#Clairvoyance Challenges

[mydayswithtarotbystella]

Navigating the Complexities of Imagination and Clairvoyance

Lately, I’ve been experiencing a profound surge in my imagination, particularly in the realm of clairvoyance. It’s as if my thoughts and feelings are immediately intertwined, with emotions responding instantly to my imaginative processes. This rapid interplay has left me feeling both amazed and unsettled, especially considering a troubling aspect of these experiences. A spirit, one that I…

[pan6ual]

[llycaons]

also when you liberally level up characters without much experience, it creates a mismatch between the characters' power levels and the players' expertise. they're level ten now? in what, 13 episodes? less than 30 hours of gameplay? they haven't had much time to really explore or get good at their specialties, so they have all this firepower but don't seem to know simple things about how basic abilities work. at such a high level, nobody should need the disengage action explained to them, especially not a monk. omg I was drafting this post in my head walking home and then someone asked what a critical hit does and I almost screamed out loud. a CRITICAL HIT?? a natural twenty??? one of the foundations of the entire gaming system???? YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT IT DOES???

on one level this doesn't matter at all because they're genuinely very good players in a lot of ways - well-placed spells, smart attacks, careful uses of their turns, funny improv, emotionally resonant performances - and it's a fun show to watch either way. on another level it results in a very odd viewing experience in which I'm not sure the players actually have any idea what they're doing, which means...idk, my faith in them is shaken? it's weird! when you watch people play a game professionally, you expect them to know how it's played, right?

[luvether]

BURNT SUN-KISSED POPPIES. mydei

summary, to be the childhood sweetheart of Kremnos‘ heir came the times where he sought comfort in you for all his tragedies.

mydei x gn!reader. fluff content. childhood to adulthood. secret pinings. puppy love. yearning. teasing. quality time. princess treatment. hurt with comfort. historical!au not canon compliant to amphoreus lore. written before version 3.0. [3.6k wc]

What are the chances you get to visit Castrum Kremnos during your father’s many business trips?

By the Gods above, luck was in your favor that day.

Because visiting Castrum Kremnos meant being able to see their renowned young crown prince Mydeimos, rumored to be one of the future heroes of Okhema city and the lion of Kremnos—and in secrecy to you, also the receiver of your affections for as long as you remember.

You aren’t certain when this unimaginable pull happened, was it the way you first saw the dawn captured red upon his braided hair? Or was it his big eyes that furnaced and melted into gold ingots with flicks of honey?

Your heart flutters at the thought of simply just encountering him, your fingers bunching up your fabrics as your carriage arrives at the city gates.

With a table full of wine, goat cheese and fruits—it was easy to slip away from your father. He was too busy settling jovial talks about the kingdoms’ flourish with Kremnos’ leaders to realize your absence. The unfamiliar palace is bigger than you expected, grandeur even, completely different from your home city. When your eyes trace the intricate patterns upon their pillars you can immediately seize out the lion from its marble carvings. But despite its size, it was no challenge to locate the prince.

The sound of clashing wooden swords would indicate where he was since you are aware of his duties to fight—and it is said that crown prince Mydeimos is usually seen spending his leisure on swordsmanship practice with young lord Phainon.

At times, you envy how often Lord Phainon is mentioned around the prince.

They both seem really close.

When the harsh clacks of wood on wood floats around your ears, your hurried paces falter into quiet footsteps. You find yourself sneaking under an olive tree and peeking through the shrubs, eyes landing on two boys on the garden with cobblestone beneath their leather boots—they seem entirely engrossed in their sparring. Under the honeyed heat your lips purse, watching Mydeimos dance around Phainon, wooden swords blurring your vision, swishing and parrying in front of them as each boy exchange light blows with one another.

An exhausted rasp of a chuckle comes spilling down Mydei’s lips, he angles his sword to block when Phainon leans forward, cutting down hard in his direction. You’ve noticed their manner in fighting and can weed out the difference in an instant. Lord Phainon is calculated with his movements, there’s stability in his balance, reassurance woven into the sinews of his back beneath his white tunic. Prince Mydeimos on the other hand is more fluid, he makes use of his dynamics and his footwork is unpredictable, but there’s grace captured in it—like he’s dancing—lunging forward in strict confidence then sidestepping, bouncing back then spinning.

Mydei smiles—a boyish grin that crinkles his eyes—seemingly setting the whole place an inch brighter than before and you’re blinded by the setting sun. You tilt your head more, unable to deny the warm flush from the pillows of your cheeks when you see the hint of dimples on his face, dimples.

The prince is truly astonishing.

Years you were under the tutelage of different priests, learning about prophetic dreams and imagery and clairvoyance—but maybe you were too dizzy watching the boys zip around the gardens, or maybe you were too into your daydreams you didn’t notice how they had hastened their attacks. Mydei was now attacking Phainon in quick succession, seemingly drunk under the thrill to notice Phainon’s stuttering words of take a break or slow down your highness. You were too distracted to notice how the prince swipes up, cutting the atmosphere—the lord’s wooden sword flies out his grasp and comes spinning in your direction.

Oh.

You feel the solid plank crash against your forehead—barely registering the shock that jolts through the two boys when you stumble onto the marble floor, holding your face that seems to quickly heat at both the pain and the embarrassment.

Oh.

“Oh, lord what have you done—“

“Me?” Phainon panics. “You were the one that didn’t stop attacking, I told you numerous times how I prefer a great sword than a simple one. I’m unfamiliar with the weight.”

“Well, I—“

“Ow…”

Their attention snaps back to you. Mydei tosses his wooden sword onto the cobblestone uncaringly and along with Phainon, comes to your aid.

“Hey, are you okay?” Both holding out their hands when they ease you back to your feet. Phainon leans down to brush the crumbs of dirt from your attire, checking to see if you have other injuries whilst Mydei winces at your reddening face.

“I—truly, I apologize.” You can hear the sincerity and guilt in the young prince’s tone. “I didn’t mean…”

“No, I—“ you were quick to speak up as well. Your face furnacing even more when his concerned honey eyes latch with your own—to think your first interaction with each other would be this, how humiliating.

“I was the one who intruded.” You murmur, leaning down to bow. “I apologize for getting in the way, young lords i didn’t want to disturb—“

“Oh gods.” Phainon curses.

You lift your head, confused, until you feel something hot trickling down your nose. Both your hand and Mydei’s fly up to your face, barely containing the blood that rolls down your chin.

“Prince, I think we are in trouble.”

“Stop saying nonsense, Phainon. Tell a servant to fetch us a cloth and a basin of water immediately.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he was swift, his feet tapping along the marble as he sprinted down the hallway and now you were left alone with Kremnos’ young heir.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest.

Luck was definitely not on your side today.

“Hey, uhm…” Mydei trails off. You see the cogs in his head turning before he gently lets go of your face, you feel a soft pressure at the back of your skull instead as the prince beckons you to lean down towards him.

“Here, press your nose on my tunic. It would be a problem if we don’t add pressure to stop the bleeding—“

Your eyes widen, cheeks hot as coals. You find yourself shaking your head fervently, using the young prince’s shirt to help your nosebleed? if your reputation hadn’t sunk to the bottom of a seabed, it had now. How could you, and to Prince Mydeimos of all people?

But Mydei is persistent, somehow unaware that your flushed face is more likely due to the shame you felt than your injury.

“Please.” He pushes gently. “I insist.”

His palm on the back of your head is steady, fingers rubbing the hair there, his other hand pinch his fabric shirt and tugs it up to press against your bleeding nose. ”Lord Phainon will be back soon, so rest assured. I truly apologize for my lack of manners today.”

It felt like a whole minute with you in close proximity with the Prince, then after that, when a servant came to tend to you—both prince Mydei and lord Phainon received an earful from the adults, to dare bring harm upon a young guest clergy from Janusopolis is an act of slander, they said to the young boys.

And you are no different as your father shakes his head at you, “you’re very lucky that they practiced with wooden swords, what were to happen if they were using actual weapons, what if it was a spear?”

You turn away, “I’m sorry, father—“

“That’s enough child. I should’ve known this would happen, especially with that curiosity of yours. I’ve told you time and time again to steer clear from training grounds, you are not fit for combat.” He pats your shoulder softly. “Come now, let’s not dawdle. We still have to visit the other cities.”

But father, it’s not mere curiosity. You wanted to combat but decide against it.

When you tag along with your father with flushed pink nose and defeated shoulders, you dare slip a glance from behind. Watching the young prince and the lord getting scolded.

But what you didn’t expect was Prince Mydeimos’ honey eyes already on you.

You turned away quickly and never looked back.

A week passes and your shame does not settle nor fade.

“Looks like you had quite a delightful time.” A throwaway comment from Anaxa, you don’t respond and he doesn’t even bother to look in your direction, flipping another scroll and perusing the text casually.

“What do I do, Anaxa, Hyacine?”

“What must you do?” Anaxa shoots you a puzzled look. “Bumping into Prince Mydeimos in Okhema is one in a million, and I am certain your father won’t take you back to Castrum Kremnos after that troubling incident.

“This is so unfair.” You bury your face onto your arms.

Your younger companion heartens over your shoulder, “Cheer up. I’m sure you’ll stumble into him eventually.” Hyacine smiles at you. “After all, Okhema is celebrating a festival. You never know.”

Your eyes gloss over the open window, from the distance you hear the alluring instruments hither thither in gracious waves, the warm winds gossip, the furors of the crowd echo, the clinking of wine and your companions’ soft murmurs from behind you. You lean your cheek against your arm, watching the sky like a meadow of blues.

Distracted, you don’t notice someone approaching until you see a hand come over your vision.

Your eyes flutter, tracing the calloused palm down the arm before meeting the face.

Honey eyes greet you back.

You jolt, Prince Mydeimos.

He sees the recognition spark in your eyes and he smiles, “So it was you.” He lowers his hand, tugging his cloak. “I thought I recognized someone familiar on the window, it’s nice to see you again!”

“Prin…Prince Mydeimos.” You've straightened now. “What are you doing here?”

Your heart seizes when you watch him lean close to you, his dimples are prominent from here, like an intentional dip on a carved marble. He presses a finger to his lips, his boyish grin almost contagious.

“I sneaked away.” He rasps. “It’s a little stiff to have servants follow you around in Okhema’s festival.”

“Oh, I see.” Your eyes fleet. It seems like it has caught the attention of your companions, for the young priestess and sage are now leaning against the wall beside the window, out of view from Mydeimos.

The prince places a hand on the windowsill. “Do you want to come with me?”

Your lips part. “Come with you?”

“Yes. I uhm.” Mydei turns away, then looks back at you. “I want to make it up to you, for what happened last week.”

“There’s no need for that, prince. I’m perfectly okay now and it’s my fault you and the lord got into trouble.” Despite your incessant shakes, he combats it with stubbornness.

“I understand. But I still feel responsible for what has happened.” He tells you. “Then, if not to make up for it, just keep me company?”

“I’m not supposed to…” You hesitate.

But then you felt a foot tap your ankle. Your eyes flicker briefly towards Anaxa and Hyacine—one giving you an encouraging nod and the other had apathy in the face, but he tilts his head on the window as if beckoning you to go. You crack a smile then turn to Mydei and nod.

His smile widens, then he hoists you out of the window frame, strong arms around your torso. Your cheeks darken at his actions.

When the two of you walk down the street, you are splashed with the joyful spirit weaving through the festival. You don’t usually participate whenever these festivals happen, you have no one to go with you. You never wanted to bother your father with your trivial requests, and you had your own duties to finish that you don’t have time for leisure.

The prince tries to match your pace, shoulders barely touching but it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable. In fact, Mydeimos has been kind to you which was far from the confident boy who held a spear in the arena.

He treats you as if you are something to him—you immediately shake such thoughts from your head.

Mydei taps your shoulder, pulling you out of your daydreams. “Are you hungry?”

In the young prince’s hands were two figs. You graciously took one from him. “Thank you, Prince Mydeimos.”

The honeycomb in his eyes softened. “Please just call me Mydei.” The fruit is brought to his lips, a crunch resounds when he takes a big bite.

