest crack to see what Tyler was up to. What you saw made you snatch your phone off the counter and leap from your hiding place like a fearless war photographer.

The shutter clicked, a series of lightning-quick flashes that caught Tyler’s attention. By the time he whipped his head to the side with a glare and a command to “delete that!” you’d snapped half-a-dozen photographs of his position on the makeshift “bed.”

Carol must have sent up linens while you were in the shower because he’d pushed the chair up against the coffee table in a futile attempt to be more comfortable; his legs stuck out to a truly comical degree and he was covered in a floral blanket that could only be described as grandmotherly. Your phone—bless it—had captured the exact moment of shock mixed with absolute indignity.

There was no way he’d be able to sleep without falling over. You only hoped that when he inevitably fell on his ass it happened with enough volume to wake you from the sound sleep you’d be having in bed by yourself.

You tucked your phone in your pocket, smiling like one of Hell’s angels.

“Absolutely not,” you said to his request. “Shower's yours.”

Tyler grabbed a bundle of things off the floor.

“Let me guess, you used up all the hot water.”

“You wound me,” you lied. “I’d never be so petty.”

He scoffed, gestured to his eyes in the universal symbol of I’m watching you and moved past, locking the bathroom door with a resolute click.

A few moments later, you heard the sound of the shower turning on and settled into bed—your lovely, only-yours bed—pleased that the sheets were clean, the mattress soft, the pillows comfortable, and debated whether or not to turn on the TV, but the shower taps squealed sooner than you expected.

Huh. Guess Tyler isn’t a fan of an ice-cold rinse.

You rushed to turn off the bedside lamp, adopting a deep-sleep pose. You barely managed in the time it took him to pad out into the main room, bringing with him a warm, clean, soapy smell.

You held your breath, imagined he could tell you were faking—especially when he paused his movements at the foot of your bed. But then his footsteps moved towards his sad little chair and he turned off his own light.

All you heard for a while was the rustling of sheets, the creaking of the chair beneath his weight. There was a moment of total silence when you almost fell asleep. Then he tossed and turned. The chair protested. You heard him groan.

“Y’alright over there?” you asked, hoping the answer was no.

Tyler’s words were laced with sarcasm.

“Who, me? Just peachy.”

“Nighty-night, then.”

You sighed contentedly and dozed, thinking about Tyler’s future back pain and the satisfaction of winning Carol over to your side with a generous tip. Take that, Tyler’s dimples! The problem was, you actually wanted to get a few hours’ sleep; there was still a fair bit of driving left for you to do, and Tyler just wouldn't shut up.

You heard every creak, shift, and sound of frustration.

Finally, you sat up and growled, “Could you try being more quietly uncomfortable?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to sleep.”

“I can hear your breathing all the way over here!”

“That's not my breathing,” he said, “that’s your guilty conscience.”

You glared into the dark. I will not let him get the better of me. You took a fortifying breath and kept your voice light—viciously light.

“You know, there’s still time for you to sleep in your car. You’ll be the first person ever to be cryogenically frozen.”

“That's not how cryogenics works, you muppet.”

You launched a pillow in his direction, pleased when it made contact. He sat up and protested, “Hey!”

“Did you just call me a muppet?! You know, if you disappeared I could always blame the storm.”

“Carol would remember me,” he rejoined.

“Maybe I’ll disappear Carol too.”

“Wow, two bodies? Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m very resourceful.”

“Oh, I bet you are…”

Argh! Slamming your fists down, you ground out the words you’d been holding back ever since you saw his grinning rodeo-ass face in New York:

“There is no way I’m letting you win that Heller Grant!”

Your nostrils flared, chest heaved, eyes all but emitted laser beams. Tyler, for his part, remained annoyingly composed.

“I don't think that's up to you. But,” he added, “I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

“No reason, just a friendly head’s up.”

“Something tells me there’s nothing friendly about it.”

He paused. “Hey, what’s a little harmless competition between meteorologists, right?”

“…Did you really just ask that question?”

You both knew scientists were messy as fuck. Denying that they could be egotistical, overly dramatic, delicate with their egos, and especially prone to schadenfreude was a cheap attempt on Tyler’s part.

He chuckled, as if admitting it was true.

“Fine, touché. But it’s really not personal. It's a grant—everyone wants to win it. It’s not like we’re trying to run you out of business or anything.”

“Oh, believe me, we aren’t worried about that,” you shot back. “Everyone knows Kate Carter is the ace up your sleeve. But that’s it—one ace.”

“One ace is all you need.”

“Not in this economy it’s not.”

“It’s about the storms!” Tyler said. “You do get that, don't you? Saving lives, limiting damage…”

“Right, I forgot—you're Saint Tyler, the Tornado Wrangler for profit!” you mocked.

There was a silence in the room, accusatory. Deafening. After this, you were definitely going on Santa’s Naughty list, you thought, not only this year but for at least fifteen to life.

“Sorry, that was shitty,” you admitted, swallowing your pride.

“Yeah, it was. You have no idea why I do what I do. And obviously I have no idea why you’re such a—”

“Bitch?” you supplied.

“I wouldn't use that word. I wouldn't,” he reiterated seriously. “I was going to say ‘why you’re such a bee in my bonnet.’”

You let out a snort. “Shut up.”

“Has anyone ever told you you're unreasonably distrustful?”

“Only about three-point-five therapists.”

“Why the point-five?” he asked.

“One was a grad student.”

He laughed. “Guess weather research doesn’t pay—even if you do wear fancy suits.”

That made you smile. You and Tyler were as diametrically opposed as two could people get, even down to your clothes.

“Let’s just agree,” you said, remembering the spirit of the season, “that we rub each other the wrong way and leave it at that.”

“Hey, I’ve never had a problem with you. I mean, yeah, we’re always up against each other for funding. It’s a race to the top—winner takes all, whoever publishes first gets the bragging rights. But that’s the game—I know that. Now, if you have a problem with me, this seems like as good a time as any to clear the air because I really have no idea what I could've done to make you hate my guts like this.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Oh, sure, be the mature one, take the high road… Tell me, Owens, does it ever get exhausting being so fucking perfect all the time?”

