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happy74827 · 11 months ago

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Say Yes to Heaven

[Logan Howlett x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Sometimes all it takes is one look. One gesture. One word. One action. To remind them that not everyone sees them the same, and It's enough to send a person over the edge.

WC: 3690

Category: Fluff, First Kiss, Logan’s POV

Another Grumpy!Logan x Sunshine!Reader because it’s my comfort trope ✨🫶

『••✎••』

He never realized how much he wanted someone to care for.

It was something he didn't know he desired. A year ago, he didn't care for a single thing. He felt nothing. He was so numb. So empty.

He was an angry man. The kind of man people kept their distance from. Wade ruined that; he aggravated him so much that Logan started actually caring about his life. And for as much as he despised his fugly ass, he was internally grateful for him. He started to open up more and more.

Wade had a part in taking him out of rock bottom, as they say, but you… you aggravated him in the most endearing way possible. You were so bright, so happy, and full of life. Logan couldn't understand how someone could be like that, and he hated you for it. He thought it was so ignorant of you.

"I mean, come on, how could she be that happy all the time? It's fucking dumb. She doesn't even know me!"

That's what he said to Wade, but his roommate only laughed. He found his frustration hilarious and made fun of him constantly.

And don’t even get started on the way you spoke. Never once have you raised your voice at anyone. You always talked softly, and even if you were pissed off, you still found a way to make your words sound gentle.

The man couldn’t wrap his mind around the way you acted, you weren’t a mutant, but you damn well could have been with that forever customer service smile you wore every day.

The level of patience and understanding you held for people was insane to him, especially the amount of patience you held with him.

He was constantly telling you to fuck off, and you took no offense; you just returned that stupidly kind smile and told him that if he needed anything, you were there for him.

You had no clue what he’s done, what he's capable of, and yet you treat him with the utmost respect. And being a mutant, respect, and kindness were two things he hadn’t received in a very long time.

It made him realize things—about himself and others. He started noticing you a little more—the way you looked and the way you acted. It started out as simple confusion and disgust… the typical reactions one would have when one sees an overly happy person.

But it evolved slowly into intrigue and curiosity.

Then something else. Something he couldn't describe.

His first instinct was to push it away. To try and convince himself, he was disgusted. He did this with everything he felt, but he couldn’t keep lying to himself.

It wasn't disgust.

He couldn't name it; he wasn't ready to, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Wade had noticed the change in him, the way he looked at you, the way he started being a little less rough with the words he chose to say. He didn’t bring it up, but the shit-eating grin he gave each time Logan walked in and saw you was more than enough proof that he had picked up on it.

Of course, it only resorted to grins because the one time he opened his mouth, Logan didn’t restrain himself. He popped his claws and had to go couch shopping the next day.

Whoops.

So, with Wade keeping his mouth shut after being chewed out by Blind Al and Logan trying his best to push away the foreign feelings, it finally reached a point where he could no longer ignore them.

He didn’t understand why, of all nights, it had to be this one, but it was.

It was 3 am, and his old nightmares had come back to haunt him. He was restless, sweaty, and couldn't take another second of sleep.

It took a rinsing of the bathroom sink and a pitiful glare at his reflection for you to return his gaze.

He froze for a second.

You were wearing a large T-shirt, with a pair of shorts underneath. Your hair was messy, but it looked so soft, and your face was clear of makeup, leaving the imperfections of your skin that made you all the more beautiful.

Always wearing a smile. Always greeting him with a soft voice, sometimes a little raspy if just waking up, butnonetheless soft.

But once he rubbed his eyes and let out a tired yawn, you weren’t there anymore.

Because you were never there, you lived across the street. You were in your apartment, sleeping, with no idea that, at that moment, the man who constantly told you to fuck off realized he couldn't stop thinking about you.

The same man who would grunt, scoff, and throw away every kind gesture now realized he secretly cherished them.

He stood there for a moment, just pondering his thoughts. His eyes were still on the spot he saw you in.

His head turned to the right, seeing the digital clock that rested on the nightstand.

3:02 am.

You were asleep…. most likely asleep. You would be unhappy if he came over and woke you up, wouldn't you?

He looked back at the sink.

You could be upset, but you could also be happy. You could give him that smile. That sweet, warm smile.

It would be worth it, right? Just for that?

3:04 am

He didn’t think about it. Not even for a second. Ironically, it started raining as if to test him, but the man was determined.

He put on a jacket to cover his bare chest, threw on some random shoes, and was out the door before his mind could stop him.

3:13 am

He knocked on your apartment door. He was completely drenched from the rain. His hair was messy, his jacket sticking to his body, and his shoes were so wet that the squelching sound they made was the only thing audible.

He heard shuffling. Soft steps coming closer. He could smell your scent. It shocked him how easy it was for him to recognize it.

You unlocked the door. Your brows furrowed in confusion.

His mental image of you being in sleepwear, messy hair, no makeup, had been confirmed. You were beautiful.

You had a tired look, one of the many looks he wasn’t used to. But it was still a good look, and it still held your signature kindness.

He had a feeling it would.

You didn't look too shocked, just tired and confused.

You spoke. "Logan, is…? Are you okay?"

Your voice was even softer than usual, the raspiness it held only making it more comforting.

You were genuinely worried about him, and it hit him then that he was being an asshole. Making you wake up in the middle of the night, and for what? Just because he wanted to see you?

Just because of that, he should’ve given you a reason. An explanation.

He should've asked. He should have done so many things differently, but he didn’t.

His head was in the clouds, and all he could think about was you.

You. That was all.

But his expression gave away that he was in a daze, and your worry only grew.

"Logan? What's wrong?"

You stepped out into the hallway and reached a hand to him.

His heart jumped a bit when you did so. It was just a gesture—one simple act of compassion.

He wasn't worthy of that, but he couldn't resist. He didn't want to.

Your fingers barely brushed against his upper arm before he moved. He grabbed your wrist.

His grip wasn't hard. His hold was gentle, as he had no intentions of hurting you. You could’ve easily pulled your arm away if you wanted to, but you didn't.

His eyes locked with yours. He wasn't sure what possessed him, but it felt so right, so he followed his instincts.

He tugged at your wrist, causing your body to fall into him. Your chest pressed against his. His arms wrapped around you, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other resting on the small of your back.

The embrace was so sudden, and he knew the situation was far from ideal, but his senses were overflowed by your presence, your scent, your softness.

His chin rested atop your head, and his eyes fluttered closed.

It wasn’t the first time he ever hugged someone, but it was the first time he hugged someone in such a way. He held onto you tightly, his grip possessive but not painful.

He was afraid to let go.

He felt your hands press against his chest. You were probably going to push him away, he thought, and he tried to prepare himself. He told himself he would let you go because it was the right thing to do, yet he didn’t need to.

You hugged him back, and he almost lost his footing.

How long had it been since he last received a hug? Since the last time, someone held him and showed him affection?

Too long.

Your hands went inside his opened jacket and held onto him. Your fingers pressed against his skin, and your soft, warm breaths caressed his neck.

He could stay like this for eternity, and he would never grow tired of it.

Your voice reached his ears.

"Logan, did something happen?"

He had been standing there for quite a while. He wasn’t aware of how long. Time seemed to freeze around you, but he didn’t mind. He wasn't one to believe in such nonsense, but when it came to you, he was ready to accept it.

Your hand rested on his arm, and he knew you were subtly prompting him to move, and so he did.

He pulled away from the hug just enough to look at you.

Your lips were turned upwards. The corners of your eyes creased.

"Logan?"

It was then that his actions registered—how utterly close the two of you were, how intimately you were holding each other. He was already warm just from genetics alone, but now he felt everything around him heat up.

"I-"

He didn't know what to say. It was like he was back in that bar, drinking away every thought. He couldn't think. There was nothing. Nothing but the feel of your body against his.

But what truly sealed the deal was when he felt your thumb gently caress his knuckles. It was a small movement, barely noticeable, but it was centered exactly on the scars his claws made.

That little movement made his brain short-circuit. His hands twitched. His grip tightened. He held onto you with his entire body as if scared to let you go.

"What happened?"

You were patient with him. The fact that he hadn’t even answered any of your concerns said enough.

But, eventually, he did find some words to respond with. It wasn’t the answer you were searching for, but it was a response.

"Why are you always being so fucking kind?"

It was such a simple question, and yet the amount of pain it carried was overwhelming. He knew you could hear every word behind it. Every word he couldn't bring himself to say.

He didn’t deserve it. He wasn’t a good man. He did horrible things, and sure… he made an attempt to make up for it. To be better, but it couldn’t have been enough, could it?

You were still here, looking at him with those soft eyes.

Why couldn't you look at him the way he deserved to be looked at? Like he was a monster.

Why did you have to look at him with those goddamn beautiful eyes?

"You deserve kindness, Logan. We all do."

And then, your voice became even softer and a little shaky. Your hands went back to massaging his knuckles. His scars.

"Just because you see yourself a certain way doesn’t mean the rest of us do. I see the good in you. Always have since we first met."