During that time, under the golden festival hue—Mydeimos appeared like a brilliant child, the spirit still flickering a candle in his eyes and the looks he gave you, they were so undeniably soft. You both stopped at small stands, lingered at performances and smiled at the musicians playing instruments—all the while the prince made sure you were entertained and satiated with food; soft bread, cakes, olives. He even goes on a tangent when you had said you never tried specific meat before—those that were exclusive to the high and wealthy.

The prince would take each meat from the table, cupping a hand beneath your chin when you take a bite out of his portion.

You perk up. “It’s good.”

“Right?” Mydei laughs. “This one’s my favorite. We usually only have these in Kremnos during—“

“Are you eloping, my dear prince?”

Your attention is dragged to the owner of the quip. Lord Phainon appears from the thick of the crowd, and his teasing tone brings heat to your cheeks. Mydei scowls at his companion, “why are you here?”

Phainon greets you by ruffling your hair, “have you even an inkling of remorse for your pitiful servants?” His ocean blue eyes aren’t laughing despite his smile. “They’ve been looking for you for an hour or two, to the point it’s starting to spin into a commotion on the festival streets.”

This prompts Mydei to sigh. “Those fellows…”

A flute and strings draws their attention. Suddenly the crowd erupts into cheers, some step forth, dancing on the streets. You can feel Mydei’s eyes on you, then flickering to Phainon.

Maybe it was the expression on the prince’s face that Phainon let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll deal with your servants. You have an hour.”

“That’s all that I need.” Mydei smiles when Phainon turns on his heel to leave. “I owe you, my friend.”

“It’s nothing.” Phainon’s eyes flutter over to you, and his gentle smile returns, mouthing a take care of him before tugging on his hood and disappearing. At that time, you didn’t really know what the young lord meant with that.

And you didn’t have time to ponder, Mydei’s large hand is inching over yours, his fingertips brushing your skin. You look over to him and he asks, “do you know how to dance?”

You barely remembered what you responded back. The prince’s hands have captured your own, more of a soft caress than a hold before slowly pulling you onto the streets and the flurry of dancing citizens. The outside lights careens into the expression on his face when he tells you to dance with him.

You both circle each other and you watch his footwork—sidestepping, bouncing back then spinning—Mydei’s hand is not far from yours, and he pulls you into his dance, a palm seeking refuge on your torso and the other securing your hand, he spins you around and you cannot help the bubble of a laugh from slipping from your lips.

Between the flurries and the crowds there was nothing but you and the prince, everyone else was barely a splotch of watercolor on canvas.

An hour burns through quickly when you’re having fun. The sky began to dim and the festival had hushed, when his servants finally found him and he got in the carriage, he pops his head out the window, calling your name before you can leave.

You seek the honey in his eyes once again, and he leans into his open palm, “visit Castrum Kremnos sometimes.” Mydei grins. “It's a bore to always spend time sparring with Phainon and he’s not a great dancer like you are.

You mirror his grin with your own. “If this is what my prince wants, then I’ll obey.”

The brightened smile that Mydei gave you felt like he had shaved a piece of the sun and reflected it on his own expression. “See you.”

“Goodbye, Kremnos’ prince.”

That expression of his had engraved into your membrane as years shuffle and roll, it’s the exact same face he shows you when you finally visit him—not as a clergy guest of the city but Prince Mydeimos’ guest.

So it's very hard for you to believe in those rumours, rumours that stated that Castrum Kremnos’ hero had gone manic—the same as when the heretical black tide came and made the titans mad. It’s just difficult.

You’re aware that war and battles change a person. It came to make their blooming heart wither into a wasteland, but you know Mydeimos for so long.

You knew him as his childhood friend, as someone who had admired him and his heart for years on end—you never believed rumours about him and if it were true, you wanted to make your own judgement and witness it for yourself.

So when talks of Mydei’s arrival from the battlefield reached your ears, you did not hesitate to start packing for the trip.

Your journey to Kremnos was hasty. You had ignored the rebuttals your father threw at you and got on the carriage. As years passed, so did Castrum Kremnos. It did not beguile a glow like it used to, but your mind’s a raging storm. Your pace is impatient as you run down the corridors of the familiar city.

The sound of the steel sword would indicate where he was since you are aware of his duties to fight—and it is said that crown prince Mydeimos is usually seen spending his leisure on swordsmanship, alone.

Your hand is pressed against the olive tree bark, heaving heavy breaths as your eyes land on Mydeimos’ back, his muscles and sinews are hardened under the reddish hue of sunset, flexing as he moves his sword to cut the air. You barely notice the look on his eyes as well, gone were his large honey pupils and chub on his cheeks, now his gaze has sharpened into resin, narrowed with furrowed brows. He’s no longer as talkative or carefree as back then.

You take a step closer and flinch when Mydeimos turns to your direction, the sword lands heavy above your shoulders, almost grazing your cheek and ears.

The air hangs heavy with tension.

“It’s me, Mydei.”

At the sound of your voice, the prince wavers. The sword is immediately retracted and his heavy heaves are all that fills the air between you two.

“You…” Mydei runs his fingers through his wet hair. “You really do have the habit of just wandering into the practice grounds like this.”

You look away. “I’ll try not to next time.” You were just a little worried about him today.

When you feel a fingertip running down your jaw, you turn back to him.

Mydeimos’ eyes land on something on your face, his frown deepening. “There’s a cut.” He tells you. is there?

You cannot help the slight sting or wince when he presses the wound. At your reaction, he tries to pull away but your hands are quick to capture it, placing his calloused palms back on your cheeks.

“It’s okay.” You tell him but he’s noiseless.

Instead he tilts your head sideways, then leans down. His rough lips on your cheek is all you feel and you’re engulfed in Mydei’s scent of bonfire and wood and smoke.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, pressing another kiss to your other cheek and you told him it was fine. His head lands heavy on your shoulder so you don’t dare ask him how he’s been or how the battlefield was—you doubt he’d want to answer it right now.

“Will you stay for a bit?” He’d ask you and in response you’d embrace him.

“For as long as you wish.”

He pushes a bit. “Will you be by my side then?”

“If you command it, I will.”

Silence.

“Stay with me today?” Mydei adds. “Please?”

For a moment, Phainon’s words are on your ears: take care of him.

You tug him back and hold his cheeks on your palms, your eyes dissect his every fold and dip in expression, the downcasted frown and tired eyes. You give him a bright smile—a smile that flickers a glow on his honey pupils—then rest your forehead against his own.

“I’m here for as long as I live.” You murmur sweetly. “Even if it’s just us left, I’ll be with you.” because I love you, Mydei. For everything that I have.

You don’t announce it, but Mydei’s expression seems to shift when he gazes into your eyes, like he’d read the words written in them.

And holding him like this, you prayed to yourself—to wish nothing but endless glory and victory to Mydeimos for all the tragedies he’d witnessed.

You are not skilled in combat, but you’d hope your support and embraces can heal his wounds just as much. But when Mydei leans forward and presses another kiss on your forehead and two cheeks, your skin is matted and sun-kissed at the trail of his lips. It’s as if he’s telling you that yes, you’re healing him, you’re making him happy.

And you smile at the manner.

[astrologydray]

Uranus through the degrees👽

👽Uranus represents rebellion, innovation, sudden change, and liberation. The specific degree Uranus occupies in a chart can add a layer of nuance to how its energy manifests.

0° – The purest expression of Uranian energy: radical, unpredictable, and ahead of its time. A powerful pioneer in societal change and personal breakthroughs.

1° – A sudden awakening or an urge to break away from the past. Strong individuality, but may struggle with authority.

2° – A balance between structure and rebellion. Can introduce unconventional ideas in practical ways.

3° – Highly intellectual and innovative, with an almost futuristic way of thinking. Can be erratic in decision-making.

4° – A deep urge to challenge norms while creating new foundations. Often linked to alternative lifestyles.

5° – Restless and experimental. May change career paths or personal philosophies abruptly.

6° – A revolutionary mindset with a humanitarian focus. Likely to be drawn to technology, social justice, or alternative medicine.

7° – Strongly intuitive and possibly clairvoyant. Can channel Uranian energy into artistic or spiritual breakthroughs.

8° – Fiercely independent with a rebellious streak. Doesn’t conform easily but has a unique leadership style.

9° – A visionary degree. Can foresee trends before they happen and often acts as a catalyst for societal shifts.

10° – A mix of genius and unpredictability. May struggle with consistency but thrives in creative or scientific fields.

11° – The “Master Number” energy amplifies Uranus’ innovative and electric qualities. Often a game-changer in their field.

12° – A highly intuitive disruptor. Feels compelled to challenge outdated traditions.

13° – Known as a degree of transformation, often bringing sudden upheavals that lead to long-term progress.

14° – Creative genius with a rebellious edge. May be drawn to experimental art or alternative technology.

15° – A strong-willed disruptor, but can also be stubborn. Seeks radical independence.

16° – Often brings unexpected success through unconventional means. May experience sudden life shifts.

17° – Associated with breakthroughs in communication, media, and futuristic thinking.

18° – Can be a “lightning rod” for change, drawing chaos but also profound innovation.

19° – Balances rebellion with responsibility. Often takes on leadership roles in unconventional movements.

20° – A degree of heightened awareness and spiritual awakening. Uranus here can indicate a unique life purpose.

21° – Drawn to utopian ideals and progressive social movements. Can be eccentric but deeply inspiring.

22° – The “Master Builder” degree combines Uranian genius with practicality, leading to tangible innovations.

23° – A wild card degree. Experiences sudden reversals of fortune but always lands on their feet.

24° – Can be a bridge between the past and future, blending old traditions with modern ideas.

25° – Highly eccentric and independent, often rejecting conventional life paths.

26° – Genius in technology, astrology, or metaphysical studies. May have a talent for predicting societal shifts.

27° – A revolutionary thinker who thrives in periods of change. Often ahead of their time.

28° – Associated with radical enlightenment. Can be a guide or teacher in alternative fields.

29° – The “Anaretic Degree” (critical degree) of Uranus intensifies its erratic and unpredictable nature. Often brings shocking life events or a last-minute awakening before a major transformation.

[invoncible]

heyyy!!! i love your work..i was sitting here reading and i was thinking about mark meeting vampire reader…that doesn’t drink blood. i saw somewhere where a vampire only ate vegetables and i thought it was hilarious 😭 like reader is all powerful and scary living in a huge mansion and the team is like “pls help us fight!!” and reader is like…but i don’t like blood

MARK GRAYSON meeting vampire!reader ✧˚.

— this is such a silly idea omg i loveee !! — reader’s vampire powers are just like … flight, telekinesis, shape-shifting, super speed, clairvoyance, hypnosis, super strength, and immortality kinda like dracula — my inbox is open for any kind of invincible requests/thirsts ! i’m working through them dw

when the team overheard cecil talking about a 'secret player,' he had in hiding, they were pissed he held out on someone that could help them in their battles. the way he talked about you made you seem all powerful: dark magic, shapeshifting, invulnerability, etc etc. why the fuck weren't you on the team?

cecil warned them that the person in question wasn't what they thought, but they ignored the man and traked you down to convince you to fight anyways. they needed all the help they could get.

unfortunately for them, it wasn't much help.

"one person lives here?" rex scoffed, crossing his arms. the team touched down on your grand roundabout driveway. "seems like overkill."

the door was just open and they exchanged weird looks before going inside. everywhere was bathed in low ambient lighting.

"hey."

the team whirled around, dread snaking down their spine at your sudden appearance. you stood behind them, majestically clothed in your wine red robes with a small veggie plate in hand.

you set down a stick of celery. "cecil warned me you'd be—"

“we came to ask you,” eve cut in urgently. “we need your help—“

you shake your head and wave them off like you’re dismissing beggars in front of your home. “oh, no. i don’t do that kinda stuff.” you swathed a veggie stick in some dressing before cracking it off with your teeth.