Another pause.

“What the hell are you going on about?” The chair creaked. “‘Perfect’? I’ve never said I was—FUCK!”

You perked up, reached an arm to turn on the light. Tyler was sprawled on the floor. The coffee table and chair were no longer attached and he was nursing what looked to be his hip while kicking at the granny blanket tangled round legs.

“Did you just fall into the gap?” you said eagerly, trying to record the image in your brain.

He wrestled the blanket until he finally won, then stood resentfully, his hair mussed, a crazed look in his eyes.

“Yes, I fell into the gap! But there was no video evidence,” he said pointing. “You can’t prove it. At this rate, it might be smarter to sleep on the floor.”

“Looks like it.”

You watched him kick the chair away with his foot and lay the blanket on top of the coarse brown carpet. He tossed his pillow down and picked up the sheet, holding it in front of his body and looking like he might actually prefer to try his luck in the parking lot than on the inhospitable floor. You observed him with interest, biting your thumbnail and watching his throat move with a sigh, the dejected set of his shoulders, the strong jaw set until it looked like it would break glass.

“Oh, fine!” you said. “You look like my senior dog trying to decide where to lay down!”

“You have a dog?” he asked with enough skepticism to be insulting.

“She lives with my sister.”

“What’s her name?” His jaw relaxed, eyes softened.

“Doppler. Don’t laugh!” you exclaimed, though it fell on deaf ears.

“That’s kind of… really nerdy.”

“Do you want to sleep on the floor?”

“I’m sleeping on the floor anyway.”

You whipped the covers off the left side of the bed. Tyler’s eyes almost bugged out of his head.

“No.”

“Come on, Owens, I don't have cooties.”

“It’s not about the cooties, I’m trying not to get killed Basic Instinct-style!”

You knew the scene: Sharon Stone fucking her rock star boyfriend before stabbing him to death with an ice pick. Unbidden, your mind filled with images of Tyler underneath you, his throat bared to you as you rode him.

“You wish!”

Tyler looked at you sternly.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“We’ll make a divider out of pillows!” you suggested, starting the master feat of engineering by plopping all your extra ones vertically down the center of the bed.

You didn’t know where this sudden stroke of generosity had come from. Only ten minutes before you would’ve been perfectly fine—nay, ecstatic—to know that Tyler was about to spend six hours in pain and discomfort.

Maybe it was your guilty conscience. Maybe he’d convinced you that this vendetta you had against him was one-sided and kind of silly. Maybe you just wanted to get some damn sleep without feeling like you were racking up bad karma by not offering to share the bed.

He eyed your attempts like a skeptic, his hands on his hips.

Damn, they were slutty little white tees… you thought.

“This is ridiculous,” he pointed out. And yet he’d dropped the sheet and stopped all attempts at sleeping on the floor like an imprisoned martyr.

“Ridiculous” was a good way to describe what the start of this holiday was turning out to be. If you’d told your past self that come December 23rd you’d be sharing a hotel room, even a bed, with Tyler Owens, you’d have laughed in your own face. But here it was—courtesy of the weather, a possible redheaded Christmas elf, and a series of minor coincidences that had all resulted in this: you shrugging and saying, “Tell me something I don’t know. Tick-tock,” you added with a clap for emphasis, “my goodwill has a time limit!”

“Very festive of you. Are you sure this is okay?”

He approached you with a cautious air, turning down the covers like you might yell “psych!” and attack him at any moment. Even when he laid himself down, it was at the very edge of the bed, and you thought he might end up on the floor anyway given a hasty mid-sleep roll, but then, that would be his own doing and he’d have nothing else to blame but his own clumsiness.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you decreed.

“Obviously.”

You turned the light off.

This isn’t so bad, you thought. If you closed your eyes, you could almost forget he was there. You hummed to yourself, snuggling down, finally making headway on the quest for rest and relaxation. Twenty minutes passed, maybe an hour. Hell, it might have been two—all you knew was that Tyler was not keeping up his end of the bargain.

“You’re encroaching on my space!” you hissed, pushing back against pillows that had moved to your side of the bed.

Tyler turned, not remorseful in the least. “I’ve got, like, half-a-foot on you! What do you want me to do?”

“That’s sizeist,” you sniffed.

There was a sound from his direction.

“Are you laughing?” you accused.

“Yeah, I’m laughing… You’re funny. And that’s how I know I don’t have a problem with you.”

You were unexpectedly pleased, despite his bed theft and the rehashing of your previous conversation. No one had ever called you funny before, though you’d always thought you were.

Tyler Owens thinks I’m funny?

So sue me—you were only human and not above hoarding little compliments.

“What did you mean,” he started to ask, shifting so that he could lay on his back, “about me being ‘perfect’? Not that I don’t find it flattering, it's just not true at all and it didn't sound like a good thing, by the way that you said it.”

You kept silent, staring at the A/C unit attached to the wall.

“I know you’re not asleep!” he declared, poking you in the back.

“And how would you know what I sound like asleep?”

“Well, it wouldn't sound like speaking, now would it?”

Shit. He had a point.

You let out a sigh, regretting your magnanimity now that you were in a dark room side-by-side with the man and couldn't avoid his charm or the ease he inspired like magic.

You’d always found that the most unsettling thing about him.

“You’re gonna get the grant,” you admitted with more sincerity than you meant. In your voice you could hear the layers of frustration and insecurity and anger and disappointment that you couldn’t face in the day, when you had people counting on you and a reputation to uphold.

Tyler was quiet a moment.

“You don't know that.”

“Yeah, I do. I’m not good with the whole… schmoozing thing. Not like you are.”

“Schmoozing?” he asked.

“That’s what it is! You’re good with people.”

“So are you.”

“No, I’m not,” you laughed bitterly, craning your neck to say it over your shoulder. “I’m prickly.”

“That’s bullshit,” Tyler said. “And, anyway, this is research, not a personality contest.”

