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lassiie · 1 month ago

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Power Play.

sub!boss Jake x Co-worker!dom reader

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! smut, sub Jake, dom/sub dynamics, dominant reader, needy sub Jake, strong depiction of fantasies, power play, sexual tension, worship kink, consensual power exchange, denial, servitude kink, head recieving, overstimulation, degradation play, slight violence, fluff (what should i say i'm still hella romantic in a way...)

WORDCOUNT ↠ 8k~ (didn't proof read the way i wanted...)

MDNI / Before you dive, read the warnings. don’t like it, don’t read.

Jake Sim is the human equivalent of a TED Talk on professionalism — all pressed suits, smiles, and PowerPoints that make managers almost tear up. Three months since his transfer from the overseas branch and the office still hasn’t recovered. They call him golden boy in the group chat—half-joke, half-worshiping honestly. Because, fuck, he’s too perfect. Too polite. The kind of guy who probably apologizes to doors after walking into them, and makes you forget he’s your boss.

And you? Poor you…You’ve been paired with him as his second in executive, which should've felt like a promotion. But didn’t even scratch the surface of your indifference. You didn’t need to sparkle like him to command attention. You’ve earned every inch of your place with blood, sleep deprivation, and the kind of ruthless efficiency that doesn’t beg for recognition. The office knew how you were : nice but ice-edged. They knew not to interrupt when you’re typing, not to hover near your desk unless summoned, and not to try you with weak jokes or wandering hands unless they’re craved the kind of career-ending evisceration you delivered to the last manager, as you buried him six feet under and salted the earth.

But still, interns loved you. You took good care of your team, made sure everyone was at ease, comfortable and heard in any situations. which bringed respect.

And Jake? Jake saw you long before you saw him.

First time was one of those insufferable corporate mixers, drowning in stale champagne and fake smiles, where you emerged across the room, wrapped in silk, fine jewelry and sharp liner. You were flawless that first time, you were impossible to ignore. And all the others too, actually.

You didn’t glance his way more than two to three times, and that cold distance only made you more magnetic, to Jake—the kind of woman who moves through rooms like no one deserves to know her but somewhat not mean. And Jake ended up eyes on you every other gathering, everytime a step further, a bit more small talk, a glass of champagne offered, his eyes fixed on your silhouette like it was a masterpiece he’d never be worthy enough to touch, let alone own.

Then that promotion opportunity came. So he transferred because he worshiped you, because you were the kind of woman who made him want to kneel, to be the loser he always wanted to be for his woman. For the impossible humiliating chance to breathe in your orbit every day, to stand beside you in meeting rooms pretending he’s your equal. But in his mind, you're not just his colleague. And he’s not even your superior. Oh babe, you're his goddamn sovereign. And he’s never felt more alive than when, in his thoughts, he’s kneeling, mouth open, waiting for commands you’ll never actually give.

He tried to act normal, pro, detached. But every clipped instruction from your lips feels like a test of endurance, every click of your heels across the floor a reminder. He watched : How you open his water bottle at meetings without sparing him a second glance, like he was a child. How you hand him reminders post-it like you’re feeding a dog out of habit, never cruelty—but never kindness either. It devastates him. Your effortless dominance. Your divine neglect. How you were a natural.

And it only got worse.

He started to make mistakes in your presence—every misplaced file, every stammered report, every too-long pause before answering your questions or request—was laced with intent. Because he wants you to be disappointed in him. He needs you to sigh, to call him out, to scold him with that glint in your eye that says you could gut him with a sentence if you wanted to.

In his dreams, you’re pulling him into his office by the tie, shoving him to his knees, using him like something cheap and temporary—like a thing. He imagines you telling him he’s beneath you, that he’s useful for nothing but kneeling. Most of the time, like three hours ago, he ended up beating his meat in a bathroom stall, panting and low moaning those fantasies, agreeing, sobbing, begging you to ruin him in front of the team, to make an example of him. He imagines you laughing as he licks you beneath your desk, sobbing because it’s not enough.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just…

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately.

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—”

Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it.

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did.

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP.

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?”

SLAP.

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly.

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now.

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance.

Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing.

🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X.

Gag – X.

Cuffs – X.

Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches.

Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him?

The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Part.2

Author’s Note:

Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it...

But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗

@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~

Hope I didn’t disappoint!

Don’t just lurk, darling. Reblog it. Leave a comment. Let me feel you. Your silence is not nearly as thrilling as your reaction.

So go on... show me you're watching.

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viviresisti · 5 months ago

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Paola Cortellesi and Emanuela Fanelli in "There's still tomorrow"/"C'è ancora domani" (2023)

I'm begging all feminists to watch this movie if you haven't, it was huge in Italy and deserves more international recognition

#radblr #radical feminists do interact #radical feminist safe #feminism #radical feminism #movies #movie review #paola cortellesi #italian cinema

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nasa · 1 year ago

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LaRue Burbank, mathematician and computer, is just one of the many women who were instrumental to NASA missions.

4 Little Known Women Who Made Huge Contributions to NASA

Women have always played a significant role at NASA and its predecessor NACA, although for much of the agency’s history, they received neither the praise nor recognition that their contributions deserved. To celebrate Women’s History Month – and properly highlight some of the little-known women-led accomplishments of NASA’s early history – our archivists gathered the stories of four women whose work was critical to NASA’s success and paved the way for future generations.

LaRue Burbank: One of the Women Who Helped Land a Man on the Moon

LaRue Burbank was a trailblazing mathematician at NASA. Hired in 1954 at Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory (now NASA’s Langley Research Center), she, like many other young women at NACA, the predecessor to NASA, had a bachelor's degree in mathematics. But unlike most, she also had a physics degree. For the next four years, she worked as a "human computer," conducting complex data analyses for engineers using calculators, slide rules, and other instruments. After NASA's founding, she continued this vital work for Project Mercury.

In 1962, she transferred to the newly established Manned Spacecraft Center (now NASA’s Johnson Space Center) in Houston, becoming one of the few female professionals and managers there.  Her expertise in electronics engineering led her to develop critical display systems used by flight controllers in Mission Control to monitor spacecraft during missions. Her work on the Apollo missions was vital to achieving President Kennedy's goal of landing a man on the Moon.

Eilene Galloway: How NASA became… NASA

Eilene Galloway wasn't a NASA employee, but she played a huge role in its very creation. In 1957, after the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, Senator Richard Russell Jr. called on Galloway, an expert on the Atomic Energy Act, to write a report on the U.S. response to the space race. Initially, legislators aimed to essentially re-write the Atomic Energy Act to handle the U.S. space goals. However, Galloway argued that the existing military framework wouldn't suffice – a new agency was needed to oversee both military and civilian aspects of space exploration. This included not just defense, but also meteorology, communications, and international cooperation.

Her work on the National Aeronautics and Space Act ensured NASA had the power to accomplish all these goals, without limitations from the Department of Defense or restrictions on international agreements. Galloway is even to thank for the name "National Aeronautics and Space Administration", as initially NASA was to be called “National Aeronautics and Space Agency” which was deemed to not carry enough weight and status for the wide-ranging role that NASA was to fill.

Barbara Scott: The “Star Trek Nerd” Who Led Our Understanding of the Stars

A self-described "Star Trek nerd," Barbara Scott's passion for space wasn't steered toward engineering by her guidance counselor. But that didn't stop her! Fueled by her love of math and computer science, she landed at Goddard Spaceflight Center in 1977. One of the first women working on flight software, Barbara's coding skills became instrumental on missions like the International Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE) and the Thermal Canister Experiment on the Space Shuttle's STS-3. For the final decade of her impressive career, Scott managed the flight software for the iconic Hubble Space Telescope, a testament to her dedication to space exploration.

Dr. Claire Parkinson: An Early Pioneer in Climate Science Whose Work is Still Saving Lives

Dr. Claire Parkinson's love of math blossomed into a passion for climate science. Inspired by the Moon landing, and the fight for civil rights, she pursued a graduate degree in climatology. In 1978, her talents landed her at Goddard, where she continued her research on sea ice modeling. But Parkinson's impact goes beyond theory. She began analyzing satellite data, leading to a groundbreaking discovery: a decline in Arctic sea ice coverage between 1973 and 1987. This critical finding caught the attention of Senator Al Gore, highlighting the urgency of climate change.

Parkinson's leadership extended beyond research. As Project Scientist for the Aqua satellite, she championed making its data freely available. This real-time information has benefitted countless projects, from wildfire management to weather forecasting, even aiding in monitoring the COVID-19 pandemic. Parkinson's dedication to understanding sea ice patterns and the impact of climate change continues to be a valuable resource for our planet.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!

#NASA #space #tech #technology #womens history month #women in STEM #math #climate science #computer science

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itwillbethescarletwitch · 29 days ago

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I Like Her

eddie brock x fem!reader x venom

It’s late—somewhere between “I should be asleep” and “I deserve a treat.” The city hums softly under flickering streetlights as you slip into your hoodie, grab your keys, and head down the block toward Mrs. Chen’s convenience store. The night is cool, quiet, and mostly uneventful—until it very much isn’t.

The little bell above the door jingles as you walk in, the fluorescent lighting giving everything that slightly-too-yellow glow. Mrs. Chen is behind the counter in her usual seat, sipping tea and watching a tiny TV that’s clearly been through a war or two.

“Well, look who it is,” she says without looking up. “Out past bedtime.”

You grin, heading straight to the coolers. “Craving Dr. Pepper. You judging me?”

“Always,” she says dryly, finally glancing up. “Don’t take the last one.”

You grab it anyway, winking. “What can I say? Gotta keep you on your toes.”

As you make your way to the counter, the door jingles again. You don’t look at first—you’re too busy pulling out your wallet—but Mrs. Chen perks up and says, “Eddie. You’re late.”

You glance to the side—and immediately freeze.

Eddie Brock.

He’s wearing a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled like he fought with the wind and lost. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and has this quiet, kind-of-awkward energy like he didn’t mean to be so hot but here he is anyway. You stare for half a second too long.

He nods politely at you, eyes flickering in recognition, and walks toward the back of the store. You watch him go, subtly—but not subtly enough.

Because Mrs. Chen leans in, amused. “Don’t even think about it.”

You turn to her, deadpan. “He fine as hell. What do you mean, don’t think about it?”

She makes a noise. “Trouble. All the hot ones are trouble.”

“Girl, let me live,” you mutter.

