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orimuraa · 2 days ago

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ㅤㅤ ⌇ Two shots deep and I'm getting lucky - Park Sunghoon

꒰ 𝔖𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 ꒱┆falling in love with a slytherin was not on your bucket list ⨾

۶ৎ slytherin!park sunghoon x fem ravenclaw!reader ┆fluff, angst┆kisses, petnames, cursing, crying┆wc 2.5k

⤷ 𝐲𝐞𝐣𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this was requested by my 🫧 anon so i hope you enjoy!! reblogs and feedback are always appreciated ^o^

꒰ঌ ℬℴℴ𝓀𝓈𝒽ℯ𝓁𝒻 ໒꒱

you liked to think of yourself as a smart and wise student. precisely why you were placed in the house of ravenclaw a few years ago.

you never imagined yourself getting involved with the school’s playboy, park sunghoon.

you see, sunghoon was so different from you. he was egotistical, rich, and quite snobby. but also very, very attractive.

he was a slytherin and that tells you all you need to know about him.

so how did you end up falling for him?

“y/n!!” a voice called out for you, stopping you in your tracks.

turning around, you find none other than your beloved best friend, kim sunoo.

sunoo was a sweet hufflepuff that you met on your first day here at hogwarts.

all your life, you’ve been told that you were very cold looking and hard to approach. but sunoo ignored all of that and went straight into becoming your friend.

“hi sun,” you smile, waiting for him to catch up.

“the new gossip for today is that someone saw park sunghoon making out with one of the girls in an empty broom closet,” he spills, waving around his hands as he spoke.

sunoo was very much interested with the school’s gossip whereas you couldn’t give a care for any of it.

“sun..when are you ever going to stop being so invested with other people’s lives!” you laugh, rolling your eyes playfully at your best friend.

“never!!!” he jokes before taking you by the hand and running to the hufflepuff common room.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

it was currently posions class and you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was staring at the back of your head like you had a target planted there.

turning your head, you slowly caught the gaze of..park sunghoon?….

why the hell was he looking at you?

immediately, you whip back to the front, rubbing your eyes before turning your attention back to professor snape.

“today class, we will be learning how to make the potions amortentia, also know as, the love potion,” snape says in his monotone voice.

this causes a few giggles to irrupt from behind you, making you roll your eyes.

once class was over, you make your way back to your dorms. unfortunately, there is something blocking your path. and by something, i mean someone.

“hey, woah woah woah! where are you in a rush to princess?” park sunghoon. again, what the hell does he want with you?

“don’t call me that,” you snarl, assuming this is exactly how the park sunghoon gets his reputation.

“listen, i just wanted to chat! that’s all, i swear,” he confesses, raising his hands in the air.

you’ve never been this close to him and oh god is he gorgeous. his bushy eyebrows and his moles perfectly placed around his face.

“fine, let’s at least go outside then,” you sigh, disappointed in yourself for already falling for sunghoon’s charm.

“so, why did you wanna talk to me specifically?” you ask, curious as to why the park sunghoon would even know of your existence.

“i dunno,” he says as if he’s bored before leaning forward, almost too close to you. “maybe i just want to get to know a pretty girl better.” he smirks, staring you down with those gorgeous eyes.

you don’t last very long before you’re a blushing mess and forcing yourself to look away.

“well from what i’ve heard, is that you’re not very good at sticking around. and i’m not looking for someone like that,” you say, praying that he wouldn’t notice you’re very much flustered state.

“and if i said i would be willing to stay for you?” oh god. your heart just exploded.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

“aughhhh!!! i don’t know sun…he clearly stated that he’s into me but i’m just scared of being another one of his toys…” you sigh, flopping down onto the couch.

in all honesty, you wouldn't mind going out with park sunghoon. you were just scared to get tricked and end up with a broken heart.

"maybe tell him that you would like to get to know him better before starting anything serious? i mean, that's kinda the truth anyway, right?" sunoo suggests, sitting down on the couch next to you.

"yeah...maybe i'll do that..it's smarter and safer. thanks sun," you smile, knowing you could always count on sunoo.

the next day, you were thinking about all the possible scenarios that could happen with sunghoon. turns out, there are actually many negative scenarios that you could think of which made your stomach turn, not in a good way.

"hey princess! got an answer for me yet?" turning around to face reality, you mentally grow some balls, deciding to not be a chicken and just tell him now.

but god, why did he have to be so handsome!?

"o-oh...hi sunghoon.." you nervously stutter, making a mental note to beat yourself up for this later. "i actually thought about this yesterday and i think it'd be nice to get to know you...i would appreciate taking our time though and not really rush into things, y'know?" congrats! you did it!...

"wait really? you'd actually go out with me?" sunghoon perks his head up, totally losing his "cool guy" persona and quickly replacing it with a loser-like one.

"did you think i would reject you?" you fake gasp, clutching at your heart teasingly.

"no! well- sort of? i guess..i'm just used to getting an answer right away..and it's always a yes...and you were taking a lot of time so i just assumed it was a no.." cute. who knew the park sunghoon was such a loser in reality?

"well i've said yes, so when's the first date?" you tease, tilting your head to the side.

"meet me at the 3 broomsticks at 2. don't be late~" he winks, his normal attitude coming back.

sunghoon turns on his heel, walking away and leaving you with a warm and glowy feeling in your cheeks.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

its been exactly 2 weeks since your first "date" with sunghoon and you've gotta say, they've been filled with fun and excitement.

turns out, sunghoon's quite a gentleman for you, making you fall for him even more.

he makes you laugh at silly things, he makes you smile so much til' your cheeks hurt, and he makes you feel understood.

of course sunoo understood you, but you meant by a romantic interest.

all of your previous relationships ended poorly because you never felt understood by your partner, resulting in bad communication.

but sunghoon, he always knew what you were feeling or what you were trying to say. he just...got you.

sunoo was over the moon when you told him things were working out with sunghoon. he's always been like your protective older brother.

he's been there for you every time another one of your shitty partners left you, always there to wipe your tears and tell you that they weren't worthy of your love.

so naturally, he was thrilled to hear that something was working out for you.

"sunoo!!! sunoo!!!!!" you exclaim, running up to him and bouncing like crazy.

"what!? jesus, calm down, you're gonna break something," he says, holding you in place.

"sunghoon asked me to the winter ball!!!" you screech, jumping again and clapping your hands out of excitement.

sunoo just blinks a couple time, fully processing your words before his eyes widen, his hand shooting up to cover his mouth.

"no way!!! really?!!?!" he gasps through his hand. you nod aggressively, giving him his answer. "then we have to find you a dress!"

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

"hoon!!" you shout, catching the attention of the raven haired boy. he looks up at you with a cold expression before it melts away at the sight of you.

"hi princess," he greets softly, pushing out the chair next to him so you can sit.

this was how you current situationship was with sunghoon. you were still hesitant of a relationship but you were slowly warming up to the idea every time you were with sunghoon.

you learned that he was actually a big softie once you get to know him and if he lets himself open up.

there were moments where you caught him staring at you, a gaze of admiration in his eyes, making you blush and look away.

he had an effect on you that none of your past partners did, making you more and more convinced that he was the one for you.

as you and sunghoon silently joked in the small corner of the library, 3 figures silently observed from a far.

"that bitch thinks she can steal sunghoon away from me!" jia, one of sunghoon's many crazy admirers, huffs.

"i'll just have to steal him back then," she smirks, a plan forming in her head. then, she signals for her friends to follow as they walk out of the library.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

with only 3 days left until the winter ball, there's much excitement within the castle. many people are running around, trying to find a date or even just an outfit.

the owls have been dropping off suits and dresses of all kinds all day long for the students.

luckily, you and sunoo had already gone shopping together, picking out perfect outfits for the ball.

as you walked the hall, a slight hop to your step, you reach the slytherin corridor, wondering if sunghoon was in there just so you could pop in and say hi.

you hear a high pitched giggle from inside the corridor and thinking nothing of it, you open the door. immediately you regret that decision because this was not something you wanted to see.

sunghoon was kissing some girl passionately and mind you, he's never kissed you before even once!

when the girl notices your presence, you swear you see her smirk before tapping sunghoon's shoulder to say that someone's here.

he turns around but he looks different..there's something about his eyes that you can't place but you know for a fact that their not his.

especially with the way he just shrugs you off, going back to being smitten with the girl you now recognize as jia.

heartbroken, you dash out of the room, tears blurring your vision as you run to find sunoo.

"i knew i never should have trusted him sun!" you sob into his shoulder. all sunoo could do was hold you in his lap, patting your back and letting you know that nothing was your fault.

you didn't understand it all. if this was all a game, why did sunghoon stick around for so long?

just then, sunoo gasps, shaking you to look at him.

"ynnie! it wasn't him! you told me that the look in his eyes looked like he was almost soulless, right?" you nod slowly, not yet catching on.

"well! jia used a potion of amortentia on sunghoon! that potion, although making you fall in love, if it's not a true love, the eyes show no sign of it! meaning, he's being forced to love her! he's under her spell!" sunoo exclaims, pushing his hair back in shock.

"oh sunoo!! you're a genius!!" you cry, throwing your arms around him and hugging him. "but now i feel so bad for ever doubting him..." you sigh.

"you had every right to at the moment, 'kay? it was a natural reaction and now, you just need to fix it by getting sunghoon back," sunoo reassures.

so, the two of you spent the rest of the day, brewing a potion to cure sunghoon. now all you had to do was figure out how to slip it to him.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

walking into the great hall, you stride over to the slytherin table and over to sunghoon. annoyingly, jia is right there, clinging onto his arms.

now that you know, you do see how soulless he looks, not his usual bright and colorful self.

"hey could you two come with me? i need to survey couples for the ball," you lie, just trying to get them away. jia reluctantly agrees, pulling sunghoon with her.

while you were distracting these two, sunoo was borrowing harry's invisibility cloak to drop in the antidote into sunghoon's drink.

once you were done, you sit back at your table, making eye contact with sunoo and sending messages through your stares.

you swiftly turn around to see sunghoon taking a sip of his drink and you smile softly to yourself, knowing he'll be back in no time.

you stand up, walking out of the great hall and to your dorm, wanting to collect your thoughts before talking to sunghoon again.

meanwhile, in the great hall, sunghoon feels like he just woke up from a dream, taking a second to process the whole situation. looking down at the weight on his arm, he sees a girl who is not his y/n.

immediately, he pulls it back, scooting away from the girl.

"sungie?" god her voice made him cringe.

"what the fuck is happening? where's y/n?" he growls, starting to lose patience with the girl.

the girl just scoffs.

"ugh, really? that bitch? she's not eve-" she's cut off by sunghoon's intense glare, like he was daring her to finish that sentence.

"don't ever talk to me or y/n ever again. got it?" he seethes, before getting up and walking away to find you.

"sunoo! where's y/n?" he asks the shorter boy, knowing that you and sunoo were best friends.

"she's probably in the library, but please let her talk, she really likes you and she's just scared to lose you," sunoo says, offering sunghoon a small smile.

thanking him, sunghoon runs off the the library to looks for you.

he finds you at the desk you and him always sat at, making his heart melt a little.

"y/n?" he calls out quietly, and louder and his voice might betray him.

your head turns around at the call of your name, your eyes widening at the source of it.

"hi sunghoon..." you smile softly, motioning for him to sit down next to you.

you fill him in on everything. jia making him fall in love with her, the kiss, and even how you felt. you felt vulnerable talking about this with someone who wasn't sunoo, but sunghoon kept quiet, listening to you attentively.

"princess i'm so sorry..i know that probably isn't enough for all you've been through, but i just want you to know that i like you so so much, and i could never dream of leaving you for anyone else, okay? i will wait forever just so you could be mine, baby," he smiles, placing his hand on yours.

"thank you," you whisper, not trusting your voice. "i really like you too sunghoon, and i want this."

"can...can i kiss you?" he asks softly, reading your expression. you smile and nod, giving him the go ahead.

and with that, he leans in slowly, capturing your lips in his.

his lips are soft against yours, moving slowly yet passionately.

you two pull away breathless, silently laughing to yourselves.

he leans his forehead against yours, kissing the tip of your nose.

"i'm so lucky to have you princess, you mean the world to me."

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries, @k-films, @k-nets

⚘. Perm taglist: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy

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knavesflames · 2 days ago

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High sex with Arlecchino

(Poll result again lol)

Hello………. I have nothing to say this time. Enjoy mwah

Word count: 629

Contents: weed, strap, it’s cute but you’re both high

Nsft utc!

All that can be heard above the sound of the rain was heavy breaths and soft sounds of pleasure. You sat atop Arlecchino’s lap, her hands on your hips guiding you up and down over her strap that she swore she could feel as if it were a part of her own body.

“Come here,” she says, taking another hit of the cart beside them on the nightstand. She gently grabs your jaw and pulls your face towards her, softly exhaling the vapor into your mouth. She can feel her eyes getting redder, and see yours grow to be the same color. “You feeling it hit, pretty girl?” She asks, pressing your body flush against hers and looking up at you like she was all that was holy to her. All she got in reply was a soft “Mhm,” before your hips began moving up and down, greedily seeking pleasure, chasing it, even. It drove Arlecchino insane, made her want to give more and more. Her hips thrusted up slightly to meet yours as you grinded down onto her cock. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she leaned back onto the wall behind them, moaning out a soft call of your name.

“Feels good, Peruere,” you murmur in her ear, using your nails to gently scratch at her scalp. Your whines drive her crazy, making her groan every time your dripping cunt enveloped her cock.

“Keep going, pretty girl, please,” she practically whines, surrendering to the high that was washing over her, her body practically buzzing from the drug coursing through her veins. Your moans make her throb, almost threaten to make her cum right there. Your nails gently scratch down her back, leaving faint red marks in their wake, and they make Arlecchino whine into your neck, thrusting up into you again and again, desperate to chase the pleasure she so badly craves. It’s pathetic, really, in the way that a dog looks up to its master with those pleading eyes.

“You’re so pathetic for me,” Arlecchino mumbles, watching you get closer to your orgasm with each little moan and whimper that escapes from your lips getting ever the more desperate.