“Ha!”

“You do know there are plenty of prickly scientists out there getting people to throw money at them all the time? Sometimes, it’s the pricklier the better—people think that if you're really a genius, you should treat everyone around you like the bottom of the garbage pail.”

“It’s different for you,” you pointed out.

“How so?”

You sat up, eyeing his shadowed form.

“Well, sweetie, there’s this thing called discrimination—it’s what happens when having certain anatomy makes people more inclined to think you know what you're doing.”

“Very profound… That’s not what you meant.”

He was right. While sexism did come into funding, as it came into a lot of things where it had no place, your main gripe about Tyler had nothing to do with him being a man and everything to do with him being, well, him.

You raked a hand through your hair.

“All you have to do is walk into a room and get pally with the panel,” you confessed. “I can’t compete with that.”

Somehow, through the dark, his eyes found yours. His expression was unreadable, but you could feel his attention on you, his scrutiny—thoughtful, patient, wanting to understand.

“I don’t know what to say,” he said at last.

“Seriously? You’re gonna make me be honest with you and then leave me holding the hot potato of awkwardness?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he laughed. “I just… It’s not like I get up in the morning thinking, ‘Hm, what grant can I possibly steal from you today?’”

“Right,” you drawled, “you just can’t help being you.”

“I can’t!” he insisted, rising up on his elbows. “I like people. I like meeting them… talking to them—even the buttoned-up ones that look like they haven't been outside of an office building in months. I can't apologize for that. But it is a little unfair of you if your sole reason for being mean to me all the time amounts to two cents and a bit of pocket lint.”

“I am not mean!” you protested.

Tyler cocked his head.

“Okay, maybe I’m a bit brusque,” you allowed. “But I let you sleep in my bed!”

“For which I’ll be forever grateful…”

You opened your mouth.

“…but not enough to turn down the grant.”

You shrugged, not expecting him to hand you the award on a silver platter.

“It was worth a shot,” you said. Another joke.

Tyler gestured with his hands; you could see them fluttering around expressively in the near dark.

“You’ve just gotta stop approaching people and automatically assuming that they’re not on your side,” he said gently, and because you were a contrarian, you chose to take at least one-sixteenth of offense.

“Are you mansplaining relationships to me?”

“Not mansplaining, just a friendly bit of advice. Take it or leave it,” he tacked on, shrugging his shoulders—damn his shoulders…

“Thanks.”

You were trying to wrestle your brain away from the thought of his bare chest again.

His bare chest… the expanse of his chiseled abs, the dip of his hips…

You looked away, your face as hot as your shame. You would not have sex thoughts about a man you were sharing a bed platonically with. You would not admit to yourself that your traitorous gaze had wandered down to the outline of certain parts while he was standing there in gray sweats and a white T-shirt that left little or nothing to your debauched imagination.

You would not.

You would not.

Santa, come get me before I forfeit all brownie points for life.

“Now this is awkward.” The words slipped out of your mouth. You pulled the sheet up to your chin as if it were a straitjacket and Tyler chuckled to himself, probably thinking that you meant awkwardness at having a moment of vulnerability rather than red-hot lust.

“Go to sleep,” he said kindly, turning back on his left side.

“Alright. Night.”

“Night.”

-

Later, you would swear it didn't happen on purpose. At some point in the night, after Christmas Eve had settled well and truly over this random Oklahoma town, the pillow fort was forgotten as you and Tyler fell asleep, succumbing to the fatigue of the day’s travel and your late-night conversations.

The first inkling you had was that your pillow was far too warm against your cheek—and it moved, up and down, like the gentle swaying of a boat upon a calm sea. When you regained enough consciousness, you realized that the “pillow” kept a beat, and that's when you realized your pillow wasn't a pillow at all but the cradle of Tyler’s chest.

He’s quite comfortable, you thought, still half-asleep. He had his arm thrown around you and the tips of his fingers rested against a patch of naked back where your shirt had ridden up.

So far, so good; you couldn’t complain about the weighted blanket treatment—at least not in your hazy, sleep-softened state. You sighed happily, snuggling further into his shirt.

You felt his arms tighten.

His breathing shift.

You were straddling the line between dream and wakefulness when you noticed his legs tangled up in yours…

…and the hard protrusion pressing right against your stomach.

You opened your eyes. Tyler was awake and springing out of bed like he had a whole swarm of bees in his bonnet.

“Oh god,” he exclaimed, “I am so sorry! That is not… I did not—”

“It’s fine,” you tried to say.

“No! No, it’s not.”

“Tyler, would you stop acting like a virgin with the vapors? It’s cold, I’m not the stillest of sleepers, nothing was meant by it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, then put it on his hip, then pointed—you didn’t know at whom, he was simply unable to be still, and the more he panicked the more you thought it was silly how he was making such a big deal out of nothing.

(Okay, so maybe it wasn't nothing, but one of you had to be the adult about it.)

“I was not trying to put the moves on you,” he emphatically declared.

“That was made abundantly clear by what you said to Carol. Also by the drool on your pillow.”

“The—”

His gaze darted. His face took on an added hue of pallid as he bent over his pillow and straightened, eyebrows battened, finding nothing there.

“See, that was mean.”

“No, that was funny,” you laughed.

The whole time, you did your best to keep your eyes trained above his shoulders, though you had a bone-deep curiosity now that you’d felt the impression of his dick against your skin.

If your periphery was to be trusted—which, your doctor said you had excellent vision in that regard—he was as well-endowed as he was rumored to be, sometimes with envy, sometimes pejoratively and in relation to his ego. Now that you’d spent an entire day crossing paths, you weren't so sure about that last bit. But you were sure that in the privacy of your own thoughts, you’d have a bitch of a time unknowing that Tyler Owens was, in every regard, unfairly blessed.

“Back to neutral corners?” you asked, patting the bed.

Tyler stared at the mattress with something like horror.

“You are not being normal about this!” you exclaimed.

“Maybe I oughta sleep on the floor.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s just for a few hours more.”