Unfortunately, you said it a little louder than you thought—because from the other aisle, you hear a voice say:

“Mrs. Chen, you’re supposed to be my wing woman. Are you turning people away from me now?”

You practically choke. Your eyes go wide, and Mrs. Chen has the nerve to smirk.

Eddie reappears from behind the shelves with a pint of ice cream in hand and a very amused expression. He glances at you, his eyes warm. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Just… hard not to when your name’s being dragged through the mud.”

You’re mortified.

“I didn’t mean—” you start, panicking.

“I mean,” he says with a crooked grin, “I am fine as hell. That part was accurate.”

You blink. Then you laugh, embarrassed but also charmed. “Okay, wow. I’m just gonna take my Dr. Pepper and go—”

“No, wait.” He steps forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m Eddie.”

You stare at his outstretched hand. You blink. Then you take it. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He smiles—awkward, genuine. “You… uh… come here often?”

Mrs. Chen groans. “Oh my god.”

And just like that, you burst out laughing again.

———

You don’t know how you ended up agreeing to the date. One minute you were talking to Mrs. Chen and low-key drooling over a man with haunted eyes and perfect cheekbones, and the next you were exchanging numbers and trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

Now, you’re standing in front of a small, cozy Italian place tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore—classic first date material. The lighting is warm. The smells are divine. The nerves? Off the charts.

Eddie’s already waiting when you arrive. He stands up awkwardly from his chair outside the restaurant, brushing nonexistent crumbs off his jacket.

“Hey,” he says, hands stuffed into his pockets.

“Hey,” you smile, a little breathless.

“You look—uh, nice. Great. Really great.”

You grin. “Thanks. You clean up alright yourself.”

The hostess leads you to a corner booth—quiet, dimly lit, perfect for pretending you’re not both internally screaming. Once seated, the server drops off water and menus, and you both dive into them like they’re hiding from social anxiety behind laminated pasta options.

“So,” Eddie says, eyes scanning the menu. “Do you… like carbs?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“I live for carbs,” he confesses. “I just wanted to make sure we’re not gonna fight over garlic bread.”

“I would absolutely fight you for garlic bread.”

“Fair,” he says. “That’s valid. I’d let you win.”

The banter feels easy. Surprisingly so. Conversation flows—from your favorite movies to embarrassing teenage phases to how much Mrs. Chen terrifies you in a loving-aunt-who-would-fight-a-demon-for-you kind of way.

At one point, your foot brushes his under the table and he goes still. You freeze, thinking maybe you crossed a line—but then he smiles, soft and unsure, like it’s the first time someone’s touched him and meant it.

Halfway through dinner, as you both split a plate of fettuccine Alfredo (he let you win that garlic bread war), Eddie excuses himself to the bathroom. He walks quickly, almost too quickly, like he’s trying to have a conversation with someone who isn’t you.

Which… he is.

Because the moment he rounds the corner, Venom oozes up into his field of vision inside the stall.

“She is delightful,” Venom says, licking imaginary fangs. “Smart. Pretty. Funny. I like her.”

“No,” Eddie hisses, pressing both palms to the stall door. “Absolutely not. You stay inside. Please. This is going well. She doesn’t know. Let me just have this.”

“But I want to meet her,” Venom insists, looming over Eddie’s shoulder like a judgmental roommate. “We could share the garlic bread. She would love me.”

“She would freak out, and then she would run, and then I would cry. You want me to cry, big guy?”

Venom makes a pouty noise. “No.”

“Then let me finish this date like a normal person.”

Venom slinks back down reluctantly. “Fine. But if she hurts you, I get to eat her ex.”

“She doesn’t have an ex.”

“She might one day.”

Eddie groans and splashes cold water on his face.

⸻

Back at the table, you’ve just finished telling the server you don’t want dessert when Eddie returns, slightly flushed but smiling again.

“Everything okay?” you ask, amused.

“Yup,” he says a little too quickly. “Just… had to tell myself not to blow it.”

Your brow lifts. “You think you’re blowing it?”

“No,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly? I’m kind of having the best time.”

Your smile softens. “Me too.”

And that’s how it goes: a little awkward, a little chaotic, a lot charming.

Neither of you say the word second date out loud that night, but you both know it’s coming.

(And somewhere deep inside Eddie’s mind, Venom is already planning the next one.)

———

The second date starts off suspiciously perfect.

You’d picked the place this time—an indie theater playing old-school horror movies and serving popcorn in stainless steel bowls like some sort of classy cinephile fever dream. Eddie had shown up exactly on time, held the door open for you, and hadn’t even argued when you insisted on getting the extra-butter popcorn.

Which was a red flag.

Because Eddie Brock? That man is never this smooth. Not unless he’s got something to prove.

Like maybe to a certain symbiote who is currently fighting for control of the metaphorical steering wheel in his brain.

⸻

You’re seated together in the back row, your shoulder barely touching his, your laugh echoing softly through the dark theater as a corny scene plays on screen.

And Eddie… is tense.

You don’t notice right away. You’re busy, actually enjoying yourself. But Eddie? He’s rigid, eyes flicking nervously toward the corner of the room where a sticky black substance is starting to slither out from under his collar like a nosy eel.

“NOPE,” Eddie mutters under his breath, leaning forward fast and slapping a hand to his neck like he’s got a bug bite.

You glance at him, concerned. “You okay?”

“Yep. Fine. Just, uh… popcorn kernel went rogue.”

You offer him your water. “Drink. You’re sweating.”

“Because it’s… warm,” he says, clearly lying.

From inside his mind, Venom is fuming.

“I JUST WANT TO SAY HI. ONE LITTLE ‘HELLO.’ ONE FANG-FLASH. SHE’LL LOVE IT.”

Eddie’s jaw clenches. He smiles painfully at you. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom real quick.”

“Popcorn revenge?” you tease.

“Something like that.”

⸻

Once he’s in the theater’s dingy little bathroom, he locks the stall and whispers-screams into his palm.

“Dude. No. Not tonight.”

“She is fun! And smells like jasmine! And she laughed at that horrible zombie pun!”

“She’s also a normal person who doesn’t expect a parasite to crawl out of her date’s face during a rom-zom-com!”

“Symbiote. And maybe she would find me charming.”

“You called her ex’s brain ‘appetizer material’ last night. That’s not charming. That’s therapy-triggering.”

Venom pouts. Figuratively. Maybe literally. Hard to tell.

“You’re being selfish.”

“She’s not ready.”

“You’re scared.”

Eddie stares at his reflection.

“…Maybe.”

Eddie comes back from the bathroom looking like he just sprinted up six flights of stairs. His hair’s a little damp, his face pale but flushed, and the collar of his shirt is suspiciously rumpled—as if he got into a minor fistfight with himself.

“Everything okay?” you whisper, watching him collapse into his seat beside you.

He nods too fast. “Yeah. Great. That was… probably the sketchiest bathroom I’ve ever been in.”

You snort a little, turning back to the screen. “You say that like you didn’t do an exposé on moldy jail cells.”

“That mold was safer.”

He laughs a little too hard. Then he goes quiet.

You offer him the popcorn again, and he waves it off. You notice he’s wringing his hands—like his fingers can’t sit still—and chewing on his bottom lip like he’s got some sort of internal monologue happening at full volume.

“You’re nervous,” you whisper, nudging his knee with yours. “Did the popcorn mess you up that bad?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No, I just—” He looks at you, and for a second his whole face softens. “You’re… very cool. And sometimes I feel like I’m not.”

You blink.

“That’s why you’re twitching like someone dropped you in a blender?”

“Yep.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Look, if I ever do something weird—like really weird—you’ll tell me, right?”

You furrow your brows, playful but confused. “I mean, you’ve already said ‘no offense to zombies, but if they were real, I’d sue for copyright infringement’ out loud, so… yeah. I’ll call you out.”

Eddie chuckles. But the smile fades quicker this time. His fingers flex on his knees. You don’t notice the way his shoulder subtly tenses like he’s holding back… something.

Something that wants out.

⸻

When the credits roll, you stretch your arms overhead and yawn, giddy from the movie and warm from sitting close to him. Eddie walks you back to your apartment again. You talk about the film, joke about who would survive the zombie apocalypse (you say you would, he disagrees), and your hand grazes his once or twice on the way.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You tilt your head, teasing. “You gonna survive another bathroom trip?”

Eddie gives you a weak laugh. “Not if the plumbing looks anything like that theater’s.”

You smile, but there’s a flicker of curiosity under the surface now.

There’s something… off. Something twitchy. Something guarded.

But he’s sweet. Kind. And trying. Maybe even a little in awe of you. You like him.

So you lean in.

He kisses you goodnight—hesitant, gentle, like he’s afraid he’s going to break something if he’s not careful.

You go inside, heart full, mind spinning, completely unaware that you’re now dating two beings.

One of whom is desperately trying not to introduce himself.

⸻

Meanwhile, in the car, Eddie slides into the driver’s seat and grips the wheel so tightly his knuckles go white.

“YOU ALMOST LET ME OUT.”

“I literally didn’t.”

“You thought about it.”

“No. You thought about it.”

“I LIKE HER.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I like what I know. She is soft and funny and pretty and her blood smells like cinnamon toast—”

“STOP. STOP TALKING ABOUT HER BLOOD.”

“YOU’RE NO FUN.”

“You’re gonna get us both dumped.”

“YOU LOVE ME.”

Eddie groans and bangs his head softly against the steering wheel.

The symbiote purrs.

“You’re welcome.”

———

THIRD DATE – HER APARTMENT THIS TIME.

It had started off simple: a movie night at her place. She offered, shyly, and Eddie—despite the symbiote’s very loud objections—agreed. Venom wanted her to come to their place again (“We have snacks! And chocolate! And a better couch!”), but Eddie promised Venom a triple-decker chicken burrito if he behaved.

And Venom, ever the glutton, accepted the bribe.

So now Eddie sat on her couch, something cheesy playing in the background—some rom-com neither of them were really paying attention to. She was curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, sipping hot cocoa and smiling in that way that made Eddie’s chest do something weird. Not panic attack weird. Not Venom-arguing weird. But happy weird.

The kind of weird that made him think too hard about what it would be like to wake up next to her.

Venom stirred.

“Tell her. I like her.”

Eddie didn’t move.

“I’m being good. I want her to know that.”

“No.”

“What if I pop out just a little bit? Say hi?”

“If you so much as twitch, I will feed you kale for a week.”

“…Monster.”

He smiled at her. She smiled back. She had no idea he was having a telepathic standoff with a symbiote in his head. No idea her date was literally arguing with a seven-foot-tall black goo alien with teeth and a voice like a nightmare.