You spoke so softly, yet your words were heavy with emotion.

"I know it's not easy, but try to have a little more faith in yourself."

You didn’t deserve the harsh words he always threw at you. You didn’t deserve any of his anger. You didn't deserve him.

"Why?" He repeated his question, his voice strained, and you didn't miss the way his jaw clenched. "Why should I?"

His arms loosened their hold around you; his hands moved down your sides, and his touch feathered light. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t quite let go just yet.

You paid it no mind. Only staring back into his eyes with the same kindness he was so used to, the one he had grown to treasure.

"You have a right to feel the way you do, Logan. And I can't claim to understand what you've been through. I can't begin to imagine. But you are a good man. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but you’ve shown me time and time again that you're trying."

A smile crept its way onto your face, and a soft giggle escaped past your lips.

Now, to be fair, he was used to hearing your laughter. With your… odd sense of humor, it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. But, this would be one of the firsts to add to his collection.

The one reserved for him and him only.

Your laughter wasn’t loud, or annoying, or anything like Wade's. It was soft, sweet, and oh-so pleasant.

You were looking at him. Staring up at him with such love and warmth. You didn't even realize it, but he did.

"Besides, who wouldn't be a little grouchy waking up to that handsome face every morning?"

And, now, he was repulsed by the unwelcome vision of a certain masked man making his way into his head. He was so disgusted by the thought he didn’t bother responding. He didn't want to.

So, instead, he moved.

He had a habit of moving on his own and not thinking about it. It went from his hands going to your sides, and now, his hands reaching out to press against the door behind you.

You were pinned against the door, and the way you looked at him didn’t change. Of course, it didn't. Your eyes were always kind. They always were.

You were leaning against the door. Looking at him, waiting.

And he stared back.

He was so close, and he was tempted to pull away. To take a step back and leave. It would be the best for both of you; at least, he thinks so.

He couldn't give you anything.

He had nothing.

There was only himself. His body. His mind. His past.

His claws, too, if that counted for anything.

But, besides those, there was nothing.

He wasn’t a bad man, but he wasn't good either. Not like you were. He couldn’t possibly begin to match you, not even if he tried.

Which is why he had no intention of trying.

Yet, even as he thought that, his body moved even closer. The dog tags he had never taken off since he was given them hung loosely, dangling in front of your face.

One of your hands was on his chest, the other gripping onto the material of his shirt.

"Logan."

You spoke his name so softly. Almost a whisper, and yet, the sound of it was all his senses were focused on.

Your gaze shifted between his eyes and lips, and the hand that had been holding onto his shirt moved, reaching up to his shoulder.

The touch was light, as if hesitant, and it caused him to lean even closer.

It was so close. You were so close. You had been before, but never like this. Never in the way he wanted.

He wanted you so badly.

And you were right there. Looking at him with those eyes, with a soft, tender smile, and with an expression he didn't recognize.

He knew that was an invitation. You were always an open book, and your body language was no different.

And it wasn't the first time you did so.

There were many times when you looked at him. Your eyes trailing over his face. Your gaze went downwards, lingering before you snapped out of it and looked away.

He always saw it, always knew it was there, but he just chose to ignore it. He wasn’t in the right mind, then. He was just another broken man, struggling to get by, trying his best.

Trying to find some meaning in his life.

But, even now, he was still hesitant. Even after coming all the way here and making his intentions clear, he struggled with it.

"Are you sure?"

Because you were so much better than him.

Because he could still remember the day the two of you met. How much of an asshole he was, how rude, how angry.

It wasn’t until the seventh time you approached him that he realized that he had met someone who genuinely, wholeheartedly cared.

It wasn't until the twentieth time you approached him that he finally accepted it.

He could never forget the way you smiled and spoke to him, even though he had given you no reason to.

"Hi, Logan!"

You would say.

"Good morning!"

You would wave.

"Have a nice day, Logan."

You would nod, even though the man himself chose to ignore you. Goddamn it. You were so much better than him.

Much purer. Much more innocent.

You had a heart of gold, and a soul as white as snow. You were so good, so kind, and the thought of soiling you, of ruining your light with his darkness, it scared him.

It was the sole reason he didn't give in, even now, with you offering yourself to him.

He didn't want to ruin you.

"Yes."

No hesitation. No second thoughts.

Your eyes were so kind. So full of love, and the same emotion reflected back in his own.

But, even with the clear sign of assurance, he still felt the need to create one last line of defense.

With the hand against the door, he peeled it back enough to have your eyes catch sight of the fist it made.

In a millisecond, he unleashed his claws and slammed his fist against the door, the sharp adamantium easily slicing through the wood, causing the door to crack.

And, yet, no reaction. Not a single flinch, not a wince, not even a hitch of breath.

You weren't afraid. Not at all. Even as the claws were mere inches from your face, you weren't scared.

The corners of your mouth twitched. Upwards, and it soon bloomed into a bright smile.

He retracted his claws, and gave you another once-over, just to be sure, and you responded by lifting your hand, grasping the metal chain hanging from his neck.

Your fingers grazed against the cool metal, and your smile softened before turning into a small grin.

"For a man who states he isn’t scared of anything, you sure have a lot of defense mechanisms, Logan."

Teasing. That was a new one for you.

He liked it.

"Say it again." Now, finally, you showed a different expression. Confusion mixed with curiosity. You were wondering what he meant. "My name."

"Logan."

For you, his actions were mere seconds. You had no time to process the feeling of his breath against your lips. The feeling of his stubble tickling your skin. The feeling of his warm, dry lips pressed against yours.

But, for him, it was a slow, steady motion. He took his time. He pulled you closer, his hands moving from the door and cupping the back of your head and your waist.

The kiss was soft. Gentle. Nothing rushed.

He held you like you were fragile. Like you were made of porcelain and could break at any moment. He could, theoretically, but he would rather go through Cassandra’s entire repertoire of torture than hurt you.

He lifted you up. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your arms around his neck, his own pulling you closer, his fingers digging into your skin.

You tasted exactly how you were. Pure. Sweet.

Like heaven.

He was sure he was leaving that of the bitter alcohol he had downed on your lips, but you didn't seem fussy about it.

Not that he could focus on anything else, anyway.

He was too distracted by the way his tongue danced with yours.

Too focused on the taste of your mouth.

Too distracted by the way your hands made themselves a home in his wet hair. They would tug every once in a while, releasing a groan he hadn’t known was there.

He was too distracted to care.

He was too lost in your scent. Wade always called him that character from that shity vampire movie due to his nose.

He always disagreed until you happened to mention the resemblance. Then, and only then, did he see the logic.

And you saw the logic here, too—the logic of how good you melted together. Experiencing it now made him question his decision to stay away.

If it was always going to be this good, this intoxicating, he should’ve done it a long time ago.

He should've taken the chance.

It would've saved the two of you a lot of frustration, and a lot of headaches.

But it didn't matter. He was here now.

And, as his foot broke into the door, mouth still latched onto yours, with him figuring his way about your apartment, he thought:

It doesn't matter.

As long as I’m here.

As long as you’re in my arms.

It doesn't matter.

Fortunately, that meant he didn’t have to wake up to that toupee-stapled face every morning, as he had so dreadfully imagined.

Unfortunately, it also meant that the next time he saw Wade, he would have to deal with him talking his ears off about what had transpired.

But, for now, he could live with that.

He was more focused on the fact on making sure you weren’t regretting your choice.

Because he sure as fuck didn’t.

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cloverapple · 6 months ago

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How I Shift On Command + How You Can Too

I don’t plan on posting anything other than this or starting a blog, so I don’t need anyone to “believe” in me. The only person you should trust is yourself—trust yourself to resonate positively with what you see online and click away if it doesn’t serve you. This is here for you to take from if it resonates. I literally only made this blog to post this here. My hope is that it reaches at least one person who can take something from this and apply it to their shifting journey. If not, and this post ends up here untouched, I’m just glad to finally get everything down in words and off my chest.

Jumping straight to the answer because I’m not going to make anyone sit through a long post for it. The rest, the "advice," is here if you want to read it.

The "method"

I figured out what works specifically for me as an individual instead of following everyone else’s journey. Everyone has their “thing” that makes shifting click, a sweet spot that makes reality shifting possible. For me, it’s a combination of the law of assumption and inducing an altered state of consciousness.

During the day, I spend time affirming—or sometimes just reminding myself or keeping a little note nearby—things like:

I can shift.

I know how to shift.

I could shift tonight.

Shifting is accessible to me.

At night, I watch videos, look at Pinterest boards, or listen to music that reminds me of my DR. This ingrains where I’m going in my brain. Sometimes I do this for fun, and other times I skip it entirely.

When I lay down, I always lie on my back and stay somewhat still because I like the feeling of my body going numb. This isn’t necessary to shift, but I enjoy it—it lets me feel the symptoms of hypnagogia (that in-between state of wakefulness and sleep).

To meditate quickly, I count from 1 to 100 with a few affirmations in between to remind myself of what I’m doing. I do this until my body goes numb, and I start messing up the counting. Usually, the mistakes or random, nonsensical thoughts are my signal to start shifting.