“good luck, though. rooting for you.” you halfheartedly pumped your fist in support.

mark narrowed his eyes, more in confusion than anything. he was already certain the team could take this threat on their own, but he guessed the others needed some backup for their peace of mind. after all, they’re not [title card].

rex scowled, pushing past eve and getting up in your face. he glared down at you, circling around you like you were on display. “okay hotshot. think you’re too good for the end of the world?”

end of the world? mark rolled his eyes with a little smile.

“i…” you sighed. “i don’t like blood.”

rex blinked. the team stared at you suspiciously as a silence settled over the corridor.

“bitch? you’re a fucking vampire.” he deadpanned.

you shrugged and snapped another third off your veggie stick. “don’t i know it.” you droned.

“you’ve been alive hundreds of years and never found a fucking doctor to check that out?” rex squawked in disbelief, opening his mouth to retort further before mark put a placating hand on his shoulder.

“why’s cecil got you in his arsenal if you don’t do anything?” mark asked, mouth twisting as he scrutinized you.

you gave him an unimpressed look. “i do stuff. secret espionage stuff.”

“like what?”

you smiled slowly, eyes glinting in the dim lighting with amusement. “if i told you, wouldn’t be so secret, would it?”

unfortunately for you, mark took that as a challenge.

after that encounter, the team learned what kind of player you were in cecil’s game. they began crashing a lot at your mansion ever since they discovered you—in their minds, you had the room, might as well share it.

© invoncible

[evelineheaven]

𝕾𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖚𝖆𝖑 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖒𝖔𝖑𝖊

𝕸𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖘 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖉 𝖘𝖊𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖘

Mole in the eye (𝕮𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖛𝖔𝖞𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊) a mole in the eyes means that you are clairvoyant, you always know things before they happen, you can predict the future, you just see things outside the physical plane. You see ghosts, you see aura’s of other people, you have the ability of channeling, and see information through visions. You have dreams that come true, your dreams predict the future, you see people in your dream you never saw before, and later you meet them, also you have the ability to tap in the Akashic Records. You see events before the happen, your mission here is to become a Channeler to help people guide to spiritual awakening, or helping them through dark night of soul, shadow work, challenges in life.

Mole on lip (𝕸𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖋𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖆𝖐𝖊𝖗) by speaking you already speak manifestations, your frequency of the tone is so powerful, the universe is behind you, you can manifest so quickly, you are also meant to be a public speaker, and share your spiritual wisdom with others.

Mole on nose (𝕮𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊) you have the ability of smelling spirits, of smelling inter dimensional stuff, you have the ability of smelling warnings, like when someone is about to die, or when someone is about to get in a fire, or someone get’s a car crash.

Mole on ear (𝕮𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖆𝖚𝖉𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊) you have the ability of hearing, you hear ghosts, you hear warnings, you hear when people gossip about you, you are the person that goes to bed and then hear someone talking.

Mole next nose (𝕸𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖈 𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖊) you know how to work with magic, you feel attracted to the occult, witchcraft, magic, you know the hidden messages behind stuff. You are protected. You was a witch in your past lives

[numbersandstars]

Nakshatras Paranormal Abilities List- Part 2

Here is a list of paranormal abilities of each nakshatra. It is a short list and needs to be more complete. I'm working on it but feel free to share any other abilities with your nakshatras in the comments or via pm. Thanks.❤️

Svati: Herb knowledge, growing plants that brings healing energy, Vastu/Feng Shui mastery, enlightenment, fighting demons. Connection with a sword or a weapon. Vishakha: Occult traditions, spiritual initiation, celibacy leads to spiritual powers, rituals. Connection with tigers, fire rituals, lightning strikes. Anuradha: Numerology, astrology, tantra, sufism and any other occult science, keeps secrets, occult gifts, devotion/bhakti. Connection with lakes, Krishna, Radha. Jyeshtha: Talismans, occult power, magical items, involved in secret societies. Connection with elder gods/goddesses. Mula: Herbal healing, exorcism, occult power, astrology, intuition, omen reading. Connection with Kali, ancient temples, cave temples, holy mountains, volcanoes, ruins. Purva Ashadha: Invigorating energy, using pendulum. Connection with goddesses, waterfalls. Uttara Ashadha: Snake charming, powerful position in religious institutions, setting up new beliefs, challenging the divine. Connection with elephants, Ganesha. Shravana: Clairaudience, clairvoyance, past life memories, strong intuition, magical music, prayers are heard. Connection with Vishnu. Dhanishta: Vastu/Feng Shui mastery, magical music, alchemy, healing (pulses), magick, controlling the elements. Connection with dolphins, warrior gods/goddesses. Shatabhisha: Herbal (flowers) healing, shamanism, discovery of secrets on nature, occult knowledge, astrology, all-seeing eye, keeps secrets, involved in secret organizations. Connection with the ocean, Varuna. Purva Bhadrapada: Alien and other entities contact, astrology, magick, tantras, extreme spiritual practices, prayers are heard. Connection with gurus, saints, graveyards, fire, fire breathing dragons. Uttara Bhadrapada: Brings rain, shamanism, deep spiritual practices, devotion/bhakti, astrology, magick, prayers are heard. Connection with water dragons, lightning, Lakshmi. Revati: Contact with the dead, astral traveling experiences, psychic, prophecies, devotion/bhakti. Connection with oceans, elephants, lighthouses.

See Part 1: from Ashvini to Chitra here.

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Ten

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Mentions of cannon-typical violence. Azriel and Y/n have a late night conversation. Fluff and other stuff.

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“Gwyn says hi by the way.” 

Azriel choked on his coffee, bitter flavor rising in his throat. Nesta sauntered into the kitchen, cool eyes glaring at the back of his head. Your familiar silhouette was nowhere to be found. 

Not here. His shadows whispered. With Rhys.

“Calm down you idiot.” Nesta’s voice dripped with unrestrained contempt as she poured herself a cup and sat. His tan skin glistened with sweat after his morning training session, inky tattoos splashing across his bare chest and trailing over his shoulders, down his back, and up to his neck. In the cloudy afternoon light it was difficult to tell where his shadows ended and where his tattoos began. 

“Y/n’s not here. You’ll have to walk around half-naked some other time.” 

Azriel winced. “That isn’t what—”

Nesta brushed him off with a wave of her hand, eyes narrowing over her mug. Azriel felt like a bug pinned down under a microscope. A crushed butterfly about to hang.

“How is Gwyn doing?” he asked gingerly, casually. 

“She’s fine. Believe it or not, the world did not end when you broke up with her.”

Again he flinched. “I’m sorry, Nes,” he whispered rather pathetically. 

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to. But you already know that.” 

There seemed to be no shortage of people he needed to apologize to: Elain, Mor, Emerie, Gwyn, even Lucien — especially Lucien. His cheeks burned to think of the absolute mess of things he’d made. Feyre had been the quickest to forgive him for the debacle with Elain and Gwyn. But as Cassian had mentioned at dinner, there was a reason everyone was staying away from the River House, and the reason was him. 

Two years ago he’d challenged Lucien Vanserra to a blood duel for Elain’s hand. It had felt so right at the time, so obvious: three sisters for three brothers. But it was only when their deaths had loomed over her head with shocking reality that Elain realized what a horrible mistake she’d made. The mistake they’d made together. 

“Call it off,” she’d commanded him, blocking Lucien’s bloody, heaving body. The son of Autumn’s sword had been kicked away, scraping across the rock with an eerie scream and disappearing over the cliff edge. But Elain had stayed, soft brown eyes begging, “Do this and I will never forgive you. What we did… it wasn’t right. It was a mistake.”

A mistake, she’d called it. Years of silent longing and bare bone brushes of their hands in dark hallways. All a mistake. Those words had haunted him. They’d chased him into Gwyn’s kind arms where he once again mistook the friendship he felt towards her as love and broke her heart in the process. Add that to his lackluster response to Mor’s coming out and… well he had a lot of work ahead of him. 

He hoped he would be forgiven in time, but that didn’t mean he’d twiddle his thumbs until that day came. He scoured Prythian’s publishers for new releases of adventure, mystery, and romance books — the raunchier the better — and they showed up every month at Cagniv Library like clockwork. The priestesses still thought it was part of a trade bargain with the Day Court. He’d sent Elain and Lucien plenty of letters and gifts, but either they weren’t being opened or they weren’t bothering to respond. He wouldn’t blame them either way. As for Mor and Emerie, they were gone with the wind, too busy infiltrating lands and enjoying an extended honeymoon on the continent to bother with him. 

That cold stillness in Nesta’s eyes transformed into pity. It was hard not to be reminded of her own failures when she looked at him. Seeing him angry. Watching him crawl into the darkest corners of himself and burn every bridge he crossed had been a shock to Nesta’s system. A plunge into freezing waters that brought pain and clarity. 

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Just give them time, Az. They’ll come around. If they did it for me, they’ll do it for you.” “I think our situations are rather different.” 

“I don’t.” 

“You didn’t try to kill anyone.”

She grimaced. “I came close.”  

He stayed silent for a long while. He washed his cup. He dried it. He put it in the cupboard. 

“Can you—can you please not tell Y/n?” he begged. His voice was small and quiet. He’d been a fool in the past and made terrible decisions in the name of love. Mor, Elain, and Gwyn. They’d all lived more in his mind than in his heart — people he could never fully grasp, and therefore never lose. They’d been safe. Easy. 

It didn’t feel that way with you. You felt solid and warm, even if he’d only touched you once. You felt more real to him than anyone else. You felt like someone he could actually have. Which meant he could lose you before you’d even become his to lose. 

“You can’t keep her in the dark forever. Not about your history, not about the bond. If you’re going to learn anything from your brothers, learn that.”  

“I know,” he whispered. “I just want to get it right this time.” He had to get it right this time. “I want her to fall in love with me because she wants me, not out of some sense of obligation. I want…” I want to be worthy of her.  

Nesta shook her head, a laugh escaping despite her best attempts to stifle it. Azriel looked at her like she’d gone mad.

She giggled again. “It’s funny. For a male as handsome and desirable as you, you have the worst fucking luck with women. The Mother must have a twisted sense of humor.” 

Maybe she did. But Azriel was still enough of a romantic to hope that he had learned from his mistakes, and that his bad luck would end with you. 

You shoved the notebook off Rhysand’s desk, loose papers flying out like uncoordinated doves. 

“I told you notetaking was a futile effort.” The High Lord didn’t even look at you, too busy searching for invisible dirt beneath his manicured fingernails.

You groaned and dropped your head against the book he’d handed you two hours before. 

Rhysand had to smile at your frustration. It was a wholly different experience teaching you magic compared to teaching Feyre. With Feyre, her greatest barrier had been her lack of knowledge (and her hatred of him at the time). She’d been thrust into the world of fae without preparation, but it had left her malleable and adaptable. It was like teaching a newborn how to walk — a mind that could absorb more because it knew so little.

But you knew too much. You could spout off magical theory at the drop of a hat. You were a pedagogical master with a thousand mnemonics to your name. You were the first to wake in all of Velaris, making your way to the Library before bodies could fill the streets, and you only returned when the crowds had either turned in for the night or gone out to drink until daybreak. You swallowed every history book on the Night Court, Clairvoyants, daemati, and death gods until you felt untethered from the earth — until your mind began to float outside your body, buzzing with thoughts that never went away. 

But none of that mattered. Your power was an immovable object that couldn’t be controlled by logic or studying. 

You shoved against that power now.

“Good,” Rhysand nodded, leaning against the window, “You’re getting better at it.” 

He lingered in your mind, hovering over the depths of your emotions and memories like a bird ready to break water. It had taken some time before you felt comfortable with the intrusion. Your first lesson together, Rhysand’s presence in your mind had made it impossible to focus. Panic had seized your mind and your body until you could do nothing more than brace your hands and feet against the chair’s leather upholstery. You could have sworn you saw a head of silver hair to your left. The gentle pitter patter of rain had sounded like dripping blood. 

It wasn’t like that anymore. Henna had left you with a useful skill — you could wind your consciousness around Rhysand and keep him there, suspended in that indescribable space where your thoughts lay so he could do no more damage than you permitted him. 

Through your mind he felt the narrowing of your power. You imagined it like a blanket wrapped around your body, suffocating but familiar. It was this power that laced your skin and made contact with others so hard. You imagined the fabric shortening, creeping up your arms and legs, curling around your torso and squeezing like a snake. Inch by inch you tightened it around you, burying it within your chest instead of carrying it openly like a wound. 