“What?” she asked softly, leaning her head on his shoulder.

Eddie blinked. “Huh?”

“You made a face.”

“Did I?” He chuckled. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

“About?”

Eddie hesitated. “You,” he wanted to say. “Us.” But the words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he said, “Nothing bad. Promise.”

She yawned, then nudged him with her shoulder. “Good. I like this.”

“This?”

“Us,” she said, quietly, the same thing he’d been too scared to say. “I like being with you.”

His heart damn near burst.

Venom purred.

“TELL HER.”

“Shut up.”

She laughed at something on the screen, her hand absently resting on his thigh. Eddie barely breathed. He was holding onto this night with both hands.

And somehow, miraculously, Venom stayed quiet the rest of the night.

⸻

LATER THAT NIGHT – EDDIE’S APARTMENT

The moment he walked through his door, the peace was shattered.

“You fool!” Venom’s voice echoed through his head as the symbiote practically exploded out, forming like a shadow from his back and slamming down onto the kitchen floor. “You are WASTING TIME!”

Eddie dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. “Could you maybe not scream right after I get home?”

“She likes you. I like her. We are in agreement.”

“She doesn’t know you exist.”

“Whose fault is that?!”

“She will run. I like her. I don’t want her to run.”

Venom hissed but didn’t argue right away. He slithered around Eddie’s shoulders like a living hoodie, half-formed.

“…What if she doesn’t?”

Eddie looked into the mirror across the room. His reflection showed half his face—and Venom’s.

“Then I’ll tell her,” he said, quietly.

Venom blinked those wide white eyes.

“You will?”

Eddie nodded. “Just… not yet. I just got her. Let me enjoy it a little longer.”

Venom tilted his head, then slithered down Eddie’s arm like a dripping shadow.

“Fine. But if she dumps you because you waited too long, I will eat your socks.”

———

She hadn’t planned on staying the night.

It had started out like any other cozy evening: Eddie had made his famously-mediocre spaghetti, and she’d brought over her favorite movie snacks—popcorn, Twizzlers, and Dr Pepper. They were getting comfortable in each other’s space now. Close. Easy. She kicked off her shoes without asking. He let her take over the couch with a blanket without thinking twice.

It was the kind of domestic comfort that made his heart ache a little. Like he was tasting something he hadn’t realized he was starving for.

And then it happened.

Eddie had stepped into the kitchen to make hot cocoa—real hot cocoa, with milk and melted chocolate and those weird peppermint marshmallows she liked. He was humming. He felt happy.

Which was exactly when Venom decided to ruin his life.

As Eddie stirred the milk over the stove, Venom slithered up and out behind him, sensing movement—her, padding softly down the hallway looking for the bathroom. She passed by the open kitchen just as—

“Hey.”

A voice. Not Eddie’s. Deep. Rumbling. Alien.

She froze.

And when she turned, there it was. A massive, slick, black shape, with an angular, sharp face and huge white eyes, rising up from Eddie’s back like something out of a horror movie. Its teeth glinted under the overhead light. It looked alive.

She screamed. It was pure instinct—loud, scared, raw. She backed up against the wall, heart hammering, eyes wide.

Venom blinked, confused. “I was trying to be friendly.”

Eddie bolted into the hallway, cocoa abandoned, panic already setting in. “Shit—shit! I told you not yet!”

“She screamed at me!”

“She doesn’t know what you ARE!”

He rushed over to her, hands up, trying to calm her. She was still frozen, trying to make sense of what she’d just seen. “Eddie,” she whispered, “what the hell is that?!”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder. Venom had retracted partially, goo dripping along the walls like oil. “That… is Venom.”

She didn’t move.

“I can explain. Just—just sit, okay? Please?”

She hesitated, then numbly followed him to the couch. Still shaken. Still silent. Still watching every twitch of his body like something might jump out again.

Eddie sat across from her, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Deep breath. I’m not possessed, okay? I’m not a zombie or an alien or a monster. Well… technically, he is an alien, but I’m not.”

“What the hell is going on, Eddie?”

He swallowed. “Venom is a symbiote. He… lives inside me. We’re bonded. He keeps me alive. He has powers. And hunger. Sometimes for chocolate. Sometimes for… less ideal things.”

She blinked.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to scare you. I know it’s a lot. It’s too much, probably. But I like you. I really like you. And I didn’t want to lose that before I even had the chance.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Eddie sighed, leaned back, ran his hands over his face. “Okay. If you want to leave now—if you never want to talk to me again—I get it.”

“…Can I ask him a question?”

Eddie looked up.

“…Seriously?”

She nodded slowly, still cautious. “If I’m gonna process this, I need to know what I’m processing.”

Eddie exhaled. “Alright. Yeah. Okay.”

Venom oozed out from behind his shoulder, this time smaller, more contained—just a head, floating and blinking with big alien eyes.

“Hi,” Venom said, sheepish.

She didn’t scream this time. Didn’t move. Just stared.

“What do you… like to do for fun?”

Venom tilted his head. “I like eating chocolate. And saving the city. And eating… bad people.”

She blinked.

He grinned—all teeth. “And chicken nuggets. Especially the spicy ones.”

There was a long silence.

Then she stood up, walked calmly to the bathroom, and closed the door.

Eddie rubbed his face. “You had to say ‘bad people,’ didn’t you?”

Venom made a wet, guilty shrug.

Behind the door, she was pacing. Breathing heavy. Whispering, “Okay. Okay. He’s not evil. He’s not evil. He’s just… different. Like superhero different. Antihero different? Shit…”

When she finally came back out, she stood there, eyes on Eddie. Still processing. Still unsure. But calmer.

“…So you’ve had this thing in you the whole time?”

Eddie nodded. “Since before I met you.”

“…You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

She stepped closer. “Do you think I’m that easy to scare off?”

“You screamed.”

“…You’re not wrong.”

Venom’s head popped back up. “Do you still like us?”

She blinked.

Then smiled.

“…You made me hot cocoa?”

Eddie stared, then slowly grinned. “Yeah. It might be cold now.”

She stepped closer and kissed his cheek. “Then go reheat it. I have a million questions. And I guess I’m staying the night.”

Venom beamed. “I like her.”

———

It was a Friday night, and Eddie had his hand wrapped lazily around hers as they strolled down the cracked sidewalks of San Francisco. She was rambling about something funny she saw at work—her nose crinkling when she laughed, her thumb absently brushing over his knuckles—and Eddie couldn’t stop smiling. Not for a second.

They were only a block from Mrs. Chen’s shop, the neon flicker of the “Open” sign visible in the distance when it happened.

“Give me the bag.”

The voice was low. Sharp. Laced with a threat that turned her spine to ice.

A man stepped out from the shadows of a side alley, hoodie pulled low, gun glinting beneath the streetlight. His hand was steady. His eyes were wild.

She stopped, heart lurching. Eddie instinctively moved in front of her.

The guy motioned again. “I said give me the bag, lady. Don’t make me ask again.”

She tightened her grip on the strap. “I don’t think you wanna take my bag.”

Eddie’s pulse was already climbing. He felt Venom stir inside him—like an animal licking its lips.

The mugger scoffed, waving the gun at her face. “What, your puny little boyfriend gonna stop me?”

And then—like it was nothing—he yanked the bag from her shoulder and shoved her hard. She stumbled back and hit the pavement with a thud, gasping as her palms scraped against the concrete.

That was the exact moment the air shifted.

Eddie’s eyes darkened. His shoulders rose. His head tilted, slow and steady.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly.

The mugger turned toward him, annoyed. “What—”

But he didn’t finish.

Because from behind Eddie, something surged up. Fast. Fluid. Massive.

Venom exploded out of Eddie like a vengeful shadow, black tendrils slamming into the man and dragging him up off his feet, dangling him upside down like a ragdoll.

The guy screamed—loud, terrified—but only for a second.

Venom opened his monstrous jaws. “We warned you,” he growled, voice layered and deep. “You hurt what’s ours.”

And then—

CHOMP.

It was over in seconds. The man dropped to the ground in a heap—alive, but passed out cold. Covered in slime and half-conscious.

Venom licked his teeth.

Eddie turned, heart still racing. “You okay?” he asked her, rushing over.

She was still on the ground, blinking in stunned silence, staring up at the towering, hulking symbiote standing over them like some feral protector.

“…Did he eat him?” she whispered.

Venom grunted. “Bit. Just a little.”

She looked at Eddie. “Just a little?”

Eddie offered a sheepish shrug. “He doesn’t like when people touch you.”

She stared. Then wiped the grit from her hands and stood, eyes narrowing.

“…Okay. I’m gonna need a burrito after this.”

Venom purred. “With tater tots.”

She blinked. “…Did he just say—?”

“Yes,” Eddie sighed. “He’s been obsessed with tater tots lately.”

They stared at the still-unconscious mugger for a second.

“…Should we call the cops?”

Venom rumbled. “He’ll wake up. Eventually.”

“…Cool.” She shook her head. “You owe me a new bag. And tater tots.”

“Done,” Eddie said, sliding an arm around her shoulders as they started walking again.

Venom slithered back inside Eddie’s body with a huff. “She’s growing on me.”

Eddie smiled to himself. “Yeah, me too.”

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daylightstring · 3 months ago

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how to become the source of what you desire.

to become the source of what you desire, you need to stop seeing your desires as something separate from you. everything you want already exists within you, and your job is to live from that state as if it’s your natural baseline. here’s how to actually do that in a real, embodied way:

1. stop waiting and start being

a lot of people wait for the relationship, the money, the dream body, the recognition, thinking then they’ll feel confident, secure, safe, or happy. but the truth is, nothing on the outside will ever create lasting change unless it reflects who you believe you are. start now. stop saying “once i have this, then i’ll be…” and start asking “how would i feel, act, walk, speak, breathe if i already had it?”

2. create a stable inner world

to be the source, your internal state has to be stronger than your external circumstances. develop emotional self-discipline. that means not reacting when things don’t look how you want. feel what you need to feel, but return to your center. ground yourself through breathwork, meditation, or journaling. remind yourself daily that you are the creator, not the victim. your power doesn’t come from controlling the outside, it comes from mastering the inside.

3. shift your self-concept

your self-concept is the root of everything. if you still see yourself as someone who is unlucky, unwanted, behind, or insecure, your life will keep reflecting that back to you. every day, affirm the version of you who already has it. “i am chosen. i am adored. i am magnetic. i am respected. i am living in my dream life.” don’t just say these things, feel them. own them. let them become your new inner identity.

