#ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF

[vexwerewolf]

why is it that we only have like two licenses from any mech producer that’s a good guy? For a game where like there are clear good and bad guys (even if who you play isn’t necessarily linked to that) it seems strange to me that the only loot and XP you get is… more benefits from the bad guys

I can tell you the answer, but to do so, we're gonna have to talk about a completely different TTRPG.

If you've read @makapatag's truly excellent Filipino martial arts TTRPG Gubat Banwa (and if you haven't, here it is), you may notice that every single character class description (with one notable exception) ends with one of these babies:

I am not Makapatag, and I cannot write with quite as much grace and eloquence as he can, but I will try:

If you choose to become a Lancer, ask yourself why you mock the name of peace with these weapons of war. You call yourself a saviour, but your steed was forged from the murder of a world. You stride across the sky in a colossus built in your own image, so why are you too cowardly to give it your face? Why do you believe these machines of death can preserve life?

It is important to note that the admonitions in Gubat Banwa are not just there to make you feel bad; they are there as legitimate questions. The Sword Isles have seen so much blood, death and tragedy. Wars are not glorious and killing is not a game. So, knowing all of that, why have you taken up this discipline - no matter how noble and virtuous it might claim to be - to shed more blood, to bring more death, to write more tragedy? What could possibly drive you to this? What need is so great that you must kill?

The thing with Gubat Banwa is that there are legitimate answers to these questions! There are bad people doing bad things, and some of them will not be stopped with words or kindness. Sometimes, as sorrowful as it is, killing is the correct choice to prevent greater suffering and deeper tragedy - but adding less misery and death to the world is still adding some amount of it. Even the most necessary wars will drench the ground in the blood of the innocent.

A sword is a tool meant to kill humans; while it can be used for other things, it is not well-suited to anything other than this. A mech is, in its most basic essence, just a very complicated sword: it's usually used on things larger than a person, but it's still a tool built to kill.

So why have you taken up this path? Humanity was saved from the brink of extinction and has created wondrous technologies like printers, cold fusion and mind-machine interface, and yet you use them to play soldier in a giant metal man. Why do you choose to take up this machine of death, built by the greedy and pitiless? Why do you think these machines can ever make things right?

Because sometimes, despite everything, they can.

Warhammer 40K shows an awful world full of monsters and monstrosity, and in the darkest moments of its history, Lancer's world looked just as bleak, but Lancer's world differs in one crucial way. Warhammer's world has long given up trying to be better, but Lancer's world never did. Lancer's world kept insisting a better world is possible, and it used what tools it had to make it so.

Sometimes the correct choice, no matter how bitter it may seem, is to kill someone. When you need to do this, a sword is a perfectly good choice for the job.

If you find yourself discomforted by the fact that all the people you can buy mechs from are corrupt and immoral - good! You have correctly engaged with the text. You have understood that the sort of people who would make giant walking death machines and sell them for profit are not good people. But you still have a job to do, and you need the correct tools, and those people have them.

Lancer is not a game about a perfect world - it is a game about a deeply flawed and imperfect one that does not let its imperfection stop it from trying. You have to try to make a better world, even with imperfect tools made by unpleasant people.

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #gubat banwa #philosophy #ethics #ttrpg

[bigfatbimbo]

I am haunted by visions of Vox with a capable assistant who doms him after hours. The role reversal of guy thinking he can fuck his secretary but she turns the tables and fucks him has me sweating

I got inspired by a turn of phrase that would might have been popular a little bit before Vox’s time “his girl, Friday”

Basically a “girl Friday” was a term used for a woman in the office who acted as a jack of all trades and was good at doing a bunch of different jobs. This person was usually very capable and the office’s go-to-girl for anything and everything

So I keep imagining Vox with this hyper-competent assistant. He hires her and after becoming familiar with the company, she manages to handle things before he even asks her to do them. He decides to try and rattle her a bit with impossible tasks to knock her down a peg, but she takes that as a challenge and somehow completes them with a smarmy “will that be all,sir”

Game on. He keeps challenging her and asking for crazier shit just to prove that she can be shaken. She doesn’t even flinch, it’s a little intimidating and bruises his ego

Eventually he’s working late (which means she’s working late because somehow their work ethics are equally insane) and he starts being all snide and pissy and she just puts him in his place, insulting his behavior and his temper and physically backs him into his desk before telling him that he needs to be taught proper manners

And from then on, by day she’s Vox’s right hand who never leaves his side. But by night she bends her boss over his desk or presses him into his office chair, making him whimper and moan as she teaches him a lesson and berates him

So yeah, boss tries to dominate assistant but she effortlessly reverses their roles and makes him cry “Yes, ma’am!”

People think he’s tapping his assistant but whenever comments are made they share a look and Vox just thinks “they can’t ever know that I call you Mommy”

So the other day, I posted about wanting to do a human Vox au but lacking ideas, and one of the comments was involving an assistant x boss type deal. I don’t know if this ask is unrelated or directly caused by that post, but it gives me lots of ideas for a more specific au involving human Vox.

Anyways, since it wasn’t specified, i’ll keep the alive or dead details pretty vague. When I tell you this idea has been rotting in my brain all day, I fucking mean it.

Like this is genuinely about to get me out of writers block oh my fucking god. “His girl, friday” is a term i’ve never heard before but it’s so fitting with this. I love the go-getter incredibly efficient reader so much.

And god, it would bother Vox to an ungodly point. Because being in close quarters a lot, you being his assistant, of course he picks up on your efficiency. It makes him a little insecure because you honestly get things done quicker than he could.

So after throwing everything he can at you to knock you overboard your parade of orderliness, and you doing it all absolutely flawlessly, he can’t help but throw one of his tantrums.

Coming to him at the the end of the day, explaining you did everything he’d asked, and went beyond, closed multiple business deals for him, and got the inside information on upcoming possible marketing events. He should be happy, this objectively helps his business. But instead, he sits at his desk, watching you from across the room, before absolutely exploding.

I mean, you do his jobs better than he does. And he goes on a huge rant about how he doesn’t believe this, and how you must have absolutely no life, and basically degrading and insulting you for doing your job correctly.

And then yes, you yell at him, practically daring him to fire you. He won’t, you’re too much of an asset. You’re basically untouchable. So with that, you yell back, but unlike Vox who erupted with rage, you keep yourself as level headed as possible while talking sternly. Make even talking to him condescending as of talking to a child, explaining how it’s absolutely unbelievable he’s throwing a fit over good work ethic, and how he’d have to be out of his mind to pout about something so beneficial for Voxtech.

Going on and on about how his competitive, aggressive, targeting work behavior is unacceptable and pathetic… and now you have him back up against his desk, his sneer turning into a look of astonishment.

And then his eyes dart down, heat rising to his cheeks, and you notice the bulge in his pants. At first, you go silent, but then tease him with “You want me to take care of that too? Or will you yell at me for being too good at my job.”

Well, then he’s mad again. Probably definitely a struggle for power the first time you fuck. Yes, he tries to dom you, and fails because jesus, he really was pathetic. But you have him lied back in his chair, pinning his wrists down to either side of him, while you ride his dick into overstimulation. But he’s trying to keep quiet so no one else is the office hears his whimpers and whines.

But when he gets too loud, simply remind him that you’ll have to stop and he responds with a watery, whimper of “Y-yes ma’am.”

Now, fridays are dedicated to his girl, friday. Coincidentally, you’re both working late on those days, and even more coincidentally, you have business in his office.

That business being bending Vox over his desk until he has to cover his pathetic sobs with his hand so a janitor doesn’t hear him crying for his mommy.

Anyways, I’m almost done. I think this specifically appeals to me in a human Vox au sense because i’m hell, a work place of hell wouldn’t be particularly normalized, but it’s hell so it’s absolutely not frowned upon. He’d probably get teased about it at best, and literally a high five for tapping that. But in a human au, the stakes are much higher because there’s an actual sense of ethics and morals in business.

Also in the fifties, do you even know how taboo it would be for a boss to not only be sleeping with his assistant, but getting dominated by her every night???? I dunno.

Oh and the toxic masculinity of it all because it’s the 1950s and without being exposed to the normalization of kinks in hell, it would be so hard to break this brat down. Obviously not impossible, it’s Vox. But so much more irritating.

However, i’m hesitant to actually do a human au literally because of the silly picture I always put at the beginning. Because like I have such a specific image of what he looks like in my head (the @//notherpuppet human design) but… I don’t want to have to DM an artist and be like “Hey! love the art, can I use it for my dom reader power dynamic assistant x boss Vox x reader human au fic 😁😁😁🙏🙏” LIKE GANG I CANNOT.

Anyways, this wasn’t proofread, rant over, bimbo out.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #dom reader #vox x reader #inbox open #sub vox

[sorryimananti-romantic]

so i js finished re-reading biker!san with a friend n we NEED to know if san plays w reader or not

could you give a brief summarisation of how their story ends (or possibly a pt.2 👀)?

ahaha i read it again and i don't think i can do a full oneshot but what about a scenario? 👀

badboybiker!san x photographer!reader: (pt 1 here)

[recap: you're a photographer trying to get a shot of the golden hour for a little competition when a stranger offers to help you in any way he can. since he's a biker, you think his silhouette would make for a perfect shot and you ask him to model for you. you promise to treat him if you win some prize and he accepts on the condition that he let you take around on his bike. when he tells you his name- choi san- you recognise him as the 'bad boy' of the neighbourhood. even knowing that you should avoid him, you can't resist his charms and get familiar with him thru texts. you take him to the dinner and he gives you a ride home and when you mention that you would like to take a shot of the river next time, he asks if he can tag along- as an 'assistant'. you smile in answer]

one thing about choi san is that he knows how to get his way.

in the past few weeks, you learned a few facts about him- that his bike is his baby and no one can touch it without his permission, that only a selected few get to ride on it (which makes you wonder how you got into that list so quickly) and that he is a very fun person to be around. he has manners, he definitely knows how to treat a woman and he might be a little too good at it.

what you also learned from your friends was that he was the notorious playboy of the town, rumoured to have broken the hearts of many and having a repute for getting into fights, being involved with the wrong company and whatnot. you told yourself that these are just 'rumours' because what you heard is very different from what you've seen firsthand.

though... he is a flirt, whether intentional or not. you've convinced yourself that you wouldn't become another woman on his list if he is that sort of a person, that it is possible for the two of you to be 'just friends', however loose the definition might be.

because if you were just friends, you wouldn't be getting excited whenever you heard the buzzing of your phone around midnight. if you were just friends, you wouldn't feel disappointed to see someone else texted you or you wouldn't be disappointed if he didn't reply within a few hours. if you were just friends, your heart wouldn't skip a beat every time you saw that beautifully sculpted face of his with those dark tendrils of hair falling on his forehead, messed up from his helmet. you wouldn't be shy when you wrapped your arms around his toned, strong waist when on the bike or when you grabbed his muscular arms, realising just how broad he was. you wouldn't want him to continue teasing you, smiling at you, tucking your hair back so casually or leaning in to whisper things in your ears with that goddamned smile of his- even when the two of you were alone.

the thing was... that he caught your eye and now you couldn't get him out of your head. he claimed to be obsessed with you these days because you were funny and made him laugh like no one else, because you were natural and didn't feel like you were putting up a fake persona in his presence, because he could always talk about anything that weighed on his mind without any judgement. you told him you'd heard things about him and he asked you if you believed them.

"if there was any truth to it, you wouldn't be a completely different person from what i've heard."

but he was. and he felt so fucking guilty about hiding it from you. when you spotted a bruised lip and a cut on his cheekbone, you attended to him without questions. you believed him when he lied and told you that he had a little fall from his bike (he had a fight, actually) and he let you scold him for not being careful. when you worriedly scanned his body for other signs of injuries, he let your hands travel all over his body. and when he held your wrists to stop you because he couldn't take it anymore, he convinced himself that it really wasn't different with you, that he really only wanted to ruin you because he was so tempted by your naivety, that you would soon be one of the women he had played with. he kissed your wrist while repeating that mantra, watching your lips part in surprise.

that night, he tried to reason with himself. you were too good a person to lose by his foolish antics. you were a keeper, you were precious and if he made a foolish mistake, he would forever regret it.

that doesn't stop him from treading on dangerous lines. and he could blame you for initiating it, blame you for kissing him first and involving yourself with him when the phone in his pocket was still buzzing with texts he never responded to, with the number of people that either wanted to fuck him up or fuck him.

and you... you would blame yourself too. because how could you hold back? how could you not give in and simply kiss the boy who sat on the riverside beside you, talking with you as if you both had nowhere else to be? how could you not hold his handsome face and kiss his plump lips when he told you how much you meant to him and how he was afraid that he would make a mistake?

if he was afraid of making a mistake, then you would in his stead. all you wanted was to be with him, to not be held back by the rumours or the warnings of your friends, to listen to your heart for once, no matter how foolish that may be. so when he looked at you with those eyes, looking like a stray cat that just needed a little love, someone who would tend to him... all the hesitation left your body as you held his face and kissed his lips, the sound of the river and the wind soothing your nerves. he didn't kiss you back. you drew away- had you really made an irreversible mistake-

"you don't know what you're getting yourself into."

that voice. that voice that you only heard when he talked about himself- his warning voice.