You held a music book between your hands — Nyx’s to be exact. The little Lordling showcased a certain aptitude for the piano his father could only dream of, and being as young and protected as he was, the worst kind of emotion imbued within its pages was agitation. You could hear one of the ballads written within it as clearly as if Nyx was sitting beside you plucking out the melody. 

Tighter. Tighter. Tighter. You swallowed your power. Pulled what was outside inwards. Slowly but surely the music faded away until the book was as all books should be — silent. 

Sweat beaded your brow. This was the most difficult part — not tuning out the music, but keeping the volume at zero. 

Rhysand checked his watch. Waited. Checked it again. 

You lasted thirty minutes before your power burst out along your skin once more like a thousand prickling needles. You shuddered, half-disappointed, half-grateful that you could hear the melody again.

Rhysand clapped his hands, slow and proud. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room was dangerously close to five bells. Rhysand nodded. 

“Perfect timing. We’re done for today.” 

“I can go for longer,” you pleaded. 

“I know you can.” Rhysand pushed off the wall, polished leather boots gleaming. He was wearing his Illyrian leathers this time, the scent of wind still clinging to his skin after a visit to the northern war camps.

Old Illyria lasted thousands of years. The clans used to flow up and down the Steppes, following the tundrabeast that lay claim to those mountainous regions and were said to speak for their god Ramiel — Starbreaker, Night Herder — after whom the mountain is named. They don’t move with the cold winds anymore, even if they’ve kept their names: Ironcrest, Bloodborn, Windhaven, Seawhip, Hawkseed, Timberbane, and a dozen others. And they don’t make sacrifices, although the Blood Rite might be a close—

Rhysand rapped his knuckles on the desk to grab your attention and splayed his fingers wide. “I also know that the moment I dismiss you, you’ll scamper off to the Library to work until you can’t see straight.” 

You shifted in your seat. “I like it there.”

“That’s besides the point. If you keep going at this pace you’ll burn out. Then you won’t be able to help anyone. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” 

Your eyes widened ever so slightly. You hadn’t thought he’d noticed. “I know what it feels like to burn out and it’s not going to happen anytime soon. I promise.” 

Rhysand suppressed the urgent need to roll his eyes as you gathered your things and walked out the door. “And here I thought I worked too much,” he muttered beneath his breath. 

You carried Henna’s journal tucked within your new Librarian robes — black with ivory detailing and wide sleeves that narrowed at the wrists. You kept a hand on it during late nights at the Library. You ate with it propped open, black splotches swimming across the page like worms. You slept with it beneath your pillow. 

But alas, it would seem the book was going to make you work to wring meaning out of every odd symbol.

You were muttering to yourself as you walked back and forth in front of the fireplace. You’d effectively commandeered one of the reading rooms on the seventh floor, leaving the library only when required for Rhysand’s lessons. Helion’s most recent letter lay open on the table with Cherp’s resting just beneath it. A map hung crooked on the wall, four athenaeums circled in bleeding red ink alongside a list of books that had gone missing — the ones that people knew about at least. 

The Alcove, Ares House, Folkmen’s Bard, and most recently, Argot’s.

 Three Librarians dead. Their throats slit. Blood dribbling down their burgundy robes as they’d sat hunched over their desks. The week before it had been two from Ares House caught swaying from the third floor balcony. 

No one has any idea how it happened. The wards were never set off. Nothing in the Library was disrupted. I tell you this only because you deserve to know what’s happened to your people. Continue your training. Continue your research. Do whatever you need to do. But leave the court business to me, dear. I’ll write to you again when I can.

~ Helion 

“It doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled, drumming your fingers against your hip where the book remained silent. “None of this makes sense.” 

You’d used every ounce of Rhysand’s training on the book. You’d imagined your power sliding over it like water, fire, needles shooting through cowhide, a hammerstrike, every metaphor imaginable. You’d glared at it with an intensity that would have disintegrated a lesser object. 

When that failed, you had moved onto solving the murders and thefts at your father’s court. You couldn’t content yourself with sitting in one of the cushy, high-backed chairs in Rhysand’s office sipping imported tea in porcelain cups while athenaeums were on lockdown. 

The pattern was shockingly simple — Koschei was going after books that could be traced back to him. Books that might give his enemies the upper hand: folktales alluding to him and his siblings, translated texts from old Bauldish that might have proved useful in deciphering Henna’s book, secondary accounts of the age before High Lords ruled. 

If you were Koschei you’d go after Godswoods next — the collection of athenaeums dedicated to religion. Then on to The Gallows — the athenaeum on death and dying. The two were intricately tied to one another, but people tended to write books on dying before coming up with explanations for what comes after. You’d spent a great deal of time there following your mother’s death, and you could picture it now — solemn black bookshelves looping around a circular room that tapered up into a point like a blade pointed to the sky. 

You finished writing your letter to Helion, along with the list of books you wanted pulled from the archives. Cagniv Library may have been a glowing beacon in the Night Court, and a place of sanctuary for the priestesses, but it was nothing like you were used to.

You held the paper out in front of you, Helion’s glimmering pen tucked behind your sharp ears, and blew. The black letters lifted off the page and faded away like a breath in cold air. The message was already writing itself back into existence in Helion’s office.

“It doesn’t make sense.” 

You scribbled out another note, this one for yourself with another pen. You ripped it to pieces and fed it to the fire. 

What was Koschei looking for now? Was he still looking for the book that now rested against your hip, or had he turned to some other prize? And why kill the Librarians and set all of Day Court on high alert? 

Henna had been careful. She’d stayed hidden until she was forced to tear down the Alcove to get the book. Whoever was causing the killings now was either a showman or a fool. They left bodies hanging from rafters. They carved smiles into throats. They let the Librarians know what they were stealing whether they meant to or not. They left patterns scattered among wreckage for someone like you to figure out. 

It all felt… juvenile for lack of a better word. Someone young. Someone who wanted to prove themselves in a loud way. Someone whose ego hadn’t been tested yet and wasn’t listening to Koschei’s commands in their entirety. 

Azriel. 

You couldn’t help but think of him. 

Azriel was nothing like that. 

He wasn’t loud. He didn’t vy for attention. He didn’t seek the light in a room. His confidence was quiet and true. His kindness took the shape of the shadows that lingered by your ankles. It took the shape of the robes you wore now. He was the only one who’d seen them at The Alcove. He was the only one who could have requested the court seamstress to make a copy and leave it hanging in your closet.

No. Azriel was nothing like that.

Azriel’s eyes lit up like embers when you slid through the front door, weary but bright-eyed and cradling your journals against your chest. The shadows he’d left behind with you slithered across the floor like mist. 

She’s been in the Library all day. Working. The shadows whispered in his ear. She thought about you. 

Azriel smiled. He’d thought about you as well. “I was wondering where you’d gone.” 

You gasped, closing the door louder than you intended. You’d developed a talent for sneaking in and out of the River House unnoticed to the point where Cassian considered hiding bells in your pockets. Nyx had tried to do it as a joke, but you’d caught him giggling too loudly in your bedroom. 

You brightened immediately, a broad smile appearing on your face. Azriel felt his heart leap, then quiet as he caught the scent of parchment paper. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow?” You whispered, tip-toeing through the dimly lit hallway to where Azriel was in the sitting room. You sank into the couch with a groan. The hardwood desks at the Library had not been kind to you. 

He shrugged and brushed back his wind-thickened hair, shifting to face you better. A crumb-coated plate lay on the table and he still wore his leathers. He must have just arrived home. 

“I flew as quick as I could. I wanted to be home.” With you. 

He’d gotten so used to the feeling of you sleeping across the hallway that he’d flown the last three days without sleep. It was worth it to see you again. From the looks of it, you’d not fared well in his absence either. Your eyes had that glassy, half-there sheen: a perfect mixture of exhaustion and mind-crackling clarity. 

“And how were the Mortal Lands?” You tucked your knees beneath you and leaned against your hand, fighting the sleep that seemed to grapple for you now that Azriel was home. His wings were spread wide and you resisted the urge to close the last few inches between you and the talon that glimmered in the faelight like obsidian glass.

You’d never been that far south. You’d never had reason to. But Azriel flew far and wide. The Continent was now Mor’s domain, but the secret goings of Prythian and the Mortal Lands belonged to him and him alone. The Spymaster of the Night Court. The Shadowsinger.

Azriel shook his head. “Quiet. Koschei hasn’t touched them yet as far as I can tell, and the Mortal Queens don’t care. They seem to think that they can handle Koschei because he’s agreed to bargains with them in the past.” 

You made a noise of disapproval. “Like they handled Hybern? The only reason they’re still standing is because fae fought their war.” 

The scattering of human armies that had arrived on that battlefield had belonged to no crown. They’d either fought for the bloodlust or the money. You could respect them for that. 

Azriel tipped his head to the side, following the curling of his shadows around his shoulders. “But they are still standing. They don’t know what we sacrificed to keep them safe. That’s the problem with humans. They forget too quickly and get complacent” 

“It would seem we have the opposite problem. We can’t help but remember everything,” you said, with no small amount of bitterness. 

He wanted to keep you talking. He wanted your thoughts. Wanted to fall asleep to the sound of your voice after three weeks of silence. You weren’t aware of it, but the bond had felt thin the further he’d traveled away from you. Like a tightrope stretched to its snapping point. Now that he was back, and you were here, his heart didn’t feel like such a strenuous burden.

He smiled. “I think that’s just you. I know plenty of fae who are forgetful and empty-minded.” He leaned back, stretching his wings out to the side, and winced. They were whipped raw and tender from the flight. 

Without thinking you got up and moved to the fireplace, feeding wood to the flames until it crackled happily. There was a reason Cassian and Azriel loved to bath their wings in sunlight every chance they got. The heat helped the soreness and eased the wind’s rough edge. 

It also drove color into your cheeks and set your hair alight in a soft golden haze. You were a marvel. An angel with a halo to match and Azriel drank in the sight. 

“Like who?”

“Cassian.” 

You smirked and chucked the last of the wood into the flame’s gaping mouth. 

Cass was far from empty-minded, but after decades of being feared as the Lord of Bloodshed he was grateful that people loved him enough to be just a little mean. He gave and received friendly blows like kisses on the cheek and smiled all the wider for it. To threaten his life was the same as saying I love you. It must be why the Mother had made Nesta his mate. She said I love you to him all hours of the day. 

Azriel asked you what you were thinking, and when you told him he felt some of that pain slide off his shoulders like rain. He threw his head back and laughed until his chest started to hurt again and you thought about how rare that sound must be, and how much you loved it. 

“How are the others? Rhysand told me Feyre’s sister is down there along with your friends.” 

Azriel sobered up quickly and cleared his throat. “Yes. Elain, Lucien, Jurian, and Vassa.”

His voice caught on two names: Elain and Lucien, and it didn't escape your notice. He sounded... nervous.

“And? Are they alright?”

He rolled his shoulders and looked out the window to the inky black sky. Vassa would be sleeping now in her human form, and if she was lucky, she’d wake up in the morning still within the manor’s grey stone walls. Safe. Home. 

He shook his head gravely. “They’re nothing short of terrified. Koschei has Vassa under a spell that would normally keep her tied to his lake. He let her go during the war against Hybern and he’s been allowing her to stay, but… everyone’s just holding their breath and trying to prepare for the day he’ll take her back.”

You shivered and wrapped one of the spare blankets around your shoulders. You couldn’t imagine a life where every waking moment held the risk of being torn away from everything you held dear. The anticipation would have broken you more than the act itself. 

“I’ve heard of her. The firebird.” You murmured softly. You imagined a creature with glowing eyes, blue-red feathers streaking behind like ribbons set on fire. Azriel narrowed his eyes in confusion, and you explained, “Ares House records all wartime information. I read the reports. We’re very thorough.”

Azriel smiled. “I would expect nothing less.”

Silence passed in comfort, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Vassa.

“Do you think they’d be able to stop it if Koschei did make her go back?” 