“I need you so bad,” you whimper, hiding your face in her neck and clinging to her so tightly as your body continues to buzz and burn under her touch. Arlecchino swears she can cum just like this, that she doesn’t want it to end. You just feel too goddamn good around her to ever possibly stop.

“Mm, I know,” you murmur to her, leaning down to leave a bite mark on her neck. Oh, that drives her insane, making her thrust up inside you even harder, losing all sense of restraint.

“Please let me cum inside you,” she begs, whimpering at each movement over the toy as if it is a part of her, “Please.”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, lightly tugging at the back of her hair until she moans pathetically, hips stuttering as they try to keep thrusting into you. It ends up pushing her over the edge as well, whimpering a string of curses in foreign languages, mixed with praises of your name. By the end of it all, the sound of rain overtakes you both, with you lying against Arlecchino’s chest, listening to her heartbeat. You spend a while like this, just lying in each other’s embrace, like time stopped just for them.

After a bit, you feel Arlecchino’s hand slide up to your chest as she leans up to kiss you, then kiss your neck again. You feels a hand touch your arm as you look down at her with a stupid grin on your face.

“Now what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m not done with you yet.”

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libingan · 9 hours ago

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—no questions asked.

you’ve always been his, even before the words were ever said—no labels needed when everything else speaks for itself.

i remember candace and jeremy's relationship in phineas and ferb. i liked how jeremy assumed they were already dating and thought to myself "simon riley" so here it is.

it’s always been this way with simon.

the little things you’ve shared, those moments that nobody else gets to see, have slowly built up over time. long drives where the silence is comfortable, quiet moments when you’re wrapped up in a blanket together, his arm draped around your shoulders. you’ve shared soft kisses in the early morning light, whispered words when you think no one’s listening, and occasional touches that linger just a second too long to be deemed innocent. his gruff voice calling you his—just “his,” as if you’re already a part of something bigger, something unspoken.

but the question always lingers in the back of your mind: what are we?

because in your head, you’re not his girlfriend. you never really were. sure, you’ve done couple things—spent hours together, laughed over inside jokes, shared moments that feel like they belong to only the two of you. but whenever you think about it, you can’t quite place a label on what you are. you never had that conversation, the one where he asks you out, where you define what this thing between you is.

and deep down, you’ve always known. maybe it’s not meant to last. maybe simon’s just passing through your life like a storm, wild and unpredictable, leaving you wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again once the dust settles. you’ve never asked for a commitment. it was enough for you to just be close, to keep things easy and fluid, without any promises that might eventually break.

but then, everything changes the moment you decide to confront him.

it’s a quiet night, the kind where the world outside seems to stop, and you’re sitting in the living room, the only sound being the soft hum of the kitchen light. simon’s sprawled across the couch, eyes half-lidded as he scrolls through his phone. you’re sitting on the floor in front of him, leaning your back against the coffee table, and you can’t stop your thoughts from swirling.

the truth has been eating at you for weeks now, months maybe. you have to ask. you need to know if this is really what you want, and more importantly, if it’s what simon wants. so, you let the question slip, unsure of how it’ll come out, but it tumbles from your lips all the same.

“simon,” you begin, your voice quiet but firm, “what are we?”

he doesn’t immediately look up from his phone. it’s as if the question barely registers, but you know he’s heard it. you can feel his attention slowly turning your way, as if his brain needs a second to process the weight of your words.

he puts the phone down, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at you, his gaze soft but intense. he doesn’t say anything at first. instead, his lips curl into a small, knowing smirk.

“what do you mean?” his voice is low, almost like he’s testing the waters.

you swallow, feeling a tightness in your chest, and you try to make your words come out right. “i mean… we do all this stuff, simon. you call me yours, and i… i don’t even know where i stand. we’ve never really talked about what this is. are we… are we dating, or what?”

he blinks at you for a moment, clearly taken aback by your words. it’s almost funny, how much you’ve thought about it, how much you’ve analyzed your every interaction, while simon has likely never questioned it. it’s simple to him. and that’s when it hits you—he’s never even considered that this could be anything other than what it is.

he sighs, a deep, exasperated sound, and leans back into the couch, his arms crossed over his chest. his eyes lock onto yours, unwavering. “what are you on about, woman? you’re my girlfriend.”

the words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t quite process them. you blink, unsure if you’ve heard him right. it almost sounds like he’s stating a fact, like it’s something as simple as breathing. his voice is firm, unwavering, as if this was always meant to be the case.

you feel your breath catch, the weight of his words sinking in, and then—just like that—all your worries melt away. you don’t even know why you were so worried in the first place. the uncertainty, the anxiety, it all seems so silly now. you’re not sure whether to laugh or roll your eyes at the absurdity of it all. simon is, as always, so simon about it. there’s no drama, no overthinking, no need for big conversations or declarations.

you’re his. you’re his girlfriend. and there’s no debate.

the relief hits first, followed closely by a mix of amusement and a small flash of annoyance. you try to hold back the grin tugging at your lips. “wait... just like that? no question, no ‘will you be my girlfriend?’ just… you’re my girlfriend?”

he meets your gaze, nonchalant, and shrugs. “that’s right. you’re mine. no need for any of that nonsense. i’ve already decided.”

you stare at him, feeling a warmth spread through you that has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. it’s the way he speaks, like he’s already certain, already claimed you. and it feels… good. reassuring, even. but also, just a little bit frustrating. because, honestly, how do you even argue with that?

“god, you’re impossible,” you mutter, a grin breaking through as you roll your eyes. “seriously. you’re so damn sure about everything.”

he just smirks back, the corner of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “you should be glad i am, sweetheart. now, come here.”

he pats his lap, and before you can protest, you’re already moving toward him, the tension from moments before completely gone. his arms pull you close, and you settle against him, feeling his familiar warmth. you don’t even need the words anymore. somehow, just being with him like this is enough.

and that, you realize, is exactly what simon’s always known.

#call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 #cod #cod mwii #cod x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader fluff #cod fluff #simon riley x reader

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femme-enby · 2 days ago

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My niblings are allegedly “terrors” at home w their parents…

Meanwhile, despite being a handful, we’ve had all of the kids over for a weekend with minimal issues. We never really had to raise our voices, and on the very few occasions we did it was more so to be heard over their shrill, raised small child voices than as like… a weapon.

Hell, the oldest said somethin to his (albeit yes by marriage,) sister, that was like “I wish you’d never came, you’re not my sister,” blah blah blah.

Not only was I able to simply stop him from yelling by speaking at a normal volume and sternly, but I was able to then continue to calm and quiet him further by continuously lowering my own volume till I hit a “quiet speaking” pitch, but also appropriately alternating between “firm” and “gentle” appropriately in tone. Ensuring he felt heard, but also knew that he in turn needed to listen.

Kids in general are not difficult. I have no desire to have any of my own, for a multitude of reasons (and yes, some are simply boiled down to “I don’t like how kids are, regardless of the fact that I know these things are normal & developmentally appropriate”) and yet even I can manage with them. They don’t take my things, they put things down when I ask bc I explain why like they’re, ya know, PEOPLE, and not weird little monsters entirely incapable of reason.

Bc that’s the thing- while children struggle with critical thinking skills, applying logic & empathy, etc… they struggle with those things UNASSISTED. If you’re capable of these things, and you assist them appropriately… you realize that they are capable. They’re simply NEW to everything. Their brains are essentially being overloaded with the world, the rules, the social expectations, etc.

Adults exist to help them. To guide them. To teach them. All the way until they get it, no matter how long that can take.

I want to apologize to my friends and family who have children for low key treating their kids like dogs but the standard methods for training dogs are even more effective of them because they actually understand language and are better at reasoning.

Positive reinforcement is amazingly effective, like I saw my nephew poking their cat so I sternly told him no, he stopped and I immediately changed my demeanor and cheerfully told him thank you and how happy I was that he listened to me instead of staying angry at him and he got this strange “Oh…It actually does make a difference wether I’m naughty or not” and later my sister in law asked why he’s so polite around me.

That’s literally what works best on dogs. Let them know when you don’t like what they’re doing but also let them know when you’re happy with them even if that means changing your demeanor on a dime (and even if you’re still a bit mad at them for doing it in the first place).

Oh and little treats. I skipped the aunt phase and is already turning into a grandma who has candy in her pockets for the kiddos for good behavior.

#esp parents #ryan rambles

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tsukii0002 · 3 days ago

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I like to think that Barbatos doesn't sleep, sometimes he does it for pleasure, but he doesn't really need it. So he spends his nights wandering around the nooks and crannies of his room, looking at the different doors or seeing how the flow of water or a staircase has changed direction. Consequently, Barbatos does not have a bed in his room.

However, after what happened with Belphie and Mc, Mc would stop by his room constantly, to thank him (again), deliver homemade cakes or drinks, or just to see how he was doing.

At first the demon could not understand the human, weren't they afraid of that place? Weren't they uncomfortable with the certainty of the time represented in his room? Weren't they terrified of being so close… to him?

Those questions never left him, but he grew accustomed to the human's presence, he liked listening to them talk, how attentive they were to him. Sometimes he let them wander freely through the places he had so often wandered at night. And after a while he began to look forward to Mc's visits.

First he waited for the visits, then he began to crave them, later one visit was too little and he began to drag it out until Mc had to spend the night at the palace because it was too late…. But it wasn't enough, he felt he had to monopolize their ephemeral time, he needed those moments to belong to him alone.

Barbatos: Mc, are you coming today?

Mc: Barbatos! Yes, I'll bring the candy I told you last time.

Barbatos: I'm glad… By the way I have incorporated a new element in my quarters.

Mc: ????

Barbatos: A bed, thanks to you I find it more pleasant to sleep, so I thought I'd need one.

Mc: That's great!!! Hahahaha *with a mocking tone* so I can sleep in your room now?

Barbatos: *chuckles* I hadn't thought of that.

That's how the time-controlling demon did something he never imagined, incorporating a bed, even though he didn't need it, for a single human, was something strange to say the least. Although, of course, that a human would enter his most intimate domain without any fear was the strangest thing of all. And there was no greater pleasure than curling up next to Mc and sleep.

I've been going through a lot of Barbatos stories in devilgram and in many of them Mc falls asleep in Barbatos' room, but then I look at her room and I can't help but laugh at the thought of where the bed would be, because in that space a bed doesn't even fit 😂😂😂, so I think it's funny to imagine the origin of that supposed bed in a room that looks like a mystical ruin.

Thanks for reading 🩷

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moonlight-alexia · 1 day ago

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the questioning hour | steph & lil mac

steph catley x mccabe!reader | in honour of steph day, a little q&a from lil mac and steph (just questions from those tiktok couple trend video things yk)

if you like this though and want another where you ask the questions for them (or lil mac and alexia, or tiny and kyra, tiny and steph literally any of my other universes then let me know!)

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who was interested first? Lil mac: not long after we officially started dating Steph admitted to stalking my socials when she knew I was coming to arsenal

Steph: What? no...okay...maybe yes I did do that

Lil mac: So Steph :)

Steph: Only because it took someone painfully long to realise she was interested in me too

Lil mac: Shhh

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who said i love you first? Steph: well technically I did

Lil mac: but I was half asleep and had to ask her the next day if it was real or just a dream

Lil mac: it was real btw and then I said it back

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who's more protective? Lil mac: do we even need to answer that?

Steph: she takes a lot of pride in it

Lil mac: well you're mine I gotta keep you safe

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who's mostly likely to get jealous over something silly? Steph: we can skip this one

Lil mac: there was this time when Steph-

Steph: no, you can stop there babe

Lil mac: -she had this dream that she said 'felt so real' and so at training around Leah-

Steph: we can get calvin a sibling if you stop

Lil mac: in other words, definitely Steph

Lil mac: holding you to that btw Stephy

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who's most likely to start an argument and who's the first one to apologise during an argument? Lil mac: tryna start something with this question hm...to the first part it's definitely Steph

Steph: ...🤨

Lil mac: and the second part...100% me. isn't that right baby

Steph: think the couch has your name on it tonight

Lil mac: eh, me and being asleep on the couch? likely place to find me

Lil mac: and calvin cuddles are a plus sooo

Steph: I can't win

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who's more romantic? Steph: I don't think I could do anything that could top her proposal

Lil mac: I don't think I could ever top that

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who takes longer to get ready in the morning? Steph: welllll bet you'd assume it was me

Lil mac: it takes time to look this good yk

Steph: ...get teased for being late to training and they all don't believe it's because it took her 300 tries before she finally got her hair right

Lil mac: we all don't just wake up perfect like you...😚

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ who's the funny one? Lil mac: obviously me!

Steph: no way, it's me!

Lil mac: I trust ya to not listen to Steph

#steph catley x reader #steph catley #woso fanfics #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community #woso x y/n #awfc x reader #awfc imagine

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meowsgirldrawing · 2 days ago

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Soft is a Need too (Spite x Rook Drabble I could NOT get out of my head)

Obviously Lucanis x Rook too, but I like to explore Spite and his constant need for Rook just as much as Lucanis does too.

Not proofread so apologies for any mistakes, I am but a wee human in this wee world.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Soft, subtle hands play into ‘his’ hair, twirling a strand around a finger so gently before letting it fall to the rest before carding through once more.

Spite couldn’t tell what need rang better- the need to close ‘his’ eyes or keep them on Rook as they read their novel peacefully from their other hand.

He only gets so much time with them, and yes- while that time has for sure grown since Lucanis finally did something worthwhile and said how he felt towards Rook after their long-awaited return, he still itches for the times Lucanis finally lets himself rest and him take over.

He’s been what Rook calls ‘Good’ and laid with them instead of trying to leave. But why would he leave now? Before, he was just bored. Now, he’s not bored anymore! Rook is! With him! Him!! Spite!

And with the way they giggle after a particular hair caress has him sighing in content and nuzzling into their stomach, he can tell they like it too. Not think like Lucanis does, Knows!

“You’re not falling asleep either, are you?” They tease lightly.

Spite glares up at them with fiery purple hues marking their face, “No. Can’t now.”