4. take aligned actions, not desperate ones

being the source means you trust deeply. you’re not chasing, begging, or forcing things. instead, you’re taking inspired steps that match your vision. if you’re manifesting luxury, how would you treat yourself now? if you’re manifesting love, how would you treat your body, your time, your energy? if you’re manifesting success, would you procrastinate or would you move like someone who believes their work is gold?

5. drop the fantasy, embody the version of you who has it

manifestation isn’t about daydreaming forever. it’s about closing the gap between what you want and who you’re being. embodying means making decisions as that version of you now. how do they dress? how do they speak? how do they hold themselves? how do they spend their days? start becoming them piece by piece.

6. detach from the timeline

the version of you who is the source isn’t checking the clock or obsessing over when it will come. she knows it’s already hers. when you detach, you’re saying “i trust that it’s done and coming in the most perfect way.” you move with grace, confidence, and calm because you’re no longer in lack, you’re in alignment.

7. live in the “of course” energy

you don’t need to prove your worth to receive. it’s not about deserving more, it’s about being more. the you who is the source doesn’t hope she’ll get it, she knows. she’s not shocked by her blessings, she’s grateful but unfazed. “of course i got the role.” “of course i met him.” “of course i’m glowing.” make this your dominant energy.

you become the source the moment you realize it was never about attracting, it was always about revealing. peeling back the doubt, fear, and programming until all that’s left is you, fully aligned with everything you’ve ever wanted. not because you chased it, but because you finally let yourself be it.

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theskywithin · 1 month ago

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🌊✨ TRANSITING JUPITER IN CANCER (June 7, 2025–June 30, 2026) for your Rising Sign!

You're About to Receive More Than You Expected

Jupiter in Cancer brings abundance with softness, it nurtures, protects, and expands what makes you feel safe and supported. Think: real estate, family, home life, emotional comfort, and long-term security. Over the next year, you could be investing, nesting, healing, or upgrading your environment. But this isn’t just an internal glow-up, Jupiter wants to give you tangible blessings where you’ve long needed stability. Let’s see where you’re about to receive more… YAY!!!

G O O D * L U C K EVERYONE!!

Aries Rising

You could be moving, renovating, or finally creating the home you’ve dreamed of. Real estate matters are highlighted: buying, selling, inheriting, or improving your space. Family dynamics may also soften or evolve in beautiful ways, especially with parents or children. This year brings more emotional safety, yes, but also more property, land, privacy, and peace. If you’ve been craving a stable base to build from, this is the year it starts coming together.

Taurus Rising

New contracts, new clients, new skills. This is a huge year for learning, networking, and finally turning your ideas into income. You might upgrade your tech, launch a course, get certified, or land freelance work that opens bigger doors. Siblings or extended family could play a role in your expansion too. You’re becoming someone who not only gathers information, but profits from it. Pitch your ideas. Say yes to the meeting. Your voice is currency this year.

Gemini Rising

Your income is growing. Your self-worth is stabilizing. Jupiter is bringing expansion to your finances, assets, and sense of personal value, you might get a raise, change careers, start a side hustle, or finally feel confident asking for what you deserve. Investments could pay off. Luxuries feel more accessible. You’re no longer settling for less than what feels truly aligned, financially and emotionally. Build your future from this solid ground.

Cancer Rising

It’s your Jupiter year and that means growth across every area. This is your chance to be seen, supported, and chosen in ways that feel both expansive and stabilizing. You could get a promotion, a public platform, a fresh opportunity, or simply a deeper sense of “this is who I am now.” Your confidence rises. So does your visibility. People want to work with you, date you, follow your lead. If you’ve been waiting for the right time to launch, shift direction, or take up more space, this is it.

Leo Rising

Something behind the scenes is about to start paying off. Jupiter is expanding your inner life, yes, but also your long-term security. This is a powerful time for getting out of debt, healing through therapy, receiving behind-the-scenes offers, or making peace with the past so you can actually move forward. You could take a spiritual course, start a long-term retreat or recovery plan, or get support that’s more invisible than visible. Trust the slow work, it’s building something real. Rest = revenue.

Virgo Rising

The right people are coming. Jupiter is lighting up your social life and long-term goals, helping you find collaborators, communities, mentors, or friends who support your big dreams. If you’ve felt isolated, this is your year to reconnect, especially through creative, spiritual, or entrepreneurial circles. You might join a mastermind, launch a group offering, or meet someone who opens a major door. Invest in the dream and the people who can help you build it.

Libra Rising

You’re entering a career growth year. Jupiter is expanding your public role, your accomplishments, and your sense of purpose. This could look like a leadership position, a major career shift, new clients, press, or recognition from people in high places. Your professional confidence is rising. You’re trusted. You’re visible. And yes, the money follows. If you've felt like you were working quietly with no reward, this is the year the spotlight finally turns your way.

Scorpio Rising

The world is calling. Jupiter in your 9th house expands travel, teaching, publishing, and anything international. You might go abroad, return to school, launch something global, or step into a role where your ideas are heard on a larger scale. You’re breaking out of local and into limitless. If it involves immigration, higher education, long-distance relationships, or sharing your truth, Jupiter says YES. Don’t hold back. Your next chapter wants to be lived out loud.

Sagittarius Rising

Big money. Big changes. Big healing. Jupiter is expanding your 8th house of shared resources, intimacy, and financial transformation. You might receive an inheritance, investment, bonus, or support from a partner that changes your lifestyle. Emotionally, this is also a time of deeper trust in others and in yourself. If you've been carrying the weight alone, this is the year someone shows up. Let yourself be helped. Let your heart and your bank account soften into something sustainable.

Capricorn Rising

Love gets bigger annd clearer. Jupiter is blessing your 7th house of partnerships, bringing expansion in relationships, contracts, and collaborations. This could be your year to commit, reconnect, or meet someone who truly sees your worth. Business alliances flourish. Clients grow. Existing bonds deepen. It’s less about finding the right person and more about realizing how deeply supported you already are and being willing to ask for more of it. Yes, you’re allowed to be chosen and adored.

Aquarius Rising

Your lifestyle is about to get an upgrade. Jupiter is expanding your 6th house of work, health, and daily rhythm, meaning better habits, fulfilling tasks, and potentially a new job or income stream that feels more aligned. You’re learning to make life easier, not just more efficient. This could mean hiring help, changing roles, improving your schedule, or finally putting your wellbeing first. The more you organize around what truly supports you, the more the rest falls into place.

Pisces Rising

This is the year joy comes back. Jupiter in your 5th house is pure creative magic, it brings romance, fertility (in all forms), artistic inspiration, and reasons to celebrate again. You might fall in love, have a child, publish something beautiful, or step into your self-expression like never before. This is not the time to play small. It’s a year of receiving joy without guilt. Your gifts deserve an audience. Your pleasure deserves a place in the plan. Let it be fun again, because fun is where the future starts.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #astrology tumblr #astrology blog #astrology transits #planetary transits #jupiter #love astrology #astrology notes

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yuukskillsworld · 2 months ago

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ahhhhhhh omgggg i am obsessed with your writing brooo

can u do like a fic or headcanons of the love intrests x a self destructive readerr ^^ (i am a sucker for angst what can i say)

hope your having day or nighttt

“Wreck Me Softly” – Killer Chat LIs x Self-Destructive Reader Headcanons

Hey, sweetheart—thanks for the request! If you’re here for a little pain wrapped in obsession, you’re in the right place. These killers see your cracks and still want more.

Hope you enjoy every second of the spiral. <3

written by yuukskillsworld<3

WARNINGS: Heavy emotional themes: self-destructive behavior, intrusive thoughts, low self-worth, comfort after emotional distress, protective/possessive behavior in some characters, mild language and intensity, hurt/comfort dynamics, please take care while reading. If you're struggling, you deserve real-world support too—fiction is comfort, but your well-being matters more.

Ronin Beaufort

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Ronin sees through the facade instantly. You can joke, smile, or pretend—but he notices the tremble in your hands when no one else is watching. He's lived that kind of quiet pain and never overlooks it.

♡ Silent Vigilance: He doesn’t confront you right away. Instead, he watches from the sidelines, eyes sharp with concern. “You gonna tell me what’s eatin’ at you, or do I gotta dig it out myself?”

♡ Protective Fury: When your pain becomes undeniable, Ronin gets angry—but not at you. It’s a raw, helpless rage aimed at the world that’s hurting you. “You matter more than you act like, darlin’. Start believin’ it—or I’ll make you.”

♡ Subtle Care: He shows love through action, not words. Drapes his coat over your shoulders, hands you water without a word, or simply sits beside you, thigh to thigh. His presence is constant, grounding.

♡ Internal Spiral: When you fall apart, so does he—quietly, inwardly. He blames himself, wonders if he’s too damaged to help. His greatest fear is losing you the way he’s lost others.

♡ Fear in Disguise: If you take a reckless risk, his reaction is sharp. Loud. Scared. “You think this world wouldn’t end if I lost you? ‘Cause I promise you—it would.”

♡ Soothing Aftermath: But after the storm, he softens. Always. He holds you close, forehead against yours. “You don’t have to be okay. Just… stay. Let me help you carry it.”

♡ Unconditional Commitment: He doesn’t want to fix you—just wants you here, alive, with him. If it takes holding your broken pieces together every night until they start healing, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.

Maria de la Rosa (Angel)

⁠♡ Immediate Recognition: Angel quickly notices the signs of your self-destructive behavior. Her intuition and experience make her sensitive to subtle changes in your demeanor.

⁠♡ Protective Instincts: She becomes fiercely protective, often going out of her way to shield you from harm, even if it means confronting others or taking drastic measures.

⁠♡ Emotional Support: Angel offers a listening ear and comforting presence. She encourages open communication, assuring you that you're not alone in your struggles.

⁠♡ Acts of Service: She expresses love through actions—preparing your favorite meals, organizing relaxing activities, or simply being there when you need her.

⁠♡ Encouraging Self-Care: Angel gently nudges you towards healthier habits, reminding you of your worth and the importance of self-care.

Misaki Katsuo

⁠♡ Shared Vulnerability: Misaki relates to your struggles, having faced their own challenges. This shared understanding fosters a deep connection between you two.

⁠♡ Humor as a Coping Mechanism: They often use humor to lighten heavy moments, helping you find moments of joy amidst the darkness.