“I don’t know, Y/n.” And it was driving him mad to have Koschei hanging around like a forgotten word at the end of his tongue.

“I hate this,” you spat out, “The not knowing. I hate it.” 

Azriel stared at you, hazel eyes silently begging you to continue. Shadows curled around your body, gently tugging you closer to him until your knees were a whisper away from touching. 

You both sighed softly into the quiet air. Even the River House seemed to be at rest for the night. The usual background hum of cooking and cleaning were absent. It was just you and the Shadowsinger. 

“How are things going? With the book?” 

You slipped your hand through the slit in your robes and pulled it out. The gold chain rustled, glowing faintly from your touch. 

“It’s going.” You shoved the book back out of sight. You couldn’t even stand to look at it after the hours you’d spent agonizing over its pages. “Rhysand’s been teaching me to contain my power better. I can actually touch some things now.” 

But not him. Still not him. And it was killing you. 

Azriel gave another one of his small smiles. The ones that never failed to make the world a smaller, more manageable place. “That’s good.”

“I just… this may sound silly but, I’m not used to things being this hard. With my powers a lot of things just sort of came naturally for me. But now people are dying and I’m just sitting here on this very expensive couch and I can’t do the thing I was brought here to do and I… I don’t like feeling this useless.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Azriel murmured. He closed the space between you even more, shadows hovering over your face in silent permission. When you didn’t pull away they brushed back the strands of hair that had fallen over your face with a cool, silky touch. 

Azriel was all calm darkness and you imagined that if you reached out to touch his chest your hand might just slip through him like he wasn’t there at all. He seemed too good to be real. 

But he was real, and he was sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath fan your cheeks. 

“You’re not useless. Never believe that. Not even for a second. And even if you were useless, it wouldn’t matter. You’re worth more than the things you can do, remember?”

“I remember.” Your voice was quiet and thick. 

You rested your cheek in the crook of your arm as you gazed at him wearily. 

Azriel kept his hands out in the open, one hand reaching across the couch cushions before stopping mere inches away from yours. His shadows closed the remaining distance, slipping in between your fingers to mimic Azriel’s touch. 

“Did you uncover any more secrets of mine while I was gone?” Azriel asked as your eyelids began to droop. 

“I confess I forgot to look. But maybe now that you’re here, I’ll start again,” you mumbled into the encroaching dark.

“I look forward to it,” were the last words that filtered through your ears before you fell asleep to the untranslatable whispers of shadows. 

Nyx bounded down the stairs, leaping the last six steps before landing soundlessly on the floor with a soft bend of his knees — just like Azriel had taught him. Feyre gave a proud nod before ruffling his ebony hair and Rhysand beamed. 

Let me. Feyre adjusted the wrappings around Rhys’s chest that kept Velaria’s plump body swaddled and comfortable. Her pink lips opened in a yawn that had both mates sighing. 

“Uncle Az!” Nyx raced forward towards the sitting room and then froze, mouth opened in a surprised oh.

Azriel slept like the dead on the floor, chest rising and falling with the beat of his gentle breath. You lay stretched out on the couch, one arm propped beneath your head and the other dangling over your waist and off the cushions. Your fingers swayed an inch above Azriel’s chest, shadows swimming over his torso and creeping up your arms so that even in sleep you were connected to one another. 

Feyre gasped softly at the picture. The sunlight blanketing the both of you in peach fuzz. The faint uptick of Azriel’s lips and the smoothness of his brow. The way you looked like you were bleeding into him. The black of his shadows and your robes. 

Rhysand rubbed Nyx’s shoulder and kissed Feyre’s cheek.

Let them sleep, Nyx. We’ll get breakfast at Huth’s today.

Nyx let his parents lead him towards the door without protest. He’d never seen Uncle Az sleep so soundly in his life. 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

Yeah... this slow burn is burning... but I just love it so much and I love writing all the sweet little moments they have and their conversations with one another and I hope you're enjoying it as well.

[kiwriteswords]

Cosmic Rollercoaster [Aaron Hotchner x Mystical!Reader]

Masterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 2k|| AN: This is so incredibly self-indulgent, but I thought this could be a fun one to write. I have a few others written/started/planned for Mystical!Reader, so I hope you guys like it!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, mention of clairvoyance, reader is spiritual (crystals, sage, intuition, etc.), established relationship. banter, Hotch and Reader fight like an old married couple, team dynamics, skeptic Hotch

Summary: Your intuition is never wrong, but when you decide to bring it up in front of the local PD on a case, Hotch is not too happy with you.

Aaron Hotchner never thought he'd find himself in a relationship that could only be described as a cosmic rollercoaster.The world he inhabited was black and white, full of procedure and protocol, whereas you lived in a vivid spectrum of colors, thriving on intuition and the energy of the universe.

In the quiet hum of the local police department’s briefing room, Hotch stood at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he briefed the officers on the latest serial case. 

You, draped in a flowy, ethereal dress that seemed more suited to a forest nymph than an FBI agent, leaned back in your chair, your fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. He’d seen your closet first-hand. A stark contrast to the greys and blues he hung in his own. Textured furs, lace, and embroidered fabrics hung in your closet. 

"Based on the evidence we've gathered," Hotch began, his voice steady and commanding, "the unsub is likely to strike again within the next 48 hours."

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing slightly as you felt a pull in your gut--a whisper of intuition that often guided your insights. "I think he's going to move faster than that," you interjected softly, yet firmly. "The energy around this case...it's urgent, like a storm coming."

A murmur of curiosity rose from the local officers, their attention shifting between the stoic Unit Chief and the whimsical agent who often solved cases with a blend of hard evidence and gut feelings.

Hotch's jaw clenched momentarily at your words. Dealing with your unorthodox methods publicly was always a delicate dance of frustration and admiration. While deep down he knew this was a part of you--a part of you he loved and admired--there was another part of him that wondered how heavily you relied on this so-called intuition over black-and-white facts. 

"While we appreciate Agent Y/L/N's...unique insights," he said, his tone strained with the effort of diplomacy, "our strategies must be rooted in tangible evidence."

"But isn’t it tangible if it leads to the right conclusions?" you countered, just for him to hear, your voice lilting as if challenging him was a type of playful dance you both performed too often.

The team watched, the corners of their mouths twitching in amusement. Rossi leaned over to Morgan, whispering loud enough for nearby ears, "Ten bucks says they'll be arguing about this all the way back to the hotel."

Morgan laughed, “It’s like Denver all over again,” he reminisced about a previous case where you were feeling more than inclined to share your bewitched musings. 

Hotch’s feelings were a tumultuous mix of professional irritation and deep, unwavering affection. Each time you spoke, your voice pulled at something within him--a desire to loosen the reins of control he so tightly held. Your free-spirited nature both challenged and complemented his by-the-book demeanor. It was an ongoing battle between logic and feeling, one that neither of you could ever truly win.

He wanted to snap, he wanted to tell you there was a time and place for this sort of…nonsense, he wanted to call it, but his mind flashed back to all of the times you made the hairs stick on the back of his neck with your certain mystical charm. 

Hotch's eyes flickered with a mixture of annoyance and adoration as he addressed the room. "Let's continue to focus on the behavioral analysis.” Hotch looked to you, then toward the door, “Agent Y/L/N, a word outside, please."

As you followed him out, the smirks on your teammates' faces were clear. "Mom and Dad are fighting again," Prentiss teased, earning a chuckle from the others.

Outside, with the door firmly closed behind them, Hotch turned to you, his expression firm, every inch the Unit Chief that he was. 

"You can't base case predictions on 'energy,'" he admonished, his voice low to keep the conversation private. He was always conscious of maintaining the professional integrity of the team, and your unorthodox methods, though effective, often pushed the boundaries of his comfort zone.

You stepped closer, your presence unyielding yet somehow soothing--a contradiction that Hotch found both infuriating and comforting. "Aaron, when have my instincts not aided our cases? You know I integrate the evidence thoroughly before I speak. My intuition has always been an asset. I’m not claiming to ignore the facts or think I can see the future in some crystal ball. You think I would have graduated the academy if I didn’t use the logical side of my brain?"

Hotch's gaze softened slightly, though his stance remained as rigid as ever. There was no denying the effectiveness of your methods on paper, but the ongoing challenge was reconciling them with his ingrained need for hard, tangible evidence. 

"It’s not about doubting you--I’m not doubting you…" he said, struggling to convey the dual tides of professional concern and personal admiration he felt. "It's about how it’s perceived. We need the locals to trust our methods, conventional or not."

Your hand reached out, brushing against his--a touch that threatened to dismantle the barriers he worked so hard to maintain in public. 

"I know, Aaron. I do. But trust me too, okay? My 'woo-woo' hasn’t failed us yet."

Hotch looked at your hand on his, the simple contact sending a jolt through him that he wasn’t fully prepared to analyze in the moment. He took a deep breath, the ever-present conflict between his role as a leader and his feelings for you sharper in that instance than many others. “I do trust you,” he finally said, his voice a mixture of concession and caution. “More than you might realize. It’s just...hard. Balancing that trust with the need to lead a team in a way that everyone respects, including those who might not understand your...unique approach.”

Aaron Hotchner couldn't deny the spark of mischief in your eyes, a clear signal that you were about to challenge his all-too-serious world yet again. "Maybe you need a bit of my 'woo-woo' to rub off on you," you suggested playfully, your voice light but edged with a challenge that intrigued and exasperated him in equal measure.

The corner of Hotch's mouth twitched into a small, genuine smile--an admission of your effect on him that he rarely allowed others to see. "Maybe," he conceded, his tone laced with amusement and a touch of irony. "Just don’t expect me to start wearing crystals or chanting at dawn."

Your laughter, bright and unguarded, cut through the crisp air, momentarily lightening the weight of his responsibilities. It was these moments--your laughter, your relentless optimism--that reminded him of the stark contrasts between you. Here he was, a man who lived by the rules, and there you were, turning every rule on its head with a wink and a nudge.

Watching you laugh, Hotch acknowledged internally that your presence, though sometimes a whirlwind of unpredictability, brought a vital balance to his life. It wasn't just about solving cases; it was about understanding the interplay of different perspectives. Yours was a perspective that danced around the edges of intuition and energy, often leading to surprising yet effective conclusions.

As you both walked back inside, your side-by-side steps became a silent testament to your evolving partnership. It was a partnership that stretched beyond the confines of FBI protocols, reaching into the realms of personal growth and mutual respect.

As the evening wore on and the team dispersed to follow up on leads, you pulled out maps and spread them across the table, your fingers tracing the possible routes the unsub might take. "He’s feeling cornered, anxious. It’s like a high-pitched sound only I can hear," you murmured to JJ, who watched you with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

Hotch, overhearing this as he approached, folded his arms and leaned against the table, his gaze intent on you. "And you're sure it's not just the coffee talking?" he quipped, a rare tease that drew a small, delighted smile from you.

"It’s never just the coffee, Hotch," you replied, your voice light but your eyes serious. "He’s moving fast. Faster than we thought."

Despite his reservations, Hotch nodded, signaling to the team to prepare for a possible early engagement. "Alright, let’s tighten the timeline. Everyone, let’s move," he commanded, the team jumping into action with practiced urgency.

Hours later, as darkness bled into the early shades of dawn, your intuition was vindicated spectacularly. The unsub was apprehended at a location you had insisted be surveilled, far ahead of the projected timeline. Hotch watched the operation unfold, a mixture of disbelief and reluctant admiration simmering within him. As the team regrouped, tired but exhilarated by the swift capture, Hotch found his gaze seeking yours across the room, his eyes heavy with a silent acknowledgment of your contribution.

"You were right," Hotch admitted as he approached you, his voice low, intimate even amidst the lingering chaos of their successful operation. "About the unsub’s timing."

You shrugged, your expression a blend of satisfaction and mischief. "I usually am. But don’t worry, I won’t let it go to my head."

A rare grin flickered across Hotch's face, softening the hard lines that duty and responsibility had etched there. "Maybe just this once, you can gloat. You earned it," he conceded, his voice carrying an undertone of warmth that belied his usual reserve.