Their brow raises and a light smirk has him smirking fully back. “Oh?” Their tone has him tightening his arms around them better. Better for them not to leave. “And why’s that, hm?”

Spite nudges into the palm cupping his face, lightly nipping at it that has Rook booping his nose in response for his assault.

It takes him another moment to realize the look set on him is one of expectation, not just playfulness with tender touches added in.

It’s simple. “Can’t loose. Our Rook. Again.”

Rook’s hand holding his face pauses as does the one clasped with a book freezes, turning more stiff.

They blink, then an odd look comes about their face. Spite doesn’t like it.

They look worried and runs a more concerned felt hand through his hair. He practically purrs like those creatures he sees them constantly petting in Lucanis’s home town.

“Spite…you know I’m not going anywhere again, right?”

“Yes. Because we kill. Whoever changes that.” His eyes flash momentarily, and he brings a hand to their face instead. Soft skin meets his hand followed by a sweet flutter of eyelashes as he cups around the side of their face. Gentle as Lucanis told him. Like he would ever hurt Rook. They are theirs! Theirs to protect! To fight with, to have fun with!

And finally feel soft with after so long of pain and hurt.

All Spite knew since getting forced to share a body with the most stubborn human alive was pain.

From being ripped from the fade and into the already tormented body itself, to the harsh experiments and trial and errors the mages did on him and Lucanis-just to see how ‘they’ reacted as host and demon, to sitting to the side as Lucanis curled into a sopping broken ball for months every night, frozen cold and having to listen to the irritating drip drip drip of the cell door.

Spite felt the hunger, the aches, the burning anger and nagging sadness, and above all- the undeniable fear.

Lucanis inadvertently made Spite feel it all, thus leading to his own want to leave, to go back to this ‘home’ Lucanis kept thinking about night and day.

It all stopped the day Rook and her little team of misfits came into their life. With Rook leading the charge, they managed to get out and end up entirely into a new contract in return for helping them escape.

It all stopped when Rook smiled and offered their assistance with anything the two needed.

It all stopped when Lucanis got a flutter in his chest that grew and grew until the very sight of Rook had him blushing and Spite grinning.

That was until that bastard mage, Solas as they called him, decided the brightest idea was to take their Rook.

No more.

Spite eyes them as they mark their book for later reading time and he starts sitting up further with glee when their arms stretch out to him.

He’s a bit fast in globing them up in a hug only to have them laying across their large couch. He buries his face into their neck, smirking and chuckling as hands run up and down his back. It tickles.

They settle into his favorite position at that point. Him laying on their chest, face nosing into their collarbone, and them holding them like how his wings hold them when keeping them safe. Away from the painful world. Away from mages and Solas.

“Mine.” He presses a kiss into the bone underneath him. "Mine." They murmur it back just as easily. He smiles.

He feels..safe..soft here. Lucanis thought it first but Spite couldn’t help but agree more the first time their hands touched them.

The same hands that card his hair from his face to press light, fast kisses on his forehead. His nose. And he tilts up to meet their lips. They pinch him and they yelp as he does it back with a chuckle. Others would be scared of such a noise, but their hands are still on him, still giving him soft touches and loving caresses.

He won’t sleep, he doesn’t need it nor wants it right now. He has his and Lucanis’s Rook and that's all he needs.

That and their soft touch as always.

#dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #datv #dragon age rook #dragon age spite #dragon age lucanis #dragon age lucanis x rook #dragon age spite x rook #lucanis x reader #lucanis x rook #spite x rook #spite x reader #drabbles #slight angst #hurt/comfort

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0highlyvolatile0 · 2 days ago

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hi! transmasc here!

it is in fact just transphobia. transandrophobia and transmisandry implies that there is some cisgender equivalent to these experiences, and cisgender men are not oppressed strictly on the basis of being men or being masculine. no one in the history of ever has been oppressed for being a man.

you might think "well, transmasculine people and butches and the like are punished for being masculine!"

common misconception! they're being punished for being *queer.* very big difference between the punishment trans women receive even BEFORE THEY REALIZE THEY'RE TRANS for being feminine.

the key difference is before trans women come out, if they underperform masculinity, they are reduced to womanhood. if they reclaim that womanhood, they are reduced even further, and their femininity is revoked, being third-gendered. that's transmisogyny.

before trans men come out, if we underperform femininity, we are just failed women. to transphobes, we're still women, we just suck at it, so when we claim masculinity, we're still failed women to them. (I'm putting a lot of emphasis that this is from transphobes' perspectives of thinking, not mine because these things beg to be taken out of context.) that's transphobia (by account of being misgendered) and misogyny (by account of being treated as inherently lesser for being coercively assigned female at birth)

all that being said, these experiences are not the same!

if you were a cis man, you wouldn't tell a cis woman that you're more oppressed than her because masculinity is a burden you have to bear by patriarchal standards, right? I sure hope not! (and, if you as a transmasc feel as though your masculinity is burden to you, you might want to reevaluate your relationship to it.)

transmascs deserve to have their identities respected just like any other person in the community, and we might have experiences here or there that are unique to us, (I have yet to find any that haven't been debunked) but you don't need to talk down to women to make yourself feel heard. uplift our sisters!!! listen to them, talk to them, you might find out that they too experience these things, and then some.

I will admit that I used to subscribe to this way of thinking, but I've come to realize that a lot of this anger directed towards tranfems and trans women and/or in opposition of them stems from feelings of inadequacy. it's literally the exact same principle as cis "men's rights activists." you feel burdened by not performing masculinity enough and you take it out on the people systemically below you, you deny that they are oppressed and project those feelings onto them, therefore oppressing them.

we are oppressed for being transgender, but we are not oppressed for being men. stop talking down to trans women!!! you're making fools of yourselves.

non-transmasc. before you is a transmasc person talking about their experiences with being transmasculine and the oppression that they experience for being transmasculine. the bomb detonates if you tell them to just call it transphobia, if you imply their oppression/experience is incorrect, if you tell them that they signed up for it for being transmasculine. begin.

#transandrophobia #transmisogyny

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animamii · 2 days ago

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lockedup!Toji loves his Honeybuns

The phone rang just as you were settling onto the couch, a mug of tea in your hands and a show playing faintly in the background. You glanced at the caller ID, already knowing who it was. With a small smile, you picked up, bracing yourself for whatever Toji had cooked up this time. After accepting the call, hearing that way too long trill, you finally get to speak.

"Hello?" you greeted, feigning nonchalance. Although every phone call from Toji has you giggling and kicking your feet, let's be reallll.

"Hey, princess," Toji's deep voice rumbled through the line, warm and familiar despite the scratchy sound of the prison phone. "Whatcha doin’?"

You rolled your eyes, though the grin tugging at your lips betrayed your fondness. "Just relaxing. What about you? Playing king of the yard or something?"

Toji chuckled lowly. "Nah, nah. Somethin’ like that, though. Listen, baby girl, I gotta ask you for somethin’ real important."

You tilted your head, immediately curious. "Important, huh? What is it this time? A file baked into a cake? Need me to smuggle something in my mouth then tongue kiss it into yours?"

"Close," he quipped. "But nah, just a few more honeybuns."

"Honeybuns?" You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you. "Are you serious? Didn’t I just send you a whole box last week?"

"Yeah, and they’re gone," Toji said, completely unapologetic. "Ate most of 'em the minute they cleared it and gave it to me. Besides, those things are gold in here."

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the couch. "Gold? What, are you trading them for favors or something?"

"Don’t worry ‘bout that," he replied, his tone light but teasing. "Just know your man’s gotta keep his stash stocked. You wouldn’t wanna see me suffer without my sugar fix, would you?"

"You're unbelievable," you teased, shaking your head even though he couldn’t see it. "But fine. I’ll send more. Anything else while I’m at it? Chips? Cookies? A five-course meal?"

"Nah, just the honeybuns," Toji said, and you could practically hear the grin in his voice. "You’re the best, princess. Knew I could count on you."

"Yeah, yeah," you said with mock exasperation. "You’re lucky I like you so much."

"Damn right, I’m lucky," he replied smoothly. "I’ll make it up to you when I get out, I swear. Dinner, a movie—whatever you want. Just me and you, baby."

Your heart softened at his words, a small smile creeping onto your face. "I’m holding you to that, Toji. No excuses."

"Deal," he said without hesitation. "But for now, just keep those honeybuns comin’, alright? They’re the only thing sweeter than you in here."

You rolled your eyes again, though your cheeks warmed at the cheesy line. "Alright, alright. I’ll send them out tomorrow. But you owe me, big time."

"I always owe you, princess," he said, his tone softening. "You’re the reason I get through this mess."

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in his voice. No matter how much trouble he got into, no matter how ridiculous his requests, you couldn’t help but love him for moments like this.

"Stay out of trouble, okay?" you said gently.

"Can’t make any promises," he replied with a chuckle. "But I’ll try. Love you, baby girl."

"Love you too, Toji. I’ll talk to you soon."

As the call ended, you found yourself smiling down at your phone, already mentally adding honeybuns to your shopping list. For all his tough exterior and troublemaking ways, Toji had a soft spot that only you got to see.

Later that evening, as you wandered the aisles of the grocery store, you couldn’t help but laugh to yourself, remembering his unapologetic confession about devouring the last box. You grabbed not one but two boxes of honeybuns this time, thinking about how his face would light up—well, as much as it could under the circumstances—when he got them.

The cashier gave you a curious look as they scanned your purchases. "Big fan of honeybuns?" they asked with a smile.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Not me. Someone special."

And special he was, even if he had a knack for driving you crazy with his antics. As you packed up your bags and headed home, you realized that, despite the distance and the challenges, you’d do just about anything to keep Toji smiling—even if it meant being his personal honeybun supplier.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆⋆

I'm literally addicted to locked up Toji rn what can I say I love a hot felon ughhh

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scary-grace · 2 days ago

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among the wildflowers - a shigaraki x f!reader oneshot

You were raised to hide your magic, but Tenko didn't learn about his until it was too late. When it erupts with deadly consequences and splits the two of you apart, you turn to your own magic for a solution, even knowing that it could change you for good. If it brings Tenko back to you, it'll all be worth it - no matter how long it takes.

This is a slightly late submission for Challenge Friday over @pixelcafe-network, for which I received the prompts 'striped carnation' and 'stock flower'! I decided to combine them into one fic, which naturally got sort of long. 7.1k, lowkey medieval au, magic, flower symbolism, setting-appropriate violence, pining, etc. dividers by @strangergraphics.

Once upon a time, you were a little girl who lived with her mother in a small cottage at the edge of a great estate. Your mother tended to the estate’s vast gardens, sometimes accompanied by the lady of the house, and you followed at her heels, speaking only when spoken to but learning by watching the rest of the time. You don’t remember the first day you set out with your mother and a handcart full of tools and supplies. It was what you always did.

You remember the day you met the lord and lady’s children, though. As though it was yesterday. All you have to do is close your eyes and think back, and suddenly you’re there again – sitting up in the wild section of the gardens mere seconds before Hana and Tenko could trip over you. Hana stopped in time. Tenko couldn’t. He knocked you over completely and the two of you sprawled out in the dirt. Hana fell down, too, but only because she was laughing so hard. “I warned you, Tenko! I said to watch out –”

“I couldn’t see,” Tenko protested. “The grass was too high. Are you all right?”

You nodded. Your mother had told you not to speak to the lord and lady’s children unless spoken to, and while Tenko did speak to you, you didn’t need to answer out loud. Tenko scratched idly at the side of his neck and peered closer at you. “Where did you come from? Are you alone?”

“She’s not alone, silly. Her mother is the gardener.” Hana smiled, offered you a hand up. Not taking it would be rude, so you took it. “What are you doing out here?”

“Listening to the flowers,” you said. For some reason, you were more comfortable speaking to Hana than Tenko. Tenko made you shy. “They can talk.”

“I knew it! That’s why we’re here.” Tenko produced a book, one that looked far too frail to be dragged out into the garden. “This says flowers have their own language, and if we can learn to talk in it, we’ll be able to send messages without anybody else understanding. If you already know it, you can teach us!”

“And talk to us, too!” Hana beamed. She was still holding your hand, and when she sat down, she pulled you down with her. Tenko sat down on her other side and handed over the book. “It’s all right if you can’t read. Tenko can’t read yet, either.”

“I can too –”

“I’ll read it out loud,” Hana said importantly. She opened the book, flipped through it to a certain page, and started reading. “Abecedary. Volatility. Abatina – that’s fickleness –”

“Those aren’t good,” Tenko said, frowning. “I don’t even know what those are.”

You didn’t, either. “I know all the flowers in the garden, but not those. Keep reading – please.”

You only remembered please at the last second, remembered you were talking to nobility far too late, and cringed in expectation of a punishment. Even the village children, confident that they were your betters, were always quick to reprimand. But Tenko was nodding in agreement, and Hana kept reading, as requested. “Acacia – friendship. Do you know that one?”

You did, and you brought back a sprig for each of them. That was how you made your best and only friends.

Sometimes they both came to find you in the gardens, but as the years passed, more often it was Tenko alone, fleeing his father or already banished from the house. He brought the book with him, and sometimes his dog, too, and no matter where you were in the gardens, they always found their way to where you played. Tenko could read by then, and you were learning, a little. Enough to read about the language of flowers, and the meaning of each bloom you and your mother tended to.

“You said you could understand the flowers,” Tenko said to you one day, and you nodded. “You didn’t mean it like this.”

He tapped the book. You nodded again. “I can hear what they say to each other. I can’t always understand it, but I hear.”

Tenko’s dog was sleeping in the grass a few feet away, snoring. Tenko watched you with bright eyes and a smile that still made you shy. “Tell me what they’re saying.”

“They gossip and chatter like hens in a henhouse.”

“Or like my grandparents at tea,” Tenko said, and laughed. “Do they talk about us?”

The flowers really only have one thing to say. “They want Mon to stop watering them.”

Tenko laughed harder, and beneath the sweet, raspy sound, you could hear the flowers whispering. Urging care, urging caution. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“I won’t. I swear,” Tenko said earnestly. He held out his hand to link little fingers and swear, and you crooked your finger around his. “Tell me when they say things about me.”

