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"This is why I try so hard to protect my trans sister, she has to deal with so much of this all of the time."

"And this is why I will never learn how to swim"

"I never go swimming, unless it's an event that explicitely mention that Trans Women are welcome"

Imagine being stuck under a Gargoyle when the sun comes back up.

The two of you had been trying every position you could all night long and lost track of time. Now you're naked, stuck under him with his (literally) rock hard dick stuck inside you.

You can't move, at all. Just stuck there cock warming him all day long. On permeant display for 12-14 hours, until the sun went back down.

By the time you can move, you're stiff, sore, and have scuff marks from trying to get free from his stone form. And he is apologizing so pathetically, tending to your every need. Pampering you all night long and making sure to give you plenty of time to recover.

a/n: ughhh i love him so much. all of svt is THE standard but there’s something about dk that i just cannot ignore. he’s the sweetest and if i imagine him as a bf, this is exactly how.

lee seokmin. the type of man to walk on the side of the sidewalk nearest to the road for you. who picks the prettiest sunflowers just because they remind him of you. who sends you cute silly updates when he’s traveling to remind you he’s always with you.

he makes you breakfast in bed, cuddles you extra tight when you’re sick, and never forgets your favorite things. he sends you photos of every pretty sky he sees, or the cute corgi he saw on a run.

[Dreamwalking Witch]

"A cry echoes in a church, a child fussing and fighting a so called blessing. A father, sweaty and on edge, holding the screaming infant. A preacher, pressing the holy water sitting on his thumb further into the child's skin, praying the devils and the sprites away. A corpse, dangling from a basement ceiling. Tears streaming down it's cheeks, handprints squeezed and marking the soft skin of it's throat. Words hanging in the air, making the atmosphere heavy, feeling like the pressure of a different plane pressing down on an entire town.

"She has been born with the gift of the third eye"

The cries continue, slowly coming to a halt as the sun rises.

"A new prophecy no one has written, a new future no one can imagine"

Years pass, the child growing into a sheltered young woman, distrusting of her father and of his religious circles. The pressure remains after so long, following her like a dense, heavy mist.

"She sees, she feels, she will be wonderful, my girl. The new dreamwalker witch of Nockfell."

She dreams of a dark future when night falls, the stars transmitting messages of a young man plagued by his past, of prophecies and dangers. She feels and she knows.

She isn't his guide, she's his omen."

knowing that they're doing the best they can and yet, you feel them so far away-

not knowing when to stop, when to simply say "that's enough"

ᴅɪᴀʀʏ ᴇɴᴛʀʏ ɴ°5 — 11.02.2026

It seems to me, as I am reading Swann’s Way by Marcel Proust, that I miss my childhood tenderly. And if somewhere in the world there were a time machine, I would use it to return to the days when I was twelve years old.

School has ended just as the summer months begin languidly. My brother and I spend our summer at our maternal grandparents’ house. I can see again, with an almost religious clarity, the stone path we used to take on our walks. Sometimes in the middle of the afternoon, sometimes late in the evening when the heat tired my grandmother. We would bring along a few pieces of stale bread that the sun had finished drying during the day. My brother rode his small bicycle, and my grandmother and I followed behind, heading toward the fields where the horses grazed.

My grandfather preferred the quiet comfort of an herbal tea in the courtyard of their home, a renovated former farmhouse. I distinctly remember the scents of fruit along our path—cherries, mirabelles, apples, plums. All these fruits would come together in a tart that my grandmother spent the afternoon preparing and that we devoured with delight.

I miss the innocence of that time just as much as the sight of the great magnolia tree filled with white blossoms fading into pink, whose fragrance will always remind me of my grandmother’s presence and of her fingers—made rough by years of work—resting in mine. I still remember the cool sheets as she aired out our bedroom, opening the windows wide to let in the warm August air.

I am no longer sure what I miss the most, and in my smile I see hers again, fragrant with magnolia and mirabelle tart.

𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝓇𝓊𝓁𝓎,