You sighed.

“Tyler James Owens, now you are the one being a muppet.”

“Take that back! And how do you even know my middle name?”

“It’s called Google. Now stop acting like a muppet and I’ll stop calling you one!”

Drat… You were so close, but your eyes snagged on the bulge in his pants at the exact moment Tyler was looking at you. There was no way to deny it.

You wiped your face of all expression.

Tyler pleaded, “Do not make this worse for me than it already is.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You don’t have to, it's written all over your face.”

Me? My face? You pointed at yourself.

Tyler huffed, “You aren't letting me forget this for as long as I live, are you?”

“Not in your dreams…” you fessed up. “Need me to pace around the hall for ten minutes, let you take care of business? I have a spare sock you can hang on the door.”

“You’re evil.”

“Nooooo, where are you going?” you needled, watching him head to the bathroom with a scowl on his face. “I was having so much fun!”

“Mind your own business!” he yelled back.

“But Tyler, it’s perfectly natural!”

He locked the door.

Only then did you cover your mouth and really let yourself have a laugh.

-

He took exactly 23 minutes. You knew because you timed him, a childish impulse you indulged in trade for not probing the question of what he might be thinking about as he got off. Obviously, you knew enough biology to not flatter yourself into believing that his morning wood was down to you; still, you allowed yourself to believe it just the tiniest bit. It made you feel better—to think he was affected by you. To believe you weren’t alone in being provoked to unexpected places.

He came up to the bed with a wary glance. On purpose, you pretended to be uncommonly interested in your nails.

“I thought you’d be asleep.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” you said, buffing a nonexistent spot on your shirt. “All good?”

“Don’t start.” He took his pillow and made for the chair.

You clicked your tongue. “You really don't have to sleep on the floor, you know…”

Which was kind.

“...I thought that was the whole point of Tyler’s Special Solo Time.”

Which wasn’t.

He rounded on you with his finger outstretched.

“Do not call it that!”

“Okay!”

“Never again!”

“Fine!”

“And for your information—that isn’t what I was doing in there.”

“Oh!” you said, genuinely surprised, “I just assumed…”

“Well, you know what they say about assuming.”

You make an ASS out of U and ME.

Color me surprised—you genuinely thought Tyler had been in the bathroom rubbing one out.

Could it be that he was too much of a gentleman to do it with you the next room over? That seemed like the likeliest explanation.

You were touched. Weirdly, inappropriately.

Also let down by the fact that you weren’t sexually irresistible enough to make him lose all sense of propriety—granted, you hadn’t been trying to be sexually irresistible at the time, more like drooling into his shirt.

“God, what?” he asked, eyes boring into yours like he was trying to crack open your mind and read it like a book, pushed to the brink when he couldn’t figure out what you were thinking or if you believed him about not masturbating in the bathroom.

“Nothing! Why are you chewing me out just because you got an erection?”

“Don’t say ‘erection’!”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m not gonna call it a boner—I’m not in middle school anymore!”

“You have gotta be kidding me…”

He face-planted onto the bed, not consciously, you didn’t think, more like the natural result of a situation that’d understandably fried his brain.

You could relate… and it was supremely satisfying to hear him say the words you’d been thinking for over a day: you have got to be kidding me, indeed.

“This is the weirdest fucking Christmas I have ever had,” he mumbled into the mattress.

You laughed, feeling not an ounce of animosity as you watched his prone form. He was funny, and he’d been nicer than you deserved. You no longer believed that he had kicked you in the back during your flight on purpose.

“What are your plans for the holidays?” you asked him, letting him off the hook about his penis.

He turned his head and searched you for any trace of nefarious intent. He answered when he was sure you weren’t going to keep messing with him.

“The team and I are going to Kate’s. Then I’m spending the start of the New Year at home, hopefully, if there isn’t another fire to put out.”

“You’re from Arkansas,” you said.

“Mm.”

“‘Regnat populus.’”

He quirked his brow.

“‘The People Rule,’” you explained. “You don't know your own state’s motto?”

“Nobody knows their state’s motto.”

“I had to learn them all for school.”

“High school?”

“Elementary.”

“Oh,” he laughed, “so you grew up rich.”

“Shut up.”

He sat against the headboard next to you, crossing his ankles.

“What made you want to become a meteorologist?”

“Seriously?” you asked.

“What?”

“It’s a cliched question.”

“It’s a getting-to-know-you question!”

You frowned.

“Why would you ever want to get to know me? I’ve done nothing but fight you since the day we met.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Plain, simple.

The lamplight made it impossible to hide a thing. There was a line between his brows, as if he couldn’t for the life of him understand why you couldn’t understand. “I like people.” You’d thought it trite at the time, you didn’t trust it, but you were thinking maybe it was true. Instead of judging you by the way you challenged, harangued, goaded, mocked, judging him, he’d kept trying to figure you out. It was one of the reasons he was good at his job—the merging of both science- and people-smarts.

If you had a brain in your head, you might learn from him. But to do that you’d have to get your head out of your ass and stop seeing him as the enemy.

Except you didn’t.

Sometime between the Heller offices and this moment in the Sunnyside Inn, your feelings towards him had changed. The animosity? Gone. All that was left in its place was a newfound respect, fresh like the layer of snow sitting over the world outside the walls of your hotel room, and, if you were being brutally honest, an attraction that was hard to ignore.

You held your breath.

His hair, glinting bronze, was sleep-mussed—the detail intimate, arousing, just like the stubble on his cheeks and the rugged line of his throat leading to the curves of those shoulders you couldn’t stop thinking about. What was that one corny-as-fuck phrase some fuckboy musician had once said?

Sexual napalm.

Tyler Owens was sexual napalm and you weren’t immune.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you said.

It was Projection 101, but in this case you weren’t entirely wrong.

Tyler’s eyes wandered down to your mouth, seductive without even trying. He was breathing as fast as you, his lips parted, tongue peeking out to wet them when he said, “Can’t.”