“I will,” you promised. “Keep reading?”

Tenko turned the page, still clumsier than Hana ever did. “Alyssum – worth beyond beauty. Amaranth – immortality and unfading love.” He stumbled over the next few, his mouth tangling around the syllables, until his lips split and he worked it out. “Ambrosia – love returned. Oh, no –”

His lip was bleeding. “Let me,” you said without thinking, and you ran your fingertip over the split, coaxing it to heal quickly. Tenko froze beneath your hand. “I’m sorry –”

“You fixed it,” Tenko said. He raised the hand that had been scratching his neck and nudged your hand aside, tracing over the healed split himself. “You’re magic –”

You shushed him hurriedly. “Don’t tell anyone about that, either.”

“I won’t,” Tenko said. “Not even Hana. She talks to Father, and Father doesn’t like magic.”

You knew. You’d heard shouting from the manor, heard a few details from Tenko himself when he came running after the latest fight. Tenko’s grandmother, long dead by then, was a witch with tremendous power, who abandoned Tenko’s father to be raised by strangers so she could pursue an old enemy. Hana and Tenko weren’t supposed to know about that, and neither were you. “He says magic makes people selfish,” Tenko said. He looked at you with something like awe. “But you aren’t.”

“My mother says magic doesn’t change who a person is. It’s all about how they use it.”

Tenko smiled again, and a different split opened in his lips. “What are you going to use it for?”

You sealed the new split, too. “This,” you said, and almost immediately you felt his lips stretch into a wider smile beneath your fingers.

Your magic is the magic of wild places, of things that grow and change, and you had only small uses for it until the summer of your twelfth year. That was the year plague swallowed the countryside, scoured the village, and left the manor house untouched. It left your cottage untouched, too. Your mother went to the village one day, leaving you home to tend the gardens, and never returned. A messenger brought word that she had fallen sick. Another brought word that she had died, not half an hour later.

Tenko’s father was not unkind to you. He ensured your mother was laid to rest properly, at his own expense, and when you begged an audience from him with tears still drying on your cheeks, he granted it and let you make your case for why you should be allowed to take on your mother’s role rather than being cast out. “I have followed her since I was able to walk. I know all that she knew about the gardens, and I could learn more, for I can read. I am a diligent worker. I will ask for nothing. Only – please, do not send me away.”

“You’re still a child,” Tenko’s father said, almost dismissively. “How do you expect to care for yourself alone?”

“I know what to do,” you said stubbornly. Even though your hope was fading, you held firm. “I can tend to the gardens, and to myself.”

It was quiet for a moment. “Due to your inexperience, you’ll receive half your mother’s previous wage,” Tenko’s father said. “And you’ll take your evening meal here, at six o’clock each evening. Do you understand?”

It was more than you had hoped for. You nodded enthusiastically, smiling so hard your face hurt, and at your first meal with the Shimuras, you spent most of it staring down at your bowl, tears slipping down your face. Hana walked you home, with a bundle of food from the cook for your breakfast, and although you looked for Tenko, he was nowhere to be found. Hana was long gone and you were lighting the candles when he dropped something on your doorstep and ran away.

“Tenko?” you called out. “Tenko, come back.”

He was gone. On your doorstep was a bouquet, tied messily with twine, and as you sorted through it, you named the flowers one by one. Evergreen thorn – solace in adversity. Everlasting – never-ceasing remembrance. Marigold – grief. It made for an awkward bouquet, but you did not love it for its appearance. You replanted the bouquet in dark soil and coaxed them back to life, and many years later, you sang to them until they grew into a strange hybrid tree, one with thorns and flowers. It grows still. If anyone asks you, you could show it to them.

You mourned your mother. You would mourn her forever. You were always lonely, but the evenings you spent with Tenko’s family were peaceful ones. Looking back, you think that your presence kept the worst of Tenko’s father’s temper quiet, simply because he did not wish to misbehave in front of a stranger. Lady Shimura was always kind to you, and Hana and Tenko had been your friends for many years by then. You were never foolish enough to think you were part of their family. You were grateful for the time you had.

The night the Shimuras died, you’d retired early. You felt ill, and ill at ease, and you couldn’t explain why. Whenever you came upon a feeling you couldn’t explain, you were apt to blame magic, and you thought it wise to experience whatever was about to happen out of sight. You were correct to believe that magic was at fault for the discomfort and unease that swept over you. It just wasn’t your magic that caused it.

The legends say that Hell woke within the Shimuras’ house that night, wrecked it from the inside out until nothing but the foundation was left. If a piece of damnation came through, it left Hell far from empty behind it. You heard screams and terrible sounds, and the flowers whispered to you of what had happened at the manor house in the dark of the moon. They told you all they could see and all they had heard. By the time Tenko fell heavily against your doorstep, you knew most things.

Most things, save one. You brought him inside, cleaned blood off his hands, resolved to say nothing – and even as you were so resolved, you were opening your mouth. “Did you mean to do it?”

“No.” Tenko shivered, in spite of the blanket you wrapped around his shoulders. “Not all of it.”

“Your father,” you said. Tenko nodded, cringed away from you when you reached for him again. “Let me help.”

“I could hurt you.”

“Your magic needs time to build back up. Mine does, when I use a lot of it,” you said. “It’s safe, for a little while.”

“Why don’t you hate me?” Tenko looked at you. His grey eyes had gone red, his black hair gone blueish-grey. There were fresh cuts over his eye and lip. “I killed all of them. Why aren’t you scared? Why aren’t you sad?”

You were. You’d show it more, later, once you finally wandered up to the ruins of the manor house and saw what had befallen the people who’d been kind to you. In that moment, all you could see was your best friend in front of you, bleeding and frightened and alone except for you. “I know why it happened,” you said to Tenko, and his shoulders stiffened beneath your hands. “It’s your magic, but there’s something within it. I can see it. Like corruption or root-rot. I could draw it out –”

“No.” Tenko recoiled from you. “It’s not safe.”

“If it’s unsafe for me, it’s unsafe for you, too,” you argued. “Please, Tenko. Let me help you.”

Tenko hesitated for a long moment. Somewhere in that moment, you reached for him, tracing your finger along the cut over his eye and healing it closed. For the first time, it didn’t heal smoothly. What happened to Tenko the night his magic erupted would leave a scar. It was the same with the one on his lip, too. He spoke before you could pull away. “In the morning.”

“In the morning,” you agreed, and as easily as taking the next step down on a staircase, you leaned in and kissed him.

In a love story, a true romance, you would have made love all night, and he would have left something behind with you – a child, maybe, with eyes like his used to be and your life-magic in its veins. The truth was simpler. You kissed your best friend and he kissed you back, his hands shaking and his mouth uncertain against yours. You led him to your bed and the two of you slept in each other’s arms. Slept, and nothing more. Tenko fell asleep within moments, wrung dry by the horror he’d been part of, and you stayed awake a while longer, sensing the corruption within him, planning how to draw it out when daylight came.

When you woke in the morning, your bed was cold, and when you went in search of Tenko, he was gone. The plants told you he had left, gone far beyond your reach, and if you had entertained any thoughts of chasing after him, they dissipated when you saw what he had left for you: A striped carnation, white with red edging the petals. You knew he knew what it meant. You could hear it in his voice as he read from the book – striped carnation, refusal. Tenko was gone, and he didn’t want you to follow him. You were alone.

It was a full day and night before you ventured up to the manor house, and even then, it was out of obligation. The Shimuras had offered your mother proper funeral rites, so you owed them the same. As you walked, you saw that sections of the gardens had begun to die, a black stain spreading across the grounds towards the ones that still lived. Corruption, the same as that which infested Tenko’s magic. An infestation that would only spread. You could have helped. Why wouldn’t he let you?

You reached the manor, and you saw why. You did what funeral rites you could, but there was barely enough of the Shimuras left to perform them for. Even Mon hadn’t been spared. You thought of what the flowers told you, of how terrified Tenko was as his magic slipped from his control and turned wild, and your heart broke again. It was easy to imagine why Tenko had fled rather than allow you to try to heal him. If it hadn’t worked, you would have died. Just like your best friend’s family did. And because corrupted magic corrodes and decays, it had begun to spread. It would consume the Shimura estate, destroying all your hard work and your mother’s, erasing every place you and your friends had been happy, leaving nothing but a wasteland.

You sat down in the midst of it all and wept – for their loss, and soon, every loss you had ever felt. Tears splatted down into the stinking dirt and crushed flagstones, but you paid them no heed as you mourned Lord and Lady Shimura, Hana and Mon, your mother and the garden she’d loved, and for Tenko. Tenko, who left you to save you. Tenko, who left you here, amidst the ruin of everything either of you had ever loved.

It seemed as though you wept for an age. When your tears ran dry and you wiped your eyes, you found that something strange had occurred in the places where your tears struck the ground. The dirt they’d soaked into was no longer rotting. It was black and cool to the touch, loamy when you picked it up to crumble between your fingers. The Shimura estate was devastated, yes. But there was no law that said it must remain that way.

You thought of how far the corruption had already spread. How much it would continue to spread as you worked against it, one small patch at a time. Restoring this place to life would be the work of a lifetime, or of several – and yet, it would be worth doing. It would be worth doing even if Tenko never came home. But as you sunk your hands into the next patch of ruined earth, biting the inside of your cheek against the sting and letting your sorrow bleed through, you hoped that he would. That he would come home, and find a place that had healed, just as he could.

The work of a lifetime, or several, but you were thinking in terms of a human lifespan, and with every day you spent using your magic to its limit, your lifespan shifted. A year spent clearing an area the size of a single garden plot was nothing to you. The ten years or more you spent breathing life back into a single tree flew by, barely missed. The years changed you, but not in the way they should have, and still, you kept count of time. You spent a century repairing the corruption before the corruption began to fight back.

It was a living thing, the darkness that had twisted your best friend. It thought to wear you down, to force you to leave in defeat. But you fought it every day, not tirelessly but ceaselessly, for every square foot of soil, until at last it gave up the areas you had reclaimed as lost for good. You were not fool enough to think that you had won. The corruption had left the bounds of the Shimura estate many years ago. It was abroad in the world, and it needed its strength for a greater purpose.

Although you fought your hardest, there were some scraps of corruption that you could not eradicate, some scars in the earth that could not be healed. So you drew them up instead, weaving them into the roots of the trees, shaping blossoms resilient enough to stand the rot. Those plants were wild and dangerous, but part of your garden all the same. You tended to them just as you tended to the others, and soon they stood proud among the rest.

All around you was proof that the corruption was not irreversible, that it could be survived, that one could carve out a life in the aftermath of destruction. When a great darkness arose on the far side of the world and people fled before it, some of them found their way to you. Your garden had spread far beyond the bounds of the Shimura estate by then, too, and they dwelt in peace at its edges. The heart of the new forest was the Shimuras’ old house. No one ever ventured there.

You rarely allowed yourself to be seen, but when you did, it was to learn of the outside world. When you asked the new arrivals what had driven them from their lands, they all gave the same answer, under different names. Destruction embodied. The Lord of Evil. The Demon King. The Symbol of Fear, Shigaraki Tomura, a dark magician whose life meant death for everyone he touched. Old beyond counting, eater of souls. The enemy of all that was good.

“He will destroy this world,” an old woman said to you solemnly, her voice devoid of hope. “All life is his enemy. He’ll come for you.”

Your forest teems with life. Life bursts into being every day, every second. You were not sure whether she was telling you to flee or simply relaying your doom, but you knew you could not run. You were making this place for proof, for a boy who must have been long dead, a man who would never come to see it. See, you wished you could say to Tenko, it’s healed. It was hard, but it’s healthy now.

You vowed then that you would stay. As more refugees fled into your forest’s embrace, as the Symbol of Fear crept slowly across the land, you held true. You will hold true until your own death, or until Tenko comes home for good.

“I grow flowers,” you say to the boy who’s come to the Shimura house to speak to you. “Entire gardens of them. They would tell the whole of the story I just told you, if anyone still knew to read their meanings – or knew how to listen.”

“It’s said that art was lost long ago,” the boy says. He leans forward, his eyes bright with interest. “Can you teach me?”

“Izuku,” the man who accompanied him says uncomfortably. He’s tall and rail-thin, scarred by the battle against the corruption, his years of fighting long past. “Ask the question.”

They explained who they were to you, but you knew already. The flowers had brought you warning of them, and you needed to look at them only a moment to understand what was happening here. The old man can fight no longer. He’s entrusted all to the boy. This boy is meant to slay the Symbol of Fear. “How old are you?” you ask, and the boy stammers out an answer. “Fifteen. I was that same age when the estate fell into ruin.”

“Was brought to ruin, you mean,” an even older man tells you. This one is short and stooped. “No matter what you have done to it, this is still the birthplace of the evil we face.”

“The boy who carried it was born here, yes,” you allow. “But he was not its source.”

The old man lets out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Was? Is. Shigaraki Tomura lives still.”

Your heart goes still for a moment, and once more, the flowers whisper to you – urging caution, urging care. “It’s my job to defeat him,” Izuku says to you. He shows you the sword he’s carrying – a mighty blade, almost too heavy for him to lift, woven with the magic of seven sorcerers before him. “Will you help me?”

“Defeat him? Or kill him?” You watch the older men exchange guilty glances. “I can help you with neither.”

“But you’ve stood against him all this time –”

“I have been waiting for him,” you say. Tenko still lives. Magic has changed you, lengthened your life – why would it not have done the same to him? “I want him to come home, so he can be healed.”

“Healed?” the old man scoffs. “The Symbol of Fear knows no peace. The rest of us will find it only in his death.”

The younger of the two old man puts up an argument of some kind, and beneath it, Izuku turns to you. “You would heal him?” he asks. “How?”

“You see this place?” You gesture around at it. “It was once wracked by the same corruption that troubles my friend. Evidence of it still lingers. What happened here will never be forgotten entirely. But it has healed. So, too, could he be. If he chose.”