Laughing softly, you nudged him with your shoulder, your proximity a reminder of the chemistry that often sparked between you, igniting a blend of professional respect and personal tension. "So, does this mean you’ll start carrying a crystal in your pocket?"

Hotch chuckled--a sound so rare and disarming that it amplified the flush of victory on your face. "Let’s not push it," he teased back, the crinkles by his eyes betraying his amusement. Yet, there was an edge to his voice, a hint of challenge that suggested the battle of wits between you was far from over.

As you stood there, the adrenaline of the capture mingling with the electric charge between you, Hotch couldn't help but think how infuriatingly unpredictable you were--and how much he secretly relished it. 

The way you challenged him, pushed him, it didn't just spark frustration; it stirred something deeper, more primal. In another place, another time, he might have acted on the impulse to pull you close and explore the tension that danced like sparks between you.

Instead, he offered you a final, pointed look--a silent truce mixed with a promise of more battles to come. "Maybe one day I'll surprise you, and you’ll find sage in my desk drawer," he suggested, his tone playful yet laden with an undercurrent of something more, something neither of you was quite ready to define yet.

As you both turned to join the others, the shared smile between you was more than just triumph over a case well closed--it was a recognition of the complex, dynamic connection that continued to evolve, challenging both your limits and your desires.

On the jet back to the BAU, the atmosphere was a mix of exhaustion and relief, the gentle hum of the engines a backdrop to the team’s low conversations. You were sprawled across a couple of seats, your colorful scarf serving as a makeshift blanket, while Hotch was seated across the aisle, paperwork spread meticulously before him.

Morgan, sitting nearby, nudged Rossi with a grin. "Watch this," he whispered, loud enough for you and Hotch to hear. "Hey Hotch, Y/N was spot on today, huh? We should have her do all the profiling with her energy readings."

Hotch looked up from his files, his eyes narrowing playfully at Morgan before shifting to you. "Let’s not give her any more ideas," he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk.

You sat up, folding your legs beneath you. "Oh, come on, Aaron, admit it. You love that I keep things interesting. You’d be bored without me," you retorted, your tone light but pointed, the familiar dance of your banter drawing smiles from around the cabin.

Hotch’s eyes softened, and he set his paperwork aside, giving you his full attention—a rarity that didn’t go unnoticed by the team. "That, I can’t deny," he conceded. "Though 'interesting' is a mild way of putting it."

Prentiss, joining in from a seat behind you, chimed in with a laugh. "You mean terrifying and effective? Because that was some wild guesswork today, Y/N. Even if it was right."

"It’s not guesswork," you protested, feigning indignation. "It’s a highly refined skill set."

Rossi raised his eyebrows, joining the conversation. "Refined, huh? So, what does the energy tell you about Hotch here?" he asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

You glanced at Hotch, who was watching you with an expression of amused curiosity. "Oh, his energy? Perpetually exasperated...but there’s a lot of love there too. Mostly for me, of course," you said, winking at Hotch.

Hotch shook his head, a genuine smile breaking through his usual reserve. "You’re impossible," he murmured, though the affection in his voice was clear.

The team erupted in light laughter, the ease between you and Hotch evident to all. Morgan leaned back, his smile wide. "Seriously, you guys are like an old married couple. All you need is to start finishing each other’s sentences."

"And sentences should be finished with proper grammar and punctuation," Hotch added, playing into Morgan’s joke, his gaze still locked with yours in a silent conversation that spoke volumes about the depth of your relationship.

As the laughter died down, you moved to sit closer to Hotch, your presence by his side natural and fitting. "How about we finish this case report together?" you suggested, your voice softer now, away from the team’s ears.

Hotch nodded, his hand briefly touching yours under the cover of the table. "Together sounds perfect," he agreed, his voice low.

The rest of the flight passed with the team gently ribbing each other, the camaraderie a testament to the long hours and shared dangers. But amidst it all, you and Hotch shared quiet moments of connection.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[mydayswithtarotbystella]

Choosing the Good Side

Hey everyone, I’ve got a lot on my mind, and today I’m sharing some deep, raw thoughts. Recently, I had a moment of clarity after a rant years ago in my kitchen. I had to choose between standing on the good side or the bad side, and I chose the good. It was as simple as that. This choice has kept my powers intact and my spirit strong. Choosing the Good Side Despite the chaos around me, I’m…

[pan6ual]

[astra-ravana]

Let's Channel Spirits!

Spirit channeling is the practice of communicating with non-physical entities, such as ancestors, deities, guides, or spirits of the dead. It has existed across cultures and traditions for thousands of years, with shamans, oracles, and mystics acting as intermediaries between the human and spirit realms. In ancient Greece, the Oracle of Delphi channeled messages from Apollo, while in indigenous traditions, shamans entered trance states to receive guidance from spirits. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, spiritualism popularized spirit communication through séances and automatic writing, a practice that continues today in various forms of witchcraft, mediumship, and divination.

The rewards of spirit channeling can be profound. Many practitioners use it to receive wisdom, gain insight into personal or collective issues, and deepen their spiritual path. Ancestor work, for example, allows witches to access generational knowledge and healing, while channeling deities or spirit guides can offer profound revelations. It is also a tool for magical work, as spirits can aid in spellcasting, protection, or uncovering hidden truths. For those seeking closure, channeling deceased loved ones can bring comfort and resolution.

However, there are risks involved. Not all spirits are benevolent, and some may deceive, manipulate, or drain a channeler’s energy. Without proper protections, practitioners may attract unwanted entities or even experience psychic burnout. Psychological risks also exist, as differentiating between genuine messages and personal imagination can be challenging. Ethical concerns arise when people rely too heavily on spirit communication for decision-making, neglecting their own intuition and logic. This is why grounding, shielding, and discernment are essential.

In modern practice, spirit channeling takes many forms, from traditional trance mediumship to intuitive divination using tarot, pendulums, or scrying. Some witches use meditation and altered states of consciousness to connect with spirits, while others engage in automatic writing or guided visualization. With the rise of technology, spirit communication has even extended to digital methods, such as EVP (electronic voice phenomena), ghost communication devices and apps, and AI-assisted divination. Despite skepticism, the practice remains a vital part of many spiritual traditions, evolving alongside new understandings of consciousness and the unseen world. Whether approached with reverence or caution, spirit channeling continues to offer a bridge between realms, guiding those who seek its wisdom.

Forms of Spirit Channeling

Spirit channeling can take many forms, depending on the tradition, method, and depth of connection. Below is a list of different types of spirit channeling, ranging from light communication to deep trance states.

Mental Channeling:

• The spirit communicates through thoughts, impressions, or intuitive messages.

• The channeler remains fully conscious and translates the information received.

• Often used in mediumship, divination, and psychic readings.

Trance Channeling:

• The channeler enters an altered state where the spirit speaks or acts through them.

• Can be light (partial awareness) or deep (full surrender of control).

• Used by shamans, spiritualist mediums, and oracles.

Automatic Writing (Psychography):

• The spirit guides the channeler’s hand to write messages.

• The channeler may or may not be conscious of what is being written.

• Used for receiving detailed messages or insights from spirits.

Séances & Spirit Board Communication:

• Group or solo practice involving talking boards (Ouija), pendulums, or other tools.

• Spirits respond through movement, knocking, or written messages.

• Requires strong protection, as it can attract various types of entities.

Mediumship:

• A person serves as a bridge between spirits and the living, often delivering messages.

• Can be done through clairaudience (hearing), clairvoyance (seeing), or clairsentience (feeling).

• Common in spiritualism and ancestor work.

Possession (Invocational Channeling):

• The spirit temporarily takes control of the channeler’s body.

• Practiced in Vodou, Santería, and certain shamanic traditions.

• Requires training and safeguards to ensure safe release of the spirit.

Dream Channeling (Astral Communication):

• Spirits communicate through dreams, often delivering symbolic or direct messages.

• Lucid dreaming can be used to initiate intentional spirit contact.

• Useful for ancestor work and deity communication.

Scrying (Visionary Channeling):

• Using mirrors, water, fire, or crystals to receive visions or spirit messages.

• The channeler interprets images, symbols, or direct communication from spirits.

• Often used in witchcraft and divination.

Electronic Voice Phenomena (EVP) & Technomancy:

• Spirits communicate through electronic devices, such as audio recordings or digital messages.

• Used in paranormal investigation and modern occult practices.

Nature Spirit & Elemental Channeling:

• Communicating with spirits of plants, animals, and natural elements.

• Often practiced by animists, hedge witches, and shamans.

• Involves direct communion with Earth’s energies for guidance or magic.

Each method of channeling requires different levels of skill, protection, and intent. Choosing the right form depends on the practitioner’s experience, goals, and spiritual path.

Preparing for Spirit Channeling

Before attempting to channel, it’s crucial to set a foundation for safe and effective communication.

• Regularly practice grounding and centering: (visualize roots connecting you to the Earth). Develop a strong personal shielding technique (such as surrounding yourself in white or golden light). Meditate to build focus and strengthen your psychic abilities.

• Creating a Sacred Space: Cleanse the area using smoke, salt, sound, or other purification methods. Set up an altar or designated space with candles, crystals, and symbols of protection. Light incense or herbs such as mugwort, frankincense, or myrrh to enhance spirit communication.

• Choosing the Right Spirit to Channel: Ancestors and spirit guides are excellent for beginners since they have a natural connection to you. Deities and divine beings may require offerings and devotion before they engage. Elemental and nature spirits can be unpredictable but insightful. Unknown or wandering spirits should be approached cautiously, as their intentions may be unclear.

The Channeling Process

• Setting Intentions and Boundaries: Clearly state who you wish to contact and why (e.g., "I call upon my ancestors for wisdom and guidance"). Set firm boundaries by only inviting spirits of truth, light, and benevolence. Use protective symbols (such as pentagrams, sigils, or runes) to maintain control.

• Entering a Trance State: Close your eyes and focus on your breath. Use rhythmic drumming, chanting, or binaural beats to alter your consciousness. Visualize a doorway or veil between realms opening. Allow impressions, feelings, or thoughts to flow without forcing them.

• Receiving Messages: Pay attention to words, images, sensations, or emotions that come through. If using automatic writing, keep your hand loose and let it move freely. If you hear a voice, mentally confirm that the spirit has good intentions before engaging further. Avoid leading questions—ask open-ended ones instead (e.g., "What do I need to know?").

• Closing the Connection: Thank the spirit for their presence and guidance. Firmly state, "I now close this connection. You are released in peace." Visualize the doorway closing and cleanse yourself and the space using smoke, sound, or saltwater. Eat grounding foods (like bread, nuts, or chocolate) to restore balance.

[rooshroomsims]

⚠ Dead by Daylight Legacy Challenge ☠︎︎

Dead by Daylight Legacy Challenge: Survivor Edition

General Rules:

Complete all goals for each Survivor before moving to the next generation.

You obviously don't have to name your sims after the characters or play AS the characters, these are just the themes for each gen! But you can if you'd like to!

You may move on once all goals are met, or maintain them until the next heir becomes a Young Adult.

Each heir must embody the traits and roles of their corresponding Survivor, but there’s room for interpretation.

Heirs can pursue careers or hobbies that fit their Survivor's lore or personality.

Generation 1: Sable – The Survivor

Sable is resilient, resourceful, and thrives under pressure. They are the foundation of the legacy, with a natural ability to endure tough situations.

Aesthetic Colors: Dark Gray, Forest Green Traits: Brave, Handy, Athletic, Loner Careers: Firefighter, Self-Employed Inventor, Military

Goals:

Master the Handiness and Athletic skills to represent adaptability and endurance.

Build a small, rugged home as a "safe haven," then expand it as the legacy grows.

Save at least one Sim from a fire or dangerous situation (using the Firefighter career or another rescue-related event).

Form close friendships with 3 other Sims to symbolize a Survivor's group.

Have one "trial" moment: survive a house fire, robbery, or other in-game disaster.

Generation 2: Claudette – The Botanist

Claudette is empathetic and intelligent, with a passion for healing and nature.