"why don't you show me then? what am i getting into?"

and that was the final push for san- his vision almost blackened for a second as desire crept through every nerve in his body and he crashed his lips on yours, earning a surprised groan from you. soon, you were kissing him back and moulding your body to his, letting your arms snake around his neck while his hands traced every part of your body, determined to not leave a single place untouched. the way he kissed was all-consuming- rushed, desperate, passionate and needy. when you broke contact for air, he started littering kisses all over your face, trailing from your jaw to your neck-

"san- sannie. we have all the time in the world."

that prompted him to pause- and perhaps, you shouldn't have stopped him when his lips were attached to your neck because he simply switched his speed, gently kissing and sucking into the crevice of your neck, making you arch your back. he held your body flush to his, gripping your thigh and shifting you so that you were almost in his lap, all the while continuing with his administrations. you took that chance to let your hands creep up his neck, hold him and caress his hair- those soft hair you always wanted to touch. you kissed his temple while he continued to kiss your neck, only drawing away when he was satisfied, grinning at the sight of the bruising spot.

you, however, didn't feel like grinning back, not when you were too absorbed in the overwhelming feeling of your heightened senses. not when your stomach flipped uncontrollably. not when your hands, off their own accord, traced his toned chest, sliding down to his stomach to hold his waist and look at him.

"i want you."

san felt his heart sink- what had he done-

"i want you. all of you. not just your kisses and your body, but your heart, choi san. i want your heart."

did he think that he would ruin you? yes.

but did he, for a short second, perhaps a moment of enlightenment, think that you would ruin him?

absolutely. and he should have known better than to kiss you in answer.

he should have known better than to take you home that night.

he should have known better than to accept your invitation inside your house because no one was home.

he should have known better than to accept everything you offered him in the spur of the moment.

and he should have known better because once he got a taste of you... he couldn't stop.

#suggestive-- mdni!! #sorry im a bit late i was waiting for ✨inspo✨ to hit #choi san x reader #san x reader #san fluff #san angst #san smut #ateez x reader #ateez scenarios #ateez drabbles #ateez imagines #yumi.asks

[43qh]

vortex (m)

quinn hughes x fem!reader

genre: angst, smut, fluff

warnings: unprotected sex, blood mention, sad ending

word count: 2.5k

summary: “some day, you’ll come back, and i’ll say no.”

slow dancing.

you’re in his arms, the song swaying the both of you into a melody of love. one of your hands on his shoulder, the other in his own hand. his other hand around your waist, tugging you as close as possible as the two of you tangle in a mess of lyrics and kisses being the stop to your feet.

quinn was a romantic. it was something a lot of people didn’t have the pleasure of seeing. you were the lucky chosen one to be dancing with him like this. so close and near. a small smile playing on his lips as he tries to memorize the way your lips curl in a smile that takes his breath away.

it wasn’t always so easy, though.

if you weren’t tangled with quinn, you were arguing with quinn. you couldn’t stop coming back to him though when he would display a pair of puppy eyes that made you drop your defense.

you wondered if quinn ever had a weakness for you the same way you had for him.

when dancing was all said and done, he spins you around one last time before capturing you in a kiss. the kiss was hungry, leading to more. and you were falling prey to his demands as he lays you down and undresses the both of you.

despite the hurried and rushed removal of clothing, quinn takes his time. getting to know every inch of you, just like you deserve. he kisses your neck, leaves a little mark behind when you whimper.

when quinn eases into you, your senses are hightened. you can feel a tingle in your hands and feet as he rolls into you. gasping for air and clutching onto his biceps. he enjoys the way your nails dig into his skin. he enjoys the way you clench around him when he finally bottoms out. he enjoys the whines you let out. he could be with you forever.

“quinn..” your voice cracks between the tension, and he swears he could fall apart any second now.

“i’ve got you, my love.” it’s so endearing. he’s so endearing. he holds you close by your hips and thrusts into with care. it’s so soft, making you believe that he does love you. “so tight, just for me.”

you wrap your legs around him, feeling like you’re floating on a cloud as he speeds up his pace. his cock rubs your spot so sweetly, like he was made for you.

you wanted him to be made for you.

“such a good girl for me,” quinn is out of breath, sweat sheening across his skin. he looks like a dream.

you can feel yourself coming undone already just at the sight of him alone, at the soft grunts he lets out, at the small bites he leaves on your shoulder to muffle any more sounds he lets out. “gonna cum.”

“cum for me, sweetheart.”

quinn hughes was your undoing. as you fall apart around him, tensing up and shaking in his arms, you feel the flood of warmth you always do. your chest feels warm and complete as you feel him finish inside you. you feel taken care of when he washes you clean in the shower. you feel loved.

quinn hughes made it easy to love him.

but he also made it easy to hate him.

quinn was nonchalant. never daring to put a label on the both of you. you’ve argued your case to him, and he has argued his. the conversation never goes anywhere, and you always end up right back in his arms either way.

you always come back.

and the worst part is, he knows. he knows you’ll come back. he knows you’ll argue again, he knows you’ll fuck again, he knows he’ll romance you again, and he knows you’ll continue coming back.

it wasn’t hard to tell that you loved quinn.

you were even sure quinn knew.

“you have to let me come over,” quinn’s voice was shaking on the other line of the phone.

you bite your bottom lip, debating if it was a good idea. of course it wasn’t, but you agree anyway. and when quinn enters your apartment, he looks more disheveled than ever. his hair is a mess, his beard growing, his eyes more tired than usual.

quinn doesn’t ask anything of you, and you feel the nerves rise up in your stomach all over again.

he places himself on your couch, leaning against it as a sigh leaves his mouth. you make your way to the couch, eyeing him with an attentive look. silence fills the room, and you simply wait patiently for him to speak.

“we’re so awful together,” he speaks finally, looking at you with stoic eyes, “but we’re awful apart.”

you nod, “i know.”

“so why do we keep this going?” quinn looks frustrated, eyebrows furrowed.

“because we’re awful apart.”

quinn sighs, “your touch fuels me. it’s like i need it to breathe. and i hate it.”

“then stop touching me.” you snap.

“i can’t,” he shakes his head, “i need you.”

“you need my attention.” you state.

quinn pauses, looking away in shame, “i don’t want it to be like that, you know.”

you feel a lump in your throat, “get out.”

quinn is shocked at how sure of yourself you are, but he obliges to your wishes that night. he makes no fight. he knows you’ll be back.

and you hated that he was right.

“you look beautiful.” quinn’s words spike right through you. you feel a tightening in your chest at the way he looks at you. those puppy eyes, so forgivable.

you sigh, “you look handsome.”

quinn’s grin makes it all worth it to you. the pain you feel in your chest is all worth it to you if it means you’re the reason quinn smiles.

“why’re you by yourself?” quinn asks, looking around the bar as he sees his friends playing pool.

“i didn’t have any company to call.” you shrug, taking a sip of what you’re drinking. you feel the burn of alcohol scratch your throat.

“you could’ve called me.” he leans against the bar, raising an eyebrow.

you shake your head, “i really need to stop calling you.”

quinn laughs, “i don’t think you call enough, actually.”

you admire the way his smile reaches his eyes. he really was gorgeous. his looks weren’t the only reason you fell so hard for him, though. he was caring when he needed to be. when he wanted to be. he was soft and sweet. he was everything you wanted.

but he couldn’t be everything you needed.

“you’re right. normally you just show up unannounced to my place,” you quip.

quinn’s mouth goes dry a bit, looking at you with confused eyes, “i text first.”

“you’re normally already on the way.” another sip of your drink, and you notice the way quinn’s eyes follow your lips to the glass, “i don’t think you came over here for small talk, quinn.”

quinn scoffs, “what? we can’t at least act like friends?”

you feel a bitter taste on your tongue at his words, “no, we can’t. because friends don’t fuck like we do.” you place your glass down and turn your body to fully face him, “friends don’t kiss like we do. friends don’t know each other the way we know each other. friends don’t do what we do.”

quinn falls quiet. he’s speechless, your outbursts aren’t abnormal. but this one felt a little more personal than the rest.

you lick your lips, “we’re not friends.”

you walk out the bar that night with tears in your eyes.

why did you have to love him?

why did it have to be quinn?

the nerve of quinn hughes.

quinn stands in your doorway, eyes drooping low, a cut on his cheek that’s starting to bleed again. quinn decided to show up at your door like you’re two main love interests in a movie and you’re supposed to fix him up.

“you should get that checked out.” you say, trying to stand your ground. he makes it hard though when he nods softly, eyes turning away from your gaze like you just kicked him.

“i did,” he starts, letting out a soft breath, “thought i might need a second opinion, though.”

you want to scoff and shut your door. tell him to fuck off. tell him you’re not his doctor. but the gaze in his eyes make you weak, and the scruff of his voice makes you feel small all over again. you’re victim to his weakness.

so, you step aside. and you hear the sigh of relief quinn let’s out when he steps foot inside. he takes off his shoes like a gentleman before looking back at you.

you take his hand softly, leading him to your bathroom. he follows quietly, no remarks or words are said the whole way there. even if it wasn’t a huge walk to your bathroom, it was the most quiet the two of you have ever been in one room together.

he leans against the counter of your sink as you gather supplies to clean the wound. “this is gonna sting.” you warn.

quinn just nods, looking at you with soft eyes. there’s a glow in his eyes when he looks at you, and you just wished things were different.

you place the gauze on his cheek that has alcohol on it, and he hisses. you see the way he scrunches his face in displeasure, and it makes you want to jump away at his reaction.

“told you,” you whisper.

quinn’s face relaxes and he can’t help the chuckle that falls from his lips. quinn found you so irresistably charming. quinn would do anything for you, in all reality. he was just so scared of committing to you, and you have your heart broken in the worst way possible. quinn was a hockey player. someone who travels quite frequently. he wouldn’t have enough time for you, and that hurt him more than the situation the two of you were in right now. he considered this safe.

when you finish cleaning his cheek and throwing away the gauze, he grabs your waist and pulls you in. you want to pull away, tell him that he’s all fixed up. that he doesn’t need your services anymore.

but you couldn’t.

he gazes at you, “you’re so beautiful up close.”

he doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he’s kissing you. and it’s nothing like all the other kisses. it’s softer, more meaningful. something that makes you want to drown in it.

and it’s so wrong.

this wasn’t who you and quinn were, or could ever be.

the kiss is short lived when you finally push him away, despite the ache in your heart when you do.

“goodbye, quinn.”

the words ring in his ears, and he doesn’t want to believe they’re true. but they are. and you’re close to breaking if he doesn’t leave the room that very minute.

luckily, he does.

and when you hear your front door shut, you lean against your sink where he once was minutes ago. your lips tingle, but your chest hurts. your hands are sweaty, but you feel a lump in your throat.

this wasn’t any good for you.

quinn wasn’t any good for you.

you don’t know whether you should be furious or if you should fall to the ground crying.

quinn was kissing someone else.

someone that wasn’t you.

you had no claim on him. quinn had no claim on you.

you stand there in the hallway leading to his apartment, watching as he continues to suck face with another woman. when he finally pulls away, his face floods white when he catches eye with you.

“holy shit-”

you turn on your heel and walk away.

you can hear quinn trying to run after you. you feel tears pricking your eyes as you stop in front of the elevator, pressing the button more times than necessary. everything feels like it’s running in slow motion. like you’re slowly losing grip with reality.

your heart has dropped to your stomach when you feel a hand reach out for you. you feel your head spin when you snatch your arm out of reach.

“you’re not mine, damn it!” you scream, you sound mad. you sound crazy. “this shouldn’t hurt!” tears are falling as you hear the elevator make its way up to the floor you’re on. “this isn’t even real. we’re not real. but you made it feel real. the kisses, the dancing, the compliments, the hand holding. it confuses me, damn it!.” you’re hysterical as the elevator finally dings and opens.

quinn is left speechless, letting you scream at him. his heart is pounding in his chest. he never thought the guilt would hurt worse than anything he has ever felt. he never thought kissing someone else would feel so wrong.

you walk into the elevator, and the expression on your face as you press the button to the bottom floor makes his heart stop. you’re so broken. he broke you.

and, fuck, does it hurt.

“goodbye, quinn.”

your tone was different from last time you said it. this time he could hear the meaning behind it, like this was finally it. this was the last time he’d ever hear from you.

and his suspicions were right.

you blocked his number, didn’t answer the door for him anymore, even avoided all the places he normally would go.

you were finally saying no.

you were finally letting go.

time passes and the ache doesn’t stop. your tears fall on your pillow every time you hear a knock on your door. your hands clutch your sheets as you hear his voice through the door, pleading with you and begging you to listen to him.

you couldn’t do it anymore, though.

you couldn’t listen to him and his excuses anymore.

when quinn gave up, the weight of the world somehow felt heavier. you were so used to going back. so used to having quinn there, even if it wasn’t in the healthiest way.

quinn was routine for you. and now you had to break through that routine.

months go by. and when you see quinn again for the first time in six months, you give him a small smile of pity. you had heard a knock on your door, not expecting it to be him. quinn looked a little more put together than when the two of you would ‘hang out’. it may have only been six months, but a lot had changed. especially for you.