At this point, I begin affirming the things I affirmed during the day:

I could shift right now.

I have the ability to shift.

I have the power to shift at any moment.

While I do this, I focus on the feeling of being in my DR—not my surroundings, not my senses, just the internal feeling of being there.

This is where “brazen impudence” comes in. I hard-force myself to feel like I’m in my DR. It’s not about imagining my surroundings but purely about embodying the feeling of being there.

Hypnagogic imagery and sensations like floating often kick in at this point. These are symptoms of your body falling asleep so your awareness can take shape in that sweet spot for shifting.

I continue this, then stop and start counting from 1 to 100 again, with affirmations like:

I can shift.

I know how to shift.

I could shift right now.

Then I repeat the process: using brazen impudence to force myself to feel like I’m in my DR.

Eventually, I reach that threshold between sleep and wake—a liminal state of pure consciousness. Body asleep, mind awake, I call this the “rabbit hole” which is honstly just a deep state of hypnogogia. It’s a state where anything is possible: lucid dreaming, astral projection, slipping into the void, shifting—anything.

When I’m in this state, I use brazen impudence to force myself to feel like I'm shifting to my DR and don't take no for an answer (I tell myself I'm in Barbados and shut the door in my own face). This can involve affirmations or just talking myself through it, either way I wake myself up there. Occasionally, I simply relax, expect to wake up in my DR, fall asleep, and wake up shifted.

Does all that sound complicated? Let me simplify:

Lay down and get comfortable.

Count from 1 to 100 on a loop with affirmations in between until you mess up the counting, get sleepy, or have your mind wander. Like this:

Me: *counts from 1 - 100* Me: *says a few affirmations/askfirmations* Me: *counts from 1 - 100* Me: *says a few affirmations/askfirmations*

On a loop until...

Persist in the feel of being in your DR—not focusing on surroundings or senses, just the feeling. Feeling is the secret.

Alternate between steps 2 and 3 until you’re in that relaxed body asleep/mind awake state, OR just straight up hypnogogia tbh. (That is, if you don’t already shift lol)

From there, choose what feels right: shift from a lucid dream, affirm, slip into the void, or just feel yourself in your DR like I do, convince yourself that either you shifted and are there, or are shifting and will end up there.

One thing I’ll tell you now—regardless of your circumstances, how long you’ve been trying, how long it’ll take, who you are, etc—is that you already know how to shift. You, reading this right now. You know how to shift, and there’s nothing you did to learn it. There’s nothing you can do to unlearn it. It’s something that will stay with you until the end of time.

Why do you think people shift randomly without prior knowledge of shifting? Even people who don’t believe in it? It’s because everyone can shift. You can shift.

Right now, stop reading this post and say in your head or out loud, “I already know how to shift.” Or, if that doesn’t feel right, “I already have the ability to shift,” “No matter what, I have the power to shift,” or “My mind knows how to shift no matter what.”

Can you argue that? No, you can’t. And if your mind starts throwing out “buts,” go back and read that again.

Shifting isn’t difficult, and no one struggles to shift. I’m sure you’ve heard it before—that shifting is simple and happens in seconds—because it does. You don’t struggle with shifting. You can shift; everyone has the power to. What you “struggle” with, so to speak, is figuring out what works for you, what your brain likes, how it operates—because everyone is different.

What ended up working for me more than anything was figuring out how I operate and modifying shifting to fit me—not forcing myself to fit shifting.

Will my method work for everyone? I have no idea. Unless you assume it will work for you, this is what works for me. I’m me, and you’re you.

Before you say “Oh, but I’ve tried everything and nothing has worked so far” and expect me to sit here and ask you “but have you really tried everything? <3” , listen to me.

I could shift perfectly well with my own personal method before I started shifting regularly. I knew it worked well for my brain, but the thing that “blocked” me (so to speak) were my assumptions.

When you sit there and say “I’ve tried everything and nothing has worked” that’s your assumption about yourself. You believe that nothing works for you, that you don't know how to shift, that you’re this powerless, lost baby shifter who needs guidance.

There’s nothing wrong with this, it’s not your fault, and theoretically you could shift even with your “blockages” (I really hate that term), as shifting waits for no one.

This is why so many people shift randomly and with poor assumptions without meaning to. But you clicked on this because you want to know how you can shift consistently + on every time, and this is the answer I’m giving you.

You find out what works better for you, be it affirming, visualizing, scripting, shifting awake, shifting asleep, shifting with hypnagogia, shifting with hypnopompic, shifting through lucid dreams, shifting with brazen impudence, through SATs, robotic affirming, through letting go, through putting your DR on a pedestal, through listening to music, through law of assumption alone, and many more.

If that sounds overwhelming, please note that all of these are the same vehicles that get you to your destination. Just in different shapes and colors. Like how some people drive a car, others drive a motorcycle, others walk, others swim. The movement forward is always the same.

What you’re doing, no matter how you’re doing it or in whatever state of consciousness you’re doing it from, will always be:

Assume it's true, feel it, receive it. “Assume and persist,” “ground yourself in the assumption,” you’ve heard it all before.

How to Find What Makes You Shift On Command

You could either test different techniques (affirmations, visualizations, scripting, lucid dreaming, etc.) and see what feels natural to you.

You could (and I love this one because it’s a cheat code) Assume you already know what works, and let the law of assumption guide you. “Manifest it” so to speak.

Pay attention to your life, because you already shift on command, you've been doing it your whole life, but I guarantee you haven't noticed it. Pay attention to you, like how easily you slip into hypnagogia, your dream recall, or how strong your intuition is, maybe you put too much emotion into a scenario you don’t want in your life and it inherently manifests, things like that. Pay attention to the thing that makes you go “huh, that was weird”

“But Clover, I tried everything you mentioned above and still haven’t found my method!”

My darling. Listen up. Come closer—I’m about to let you in on a secret. The way you apply the law of assumption isn’t one-size-fits-all, because assumptions and beliefs are not linear. It's the same every time, yes, it's a law. But just like you, the way you can use it is unique to each person.

Let me tell you how easy it is so you don't think I'm over-complicating it

You could, for instance, believe you’ve got $1000 in your bank account right now and act like it, fully living in the end. Or you could believe you’re going to have $1000 in your account and act like it’s already on its way. Or maybe you believe something’s going to happen that’ll bring you that $1000.

The same applies to shifting. It’s been a game changer for me. I used to struggle so much with things like:

“You’re already in your DR, just act like it.”

“Ignore the 3D.”

“You’ve already shifted.”

Do those methods work? Absolutely, they work beautifully. But like I said, if it doesn’t feel good or true to you, don’t force it.

My dearest, darling reader. If the story you see in your 3D is that you can’t shift, can’t find what makes you shift, are you just going to sit there and accept it? What is more satisfying? Think with me here: accepting that you don’t know how to shift and cannot shift, or persisting that you do know how to shift?

“Clover, but I’ve been trying for 4 years! I’ve tried everything and I still haven’t shifted”

So that's your story? Your story, your assumption is that you’ve been trying for 4 years and haven’t shifted? If you’ve resonated with the phrase above, that’s your story. And there’s nothing wrong with it, but! there will be no magic solution for shifting. Or a magic method. Or a person like me giving you advice, that can make you shift without you changing your assumptions first.

“But I don’t want to reprogram my mind! It doesn’t work for me. I don’t want to do robotic affirming 24/7, I want results now!”

I know, right? It’s annoying having to do these 100-step methods, and drink charged water, and have to beg the universe for your desire, and loop affirmations in your mind that directly contradict what you’re experiencing in the 3D.

“Oh ignore the 3D, the 4D is your only real imagination!” they say, as you sit there, clutching your phone, rocking back and forth in bed, repeating affirmations you don’t resonate with while dreaming of being railed by your S/O.

Believe me, I've been there, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I asked myself why couldn't these basic steps that worked for everyone else work for me. I blamed myself for not trying hard enough, for being lazy, for inconsistent. When all that time, the answer was me. I needed to manifest/shift in a way that felt good for me.

Just remember, the law of assumption isn't complicated, and the way you apply it is not one-size-fits-all. Reprogramming the mind through continuous repetition and affirmation works, and if that resonates with you or feels effective, you should absolutely go for it.

However, at its core, you don’t inherently need to reprogram your mind. It’s as simple as assuming your mind has already been reprogrammed and watching it unfold before your eyes. You do what feels right to you.

For example, if person A does better with visualization and listening to music, why on earth are they affirming and listening to subliminals?

If person B feels better scripting in a notebook, why the hell are they reprogramming their mind?

If person C feels good reprogramming their mind, why are they taking the simple route?

Funny, isn't it? Which is why if you've read all of this so far, and you have not resonated with it, just click away. Go find another post or advice that feels true to you. The words I'm writing right now are not universal, they're not the absolute truth. That's the beauty of the law of assumption. Whatever you believe to be true, becomes true.

