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othernightslikethis · 27 days ago

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White Emperor

Ningning x Male Reader x Winter (aespa)

Not really a couple with three btw, maybe.

It’s normal for frustration to become an unrelenting shadow, dogging your every step, and there’s something exasperating about how others seem to sneer at that reality. Not that it should matter to you—at least, that was the illusion you clung to. Life, up until now, had been kind enough that you never had to worry too much. And perhaps that was the true crux of the problem.

Real Madrid represents the pinnacle of any footballer’s career, an undeniable testament to the greatness that so few ever reach. Even the most inattentive observer recognises this indisputable truth, for it is the greatest club in the world—a monument erected upon history and immortal glory. To feel indifferent to the privilege of donning the white shirt would be an affront to the very nature of the sport

“We’re loaning you out.”

The words from the club official struck like a shard of reality embedding itself in your soul, reverberating with the force of a deafening crash. You had never imagined such a sentence could wound you so deeply, and yet it did—devastatingly so. The truth crashed down upon you like a runaway car slamming into a wall—sudden, inescapable, and catastrophic. No longer useful to Real Madrid. No longer indispensable. Reduced to the status of a disposable piece, an obsolete cog in the machine, a mere remnant of a glory that no longer belonged to you. Disgust coursed through your veins like a biting chill; bile surged up your throat, thick and acrid, and you swallowed it so quickly you barely registered the bitter taste burning your windpipe. Your eyes, vacant and wandering, swept across the room until they landed on the imposing figure of president Florentino Pérez.

— Y-you can’t…? — you stammered, suffocated by desperation. — Surely not! There must something… I’ll work harder… You can’t… I—” The firm weight of a hand on your shoulder cut your plea short. Your eyes blinked, dispelling the mist of tears beginning to form, and when your vision finally cleared, you found yourself staring at the imposing figure of your agent. More than an agent, he was a mentor. More than a mentor, he was your father.

— Where are we going? His voice, deep and unwavering, sought no explanation—only a destination. There were no pointless questions, no futile protests. Only acceptance—not resigned, but tinged with something worse. A certain… disappointment. No, that wasn’t quite right. What resonated in his tone was not mere dissatisfaction. It was disillusionment. And in that moment, you knew—you had failed.

— London — came the emotionless response. — Your destination for the next twelve months is Tottenham Hotspur.

The sentence was passed. The judgment, final. The weight of exile settled upon your shoulders like an unappealable verdict, and all that remained was to press forward, even as each step became a merciless reminder of what you had lost.

Your transfer would be finalised within a week, and the urgency weighed on you like an inescapable burden. You needed to gather your belongings and organise the essential paperwork for the transaction, even though the club had already handled most of the bureaucratic procedures. Time was slipping through your fingers like fine sand, and each passing moment served as a reminder that your departure was imminent. It was on one of those nights, as you returned home, utterly drained by the relentless routine, that a heavy sigh escaped you before you collapsed onto your bed. Just then, your phone buzzed, momentarily cutting through the exhaustion that had taken hold of your body. With your vision blurred by fatigue, you hesitated for a brief moment, debating whether to answer the call or let it fade into oblivion. But that hesitation vanished the instant your eyes landed on the illuminated icon on the screen.

Soulmate❄️

A smile—subtle yet undeniable—curved your lips as you immediately recognised the person behind the notification. Kim Min-jeong, or rather, Winter. A name that evoked vivid memories of an indelible past, shaped by a friendship that had withstood the relentless passage of time. You had grown up together, sharing not only the carefree innocence of childhood but also the turmoil and discoveries of adolescence. Though she was two years older, that difference had never been a barrier between you; if anything, it only strengthened the bond you shared.

As a child, you had been a timid boy, always hesitant, your words stumbling on your tongue before they could be spoken. Winter, however, embraced your fragility without hesitation, becoming both your shield and your voice when yours failed you. You were the shy boy who hid behind her, and she, the fierce storm that pulled you fearlessly into the world.

Yet, as the years passed, as childhood gave way to adolescence and, eventually, adulthood, the feelings you harboured for her began to shift. The fraternal affection transformed into a silent admiration, which in turn grew into a massive crush. And before you could fully grasp what was happening in your own heart, you realised that friendship was no longer enough. You loved her, and you knew it with the certainty of someone recognising an undeniable truth

Perhaps she even knew it too.

But then, Winter chose a path that led her away from you. She embraced the fleeting, dazzling life of an idol, and you, in turn, felt your world waver under the weight of that decision. You understood that each of you had your own ambitions and responsibilities, but that didn’t stop your heart from shattering as you watched her leave. Fate, ever cruel and unyielding, pulled your paths apart. And still, you hid your pain beneath a mask of quiet acceptance.