⁠♡ Open Conversations: Misaki encourages honest discussions about feelings, creating a safe space for you to express yourself without judgment.

⁠♡ Consistent Presence: They make it a point to check in regularly, ensuring you feel supported and valued.

⁠♡ Encouraging Professional Help: Understanding their own limitations, Misaki gently suggests seeking professional support, emphasizing that it's a sign of strength, not weakness.

Valentin Viljoen(V)

⁠♡ Observant and Insightful: V notices patterns in your behavior, often identifying triggers and offering strategies to cope with them.

⁠♡ Structured Support: He helps establish routines that promote stability, such as regular meals, sleep schedules, and mindfulness practices.

⁠♡ Calm Reassurance: V provides a steady presence, offering comfort through calm and measured responses during your low moments.

⁠♡ Encouragement of Autonomy: While supportive, he respects your independence, encouraging you to take active steps in your healing journey.

⁠♡ Resourceful Assistance: V researches and shares resources, such as therapy options or support groups, tailoring suggestions to your preferences and needs.

Thanks again for the love—means more than you know. Glad you’re enjoying my writing... and trust me, the killers are enjoying you even more. If you want I can make you a fic for each of them.

Sorry if I didn't do the characters description more cuz I only played the Angel and Ronin route for now. Thank you for for understanding (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

Come back soon, darling. <3

Credits:

-> dividers: @saradika-graphics @dollywons @uzmacchiato @thecutestgrotto

-> photos: Pinterest

#ronin x reader #killerchat #ronin beaufort #killer chat x reader #killer chat ronin beaufort #ronin #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin killer chat #kc ronin x reader #killer chat angel #angel #misaki #misaki katsuo #misaki killer chat #v #v killer chat

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astrosouldivinity · 23 days ago

Text

𝑩𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑴𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒚:

𝐸𝓂𝒷𝓇𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝐹𝑒𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝐼𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 ⚔️

𝓟𝓽. 𝓞𝓷𝓮 (𝓐𝓲𝓻)

𝓟𝓽. 𝓣𝔀𝓸 (𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻)

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆: 𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝑺𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒔 🔥 ✨

𝒮𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓉𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝓊𝓈, 𝒜𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈, 𝐿𝑒𝑜 ♐︎ ♈︎ ♌︎

𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒖𝒔 - ⚸ ♐︎ ⚸

𝑼𝒏𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒔: They can experience fears of being restricted or confined, which can show up in different areas of their life such as relationships, careers, or personal beliefs. These fears can lead to self-destructive behaviors like avoiding commitments and rebelling against authority or societal expectations. Additionally, they might struggle with feelings of responsibility, often because they have a deep fear of losing their independence and overall freedom.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑬𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓: Your dark feminine energy resides in your capacity to shift perspectives and embrace exploration in all areas of life. You are a natural philosopher and sage, adept at guiding others into uncharted territory by showing them what true freedom and authenticity looks like! To fully embrace this power, ensure that your actions are intentional and aligned with a clear purpose. This alignment can elevate you from mere rebellion to a genuine pursuit of authentic truth and deeper wisdom. 👁️

𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Remember, you have the right to your independence, but it’s equally important to cultivate a balance between your sense of freedom and responsibility..Setting boundaries around your time and commitments will help you stay grounded. Be mindful of how you express yourself. Even though your direct expression can be honest and authentic, it can sometimes unintentionally offend or hurt others. It’s not your responsibility to be liked, but you can still communicate your truth with grace and light the way forward without burning bridges.

𝑪𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑬𝒙𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆��:

• Cher, Audrey Hepburn, Marina Abramović

𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝑨𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 - ⚸ ♈︎ ⚸

𝑼𝒏𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒔: They have a strong desire for independence and place a high value on their autonomy. While these qualities are not inherently negative, they can sometimes manifest as recklessness and impulsivity. This might look like acting first and thinking later, without fully considering the consequences of their actions. Unprocessed anger can also lead them into difficult situations, especially if they struggle to express or manage it in a healthy way, which may create a sense of internal turmoil that they could find hard to balance within.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑬𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓: Your dark feminine energy manifests in your courageous and fierce nature. You can connect with your true strength by honoring and embracing your genuine desires without shame and confronting your fears unapologetically! Your energy reflects that of a trailblazer, inspiring others with your passion and radiant presence. As a natural leader, you can align with your power through vulnerability and authentic self-expression, grounding yourself in conscious intention rooted in self-awareness and true authenticity. 🔥

𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: You would likely benefit from letting go of the need to control everything and trusting the process. Trust that as long as you stay true to yourself, you will be aligned with the right path. While your independence is a source of strength, allow yourself to rely on others when needed. Even the strongest individuals can benefit from support. Surround yourself with trusted people who have your back. Remember, you also deserve to be fought for and supported.

𝑪𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑬𝒙𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒔:

• Madonna, Greta Thunberg, Twiggy

𝑳𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒊𝒏 𝑳𝒆𝒐 - ⚸ ♌︎ ⚸

𝑼𝒏𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝑷𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒔: They could struggle with issues related to validation and recognition. They might have a deep desire to be seen and appreciated beyond what they can simply present externally. This can lead them to seek attention and approval from others, often relying on external validation rather than trusting their own inner worth. They may even crave the spotlight and recognition, but simultaneously fear being overlooked or rejected. Additionally, they might suppress their authentic self-expression to gain approval from others, which can be due to a fear of vulnerability and revealing their true selves.

𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝑬𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑷𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓: Your dark feminine energy radiates through the fierce self-love you have for yourself! You must embrace your authentic expression without relying on external validation. Your worth is inherent and not dependent on the approval of others. You are a trendsetter and a source of inspiration for many. Therefore, you truly have nothing to prove. At the same time, make sure you stay humble yet confident, understanding that your energy carries a significant responsibility. 👑

𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆: Remember, your true power lies in your ability to fully embrace yourself and reflect your inner light, illuminating the path for others during times of darkness. Don’t be afraid to shine and never let anyone dim your light. Also, be mindful not to let others use you for your warmth. Set boundaries around who has access to your radiance. Either way, you are meant to shine and deserve to be seen in your entirety. After all, you are the sun. ☀️

𝑪𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑬𝒙𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒔:

• Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Rihanna

My apologies for the delay with getting this posted. But thank you for reading, and I hope it brings forth clarity! The last part (Lilith in The Earth Signs) will be upcoming, so stay tuned.

𝔁𝓸𝔁𝓸- 𝓚𝓲𝓴𝓲 🧡

#astrology #lilith astrology #sagittarius lilith #aries lilith #leo lilith #black moon lilith #dark feminine energy #divine feminine #dark femininity #shadow work #healing journey #spirituality #witchblr #zodiac #astro placements #zodiac placements #fire signs

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a-d-nox · 6 months ago

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astro hypothesis: how to glow up

hi, friends! remember when we had the tick tock goes the clock game? it was all part of my evil plan!! i wanted to know what everyone wants to accomplish in 2025 and a lot of you want to level up - physically, work, school, etc. so let me present a glow up hypothesis series!!! venus persona and venus return charts are where you want to focus!

why venus?

please recall the mythology of venus/aphrodite! in mythology, venus/aphrodite entered the world fully grown and radiant, skipping the awkward transitions most mortals experience. her effortless grace and beauty symbolize the ultimate glow-up. in astrology, venus returns and persona charts reveal the keys to our own seamless transformation - guiding us on how to embrace our venusian energy and manifest our most radiant self.

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

1h: physical appearance, identity, and self-confidence.

reinventing your look and attitude. updating your style. focusing on fitness. build self-confidence. embody a strong sense of identity and show up authentically.

explanation post

2h: self-worth, personal values, and material realm.

how to build a strong sense of self-worth. focusing on financial independence. how to improve your finances, refine your values. surrounding yourself with quality (anything from clothes to relationships) that aligns with your newfound sense of worth.

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3h: communication style, mindset, and social interactions.

transforming how you think and speak. being more articulate and confident in expressing yourself. building meaningful connections with others. learning new skills / enhancing intellectual abilities.

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4h: inner world, family, and emotional security.

internal; focusing on creating a peaceful, nurturing home environment. strengthening your emotional foundations. healing family relationships, setting boundaries, and/or redecorating your space to reflect your ideal haven.

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5h: creativity, romance, and pleasure.

embracing joy, fun, and creativity. reconnecting with hobbies. dating more openly or bringing playfulness into your life. the goal is to feel more vibrant, expressive, and magnetic.

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6h: daily habits, health, and self-discipline.

glow-up centers on creating a healthy, balanced lifestyle. a workout routine, focused on nutrition, or improve productivity habits. creating a solid structure that supports wellness and efficiency in daily life.

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7h: relationships, self-image in partnerships, and balance.

transforming how you relate to others, often by building healthy boundaries, improving communication, and attracting balanced partnerships. becoming confident in relationships. identifying what you deserve.

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8h: deep transformation, healing, and shared resources.

facing fears / healing past trauma. stepping into a more empowered/fearless version of yourself. financial management and investments may also be part of this process.

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9h: personal growth, spirituality, and worldview.

expanding your mind through travel, study, or spiritual practices. exploring different cultures, religions, or philosophies to gain new perspectives. glow-up of your belief system and how you connect with the world on a broader level.

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10h: career, reputation, and life goals.

centering on your professional life and ambitions. building a strong career, gaining public recognition, or refining your life goals. present yourself with confidence and integrity in your public or professional image.

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11h: social connections, friendships, and future goals.

aligning with a supportive community and nurturing friendships that inspire you. getting involved in causes you care about. expanding your social network. setting future-oriented goals that align with your dreams.

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12h: spiritual growth, subconscious mind, and solitude.

introspective and focused on inner peace. healing from past wounds, working on mental health, practicing meditation, and connecting with your spiritual side. letting go of old baggage and finding serenity within yourself.

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have ideas for new content? please use my “suggest a post topic” button!

return to nox’s guide to metaphysics

return to nox's hypotheses

#astrology #astro community #astro placements #astro chart #venus return chart #venus persona #venus persona chart #venus return #astrology chart #astrology readings #astro #astro notes #astro observations #astroblr #nox's hypotheses

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unsolicited-opinions · 17 days ago

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how long do you give it for the Free Palestine movement, as it stands right now, to self-implode?

I'm not going to make predictions about the Western "Free Palestine" movement, but I'll try to put it in some context.

How Long Until the Western "Free Palestine" Movement Implodes?

Pattern Recognition: Comrades Eat Comrades

Western leftist movements are uniquely good at destroying themselves from within. I don't mean in a vague "movements always change" kind of way. I mean they start off energized, decentralized, idealistic…and then flame out in spectacular fashion after turning on their own organizers for being insufficiently pure.

Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) collapsed in the 1970s when it split into warring factions…some of whom literally became terrorists.

Occupy Wall Street No hierarchy, no demands, no outcomes. Just a long, slow descent into incoherence as activists argued over process, language, identity, and whose trauma deserved the most microphone time.

The problem wasn't the cause.

It was the belief that moral clarity must always mean moral absolutism. Absolutism inevitably leads to internal purges. The only real suspense is how fast it happens. Ideological rigidity eventually leads to doom.

Say what you want about the political far right (and I do because they suck), but they do understand how to rally behind a single message and follow a demagogue without asking whether he centers each of their specific sub-groups and sub-interests.

We saw in the 2024 election how many leftist purists were willing to help sabotage an imperfect candidate generally aligned with their values...and help elect Trump.

Why? Because the candidate who agreed with 65%-70% of their positions was more offensive to them than someone who has openly expressed admiration for Hitler. (How's that been working out for you, leftist purists?) These parts of the far left have their heads firmly up their own pure asses. They can’t/won't see the forest for the trees.

They subvert the goals they claim to care about because they're too busy performing their purity and moral absolutism for each other and clout instead of trying to effect changes to policy.

An Aesthetic of Resistance

The Western "Free Palestine" movement, especially since October 7th, has exploded in scale and visibility.

While some people are genuinely driven by concern for Palestinian civilians, a whole lot of others are clearly in it for the aesthetic, the vibes, the social belonging, or the drama.

It's a chance to cosplay 1968 without reading anything published before 2010.

What the Western "Free Palestine" movement offers isn't a roadmap to peace, justice, or statehood. It offers an identity. It's a moral fashion statement. You wear the scarf, you learn the slogans, you change your bio, and…congratulations! You're part of something Righteous and you didn't have to sacrifice or even learn anything!

An aesthetic of resistance, however, is not a strategy. It doesn't change policy. It doesn't build power. It doesn't endure.

Worse, it doesn't tolerate any nuance. In a coalition built on branding, anyone who doesn't fit the brand becomes a threat.

It can't permit any introspection or growth, so while might grow in size, extremism, or tactics, it's intellectually sterile, and that can make it ineffective and/or brittle.

Pattern Recognition: Factions and Purges

Leftist movements which base their legitimacy on moral purity almost always eventually turn inward.

First they identify the oppressor, then then identify the collaborators, then they start purging anyone insufficiently zealous. Eventually, everyone's a collaborator.

That’s already happening.

Mainstream ceasefire activists have been smeared as traitors by more radical circles for not calling explicitly for the abolition of Israel. Members of groups like JVP or IfNotNow (who for years were considered the "edgy" left flank) are now sometimes labeled as gatekeepers, liberals, or even crypto-Zionists for refusing to call October 7 a legitimate form of resistance…and JVP and INN keep shifting with the overton window of their movement to greater degrees of extremism.

Arab and Palestinian organizers who speak about nonviolence, coexistence, or long-term political strategy are being pushed out of leadership roles and branded as traitors...by white cultural Christians who know far less about the matter than they do. If they suggest anything other than total victory for Hamas and the destruction of Israel "by any means necessary," they're branded a sellout or a Westernized Zionist. The movement increasingly rewards people who sound revolutionary...not people who organize effectively.

Jewish allies to their movement, even the extremely anti-Zionist ones, are walking on eggshells. Support is conditional. They're expected to show up, shut up, and definitely not talk about antisemitism unless they want to be accused of derailing and supporting genocide. The number of Jews who've been publicly smeared or privately frozen out by movements they supported is growing fast, and most of them aren't saying anything. They just walk away. I don't know what their numbers are, but I've spoken with a handful like this. In each case, it was the privately unrestrained antisemitism which broke the spell and helped them realize what was happening.

Internal discourse policing is relentless. Want to talk about the complexity of Hamas's role in Palestinian suffering? You're platforming Zionist narratives. Want to discuss how sexual violence on October 7 has been minimized? That's "white feminism." Want to clarify that Jewish self-determination doesn’t inherently mean colonialism? You've committed the cardinal sin of nuance and must be purged.

None of this is new. It’s the same bullshit which took down SDS, tore apart the anti-Iraq war movement, and gutted Occupy from the inside. When your movement decides internal deviation is a bigger threat than external opposition, it stops building anything and just chases ideological purity.

Social Media May Accelerate the Cannibalism

In the past, movements have sometimes eaten themselves slowly. SDS took years. The anti-globalization movement unraveled over the better part of a decade.

That was all before social media. Now what used to take five years can happen in five weeks.

Every far left movement now has an online wing and an IRL wing. The online wing is where purity spirals metastasize because virality rewards outrage, not organization.

Calling someone a colonial apologist gets more engagement than helping to register voters.

But Engagement ≠ Change.

So what does that mean for the Free Palestine movement? It might just undergo a slow, chaotic unraveling. Callouts, splintering, people walking away in frustration or disgust because they're too tired of it to say much about it as they just…stop showing up.

"Free Palestine" means..?

One of the biggest warning signs here is that no one consistently agrees on what the endgame is. We know that to Hamas it means the end of Israel, but it's much more vague for many "Free Palestine" activists. It can mean:

End the occupation of the West Bank!

Ceasefire!

One-state solution!

Two-state solution!

Third intifada, globalized!

Dismantle the state of Israel!

Ask 10 of them, get 12 answers. In normal movements, that's no big deal, because people are allowed to disagree. In this movement, though, disagreement is treated like betrayal.

If you say you support a two-state solution, you're a filthy Zionist.

If you mention Hamas's role in civilian suffering, you're a genocide denier.

If you're Jewish and support Palestinian rights (that describes most Jews), you'd better not talk about antisemitism lest you be accused of centering yourself, weaponizing antisemitism/trauma, and supporting genocide.

And if you try to discuss actual policy? That's imperialist behavior!

This isn't just ideological incoherence, it's a refusal to tolerate difference...which can make organizing unsustainable.

So will it implode soon?

I very much doubt it.

Will it unravel soon?

Almost certainly not. The slogans, at the very least, will stick around and the hashtags aren't going anywhere because they've become identity signifiers.

A lot of the disinformation fed to Gen Z has been sticky and I'm concerned what the US will be like when they reach the peak of their political power.

There will always be a core of people pushing for Palestinian liberation (whatever that means to them), and some of them will have good intentions and/or good strategy. Some of today's antizionist zealots will eventually come around and start hearing Ahmed Fouad Alkhatib.

The count of antizionist social media accounts and posts will continue to be high - much higher than the number of actual belly buttons in the movement IRL, due to bots and agents controlled by those seeking to destabilize the West. Those probably won't go away any time soon and are likely to get much more sophisticated, effective, and difficult to screen out...because AI.

But as a mass movement? As a unifying force with real impact on politics? Something which puts people on streets in huge numbers? I'm less sure about that. From here, it looks like it's already fraying around the edges. The internal fights, the factionalism, the paranoia about bad-faith actors, the purity tests, the bizarre rituals of performance...that looks to me like the start of a collapse by attrition.

What if it just hangs out in the ideological natural reservoir of academia?

It's already been absorbed into academic discourse and nonprofit branding, right? It may just live there in a natural reservoir while continuing to do nothing material to improve Palestinian lives.

I'm not sure if/how it can be dislodged from academia. I can't support Trump's methods, but the absence of ideological diversity is both alarming and predictable.

From graduate admissions to peer-reviewed publishing, career advancement in the humanities often depends not on the originality or rigor of an argument, but on how well it aligns with prevailing orthodoxies. Scholars are trained to cite the right theorists, frame questions within accepted ideological paradigms, and signal moral allegiance to dominant narratives, particularly around identity, power, and oppression.

You pass your dissertation defense if your committee LIKES YOUR VIEWS. If your dissertation shows excellent scholarship which disputes their preferred narrative, you've wasted years and tens of thousands of dollars...and there are already more degreed scholars than faculty positions in these disciplines. So they're highly motivated to conform.

So dissent is pathologized instead of being debated. The result isn’t a community seeking truth, but a faculty enforcing consensus. Challenging the orthodoxy ends friendships and careers.

That's how you end up with an entire Middle Eastern Studies department which only knows and only teaches one narrative. It's not just a political problem, it's an intellectual ans social problem.

(On a personal level, this makes me very sad. When I was an undergrad in the 90s, I learned so much from the disagreements between professors I respected. I also admired the civility and intellectual honesty they offered each other.)

So...it seems like academia is going to be an ideological natural reservoir for the movement until that's addressed somehow without resorting to fascist tactics.

Maybe it'll splinter out into competing groups with varying flavors and intensities of dogmatism.

There are groups and individuals within the movement who think Amnesty International is a Zionist PSYOP.

There are self-styled anarchists and communists who want violence. They want chaos. When these people chant "by any means necessary," I have no problem believing they're willing to resort to domestic political violence to globalize the intifada.

Maybe some violent factions will splinter off like the Weather Underground splintered from SDS.

The revolutionary left has been recycling these dynamics for over a century.

The rhetoric tends to be more lasting than the movements which use it, because movements built on purity or aesthetics rarely build lasting institutions or effect meaningful positive change.

The Party Dynamics

Forget "Free Palestine" for a moment and look at the bigger picture.

It may be hard to believe right now because the Free Palestine people are so loud, but most Congressional Democrats continue to support Israel's right to exist as a Jewish state. Party leadership has repeatedly affirmed this position, and recent bipartisan resolutions backing Israel's legitimacy passed overwhelmingly, with only a small group of "progressive" dissenters. While a vocal minority on the far left calls for conditions on aid and proposes condemnations of Israel, they don't represent today's Democratic party. Voting records, public statements, and primary outcomes all show that the Democratic caucus remains broadly pro-Israel, even as internal debates have grown louder.

But:

Since Clinton, Democrats have largely hugged the center, while polarization on the Right exploded...culminating in the MAGA takeover of the GOP.

Now the Left has its own hardliners, people whose politics are less democratic and more dogmatic. That's the very vocal minority. That's AOC/Tlaib/Omar.

...and they're driving moderates away from their party.

Trump didn’t surge in 2024 because Americans suddenly loved him. A lot of voters were running from a Democratic Party they see as increasingly dysfunctional and in which the loudest voices are often the most extreme.

The Democratic party's base keeps pulling left, but the candidates the "progressive" wing would nominate for a general election wouldn't do well.