And that was all it took. One second you were staring at each other with twin fuck-me expressions and the next you were in his lap, your hands buried in his hair. The kiss was eager—messy—uncaring of finesse, indifferent to perfection. It was the exact opposite of the way you’d been living your life and it was mostly down to him. Even when he’d been driving you absolutely insane, there was no denying that Tyler brought out in you something hard to control. He made you ambitious, competitive, unfiltered—sometimes to an unflattering degree—but God, did it feel good.

He tilted his head and delved his tongue into your mouth. You groaned, pulled him back by the hair until you felt a rumbling sound in his throat which you decided to chase on instinct, latching your mouth onto that part of him you’d been obsessing over for the last few hours, sucking, biting, laving your way down to his clavicle.

“This is not how you get to know someone,” you joked, feeling him get hard again underneath you.

“Yeah, it is…”

“Don’t say 'biblically.’”

He laughed—it was a giggle that made you smile and peer into his face.

“You said it, not me. Are you gonna kick me out of bed later?” he asked, stroking a hand up your thigh.

“No. Are you gonna run for the hills like I soiled your virtue?”

He balked. “That is not what I did.”

“Yeah, it is!”

“Well”—he nipped your jaw, hand slyly making its own path up to your breast, which he stroked open-palmed so that you rocked your hips against his—”I promise not to be virtuous at all for the next…” He glanced at his watch. “Three hours.”

“Three hours?”

“What can I say,” he shrugged. “I’m a people pleaser. It’s my curse.”

-

Suffice to say, by the time 10:00 o’clock rolled around and you and Tyler made your way down so you could settle up the room with Carol, you were feeling like a million bucks. Not even a full spa day could have infused you with this much energy.

There was a pep in your step, a smile plastered to your face, and when Carol said, “Happy holidays! It was nice having you with us!” you were so smug that you slipped the tip in her hand and said, “Thank you, Carol, you sure made it sunny!”

Tyler cackled, but tried to do it subtly. (And failed.)

Right on the money, the snow had stopped falling during the night. It’d be a white Christmas, all right, but you should be able to drive home safely and arrive in time for lunch.

Tyler loaded your suitcase into your car, gallant as ever.

“So,” he said.

“So.”

You exchanged shy glances, which was new for you. You’d never had reason to feel shy around Tyler before, but then, you’d had him inside you not too long ago and the memory of the things you’d done, the things you’d said, which you wouldn’t admit even under threat of perjury, were enough to make you almost blush.

“We should hit the road,” you said dumbly, schooling your features into an unbothered mask.

“Yeah. I’m sure the others have already made it to Ms. Carter’s farm.”

“Well… merry Christmas.”

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

You opened your door, settled into your seat. You were about to pull the door closed when Tyler stopped it, hand closed around the top.

“Can I call you, after the holidays?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

He laughed. “Who’s holding the hot potato now, you or me?”

“I think we’re sharing this one,” you replied.

“I don’t mind that.”

“Yeah,” you said, “neither do I.”

He smiled at you for a while, then closed your door and watched you drive off. You followed his movements in the rearview until your paths diverged, then turned up the radio.

“Merry Christmas Eve, one and all! It’s a gorgeous one out there—we couldn’t have asked for better weather. Here’s one just for you. I’m sure you know it, so sing along: it’s Dean Martin and it’s our ‘Winter Wonderland,’ right here, in the heart of good ol’ Oklahoma…”

[rayroseu]

You know what's sick as hell about the design of the Briar Senates??? It's that their design mirrors the weapon of the Draconias 😭✨

I know they're getting flak rn bcs they feel like "boomers who's against any progress because they value toxic tradition" but i don't really think they're like... entirely evil lol or the root of every bad thing that happened in Malleus'/Lilia's life (though im side eyeing them as one of the perpetrators still lol)

Tbh, removing them would also cause more harm (just some social issues inside the fae society tbh) than good imo, (I know many ppl say this bcs they think removing the Senates would make it possible for the peace between human and faes, but the thing is, the Senates aren't the only group that thinks this way, almost the entirety of Briar Valley does lol so forcibly removing them now would only come off as "Malleus forcing "human ideals" on the faes just because he has spent 4 years with the humans"(plus is the understanding between humans and faes truly achieved if you try to silence one group(even if that group is kinda disagreeable with anything human related lol), plus realistically the faes would trust their fellow faes first rather than some humans,

so for me, Briar Senates doesn't give off the vibe of toxic old people who drags others down in their toxic practices (while that can be an accurate description i feel like it generalizes too much about their behaviour), rather than that, Briar Senates feels more like thorns, like thorns that surrounds Briar Valley, they're not exactly harmful unless you go against them, but ultimately they're still protection for Briar Valley.

Which makes it fitting that their design has a similarity with the Draconia's weapon, they're the thorns that protects the Draconias, even if it means sheltering them.

And, tbh, if the Senates other job is to ensure Draconias lives, they're kinda doing a "decent job"??? If we can assume through Maleficia's (and Malleus' case), since we didnt hear about her leaving the Senate's side, she managed to survive for so long, unlike Meleanor😭 Also could explain why they're so enraged when Lilia arrived with the news that Meleanor died and why they hated the weak bcs what would weakness could protect JJDSJD Kinda wish their hatred against Lilia wasnt that he was a weak bat fae, but rather they doubled down on the fact he failed protecting Meleanor, imagine if Gen. Lilia wasnt as great in magic as the fae nobles were, yet he still managed to earn a position beside the Princess, all that hard work only to fail at the most crucial time, it wouldve make sense in the Senates' side to say, "Meleanor shouldnt have appointed him" (because "he's weak from the start")

oh additionally, this is just my assumption, bcs I felt like the way the Senates recoiled when Lilia hatched the egg was kinda... random?? so this is my made up reason lol Remember, the Senates were adamant that Maleficia should only be the one to hatch the egg because she's a Draconia, but Lilia did it and he's not a Draconia, What if because Lilia hatched the egg, it also affected the development of Malleus?? Like maybe for instance, it affected Malleus' lifespan, maybe he still lives more than one thousand years but he won't live for another thousand years like a pure Draconia because he's been hatched by Lilia as opposed to who they wanted it to be, which is Maleficia, OF COURSE Lilia hatching the egg is heaps better than Malleus dying before being born, but this is just my auto thoughts regarding the random hate reaction the Senates did when Lilia hatched Malleus lol