You never openly confessed the feelings that had taken root in your chest, but neither did you make any real effort to conceal them. Small gestures gave away what your voice never dared to say—like the fact that her contact was saved as "Soulmate" or that your wallpaper was still a photo of the two of you, arms wrapped around each other. Yet she never seemed to notice. And if she did, she never gave any indication of reciprocation.

But perhaps none of that mattered anymore. Life’s twists and turns had led you down separate roads. She had followed the fleeting glow of the spotlight, and you, in pursuit of your own dreams, had left Korea behind—drifting further away from the only person who had ever made your heart waver between hope and heartbreak.

Sliding your finger across the screen, your eyes caught the slightly sloppy text—likely due to the late hour. She must have just woken up or something.

"I heard u gonna switch again."

The message was simple, and yet you grin like an idiot when you see it, your fingers moving before you know it.

"Yeah. Feels like I’m lettin’ everyone down lately."

"Oh. So sad. I'll call ya."

When the phone rang, you already knew it was her. As you answered, her voice sounded familiar, yet tinged with a tone that made you shudder.

— I thought the circumstances were considerably better.

You nearly let out a laugh—dry, laced with a bitterness that would linger within you for weeks on end.

— If only everything in life were that easy. Your voice takes on a sharper edge. — Do you already know where they’re sending me?

— Tottenham. I saw the rumours on social media. Good luck?

That was when, at last, you surrendered to disbelief and burst into laughter—a loud, sarcastic, scornful laugh, as if the whole situation were nothing but a cruel joke, a distorted delusion of reality. Were you truly being forced to abandon the club of your dreams… to join the less decorated side of London?

— You must be joking! Do you have any idea when they last won the English league? Abeoji was still crawling around stark naked, mumbling his first words!

For reasons beyond comprehension, her laughter dissipated some of the fire raging inside you. For a fleeting moment, you almost forgot how delightful that sound was.

— Someone sounds utterly disillusioned. You can always come back home. She singsongs while you raise an eyebrow, though your expression soon darkens.

— No. The deal’s already done, only my signature remains. And stepping foot in that league, oversaturated with mediocre players, would be the equivalent of signing my own downfall.

On the other end of the line, she hesitates, lost in thought. Only after a few moments does she dare break the silence.

— You really think you’re better than the Korean league, yet you can’t even make the Real Madrid bench? Hmmm. Naughty boy.

You shrug, though she can’t see it, and reply with the unshaken calm of someone who harbours no doubt.

— I don’t think I’m better. I know I am.

#winter x reader #male reader #x male reader #football #premier league #ningning x reader

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stellarsecrets86 · 20 days ago

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Astro Observations 7:

Darkest placements in the birth chart

Readings Are Open. Here

(There are souls that don't just live—they survive, devour, and then rise from their graves.But some of them are touched by the Sun, others molded from shadow, and if any of those parts belong to your soul, no easy life should be your calling. You came to this earth for something a little bit hard, unsmiling, untouched, and all raw.You don't feel. You drown, you burn, you erupt-you consume. And if you learn to control your darkness, the world won't know what hit it.)

☉ Pluto conjunct Sun: Very tired of this transformation game, no? But let me give you two choices, one the younger you where people were mean to you, bullying you just for existing, other one the current you where devil won't even dare to look into your eyes. Which one will you choose? You aren't soft. You were birthed into fire, forced to survive it, and now you wield it like a blade. People fear you because they should. You don't just walk into a room-you change its gravity. You don't break, you don't bend. When you fall, you rise stronger, sharper. You are death and rebirth wrapped in skin.

☽ Lilith conjunction Moon: Darkness follows you, but it does not define you. You were never supposed to be fragile. You were supposed to be raw and primitive, a force of nature. You feel hard, love hard, exist unapologetically. They can say you are difficult, too much, too wild. They fear what they cannot control, and they will never control you. Mother's wound is deep. Female love feels conditional.

☽ Pluto opposite Moon: Your emotions are war zones. You feel it all, like an intensity that would decimate another's soul. Love is a war zone, trust a gamble, safety an illusion. People want to tame you, drown your depths in shallow waters. People will try to tame you, to drown your depths in shallow waters. Don't let them. Your emotions are your power, your fire, your truth.

☽ Saturn square Moon: You weren't nurtured, you were tested. You learned early that love had conditions, and warmth was something you earned, not an entitlement. Yet, you're steel wrapped in flesh, every wound a layer of armor, so you won't need any saving. You are the fortress, the survivor, the one who keeps standing long after all the rest fell.