“i’m sorry.” he couldn’t help himself.

you just smile at him, nodding, “i appreciate the apology.”

quinn shifts on his feet, “can i come in?”

you let out a breath. maybe you were waiting for this kind of closure the whole six months you spent without him, you weren’t sure. but the ache no longer sat with you as you stared at him. the pain no longer made home inside your heart at the idea of him. you refused to let those things back in.

“no.”

you were saying no.

quinn came back, and you finally said no.

those were the last words you ever spoke to quinn hughes.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes angst #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes scenario #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #nhl #nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl hockey #nhl smut #nhl fluff #nhl angst

[slytherinobsessed]

cigarettes & comfort | theodore nott

pairing: theodore nott x reader | genre: friends to lovers | warning: angst, minors dni | word count: 1.8k | stefy's note: when i think of theo i instantly think of cigarettes and comfort, as he is my fav slytherin boy (don't tell mattheo that🙈), so enjoy :)

[ BACK TO MASTERLIST ]

All month, you had been distant. Avoiding your friends, skipping meals and neglecting class - which was unlike you.

Theo especially was worried, so as he ascended the familiar marble stairs to the Astronomy Tower, his mind was occupied solely with three things. Y'n's health, cigarettes and the stars.

He wasn't expecting to behold y/n, standing on the ledge of the limestone balcony. A gelid wind tussled your soft hair and you looked so...numb.

"Pansy...go away." You said annoyed, taking a drag from the cigarette. You look at the stars, thinking that it was Pansy who came to lecture you again. You felt a soft hand gently down on your lower back, a sensation that could be nobody else expect for Theo's hand.

"Hey." He said quietly, taking a drag from his own cigarette. He'd approach you silently, and hoped the words would startle you enough to turn around. The wind was whipping up the side of the tower, and the cool air was biting your skin. "What are you doing?"

"Looking at the stars." You said, finally turning around to look at him. Blowing the smoke out of the cigarette, you change your focus from him to the sky again.

He sighted and took a final drag from his cigarette, flicking it on the ground. Theo looked at you, his brow furrowed with worry. "It's late." He said quietly with his hands tucked within his pockets. Theo didn't want to take the risk that your woukd jump off the ledge. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep..." You explained yourself to him, taking another drag from the cigarette.

He nodded, trying to maintain the composure of his voice. Theo wanted to yell at you, scream at you - ask you what the hell was going on because you had never done anything like this before in your life. "You couldn't sleep...so you came out here in the freezing cold?" Theo's tone was stern, the irritation clear, but he took another step closer, still not taking his hands out of his pockets.

"It's not that cold..." You say, knowing that you are dressed in a short skirt, a crop top with a pair of heels, but with a cardigan on. You leaned your head on his shoulder, blowing the smoke out and still looking at the stars.

He stiffened as your head pressed against his shoulder, and he sighted. After a while, he wrapped one arm around you, tucking his thumb into the waistband of your skirt. He was so mad at you...you had him so stressed out, and all you could talk about how the weather "wasn't that cold". "You're going to get a bloody cold, you know?" Theo muttered, pulling you a bit closer to his frame, making sure you were as warm as possible.

"I won't..." You say shaking your head, taking a drag from the cigarette and snuggling closer to him.

"You...are so infuriating." He muttered, still sounding stern but there was a softness on his voice that made him sound more amused than furious. His other hand wrapped around your waist, resting his hands in a way to support you. Theo sighted, pressing you even closer to him. "You haven't been eating properly." He pointed out quietly, and he could hear the concern in his own voice.

"I haven't been feeling hungry, lately..." You sighed, blowing the smoke out still looking at him, enjoying being close to him.

He sighed, his brows furrowing as he listened to what you were telling him. Theo couldn't believe how nonchalant you were about this whole situation. He wondered if he could shake you awake, get you to snap out of it...make you see what you were doing to him. To yourself. "Your body needs food." Theo said, his voice growing soft and gentle. The hand on your waist move up a tad, resting on your stomach. "You've gotta eat, even if you don't feel like it."

"I'll eat tomorrow." You said looking at him. "I promise." You make puppy eyes at him, hoping that you can convince him. "You can even take me out just to see me eat."

Theo rolled his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. "You're hopeless..." He muttered quietly, pressing a single kiss to your head as he squeezed you a tiny bit more. Theo sighed. "Fine." He said, looking down at you as he moved his hand to tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "Tomorrow we'll get dinner, and you'll sit across me and eat everything on your plate. And if you don't...you're getting seconds, understood?"

"Mhm." You nodded looking at him, changing the subject, curious to see why he is here by taking a drag from the cigarette. "What are you doing here, anyways?"

You were the worst. He really did care about you, and here you were, asking about why he was outside. "I couldn't sleep either." He said sarcastically, shifting in his stance so that both his arms were around your waist. "But i chose not to come to the Astronomy Tower to freeze myself to death." Theo sighted as he pulled on the end of your cigarette, and he looked around, taking in the night sky. "I came here for another reason..."

"Another reason?" You looked at him curiously, as you finish the cigarette ans the flicking it on the ground.

Theo exhaled, as he ran his hand along your waist. He didn't bother looking at you directly, he felt nervous under yout gaze. "There's something i wanted to ask you..." Theo muttered, his voice sounded heavy and tense. His grip on your hips tensed just the slightest bit. He glanced at you now, wanting to see if you'd respond.

You turn around to face him and take his face in your hands making him look at you. "And that is..." You add, hoping to hear the answer soon enough.

He sighed, letting his gaze fall on your lips, which were so inviting and he wanted to kiss you, but you'd probably freak and refuse. Theo wanted to be more intimate with you, but that was all the way off the table. Instead his voice grew more soft, and he spoke slowly. "I have a question for you." He said quietly, his gaze softening and his voice was raspy. "And i want an answer."

"Then ask me." You said wrapping your hands around his neck, curious if his question.

Theo's cheeks turned slightly flush, and he felt the heat in his chest spread further to his lower abdomen as you placer your hands around his neck. Even something as simple and subtle as that made him feel so many things for you. He had to snap out of it, now wasn't the time. Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke. "I was wondering." His voice was low and steady, not breaking but he felt like a nervous wreck. "Why have you been so distant the last weeks."

"I-it's complicated..." You sighed, looking away embarassed and shuttering not knowing how to answer the question.

Theo's grip on your hips grew tighter and his expression changed to one of his concern. He didn't want you shutting him out, he wanted the truth. The raw unfiltered truth. Theo sighed and spoke again. "It doesn't have to be complicated. Just..." He paused for a moment and searched for your face, hoping for a shed of honesty. Theo sighed again. "Just tell me..the truth..."

"Well you know how you and i are good friends but lately i have been feeling something for you, well for some months, i-i think i like you." You say as fast as you can, still in the same hoping he doesn't understand what you said, in the same time feeling embarassed for the feelings you have for him.

Theo's chest began to buzz with a combination of emotions as you spoke. One, felt relief wash over his body. He wouldn't have to lose his best friend. But that left him with two emotions. Disbelief and hope. "You..you like me?" He asked quietly, his mouth hung open a little bit in disbelief. Theo wrapped both of his hands around yours and rubbed his thumb on your sift skin, hoping that you weren't teasing him. He didn't want to believe it until you outright told him.

"I liked you..i've liked you for some time...that's why i have been ignoring you..." You said getting up to leave. "I know...it's dumb...i'm sorry...you can be honest and tell me you don't like me...it's ok...i can handle it." You said looking away, feeling more embarassed.

Theo stopped you, gripping your hand and pulling it back up to his chest. "Wait!" He said quietly, and took a deep breath. The words in his head were screaming at him to tell you how he always felt. "Does...does that mean you still like me?" He asked, his voice cracking slightly as he looked up at you from under his eyelashes, looking up at you and praying that you understood him.

"Yes dummy, i like you." You whisper to him giggling and being playfull.

Theo swallowed painfully, trying to process how you made him feel. Happiness. Relief. Excitement. He felt it all, and he was certain his face was glowing with how red it was right now. Theo hesitated for a moment. The moment he'd been dreaming of for so long was finally here. You liked him for some time...this was incredible. "Can i..." Theo began, but his words were stuck in his throat. He had to ask you one more important question to ensure there wasn't any missunderstanding.

"Yes." You said bresthing heavily by being so close to him. Squeezing his hand to assure him that you are ok with what he will do next.

Theo's throat was dry, and he could barely breathe as he moved closer to you. His heart pounded in his chest at the thought of what would happen in the next few seconds. He finally took one step forward, until he was only inches away from you. Theo's breath was warm and soft, and his hazel eyes bore down into yours as he spoke. "Can I kiss you.." He whispered, his thumb brushing across your cheek.

You nod, looking at him and closing your eyes leaning into his touch. Theo didn't breathe, as he leaned further in towards you. His thumb brushed your jawline gently as he got even closer. There was nothing better in the world than this moment. Than being this close to you, about to kiss you. And that's exactly what he did. There was no hesitation, no fear. His lips touched yours lightly, and his breath quickened as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him. He held onto you tight, wishing he could hold onto the moment forever. The night and its silence surrounding them seemed perfect.

© SLYTHERINOBSESSED — do not repost, translate, plagiarise or claim any of my works as your own.

#Spotify #slytherin #slytherin boys #theodore nott #slytherin imagine #slytherin x reader #theo nott #theo nott x y/n #theo nott x you #theo nott imagine #theo nott fanfic #theo nott fanfiction #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott fanfic #theodore nott scenarios #theodore nott fanfiction #theodore nott imagine #friends to lovers

[sunboki]

— THE ALCHEMIST. a Lee Minho fiction

Lee Minho x f. reader

TROPE. historical! au, set in 1940’s Korea, alchemist! au, friends to lovers, fluff, angst

WARNINGS. abusive behavior toward women, impoverished communities, overall sexist beliefs of the time, reader dresses as a man, mentions of death & disease, smoking (not reader or minho), war conflict, making out??

WORD COUNT. 9.6k words

AUG'S NOTES. although it was a bit out of the blue, i had such a great time writing and shaping this universe, thank you to all the love and support thus far<3 also, huge thanks to @comet-falls for instilling the peaky blinders/historical! minho vision in my head with how incredible tooth and claw was, i truly owe it to you :)

SYNOPSIS. Cities stricken with poverty, the lack of male presence in your home while surviving in a male-dominated society leaves meager food on the table and a piling debt. Left no choice but to make a risky decision, you decide that, if biology wanted to fail you, you’d simply try another approach.

alternatively :

In which deception introduces you into an entirely new reality, and The Alchemist.

It’s one thing surviving with the knowledge you can change something, whatever it may be that’s wrong. 

It’s another when that problem isn’t merely changeable, but biological. 

Your problem? You’re a woman. 

Not as easy to fix, right?

.

.

.

With your father lost in the war, fruitlessly straining to support a family of girls, the household is left helpless.

Representation is nonexistent, and merely walking outside frets harassment and laughter struck in your face at the mention of working. 

A woman, working? Hilarious. 

Or, apparently to the men in pubs it certainly is.

Some things you can’t change, yes, but there are always alternatives. And as for now, you’re helplessly searching high and low for that alternative, whatever it may be. 

Selling yourself is possible, though the inability to remain connected to your family eliminates that option. 

When you get so desperate, there’s no incentive in guarding your pride. Because being called derogatory names isn’t as bad as losing them, the people you call home.

October welcomes little warmth, biting your fingertips and sending a tremor of chills cascading down your spine. Minimal sunlight peers through dense clouds, shrouding the atmosphere in a depressing haze. 

You’re on your way to the apothecary, but not to purchase anything. The pennies in your pocket won’t amount to anything in the face of medicinal prices, which happens to be one of your many alternatives. 

Since day one, you’ve had a rock to rely on.

Medicine. 

Lack of money meant improper living conditions, entailing sickness. 

Constantly.

Whether it was your mother, your younger sister, yourself, an infection of some sort occupied your respiratory system, wreaking havoc for wallets and mental health altogether. 

Purchasing necessary medication became impossible the further you drowned in your debt, to the point drastic measures needed to be taken in order to prevent death from infesting itself in the household as well.

Then came the question. If you couldn’t purchase the medicine itself, why not collect the ingredients?

Alternatives.

Behind the apothecary you discovered mint hedges that, if mixed with wormwood and balm, could aid in curing Sun-ja’s current sickness, colic. 

Although, you’d have to be swift in your efforts, ensuring the shop owner didn’t notice your presence.

Too many times had you nearly been caught, risking a good beating from the red-haired, burly man regarded as Mr. Myeong.

Fiery red hair complimented an equally unruly personality you aimed not to cross by. Ever.

Yet, unlike Mr. Myeong, his wife was the polar opposite, an ideal magnet. She was petite and soft-spoken, but out of her appealing traits, you found her resilience to be most attractive.

Mrs. Myeong is stubborn. She’s strong in what she believes, sporting an unquestionably vocal opinion that can’t be quenched.

The woman is, likely, the only woman capable of sealing her husband’s mouth shut.  

Hidden between thorn ridden weeds sits your desired leaves, abundant in supply.

You clutch your satchel closer, plucking as quickly as possible whilst crouched to the ground, maneuvering through tickling grasses and itchy reeds. 

Your mission remains successful, until the wretched sound of a doorknob rips your head upward, the red-haired man in question standing nonplussed, arms crossed. 