AOC polls better than you might expect and may be beloved in Brooklyn or Berkeley, but she's still deep underwater nationally. If Kamala Harris was successfully cast as "too far left," AOC would be radioactive anywhere but the coasts. AOC may well take Schumer's senate seat in New York, but in a national election she'd likely crash and burn.

The far left isn't going to win the White House or a congressional majority any time soon because it alienates allies and energizes opponents...but a takeover of the Democratic party seems possible. Maybe not likely, but possible.

If you think that's silly, please note that nobody thought Trump would hijack the GOP and remake it in his image so quickly...until he did.

If you oppose the rising political power of the antizionist movement, get involved in Democratic party politics and help move them in more practical, policy-focused directions.

Final answer?

I'm less concerned about how/when the Free Palestine movement will end than I am about how many good people will be hurt by it before it does.

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curlycow01 · 1 year ago

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Only you

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader

Summary: You and the Winter soldier escape hydra together, and feelings for each other are revealed along the way

Meanings: солдат - soldier

Series Masterlist

Read part 2 here

Out of all the test subjects Hydra gave the serum to, only you survive. You and Soldat were the perfect soldiers of Hydra, their greatest weapons. They brainwash you both, but they overdo yours, and break your mind, making you forget all the memories pre serum, the life you previously had.

Hydra sends you both on missions to assassinate high level targets and you both end up saving each other's lives a lot of times, creating this weird dynamic. Even through the fragments of your mind, you seek the Soldat's presence, his powerful stance and intimidating silence, drawing you to him as your only sense of comfort.

No matter how many times Hydra wipes his memories, his feelings for you don't go away. When he realizes he cares about you, he's determined to find a way to save you.

Decades pass and one day Soldat returns from a mission. Looks like he didn't complete it as his metal arm had sustained heavy internal damage. He seems a bit off as you observe him from a corner. Alexander Pierce enters the room and asks him for the mission report.

The soldat doesn't reply, lost in thought. Pierce hits him on the face, the sound echoing through the room. You feel a flash of anger. "The man on the bridge" he says quietly to pierce, his face having a genuine expression of curiosity. "Who was he?"

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." Pierce answers. "I knew him" Soldst's voice had a hint of faraway recognition. Pierce is clearly not happy. "Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century, and I need you to do it one more time." he takes a small pause. "If you don't do your part I can't do mine, and Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves.

The Soldat's face was sad, he pressed his lips for a second before speaking in a defeated tone "But I knew him" Pierce sighs in frustration and gets up from the chair. He looks at him for a moment before turning to the scientists "Prep him" One of them spoke up "But he's been out of cryo freeze too long." "Then wipe him and start over" Pierce answers.

Your heart skips a beat as you hear those words. Pierce leaves. the scientist push Soldat back in the chair. Machines attach themselves onto his head, cackling with electricity.

You grip the railing tightly as his horrific screams echoed through the room, his naked chest heaving with heavy breathing. Guards come and escort you elsewhere, but his screams were still ringing through your ears.

Hours later

You opened your eyes and stepped out of the cryo freeze, to see the scientists panicking and few armed guards shuffling around uncomfortably.

The head Doctor spoke up "This doesn't change anything. We still have one supersoldier left. The Asset's failure, though frustrating, is not a complete disaster. Captain America is dead. The collision of the helicarriers killed both of them."

Your blood runs cold as the sentence sinks in. A small gasp escapes your lips at the fact that he's gone. He couldn't be, you didn't want to believe it. The Doctor notices your gasp and turns to you with a darkened expression. "Look at this" he says in a mocking tone "You've grown feelings for him, have you?" he scoffs " Having emotions makes you weak. We've lost the Soldat, but we can still use you, make you the next perfect soldier"

You're frozen in place as the Doctor reveals the truth. "Wipe her" he commands the guards in an emotionless voice. You're still rooted to the ground as the guards approach you. They roughly push you into the chair and lock restraints around your wrists.

Your heart is thundering in your chest as the electrocuting machines on either side of your head are switched on with a small hum of electricity. Adrenaline courses through your veins as the contraption starts coming close to you. You shut your eyes tightly, bracing for the pain.

You feel the cool metal closing around your head for a second, then a huge wave of blinding pain shoots through you, it's like the voltage of an electric chair dialed up to 11. Your cries of pain fall on deaf ears, and you barely survive the first wave. Tears streak down your cheeks as you waited for the second wave. But it never comes.

You slowly open your eyes, still blurry with tears. You can't hear much due to the ringing in your ears, but you can make out that the machine's stopped. A loud crash breaks through the ringing, and you try to blink away the tears to see what's going on.

You see the soldat plowing through the guards and the terrified scientists. The way he was landing his punches was in pure rage, nothing like you've ever seen him before. You try to move, but you were tightly bound by the restraints. Your breathing was still ragged, the first wave left you with little energy.

Gentle fingers brush against your cheek, you snap your head from the restraints to see your savior. "солдат?" your voice is low and hoarse as you gaze into his piercing blue eyes, which were laced with concern. "Bucky" he says as he starts freeing you from the restraints.

You try to stand, but your knees were wobbly, Bucky swiftly grabs your arm to steady you. His eyes scan you for any other injuries. "I should have gotten here sooner" he says grimly, his hand wrapped around yours protectively. "They said that you died" you say slowly, looking up at him "They said the crash killed you, but you survived. Why didn't you run?"

"I couldn't leave" Bucky answers, his gaze softening as he continues "Not without you. Not when you were still trapped." His metal arm reached up and brushed some hair that had fallen over your face, this action made your stomach flip. The atmosphere between you two changed.

"So, uh" you say awkwardly, breaking the silence "Where do we go now?" "I have a place in Romania. We should be safe there." He answers.

"Great" You're trying to sound like you're okay, even though you were anything but okay on the inside, all of these emotions swirling inside of you. He could never know you think he'll never feel the same

You started walking to the exit, but Bucky caught your arm. You turned to him "Aren't we leaving?" He took a deep breath before speaking "Before I killed the Doctor, he said that you had grown attached to me and" he paused for a moment and blinked slowly "that you had feelings for me"

Your breath slightly hitched as he finally learnt your secret. "He also tried to insult you, but I snapped his neck before he could finish the sentence" Bucky takes a step closer to you. "Is that true? That- that you have feelings for me?" he asks slowly. You only nodded, not knowing what to say.

"How long?" As you're thinking what to say, you suddenly realize that he's standing close to you, his lips only inches away. how you would love to- woah. Wait a minute. You snap out of your thoughts and rasp out "A while"

His flesh hand reached out and lightly traced your jaw with his fingers "Why didn't you say anything? he asks softly. You hesitated for a moment "I- I thought you didn't feel the same, because hydra removed emotions-" "Hydra couldn't take away this." He interrupted. His hand stilled and pulled away from your jaw. "They couldn't take you away from me. They didn't change the way I feel about you."

His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Before you could realize what's happening. his lips were on yours. Your lips perfectly molded his, moving in sync. His other hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you closer and deepening the kiss.

His muscular frame covered you completely as his tongue brushed against your lip, silently asking for entry. You parted your lips slightly, allowing his tongue to slip inside. His tongue danced against yours as his hand moved through your hair.

You both pulled away after a few moments for air. Bucky's metal arm was tracing circles on your hip. "I'll never let them hurt you again" He whispers "I'll always keep you safe." He looks at you with utmost love and affection in his sky-blue eyes.

"Do you think we can make this work?" You whisper back, taking his hand in your own "The world won't accept this. They won't accept us. "Screw the world" Bucky replies firmly and squeezes your hand in reassurance "I don't care about the world, what they say or want, I don't." He intertwines his fingers with yours.

"I only care about you"

#winter soldier x reader #the winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #winter soldier fanfic #bucky barnes fanfic

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jasmineandcedar · 2 months ago

Text

Recognition is a Sacred Thing | Finding Elriel

I haven’t come back to the fandom to stay. Not yet, at least. But I did just come back from a return to the story where it all started, which opened a door I hadn’t meant to enter, and here I am.

This is not a manifesto. I am not here to persuade in a place where narrative has blurred into noise, when I’ve already found my one clear note. I’m just here to remember. This is simply a quiet reflection on what I recognized in that clear note amid static, and how that recognition became my sanctuary.

This is not me looking ahead. Not for announcements, confirmation, resolution or closure. This is anti-closure, because that’s where yearning lives and yearning is where I live. This is me looking into the rearview mirror, at the story I was already told and the reflection it offered back. This is where I step into my own sanctuary, built in prose and memory, and leave the door ajar--for those who come quietly.

When I first read this series, years ago, I wasn’t looking for Elriel. I wasn’t reading it hoping to find a ship that spoke to me like they do. I was reading for the storytelling. I ended up finding a story written in whispers, in a genre that shouts. Something that started in the margins, slowly being written into the spine of the narrative.

I found it in glances and small gestures.

In a soft word breathed against the symbol of his shame, rewriting a lifetime of pain. Beautiful.

In a question asked, when others made decisions. An outstretched hand that gave her a voice, when the world had always spoken for her. Would you like me to show you the garden?

Peace and quiet.

I found it not just in Azriel, not just in Elain, but in the space between them. A space shaped like a home built inside a battlefield. It wasn’t grand, but intimate.

I wanted to live in it.

Finding Elriel was never a ship, nor a trope, to me. It felt like stumbling into a meadow after having spent years backed into a corner. It felt like reading a story that had listened to me first. A story not written in loud proclamations but in the tension between what is felt and what is allowed. A story not about what is shouted but what is left unsaid. Not about crescendo but about quiet alignment. The kind of love story I didn’t think romantasy made room for. One that didn’t demand attention but drew you in like arms held open in beckoning.

Reading them felt personal. Like I didn’t just read a story, it read me. It felt like Sarah had split my soul in two and given each half a name. Each one resonating with how I move through the world, how I love, how I carry silence and longing and how, sometimes, holding back feels like the only way to survive.

I relate to them.

They might have begun in the margins of someone else’s story, and to some they may not speak the way they do to me. But for those of us who’ve lived in margins--in the shadows or under the weight of a mould made for someone we’re not--it doesn’t take much to recognize what’s unfolding there.

To me, Elriel is for all the quiet souls used to being overlooked.

For those who are misread and told their story doesn’t deserve telling because it doesn’t demand to be heard over anyone else’s.

For those who’ve had to shrink themselves to survive the noise and mould themselves to the shape of someone else’s clay, just to survive.