Aesthetic Colors: Deep Green, Yellow Traits: Loves the Outdoors, Green Thumb, Genius, Nurturing Careers: Gardener, Scientist, Self-Employed Herbalist

Goals:

Master the Gardening and Science skills.

Create a large, lush garden and rely on it for most of the household’s food.

Befriend 5 Sims and offer them "help" by improving their lives (gift plants, teach skills, etc.).

Marry a Sim who shares her passion for nature or science.

Generation 3: Dwight – The Leader

Dwight starts as an underdog but grows into a capable leader.

Aesthetic Colors: Blue, White Traits: Coward, Charismatic, Workaholic, Friendly Careers: Business, Politician, Education

Goals:

Start at the bottom of a career and rise to the top (symbolizing Dwight’s leadership growth).

Build strong relationships with coworkers or group members.

Host a gathering or party every week to maintain connections.

Help one Sim improve their life significantly (e.g., turn an enemy into a friend or boost their career).

Generation 4: Meg – The Athlete

Meg is driven, fearless, and thrives in high-pressure environments.

Aesthetic Colors: Red, Black Traits: Athletic, Brave, Hot-Headed, Daredevil Careers: Athlete, Military, Acrobat

Goals:

Master the Athletic skill and win at least 5 athletic competitions (e.g., sports games or sparring matches).

Travel to a new world (representing Meg’s running background).

Woohoo in 3 unique locations to symbolize her daring personality.

Have only one child, whom Meg raises with strict discipline and encouragement.

Generation 5: Kate – The Free Spirit

Kate is an artist with a deep love for music, nature, and life.

Aesthetic Colors: Orange, Turquoise Traits: Artistic, Virtuoso, Loves the Outdoors, Charismatic Careers: Singer, Guitarist, Painter

Goals:

Master the Guitar and Painting skills.

Perform music for tips in public spaces and build a fanbase.

Live on a large lot surrounded by nature (with minimal electronics).

Adopt a stray animal as a companion.

Generation 6: Feng – The Gamer

Feng is competitive and strategic, always planning her next move.

Aesthetic Colors: Neon Purple, Black Traits: Genius, Ambitious, Technophile, Rebellious Careers: Video Game Developer, Professional Gamer, Hacker

Goals:

Master the Logic and Video Gaming skills.

Win at least 3 gaming competitions.

Befriend a Sim from each social group (Nerd, Rebel, Jock).

Never marry, but have one child via a close friend or a one-time relationship.

Generation 7: Mikaela – The Clairvoyant

Mikaela is creative and mystical, with a deep connection to storytelling and the supernatural.

Aesthetic Colors: Teal, Lavender Traits: Supernatural Fan, Bookworm, Artistic, Good Careers: Fortune Teller, Writer, Alchemist

Goals:

Master the Writing and Alchemy skills.

Write 3 best-selling novels, with at least one in the Mystery or Fantasy genre.

Own and frequently use a crystal ball (Fortune Teller career or just for roleplay).

Befriend at least 3 Supernatural Sims (e.g., witches, fairies, or vampires).

Host a “spooky gathering” (a costume or themed party) once per generation.

Protect and support other Sims by creating and gifting elixirs.

PLEASE TAG ME IF YOU DO THIS CHALLENGE I WOULD LOVEEEE TO SEE IT! (also pls dont judge this IS a work in progress!)

[peppertoastuniverse]

more than a late night snack: – gojo satoru chapter 2: pocari sweat

contents: geto suguru & reader, gojo satoru x reader, tw!ptsd, suguru being a good friend, shoko cameo, satoru being down bad and not knowing it yet, you and geto basically bully gojo lol summary:  sparring with geto is always difficult, but with gojo’s new found interest in you, it’s proving to be a different challenge all together.

wc: 3.2K

“here, for beating this animal.” he offers the bottle of pocari sweat to you, ignoring geto’s eye roll behind him. gojo shakes the bottle slightly when you hesitate. “c’mon take it.” “… uh thanks, gojo,” suspiciously eying him. that was strangely… thoughtful of him. what’s his deal?

previous chapter ll master list ll next chapter

once again you were lying on your back, panting, his wide frame leaning over you with a small taunting grin on his face.

god, he was good. so fucking good – it almost infuriated you. he always knew what to do to get you into this position. geto was undoubtably strong and skilled, you couldn't help but call on him every chance you got – embarrassingly sometimes even twice a day. at first he was too gentle and hesitant with you until you practically had to beg him to show you no mercy – which is how you landed on your back for the millionth time that day. you groaned, feeling little annoyed, humbled and sweaty. a part of you thought he liked the extra cardio, but deep down you knew that there was a competitive part of him that just liked to win.

“ready to go again?” he asks slightly out of breath. geto gracefully unties his long hair from his messy bun, before combing his fingers roughly through his hair to redo the knot. a few months ago you shyly asked geto if he could help you improve your hand-to-hand combat and you were grateful when graciously he agreed. you needed the practice. so a few times a week you met geto at the school gym. he was a good teacher, giving you pointers here and there, encouragingly suggesting adjustments to your technique. you were improving, slowly but surely. you winced still on the ground, a frustrated hand passing over your face. “i know i pinned you last time, but today it seems impossible.”

“well, you’re more distracted today and a little more .. impulsive,” he thoughtfully hums, hand over his mouth. “what’s been on your mind?” “I.. uh..just – ” you exhale, hollow eyes looking to the ceiling of the gym. a part of yourself was still back in shirakawa were you could hear the distant screaming, smell the mutilated bodies and the blood pooled at your feet – “…hm?” geto prompts you patiently, crouching down to lay beside you on the gym mats, still looking into your eyes. geto was two opposites at once, a soft contradiction. he had an intense stare but a gentle way about him that made you feel heard and reassured but simultaneously you knew that if he really wanted to, geto would be able to coax absolutely anything from you without any real effort. his domineering strength matched his silent resilience and you weren’t sure what to fully make of him just yet. you stared into his amethyst eyes hesitantly, debating on if you trusted him enough for this yet. it’s not that you didn’t like geto, you were probably the closest to him in your year – but that wasn’t really saying that much –  like everyone else you kept him at a safe distance. but you weren't sure if you were ready yet.

sensing your reluctance, geto joins you in looking up in at the ceiling, hiding his almost clairvoyant stare ".. i'm only asking because i've been a little worried.” you hummed quietly in acknowledgement fiddling with your fingers that rested on your stomach, unsure of what to say or where he was going with this.

“…you've be more quiet, like in your head a bit more, you know? shoko asked about you the other day and even satoru noticed." he continues thoughtfully. geto wasn’t sure what was going on with you, but he felt as if you were slowly slipping away. retreating into some cruel sanctuary where no one could follow. he could almost see through you, a shell his words would go through, disappearing into the void that occupied your seat. you weren’t joining them in the kitchen for meals anymore and you seemed to be even more reserved than before, even skipping sparring practice with him using a thinly veiled excuse of fatigue. your eyes were clouded and were weighed down by the dark rings that hung around them.

you sighed unsteadily, focusing on specific a beam on the ceiling.

you were growing more and more aware of the weight that you were carrying for two weeks. the burden almost suffocating you pressing against your lungs, squeezing so deeply that you were nearly drowning from the inside out.  you were certain there was deep scarring left behind. the scars of regret, guilt and fear that reverberated in your cavity, in the voice of the little grandma that made you udon, the young girl you let braid your hair, the man who gave you some daikon just because, the woman with the short hair who- dead. all dead.

geto’s honeyed tone calls your name, tethering you back to reality. throwing you a buoy to keep your struggling mind above the rapids. geto’s presence was calming, and his smooth voice was helping chase away your racing thoughts. with him you felt comfortable, safe even … maybe he had the potential to be someone that you could fully trust. you reluctantly rolled over on your side to finally look directly at him, making a decision.

“i’ve been.. having these dreams.” “...dreams?” “mhm… of shirakawa.” voice trembling, hands curling into fists, voice shaking slightly.

a pregnant pause of realization. geto’s eyes widen in understanding. he chastises himself – that would make sense, why didn’t he see it earlier? your strange behaviour started after that mission, your face paled when ieri casually asked about it the other day. nightmares were an unspoken byproduct of the job of being a sorcerer. even geto had lingering thoughts of certain missions that have gone astray and was often disgusted with what he saw on the battlefield. overtime he was starting to grow saddened with how other sorcerers – his friends– were being affected by the horrors of the job. duty. a choice to suffer for the greater good – a necessary sacrifice. it was a sobering realization.

his hand taps antsily on his stomach he turns his head to you feeling your shy stare.  geto rolls over to his side, mirroring you, studying your struggling expression. gently he inches closer to you and reaches over. he engulfs your shaking fist in his larger warm hand. lightly squeezing, geto successfully easing your shaking. the rough waves of guilt within you calmed to the rhythm of his slow breathing. his quiet reassurance and acknowledgement of your struggles simultaneously squeezes your chest, protecting you from your intrusive thoughts. you shut your eyes as you feel his thumb moving back and forth  – a sympathetic reminder of his understanding. after some time, you open your eyes. "...thanks geto," you say faintly, not trusting your voice for much more, you already felt too vulnerable.

“hm? for what?”

“for.. for this.”

withdrawing his hand, his violet eyes soften as you see the beginnings of a small smile forming, "y'know you can call me suguru, right?"

“…I can?” “yeah! ‘course you can. we’ve known each other for like – what like almost 6 months now?”

“yeah, something like that...”

“yeah so, we’re friends right?”

friends.

“i.. yeah. yes. i guess we are friends.”

“so, my friends call me suguru –” he says easily, like being kind was the simplest thing in the world. he amazed you. "hmm, i dunno because gojo calls you baby. so… i wanted to be sure," you tease. "oh? you can call me baby too if that's what you're comfortable with." geto says amused, elbow upright to support his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. your surprised face carves out a chuckle, a rusty sound to even your own ears. pleased with himself, geto grins wider. he hasn’t heard that sound in at least a week or two but he had a strong suspicion that there a certain person was dying to hear it. geto liked that you were smiling again. “careful,” you warn eyebrow quirked, “gojo might get jealous,” eyes looking livelier, body bending into a seated position with a stretch.

geto snorts. “i’m sure satoru can deal.” “I think you overestimate gojo's maturity. just don’t blame me if he starts moaning and groaning for the next year about this…” “alright, just say he’s a little shit..,” you grin at his honestly, feeling lighter than you had in the last week.

“hey… c’mon let’s see if you can get me this time,” geto says rising to his feet challengingly. “oh, don’t worry – I definitely will.”

footsteps echoing, gojo walked through the halls. he carded his long fingers through his hair mindlessly, sighing. it was a rare day when he didn’t have a mission or class and he was bored beyond reason. he was restless - the accumulation of bottled energy within him swirling, brewing dangerously, threatening to bubble over any minute now.

he had already been kicked out of ieri’s room for complaining too much.

“ – but listen, i don’t really understand what the big deal is. suguru goes on and on about it like god’s greatest gift to man but it’s literally just soba and you dip that shit in a sauce. you even have to dip it yourself – like if im paying for that shit I’d want someone to dip it for me. why do I have to put in the effort when im paying to have an experience, y’know? and don’t get me started on the temperature, why the fuck is it col–“ “holy shit, gojo. give it a rest oh my god.” yikes. last name. “but shokooooo,” his voice going up in pitch gratingly, “these are very important thoughts from a very important person!” “and who would that be? you’ve been talking about zaru soba for like 20 minutes!” ieri counters, head leaning on her closed fist, not even bothering to look at gojo as she flipped through a magazine at her desk. gojo huffs, lip jutted out. “no one appreciates me here.” “dude, i told you, im in the middle of something!” “you’ve been reading for hours! you said you’d be done a billion years ago.” gojo whines lying on floor of ieri’s bedroom, foot tapping out an impatient rhythm on the leg of the chair that she was currently sitting on. she scoffs, half amused and half annoyed, light brown eyes flickering to blue. “go bug the others, then! they’re probably still sparring in the gym.” “ehhh? sparring, what now?” “mm?  yeah. suguru’s helping with their hand to hand combat. they’ve been meeting up pretty frequently.” not bothering to look up at what she knew was gojo’s dramatic pout.

he scoffed at the memory. they could’ve asked me to help them with sparring. why didn’t they ask me?

subconsciously he found himself at your door, his feet carrying him without his mind even realizing it. gojo found that his mind wandered to you a lot more than usual after that night. he couldn’t get your hollow expression out of his head, or your soft, gravelly voice when you were about 2 seconds away from slumber, or the way your warm body felt when he carried you back to your room, or how you would rock back and forth while waiting for the udon to cook. there was just something about you, he just couldn't help it. he was starting to see parts of you in places where he least expected it and it always bewildered him.

halting suddenly, chuckling as he decides to stop by the gym just to see if geto would want to go with him to the arcade and if you happened to there too, so what? but maybe he could convince you both to go… turning around with a new plan and a mischievous smile, gojo hesitantly stops by the vending machine.

you definitely couldn’t get him. once again you were on your back, sweating but this time panting heavily. geto’s figure towering over you. “this time was better. but you gotta remember to watch your left – “ before he could even finish that thought, you sweep his legs from under him with your left leg. geto lands on the mats beneath with a surprised grunt as you quickly pin him, throwing your legs on either side of his abdomen, sitting on him triumphantly.