Interestingly, the placement of the stone of Draconia against the thorns (of the Senates) can also be hinted at their relationship with them??? In Meleanor's case, her stone is on top of the thorns, which may indicate that she's not under the Senate's commands or that its just telling she just lived distantly from the Senates, most importantly her stone is bigger than the thorns which may tell the fact that the Senates worships her because she's powerful and greater than them, and she's not someone who can be trapped/ordered around within the Senates. But, tragically, in Malleus' case, his stone is under the thorns, like its telling that he's under the Senates protection at all cost and his stone is little compared to Meleanor's because he's still young.

I also have a theory that the Senates are part of Briar Valley's land, like its been canonically said that they're the dead faes of Briarland, which makes think that their death is similar to the death of Conall from Maleficent 2, when Conall was buried, his body literally morphed to the land, which makes me think this is how the Senates used to be buried, when they die, they become one with the land, that's why you can't just remove them, when they are literally the Lands of Briar Valley,,,, get it lol

Though this is making me think that if this is the case then Maleficia's city,,, if the Senate's presence are the strongest there bcs that's where they're nearly buried, does that mean around Black Scale Castle is just lowkey a graveyard.... Is that why Halloween is special for Briar Valley bcs they have close ties/respect for the dead and Halloween is essentially about honoring the dead 😭✨

Off topic, but maybe the thorns part of the Draconia's staff may also tell about their age. Notice how Meleanor's staff has 3 twists which may tell that she's atleast 300~ years old, (if each twists signifies a century), while Malleus' staff only has one twist on its thorns which is accurate considering he's only 178 years old (one century).

If this is true, I'm kinda curious about Maleficia's staff... does that mean hers will be convered in thorns (she needs at least 7 twists (7 centuries~ and more) there on her staff 😭✨)

[tacobacoyeet]

Need more dad bod Patrick pls 😔😔

thank you for asking! here is just an entire collection of my thoughts spiraling with zero structure whatsoever. there is smut, mdni!!!!

-----

i definitely think he was jumping for joy when he finally retired and started focusing on eating whatever the hell he wanted. sure, he wasn't perfect even when he was playing (it's not like he could afford a nutritionist), but he kept it together a little. until retirement. once he was free, through... human garbage disposal. in a loving way.

he’s the kind of guy who’ll finish the crusts off his kid’s sandwich while standing over the sink. who polishes off the last quarter of your cold fries without asking. who says “you gonna eat that?” mid-bite and doesn’t wait for an answer.

and he’s proud of it. the kind of proud where he’ll pat his belly and say “that’s a job well done.” the kind of proud where he lets the softness roll over the waistband of his boxers and then drags your hand there like it’s an invitation.

post-retirement patrick doesn’t own a scale. doesn’t check the mirror. he checks you. your reactions. the way you look at him when he stretches in the doorway with his belly out and his shirt rucked up. the way your mouth parts just a little like you weren’t expecting to be thinking about sex before 10am.

so like. he’s shirtless. obviously. and it’s not for you—that’s the worst part—it’s just because he doesn’t feel like putting one on. he’s comfortable. he’s retired. he’s making a toasted peanut butter and banana sandwich at 9:47 a.m. (for some fucking reason) and humming something stupid like hall & oates, and his belly is out. like round, soft, jiggling when he shifts his weight, out.

and you’re standing there, mug in hand, trying to remember how to exist because he’s licking peanut butter off his finger like it’s nothing. leaning one hand on the counter, the other lazily resting on his stomach like he forgot it’s the most distracting thing in the room. like you’re not about to spontaneously combust.

and the thing is, he knows. he knows you're staring. he thrives on it. he just keeps talking like normal, like “we outta syrup?” but his lip quirks just slightly, like he’s already imagining the way you’re gonna fold in five seconds.

and when you don’t say anything, just keep sipping your coffee and blinking at him, he grins and goes, “you want a bite or what?”

and he’s not talking about the sandwich.

and the worst part is you do want a bite. of him. you want to grab him by the love handles, sink your teeth into that spot under his pec that goes soft when he laughs. you want to press into that belly until it knocks the breath out of you, until he’s laughing again, saying shit like “jesus, baby, at least let me finish chewing.”

but then he sets the sandwich down and hooks his finger in your waistband like, “actually. nevermind. i'll make another. come here.”

and now your back’s hitting the counter, your coffee’s on the floor, and he’s got peanut butter on his chin but he’s still licking into your mouth like he’s starving. and his stomach is pressing into your stomach and it’s warm and heavy and everywhere. and that’s it. that’s your life now.

sex with dad bod patrick is like. heavy. in every possible way. the weight of him on top of you, the way his belly drapes over your abdomen when he’s grinding down into you—slow and deep and sweaty and so goddamn close. you feel everything. it’s overwhelming. it’s deliberate.

and he loves using his weight. not in a cocky, performative way—he’s not slamming you into the mattress for show (unless you want him to—in which case, yes please!). he’s just present. there’s no air between your bodies, no space to think, just the heat of his chest hair against your nipples and the scratch of his beard dragging across your throat and the solid thud of his hips when he rocks into you like he’s just settling in for the night.

god, the hair. chest hair matted with sweat, belly hair catching on your fingers as you drag your hand down. it’s soft in places and coarse in others, and you mouth at it like you’re starving. kiss your way down until you’re face-first in it, inhaling, mouthing at the stretch marks on his sides and the little crease above his waistband. the hair is thick here—dense and soft and messy in a way that feels real, like he’s too busy being yours to bother grooming it for anyone else. it trails down from his chest in an unbroken line, narrowing just enough to make your mouth water when it disappears beneath his boxers.