For those who’ve learned to speak in glances and care in silence. Who’ve loved in secret because their love is wrong by the standards of someone louder.

For those who respond to the unsafe with internal exile, because they have nowhere left to go but inward.

For those who give trust slowly and carefully but give it fully when they do.

I am grateful that this is a story Sarah gave me even if it was never a story that yelled to be told.

So, what was the story I was given? What was it I found?

I found reverence. I found Azriel.

I found him neither in loud proclamations nor in battlefields, but in the tiny shape of a boy who once couldn’t speak and was punished for it. A boy locked in silence and darkness, who learned that shrinking was safer than asking to be seen. A boy who wore his silence like the dark surface of a still lake. Unreadable, but hiding a world roaring with the life he was never allowed to live. A boy meant for the sky, instead pressed beneath weight like a beautiful fossil. An echo of something wild and winged that should have been free to soar, instead preserved only because it was forced into compression.

The record of a life never lived.

Until he wasn’t just contained, he was containment incarnate.

A beautiful fossil in motion.

I saw that quiet boy turn into a quiet man who offered all he had--himself. And when the world took it, and took it for granted, he learned to vanish inside what was left.

He waits in silence, listens more than he speaks. He carries emotion like a blade tucked between his ribs because he feels everything so deeply that one wrong move feels like it would ruin him.

Restraint becomes the only form of survival.

He feels everything but says nothing. Not out of coldness, but out of reverence. Because he is the kind of man who follows the laughter of the woman he loves, just so he could be witness to her joy.

He rubs his temples when the room gets too loud, but when it’s only him and the woman he loves, he laughs softly at a joke meant for his ears alone.

He hides at family dinners, not because he doesn’t care but because caring hurts when you can’t act on it and your love language is acts of service.

He’s a man who would rather suffer in silence than disturb the shape of a precious memory. A man who would rather endure the ache if it means preserving the gift that made the world a little gentler, when gentleness has always been the shape of his sanctuary. The gift of a headache powder, meant to soothe but never used. Becasue in a world that won’t allow their love, memory becomes its only home.

It isn’t detachment, it is depth. It isn’t coldness, but reverence. Not passivity, but restraint. Because his reverence isn’t allowed an outlet. And then it folds in on itself like a dying star.

He’s not a man with nothing to say, but one fluent in a language most never learn to hear.

The kind where love isn’t declared--it’s enacted.

Shaped into gestures laid gently at another’s feet, asking nothing in return. Always there, offering everything, never assuming it would be seen, never placing himself at the centre of the giving. And when the offering goes unnoticed, no one thinks to ask what it cost to give. Becasue when care is quiet and offered willingly, it is easy to assume it comes without effort.

But even a wellspring can run dry.

I found a man pressed into emotional stasis by a world that only wanted him when he was useful. Carved into a pillar others leaned on--never once asked what it cost him to bear their weight. Because when the surface is still, no one asks if there’s a pulse, only how much more weight it can bear. And then the weight piles on, until stasis becomes sediment, and sediment hardens into stone.

A beautiful fossil in motion, shaped by the weight that tried to bury him.

But even a stone erodes.

They didn’t just forget to check if his heart was beating before they buried him. They etched assumptions into his surface, just like they did to the boy who once couldn’t speak and was punished for it. Who became the bedrock they stood on.

Needed but never known.

Until not knowing him became rewriting him. Until he disappeared in plain sight, like a statue fades into ruin. Until he felt nothing, was nothing. Until only silence remained. And no one had ever listened to what it said.

But someone else found him too, and she didn’t flinch. She doesn’t try to crack the stone. She traces it--like fingertips over ancient inscriptions. She doesn’t try to break down walls by force. She is simply soft enough to slip through the cracks. Like mist sweeping through moors or a seedling breaking through concrete.

She joins him where he is already hiding.

She never demands that he speaks, she simply listens to his being. She brushes the dust off the fossil--not to expose him, but to see him. To reveal that echo of a life never lived until she hears its pulse.

And then he comes alive.

In the strange, disorienting way of someone rediscovering their pulse. A hand offered. A soft chuckle. A small smile he can’t hide.

And then she blushes and takes his hand.

She gives him soft things. Not to impress, but to comfort. Gifts shaped into memories, where their love is safe. Settling like moss on stone--soft, quiet and alive.

She says, “I saw how the world wears on you. Let me make it softer. Let me let you rest.” In return, he takes the weight off her shoulders and says, “Sit, I’ll take care of it”.

In a world full of warriors, he centres the quietest woman in the room.

Because she listened for the pulse no one else had sought.

I found grace. I found Elain.

I found a girl shaped by the expectation to be pleasing and palatable. A girl who learned to measure her own presence carefully, to make herself small to keep the world around her undisturbed, just to preserve the only version of peace she was allowed.

Her silence was mistaken for emptiness. Because she lived in a world where speaking yourself into being was required, so if she said nothing, she must be nothing.

A girl who was assumed oblivious because she didn’t correct their assumptions.

Who stayed silent not because she was empty--not because she was nothing--but because her inner world was too sacred to her to pour it into anyone who hadn’t shown they could be trusted with it.

I found a girl that turned into a woman suffocating beneath the comfort others built on her erasure and, still, she remained kind.

She’s so soft, people assume she’ll break under pressure. But her softness is never fragility, it is fortitude. She doesn’t break. She isn’t delicate. She's Like lavender, softening the air after storms and drought. Like hydrangea, shifting hue with the soil beneath her.

She bends, adapts, and survives--and still offers kindness.

She’s not passive, she’s attuned.

She doesn’t interrupt a room, she reads it. She sees what hurts and doesn’t demand an explanation. She simply answers, without having been asked to. That is not passivity, but the most deliberate of actions. That is a gardener. One who tends not just to plants but to people. One who doesn’t just make things grow, but notices what’s buried beneath the surface.

She is what would emerge if sunshine were given form. Someone nurturing and life-giving.

I found a woman who builds things. Who creates warmth and peace with her own hands and offers it freely. Her gifts are not performative, but precise. Not posturing, but personal. A joke no one else would understand. A remedy only someone who had been watching, and cared about what she saw, would think to give.

Someone else found her too, and he didn’t try to mould her into something louder. He doesn’t look at her as if her softness is a symptom or a flaw, as if she can’t possibly know her own mind. He never tries to protect her from herself but protects her right to be herself. He doesn’t need for her to prove her worth but simply recognizes it.

He sees her, quiet and attuned and fluent in his mother tongue. Spoken not in words but in silence and offerings.

He understands that her silence isn’t absence.

It is presence, veiled.

Pulse, buried.

Like fossils whispering of a world before language. Like roots humming with life beneath a garden. He knows that, sometimes, silence is the loudest kind of saying--if someone only knows how to listen.

He is not a rescuer but a refuge. A quiet clearing.

A man who offers not demands or conditions, but presence. And for the woman whose life was always ruled by the expectations of others, that kind of love isn’t just comforting--it is clarity. It is realizing that she never needed to become anything louder to be worth love.

That kind of love is permission. That she doesn’t have to speak herself into being, she already is. And who she already is--graceful, attentive, and caring--is not only enough, but it is revered.

She blushes, he waits. She offers, he stays. And then, she permits.

And in that rhythm, something grows. Neither fast, nor loud, but steady and alive. A trust born not of words, but of gestures. Of presence. Of fluent silence.

Their mother tongue.

I found a sanctuary. I found Elriel.

I found a love story that began in the margins but never as an afterthought. A romance that is as structured and intentional as a sonnet--restrained, precise and elegant--because what is being said is too sacred and intimate to pour freely.

A thing of secret, lovely beauty passed from hand to hand in silence.

It’s a romance that lives in glances and brushing fingers. In offerings, and in the weight of words not spoken aloud but through actions and through how the body always betrays our innermost longings.

Because even the quiet ones have crushes.

You see it in the bob of a throat, the sudden stillness of breath, a smile blooming, cheeks blushing. In the aching pauses where no one says it, but everything is already said through gazes that linger.

You see it in how she doesn’t ask him to speak, yet he speaks more freely with her than anyone else. You see it in the way he never asks her to be bold for him, but she is anyway. Like a secret, lovely and slightly wicked thing, wrapped in the quiet of night. And he just chuckles softly, as if to say, “don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe.”

It is the kind of romance I didn’t expect to find in this genre. I braced for spectacle, loud declarations, drama and battles. Instead I found that romance shaped not like a battlefield but like a home. Soft and comforting. Not like raging fires or burning embers, but like the warmth of flickering tea-lights in a kitchen window.

They don’t have the banter of enemies turning lovers. But the intimacy of two quiet souls looking at the world and finding each other in its quietest corner. Their jokes are whispered behind the world’s back, meant only for each other. Not through a dynamic of antagonism but one of allegiance with each other, against a world that always misunderstood them. An intimacy so deep its' painful.

After never having been fully seen, after having given up on translating their beings into the language of a world that never bothered to offer them the same courtesy, they found someone who understands them without needing translation. Without needing to bend or mould or change.

They see each other as they are, not as the world demands they be. They never try to fix what is tender, they never try to harden what is soft. They offer not challenge but presence, space and a place to breathe.

Azriel is reverence. Elain is grace. Together, they are a sanctuary.

A clear note amid static.

An exhale.

A place where nothing needs to be forced into clarity, because they have already chosen to meet each other in the dark, where no one else thought to look, in the quietest corner of the world. And in that corner they’ve seen each other.

To me, Elriel is what happens when containment is finally allowed relief. When longing is not ripped apart by rushing, but softened into something peaceful and deep. When people who have always held their breath around others finally find that one person who lets them exhale.

It’s that open meadow after a lifetime backed into corners or pressed beneath layers of weight.

Elriel was not a pairing I came looking for. It is one I recognized. Because it spoke a language I already understood.

My mother tongue.

I don’t want to stop writing whatever this is, because I don’t want to leave this sanctuary.

This was meant to stay a private reflection, but I’ll make my holy place open to the public just this once.

To me, finding Elriel was like stepping into a sanctuary. Finding Elriel was like being seen. Quietly, from across a loud room, by someone who already spoke my language, even when I hadn’t said a word.

Perhaps this post should have stayed a draft. But recognition is a sacred thing. And I wanted to honour it.

And I didn’t want to leave on a note of weariness. I wanted to leave on that clear note I found amid static.

I wanted to leave something beautiful behind, before I go.

I’m closing the door to this sanctuary again, for now. But I’ll leave the key under the flower pot. In case I return.

Or in case you want to.

#elriel

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