I didn’t feel good with the affirmations “I’m already in my DR” and “I already shifted.” Do they work, are they true? Yup, but I didn’t feel good ignoring the 3D, even when I knew the 4D was the true reality. So I swapped them for affirmations like "I'm shifting to my DR", “I’m going to shift to my DR”, swapping things like “I already shifted” to “I’m shifting” because those are the kinds of affirmations my brain loves.

I've heard a silly bit of misinfo that these affirmations stating future events put you in an infinite loop, and that they don’t make you achieve your desire. That’s not true? At all? Makes me laugh, really. Because here I am, “master shifter” or whatever name people give it in this reality, shifting as much as I want to wherever I want with these types of affirmations.

Yet here I see every day on the internet, people implanting stubborn little rules and regulations to a practice that has been done for ages, a universal law that will work even when you don’t care for it to work.

How I Shifted The First Time

The law of assumption is what made me shift in the end. Initially, I surprised myself at the beginning of my shifting journey because I shifted three months after starting it. I woke up one morning in my DR room, felt it was real, knew it was possible, but accidentally shifted back because it was too good to be true.

What followed was a period of losing my mind; I shift back to my DR for a few seconds (mini-shifts), fully shifted to different rparallel ealities, and filled the hell out of shifting journals with my discoveries as I went along. But I never fully shifted to my DR and stayed there. I wanted to permashift. I was so focused on leaving my CR and going to my DR permanently, frustrated because I knew I could shift, knew how to in theory, but was stuck in this endless loop of assuming I couldn't make myself shift and had to rely on spontaneous shifts.

And then one night it clicked when I was reflecting on the law of assumption and reality shifting. I knew shifting was real. I knew I could shift. Everyone can shift. I had shifted before. I would continue to shift even if I gave up on shifting. I could shift that night if I wanted to. I could shift that night even if I didn't want to. I knew how to shift. And so do you.

These are all assumptions I went to sleep with in mind, laying there, feeling like an idiot as it all clicked for me.

If there was no doubt in my mind that I could shift that night, why wouldn’t I be able to shift?

What followed was an overwhelming sense of peace washing over me. I let go. What more was there to be done? I could shift. There was no crying or screaming that could make me shift more than I could right then.

I laid there and started my process. Just like I mentioned earlier. I began counting from 1 - 100 on a continuous loop. With affirmations that I could shift, I knew how to shift , I could shift that night.

And then I reached hypnagogia, and began inducing the feeling of being in my DR, just like I mentioned earlier. That liminal space rabbit hole shortly followed. I could go anywhere I wanted then. I could lucid dream. I could astral project. I could slip into the void. I could shift, and I did. Just…letting go and inducing the feeling of being in my DR. Not the surroundings, not the 5 senses, no affirmations. Just knowing that I was in my Dr.

It was peaceful.

I was at ease.

And then I was woken up by a violent crack of thunder because my dumbass scripted my DR wakeup scenario to be in the middle of spring, and it was raining -_-

I woke up in my DR, fully grounded, fully there, pinching my skin purple because I couldn't believe I was looking out the window at my DR city.

I wish I could tell you that I remained cool, but I so didn’t. I sat in bed for a good 10 minutes, mouth agape, repeating “oohh fuck it’s real….ohhh my god it’s real…whaaat the hell.”

And then I paced around my room panicking, giggling like an idiot, checking my DR phone because all my friends and DR life was on there as evidence, opening drawers, looking at myself in the mirror, and straight-up freaking out.

What followed after that was incredible, something I lack the words to describe. I spent a few weeks in my DR before shifting back, spending a few weeks here and then shifting back–here, back, here, back and forth, spending more time in my DR then my CR to the point where I consider my DR my true reality, and this one as my “other” reality.

I shifted back here in early December of last year, and I’m here now before I shift back permanently—meaning, I’ll shift there, and then the next time I shift will be to another DR or a waiting room somewhere in the multiverse. I’m taking a "break" so to speak and hanging out here until events I scripted in my DR start to happen, and my life changes (positively, all good things I assure).

I’m not sure if the person or people who find this post will care, but my other reality was originally called my “Witch DR”, where, as the name suggests, I’m a witch :) But not the fun kind, with a broomstick, a cauldron, and a pet cat though 😂The kind where I have to be up early for work in the mornings, can’t keep a cat because the building I live in doesn’t allow it, and have more responsibilities there than I do in this reality.

One thing I didn’t expect about shifting before I lived there the first time is that—it’s life. You will have good days. You will have bad days. You will fuck up. You will laugh so hard that soda comes out of your nose. You will cry more than you ever have. And the people you once saw on a TV screen are very real, and can be very annoying lol. I miss my DR friends dearly right now, but I can’t go poking around the internet for videos and pictures of them because it feels so weird.

Gut feelings are strange. I use them as a compass in both realities whenever I have to manually flap the butterfly’s wings and take a route. I felt compelled to write this post, and I’m not sure why. But if what this post has the power to help one singular person and help them realize their power, I'll be beyond happy.

#reality shifting #shifting #shifting community #shifting blog #shifting motivation #shifting reality #permashifting #shifting methods #shifting success #shiftblr #shifting antis dni #shifters #shifting storytime #shifting tips #respawning

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luna-azzurra · 2 months ago

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Vibes for Characters #3

Who Wear a Mask So Well, They’ve Forgotten Their Real Face

(The ones who are always what other people need and don’t know how to be anything else)

⛧ Mirrors the energy of whoever they’re talking to. You like jokes? They’re funny. You want quiet? They’re calm. You want deep? They’ve got metaphors. ⛧ Looks in the mirror and always thinks something feels… off. Like they’re wearing skin that isn’t quite theirs. ⛧ Doesn’t have favorite things, only the ones that make other people smile. ⛧ Says “no worries!” while bleeding out emotionally behind their back. ⛧ Knows exactly what to say to make someone feel seen, but has no idea how to ask for that in return. ⛧ When alone, they go silent. Like the absence of an audience erases the performance—and there’s nothing left. ⛧ Changes tone, style, even posture depending on who they’re with. ⛧ Has friends in every circle, but no one they call at 2am. ⛧ Desperately wants someone to look past the glitter and say: “You don’t have to do that. You’re allowed to just be.” ⛧ Tells stories like they’re happening to someone else. ⛧ Always “fine.” Always helpful. Always on. Until they’re not. ⛧ Has a dream version of themselves they only let exist in daydreams. Somewhere where they’re messy, soft, real and still loved.

Who Would Die for Everyone but Don’t Think Anyone Would Mourn Them

(aka the quiet martyrs, the ones who love big but feel forgettable)

⛧ Always offering to help. Always the one who stays behind to clean up. ⛧ Doesn't ask for favors—not because they don’t need them, but because they don’t believe they’re allowed to take up that kind of space. ⛧ When someone thanks them, they brush it off with “It was nothing.” ⛧ Treats their own pain like a footnote. (Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.) ⛧ You could compliment them, and they’d smile, but their eyes would still say Why are you being so nice to me? ⛧ Constantly afraid of being annoying, even when they’ve barely spoken. ⛧ Hides their breakdowns by being “the responsible one.” Always smiling, always functional, quietly unraveling. ⛧ Finds comfort in tasks. Dishes. Errands. Anything that gives them purpose. ⛧ Would take a bullet for you and apologize for bleeding on your shirt. ⛧ Thinks no one really knows them, but blames themselves for that. ⛧ Their phone background is a quote that hurts. (“You are enough” makes them cry a little in the dark.) ⛧ If someone did tell them they matter, they’d cry, and then probably never believe it again.

Who Are So Emotionally Numb, They Don’t Realize They’re Already Breaking

(For when burnout becomes a personality trait and disassociation is just Tuesday)

⛧ Says “I don’t care” a lot. Usually means “I can’t afford to.” ⛧ Lives in a weird fog, can’t remember what they had for lunch or what day it is, but somehow still functioning. ⛧ Never first to speak in a group. Often doesn’t speak at all unless directly asked something. ⛧ Laughs at the right times. Smiles when expected. You wouldn’t know anything was wrong unless you really looked. ⛧ Hasn’t cried in a long time. Not because they’re fine, because they forgot how. ⛧ Avoids mirrors. They don’t recognize the person looking back. ⛧ Can’t get excited about anything anymore, but keeps pretending like they can. ⛧ Keeps busy to outrun the numbness. Lists, routines, always moving. ⛧ Their sleep is either 12 hours or none at all. No in-between. ⛧ Gets caught staring at nothing, often. Blames it on “spacing out.” They’re not. ⛧ Doesn’t think about the future. The idea of hope is exhausting. ⛧ Still shows up. Still tries. That might be the most heartbreaking thing of all.

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fleurbly · 1 month ago

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SOME HELL TO TAKE US TO HEAVEN

summary: the silence between you and him breaks the night you seek the gardener's touch, but it's remmick who finds you— bloodstained and defiant. blood stains everything, and remmick's claim is darker and more relentless than ever.

warnings: infidelity (just a smooch on the lips dw), angst, explicit content, sex in front of a corpse, blood kink, breeding kink if you squint, themes of: jealously, obsession, and possessiveness, violence (very subtle), oh and did i mention finger licking smut.

pairing: remmick x reader

w/c: 7k+

MINORS DNI, DNI IF TAGS AFFECT YOU

You don’t remember what day it is.