you nuzzle into it shamelessly. run your nose along the trail, fingers curling in the bush like it’s something sacred. it smells like sweat and skin and home. and he’s just watching you. eyes heavy, lips parted, one hand ghosting in your hair like he doesn’t want to interrupt whatever kind of worship this is. eyes heavy, jaw slack, hand buried in your hair like he’s trying not to come from the sight of it alone.

he’s got this stupid, wrecked little voice when he says your name. like he can’t believe you’re doing this to him. like you don’t realize how insane you look—naked and reverent and obsessed, licking into the softest part of his belly like it’s divine.

and the thing is, you are obsessed. because every time you climb into his lap and feel that stomach press into yours and his arms go tight around your waist, everything else just disappears. and you rock against him slow, and the jiggle is real, and he moans when you grind down and his belly pushes up between you like it’s part of the rhythm. and he feels huge. he is huge. but he holds you like you’re the only thing he can’t afford to drop.

you tell him he’s perfect and he laughs like he doesn’t believe it, but he lets you say it again. and again. until you’re both wrecked and ruined and soft, still joined, hair damp, your cheek resting on his chest where it rises and falls like a lullaby.

and maybe you whisper, “you’re mine.” and he kisses your hair and says, “always.”

and then asks if you want a sandwich.

[philosophicalparadox]

Interesting Itachi notes

(And a bit more about his ancestors because it’s relevant)

//Tumblr is letting me edit posts again, so some info has been corrected for//

Alright, well, I did not anticipate my Kisame list to be so popular — apparently some of that was NOT common fandom knowledge lol. So I figure why not do the same with his partner, especially after I’ve done labors of love to find this information over the years lol

Starting with VA’s first, once again the boy gets duped by translators. I will forever not forgive Crispin Freeman for not cutting loose like he usually does (I.e. Alucard from Hellsing) because it would have matched the energy of the way Itachi speaks in Japanese so much better lol. Contrary to English speaking fandom interpretation, Itachi talks in Japanese pretty much exactly the way Sasuke does (sassy, scathingly sarcastic, dramatic), minus the cussing and with a few more odd word choices. Itachi is fond of, not puns, precisely, but using words and phrases that have deliberately obscure or double meanings. Which is terribly ironic because he’s very direct and to-the-point about a lot of things; he does in fact mince his words, but he also doesn’t waste time talking at length unless he needs to explain something, but even then he is usually pretty short and almost, if not actually, rude about it. He also is, true to fandom interpretation, rather philosophical, which gives him a pretty idiosyncratic way of speaking; he’s bordering on rudely casual (with other Akatsuki members) if not outright being a bratty lil shit (Kisame, and when he’s dissing Madara to Sasuke) but he’s also patently well versed. He reminds me the most of Sasuke and Kakashi when he talks if that helps lol it’s so hard to explain

HOWEVER there’s one exception right at the beginning: when Itachi encounters Kakashi during their trip to Konoha, his entire (informal, rude-ish) register changes, and kicks up to a more polite but still familiar one. He essentially talks to Kakashi like he’s an old colleague, which he is, but that’s really the first clue we get about that. Asuma amd Kurenai also get a formal attention, but it’s more distant; I can only imagine Kisame had lots of questions about that after the fact lolll.

In addition to this, Itachi refers to Jiraiya as -sama, the highest order of honorific, which isn’t unusual for Jiraiya, since he’s a Sannin, however, Itachi pointedly is quite rude to and about Orochimaru, and appears to avoid even saying his name, where possible. This may be to avoid the impression of anything like closeness, since dropping an honorific can mean either disrespect or closeness such that it isn’t a requirement.

According to the Hiden and interviews with Kishimoto He’s basically a pseudo-piscivarian, in that he largely prefers to eat vegetables, especially crunchy ones like cabbage and peppers, and actually detests beef and most meat* . That said, we see him eat fish and chicken in canon, so he probably doesn’t mind white meats. Consensus on pork is non existent. He also, yes, prefers sweet foods, but also likes bitter things. His least favorite flavor profiles are Umami/savory (beef, mushrooms), acidic or spicy food and anything oily or fatty. (He shares the latter in common with Sasuke, though he’s the polar opposite in pretty much every other regard.)

His “hobby” according to Kishimoto is visiting traditional tea houses/shops. He really likes tea, and the relaxed atmosphere is soothing to him. Conversely, and unsurprisingly, he doesn’t like visiting bars or other “crowded” places.

Speaking of hobbies and habits, yes, Itachi does like to cook and clean. There’s canon evidence for this, but Kishi also has confirmed it in interviews.

The Itachi Shinden novel implies that he’s at least baseline knowledgeable about traditional medicine. (More on that later) Whether that’s normal-ish knowledge for ninja, an Uchiha thing, or a quirk of his is unclear. Kakashi has similar knowledge, and he’s a total bookworm, so perhaps they are both simply well read lol.

Maybe it’s well known, but I don’t often see people acknowledging that Itachi 1, specializes in gathering Intel, and 2. That he worked closely with Konoha’s intel division consequently. This is acknowledged directly late in the series by Aoba, Itachi’s genin sensei, who also works for Intel under Ibiki.

I’ve mentioned this in another post, but his name has a triple/quadruple meaning— “Itachi” does translate to “weasel”, but it’s also an old catch-all term for any shape-shifting Youkai, though in particular it’s often associated with Tanuki. It’s also a derogatory term for people that are dubiously trustworthy or whose intentions aren’t always clear, as well as a descriptive word whose best English equivalent is the word “skulking”, or moving around like a fox, acting benign or innocent but clearly up to something.

As a related aside, the in-canon reason for his name probably comes from Izuna, in that he was possibly named after him. “Izuna” translates as “stoat/ermine” — like a mini weasel but far more vicious lol. The name Izuna has multiple meanings also, but is a far more common old name because ermines, the winter form of a stoat, were prized for their snow white pelt— consequently, “Izuna” as a descriptor refers to something that’s pure white, or something that’s easily tainted because of its purity (like ermine pelts, which stain easily).** Which gives Madara’s name, meaning “speckled/blotched/piebald/particolour” at the surface and has a double, derogatory meaning of “blemished, scarred, (as by smallpox)”*** some degree of irony lol.