He wears a cocked brow, examining what you’re desperately trying to veil away.

Your heart leaps into your throat.

“Stealing, are we?” Black boot clad frame thumping closer, you immediately prepare to run, hair standing on end like an agitated feline.

Instead, his huge hand swoops down to grab your collar, other evidently ready to land a harsh slap to your face.

Instinctively cringing, you brace for the stinging impact.

That is, before a saccharine, lullaby-worthy voice rings from the cracked doorway, belonging to none other than Mrs. Myeong.

“Honey! Have you seen the new envelope that came in?” 

Heels clicking whilst padding over cobblestone to where you two stand, her husband fixates you with a stern, threatening glare. 

Finally dropping your frame to the ground, you slump forward, pulse pounding loud enough you fear your chest may implode. 

Mrs. Myeong, though wearing a taut expression, ushers him off, delivering a curt nod your way, intentional brows furrowed in place. 

‘Thank you’ You wish to say, but hold your tongue, watching them disappear inside.

Another time.

Walking home was rather uneventful (much to your delight), left to enjoy the crisp, cool air sifting through your lungs in steady rhythm, the lazy billows of cigar smoke dwindling from gaping doorways.

Calm. 

Nothing calm ever lasts long.

Stashing the house key back into your decrepit leather draw bag, your footsteps still upon entering, struck terror-filled.

Your mother, strawn across the floor, hacks amongst her rampant coughs, body convulsing in desperate shivers, skin drenched a ghastly blue.

Sprinting to her side, you kneel down, rolling the woman over to find her face utterly battered, new black eye beginning to swell, cheek bruised a mawkish purple against hollowed cheekbones. 

Sharks.

To your left Sun-ja hides in the corner, rags for a blanket pulled to her chest, shielded between the wall and a tipped cabinet. 

Over and over they’ve begun visiting, to the point your mother became recognizable by her continuous black eye, her torn clothing and stooped posture. 

Exhausted, she was exhausted. 

Yet, she took the beatings. The torturous punches. Jarring slaps, traumatic insults, tarnishing. Your mother took it so you wouldn’t, so you and Sun-ja could live.

And it’s at that moment you make up your mind, discover this occasion’s alternative. 

“Cut it off.” 

“Cut.. Cut it off?” Hyunjin gapes, fingers stalling their descent down a strand of your hair. 

You smile, grimacing the longer consideration poises.

No point in thinking too much.

“Yep. Give me the most boy-ish haircut you can.” You emphasize, gesturing toward his scissors expectantly. 

Hyunjin, your personally appointed hairstylist, doesn’t seem too convinced. He’s debating, expertly reading your features.

Currently, you’re holed up in his room, a miniature apartment located near the furthest section of town, close to the coast.

In wee hours of morning you boarded the train here, inhaling salty, ocean-smelling breeze. Back in your old residence you met him, your neighbor Hwang Hyunjin. It’s a miracle you still stayed in contact, bond aging like the finest of wines over countless years. 

Enough to where you trusted him to help you enact this alternative of yours. 

Starting with a haircut.

The man stares at you through the mirror, dark, inky hair matting the longer he runs his hands through it. 

Thoughtfully trying to figure out your reasoning, he evidently catches on the moment you witness his eyes roll, releasing a heaving sigh.

“You cannot be serious.”

A torrential truth keeps you from responding, gaze directed at your feet. 

“Y/n,” He uttered, eyes filling with a concern you avoid meeting, avoid regarding in a whole. “You don’t have to do this, the war is going to end soon and your father will come ba—“

“He’s dead.”

Silence engulfs the room.

Collecting yourself, you scorn his frown.

“He’s dead and gone. Now I need to protect them, provide for them.“ 

You deny the shakiness of your voice.

“So, Hyunjin. Cut off my hair.”

Accordingly, he does without another word. Snip by snip, tress by tress falling below, scattering the tile floor in endless strands.

By the time you see yourself, it’s hard to recognize the person in the reflection. Never had you considered your hair a viable source of identity, but now that it’s so sparse, the effect is eminent. 

Failing to see yourself in your own reflection beckons a different kind of sadness. For the person you’ve introduced yourself as reigns no more. She’s been replaced.

Hyunjin pulls you into his arms, embrace just as comforting as you remembered. His hand reaches to caress your cropped hair, rocking back and forth on his heels, chin resting on your head. 

“Be careful, okay?”

Nodding into his shoulder, you wipe salty streaks from your cheeks. 

Hurts.

“And if you need a place to take shelter, I’ll be here.”

Steadying in his hug again, you pull back, cherishing his kindness with a chaste kiss to the cheek. 

“Thank you, really.”

Shaking his head at your gratitude, urging you out and lingering by the doorway till your figure retreats in the distance.

Next stop, Mrs. Myeong. 

If anyone has any idea how to source the clothing you’re needing, your best chance would be thanks to her. 

An hour later you arrive in familiar avenues, creeping out of sight into the apothecary in hopes the woman you’re looking for is working the counter. 

Much to your pleasure, after a few unsuccessful attempts do you grasp her attention, edging forward under the guise of a regular hoping to converse. 

“I need your help.”

Initially, she carries that sternness, wordlessly lifting your hooded head a bit to notice the latest adjustment. Shock written over her face, Mrs. Myeong drags you along with her, closing the door to a back room.   

“My child, what is going on?” She whispers, tone urgent. You can’t help but feel fond of the affectionate nickname.

“I need male clothing and,” You hesitate, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “something to bind my chest with.”

Similar to Hyunjin, she steps back, assessing the situation at hand. Spending a brief few seconds roaming your figure, the woman works hastily toward fetching a petticoat, meticulously fitting each article atop your stock-still frame.

“You’re conceited,” she grumbles. “And foolish.” Carefully peeling off your upper-wear, she’s managed to cut a piece of thick cloth to use as a make-shift binder, assembling the fabric over your breast. 

The experience, although strange, wasn’t as painful as anticipated.

“But be careful, and stay in contact.”

Your response is hushed.

“Breathe in,” The older woman instructs, securing her creation with a threaded pin before moving onto other aspects, like a proper coat and pants. 

Mr. Myeong’s trousers, though having to be sewn to fit, make do, and you’re reminded to return tomorrow for shoes. Otherwise, the attire is completed, paired with a curved hat to finish. 

Sure, the entire male concept is foreign, but given time, you’ll gradually acclimate.

Oh, right. 

Your alternative?

Since medicine is what you know, you’ll stick with that. Difference being medicine is a men’s occupation, and so, if you can’t be a female working in the field, why not become male? 

Well, somewhat become male.

It’s a risky wager, easily placing your life on the line in the process. 

For your mother and Sun-ja, however, it’s your turn to take the beating. Your turn to endure.

Observation is a virtue. It can save and preserve, heed to oncoming danger, and simultaneously (and discreetly) supply useful information.

Today, seated on a bench in Daegu Station, your first observation is the abundance of people scurrying like mice.

Some tall, some short. Distinct moles, eyes. Upturned and downturned lips. Mustaches, beards. Much to see.

Your legs cross and uncross, Mr. Myeong’s oversized heeled shoes beginning to sink at your ankles. Hat strung low enough to peer out without attracting attention, your gaze is magnetically drawn to a magazine held on the adjacent side of the train tracks, title on display.   

Prized Alchemist Lee Minho suspected of being the lone survivor of the Red Plagu—

Ignorant to your surroundings, your senses posed numb to the incoming train, blocking off the last few words of the title from view the moment it soars past—nearly sweeping the fedora off your head. 

By the time the last few train cars passed, the man honing said magazine had disappeared, and you were left wondering if the experience was merely a figment of your imagination.  

Although, you did have one lead. A name.

Lee Minho. 

Where you’d find him remained unknown, deciding to rely on a magazine parlor first and foremost for more intel.  

To no surprise, nearly every magazine rack lay lined with haughty opinions regarding the war and its evident cruelty.

Many onlookers of both Americans, Koreans, and foreigners alike chatter amongst themselves about their own take between gossiping hands and fumes of tobacco.

In this town, located far off in the business district by a ship port, people are everywhere.

Wives of sailors, families of soldiers off at war. Women honing gleaning parasols and ivory gloves reaching to their elbows.

Languages you’ve never heard before utter their enunciated syllables, vocabulary petulant with accent—all shrouded in dismay.   

Roaming the store endlessly to no avail, you prepare to adventure back through dusty streets and battered wooden stall-shops before a peculiar name pauses your footsteps. 

His name, The Alchemist, Lee Minho.

“Bring ‘em home I tell ‘ya,” An aged man by the deepened grooves of his face, hollow cheekbones and bunched wrinkles grumbles.

A fat cigar hangs loosely from thin lips, pale baker boy cap adorning a bald head. 

Some sentences estranged, you identify his sentences as French, heavy in dialect, throaty and broad.

And although your fluency stay patchy, exposure from French immigrants who’ve relocated near home allow minimal understanding as to what they’re talking about.

“Say, did you hear that Lee Minho chap was a Red Plague?” His counterpart offered past his own leering cigar, foot tapping incessantly.

The other hacks his bewilderment, feeble fist pounding on an equally feeble chest.

“The Alchemist?” 

The man’s astonishment returned with a nod, you lean closer, pretending to be consumed in an article. 

“Said he was only nineteen when it happened. Shipped ‘em off only for disease to kill them all. One survived, now people are speculatin’ it’s him.”

Either of them sigh out long drags.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Is all the other huffs in disbelief, and upon recognizing the conversation approaching an end, you stir to action, willing your voice to deepen an octave.

Attempting to appeal in your broken French, you stall the two, cautiously claiming you’re in need of his whereabouts for an esteemed business transaction to which, through confused stares, you’re given loose directions.

Loose, but feasible.

80 Kent Avenue, dark blue doors.

Directions that, according to the sudden blank of streetlights, would have to wait until tomorrow. As for now, the world beckoned you to rest, and any progress would prove futile and rather impossible in the dark.

Luckily, a run-down Inn gifted good few hours of shut-eye before dawn peered through the windowsills and you were begrudgingly forced to your feet. 

Fitting the binder snug across your body and fastening your trench coat through minuscule belt loops, you’re taught with much haste the stark difference of men’s prestige entitlement. 

First access to everything, the ability to have their way with a woman whether she willingly obliges or not, and just about ten billion other things someone of your hidden status couldn’t fathom.

A man’s world is a world only possible through disguise. Yours just happens to be a last resort.

Charming the mistress at the front desk was unexpectedly effortless, not to mention how easily she spilled the details as to where Kent Avenue would be located.

Another noticeable attribute of your new appearance, no one asked as to where you were going nor your intentions, they merely dipped their heads and wished you off.

Adjustments.

Adjustments that, if you’d been born different, would be normal.

Kent Avenue lay twisted in shadows. The surrounding area brims in barely flickering labels and creaking doorways leading to who knows where. Quaint isn’t the word for it. More ancient, all-knowing. 

This place has been here for centuries with many stories to tell, most just haven’t heard them yet.

Significantly dark blue doors make the Alchemist’s residence easily noticeable, starkly contrasting with wooded architecture. Massive doorknobs engraved with lions, windows shielded by moth-eaten curtains. Grand, in its own form.

You swore each door stood eight feet tall, the left in particular left slightly ajar.

Wait, ajar?

Doing a double take to ensure your vision wasn’t playing tricks on you, you inch forward, widening the dark gap exponentially until all you faced was a black abyss—apart from the miniature lamp beaming yellow light in a far corner.

Carefully tiptoeing into said black abyss, the further you explore, the greater the visibility increases. Leather cushioned furniture, clean, polished desks. The desk the lone lamp rests upon is a chestnut wooden, ink feathers residing in the upper corner.

Somehow, the matter grants envy, resentment grating your nerves. This man lives comfortably while other’s are beaten for possessing nothing. Maybe it’s a petty, unnecessary thought; and maybe you’re foolish, but all odds are against you, your disposition seems righteous.

Getting too lost in your head turned out foolish as well.

“What’s this?” A voice behind you whispers, voice ghosting chills tickling your neck at an alarming pace. 

Whipping around, eyes struck wide in shock, the person responsible for the remark comes into view, his stature opposing the tone muttered in your ear seconds ago.     

Not a plump business man like you imagined, not adorning a spectacle, no pipe in sight. Instead, one lone button right below the chest fits snug white sleeves cuffed by his elbows, black vest hugging a slim torso.

Conniving, cat-like eyes analyze your expressions while dark brown hair parts to the side, loose strands covering his right eyebrow. And when he reaches up to brush a few frayed tresses to the side you note sleek gloves covering long, pale fingers. 

If anything, this man is more similar to a Vampire.

“Trespassing, are we?”

Collect yourself. This is your opportunity.

Swiftly brushing off your clothes, you clear your throat.

“I have an offer.”

“An offer?” A smile belonging to that of a Cheshire cat adorns his lips, one leg propping itself over the other, fingers intertwining in front of him.

Ensuring your voice is clear and concise (while keeping the deeper, male-ish tone), you state your claim, despising how utterly debilitating it feels being caught under his observative stare. 

Like he sees through you.

“I would be a valuable asset to your studies in alchemy. I know about herbs and their uses better than anyone else, and where they’re located.”