“I have faced him before,” Izuku says. There’s a strange, hopeful light in his eyes, faint and flickering. “I saw what haunts him. He looked as if – as if –”

You wait. “As if he was asking to be rescued,” Izuku says, and although it’s been many years since you cried, a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want to kill him, if I could save him instead.”

“Then we shall not kill him,” you say. “When the Symbol of Fear comes to us, we will face him together. You will not need your sword.”

“But –”

“Your sword has done what it needed to do. It brought you this far,” you tell him. Izuku nods slowly. “Now your heart must lead you.”

Izuku’s heart must lead him, as your heart has always led you. As Tenko’s heart, what remains of it, leads him home.

You know when the Symbol of Fear reaches the forest, because the refugees who have settled there begin to flee inwards. Once, armies rode with him, but they long since turned against him, fought him or fled. Now only a few dark magicians ride at his side, each bearing their own wound that will not heal. That has not healed yet, you remind yourself, as the flowers sing to you of their coming. There is always a chance for healing.

You had feared you would lose pieces of the forest to the corruption as Shigaraki Tomura traveled through it, either to his purposeful efforts or to the dark magic grown into them, reverting to its original purpose. But you had not counted on life, on hope. Growing alongside the darkness has made your forest resilient, has made it wily and strong. Although the corruption sinks into the earth with every step Shigaraki Tomura takes, it spreads no further.

When he’s close, but not yet within sight of the ruins, he comes to a stop. You sense him there, even if the flowers were not whispering of it, and when you realize where he’s stopped, your heart lifts. You rise to your feet, and Izuku scrambles up, too. “Is it time?”

“Yes,” you say. “Remember what we spoke of.”

“I remember,” Izuku says – but still, he brings along his sword.

You hear their voices before you see them. “Why are we stopped?” one says irritably. “The heart of the forest lies beyond.”

“Give him time,” another says. “Perhaps something important lies here.”

“What could be important? This place has been abandoned for a hundred years.”

Longer, unless you’ve mistaken your count of mortal time. It would appear abandoned to their eyes. You come into view of your old cottage just as a shadowy, white-haired figure steps out of it. In his hand, he clutches a striped carnation. “That flower was cut recently,” one of the dark magicians observes. “Someone still dwells there.”

“No.” Shigaraki’s voice is painful to hear, because it’s Tenko’s voice, pierced through with shards of glass and dragged over rough stones. “This has been here for a long time.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s magic, silly,” a female voice says. “It’s – oh!”

You don’t see what startled her, but Izuku must, because he neglects his feet and snaps a twig. The sound echoes sharply, and Shigaraki Tomura’s head snaps up, and as you meet his red eyes for the first time in hundreds of years, you’re overcome with feelings you couldn’t describe even if you had all the flowers in the world to spell them out.

He’s terrifying to behold. Wreathed in darkness shot through with bloodred, his hair long and wild, his face scarred. His hand is missing a few fingers and his stance is uneven, as though he’s prepared at any moment to lunge into battle or topple to his knees. The corruption writhes beneath his skin. His lips are dry and cracked, and as he studies you, his mouth splits into a smile more horrific than Tenko ever wore. Still, he bleeds the same.

“I saw the fairy-story written in the flowers,” he says. “You must be its author.”

“I am.” You incline your head. “What did you think?”

“Foolish.” The corruption has ahold of Shigaraki’s jaw, making it move awkwardly. “I never trifle with such useless things.”

“The language of flowers is long forgotten,” you say. “When did you learn to read it?”

“When did you?”

“I’ve always understood them,” you say. “You were the one who taught me to read.”

For a moment, you believe you see him falter; then he lets the striped carnation fall, and draws his sword. “This forest resists our efforts, and you willed it to life. Our position will be much improved when I kill you.”

“Kill me if you must.” You stay Izuku’s hand as he reaches for his sword. “First, I must show you something. Come with me.”

Putting your back to Shigaraki is dangerous, but he remembered enough for the cottage to stymie him. Maybe he remembers enough for this. You let Izuku walk ahead of you when the path narrows, and soon enough, you’re standing in the same field where you first met Hana and Tenko. “Do you remember this?” you ask. He looks blankly at you. “Then this, perhaps. The first flower I ever brought to you.”

“Acacia,” the Lord of Evil says after a long pause. “For friendship.”

You keep walking. A glance over your shoulder shows you that the dark magicians are inspecting the field, trying to divine the magic that made it what it is. Shigaraki Tomura marks your steps closely. “You are an illusionist,” he accuses. “This place was ruined long ago.”

“What does your heart tell you?” you ask, and he scoffs. “Do not tell me you have no heart. I hear it beating.”

His hand rises to his chest, rubs at it as though he’s in pain. “You should be more frightened than you are. I intend to corrupt this place so thoroughly that nothing will grow here ever again.”

“You will have a hard time with that,” you say. “It’s happened before.”

The flowers are descendants of the first flowers you woke out the ground, but the trees are old enough to have survived the corruption. You show the Symbol of Fear the veins of assimilated dark magic running through their trunks and in the veins of their leaves. He scoffs. “You call this healing?”

“What happened cannot be forgotten,” you say. “But life continues. It can grow. It can be good once more.”

You keep walking, Izuku at your side, the Symbol of Fear following, and his allies following further behind. “You are a fool,” the Symbol says to you. You ignore him, and he changes targets. “And you, brat. We’ve fought before. What nonsense has she filled your head with, to make you stay your hand?”

“I do not stay my hand,” Izuku says. “I promised I would try her way first.”

As far as answers Izuku could have given, it could be worse. You stop walking and turn to face the Symbol of Fear, who barely stops walking in time to avoid knocking you over. It was otherwise the first time you met, and based on the expression that flickers briefly across his face, he recalls it, too. For a moment, the shadows seem to lift, and you see the man Tenko’s become beneath them. If you die today, as well you might, at least you saw him one last time before the end.

On the walk to the old house, you pluck flowers from the ground, collecting every flower you remember Tenko reading aloud to you, every flower he offered. Marigold, everlasting, evergreen thorn; alyssum, amaranth, ambrosia; a bouquet that makes no sense save as part of a story. The flowers hum to you, and when you check over your shoulder again, you see the female magician picking a few flowers of her own, passing them to the others. For study, you think, until you see her tuck hers behind her ear. Oak-leaf geranium – true friendship.

“Your friends are young,” you say to the Symbol of Fear. “Their wounds are fresh compared to yours.”

“They could still be healed,” the Symbol of Fear says. You sense Izuku’s eyes darting between the two of you, shocked into silence. “If you heal them, and keep them here, perhaps I will leave this place untouched.”

“You know better than to think you can do that,” you say. “This is still your home.”

“It was never home,” the Demon King insists, and yet, he keeps walking. “Why do you delay the inevitable?”

“I do not delay,” you say. You pluck one last flower, round one last turn. “This is what I wished to show you.”

The Shimura house was destroyed down to its foundations, the earth turned hot and poisonous, such that nothing would grow there again. It took you a long time to work the darkness free of it, and longer still to coax seeds to take root there. Longer than that, even, for them to grow tall, and when they grew, their branches formed the outline of the house that once stood here, without your knowledge or your will to guide them. Shigaraki stops cold, stares. The shadows that surround him writhe and whirl in your peripheral vision. “It’s still here.”

“It’s not as it once was,” you admit, “but it is still here. And so am I.”

“I am not.” Tenko’s voice is rough and bitter. When you turn to face him, you find the shadows peeling back, enough to see his scarred mouth, a glimpse of his cheek. “There is nothing left of me but horror.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say. “And even if I did –”

You meant to give the bouquet to him whole, but you change your mind. Instead you pluck a single flower from it and hold it out. “Do you remember this one?”

The shadows begin to creep over his mouth, but he raises the hand with the missing fingers and claws them away. They attack his hand instead, and you see them biting into his skin. Izuku sees, too. He draws his sword. Tenko speaks in that same rough voice. “Stock flower,” he says. “You will always –”

He breaks off, staring at you. “You will always be beautiful to me,” you complete the sentence. “You’re home now, Tenko. Let me help you.”

“I can’t.” Tenko loses his grip on the shadows, and they swarm back over his face, leaving his hands raw and bleeding. “It won’t let me.”

You reach for him, but Izuku stays your hand. He steps forward, sword drawn, and looks into Tenko’s eyes. “It’s my task to save others from you,” he says. “But I see before me someone who needs saving just as much.”

“There is no salvation for me,” the Symbol of Fear says. The shadows are consuming Tenko’s body. You can see it. “Only destruction. Yours, and everyone’s.”

Izuku’s grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, and your heart seizes with it at the thought that all is lost. A twig snaps behind you, and when you look around, you see that while most have fled, some of the refugees have been drawn in to witness. The Symbol’s magicians are poised for a fight in turn – and rather than stepping forward with a swing of his sword, Izuku speaks. “What afflicts you? Show me.”

For a moment, all is still and silent – or it must be, to all but you. The flowers hum and the trees breathe in and out, and the people who stand amongst them swarm and throb with life in their turn. You feel the unevenness of those who are wounded, the fog that surrounds those who are sick at heart. Tenko’s companions are both, and so is he. You see it for a split second, when he tears himself free of the shadow entirely and casts it aside.

It wounds him. You see skin rip, blood spurt. But the corruption is gone from him, separated completely for the smallest of moments. Within that moment, there’s more than enough time for Izuku’s enchanted sword to decapitate it where it stands.

The corruption does not die cleanly. It screams, a sound that shreds your eardrums and makes the flowers mute, a sound that the rest experience only as a gust of rotting wind. Even in pieces, it still lives. Tenko’s magicians cast their spells upon it, breaking it apart again, but it’s Tenko who delivers the blow that scatters it to near-nothingness for good. You’ve never seen Tenko’s magic, corrupted or otherwise. It’s snow-sky grey, the way his eyes once were, and its touch is softer than you thought it would be. Under his power, the corruption dissolves into pieces your forest was born to absorb.

The forest is Tenko’s, too. You know by the way it bends towards him as he falls, the life within it surging to meet him. One of the dark magicians races forward to catch him, and you catch him, too. The two of you lower him to the earth together.

Tenko is terribly wounded. The corruption tore away pieces of his flesh as he pulled free, and his magic is overtaxed. Even if none of those things were true, his body is still rent by old wounds and poorly healed scars. To survive this will ask a great deal from him. All your skill and power will mean nothing if he does not wish to live on. You touch your best friend’s face for the first time since he left you, heal a split of his lip with a single trace of your finger, and pray that he will try.

His magicians have surrounded you, Izuku shoved thoroughly to one side. The magician who caught Tenko with you meets your eyes, his features contorted with fear and confusion. “Will he live?”

“He may,” you say. “Time will tell.”

The corruption no longer lives in this world, but its effects remain, and there are lesser wounds, lesser evils, that abound. There is only so far your forest can spread by your own will. At some point, others must take on the task alongside you. Those who wish to return their homes carry seeds and saplings from the forest with them. Wherever they plant them, they will grow alongside the darkness, and grow strong.

One day, you’ll walk past the edges of the forest and see things for yourself, but that is a long time away. You determined to renew this place for Tenko, should he ever choose to come home. It took a long time to heal, and so will he. So will his friends, with their own wounds and sorrows, but time is something you have in abundance.

“I studied magic,” Tenko tells you as you lay on your backs in the grass, staring up at the sky through a canopy of leaves and a scattering of clouds. “It’s not meant to do this.”

He gestures at the two of you, using the hand that’s missing two fingers. You take his hand, raise it to your lips and kiss it. “What do you mean?”

“It should not have cast us out of time,” Tenko says. “Magicians live and die like anyone else. Or at least they should.”

“I never studied magic,” you admit. “Perhaps I broke some rule in renewing this place. I don’t know.”

“If you had broken a rule, you’d feel it,” Tenko mumbles. You glance over at him and find him grimacing. “I feel it daily.”

You’ve heard tell of the terrible things Tenko did in the throes of the corruption, and what you haven’t heard in tales, he’s told you himself. You know what it cost him. “Does it itch or hurt? Or ache?”

“Today it aches. Like the cold of a grave.” Tenko edges closer to you, and you close the gap until you’re lying in each other’s arms once more. “You need not use magic to make me feel better. I always felt better with you, even when we were children.”

When the two of you lie this close, it’s always an effort not to fall asleep. It’s as if your body intends to make up for the centuries of nights lost as quickly as possible, even in the middle of the day. You kiss Tenko’s hand again and burrow a little closer against his side. “This is where we always met up,” you say. “It took me a long time to make it grow again. What do you think?”

“It’s different,” Tenko says. His hand turns in yours, holding it securely against his heart. “But it feels the same as before.”

The two of you lie there for a while in silence, and you cast your mind out, seeking the edge of your forest, seeking the saplings and sprouts that have been planted far past its boundaries. Someday, when the world has long forgotten Shigaraki Tomura, you and Tenko will venture out to visit them. You’ve spent so long in your small corner of the world. You’d like to see more of it. And you know Tenko would like to see it with unclouded eyes.

The corruption may be gone, but it haunts him still. His body rattles sometimes with the memory of pain, or else his skin crawls at the phantom sensation of a force outside himself, peeling up his skin and making him itch. Sometimes, when his body rebels, he drowns himself in you. Other times, he can hardly bear to be touched. It frustrates him, more so for the fact that he thinks it frustrates you. It doesn’t. You know better than anyone else that healing takes time.

“We were always here,” Tenko says aloud, after a long time. You nod into his shoulder. “I always asked you what the flowers were saying about me.”

“I always thought it was funny that you never asked me to teach you.”

“I was worried I couldn’t,” Tenko says. “And I knew you’d tell me the good things.”

You laugh. Tenko’s voice takes on a hesitant note. “What are they saying now?”

“They say that I love you, and that you love me.”

“I do.” Tenko’s cheek is flushed when you kiss it, and he turns his head for a longer kiss, too. “What else do they say?”

You tell him, in between kisses, as life continues around you – a life that looks different than it did before, a life that will never be the same. A life that has changed, and still a life worth saving. A life worth living, too. You and Tenko are a long way from an ending, if one even exists for the two of you. But if you were to close the tale here, you know you could call it a happy one.

#shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #shigaraki tomura x you #shimura tenko x reader #shimura tenko x you #tenko shimura x reader #tenko shimura x you #x reader #reader insert #man door hand hook car door #a bisquared production

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linklethehistorian · 2 days ago

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Hi — OP here. I wanted to highlight some of the tags that I thought were worth showing from y’all insightful folks (especially those in other countries) who have been reblogging:

Also, since I’m getting a few people reblogging and/or commenting like I’m fearmongering and saying the situation is already doomed:

This was NOT my intent. I am well aware of everything that’s required for this to get passed. I’m well aware it’s a slim shot of it happening. This does not make it a non-threat. Listen to the voices around you — even those who do not live in this country. Listen to them, and take heed of their warnings. They know this situation by heart, from experience. They’ve seen it all before.

Listen to the people who know their history, who know history in general of situations that were similar. They speak the truth.

Me telling you that this will not be the end was not fearmongering and it was not an attempt to be demoralizing and it was not treating the situation like, or implying it was, an inescapable Armageddon. I know it sounds terrifying, but that’s because it is. And people need to see that. They need to think about it. They need to know what is at stake in the event this passes, however unlikely those odds may or may not be.

It was a warning. A call to action. A “unless we both as a country and as individuals act to stop it here and now, this will happen.”

The reason why I did not bring up the odds is largely because I was in a hurry to get this out, because I wanted to alert people as soon as I could. Because this it’s important. As I have said previously, this post was made very early in to this becoming public knowledge. There weren’t many places talking about it yet and I wanted to do so before people started flooding in with the dangerous, downplaying “don’t worry, it’s a 0% chance” rhetoric that would convince people it wasn’t worth acting against and that they didn’t have to do anything, because they’d think they could trust it would all just be okay.

And you should never just trust that it will all be okay, if there’s something you can do to help ensure that. The odds of the situation are ultimately entirely irrelevant when it comes to the necessity to act. You should always treat situations like this like if you don’t act, no one will.

As I have said in another post, while it’s understandable people want to comfort themselves, there is no such thing as a 0% chance, and there is also no such thing as slim odds unless you act in every way you can to ensure the odds are, in fact, as slim as you believe and hope them to be, and spreading anything along those lines is to play an extremely dangerous game that only helps your enemy.

We are not omniscient. We cannot read the hearts and minds of each individual member of congress and head of state and know in an instant how they feel, nor can we see the future. Betting on odds to save your life and your fate and the lives and fates of everyone you know and love when you could be doing something to at least help those odds is a fool’s game.

Do your research. Know your odds, if it helps to comfort you. Check out the links the kind people in the reblogs and comments have sent or offered you and listen to those around you.

But don’t ever assume that you don’t have to act. Especially on important matters like this.

Yes, part of the reason this bill got passed may have been a distraction tactic to get you to look the other way from other things going on; HOWEVER, THIS DOES NOT MAKE IT ANY LESS DANGEROUS OR A NON-THREAT.

Multiple things can be a threat at once. Something can be both a distraction and a serious attempt to alter the course of the American future. You can care about multiple things at once. You don’t have to choose. But if you do choose only a few, certainly don’t choose to ignore the amendment that could permanently alter how America runs and allow this man — or people like him — to have a grip over this country for 12 years each, and pave the way for lifelong dictatorships.

Thanks for your time and all the reblogs that help made this post spread. My blog is not super popular, so I never could’ve dreamed this would fly away like it has, but I’m so happy that it was something important like this that took off.

I love you all. We’re in this together. Protect your country in any way you can. Be safe. There is hope, but it’s hope we need to help carve out by our own hands. Not hope we put blindly into the hands of others.

Source

Transcript:

“BREAKING: A constitutional amendment has been filed allowing President Trump to seek a 3rd term in office.

"No person shall be elected to the office of the President more than three times, nor be elected to any additional term after being elected to two consecutive terms, and no person who has held the office of President, or acted as President, for more than two years of a term to which some other person was elected President shall be elected to the office of the President more than twice."

It was filed by Congressman Andy Ogles (R-TN).

Don’t let this slip by unnoticed. This is not just “one extra term”, it’s a warning shot. It’s a red flag. It’s an omen.

They are slowly turning up the heat in the pan. Do not be the frog who sits denying it’s getting hotter.

One extra term will become two, two will become three, and three will eventually give way to lifelong reign of each president.

Fight. Fight for God’s sake.

Contact your local representative of congress. Convince them we do not want this.

We are going to end up in a dictatorship.

@ikiyou

Please help spread this. I don’t usually get political and I don’t usually ask for assistance but this is important and you have more reach.

#linklethehistorian #my thoughts #thoughts #us politics #politics #reblog #non fandom #nonfandom

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victusinveritas · 3 days ago

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"The coming days will be ugly. Yet I feel it’s my job to remind you that, bad as this is, we are not Weimar Germany, and this is not 1933. Trump and his lieutenants aren’t battle-hardened trench fighters, they’re Elon Musk and a coterie of half-enthusiastic half-frightened billionaires who got rich gambling on apps to let you rate your classmate’s tits. Their foot soldiers are used car salesmen from Encino, not Freikorps. The United States is not starving to death and crippled by war, it’s irritated and anxious because its working people have been robbed blind by those same billionaires.

The one thing we do have in common with Weimar is that our fascists now find themselves at the head of a state that capitulated to them not out of enthusiastic consent but exhaustion, cowardice and above all a feeling that it didn’t really matter.

That last one, the feeling that nothing matters, the system is fucked, there’s no point in engaging or organizing- that is the most powerful weapon they have right now. Because that feeling stops you and everyone else from opposing them. From interrupting as they reach out, yet again, to take something you love or need.

But there’s a danger here too. In moments of stress and anger the desire to DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING can be intense. And when we’re swept up in that mood the natural tendency is defaulting to the things we know best. The things we’ve done before. The marches and chants and poster-boards we’ve been walking and shouting and carrying all century long. Going back to those old tactics without iteration or acknowledgement of their limitations is a road to failure.

I’ve been to a lot of protests, starting at Zuccotti Park in 2011 and ending last year in Chicago, at the DNC. One of the most dispiriting moments of my life was listening to young anti-genocide activists vow to shut down the DNC, to “make it great like ‘68”. This was a reference to the 1968 DNC. Mass protests were ignited when the preferred anti-war candidate, Eugene McCarthy, was rat-fucked by Democratic party insiders in favor of Vice-President Hubert Humphrey. The protests were quashed violently with tear gas and truncheons. Protesters chanted, “The whole world is watching.”

It may have been then. But the war went on. Nixon won election, then re-election, and then finally pulled U.S. troops out of Vietnam after dropping enough bombs on South-East Asia to have ended several Third Reichs.

During one particularly bad night at the 2024 DNC, miles away from the event itself, a march of self-described “radical protesters” confronted the police while chanting “the whole world is watching” and I can say, unequivocally, it was not. The only people watching were me, several other journalists, and a handful of folks on Twitter. The police, as they kettled, maced and arrested members of the crowd, barely seemed to care. The DNC didn’t shut down. Kamala Harris was made the nominee. There wasn’t even a real anti-war candidate for party insiders to rat-fuck in her favor.

Garrison Davis, my colleague and friend, remarked to me afterwards that the DNC had been somehow much more depressing than its Republican counterpart a month earlier. He was right.

On the stage floor all the Democrats had to present were aging celebrities and Bill goddamn Clinton, drooling out the same platitudes that led us to the Trump era in the first place and doing their best to ignore delegates who walked out and slept in front of the convention center to protest the genocide in Gaza.

Meanwhile in the streets a lot of very nice, earnest people (alongside a handful of grifters) did the only thing they could think of doing after months of imbibing footage of war crimes. They walked around and shouted. The police and city largely let them, because they knew none of it was going to change a damn thing.

I’d felt tremendous optimism right after Joe Biden resigned, not because I loved Kamala but because it was something shocking, an upset, an experiment. Or at least it seemed that way at first. The DNC made it clear that Biden’s advisors and consiglieres, the powers behind the throne, still ran the show, and would not allow any real change. The rot had spread too far, spoiling the meat, spoiling everything.

It was my accurate belief in 2020 that the Democratic Party, broken as it was, had the numbers and organizational capacity to slow the spread of fascism for a short time. It was my inaccurate belief in 2024 that this might still be the case. I had hope because I’d lost any sense of actual productive optimism. We lean on hope when we have no ideas to brace ourselves against.

Hope, as George Miller reminded us, is a mistake. If you don’t fix what’s broken, you’ll go crazy. That’s where we are now, going crazy. Committed Democrats, the decent regular people who fill the party not the soulless shoggoths of capital who run things, are going crazy because they got what they thought they wanted for four years. We returned a “decent” normal politician to office, he kept the economy humming along, got us out of Afghanistan…and everyone still hated him.

Leftists are going crazy for different reasons. In 2020 this country saw the largest sustained uprising of its modern history and nothing, fundamentally, changed. In its aftermath, the oligarchs who control social media set to tweaking, buying or outright inverting their algorithms to ensure no similar movement would ever gain that kind of steam again. Their efforts have been largely successful.

And yet many organizers, be they progressive social democrats, communists, anarchists, whatever, are still stuck in the same loops. Behind each march to nowhere and tired chant is an equally tired hope. The social democrats dream of a giant, continent-sized Denmark, with cyclists replacing Ford Trucks, universal healthcare, good schools and a bevy of other lovely things both political parties will fight tooth and nail to prevent. The authoritarian Communists dream of a new October Revolution, but this one will work rather than just creating a new dictatorship that ages and dies within the space of a single human lifetime.

Anarchists tend to be very good at seeing the flaws in the logic and futility of the hopes of the previous two groups, but they are just as bereft of ideas for how to stop what’s coming. Some tendencies dream of collapse, of an end to industrial society and either living in the woods eating berries or some sort of solarpunk daydream, wildflowers sprouting from rubble. The latter is a nice dream but try offering either future to a single mom who can’t afford her 5-year-old’s insulin and see how she reacts.

Most of the anarchists I know define themselves as “helpers” before anything else. They’ll cheerfully admit they don’t know how to solve the big problem but they do know how to provide free eye exams to homeless people once a month, or do water drops down at the border so migrants don’t die of dehydration, or crowdsource insulin from their friends to help that single mom through a bad week or two.

If you are where we all are right now, bereft of ideas, staring down the barrel of a nightmare, those are good folks to know. Like everyone else, they’re defaulting to what they’ve been doing, but at least what they’ve been doing helps people.

The larger solutions to our common woes, if they ever arrive, will be something new. Something we haven’t tried yet. I feel very confident they won’t take the form of another march or involve everyone finally agreeing to be the same kind of communist/anarchist/whatever. Shawn Fain, chief of the United Auto Workers Union, has called for a General Strike in 2028, and that so far is the only clear plan I’ve heard anyone make that feels like it has a ghost of a chance.

It’s an audacious plan, and I recommend reading what Shawn’s laid out about it. But half of why I support the idea is because it IS audacious. The religious right got to where they are right now in this country by being bold. As I laid out earlier, fascists win because they always try, and this is something we need to copy.

Shit can be different, but not unless we’re willing to try different shit.

Many pundits and columnists were shocked and horrified by the massive and instant support for Luigi Mangione when he assassinated the CEO of United Healthcare. Both the tutting gatekeepers of traditional media and the actually-sweating oligarchs characterized this as evidence of bloodthirstiness. Some leftists did the same and interpreted support for Mangione as proof that the body politic did, indeed, have energy for an uprising.

I saw something different. More than the actual killing itself I think people were excited to see someone try something new. Luigi adopted a novel tactic, carried it out in a novel way, and in doing so he did more to punish one of the oligarchs bleeding us dry than the entre Occupy movement.

Novelty is the one thing that ties Donald Trump and Luigi Mangione together. The enthusiastic public response to both men’s actions and the simultaneous revulsion of traditional elites are mirrors of themselves. In 2024, Trump still had enough novelty to convince people that he might upset the apple cart in some way that benefited them. He rode a global anti-incumbent wave back to the White House.

The consequence of this is that he and his are now on their way to becoming the new establishment. This is an underappreciated downside of the fact that most legacy media outlets have started moderating their coverage of Trump, if not embracing him outright. He is being normalized. His toadies, Musk chief among them, are now our legitimate powers. What novelty remains will fade rapidly.

I suspect the same thing will be true of the copycats who follow in Luigi Mangione’s footsteps.

Most of his plagiarists won’t be good at what they do. At best newly heightened security will see Luigi’s plagiarists dropped before they can pull a trigger. At worse, innocent people will be killed or maimed by bullets and bombs that fail to hit their intended targets or do but with a lot of collateral damage.

I don’t know what the next new thing will be. But between Trump and Mangione there aren’t many old norms left to shatter. We are in a time of enormous potential. Many new things are about to be tried and as awful and bloody as the fallout from some of them will be we all have no choice but to strap in and roll some dice of our own.

The present is ugly, the future unwritten. The only way we’ll make it a better one is if we embrace boldness, creativity and, perhaps, a little overconfidence of our own."

-Robert Evans

#robert evans #behind the bastards #it could happen here #fascism #antifascist #christofascists #current events #decline of the great society dreamed of by lbj #us politics

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emmg · 20 hours ago

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Aftertaste

The Emmrook modern Sugar Daddy AU I've been spinning in my brain like a rotisserie chicken finally got its seasoning. Shoutout to @thepalehorsevictoria's WONDERFUL, AMAZING, ABSOLUTELY LIFE-ALTERING The Internship for delivering the motivational slap I needed to actually finish the first stupid chapter. You're all welcome, probably.

She would look exquisite sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? Perhaps he’d drape her in coins, or bills—her choice, naturally, though one suspects she’d opt for the flashiest, the most garish option, something appropriately Rook. And afterward, he’d collapse into her shoulder, sobbing like a maudlin fool, his tears soaking through the remnants of her ridiculous blouse. A tableau of absurdity: him, the tragic romantic, and her, the irreverent Venus, reeking faintly of cheap vanilla.