♀ Medusa opposite Venus - You're feared for the thing that makes you beautiful. You're desired, possessive, and yet untamed. They'll seek to tame the thing about you that has become a gift to them-a strength-into a curse. You were never intended to be soft. You were intended to be powerful.

♂ Mars conjunct Pluto: There's war in your bones. Rage like a storm, power like a reckoning. People feel you before they see you. You don't ask for control-you take it. You don't seek destruction-but when you burn, there is nothing left but ash. Be careful with your fire; not everyone is built to survive it.

☉ Medusa conjunct Sun : Betrayed, exiled, and feared, you have lived the life of a villain in other people's stories without doing anything and you were crucified for being alive. Well, they only sharpened you, made you stronger. And now you're a legend. A force which will never be forgotten.

☉ Lilith conjunct Sun: They tried to silence you, to mold you, to break you. But you are untamed, ungovernable. A wildfire disguised as a person. You don't just take up space-you command it. Your existence alone is an act of defiance. Let them fear you. Let them whisper. You were never meant to belong, you were meant to lead.

♆ Neptune opposition Pluto: Your soul is ancient, stretched between illusion and revelation. You are the priest and the heretic, the mystic and the destroyer. People underestimate you, thinking you are lost in dreams. But you see through them. You see through everything. You are the keeper of secrets, the destroyer of lies.

♂ Lucifer conjunct Mars: Against all, you rebelled in heaven and forged your own paths. The arrogance appears to those who never know the fire, the hunger, or need to be something else entirely other than a mere follower-yourselves the leader, a revolution in action.

♀ VENUS SQUARE PLUTO: Love is not soft. It is hunger, an obsession to devour. You don't need to connect-you need to own, completely submit. Your love will change or it will destroy. You attract the broken and dangerous, those who see your fire and believe they can contain it. They can't.

♂ Mars opposite Saturn: An animal caged. A chained soldier. The hunger to fight is there, the power to break free, but something is holding you down- authority, karma, fate. Yet, it's patience that became your weapon. You weren't meant to have small fights in the first place. By the time you explode, this is for something far bigger-some world-shaking event.

♀ PERSEPHONE CONJUNCT PLUTO: You have been taken by the darkness, shaped by it, but you did not become it. You are both the queen and the captive, the innocent and the ruler. You walk between two worlds, and you hold the power of both.

☿ Mercury square Pluto: Your words don't just cut, they eviscerate. You see through people, their lies, their fears, their weaknesses. You don't waste time on small talk because you know that the truth is always buried beneath the surface. Be careful, your words can either heal or destroy. There is no in-between.

☽ Hekate conjunct Moon : You dream in prophecy. You feel the shift of energies before they materialize. You are the guide, the torchbearer, the one who sees what others refuse to acknowledge. The unknown is your home, and darkness does not make you afraid.

☉ URANUS OPPOSITE SUN: Lightning in human form. Born to break the system down, tear down walls, and be that disruption no one saw coming. The people say you're a rebel, but only because they cannot control you. You don't take the path; you make your own. And when the world catches up? You're already gone.

♀ NESSUS SQUARE VENUS: Love is entangled in the karmic cuts, echoes of betrayal, and obsession for you. You attract the ones who covet your light yet cannot retain it and those teaching you about pain before teaching love. But man, when you break free.you'll know a love nobody's gonna be able to take from you.

☽ Chiron square Moon: Pain is your mother tongue. You learned suffering before you learned love. But in your scars, something is divine. You are the healer, the guide, the one who walks through hell and comes back with maps. You were meant to hurt-but you were also meant to transcend.

☉ Nemesis opp Sun: You are karma incarnate. A reckoning. The one who unmasks the false kings, corrupt rulers, those who build empires on lies. Some will fear you. Others will worship you. But all will know you.

♄ Saturn conjunct Pluto: Power built from ruin. You know struggle, oppression, the weight of expectation. You have been forced to carry burdens that were never yours. But your strength is absolute. You don't just endure-you dominate. You are the architect of your own empire, built from the ashes of every battle you've survived.

☿ Hekate conjunct Mercury: You carry the voices of the dead, the whispers of the unseen. A mind crossroads between worlds. Drawn to what's unknown and mysteries that others fear. Trust your intuition; it has never been wrong.

[If you possess these aspects, you are not average. You are not created to play small. Your darkness is your sword. Use it.]