Sure, the bargain might’ve sounded arrogant, but you were technically cosplaying as a man when most men of your time couldn’t shut up about themselves, arrogance was the least of your problems. 

Gnawing at his cheek as you spoke, he pauses a moment, then laughs.

Amused. 

Dark lashes dust above equally dark eyes, nearly black as they study you.

“You want to be my apprentice? Is that it?”

You remain close-lipped.

“I’ll tell you one thing, kid. This world is all about money,” He raises a cane from where he reclined, using the end to tip your chin up and meet his eyes. 

“No?” 

To which you simply stare back at him, refusing to avert eye-contact. 

“I’m sure that’s what you’re here for anyways.” Rising from his place, he sighs heartily. “But see, I’m a greedy man, not a good man.” 

Abruptly, his countenance falls flat. 

“And my job isn’t fun, so you’re out of luck.” 

Immediately, you’re frantic, trying your hardest to ignore his obvious statement to leave. The last thing you need is to run out of luck, run out of options.

And so, you hastily wrack your mind for a solution, an excuse, whatever keeps you in this dimly lit room.

“You- You were part of the Red Plague, weren’t you?” Spitting out words from the depths of your racing mind, The Alchemist stops, fixing you with an unreadable look.

Red Plague as in, the group of young men enlisted during the war that all died of a deadly disease but one. One who, many speculate is the man before you.

Breathe in.

“I may not know much about you, but I know what it’s like to want to save somebody.”

Breathe out.

Now it was his turn to stand there, and for a second you swore you saw a flash of sympathy cross his face.

You wet your lips. “I’ll run your errands and wash your clothing, I’ll clean this place spotless. Plus, it’s not like I’m a woman asking for a job, so please, give me a chance.” 

Slowly, The Alchemist raises a brow, laugh disbelieving.

“Since when did being a woman have anything to do with this?” 

Huh?

How.. odd.

If anything, the majority would wholeheartedly agree, likely hiring you on the spot with how impalpable such a jest seemed.

He would’ve laughed, maybe slapped your back. Would’ve wrapped an arm around your shoulders, proclaimed you his friend.

Yet, you almost feel flattered. Flattered in a strange, unrealistic manner. 

Basking in a deplorable quietness, The Alchemist sighs, combing a gloved hand through silken strands. 

“I have a spare room around that corner.” He points, leather gloves narrowly highlighted by orange lighting.  “Make yourself useful, hm?”

And like that, even if it was a long shot, you landed it. More specifically, landed a job. 

How preposterous. 

How exciting. 

Yet, it began hesitantly. As if he was initially testing your usefulness. Sending you on runs to the nearby gardens, having you make sure a concoction didn’t derange itself while he fetched better flasks. Easy things.

However, you didn’t complain. A boring job was better than no job, and as long as a few coins were emptied into your pocket afterward, you’d continue to work without whining.  

Burdock, oregano. Motherwort that would erupt billows of chemically-infused air when added to oils or sugars.  

Then you noticed The Alchemist. His quirks, his  characteristics. 

He shifts between a long trench coat or tight vests, his hair is always styled a certain way, though some days, when he just wakes up, he has this tiny bird nest of hair atop his head, it’s charming. 

He yawns a lot. 

He wears heeled shoes, maybe from his shorter height, maybe preference. 

And rather peculiarly, the longer you stay in his lair, the greater you notice the many scars littering his forearms, collarbones. Miniature cuts and imprints left on porcelain skin. 

Those observations, conjoined with his reactions, make for a truly interesting character. 

Reactions being his dislike toward loud noises, the matter in which his shoulders scrunch at a loud clap outside, eyes blown wide, fearful. 

The longer you stay in his lair, the more you notice him, nonetheless his fears. Whether suspicion clarifies anything in specific, there’s no denying he’s a man of war. 

Lee Minho has secrets, and as badly as your nosiness itches to uncover them, you, as you had promised earlier, will keep your lips sealed. 

And it makes you wonder, what’s life like on your side of the street? What throng of unfairness left you awash, left you both suffering? 

You wonder about your oppositions and similarities in different points of each other’s lives. Minutes, decades before you ever met.

Certain stones shall stay unturned, but you hope, maybe one day, those questions will be answered.  

Interestingly enough, he never asked about your name; not even when you gingerly introduced yourself as your last name, a rather awkward fit.

Likewise, you don’t complain. There’s only two of you in the house after all.

A week in, you’re finally introduced to something new. 

The Alchemist plans to have you tag along with him to Port Nova, a docking station located on the outskirts of Busan.

Business thrives in ship ports, the sole source of connectivity for a growing country like Korea. Each day, millions of shipments come in from countries you can’t name, so you’re not surprised in the slightest he’s headed there for a transaction. 

You are surprised he decided to have you tag along.

Even more so that, as you hop off the transit, hurriedly tailing his left, he veers off a sharp turn, approaching a worn Burlesque Club, glittering sign halfway dangling from its perch on a scarlet red awning. 

English letters spell out Nova Burlesque, a few missing letters left astray to the side, electrical bulbs spasming with sporadic lighting on the dusty ground below.

In the daylight, the place appears ordinary, blending in with its crumbling, desolate surroundings. 

Although, you have no doubt this place utterly delights in the eve, pink-neon inviting enough to lure unaware foreigners upon first arrival. 

“Mr. Lee,” You utter, returned with a short scoff from the man who insisted you refer to him by his name, Minho. 

“Where are we going?”

It’s hesitant, unsure of whether to intervene, but Minho only smirks, whispering a not-very-assuring “You’ll see” you begrudgingly go along with. 

Inside is the last of what you anticipated. 

Oh dear.

You’ve only been to minimal Burlesque Clubs, but the ornery perspective of faux jewelry, a glittery, hallucinatory stage, and the constant rendition of Why Don’t You Do Right whirling on scratchy records isn’t present here. 

Alternatively, there’s stools scattered around a marginally illuminated clearing, some upturned, others occupied by burly men with equally burly beards. 

And in the middle, a boxing ring is situated. The stench of sweat and blood soaks the air in a metallic, pungent aroma.

A brisk realization crosses your mind, a conclusion of a sort.

Play a fool’s game, earn a fool’s reward.

Only you, Hyunjin, and Ms. Myeong know the lengths you’re willing to go to secure your family's well-being, and now, at odds you can’t compromise, you have to do everything in your power to maintain your act.

This is a test.

Sifting behind you, he murmurs a hushed: “Cover your ears.” That you begrudgingly oblige to, cupping either hand over your ears as Minho clutches his leather holster, concealed within the confines of a frequently worn coat.

In a split second, a gunshot is fired to the ceiling, the bullet's shell casing dropping atop the welt of his pointed shoe.

Stunned silence ensues.

Arm still extending the revolver in the air, you haphazardly remove your hands, dragging the hat further over your face as more eyes focus on the both of you. 

“I’m looking for Reiner and Manfred.”

The longer the tension rises, the further you grow self conscious.

“Already?” A man bellows from inside the ring, breaking the awestruck spell whilst gripping his opponent by the collar, fist poised and ready to strike. 

Unusually, they seem to know each other.

Minho merely exhales a loud sigh through his nose, practically two times smaller than his apparent acquaintance. 

Said acquaintances grumbles. 

“Leave it to our champion to interrupt the show.” 

And with that, he hooks the contender in the jaw, sending him pummeling down to the tarnished mat where hoards either cheer or groan, hustling money left and right over the victor.

Champion of the show? You’re adding that to your collection of never ending questions that’ll likely stay unanswered.

From the crowd arises two men. The victor from the ring and another from the crowd, dressed lavishly opposed to his white tank top-wearing counterpart. 

Reiner and Manfred, you assume. 

Serving as a mere shadow in The Alchemist’s wake, the four of you hustle outside, met with a nonplussed Minho and two, mildly confused (and enormously tall) men. 

Foreigners, certainly.

“..Care to introduce the pipsqueak?” Reiner presumably more talkative, piques, beady eyes scouring your figure enough to where you scorn the beads of sweat collecting upon your temple. 

Pipsqueak my foot. 

You stave down the retort, inhabiting Minho’s shadow as the three discuss matters of a hospital transaction. Almost like you weren’t there at all, as it’s always been.

If it weren’t for the technicalities, you would’ve interjected, made your presence known. Except, other than herbal instances, you’re a novice in the business department. You’ll leave that up to your current mentor to arrange.

Again, lips sealed.

Minho, ignorant to the previous victor’s question, continues to sign legal documents supplied by the calmer individual, Manfred. You internally thank the gesture.

Well, before Reiner’s sordid gaze becomes too stifling to brush off.

“I’m Mr. Lee’s apprentice, L/N. Nice to meet you,” You initiate, fearlessly reaching out a hand he heartily shakes, features graced with amusement, massive hand practically engulfing yours. 

Pardoning a gruff “Likewise”, he nearly sends you flying from the timbre of his voice alone.

“Say,” Reiner mutters, finally completing the last of the package transfers. “Don’t you think this one seems a bit feminine?”

Your jaw ticks, nervousness shrouding your being like an unrelenting fog. Minho’s fingers close around your elbow, pulling you closer, brows knit.

“Perhaps you need your eyes checked, Reiner,” He offers, tone nonchalant opposed to the vice-like grip latched to your arm.

Heftily chortling, the man only pats your back, causing your entire body to surge forward upon impact.

“Well regardless, it’s a cute little thing ain’t it?”

Manfred simply grunts his acknowledgment while you bite your tongue, coveting your retaliation when he referred to you as “it”.

No use growing angered. The feeling is futile.

Luckily, your irritable arrangement comes to a hasty close, more than gleeful to have an understandably annoyed Minho steer you from Port Nova onto a short train back to Kent Avenue, to your newly established home.

A home, but not really a home. Semi-permanent, unofficial.

Either way, you wouldn’t complain. Despite the constant efforts in diminishing your past identity, you didn’t feel as conscious when around Minho. 

Safer.

As if, in an alternative reality, you could tell him. Your truths, your burdens.

No. You won’t jeopardize this opportunity. You can’t.

At least, not yet.

“I’ll be back Mr. Lee!” You shout, wielding a briefcase bag to your person, nudging the ghoulish door open using your hip.

As usual, you’re headed off on a restocking trip.

Except on this occasion, the restocking consists of hunting down a peculiar herb: Chinese Chrysanthemum. It’s an appealing plant with fluorescent leaves and a constant need for sunlight. 

It’s no surprise he’s sent you to fetch such goods. After two months, you soared in and out of the residence routinely, scouring Korea while Minho hunched over a wildly diverse array of vials and flasks, glasses propped on his slightly hooked nose, hands firmly resting on a wooden exam table.

Studious. He is very studious. 

However, a catch diverts itself from eye view. A catch you hadn’t considered until your two feet stepped from squealing train tracks.

Somehow, although unusually intentional, you wound up in a rather peculiar area. An area you never imagined paying a visit to in your wildest dreams.

In the midst of economic outrage and warring circumstances, you’re standing in one of Korea’s most unstable, informal districts. A place that, according to your overhearing ear, was where your precious Chrysanthemum lodged.

This district had an infamous name. 

The Den.

A fitting name in actuality, where a person didn’t realize they were stuck till it was too late, unable to see where they’re going, living in belief there’s an incentive to the finish line in a race run in circles. 

Also, a place the Sharks who torment your family report to.

You can hear your heart thrumming in your ears, nearly ricocheting out of your chest with its horrid cacophony. 

Calm down. 

Calm down. Think of the goal. 

All you have to do is find a flower. 

Grounding yourself, you pinpoint some viable resources. 

Fertile soil, maybe even sandy, likely in the inner portion of The Den.

Plus, you’re dressed as a man, you might as well act outrageously boisterous.

But you’re not, you’re afraid. Perhaps not external, but inside, your lungs feel as if they’re being violently crushed, sinking deeper in an unsteady submersible to the very bottom of the ocean. And for a second, you truly contemplate going back, telling Minho you’re incapable of the task.

Yet, what would you say? You’re haunted by a vision that hasn’t happened? Fearful for a future event with no guarantee? If you had ever done something so horrid, they would’ve found you ages ago.

This time, you’re in their domain, invading what’s theirs as they’ve done to you. 

Greater. You aren’t who you used to be, in more ways than one.

Genuinely, what is there to lose?

That’s it. You’ll complete the mission and return. No run-ins, no fear barricading your job.

In and out.

Initially, you scout out your surroundings, regarding the faint sound of voices funneling in the distance, the smell of mixtures you hate being able to identify, far off machinery croaking before smoke spurs from rusted screws and bolts.

Amongst the chatter of street vendors and the many, notorious gang members patrolling in and out of abandoned shops, you roam avidly, keeping as low a profile as possible.

Number one priority is to not be noticed. Drawing attention to yourself is a one way ticket to failure, and the last thing you need is to arrive back to Minho empty-handed.

However, through the blinding clouds of smoke billowing from exhaust pipes, a specific building, shrouded in the shadows of charcoal residue, douses your peripheral.

A Greenhouse. 

Bingo.

Quickly looking around, you shrink low to the ground, racing forward to carefully creak open glass double doors and slip inside. 

It feels as if you’re enclosed in a furnace. Mere seconds in and sweat already begins gathering upon your temples.

Though that becomes the least of your concerns after assessing what lies inside. 