It never matters.

The curtains are always drawn. The clocks are always quiet. The house is too big, too clean, and too still—like it’s waiting for something. Or maybe mourning something that already happened.

You move through it like you’re underwater. Every step soft, every room colder than the last. The halls stretch on forever, filled with portraits you don’t recognize and furniture no one ever uses.

Servants pass you in silence. Eyes down. Hands folded. Like they’re scared of you. Or worse—trained.

You don’t speak. You don’t sleep.

You just… exist.

And Remmick?

He watches you like he’s still afraid you’ll disappear. Like he hasn’t already taken everything that made you you. He walks beside you, sits across from you at the long dining table, always close, always quiet. Pretending this is normal. Pretending you’re his.

But you remember the moment it all changed.

The pleading. The bite. The way his hands shook when he held you down and said, “I won’t let you go.”

You didn’t want forever.

He gave it to you anyway.

Now you wake up in silk sheets and live in a world you never chose. A beautiful, lifeless cage. A body that doesn’t age. A heart that doesn’t beat.

And somewhere deep down, past the numbness, past the quiet—

You’re starting to feel angry.

You sit at the long dining table, the weight of the silverware pressing cold against your fingers. The breakfast on your plate sits untouched for minutes, the eggs turning gray and the toast hardening. You drag your fork around the plate, making little circles but not really eating. You don’t remember the last time you felt hunger—or anything much at all.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. Only the faint rustle of curtains in the breeze and the distant creak of floorboards remind you it’s alive.

Remmick is across from you, staring in that calm, quiet way he always does. It’s been weeks—maybe months—since either of you spoke more than what was necessary. The silence between you is thick and cold, like a wall neither wants to break.

You stare down at your plate again, wishing you could disappear into the cold marble beneath your feet.

Then, finally, he speaks.

“We brought in a gardener,” he says, voice low and rough like it’s no big deal.

You lift your head, surprised. “A gardener? That’s pretty dumb, don’t you think? Bringing someone new here when we ain’t even allowed outside.”

He shrugs, like it don’t bother him none. “Agnes wanted it. Said the place’s been dead quiet for too long. Said we needed somethin’ living around.”

You know Agnes. The old woman who’s been here forever, watching you both with eyes that never miss a thing. She’s the only one who knows everything. She knows what Remmick did to you—how he stole your life and made you this.

You stare at Remmick. “You know Agnes knows what you did. She knows you forced me into this. You took my life and left me stuck.”

His eyes darken. “I did what I had to. I ain’t about to lose you—not again.”

You shake your head bitterly. “Well, hiring a gardener so I can watch someone else live while I’m trapped here? That’s just cruel.”

He doesn’t say nothing else. Just leans back and watches you, calm but burning underneath.

You stare at him a moment longer, the silence stretching between you like a thick rope pulling tight.

Finally, you break it. “Does Agnes even know what it’s like? Being stuck in this place, livin’ forever like some damn ghost? Watchin’ the world move on without you?”

Remmick’s jaw tightens. His eyes flick away, then back, like he’s fighting some words. “She knows more than you think. Been around long enough to see what all this does.”

You scoff, bitter and sharp. “Yeah, well, seeing ain’t the same as caring.”

He leans forward then, that rough voice low and steady. “I care. More than you know. Don’t mean it ain’t hell, but it’s hell with me by your side.”

You want to yell at him. To tell him he can’t fix this, that you don’t want his kind of ‘care.’ But the words catch somewhere deep, tangled with the pain and anger you both bury.

So you stay quiet.

Remmick’s gaze softens for the briefest second, then hardens again like he’s pulling himself back from something.

“Look,” he says, voice rough but honest, “I’m tryin’. Maybe not the way you want. But I’m here. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You want to believe him. You want to reach across the table and grab whatever’s left of him. But all you do is swallow the lump in your throat and stare at the cold silverware in your hands.

Outside, somewhere beyond these walls, the gardener moves through the grounds. A reminder that life still breathes—even if you don’t.

You stand in the darkest corner of the big, empty room, where the sunlight never quite reaches. The curtains block most of it, but thin slivers sneak through, carving pale lines on the floor and dust motes drifting lazily in the air. It’s cool here, the only place you feel safe from the harsh, burning world outside—because you know you can’t touch it.

Outside the window, the gardener moves through the sprawling gardens, wiping sweat from his forehead and rolling up his sleeves. His skin shines faintly, alive and warm in a way you’ll never be again. You watch him carefully, fascinated, like he’s a mystery you don’t quite know how to solve.

He’s new. Someone who’s not bound by the silence or the rules of the house. Someone who probably hasn’t been told to never speak to you or anyone else. And maybe, just maybe, someone who reminds you what it feels like to be mortal.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the windowsill, gripping it as if it might hold you in place. You’ve never felt this strange mixture of jealousy and hope. You don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know if he sees you.

The house feels heavy around you, like it’s trying to pull you back into its cold grip.

Curiosity pushes you forward, and before you know it, you’re moving quietly down the marble staircase, your footsteps silent against the thick rug. You slip through the halls, careful to stay in the shadows, your heart hammering in a way it hasn’t in years.

You round the corner near the kitchen just as the gardener comes through the back door, pushing his shirt up over his head to wipe the sweat from his neck. His skin gleams faintly, muscles flexing with the motion.

You don’t mean to make a sound, but your sudden breath catches in your throat, and you startle him.

He spins around, eyes wide and alert, the shirt falling back into place.

You hold up your hands, trying to calm him. “Sorry… didn’t mean to scare you.”

He blinks, recovering quickly. “Uh… no worries. You’re…?”

…someone who’s not usually seen,” you say, lips curling into the ghost of a smile. “But I live here.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if you’re joking or testing him. “Didn’t know anyone was home. I’ve been out there all morning.”

“I noticed,” you say, voice softer now. “From the upstairs window.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still a little out of breath. “Guess I should’ve waved.”

That almost makes you laugh. Almost. You step closer, just enough so you’re no longer tucked behind the hallway wall, but still safely out of reach of the sunbeams stretching across the floor.

“You’re the new gardener,” you say, like you’re confirming it for yourself.

He nods. “Yeah. Nate. Got the job through an old lady—Agnes, I think?”

That name makes your spine stiffen.

You nod once, slowly. “She’s been here a long time.”

“She kinda runs the place?”

You huff under your breath. “Something like that.”

He looks at you again, this time longer. Not in a rude way, just… curious. Trying to place you. “You don’t look like staff.”

“I’m not.” You glance past him at the open back door. Bright light spills in, touching the edge of the stone floor. You don’t go near it.

He follows your gaze, then looks back. “You alright?”

You pause. It’s not a question you get asked. Not by anyone real. Not for years.

“I’m fine,” you lie. “Just… not used to new faces.”

“Well,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans again, “guess we’ll have to fix that.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t turn away either.

And when he walks past you toward the hallway, whistling low under his breath, you feel something strange stir in your chest.

Something close to warmth.

Something dangerously close to wanting.

You’re still watching the hallway where the gardener disappeared when a voice, low and surprised, cuts through the silence behind you.

“Well, I’ll be.”

Your body tenses. Slowly, you turn your head.

Remmick stands just behind you, arms crossed over his chest, leaning lazily against the doorway like he hasn’t been watching this whole time. Like he didn’t just catch you somewhere you never should’ve been.

He raises an eyebrow, eyes cutting toward the door.

“You lost or somethin’, sweetheart?”

You blink, mouth parting. “I was just…”

“Just what?” he asks, stepping further into the hall, boots soft on the rug. “Wanderin’? Sightseein’? Didn’t know this dusty corner of the house got so interestin’ all of a sudden.”

You don’t answer. You don’t lie, either.

Remmick watches you a moment longer, then tilts his head slightly.

“You’ve been actin’ strange,” he says, quieter now. “Since the new hire showed up.”

You look back toward the door. “It’s nothing.”

“Yeah?” His voice drops, soft but sharp. “You sure? ’Cause I ain’t seen you downstairs in… what, months? And now you’re standin’ here like you’re waitin’ on somethin’. Or someone.”

You clench your jaw, gaze fixed on the sliver of sunlight crawling across the tiled floor.

“I’m not waitin’ on anyone,” you mutter.

Remmick steps closer, slow and deliberate. Not enough to crowd you — just enough to remind you he’s always near.

“Agnes said you been quiet lately,” he says. “Quieter than usual. Though then once this boy shows up, and suddenly you’re wide awake. That ain’t nothin’, darlin’. That’s somethin’.”

You finally turn to face him. His expression is unreadable, calm, but watching you like a hawk.

“You spying on me now?” you ask, voice cool.

He chuckles under his breath. “You really think I ever stopped?”

You hate that he’s probably right.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway feels too still. Like the house is listening.