Read it here, under the cut, or on AO3

-----

Chapter 1: Oysters Are Gross

At fifty-two years and three days old, Emmrich finally surrenders. He grants Bellara—his chirpy, chattering, insufferably radiant assistant—permission to "set him up." Bellara, of course, is all gleaming eyes and endless sentences, a creature so bright she could burn holes in the wallpaper. He agrees because he is fifty-two years and three days old and it hits him: an unbearable, senseless loneliness.

He stares blankly at the wall, realizing that the majority of those who wished him well on this fifty-two-year-and-three-day milestone—up to ninety percent of them—are colleagues.

Happy birthday, Emmrich. Love, Amélie.

Ah, Amélie. His Orlesian once-mistress. The text is a masterstroke of brevity. He allows himself a smile before retrieving his reading glasses and composing a reply.

Thank you, darling. Always a pleasure.

The message is sent. Amélie, of course, does not deign to reply.

Well, then.

His gaze shifts to the bottle of absinthe perched on the counter, a gift from the Dean and faculty, no doubt purchased more out of obligation than admiration. The label gleams mockingly. He frowns, swirls the dregs of his glass, and drains it in a single swallow.

Bellara, that dainty tempest of enthusiasm, is promptly unleashed to do her worst. He delivers his consent carefully, his back turned to her as she flits about the library, slipping borrowed books back onto shelves. Borrowed, mind you, some three—or was it four?—months ago. The real marvel isn't her returning them but the improbable fact that she remembered taking them at all. He phrases his acquiescence in a way that suggests, naturally, he is the one doing her a favor. (Ha. Of course.)

“Ooooh, perfect!” she chirps, a human hummingbird vibrating with unsolicited opinions. “She’s like so, so pretty. Her nose? Upturned—and that’s super trendy right now. People are flying to Antiva for rhinoplasty because it’s cheaper there. Crazy, right? And she’s tall. Well, not as tall as you, obviously, but still tall. And thin. And just… really, really pretty. Like she totally knows it though. Ugh, I’m probably ruining this. Anyway, she’s so pretty, professor.”

Her voice trails off.

He stops listening somewhere between "rhinoplasty" and "tall." He has neither the patience for Bellara’s reverence for the human scaffolding of beauty nor the bandwidth to follow her avalanche of adjectives.

Bellara flutters on, blissfully unaware she’s been tuned out.

****

“What are we thinking, Manfred?” he inquires, addressing the ties spread on the bed as though consulting an oracle. His arms are crossed, his brow raised. “Cerulean or hunter green?”

“Woof,” replies Manfred, the household philosopher and occasional canine.

“Thank you, darling boy,” he sighs, selecting the latter. The cerulean can sulk in the drawer another day.

He assembles himself with meticulous care, a sacred ritual. The three-piece suit is virgin wool, soft, lustrous, perfect. The vest, of course, matches. His hair, combed back with fragrance-free pomade, achieves that delicate balance of hold without crunch. He is not, he assures himself, some adolescent with a tube of glue masquerading as hair gel, desperate to look like he just emerged from a car wash. No, he assures himself, he is a man of taste.

The finishing touch is his cologne: a concoction of galbanum, juniper, violet leaf, and oakmoss. It doesn’t just suggest expense; it shouts it in carefully modulated tones. The sort of scent that might cause an uninitiated passerby to pause and wonder, “Is this man a connoisseur—or simply insufferable?” Amélie, of course, once called it "enticing."

Finally, two of his rings come off. Why? Because one never knows. Bellara’s friend might be pretty, but she also might be a thief. No sense tempting fate—or petty larceny.

He looks in the mirror one last time, adjusts the hunter green tie, and decides he looks exactly like the sort of man who would judge someone for stealing his rings.

Before leaving, he conducts his usual pre-departure sweep: oven off (because clearly, he’s the type to bake a pie and forget it), television off (lest it drone on to an audience of none), no faucets running (oh, the horrors of a dripping tap), and, naturally, no texts waiting to be answered (as if). This exercise in obsessive futility provides him no satisfaction, only the faint assurance that his house won’t combust or flood in his absence.

He realizes he's doing it out of nervousness.

Only slightly satisfied, he turns to Manfred, the sole companion he trusts for an honest opinion. “Not too shabby?” he ventures, striking a pose that could only be described as overly hopeful.

Manfred, ever the truth-teller, responds in the only way befitting such a ridiculous question: he vomits on the carpet.

****

The restaurant is Orlesian, of course—where else would one go to feel simultaneously underfed and overcharged? He knows the head chef, a relic of his undergrad years, back when dormitory life was a parade of poorly considered ambitions and even worse hygiene. Xavier, once the proud owner of a neuroscience textbook he never opened, had been convinced he would unravel the mysteries of the brain—until the brain, or rather the workload required to study it, unraveled him instead.

His grand response to this betrayal? Elfroot—smoked with dedication—and a catastrophic assault on their shared kitchen that left it resembling the aftermath of a culinary riot. Naturally, a few years later, Xavier inexplicably emerged as a celebrated chef, the sort whose name is murmured reverently in food columns and shouted across crowded dinner parties by people desperate to sound cultured.

It’s a miracle, really, the sort of alchemy only student dorms can produce: turning the least functional among them into the toast of society, while everyone else just gets crumbs.

He’s early, of course. Emmrich is always early, a man cursed with the kind of politeness that borders on masochism. Being late might suggest a lack of respect, but being early? That’s the calling card of someone determined to suffer.

He orders an apéritif because sitting idle feels too desperate, even for him. Something stronger than advisable but, then again, he has no intention of driving tonight—or doing anything particularly sensible, for that matter. A Negroni it is. Predictable. As Johanna had so graciously put it, he’s a “basic bitch,” forever drawn to whatever the masses have deemed fashionable this week.

He's nouveau riche like that. Here he is, nursing a drink that tastes like regret and orange peel, sitting early at an overpriced Orlesian restaurant, the living embodiment of someone trying just a little too hard.

And—oh. Damn her. Bellara was right. Of course, she was right. Why wouldn’t she be? Rook, she’d called her. Pretty, tall, unbearably young. And so very, very pretty—pretty to the point of redundancy. The kind of prettiness that practically begs to be noticed, long pale hair cascading like the overly poetic description she’d no doubt receive in a novel some day.

“Emmrich?” she says, her eyes darting around the room as though she expects a less disappointing Emmrich to materialize from behind a potted fern. Surely, this can’t be the one.

“Indeed,” he says, and because he’s a gentleman—or at least a serviceable facsimile—he forces himself to stand. Hurrying to her side, he pulls out her chair with an eagerness that feels as rehearsed as it is exhausting. She sits, and only then does he allow himself to return to his own seat, feeling rather like an actor who’s just survived the first act of a particularly humiliating play.

“Hm,” Rook says.

She is smiling. This must be good. Surely, it’s good. Someone so young, so lovely, smiling at him. Smiling for him. Or at him? Is there a difference? Does it matter?

“Shall we start with a drink?” he asks, his voice striving for charm and almost, almost getting there.

“You’re grey,” she says, blunt as a hammer. “Like, almost fully.”

“Ah,” he says, because, really, what else is there? Words fail him, but her casually devastating remark does not. It feels as though she’s reached across the table and punched him in the throat with that pretty, unmanicured hand of hers, leaving him gasping for dignity. “I am.” He swallows hard and, for one fleeting moment, wonders if shattering his glass and dragging a shard theatrically across his wrist might salvage the evening—or at least end it with style. “Does that bother you?”

A languid shrug. “No.” She lifts the menu with an air of detachment that makes him wonder if she is reading it or simply holding it to avoid looking at him. “How old are you?”

Fifty-two-years-and-ten-days, not that anyone’s counting. “Bellara didn’t tell you about me?”

“Bellara said you were rich.” Fantastic. His favorite personality trait. “And lonely.” Marvelous. The perfect companion to wealth, like cheese to wine. “And that you smell good.” Well, thank heavens. If nothing else, he’s fragrant—a consolation prize for his apparent lack of other redeeming qualities. “And…” She leans into the menu, her nose wrinkling in what he assumes is concentration but could just as easily be disdain. Does she need glasses? Should he offer her his? Would that be erotic or just pathetically sad? “Not married,” she finishes.

There it is: rich, lonely, perfumed, and unattached. A portrait painted in four brushstrokes, with no room for nuance.

He raises a hand, signaling the server. If he is to endure the rest of this encounter, it will be with a drink in hand, preferably something strong enough to blunt the edge of her candor.

"And what about you, Rook?" he asks, once her cocktail arrives, a vulgar, lurid concoction so bright it might glow in the dark. Her lipstick smears on the straw (a straw... In this restaurant? Did Xavier finally give up?). "How would you describe yourself?"

Her grin is dazzling, predatory. "Not rich," she declares. "Very, very not rich," as though he might have misinterpreted her financial despair. "So you’ll have to excuse me, because I have no fucking clue how to deal with all these." She gestures broadly at the table. "Utensils. That one—yeah, that. Why is there a baby fork?"

"It’s an oyster fork."

"You ordered oysters?"

"I did."

"Oysters are supposed to make you horny, you know."

He tips his head back in silent prayer, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, which sadly offers no escape. "The aphrodisiac effects are largely exaggerated," he mutters, clinging to his last shred of dignity. "They are high in zinc, yes, but otherwise... they’re simply a standard appetizer."

"I mean, yeah. It’s like swallowing unwashed pussy."

He chokes.

"But to answer you," Rook says, now smoothing the napkin over her lap with the deliberation of someone unused to starched linens, "literature. I just got into grad school. My brain’s about ready to explode. I’ve spent the last two weeks applying for every fellowship I could find. Leliana—that’s my supervisor—says that’s just how it is. Not much funding for the humanities."

Ah, he thinks, so the sewer of profanity comes with a surprisingly functional brain. Who knew?

"And what will your thesis be about?" he asks. "The broad strokes, of course."

She perks up, her expression suddenly alight with a kind of zeal he recognizes all too well—the sort of gleam he’s seen in his own reflection, mid-tangent, while his colleagues quietly plotted their escape. "The treatment of regional culinary rituals in early Orlesian romantic epics," she announces, her tone brimming with the self-assured pride of someone convinced their niche could save the world. "I’m particularly interested in how feasting scenes reflect class dynamics and metaphysical longing."

"Feasting and metaphysical longing," he echoes. "An underexplored intersection, no doubt."

"It is, actually," she says, unfazed. "Leliana thinks it could open up new discussions about the interplay between consumption and identity in pre-industrial Orlais."

He takes a long sip of his drink. "Well," he says finally, "good to know I will be dining with a pioneer in the field of… gastronomic existentialism."

"Lucky you," Rook agrees.

"And this pioneer," he quips because he simply cannot resist, "despite devoting her studies to the poetic glow of Orlesian candlelit dinners, cannot distinguish a fish fork from a dessert spoon?"

"Emmrich," Rook says, her glass drained, the fuchsia stain of passion fruit now blooming on her lips like some accidental masterpiece. "I read about Orlesians fucking each other with cucumbers, then slicing them up for a salad as if foreplay and vinaigrette belong in the same breath. About butter smeared in places it absolutely shouldn’t be—used as lube, naturally—but no one ever writes about the yeast infections that come knocking afterward. About cream dripping off nipples, thighs, mouths, smeared across banquet tables while someone’s ass is planted squarely in a soufflé. Wine bottles being repurposed into toys, and baguettes going places that would make a priest faint." She yawns, lifting her empty glass to hide it. "That’s what I read about," she concludes. "Not whether the trout gets a dedicated fork."

The evening unravels as such evenings will: chaotically, gracelessly. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine he selected with care—wine she downs with all the finesse of a college freshman, pausing only to declare, loudly and without irony, that her "broke ass is never affording anything like this ever again." He lets her finish most of it, partly because she’s right, and partly because there’s something oddly charming about her bluntness, even if her choice of words makes him long for an eject button.

By the end of the meal, she’s swaying faintly, her steps wobbling like a poorly directed marionette. Outside, as he contemplates whether to purchase a pack of cigarettes or step directly into oncoming traffic, he notices her face in the streetlight: still so, so pretty despite her vocabulary, which might as well be a butcher knife to his sensibilities. He’s always had a weakness for pretty things, after all, even if he insists to himself that he’s far too sentimental for anything reckless or self-destructive. And yet... and yet...

He likes her hair; long, absurdly long, as though she’s been growing it since birth for the sole purpose of draping it over her shoulders at pretentious dinners. It’s pale, but not quite; between shades, as though it couldn’t be bothered to settle on a single identity. Almost brown here, almost silver there, the kind of blonde that pretentious novels would insist on calling “ethereal” or “ghostly,” though to him it looks like indecision with a sheen. He likes the gray of her eyes, too, though “like” might be the wrong word—they’re so washed-out they seem more like placeholders for real eyes, a vague suggestion of color. How can something be so devoid of pigment?

A sharp clink breaks his thoughts. He looks down to see her car keys, glinting on the asphalt. She wobbles as she bends to retrieve them, then squints into the darkness like a drunk sailor searching for shore.

"I know I didn’t park that far away," she mutters, turning in a slow, unsteady circle. "Ugly silver two-seater. Big scratch on the passenger window. Do you see it?"

"You are not driving," he whispers, scandalized, his voice shrill enough to summon pigeons. And there it is: the moment he transforms from potential suitor to overbearing mother hen. Splendid. Truly, the very picture of charm. "Allow me to call you a cab."

"Noooo," she whines, stretching the word to absurdity, her voice pitched somewhere between a tantrum and a drunken lullaby. "I don’t want to trek back up here tomorrow to get my car. I don’t live close, you know."

"Even so," he presses, his tone teetering dangerously close to because I said so.

"No. Not even so."

The key wrestle begins, a ridiculous little tug-of-war that makes him feel like he should be calling her "young lady" and throwing out such gems as "Behave yourself" and "Think of the consequences." All the sort of dreary phrases a man her father’s age might deploy with righteous indignation.