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of flowers and herbs. Rare species, some critically endangered, just sitting here.

It’s strange. 

Why would, in the case such an abundance existed, not be used? Why hadn’t this Greenhouse been raptured from the inside out for such valuable items? 

It’s not until a commotion stirs ahead of you that you understand the answer to the question. 

With about five plucked Chinese Chrysanthemums expertly sealed into their coordinating bags, a piercing hiss followed by multiple shouts and hollers cause you to shrink back, gazing around haphazardly.

A hiss?

From your perspective nearly kissing the dirt, your vision allows a minuscule glimpse of multiple backs turned, boisterously amused men gathering around something in the front of the Greenhouse.

You feel the need to know more.

Inching forward tip-toe by tip-toe, amidst the roaring crowd, you spare a look between the sea of legs to find an utterly deplorable sight.

A cat. 

No, not just a cat, cat fighting. They’re watching cats maul each other for the fun of it. As if they aren’t living creatures, but toys for their entertainment. 

And perhaps it’s a foolish decision, perhaps laughable being worried, being angered, but you are and you refuse to leave knowing you could’ve done something to help them.

Hastily scouring the floors, a can of Spam discarded below Foxglove stems proves useful enough, tossing it as far as possible where it whacks against the glass wall, immediately averting their attention. 

This is your chance. 

As dark clouds and incoming rain thunder outside, you don’t waste the opportunity, sprinting forward while the men make toward the direction of the sound and hoisting the first cat you see into your arms. 

Sprinting past narrow pathways and dimly lit streets, you force your eardrums numb to the threats they call after you, mind trained on one thing besides getting as far as possible from here.

To Minho to Minho to Minho.

A hand grabbing your shoulder causes you to shriek, swiftly dragged off where you swear your last breaths will be taken, the feline in your arms scrambling with panic.

“What are you doing?” Your captor furiously whispers, hidden in the low lighting of an apparent alleyway.

Wait. You recognize that voice. 

“Hyunjin?”

How does he recognize you?

Just then does a breeze swipe past your head, sending chills trickling down your rain-soaked neck. 

Your hat is gone. Must’ve fell off while you were running. 

“Wh.. what are you doing?” Slipping from his grasp after the men’s hushed conversation becomes inaudible, you regard the man with an incredulous stare.

“Answer my question first,” He reprimands, and as the cat resounds a pained meow do you assess the dire nature of the situation.

You need to get this cat to Minho, and fast. 

“Can’t- Can’t talk right now I’ve got to go—“

“Wait!”

Though, as your footsteps breach the security of the alley, the placating cry of crows mock your left, hurried footsteps belonging to those occupying the Greenhouse heading toward you in rampant haste.

Hyunjin’s hand holding your wrist, you grace a tight-lipped smile his way. 

 “Let’s not see each other like this again, okay?”

He returns a miniature grin, teeming with mischief.

“Agreed.”

Upon letting go, you race off, attempting to speedily navigate back to the train station whilst torrents of streaming droplets cascade down your face. 

“Good luck!” 

“Thanks, I’ll need it!” You respond back, voice permeated against the rain, eyes frantically searching for a place to evade. 

Finally, a crowd appears, swarming amongst diners and flickering street lights.

Your perfect hideaway. 

Swimming through the hive of people, you catapult yourself into the nearest phone booth in sight, fumbling through deep pockets before cashing a coin into the metal slot and jarring your index over slippery metal numbers.

Praying the combination is correct as you hold the wired telephone to your ear, you’re consumed with utmost relief upon hearing The Alchemist’s voice answer on the other side of the crackling line.

Amidst roaring rainfall drowning the booth, you differentiate shouting a ways off, likely belonging to the men from earlier. 

“Mr- Mr. Lee?”

“Yes? Where are you?”

“Are you.. Are you allergic to cats?”

Never in your life did you think you would be so overjoyed seeing blue doors. 

Clambering inside—the rather upset cat in your arms hissing their dismay—you’re overwhelmed with an unexplainable happiness seeing Minho’s face peer from the guest room. 

Relief.

“L/N wha..” 

Words dying in his throat as he gives you a speechless once over, your urge to hug him dissipates instantly, beckoning a new set of garments upon realizing how utterly drenched your precious disguise is.

Simultaneously shoving the cat his way before rushing to your room, you thankfully strip of your fretfully cold attire, welcomed in the comforting embrace of clean clothing.

A mere five minutes later you exit, greeted by Minho’s stockstill frame. Hand half-raised, evidently about to knock.

You forcefully clear your throat, praying the momentary awkward tension is alleviated.

Luckily, The Alchemist takes it upon himself to break the spell, eyes dancing across the floorboards in order to avoid your own.

“Well, she’s stable. Her vitals are fine, nothing too critical apart from a few cuts here and there. Just shaken up.”

Your stare of astonishment earns a confused tip of his head.

“That fast?”

Said (apparently female) cat rubbing her body along your calf with an obviously delighted purr, you appear nearly concussed, crouching down to pat the soft, striped fur lining her back.

Minho snorts.

“What can I say, I get work done.”

Maybe he is a vampire after all.

Mirroring your crouch, he watches your interaction, similarly feline-like inspection unnoticed till glancing up.

And for a swift moment, you swear he saw through you. Lips parted, eyes scrutinizing. Piecing together the building blocks to a wavering structure you’d strived so hard to build, to protect.

No. You’re overthinking. He couldn’t possibly know.

You failed to notice the forlorn look on his face, one that ushers to ask if you’re okay, fetch a hot beverage to warm your evidently cold hands.

“Might I ask how you ended up bringing this one home?”

Leave it to him to take the title as your greatest ally and worst enemy at the same time.

Ah. Right.

“Y’know I was about to get to that-” 

You pause, deriding the high pitch of your voice into something more appropriate. He cocks a brow.

“As I was saying, it wasn’t my intention to bring her back, but the place she was trapped at, the place with the men- the plants..”

According to his expression, you’ve grown two heads.

…

“Go on.”

“Look, the place I found the Chrysanthemum was having cat fights. Do you remember hearing about the dog fights in Gangwon? It’s the same thing. We can’t just sit still while they’re torturing innocent animals.”

“I don’t know what you got yourself into, but I’m an Alchemist, not a hero,” He sighs, and your hand stalls its petting, face falling while the cat in your lap flicks her tail back and forth expectantly.

He has a point. You got yourself into this, you went into the Greenhouse. It’s not his duty to clean up after your messes, but perhaps you can convince him, even by a small margin.

Play a fools game, earn a fools reward.

You’ll mop the floor of your own mess.

“Minho, please. Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?” 

Stifling silence making an additional appearance, you nervously await the verdict, perched rather hilariously outside of your bedroom door.

Chewing the skin of his cheek, he scolds himself for falling so susceptible to you, though you won’t ever know that.

“Fine, but you’d better have a plan.”

Ah. Great.

You don’t.

At dawn’s arrival you’re swept upward, fixing a hasty bout of tea and toast prior to dressing in the privacy of your appreciated quarters. 

You don a much-needed hat, hopping aboard the first train of the day with a well-dressed Minho in tow.

Retracing your steps turns out easier than you anticipated, The Alchemist tailing you as you had done him at Port Nova.

Though, just when the task seemed a cake walk, you manage a meager detour, regarding your unimpressed mentor.

“From what I can remember, it’s around here somewhere. But I might be wrong, I stumbled upon it by accident and it looks a bit scary but I think—“

“Stop! Stop- Stop talking. Please.”

You quickly shut your mouth, allowing the man to lead instead till the sight of familiar landmarks becomes a gradual reassurance of your location.

Perhaps now it’s safe to talk.

“Mr. Lee, what did Reiner mean by calling you a champion-“

Shoved against the brick wall, your sentence dies instantly, panickedly glancing in all directions assessing the all too familiar pistol Minho‘s drawn, conspicuous in close proximity. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” He enunciates, tone unusually gruff whilst scanning your surroundings.

Your face warms an involuntary pink you clamber to ward off, drawn to the sight of his tense jaw and the feather-like arrangement of long lashes, focused on something elsewhere.

Your retort dies not only from his beauty, but upon the familiar Greenhouse coming into view.

“Looks like we found where your little friends are playing.”

Though, as the man begins forward, you grab him by the sleeve.

“Wait! We can’t just waltz in.”

His hand, slipping from the warmth of his pocket, cups your chin, unbearably close to your face to the point you can feel his breath on your nose. 

Curse the butterflies.

“Well there’s no need for an introduction, so let’s listen this time, shall we?”

Left at a loss for words either from your slack mouth or the concerning amount of sweat building upon your palms, you don’t argue back, lingering right outside the door, craning to hear voices. 

By the sound of it, at least four people are inside at the moment, and the longer you stay out here, the more ample time becomes for additional threats to show up. 

As if reading your mind, he slips through the rugged door, gesturing for you to follow while silently navigating through dense, humid underbrush and overgrown foliage.

However, your quiet voyage is quelled when a twig, unbeknownst to the two of you, cracks under the pressure of his foot. 

“Shit,” He mutters, cringing back at the immediate quietness that ensued.

The Alchemist curses as well.

Interesting.

Amidst the men bearing closer, Minho turns to you, tone urgent. 

“When I get up, you run and free the cats. Don’t look back, just go.”

Nodding hastily, you reacquaint yourself with the area, ensuring a dead set beeline to where the cats were held without interruptions. 

Minho, a split second before you can ask a question, whips the gun from his coat pocket, the sound of bullets whipping through the air enough indication it’s time you go.

Finnicking hands make it hard to unscrew the wired cages, surges of adrenaline helping speed up the rescue as you double check every feline has escaped.

Heeding to instruction, you don’t look for The Alchemist, solely driven to freeing the cats and fleeing the scene. No more problems. 

Almost an exact replica to your last visit here, a hand drags you off right as you exit the Greenhouse doors, back pressed against his (whom you realized was Minho, not Hyunjin, thanks to the leather gloves) front. 

And perhaps from running, perhaps from something else, you can feel his heartbeat, oscillating in a nonstop orchestra that sends your own heart pounding from the confines of your rib cage. 

Stifling a shaky inhale you’d held in as the last of the perpetrators scattered elsewhere, you instantly step back, denying every urge to coddle him like a child, fretfully check him for injury. 

A certain fondness lay reserved for Lee Minho, a fondness you can’t discern of at the moment. 

“C’mon, quick, Soonie might get scared if we’re gone for too long,” He ushers, crashing your tunneling train of thought right off its rails in the process. 

“Yeah-“

You stop.

“Soonie?”

“Yeah, Soonie.”

“You named her?”

“..Yes.”

It’s a genuine struggle hiding your laugh.

“I didn’t find you the type to take in cats.”

“Today you’ve been proven wrong, apparently.”

A sort of giddiness you never experienced fills your chest, wishing nothing more than to look back at the man and swoon. 

How could you not? He was very much dexterous, and attractive without a doubt, that much was known to anyone who laid eyes on The Alchemist.  

Your trek home proved relatively easy, able to skillfully get to the station away from prying eyes and trod along a mixture of gravel and dusty roads without issue.

Silently celebrating your success, you nudge your counterpart's hip, the unimpressed side-eye he grants doing little to dull your happiness.

“Aren’t you an Alchemist? How come you’re oddly good with a gun?”

He clicks his tongue.

“Aren’t you my apprentice? How come you’re getting yourself into trouble when your only instruction was to fetch herbs?”

You conceal a smile he obviously catches, glare failing to quiet your bubbling laughter, his own lips tugging upward.

“It was necessary Mr. Lee! And you know you love Soonie.”

“Unfortunately.”

Nearly a month into her residence, and Soonie has become an effervescent force to be reckoned with. Although initially sassy and wary, she’s transformed into the most affectionate cat you’d ever met.

You have to give it to her, she’s grown on the both of you, a lot.

Plus, you might just have to thank her for unleashing Minho’s tender side, whether that’s the two of them cuddling on the couch while he naps or him picking her up and treating her like a baby while you watch from afar. 

Over the course of the five months you’ve been here, you’ve sent countless checks back home—enough to where dues could finally be paid and the hope for a good life came into view.

Everything seems right, seems ideal. 

But of course, on an equally ideal Thursday evening, a thousand pounds of bricks drops right on top of your head. 

“How long were you planning to keep it from me?” 

He, Lee Minho, The Alchemist, voices.

Simultaneously, your stomach plummets to your feet, peeking over your shoulder to find his back facing you, hunched over a straus flask. 

Then the bomb drops.

“You being a woman, that is.” 

Abruptly pausing, you don’t reply, worried you’d say the wrong thing, unintentionally summon the catalyst to this arising catastrophe. 

Yet, you can’t stay quiet for too long. And a fear lingered inside, a fear that if he looked at you, you would break.

“Forever.” 

Doing just what you dreaded, he turns to you, wearing a horribly serious expression. 

You avoid eye-contact. 

“Because you thought I would fire you?”

A nod. 

“And that’s why you said that, when you first came to me? That you weren’t a woman asking for a job?” 

Another nod. 

He sighs, pulling glasses from atop a hooked nose. You remain staring at the floor.

“I don’t decide who to hire based on what they are. If you can do your job and do it well, you’re worthy enough to work.”