Back to Itachi though —

Let’s talk about his fighting style: there’s no official data about this, but if you watch martial arts enough it’s fairly obvious that Itachi specifically uses a very Aikido inspired style— aikido is a Japanese martial art that began in Korea, and it specializes in non-lethal disarmament by way of holding or locking an opponent into a particular position where they can’t do shit until they exhaust themselves or give up lol. It’s also a defensive style that relies on the opponent doing most of the attacking, with, again, the intent of the Aikido being to arrest their movements or otherwise disarm them principally by using their own attacks/momentum against them, and by feinting dodges to direct their attacks into prime grappling/locking position. Philosophically, Aikido strongly emphasizes non-violence and is more of a self defense art. A classic example of this that he (sort of) uses in canon is when he (as his fake self) locked Kakashi’s clone into a neck hold that forced eye contact — that is based on an actual move in Aikido that is designed to communicate intent and read the opponent’s, but in his case it just happens to work fantastically with his abilities lol. Probably the reason Kishi chose it as the basis of his moveset.

Speaking of abilities, again there’s no official data on it, but from canon interpretation it’s pretty clear that Itachi’s Genjutsu abilities (especially the Tsukiyomi) rely on the opponent seeing him, not the other way around. He can be totally blind (and in the manga at least he mostly is) and his powers still work fine as long as they seek out eye contact with him. Nearest we can tell the base sharingan works in a similar way, but also requires the user to at least be able to see their victims chakra; it can however be used to enhance other genjutsu that doesn’t originate from the Sharingan itself, as evidenced by Sai’s encounter with Sasuke, so 🤷‍♀️. Who knows how it works; I was just thinking about the fact Itachi doesn’t need hand signs to cast a genjutsu even with just his base sharingan active. He could’ve been bluffing Naruto, but if it’s true that the Sharingan can enhance a genjutsu already cast, it would lend itself to explaining that ability. (Or, in HC territory, maybe he’s taught himself to project some of the Sharingan’s power, much like Shisui could.)

Evidence that Itachi’s illness is probably respiratory comes from two things — in the Shinden novel, he uses an herb called Japanese Knotweed in English, which has medicinal uses principally related to the lungs and heart, since it’s a bronchodilator, and two, from the fact that any time a character in Naruto is severely ill they all seem to have respiratory diseases lol. Hayate dying of what looks like tuberculosis, side characters on their sickbeds with coughs, etc. there’s a cultural and industry reason why that’s so — one, lung diseases are ✨dramatic✨ and two, just like how the Victorians romanticized “consumption” (aka, tuberculosis) Japan did something very similar after an outbreak hit Kyoto in the late 1800’s, probably from a different strain brought by Dutch ships. So the image is engrained.

To add a few notes:

* The fact Itachi hates beef and isn’t fond of meat has…potentially interesting, implications. Meat, especially beef,= masculinity in Japan, so being vegetarian has long since been a very UnMasculine thing to do, and therefore is associated with cross dressers and Queer men in Japan. That he also appreciates feminine pastimes like cooking, cleaning, and tea houses (and by extension ceremonies) sets up a bit of a queer code for him lol.

** I’m not done talking about Izuna lol because, as you’d expect, it’s very often a girl name. Because yknow, purity culture stuff. Yeah Japan had it too.

*** a historical note about Madara because I just can’t justify making another list for him, 1. Madara is a common name for calico cats, especially rare male calicos, and 2. It’s not surprising that there’s a ton of correlation between Madara and historical Nobunaga, but I honestly think he got his name partly because of a stand out feature Nobunaga had — he was severely scarred from smallpox as a child. So it’s possible, though there aren’t historical accounts of it, that he might’ve been jeered at with the derogatory form of Madara. Certainly Oda Nobunaga’s clan fucking hated him lol

Anyway, I’m done for now unless I think of something else. Do with this information what you will. 🕊️

[cookies-after-dark]

Okay this isn‘t smut but I just can‘t get the idea out of my head.

So if reader‘s in a relationship with both pv and shmilk, I‘d imagine that the servants are pretty left in the dark (unless they get involved like black sapphire). What if candy apple draws her own very incorrect conclusions from this, like she sees reader with shmilk one day, with pv the next and thinks that reader‘s cheating on shmilk? She totally doesn’t want shmilk to think better of her because she ‚exposed our lies’ or smth. Which I’m not sure how shmilk would react to that phrasing with his entire thing being deceit, but maybe she thinks he’d disapprove if he’s not in control of said lies.

Idk I‘m just giggling over the image of her trying to out us at some fancy meeting where everyone in the spire is present.

I-

additional tags: cheating (ends up being false), beast x ancient, gender neutral!reader

ships: pure vanilla cookie x reader x shadow milk cookie

Listen anon you are talking to THE NUMBER ONE CANDY APPLE COOKIE FAN and my lovely beautiful wife could never ever ever do anything wrong.

But she would do this. And since it's Candy Apple Cookie, this is not wrong.

She could accuse the reader of shoving three children off the Tower of Deceit and I'd give her an award. I absolutely love this ask because this is exactly something she would do.

And it's out of the goodness of her heart! Shadow Milk Cookie deserves better than shacking up with such baseless, cheating scum and she would like nothing better than to publicly out those doughbrains so that Shadow Milk Cookie could smite them on the spot! Then, no one would be inbetween her and her beloved Shadow Milk Cookie anymore~!!!!!

Except, she's met with a blank smile from Shadow Milk Cookie, Pure Vanilla Cookie is already preparing to help the sweet woman out and explain this as delicately as possible, and you just put it bluntly. No, it's all three of you together. No sneaking around.

Shadow Milk Cookie watches Candy Apple Cookie have a tantrum for like two seconds before he huffs and turns back to his partners, "Anyways. How's the weather?"