You fold your arms, lean back against the wall. “You jealous?”

Remmick’s mouth twitches, but not into a smile.

“I don’t get jealous,” he says. “I get curious. And right now, I’m real curious why you’re suddenly watchin’ a man who don’t even know what you are.”

You look away, throat tight. “He doesn’t matter.”

His voice lowers. “Then why’re you still starin’ at that door like he’s comin’ back?”

You don’t answer.

And Remmick doesn’t push.

After a long moment, he sighs, voice low and rough. “I don’t know what you’re playing at,” he says, stepping closer, eyes sharp. “But if I were you, I’d stop. Before I cut off your little… interactions with him.”

You turn to face him, eyes hard.

“Cut me off?” you repeat, voice steady. “You think you can control who I talk to now?”

He shrugs, but there’s something dangerous in his calm.

“I don’t have to control you. You choose to stay here. In that room. Away from everything. Away from me.”

Your jaw tightens.

“Maybe I choose it because it’s the only place I don’t have to feel your breath on my neck.”

Without another word, you turn sharply on your heel and stride away, each step fueled by the fire burning beneath your skin. Your anger drowns out the heavy silence, your heart hammering louder than your footsteps.

Remmick’s voice cuts through the still air, rough and urgent, but you don’t look back as he yells out your name angrily.

It had been more than a month since the gardener arrived.

Since Nate arrived.

Time slipped strangely in this place — too fast when you wanted it to slow down, and agonizingly slow when all you wanted was change. You had been watching him from windows, from shadowed hallways, from the corners where the light didn’t reach. And during that time, Remmick had… changed.

He wasn’t gone. Not really. He still lingered in doorways, in mirrors, in the space just behind your shoulder. But he spoke less. Watched more. Distant — or something like it. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe what he was to you. Not a lover. Not anymore. Not since that last touch that barely felt like one. Not since you started counting the silence between his visits.

You thought maybe he was pulling away.

Or maybe you were.

It’s late when you go downstairs. The house is quiet, like it’s sleeping. You like it that way. No voices. No eyes. Just your bare feet brushing against the cold wood as you make your way to the kitchen. You weren’t expecting to see anyone. You weren’t wearing anything special — just the same worn shirt and shorts you always wore to bed, your hair a little messy, your eyes tired.

You reach for a glass, the tap whispering as you fill it.

Then you hear a soft sound — a shuffle behind you.

You turn slowly.

And there he is. Nate. Standing near the far end of the counter, like he’s been there a minute or two but didn’t want to scare you.

“Oh—sorry,” he says quickly, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You blink, heart giving a strange little lurch. “No, it’s okay,” you say. “Just… didn’t think anyone else was up.”

He gives you a small smile, eyes flicking down, then back up. “Could say the same about you.”

He looks warm, even in the dim light. Hair tousled, shirt a little wrinkled like he’d been tossing in bed, or hadn’t gone at all. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed lightly. He’s looking at you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say.

He nods. “Same.”

The silence stretches between you again, but it isn’t awkward. It’s just… charged. You sip your water, but your hands feel shaky.

You shouldn’t be here.

Not with him.

Not like this.

He moves before you can think too hard — steps just a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to feel it. That tension. That pull. That thing inside you that’s been curling tighter and tighter the longer you go untouched.

“Do you… like it here?” he asks, voice low.

You glance up at him. “This house?”

He nods.

You shrug, setting the glass down. “It’s not really a matter of liking it. It’s just where I am.”

He watches you for a second, then says, “Doesn’t feel like you belong here.”

That makes you laugh, soft and dry. “You’re not the first person to say that.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t mean that in a bad way. You just… feel too real for a place like this.”

You don’t know what happens next. Maybe it’s the way he says it. Or the way he looks at you like he actually sees you. Or maybe it’s the memory of how long it’s been since anyone reached for you like they meant it.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re stepping into him — and kissing him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not planned.

You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him in like you’ve been starving for it. His mouth is warm, surprised at first — then hungry. You taste sweat, sleep, something earthy. Something real.

Your body presses to his, your fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing holding you together. His hand finds your waist, fingers tentative but firm. You let yourself sink into it — dizzy, warm, burning. You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until the kiss breaks and you’re left panting.

You step back a little, your heart thudding loud in your ears.

“I…” you start, but the words fall apart.

You don’t know why you did it.

To feel something?

To forget how cold Remmick has become?

To punish him for every time he looked through you like glass?

You shake your head, unable to meet Nate’s eyes.

“I don’t know what came over me,” you whisper.

And it’s true.

But you already know it’s too late to take it back.

And then —

A creak.

The subtle, dragging sound of worn shoes on wood.

You look up, heart jerking into your throat.

Agnes is standing in the doorway.

Half-shadowed, half-lit by the hallway lamp behind her. She says nothing. Just… stares. One hand curled loosely around the hem of her shawl. Her face unreadable. Pale eyes watching like you’d stepped into a play she’s already seen before.

You jump, hands instantly pushing Nate back.

Too late.

Agnes doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, unmoving.

The room feels suddenly colder.

You open your mouth. No words come.

She still doesn’t say anything. Just… slowly turns and walks back into the hall.

Like she never saw a thing.

But you know better.

You felt her see it.

ADD DIVIDER HERE

Dinner sat cold between you, untouched like everything else lately. The quiet in the room wasn’t peaceful — it was heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest. You could feel Remmick’s eyes burning into you from the other side of the table, watching, waiting. He wasn’t moving, just sitting there, hands clenched on his lap, jaw tight.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, slow, and rough with anger— that drawl twisting his words like a knife. “You don’t have much appetite these days. What’s eatin’ at you, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You kept your gaze on your plate, tracing the chipped edge with your finger, your stomach knotting with guilt and something else. He leaned forward a little, eyes sharper now, darker— like he was trying to burn the truth out of you.

“Agnes told me. She seen you, didn’t she?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Saw you with that damn gardener. Told me every goddamn detail.”

You finally met his eyes. “She doesn’t know what she saw.”

His laugh was cold, bitter. “Don’t play me for a fool. I’m not blind, and I ain’t stupid.”

You shook your head slowly, stubborn as ever. “I didn’t plan it. But it happened.”

His fist slammed the table, rattling the dishes. “You kissed him.”

“Yes,” you said, voice steady even though your heart felt like it might burst. “I needed something real. Something you stopped giving me.”

His eyes burned brighter, fury laced with jealousy. “You think you just walk up and take what you want? What makes you think he’s better than me?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and met his gaze head on. “We used to be something, Remmick. But you… you turned me into someone I didn’t even recognize.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” he snarled, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “I’ve been here. Every damn day.”

“Not really,” you snapped back. “You’ve been here, but you’ve been gone. You stopped touching me, stopped looking at me like I mattered.”

He stood up suddenly, boots thudding on the floor, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I don’t want you? You think I’m not burnin’ up inside watching you slip away?”

You stayed seated, jaw tight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you crack. “I didn’t ask for this,” you said. “But it happened. I was starving for something real. And you—you left me starvin’ in this goddamn house.”

He stopped pacing, stepping close enough that you could see the wild fire in his eyes. “You’re mine,” he growled, voice low and fierce. “And don’t you forget it.”

You lifted your chin, cold and defiant. “Then maybe you should’ve acted like it before this got so damn far.”

The silence stretched between you— thick and electric. Neither of you moved, caught in the eye of a storm that was only just beginning to rage.

The tablecloth whipped off the long wooden table with a sudden, violent yank. Plates, glasses, silverware—all smashed onto the floor, the crash echoing like gunshots in the stillness of the room. Your breath hitched, heart pounding loud in your ears, while your eyes darted between the shattered mess and the man standing right in front of you.

Remmick wasn’t just angry—he was a storm about to break. His gaze burned through you, dark and wild, and before you could even think of moving, his hands shot forward and grabbed the arms of your chair with a grip so tight it almost hurt. His fingers curled around the wood like iron clamps, pinning you there.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sheer force of it. You were trapped, caged, held in place not just by his hands but by the fierce, furious energy radiating off him. He wasn’t letting you go. Not now. Not ever.

He leaned down slightly, his face close enough that you could see every flicker of rage and desperation in his eyes. His voice dropped low, rough like gravel scraping against stone.

“Where d’you think you’re gonna go, huh?” he growled, his breath hot against your cheek. “Out that door? Back to him? Like you could just walk away from me like I’m some damn ghost?”

Your chest tightened, lungs struggling to draw a steady breath under the weight of his stare. You wanted to pull away, to push him off, but his grip was relentless. It was like he was physically tethering you to this moment, refusing to let you slip away.

“You think you can just throw all this away? After everything?” His voice cracked, raw with jealousy, pain, and something dangerously close to obsession. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you... fall apart in someone else’s arms?”

The heat of his anger was suffocating, but beneath it, you caught something darker—something broken. A twisted kind of love that wasn’t tender or soft. It was jagged, sharp, and fierce, and it clawed at your skin.