But of course, he isn’t her father. No, no—father figures don’t let their gaze drift, as his does now, to the teasing dip of her blouse, where the faintest edge of black lace peeks out like a taunt. Father figures don’t notice the flush creeping up her cheeks or the sway in her unsteady defiance, nor do they fixate on the maddeningly smug curl of her lips. And they certainly don’t entertain thoughts about how those lips might feel wrapped around—oh, splendid, just splendid. He’s not only lost the moral high ground but seems intent on building a summer home somewhere in the depths of his own depravity.

But she would look absolutely divine sprawled out on his pima cotton sheets, wouldn’t she? No doubt a far cry from whatever bargain-bin monstrosities she sleeps on—some threadbare polyester set reeking faintly of last week’s takeout. She could lie there, all flushed and glistening, while he buries his mouth between her legs, tasting her like a man starved. And then, if he whispered it sweetly enough, maybe—just maybe—she’d straddle him, her nails dragging down his chest, leaving scratches he’d probably pretend not to admire later.

And afterward, he would probably cry into her shoulder, his tears dampening whatever remains of her ridiculous blouse. They could discuss Orlesians committing atrocities against food and sex while she smokes one of his cigarettes and he, in his most pitiful depths, silently composes a thank-you note to Bellara for orchestrating this grand act of self-destruction.

He takes the keys away from her at last and summons a car with his phone. Even an old-timer, tradition-bound relic such as himself can marvel at the efficiency of these cursed apps.

"I will return them to you tomorrow," he says, holding them out of reach. "May I have your number? You can tell me where to meet you." He pauses, catching himself mid-fall into the abyss of creepy old man territory. Don’t ask for her address, Emmrich. Don't be weird. "Or, if that’s too forward," he adds with a touch of forced charm, "I can hand them off to Bellara. She would probably love another excuse to meddle in our lives."

"Fine, fine," Rook mutters, snatching his phone and jabbing at the screen with the grace of a caffeinated woodpecker before handing it back.

When the car arrives, she leans in for a half-hearted hug, her small breasts brushing against him briefly, her cheap, aggressively synthetic vanilla perfume wafting into his nostrils like an attack. It smells like something one might spritz on a cupcake, and yet—Gods help him—he finds himself wanting to drown in it.

Ten minutes later, his phone pings.

blra said it was your bday. hppy bday

#lol idk i mean this man was made to be a sugar daddy #and im not sorry hehe #emmrook #rook x emmrich #emmrook fic #emmrook fanfic #dragon age the veilguard #datv #emmrich volkarin #my stupid writing lol

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aeternus-art · 23 hours ago

Text

"You are Not Your Body, Not Your Mind, Or Your Brain-

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Not your thoughts or feelings, you are not your DNA

You am the observer, You're a witness of life" -the song uses "I", but for the sake of the point i changed it to "you".

This post gets a little out in orbit, but i hope it's a fun ride nevertheless. We'll be addressing how nothing can stop you from shifting, how "shifting methods" can be looked at from a new perspective, addressing thoughts and limiting beliefs, and how you really *really* don't need to believe you'll shift in order to do so- as well as why that's the case.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

｡𖦹°⭒. ˚ ｡. ˚ ☁︎

ׂ 𓈒 ⋆ ۪𓍊𓋼𓆏𓋼𓍊 𓈒 ⋆

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

When you come to understand that you need not identify with all the noise and goings on of your cr, it can become exceptionally easy to turn away from any limiting thoughts, and lightly embrace your dr self.

- ☁️You are neither your Cr self or your Dr self, and you are also both, depending on what you're looking at.

Your consciousness awareness is a flashlight, your 4d are the shadow puppets, and your 3d are the shadows. You make the shadow puppets, and you use your flashlight (that always stays on you) so create any image you could imagine. If you want a different shadow, make a different puppet and use it in front of that flashlight.

- ☁️You are the creator of your reality. The 3d you see around you is a reflection of that creation. Now, the directness of the reflection isn't always so direct, it goes off the state of being you *are*, not the one you want to be. Are you chillin at the idea of being able to wake up anywhere, or is this cr body trying to tell you that you can't or won't? Want to know how to prove it wrong?

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If anti-shifters can shift, just by feeling like "i don't *think* it's real, but if it were it'd be easy", then there is nothing stopping you. If shifters can shift without even so much as setting an intention, there is nothing stopping you.

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I'm going to talk light science for a sec, but it's just for the sake of visual representation. During the big bang (as i recall) everything that was once together and whole, essentially exploded and pieces scatted everywhere.

Now, if this is the case, I kind of like to think about it as one ginormous jawbreaker separating into millions and billions of little jawbreakers. Now here's the thing, allllll those jawbreakers, every last one, has a little piece of the core inside them. That, in this example, is like your conciousness- that connection to all your drs and manifestations exists.

Your subconscious mind's job is partially to keep you safe in the background- but remember- you are not your brain, so you are not, at your core, this subconscious. You are not the little doubts and frustrations that pop up. You don't need to listen to any doubts, or "am i doing this right" or "what if-" or "can i-"

- ☁️You have your own little piece of source inside you, that is connected to allllllll the other little pieces everywhere, because at one point, everything was one. (purely for the sake of examples of how "you are already your dr self" ) You are already directly connected to your dr self, you're just looking at the 3d aspects instead of the 4d. You can't change a reflection, without changing what is being reflected. Shift your awareness to change the reflection. (this goes for manifestion too)

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For those familiar with harry potter, let's try another example. If you make a new friend, and you wanted to floo to their home, you would have to set up the connection in the floo network (if you weren't already connected). Once you set up this connection, it says unless one or both people close it.

- ☁️Connecting to your dr self is very similar. You contact the floo network (your conscious awareness) and you turn your attention to the desired place you would like to "unlock", like a fireplace, there was never a closed door, it just might not have been an activated path. You can stand in that fireplace all day, saying the name over and over and over, but unless you connect to the floo network, you're not going anywhere (not through that method at least)

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☁️This "awareness" that I speak of is simply just your attention. You are the observer, and even after doing this for so many years, even I still occasionally forget that. The beauty is, you don't stop being "the observer" just because you stop being consciously aware. This is why it's important, imo, to sometimes just turn your attention away from unwanted states. You woke up here again? Okay, doesn't matter. Stop trying to change the shadows. Remember, you get what you are being, and shifts are instant.

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Now, side note, you don't need to walk around like you're in your dr all day. If you can't do that- that's fine! Just become neutral to it- it's just one reality in infinite others you get to explore. This isn't permanent. You are not stuck. If i say that and your mind tries to disagree, just let it do its thing. You know who you are at your core, what difference does one mind out of infinite ones make?

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☁️Methods Are Not Hard and Fast Rules. Methods are Malleable☁️

I've used methods, and i've not used methods. My first shift was literally just me (unintentionally) crashing out due to not being able to shift, and eventually, after all the tears had fallen, the pent up emotions had been felt, my dr was rightfully shoved right off the pedastool, and because I had been embodying my dr self in weeks past, I had already built the shadow puppet. Once I finally stopped trying to *get* somewhere, I woke up in my Dr. I didn't need to add anything, I actually just needed to Let Go of my limiting beliefs- and not go back to them like an ex down bad lol. I broke up with "can't shift" or "won't shift" (or maybe it broke up with me lol)

*All of this to say, you don't need a method. I was already connected and in my dr in the 4d, but this was before I learned about all of that- it wasn't intentional. If I knew that all i needed to do was connect the floos, and just chill with knowing I can walk in and out of the 3d (as consciousness) I probably would've shifted sooner. But that's just me-*

- ☁️It's like walking on a trail with this stunning view at the end, and they have one of those poles in the middle to keep vehicles off. You, as just a person (just conscious awareness) can easily walk around it. Now, if you were in a car, you have to get out first. That doesn't mean that it's the wrong path, or you're not allowed to walk it. It just means that you might have to park the car. The car is just a vehicle- it won't be gone when you come back down from the hill. Your cr self doesn't stop existing, you just stop being *directly* aware of it in your dr.

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Now, who are methods good for? Methods are excellent for anyone who just feels like they need a little more of a solid grasp on their dr and dr selves, people who get distracted easily, and really anyone who wants one. The important thing is just that you don't *need* one- I still use methods, not even really to help me shift, but because i think they're fun!

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A note on states:

Rather than asking shifters "what made you shift", i implore you to try, "what does it feel like to be a shifter". For me, it's like knowing you have a fully stocked kitchen. I know that I could go and make amazing food anytime i want, but right now i'm not hungry. I satiated my thirst for my drs in my 4d imagination before ever actually interacting with them in the 3d. I shift, not only because it's fun and i enjoy it- but because that's just the result of this process- it's the law. Reality reflects out.

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☁️*The Rational Mind*☁️

For those who are stuck on the "rational" side, I want to say that time, physical reality, and the workings of consciousness, aren't always very rational things- but there are plenty of irrational sounding things in the world- especially new things. You don't need to know how shifting works to shift. It doesn't have to feel "rational" to shift. You can fly on a plane with no idea how it works (a hundred ton tube of metal miles in the air??). I think what i'm trying to say, is that if it doesn't seem rational, you may just have to adjust your framework and your perspective.

- The perspective of a pilot might seem more rational when looking at all those buttons, as opposed to someone who's never seen a plane, ya know? Rational is subjective. I think it's rational that I currently have 5 drs that i live my life in. To me, it's perfectly rational that I can manifest anything i want. To me, it's perfectly rational that the 3d is an outwards expression of our internal states- it's just the drama being performed from the script I wrote. That's normal to me- but it wasn't always. The state was always there for me to inhabit and put on, but i actually had to inhabit it and put it on, ya know? It's simple, not necessarily easy for all

The more time you allow yourself to observe your desired outcome, off of the pedastool, seeing it as just an additional reality, 1. the closer you get to feel your dr to you because you're not paying attention to conflicting evidence, and 2. the sooner you shift

- ☁️Remember, reality comes from you, it doesn't happen to you.

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☁️*Thoughts*☁️

It does not matter if you have one realities thoughts in another reality. It doesn't matter if you're thinking about your cr (events, sounds, emotions) in your dr, because you are still shifting you at your core. You're still going to have this realities memories (unless you scripted them out), so why wouldn't you be allowed to think about it? And even if you did script them out, reacting to blaring red alarm bells whenever it happens probably isn't helping.

- ☁️You're expanding your awareness, not necessarily moving it like "only allowed to be cr" and "only connected to dr right now".

- That's why a lot of shifters say it doesn't feel like anything- because it doesn't. My ratio of dr to cr thoughts when i shift can be as close as 99% cr and 1% dr- not that it even matters because again, you are not your mind, or your thoughts, or this body- you are the awareness of them.

- Don't get too caught up in your Crs 3d, it's more malleable than you think, but you can only mold it as much as you let yourself. There can be an overlap in thoughts/feelings while you're shifting, that's perfectly normal. I have overlaps while i'm literally in my dr- it's okay I promise. You can still shift if you're not solely thinking about your dr all the time.

☁️ "you cant shift" is meaningless to a shifter, so make it normal to feel meaningless to you. YOU know you can shift, so what does it matter? Let it go- treat it like someone just trying to pick a fight with you- it's not worth your time. walk away, and let it go. pick up your dr self in imagination instead :)

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☁️Some last little notes: ☁️

If you're at the end of your method or attempt, and you know know what to do next, but you can't fall asleep, I would focus on one thing- surrender. Trust that you have made the puppet, you shined your light on it- and now the shadow has no choice but to appear.

Remember, "The time it takes your assumption to become fact, your desire to be fulfilled, is directly proportionate to the naturalness of your feeling of already being what you want to be - of already having what you desire."

You are fully capable of giving it to yourself now. You already have unlimited access to the bottomless well of creative power inside you. Just look beyond the physical, that's where the magic happens.

You don't need to know when you'll shift- and i'll make another post about this in depth cause I have some analogies rattling around in this brain.

Detatch from the outcome. By putting your attention or your dr self, you are eliminating the (illusionary but still "real") physical gap between you and your dr self.

For those of you with vastly different dr selves (compared to cr), I invite you to focus on more mundane tasks. How does it feel to walk in that body? How does it feel to breathe? How does it feel to sit down? To stand up?

☁️***If the goal is to normalize the feeling of having your desire (like a kid the day after christmas) so that your 3d projects that you have your desire, then all you have to do, outside of all the rigmarole, is just- have it. Walk around entertaining the idea you can literally go anywhere, anytime. It doesn't matter if you can't see it right way- your job isn't to *see* your dr self, your job is to normalize being your dr self- the version of you that's successfully shifted. ***☁️

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I'll try not to go down this last rabbit hole too deep- but time is not linear. If you assume the state of the wish fufilled- you have it Now. All there is, is the now, and the illusion of past and future. Like, Harry Potter saying "well I knew I could do it this time... Because I had already done it." - You are pure consciousness at your core, all of the time, ever-connected to everything else.

You don't need to know how or when your desire will come. If you are normalizing your dr and getting familiar with fulfilling your wishes (not to *get* something, but just to experience) you are already doing everything right. You don't need to "wait" for some desire like a package at the door, you just need to realize it's already in your hands. It always has been, and it always will be :)

When you have a desire, treat it like a pothole- Fill in the *lack* with your wonderful human imagination :) If you carry this habit throughout all of your realities, it helps with more than just shifting.

Hope yall have a good day, and best of luck to you!! 33

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edit: I don't know if i addressed this directly enough: Once you feel as though your dr and dr self is as normal as *you* are (in the 4d, again you at your core, not thoughts- thoughts just reflect the state too) then you're good!! no, seriously, that's it. you've fulfilled the wish- and as long as you just keep it like that, it will have no choice but to express itself in the 3d. it. will. have. no. choice. you did it, you're good. let yourself just be good.

you don't try to get something you already have- when you don't feel as though you need to "get" it or "chase" it, you have it. does that make sense? if having something in the 3d, means you have it in the 4d, then by following that logic and adding in ☁️"as above, so below, as within, so without" ☁️ as the framework, we can easily reverse the equation. 4d first- 3d follows. You won't be fulfilled because you have that thing- you have that thing because you've fulfilled the state of having it and/or you let go of the state of lack. Drop the lack from the desire, and what do you have? the desire! badda bing badda boom ( *it's a worldwide when i step in the room* )

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