Minho spoke softly, the dim, orange lighting of his lamplight doing little to shake how overwhelming the occasion is, how it feels as if your disguise is wearing, thinning to an impossible degree. 

Except, your world isn’t ending like you thought it would if someone found out, so why do you feel so heartbroken? So overstimulated with realization?

“How did you..” you trail off, raging tears longing to spill. 

No, you can’t afford to cry now. You’ve held out so far, it will stay that way. 

Should stay that way.

Minho dips his head lower in order to fully see you in all your lip-chewing, anxiety-ridden glory. The ghost of a smile rests upon his lips. 

“It was impossible not to tell. You’re unusually tiny, those shoes are massive, and, um, I do the laundry.” 

Watching his once bemused expression dissipate, you mark this as the first time you’ve ever seen him genuinely flustered—and, upon realizing he’d likely seen more than necessary as well, you’re also diminished to a bright red. 

The room wilts in stillness before he exhales, stepping a bit closer to where you linger by the bookshelf, your heels tapping against the frame. 

Tone minimizing itself terribly gentle, The Alchemist carefully collects your cheeks in his hands, urging you to see him, see those terribly thoughtful brown eyes granting a terribly kind disposition. 

“It’s been scary, hasn’t it?” 

Well, you had held out thus far.

Cracking into pieces, you melt like droplets of honey in his fingertips. He perfectly catches them in the jar. 

Out of anyone in this world, you can’t help but be grateful he was the one who found out, found you.

Chest bubbling with breaking sobs, Minho’s thumbs caress your under eyes, swiping away the many salty droplets in their continuous descent. 

Own hands shakily reaching up to hold his resting on your face, you stand there, soaking in his wooded, earthy scent and the soft hums he occasionally emits as if a reminder he’s still there, listening to your cries without intent to leave.

“Mr.. Mr. Lee… It was so scary, I’m so tired Mr. Lee,” You hiccup, mentally berating the endlessly freefalling tears, how your once staved emotions reduced your strong, dutiful voice into nothing but a stuttering mess.

Carefully swiping drool from your chin, he leans forward, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“I don’t know why you did it, but I promise it’ll be okay, we’ll be okay.”

Then another kiss to your forehead, staying there until your sniffling and breathing calms.

Gathering yourself if only slightly, you wrap your arms around his waist, pulling him into a warm hug he gradually accepts after a beat of shock. 

“Thank you, Minho.” 

And just when he thought the shock faded, he’s struck again from the sound of his name leaving your mouth.

Minho. 

Mr. Lee had been charming, but Minho, it was different. A good kind of different. 

He particularly favored the way it sounded falling off your lips, two syllables he’d replay over and over, savoring each a little bit more than the last.

More so, he wished to substitute his nagging thoughts with you, have you narrate the phrases bouncing inside his skull.

Perhaps then everything wouldn’t be so loud, if he had your voice to nullify the battlefield.

Unfortunately forced to separate, Minho adjusts his tie, clearing his throat in a manner you can’t help but feel nervous about. 

You like this flustered Minho.

“I’ll.. I’ll run you a bath.” 

You wince at the rawness of your skin when your face wrinkles in a chuckle.

“Do I smell?” 

Minho, frantically scrambling for an excuse, rubs his temples, exasperation evident in the grooves of his face, the curve and dip of prominent cheekbones portraying a mature visage.

“No I-“ He grumbles. “It helps calm you down.” 

Merely able to halfway staunch your irrevocable glee, you call his name as he begins stepping out, ears an adorable pink.

“Y/N. My name is Y/N. L/N is my last name.”

Not allowing you view of his front-side, you listen to his whispering with delight, testing the newly discovered title on his tongue as if to memorize it.

Ah, you’re falling in love.

Or maybe you’ve already fallen.

Hastily closing the door behind himself and letting you get situated in the bath, it’s not long into your relaxing that you notice a shadow seeping through the door’s crack, a figure standing there, debating.

“Minho?” You announce amusedly, watching the shadow jump and causing you to bite your frothing laugh whilst choosing what to say next. 

“Would you like to join me?”

The Alchemist audibly chokes on his saliva outside the door. 

Sparing a few seconds for him to collect his oxygen, you hadn’t been prepared for when he replies a quiet: “Another time”.

Your eyebrows shoot up with surprise. 

Daring. 

Then his shadow, after furious shuffling, disappears, serving as a reminder of your extended time spent bathing. 

Assembling the copper drain and pulling foreign nightwear over dampened skin, opposed to your usual rush to your room, you allow the chilling air to grant its harsh greeting, leaving the steamy room in its wake.

No more secrets. What a breath of fresh air.

Minho, still cooped up at his desk like routine, barely moves when you place your hands on his shoulders, adorning those charismatic glasses, lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You should go get some rest Mr– Minho,” You beckon, response a sleepy blink of his eyes, obviously exhausted.

“...I really wanted to kiss you.”

The remark drifting off as a murmur, you crane to hear him, wondering if your mind was playing tricks on you. 

“Hm?” Humming, you lightly push his back toward his quarters, the man begrudgingly following your inaudible orders. 

At least he’s cooperating.

Abruptly, he turns around, evading your hands that ease his back forward, sporting a pout adorable enough you might just lose your mind.

How unfair that someone could behave like this and expect you to not go insane.

“When you started crying.” His eyes flicker to your lips, if only for a moment. “I really wanted to kiss you.”

A portion of your stock-still frame wants to blame his tiredness, but another so badly wants it to be true, wants those words to be irrevocably real.

Fighting the urge to scream with how stupidly childish he’s making you feel, you reject every ounce of sensibility, looping one arm around his neck, using your other hand’s index to tug him closer by the belt loop. 

Trust, the feeling is mutual.

Why waste the opportunity?

“What’s stopping you?” 

The utterance barely graces air, and in milliseconds he’s crashing into your lips, a wordless confession it is real, not a mere figment of your imagination.

Stumbling to loosen his tie whilst keeping your faces impossibly connected, you fall deeper and deeper into the manner he tilts his head, expertly diminishing you into puddy in his touch. 

Back and forth, memorizing your taste on his tongue. 

Clumsy footsteps lead to his sofa, your fingers tangled in his dark strands, his kneading your waist.  

And it’s not until your lungs cry for oxygen that you pull apart, Minho’s bottom lip tugged and bitten, yours swollen with his feverish kisses. 

Both of you avidly messy, you can’t bring yourself to care, too busy enjoying the afterglow, his dazed smile.

“Whoever you want to save,” He starts, carefully smoothing over your skin with his thumb . “I will save them, deal?”

Returning that same lazy smile he directs at you, the both of you lean back on the couch, a twine of legs and limbs flailing in every direction.

Close, closer. 

A part of you aches at the thought, blinking up at such a stunning tragedy. Aches knowing you can’t return the favor, can’t say the same, promise him that same promise. 

Because according to the Red Plague, he’s lost that person, those people. So you remain silent, merely hoping one day they’ll receive proper eternal rest. 

That's something you might be able to promise.

Tipping your chin up to where it sits right above his heart, those brilliant eyes of yours blinking up at him do little for his well-being. 

Has anyone told you you’re beautiful? Because he thinks you are, he knows you are. 

Just this once and I won’t rope you into anything ever again, okay?

Minho grins deeper, brows creasing, expression doused in unadulterated adoration. 

“And yet, you rope me into something else,” He whispers to himself. 

“What was that?”  

“Nothing, let’s run another bath. I’ll join you this time, hm?”

FIC TAGLIST. @linocz @foxinnie8 @wonniesverse

sunboki, may 2022 ©

#skz x you #skz x y/n #skz x reader #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #straykids x you #straykids x y/n #straykids x reader #lee minho x y/n #lee minho x you #lee minho x reader #lee minho fluff #leeknow x y/n #leeknow x you #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #lee know x y/n #lee know x you #lee know x reader #lee know fluff #lee know angst #leeknow angst #lee minho angst #skz angst #straykids angst #stray kids x y/n #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader #stray kids angst #straykids fluff

[alittlebitofsainz]

you’re just a boy (and i’m kinda the man)

prompt: “i’m on a one-way trip to take over the world, and i thought you did, but you don’t understand.”

pairing: daniel ricciardo x reader

summary: daniel leaves mclaren, and you decide to put your career first, at the cost of the person you love.

a/n: genuinely made myself sad with this one, sorry :( song is by maisie peters!

masterlist | the spotify wrapped collection

“I just don’t understand how you can stay with them after everything they’ve put you through.”

you ran a hand through your hair, exasperated.

“that’s just it, danny, you don’t understand.” you sighed, slumping forward on the desk, your elbow resting on the surface and your head resting in your hand. the other hand was gripping the phone held to your ear. “this is my career, it’s my entire life. I might not get another opportunity.”

“you know it’s the same for me, right?” daniel’s voice crackled through the phone after a few moments of silence, his volume quieter now. “this is the end of my career, probably. but it’s gotta be better than staying with mclaren.”

you shook your head, even though he couldn’t see.

“but you’re you, danny. you’ll get another chance, I’m sure. you’re one of the biggest faces in this sport.” you sighed again, “but I’m just me. no one is gonna offer me a second chance.” you tried to explain, raising your head slightly to glance at the rain softly hitting the window.

you heard him mutter something inaudible on the other end of the line, the words obscured by the static of the airwaves. you knew he hated when you did that, talked down about yourself. you’d lost count of the number of times the two of you had sat shoulder to shoulder in your drivers room, trying to boost each others spirits after a bad race. daniel was your teammate, your closest friend, your partner in crime, the love of your life. he’d always been able to see things from your point of view. why couldn’t he understand this decision? a conversation from a few months ago drifted through your mind. whatever we do, we do it together. you’d been the one to say that, and now look at you; reluctant to follow daniel into the unknown because you were scared. scared of the uncertainty. scared of losing your one shot at this career. you’d meant what you’d said at the time, but… no. you couldn’t do it. daniel was nearly the best thing that had ever happened to you, second only to earning a seat in formula one. that had to come first. you had to put yourself first. but it didn’t seem to make this phone call any easier. god, you wished you weren’t hundreds of miles away.

“just think, me, you, the outback. we’ll have all the time for dirt bikes and beach trips that you could possibly want.” daniel’s voice brought you back to the present. you could hear the crack in his voice as he tried to persuade you, the one that told you he already knew this was a losing battle. he was losing you. you tilted your head back, looking up at the ceiling; for the first time you were actually glad that this was all happening over a phone call, that daniel couldn’t see the tears forming on your lower lash line.

“I can’t, danny. you know I can’t.” even if daniel couldn’t see you crying, you were being optimistic if you hoped he couldn’t hear it in your voice.

“I know.” he sighed, the noise soft, quiet. there was silence on the line for just a moment, and you felt inclined to fill it, terrified that the conversation was already drawing to a close. you didn’t want daniel to hang up. you didn’t want to believe that this could all be over just like that.

“I’m really sorry, dan.” you apologised, saying anything to try and keep the momentum of the conversation.

“you don’t need to apologise. it’s not your fault.” came his predictable reply, but his tone was missing the kindness, the affection, you’d come to expect from a phone call with daniel. his voice was flat, monotone, and you found yourself unable to read how he was feeling. it had been a long time since that had happened; you and daniel always used to be on the same wavelength. it felt alien, like you were out of your depth. was he angry? upset? did he just not care anymore?

“we can still make this work, can’t we?”

you’d been avoiding the question, but now there was nothing left to say but that. the pause on the other end of the line didn’t fill you with confidence.

“I want to, god, you don’t even understand how much I want to.” came daniel’s reply, voice no longer monotone, instead betraying the emotions he was feeling. you winced as you could almost hear the ‘but’ on the end of his sentence.

“we can try, right? like, I can come visit you over christmas, then next year you’ll probably be at some of the race weekends anyway, and then I can try and get away from training during summer break…”

the more you spoke, the more you realised how hopeless this was. how could you expect to put enough effort into this relationship when you only had a few weekends spare per year? how could you expect daniel to come and watch and cheer for you at each race weekend, knowing that you were living his dream and he was stuck on the sidelines? your voice faltered as it trailed off, the realisation hitting you. fuck. this was it.

“please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be, y/n.”

you’d never heard daniel’s voice so quiet, with so little power behind it. you didn’t know whether you were even pleased that he was as devastated as you were about all this: how could this be the right decision when neither one of you wanted it? such was the reality of this sport. you swallowed thickly - daniel was right, there was no point in drawing this out, making it difficult. you wouldn’t be reduced to begging; at least you could walk away from this with your pride, if nothing else. you wiped a tear from your cheek with the heel of your free hand, the other gripping the phone so tightly that your knuckles turned white, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“no, you’re right. I’m sorry.” you mumbled in reply, once again glancing up at the ceiling to try and stem the flow of tears. you tried not to picture daniel doing the same thing on the end of the phone; it would only make you cry again.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll catch you at races and stuff, next year.” the finality in daniel’s voice made you draw in a shaky breath, steeling yourself for the aftermath. at least you and daniel had never gone public, you were grateful for that much. still, you’d been best friends in the eyes of the public, practically joined at the hip. people would notice when you no longer spent any time together. you tried to park that thought as your mind started to race; there would be time to deal with all of that later.