“I’m not lettin’ you go,” he snarled, voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper now, like a threat wrapped in a confession. “You’re mine. You don’t get to just walk outta here and pretend like nothin’ happened.”

Your mind reeled, heart pounding like a wild drumbeat. You’d never seen this side of him before—so raw, so brutal. You wanted to fight back, to break free, but there was something about the way he held you, caged you, that made you freeze.

For a long moment, you just sat there, breathing hard, caught in the storm of his fury and the tangled mess of your own guilt and stubbornness.

Suddenly, he pulled back. Like your skin had burned him.

Remmick ripped his hands off the chair and staggered back a few steps, running both hands through his hair hard— fisting the hair, tugging like he needed pain to ground him. He paced, turned halfway from you, then spun back like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to yell or throw something.

“I can’t even stand to look at you right now,” he spat, voice rough and shaking with rage.

You flinched, just barely. But he caught it.

“Oh, now you flinch?” he barked, laughing bitterly. “That’s rich.”

His boots scuffed loudly against the floor as he paced again, one hand bracing on the back of a chair like he was trying to hold himself up. His chest heaved with shallow, furious breaths.

“You—you went behind my back,” he said, louder now, like each word was being dragged out of him. “With him. Like I was some fuckin’ ghost to you. Like I didn’t matter.”

You opened your mouth, but he was already shaking his head.

“Nah. Don’t. Don’t give me some half-assed excuse. Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doin’. You knew what it would do to me.”

He turned to you again—his expression cracked open, not soft, but shredded. Angry and hurt and unhinged all at once.

“Get outta my sight.”

You didn’t move.

“I said go,” he snapped, voice breaking. “’Fore I say somethin’ I can’t take back. Because right now? Right now I don’t even know what the hell’s stoppin’ me.”

You stood slowly, your legs shaking under you, but you held his gaze. Even as his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter. Even as his hands curled into fists at his sides.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted and the one thing that could destroy him in the same breath.

You stood there, hands trembling at your sides — not from fear, but from everything boiling under your skin. You stared him down, jaw tight, pulse hammering in your throat.

He wanted you gone? Fine. But you weren’t walking out without saying what needed to be said.

“You wanna act like this is new?” Your voice was sharp now, cold, slicing through the tension like a blade. “We were already done the second you turned me, Remmick.”

That stopped him cold.

He froze mid-step, back to you, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. You could practically see the heat rolling off him as the silence stretched—tense, waiting, dangerous.

He turned around slow. Eyes wide, lips parted like he couldn’t believe you actually said it. “You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and lethal.

You didn’t hesitate.

“We. Were. Done,” you repeated, voice louder now, throat burning. “The moment you made that choice for me. When you took everything I was and twisted it into something that only fit you.”

He laughed—but it was wrong. Broken. Hollow and dark and shaking with disbelief. “So that’s it? That’s what I am now? Some monster who ruined you?”

“You didn’t ruin me,” you snapped. “You lost me. Big difference.”

That did it.

He exploded.

In one motion he kicked the chair nearest him hard, sending it crashing against the wall with a loud bang that echoed through the room. He looked like he didn’t know what to do with his hands—like he wanted to break something or scream or grab you and make you feel how much you still belonged to him.

“You think I didn’t feel that night?” he shouted, voice fraying. “You think I didn’t carry it with me every goddamn day since? I never wanted to hurt you!”

“But you did,” you said, voice low now. “And you keep doing it. With silence. With anger. With this—” you gestured between you, the broken plates, the broken everything. “This isn’t love, Remmick. Not anymore.”

His chest heaved, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

And then he did the worst thing of all.

He said nothing.

He just looked at you—ruined and furious and helpless—and didn’t say a damn thing to stop you as you turned to leave.

It had been a month.

Thirty long, bitter days where silence settled in like mold, clinging to the walls, seeping into the floorboards. If it was even possible, the house felt darker now. Quieter. Not just in sound—but in weight, in presence, in everything it used to hold.

You hadn’t seen Remmick since that night. Not properly, at least. You felt him, though. Somewhere in the house, pacing the halls like a storm with nowhere left to strike. His boots echoed sometimes through the upstairs hallway in the dead of night—slow, heavy steps that always stopped right outside your door. But he never knocked.

Surprisingly, he never did anything about Nate either. Never went after him. Never brought it up again. That made it worse somehow—like he was waiting for something. Or maybe punishing you by doing nothing at all.

You avoided Nate like the plague. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t let yourself. Not when everything between you was soaked in guilt. Not when Agnes had seen. Not when it had blown your world apart.

And Remmick? You hadn't spoken a single word to him.

Not one.

Agnes knocked every evening, soft little taps against the wood. Sometimes she even called your name, her voice muffled, strange, unreadable.

You never answered.

You only opened the door once the hallway was empty, grabbed the plate of food in silence, then set it back out hours later—cold and barely touched. Some nights you didn’t eat at all. You weren’t even sure you were hungry anymore.

You were more of a ghost now than anything else.

No longer someone loved. No longer someone feared.

Just… someone who had ruined everything.

You knew it was your fault. There was no denying it now, no softening it, no excuse to spin. You’d kissed Nate. You’d let it happen. You didn’t stop it. You’d looked at him like he saw something in you, something good. And you liked it.

But liking it didn’t make it right.

Liking it didn’t take back the way Remmick had looked at you that night— like you'd broken him in a way that couldn’t be put back together.

The walls of your room felt tighter now. Smaller. You spent your days staring out the window, watching a world that moved on without you. The curtains stayed drawn most of the time, and the air smelled like dust and rain.

You didn’t know what you were waiting for. Maybe you were just waiting for something to change— anything. But the silence held. And so did you.

The house was silent that night. Not just quiet— silent. The kind of stillness that felt too heavy to be natural. It clung to the walls, to the floor beneath your bare feet, and hummed in the corners like it was waiting for something to break.

Everyone was probably asleep.

Probably.

But you knew better.

Remmick was out there somewhere. Watching. Listening. Waiting. He always was.

You stood in the middle of your room for a long time before moving, staring at the door like it might open on its own. Like someone might be out there, daring you to step through.

But nothing happened.

Still, something tugged at you. Hunger. Thirst. Anger. Everything. It was all wound tight inside your chest like a coil ready to snap, and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t.

So you opened the door.

The hallway was dim, only moonlight from the windows painting long lines across the wooden floor. No footsteps. No voices. Just that same thick silence.

You didn’t look around. You didn’t need to.

You already knew he was there. Somewhere in the dark. Watching. Always watching.

But you didn’t stop. You walked down the hallway, each step slower than the last, until you reached Nate’s door. You didn’t knock.

You just turned the handle.

He was sitting on his bed, still fully dressed like he hadn’t expected to sleep. Like maybe part of him had been waiting, too. His eyes widened the moment he saw you, surprise flickering fast across his face.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, cautious.

You didn’t answer. You stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you with a soft click. Nate stood up slowly. “Hey,” he said again, softer now. “Did something happen?”

Your eyes met his, and something in your stare made him pause. You weren’t the same as you had been a month ago. There was something darker behind your gaze now—something that didn’t flinch.

“You were right,” you said calmly, walking toward him. “That night in the kitchen. You saw something in me. And I think I liked it.”

He blinked, clearly unsure if this was real. His shoulders tensed. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Remmick, but—”

You cut him off with a smile. But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was sharp.

“Remmick doesn’t matter tonight.”

Nate stared at you, jaw clenched. He didn’t move as you stepped closer. You stopped only when you were a breath away, your hand lightly grazing the front of his shirt.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered, voice honey-slick and low. “You’ve been thinking about it. About me. About what could’ve happened if we hadn’t been caught.”

His breath hitched. “You’re not like this.”

“Not like what?” you asked, tilting your head. “Honest? Hungry?”

You leaned in closer, brushing your lips near his ear. “Desperate?”

Nate’s hands hovered in the air like he didn’t know whether to touch you or push you away. “You’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “I’ve never thought clearer.”

He swallowed hard, eyes scanning your face. Your expression didn’t waver. There was nothing soft left in it.

You reached up and placed your hands gently on his chest. Your fingers moved slow, deliberate, dragging across the fabric. You could feel his heartbeat, fast and unsure.

He exhaled shakily. “Why are you here?”

Your hands stilled. Then you smiled again.

“Because you wanted me here.”

And he did. That much was obvious. But something deep in his gut started to twist. Unease. Fear. He opened his mouth to speak again, to say something, anything—

But your hands were already moving.

You leaned in, close enough for your lips to graze his jaw.

Then, just as your voice dropped to a whisper:

“I’m sorry.”

Your mouth met his neck.

And then you bit.

Blood was everywhere.

It soaked the sheets, dripped onto the hardwood, splattered across your arms, your throat, your collarbone. Nate’s body lay discarded on the floor, neck torn open, eyes still wide in shock. The warmth of him was already fading, pooling dark beneath him like ink bleeding from paper.

You stood over him, chest heaving, hands shaking—but not from regret. Not fear.

No.

From something colder. Hungrier.

The silence in the room was thick—until it wasn’t.