“how’s that for my left leg?” leaning your face slightly down to his, grinning cheekily.

geto groans, shifting slightly “…this doesn’t count you know.” annoyed at the injustice.

you giggle breaks your annoyed facade, “what?! how does this no-“

you’re interrupted by an echoing thud. two cautious heads whip to the source of the intrusion. a cold bottle of pocari sweat curiously rolls towards you, the explanation following behind: a mop of unruly white hair. gojo runs his hand through his hair messily. a flicker of an indescribable expression flashes on gojo’s faltering face at the position he finds you and geto in. a mask of a grin paints his pale face – it doesn’t suit him. “ooOOOooooh fun! sparring looks like fun. can I join?” eyebrows wriggling suggestively. “ugh. grow up gojo” you say with a frown. gojo starts making his way to you both while picking up the abandoned bottle and placing it upright on the mat. “what? if you wanted to straddle someone as a friend you could’ve just asked me, babe. sugu never lets me straddle him and i’ve even ask-” “satoru. ” geto’s eyes narrow in warning.  

“fine baby, fine. our little secret then.” gojo grins widely, smile not reaching his frosty eyes. geto scoffs shaking his head, no doubt mentally running through his arsenal of curses trying to decide which one to unleash on gojo first. geto delicately pats your upper thigh to motion you to get up, easily taking the hint you rise to your feet. geto doesn’t miss blue eyes narrowing at the contact, fist tightening slightly, causing an amused smile to break on geto’s face. you stick your tongue out at gojo, already annoyed. geto had an increasing suspicion that gojo was interested in you regardless of what the blue eye boy said. he saw how gojo’s body would unconsciously angle towards you whenever you were around or the way gojo would stare when you’d talk to ieri with a small smile on your face during class or how gojo would act even more insufferable when you were within a 500 foot radius. “they got you again, eh suguru? looks like you’re losing your touch!”

geto exhales through his nose, smile gone, “i didn’t think that they would play dirty,” shaking his head.

“a pin is a pin, regardless of the situation. you said that you always have to be ready, right?” you say pointedly as you reach down to offer geto a hand to help him up. but before geto could accept, gojo rushes towards him effectively knocking your hand out of the way roughly. you tsked, annoyed at gojo’s brazenness.

“oh no, suguuuu! are you hurt? did they – what did they do to my baby?!” gojo wails dramatically, clutching geto’s arm before moving behind him to fuss his shoulders.

“what the hell, dude? mmpffffff get off of me, you–“ gojo’s two hands squishing geto’s face from behind attempting to climb onto the dark haired boy’s back in a makeshift piggy back. geto tries to shake his best friend off by grabbing gojo’s arms and attempting to pull him into a headlock, knocking off the dark glasses of his pale face in the process.

“what do you mean? last night you didn’t say that – “ gojo whines beneath the rough housing, grabbing at geto’s torso, barking out a cackling laugh.  

“you were the one who – “ geto counters, efficiently grasping gojo’s arms. gojo lets out dramatic high pitch squeal. gojo tackles the dark haired boy roughly causing geto to brightly burst out laughing. the two boys roll on the mat with fierce energy, a chaotic tangle of long limbs, grunts and mocking shouts. “babeee, help! suguru’s bullying m-“ he shouts at you, his lanky legs twisting to wrap around geto’s frame.

the assault stalls when gojo hears your bright laughter – the first sighting of water in the desert of his heart, unknown yet if it was a mirage. sensing gojo’s hesitation, geto slowly eases his hold on gojo, eyebrows raised, head turning to see the cause.

ah. of course.

panting, geto dusts himself off while watching gojo. his blue eyes watch your head thrown back, laugher etched even in your eyes. the smallest spark, the soft sunrise after two weeks of rain.

“you’re ridiculous,” you comment, head shaking.

“i’m ridiculous? you didn’t help me at all!” gojo counters childishly. you bend over to pick up gojo's dark glasses – a casualty from the boys’ recklessness. geto smacks gojo’s arm as he notices the obvious gawking at your backside. geto cocks an eyebrow judgementally, dude. gojo rolls his eyes exasperatedly in response, his palms splayed out, what?! I wasn’t looking!! gojo smacks him back.

obliviously, you open up gojo’s dark shades, inching closer to put them onto gojo’s surprised face, fingers grazing his flushing ears. he could smell the slight vanilla and lavender scent that he remembered lingered on your skin when he carried you from the kitchen table to your room two weeks ago. his mind drifted to the memory of how you felt against him that night. soft and warm. so close that if he dared he would be able feel your steady heartbeat against his skin contrasting against the fluttering of his. you were so close and yet not close enough. holding you, he wasn't sure who was dreaming.

hiding his uncharacteristically bashfulness, he makes no mention of your singeing touch as he bends down and picks up the energy drink, condensation building on the outside of the plastic bottle.

“here, for beating this animal.” gojo jerks his head in geto’s direction while offering the bottle of pocari sweat to you, ignoring geto’s eye roll behind him. he shakes the bottle slightly when you hesitate. “c’mon take it.”

“… uh thanks, gojo,” suspiciously eying him.

that was strangely… thoughtful of him. what’s his deal? you untwist the cap and take a small sip. cool and refreshing, slightly sweet but smooth and hydrating.

“seeee? aren’t you glad I thought about you? huh, huh?” he tapping at your cheek, cheeky grin on his face. you slap his hands away from your face with an exasperated sigh. “this is when you say, thank you satoru! you’re so thoughtful and wonderful and handsome and kind and so, so sexy–“

nevermind, he’s an idiot.

“hm, suguru, you want some?” you call out to geto, turning away from the white haired menace to offer the bottle over to him.

gojo whips his head to your face, narrowed stormy blue eyes darting between you and geto. he felt a foreign feeling take over his chest. it surges within him, breathing hard to burrow its claws along the bottom of his tense stomach, green eyed, hot tempered and absolutely ravenous.

he mentally makes a note to stop by ieri’s room again, he wasn’t feeling like himself –  must be some strange after effect from that last curse back in Osaka the other day.

..wait were you looking at.. suguru like that? why are you always thinking about him when he was right her– wait one fucking second. suguru? why’s he called suguru when i’m – 

he whines your name “since when do you call him suguru?” furrowing his white brows.

“… isn’t that his name?" you question, moving slightly closer to geto as he takes the bottle from your outstretched arm thankfully before taking a swing.

“yeah but you call me gojo!!” you and geto exchange a look.

“oh here we go…” you hear geto mutter under his breath, recapping the bottle before handing back to you. “uhh…. isn’t that your name?” “i thought we were closer than that, babe.”  gojo eyes you, glasses down his slender nose, crystal eyes theatrically watery.

“well the difference is that I actually like suguru,” you deadpan, stretching out your back.

“hey, don’t joke like that!” he pouts as he moves closer to you. hand over his chest like you’ve gravely wounded him. and you have.

“it’s only what you deserve, gojo,” you say lightly patting his shoulder before walking past him to go address geto.

"you’re so mean to me, babe!" gojo yells at your retreating figure. “anyway, same time next week?” you say glancing at geto, swiftly walking across the gym, holding the half full energy drink in your hand. geto chuckles, waving to you, ignoring gojo's annoyed mutters, cursed energy dangerously swirling.

"thanks for today, baby." you say over your shoulder, eyes bright. before crossing the threshold of the gym. you hear an incredulous shout:

“BABY!?!”

a/n: my love language is bullying gojo this chapter was very geto-centric but i can't help but love a princess -- head image credit: unknown! credit goes to the rightful artists dividers from: @/adornedwithlight

[ddarker-dreams]

play fighting — chrollo lucilfer.

Hot cocoa is a staple when cooler weather starts setting in. 

By your reckoning, it could find a place on every tier of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. A warm, decadent cup with wisps of steam rising from the swirling surface. This mouthwatering mental image is what led you to the kitchenette. Dutifully following the package’s instructions, you rip into the chocolatey package by the serrated edge and get to work. 

All the while, a pair of inquisitive eyes track your every movement. You can’t imagine why the sight of you in fluffy pajamas pulling milk from the fridge has Chrollo’s rapt attention. He’s leaning against the counter, sipping on his own concoction. Earl gray tea, if the scent is of any indication. 

Your masterpiece is almost complete. Now, for the finishing touch — marshmallows. 

Alas. You’ve encountered a problem. The marshmallows are stored in a cabinet that evades your reach. To make matters worse, Chrollo has perched himself right where you’d need to climb up. Should you list clairvoyance among his many capabilities? Logically, you know that feat eludes him, but your suspicions remain.

“Is something the matter, dear?” 

Ah, you forgot that you’ve been silently squinting at him while the gears in your head spin. Round and round they go, never producing a viable solution. 

“No, not at all,” you dismiss. His gaze never leaves yours, even as he takes another sip of his drink. You can see it in his eyes, that ‘oh, really?’ look. You don’t appreciate that look, for you receive it often, thanks to your shenanigans. 

“Your drink’s getting cold,” he points out. 

Very astute of him. 

The way you see it, this can go a few ways. One, you could ask for his help in procuring your garnish. You could, but… he regards you with such bemusement, finding pleasure in every little thing you do. You’re tired of the court jester role. Asking him for something almost always guarantees that you’ll be putting on a metaphorical cap and bells. 

So you cling to your pride. You stand close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, as your target necessitates such sacrifice. Straining while on your tiptoes, your fingertips brush against the damnable cabinet handle, gold and mocking. Vigilant as your efforts are, they’re ultimately fruitless. Your prize remains just out of reach.

Huffing, you turn to face Chrollo, who has no right to look as innocent as he does. 

“Could you…” you trail off and shoo him with your hands. You hope that gets the message across. 

“Can I ask why? I feel perfectly content here.” 

Of course he does. 

You’re unsure what spurs on your next action. Pettiness? Irritation? Righteous anger? Who knows. You rest both your palms flat against his bicep and push, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle, which, in truth, is a fitting description. He doesn’t so much as budge. The full weight of your body and strength combined amounts to nothing. You can’t comprehend how hard his muscles feel beneath his shirt, it’s like you’re touching a wall. 

Although it’s quiet, you hear it. A breathy chuckle escapes his lips. 

Your equilibrium is thrown into chaos as you go from your nice, secure spot on the floor to being lifted high. Two large hands settle right above your hips, holding you in place. Your reflexes kick in and you squirm. Fortunately, Chrollo’s grasp doesn’t falter. You realize what he’s getting at and make quick work of opening the cabinet and getting your stupid marshmallows. He brings you down. You only relax when your soles touch solid ground. 

Chrollo gives your hips a playful squeeze. 

“Try again,” he whispers near your ear.

You want nothing more than to scamper off, but his body envelops you, cutting off any escape. You’re caught between a rock and a hard place, clutching a bag of marshmallows, your Hello Kitty slippers askew.

You sigh.

Life certainly has its challenges. 

Should you start with elbowing him or stomping down on his feet…?