“yeah. I’ll see you around.” you couldn’t believe this was the way it would end. I’ll see you around. as if you hadn’t spent the last year and a half in each others pockets. as if every kiss and every I love you meant nothing now. as if you hadn’t spent long nights planning out your future together. none of it mattered now, you realised, tears threatening to fall once again.

“I loved you, y/n. never forget that.”

it felt like your throat closed up at that, unable to dignify daniel’s words with a suitable response. there was so much more you wanted to tell him, wanted to say, but you couldn’t even manage to say it back. you bit your lip, letting silence fill the call for one last time, before pulling your phone away from your ear and hitting the button to hang up.

a tear hit the screen of your phone right next to the daniel’s contact name, before the call ended, and his name disappeared.

#daniel ricciardo #daniel riccardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x y/n #daniel ricciardo x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 x y/n #f1 fic #f1 imagine

[keithsandwich]

Since I was enabled, Keith and Maeve NSFW brainrot ahead.

MDNI

Both Nice Keith and Maeve were virgins when they met, and Alter only had very few, awkward experiences (it's hard to enjoy it when you can't really be yourself).

But when they start doing it... oh boy, they can't stop.

Nice Keith would feel like it's a magical experience, making love to her, and he'd get a tad addicted to it. Of course he would be very worried -- isn't it too much? Isn't he wearing her out? What if she starts believing he only loves her this way? But being desired, being touched intimately and sharing such a deep connection with the woman he loves makes him feel so, so good. Maeve would know he wants it just by the way he's looking at her (probably something similar to 🥺). And lucky him, she's very into making love like rabbits with him.

Alter would feel like this is somehow magical too to be desired and accepted as he is, and to share all of him with her. He would never admit it, and absolutely would not put it this way if he had to. But if it's hard to the other guy to keep his pants on, Alter wouldn't even give himself the trouble of putting them on in the first place. During the first weeks (nay, months) he would give in to the most hedonistic pleasures with her, shamelessly and completely. He wouldn't get anything done, unless it's a life-and-death situation. What could possibly be more important than finding out all the ways he can make her cum, and watching her every reaction while he does it?

And truth be told, Maeve would feel this kind of obsession as well during the first weeks (months). She wouldn't be shy, not with them, and she would take the lead when Nice Keith is feeling too embarrassed to. This is definitely, definitely magical to her to share love this way and to find out every little thing about their bodies, their feelings and sensations together.

(no wonder she won't get long to get pregnant)

Considering they'll first get together while still in the countryside and far from any bigger city, they'll be doing it a lot in the woods, in the lakes, against the trees, in the meadows, in the caves, in the rivers, under the sun, under the stars, under the rain, etc., etc., etc.

#missing keith and maeve hours #keith and maeve brainrot #you don't understand how much i love them #mdni

[shradsmanifestt]

Anything is possible

Yes, anything is possible. It doesn't matter what it is. Even if it seems to be too illogical or impossible even.

It doesn't matter what it is. Trust me when I say this. Nothing is impossible to you.

That is the beauty of the imagination. Your imagination can take you anywhere, to anything. So what is limiting yourself from having whatever you want?

I guess when you aren't used to manifesting consciously, you can tend to second guess and question everything. You tend to focus on your 3d/circumstances more than believing in the power of your own subconscious mind.

It can be touchy, frightening even to forgo all you have ever known and be taught to manifest by just assuming what you want. But let me ask you this.

What have you got to lose by being delusional? I mean even if you fail (which you won't if you remain strong in your assumption) you won't be in a worse position, just as before right?

So instead of giving up. Trust yourself. I'm not asking you to trust me or anyone or anything else but yourself.

No matter what there is always one person in your life you can count on no matter what. That is - YOURSELF.

So I'm asking you to trust yourself. Have faith in your imagination. Stay faithful to your imagination. Remember - Circumstances do not matter.

Be fulfilled in imagination only, and it will conform to your 3d.

#law of assumption #loa #loassumption #neville goddard #affirm and persist #consciousness #loa tumblr #loa blog #loatwt #law of attraction #manifesting #manifestation

[coquettebratzdoll]

Advice and motivation ᯓ ᡣ𐭩

"I'm finding it hard to believe in what I'm manifesting" Persist

"I'm not seeing any results" PersSIST

"I've been trying for so long, but nothing is happening" PERSIST PERSIST PERSIST

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚

I feel like a lot of us in the community forget that we are the creators of our reality and that it is our will alone that makes things happen. It's safe to assume that a lot of you reading this post are trying to manifest something. A new job, an sp, your first shift, anything at all. Getting what you want is as simple as:

Accepting your desire as yours

Persisting in that fact, ignoring whatever else the 3d has to say

That's it. Nothing else has to be done to get your desire. No robotic affirming, no meditations, no shifting methods, nothing. How do we do this? All will be revealed, but first, we need to understand desire in itself.

Please note: With that being said, if you feel like those methods - and others that I haven't listed - are helpful for you and fun, go for it! This isn't a post ment to stop you from doing what you love, but rather, reminding you of your power)

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Understanding desire

"God speaks to you through the medium of your basic desires. Your basic desires are words of promise or prophecies that contain within themselves the plan and power of expression." - NG

For those of you familiar with Neville's work, you'll have a simple time understanding the concept. But, for those who aren't, lemme simplify:

'God' is not some man in the sky, who you pray to and worship. In this context, God is you, or rather your awareness of being. Your true self disconnected from the ego self. God (or I AM) speaks to 'you' (the ego self) through the medium of your desires. The 'basic desire' is what you actually want (since this is a shifting blog, imma assume it's shifting 💀). The 'secondary desires' are the expression of those initial desires. As an example, you desire to shift - that is your basic desire - and ending up in your dr is your secondary desire. Remember, the 4d, your 'imagination' is the only true reality. The 3d is just a reflection of that. What's left is fulfilment - the desire reflecting in the 3d.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Accepting your desire as yours

This is the easiest step: Just do it. There, wasn't that simple? "But Athena, if it was really that easy, then I would have given xyz by now -" shush darling. I already explained that desires are the way in which I AM communicates with you. All that's left for you to do is align yourself with it, and it will come.

A good analogy is comparing the 3d to playdough. We are that kid. The 3d is playdough. We can mould it and shape it into anything we want. Sure, when it's new, you may feel like it is a little hard to mould. Still, that doesn't stop you. Want to make a playdough elephant? Done! Want to make a playdough pizza? Done! You don't over complicated things by asking, "How will it get done? What if I don't have all the colours I need? Blah blah blah". However, when we are playing, the playdough is only half of the equation. It was our imagination that truly made it real. Using our imagination, we turned a literal pile of mush into hours of entertainment. Why would you put the playdough into a container and say, "This is what is possible for you to be, and I can only mould you within the confides of this container" 😭😭 ??? That would be boring as shit. YOU ARE GOD. TAKE THAT SHIT OUT AND MAKE THE ELEPHANT !!!

"The second or middle (the plan of unfoldment) is never revealed to man but remains forever the Father’s secret." - NG

Stop thinking about the how or why. That is literally none of your fucking business !!! The universe, time, space, whatever you believe in will break every 'rule' known to man to bend to your will. You just have to let it.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

Okay, so what now?

"Your reasonable mind and outer senses may deny it; but I promise you: if you will persist, you will receive your assumption. Believe me, you are the same God who created and sustains the universe, but are keyed low; so you must be persistent if you would bring about a change." - NG

Most people will waver in their acceptance at some point - looking for signs, doubting yourself, etc. Like I said at the beginning of the post, persist. Scroll back up and note the words in bold: 'hard', 'seeing', 'trying'. It's this kind of language that blocks you from obtaining your desire - shifting. You are God, limitless, and able to do anything.

Persistence can look like anything: robotic affirmations, subliminals, etc. As long as it allows you to remain convinced that you already have your desire, it's persistence. Continue thinking from your desire, and it will manifest.

Now go shift ♡♡♡

#reality shift #reality shifting #shifters #shifting #shift #shiftblr #shifting realities #quantum jumping #quantum leap #astral projection #i am #manifesation #neville goddard #freedom for all #desired reality #desire #4d reality #advice #motivation #shifting antis dni

[marvelfanfics1]

I fully believe that cg!Rafe has a whole playroom in his house for little!reader, but they hardly use it unless Rafe is with them because they want to be with Rafe at all times when they are little.

GOD YES!! this screams s3 rafe.

Freshly moved out of his family home, still in the obx but finally a place to call his. He personally made sure there is a big room (the biggest of the house btw) to design as your playroom, definitely letting you decorate it the way you wish it to be.

He smiled the whole time when you saw your supposed to be playroom for the first time, the walls already painted in your favorite pastel color.

He nodded and made mental notes on how you pointed in different corners of the room, already imagining what furniture and most of all what toys need to be here! Top priority: a corner for all your squishmellows and stuffed animals.

Rafe doesn't care how often you use that room. The only thing that's important to him is your happiness.

The fact that you only want to spend time in there with him being present makes it even better, him even being able to do some of his business stuff there while watching you play and enjoy yourself as you're someone to want to spend every possible second with him afraid to do or decide anything by yourself in littlespace which makes Rafe feel needed and that's what he loves or needs tbh.

#little!reader #little reader #daddy!rafe #cg!rafe #cg!rafe cameron

[mahou-furbies]

Most wonderful sound: Kotoha's excited "Haa!!"

#ramble ramble #cure felice #for some reason I'm 30 episodes in in just 5 days #I thought I needed a little break from this franchise but apparently anything is possible if you believe in yourself #kind of a mixed bag of a season but at least Kotoha is cute

[donghuamuqing]

As she told me, son:

#stranger things #will byers #byler #mike wheeler #i used the fist pic bc im pretty sure this is when she says ‘i dont want you to feel like you cant tell me things’ #and stuff like ‘you dont have to be afraid to share yourself with me im mother i love you’ #second is of course mike putting his head on wills chest possibly checking his heartbeat #also mike is the heart #and he was so afraid for will and did anything he could to get him back #also the title of the song is i will follow you into the dark #which bas major mike jumps into the upside down after will vibes #and also he was supposed to in montauk #idk if these lyrics actually mean what i want them to mean but. i make my own rules #second pic is so bad im sorrryyy idk why its so bad :( #also also the part before goes #in catholic school as vicious as roman rule i got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black #and i held my tongue as she told me son fear is the heart of love so i never went back #um idk allusions to mikes internalized homophobia and the christian culture of the town #now i dont believe karen is inherently absuive or evil or mean or anything but she fit the bill for this edit #which is more gentle and hopeful than the song is lol #ok im done i promise

[spiritualseeker777]

#Believe in yourself #spiritual awareness #spiritual awakening #You are strong #You Can Do It #you can do anything #you can do this #don't give up #keep going #everything is possible #wisdom #success #Believe

[silverwhittlingknife]

superboy: the man of tomorrow 1 spoilers

(it's just one panel but below the cut just in case)

memory identification: go!

#dc spoilers #memory identification CHALLENGE #okay so: obviously there's the 'waking up in cadmus' #the friends don't seem like a reference to anything - i mean ig it could be donna's death but i think they're just a generic memory #or possibly it's yj:dc and there's just nothing that actually happened to reference? #i think that's tara dying #and then the last one: match punching him?or is it superboy-prime punching him? #(to be conner is to be constantly getting punched by alternate superboys dsfdsfs) #anyway (despite this one angsty panel) this was fun and zippy #v. light-hearted and not a whole lot to it - looks like it'll be space adventure + punching-stuff #there isn't enough here to really hook me but the art is cute and conner's narration is bouncy #so if they keep putting it on the app i'll probably keep reading #i really wish. mm. okay WARNING RANT INCOMING this is kind of tangential and maybe it's just the comics that i pick up #but i feel like of the few modern comics i've picked up - a lot of them are very light on the characters having concrete problems #even problems as simple as 'getting bad grades in school' or 'have to lie to my dad' or 'need a job to pay the rent' #like. i feel like tim in robin '93 had concrete problems that couldn't be solved with a pep talk and 'you just gotta believe in yourself' #dick in nightwing '97 - same! concrete personal life problems that could not be resolved by a pep talk! #and i really miss. like. characters experiencing dilemmas or having to make trade-offs #and just generally i miss a bit more realism - like. conner feels unneeded. okay? so? #shouldn't he be going to school or something? why is costume-stuff top of mind? where are the authority figures/external forces? #i think these kinds of intensely-internal problems can work in non-visual fiction bc you're in the character's head BUT #comics are largely visual and everything with real emotional punch works way better if it's concrete things that i can see #anyway that's just my personal preferences though and it's not superboy's fault! #conner's never been a realistic character - he had goofy merchandising and was a kid celebrity and so forth #and although i didn't read his preboot solo i don't think he ever went to school there either? except in adventure comics? #so he seems very well-suited to plucky space-adventure #and i wish him the best. go forth and prosper conner!! punch those aliens!!

[clowndensation]

violently disagreeing with jesse's "if you were crossing something out, you wouldn't start underneath" thing btw. some of us write very quickly and have shaky hands.

#babygirl i've 'crossed out' words my pen has never even come into contact with. i've overlined. i've underlined. #i've struck out the wrong word entirely #anything is possible if you just believe in yourself #also to be clear this has nothing to do with my opinion on whether his name was struck out or underlined #i'm disagreeing with the logic only