You didn’t hear the door open.

But suddenly, he was there.

Remmick.

He stood in the doorway like a shadow made flesh, his tall frame swallowing the moonlight, eyes locked on you—not the body, not the mess, just you.

And he looked...

Ravenous.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Devoted.

His boots tracked slowly through the blood, staining the soles, leaving red prints behind. He stopped right in front of you, barely inches away, breathing heavy like he’d run through hell itself.

His eyes roamed over your face—bloodstained lips, crimson smeared down your chin, the violence still fresh—and for a second, it looked like he might drop to his knees.

Instead, he laughed.

A low, broken sound, hollow and ragged. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, the faintest drawl coloring the edges of his words. “You’re somethin’ else.”

You said nothing. Didn’t need to.

He stepped closer, hands grabbing your face—rough, trembling.

“You ain’t got no idea what you’ve done to me,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours, voice cracking with raw, fevered need. “I watched you. Saw you take him apart. Lord, I ain’t never wanted anything more than I want you right now.”

Blood still dripped from your skin, slick and warm. His thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing the crimson like it was sacred.

“I thought I was losin’ my mind before,” he whispered, grip tightening, “but now? Seein’ you like this?”

He laughed again, sharp and wild.

“I’m done for. I’m gone.”

His mouth hovered near yours—not to kiss, but to breathe you in.

“You don’t even understand what you are,” he hissed. “You think this is guilt? That you’re some kinda monster?”

His eyes traced the blood on your throat like it belonged there. “This here? This is power, darlin’. This is love.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t flinch.

Something deep inside, long buried and dark, started to believe him.

He leaned down, lips grazing your ear, voice dropping low and rough, the accent thickening like smoke curling in the dark.

“I wanna ruin you,” he said. “Wanna worship you. Watch you tear the whole damn world apart and know you’ll come home to me when you’re done.”

His fingers curled tighter under your jaw. No restraint left in his eyes.

“You don’t get it, do ya?” he whispered. “You just became mine. Again. And this time? This time I ain’t lettin’ you go.”

Your breath caught, tears burning behind your eyes. Your voice cracked, trembling as it spilled out, raw and ragged:

“Remmick... I’m sorry. So damn sorry. For everything. For breakin’ you. For runnin’... For not bein’ yours when I should’ve been.”

Your words were soaked in blood and pain, each one heavier than the last.

And the worst part?

You didn’t want him to let you go either.

Remmick’s breath hitched at your words, a flicker of something almost tender flashing through the madness in his eyes. His grip loosened just enough for you to breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Damn right you’re sorry,” he murmured, voice thick with something fierce and possessive. “And hell, maybe that’s all I ever needed to hear.”

He pulled you closer, the heat of him burning through the blood and the cold, every inch of you drawn into the storm of him.

His breath hot on your neck, growls, “You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure no one ever forgets it.” You know Nates corpse is lying nearby, a grim reminder of the darkness that binds you.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess, ain’t ya?” Remmick’s voice is a low drawl. He pushes you back onto the bed, the warm, sticky wetness of the crimson sheets seeping through your clothes. His body covers yours, his weight pressing you into the hard surface. The mattress groans under your combined weight, but the sounds of the bed are drowned out by your mutual ragged breaths.

His hand tear at your clothes.

You don’t resist. Your body aches with need.

He tosses the shredded remnants aside, his eyes roaming over your naked form, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood, your skin slick and glistening, your mouth and chin stained with it. He groans, his cock hardening against your thigh.

Nate’s lifeless eyes seem to watch you, but you don’t care. This moment is yours. Yours and Remmick’s.

Remmick’s mouth claims yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His tongue invades, claiming, possessing. You melt into him, your body molding to his, your senses drowning in his scent, his taste, his touch.

You don’t know when he’s lowered his pants, though somehow in between you could feel him, feel his length.

His hands grip your wrists, pining them above your head. Remmick’s kiss turns ruthless, his teeth scraping against your lips, drawing blood. He licks it away, gowling low in his throat. His body grinds against yours, his cock hard and insistent.

You try to move, but his grip is like a vise, unyielding and dominant. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck, his teeth nipping at your skin.

You feel the rush of blood in your veins, the heat of your arousal, the desperate need for release.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, your stomach, his touch driving you wild with need. You arch into him, your body begging for me, your hands straining against his hold.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he says, his voice rough with command, that slight drawl only making it hotter.

His mouth finds your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. You shiver, your breath hitching as he bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. He soothes the sting with his tongue, his hands gripping your hips tightly, holding you in place.

His mouth moves higher, his tongue tracing the line of your pussy, his breath hot against your flesh. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He teases you, his tongue flicking against your clit, his fingers spreading your lips wide. You can feel the anticipation building, the pressure in your core, the tightening of your muscles. He brings you to the edge, then pulls back, leaving you panting and frustrated.

“You’re mine,” he says, his voice rough with emotion.

He smiles, a slow, wicked curve of his lips, and then he’s moving, his body sliding up yours, his cock pressing against your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes locked on yours.

You smile back, a slow, seductive curve of your lips, and he groans, his body trembling with restraint. You can see the muscles in his arms and chest straining, like he’s barely holding back.

With a single, brutal thrust, he enters you, filling you and completing you.

You moan, your head falling back, your body arching into his, your senses drowning in the pleasure of his touch. He moves slowly at first, his hips rolling, his cock sliding in and out of you, his body driving you wild with need.

The room is thick with the scent of sex and blood, the air heavy and oppressive. Remmick’s body is slightly slick with sweat, his muscles tense as he hovers over you. “Fuck,” he hisses, his voice laced with a mix of lust and suddenly with anger. He leans down, his breath hot on your ear.

“You think you can just walk away from me? Think you can take what you want and leave me hangin'?"

He thrusts hard, his hips slamming against yours, his cock driving deep into you. You gasp, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. His voice is rough, his accent dripping with sex and dominance. "You're mine, and I'm gonna remind you of that every fuckin' day."

He pulls back, his cock almost leaving you, before slamming into you again. The bed shakes, the headboard banging against the wall. You moan, the sound raw and primal, your body trembling with the force of his thrusts.

His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving bruises. He’s relentless, his body pounding into yours, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside you. You can feel the pressure building, the heat in your core, the tightening of your muscles.

"You like that?” he growls, his voice a low rumble. "You like it when I fuck you hard? When I remind you who you belong to?"

He leans down, his teeth grazing your neck, his tongue licking the sweat from your skin. You shiver, your body arching into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"You know I do," you whisper, your voice hoarse with desire. "You know I crave it."

He groans, his body trembling with restraint. "That's right, you do. And I'm gonna give it to you. Every fuckin' day. Every fuckin' night."

He sits up, his hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. He looks down at you, his eyes roaming over your body, taking in every detail. You’re covered in blood and sweat, your skin glistening. He groans, his cock hardening even more, if that's possible. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe and hunger. "So fuckin' beautiful. So fuckin' mine."

He leans down, his lips capturing yours in a brutal, hungry kiss. His mouth trails down your neck, his teeth nipping at the skin, leaving love bites that will most definitely bloom into bruises. You can feel the rush of blood in your veins, the height of your arousal.

He moves lower, his lips and tongue exploring your breasts, stomach, your hips, his touch driving you wild with need. You wanted more.

His fingers trailed low, his thumb circling your clit, his touch light and teasing. He wants you with need. You moan, your hips lifting off the bed, your body begging for more. He chuckles, a low, dark sound. It was too much for you all of a sudden.

You try sitting up, to ease the intensity, but he pushes you down, his hand pressing against your chest. “Nah sweetgirl, your gonna take me.” He moves his thumb away from your clit, his relentless thrusts increasing.

“You wanna come, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a low growl. “You wanna come all over my cock. You wanna milk me dry, don't you?” You nod, your body trembling, you could barely make a word out.

He pulls your legs up slightly, his cock hitting depper if that was even possible. You moan, your voice echoing in the room, your body shuddering with the intensity of your release.

He follows soon after, his body tensing, his cock pulsing inside you as he spills his seed, his groan of pleasure a symphony to your ears.

“I love the way you sound,” he says, his body collapsing on top of you. “I fucking love the way you feel. All tight and wet. All for me.”

He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing away Nate's dried blood. “You’re mine,” he states darkly. “And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go. You hear me? Never.”

And you don’t answer—not with words. Your breath shudders against his, your eyes heavy-lidded and glassy, like you’re drowning in him.

He leans in, his lips ghosting over your cheek, your temple, not kissing—claiming. His voice is low, hoarse from want and something deeper.

"You remember that," he whispers, breath hot against your ear. "Every time I touch you tonight… every sound I pull from your throat… every time I make you come apart beneath me—remember."

His hand slides down, leaving a trail of blood and heat in its wake.

"You said sorry," he murmurs, like it’s a vow now. "But you don’t gotta be sorry, darlin’. Not for who you are. Not for what you did."

And he reminds you of that, over and over, well into the night—until the walls know his promises by heart and your body forgets it ever belonged to anyone else.

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