🪱🦂

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #birth chart #horoscope #intense astrology placement #dark astrology #astrology aspects #mercury in astrology #asteroids #asteroid #asteroifs in astrology #venus in astrology

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stylesispunk · 2 days ago

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"Blind Faith" | part i

Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.

wc: 5,2 k

warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in his last 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.

a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.

Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.

You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.

You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.

Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.

You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.

He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.

And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.

Home.

The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.

This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.

The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.

You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.

When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.

You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.

You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.

Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.

Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.

You stepped inside.

The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.

The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.

You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.

That was where Joel Miller found you.

On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”

"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.

"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.

You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."

Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.

This town hadn’t met those changes.

Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.

Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.

"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"

"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."

Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"

A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."

Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.

“Why?” You asked

Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.

"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.

You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.

"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"

You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”

For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.

He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."

Joel frowned. "You got family here?"

"No father, I don’t."

"Friends?"

"No."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.

You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.

He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.

"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."

You studied him. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."

Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."

You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.

And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.

Something you hadn’t named yet.

"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.

Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.

His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.

To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.

Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.

It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.

He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.

It was something else. It felt dangerous.

He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.

You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet, sleep never came easy that night.

The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.

He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.

The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.

And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.

Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.

"Thank you for your help, Father."

That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.

Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.

He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.

You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.

This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.

Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.

The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.

“You dance?” He asked.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A warm hand touched your back.

Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.

“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”

You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.

Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.

The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.

“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.

You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”

Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.

You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.

You exhaled slowly.

You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?

A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”

The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.

The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.

You closed your eyes.

The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.

And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.

Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.

And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”

You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.

You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.

And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.

When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.

“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”

You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.

The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.

You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.

The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.

With a breath, you stepped inside.

He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.

“Father.”

He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.

You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”

His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.

You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”

He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”

“I did.”

He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.

You weren’t going to tell him either. Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”

Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.

It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”

You raised a brow. “Talk?”

He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”

A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.

Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”

You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.

You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours.

“What do you believe in?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”

You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”

He nodded. “Last night”

You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”

His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.

You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”

Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”

That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”

Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”

This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.

Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”

Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”

Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.

Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.

“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.

You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”

Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”

That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”

That made your stomach tighten.

Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”

Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”

The words sent something sharp through your chest.

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”

Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.

Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”

The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”

You frowned. “Why?”

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”

You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”

He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.

You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”

Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”

You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.

Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.

“Tea?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”

Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”

He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.

You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.

Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.

He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.

You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—

You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.

His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.

Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”

He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.

And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.

The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.

You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.

He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.

“Sugar?” he asked.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”

Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.

Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”

You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”

Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”

You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.

Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."

But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.

Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.

A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.

tags: if you want to be removed, you're free to tell me.

@jasminedragoon @mandaloriankait @jellybeanxc @spencercmlover @lilac-boo @myownwholewildworld @disco-fairy75 @correapunk @existentialdreadofhumanity @secretcheesecakenacho @laliceee @exzidss @missladym1981

@drewharrisonwriter @hjzghi-blog @picketniffler @nobodyssfool @pedritosgirl2000 @koshkaj-blog @cigarxttxs @sweetpeakarolinaaa @wandasimp-69 @canteenee4 @obivari @shortandderanged @casualbananapatrol @stevie75 @hammerhead1776 @brittmb115 @strangersdotmp3 @goodvibesonly421 @jackie923 @lunpycatavenue @capuccinodoll

@iamtoriasworld @priincehoseok @luunarr0

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selenepsyche · 17 days ago

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𝖠𝗋𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗈𝗎𝗅: 𝖯𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝖫𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖠𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒 (𝖯𝖺𝗋𝗍 3)

The 12th house is often considered the house of the unconscious mind, past lives, karma, and spiritual connection. Planets in the 12th house suggest energies that are deeply rooted in previous incarnations, often influencing this lifetime in ways that are hidden, fated, or difficult to fully understand. These placements can indicate past life talents, unresolved wounds, or spiritual debts that are being carried into your current life for resolution and growth.

𝖯𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

𝖲𝗎𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

Your identity was once hidden in past lives—perhaps you lived in seclusion, served in secret, or sacrificed personal recognition for a greater cause. Now, you may struggle with fully embracing your sense of self, feeling unseen or unsure of your purpose. Your karma is to step out of the shadows, reclaim your confidence, and shine without fear of judgment.

𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

You may carry deep emotional wounds from past lives, often related to abandonment, loss, or spiritual isolation. Perhaps you were a caretaker, mystic, or someone who suppressed their own needs for others. This life asks you to heal subconscious fears, release emotional burdens, and learn self-nurturing without falling into cycles of emotional escapism.

𝖬𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

You were likely a silent observer, a secret keeper, or someone who possessed esoteric knowledge in past lives. Your thoughts and words may have been restricted, censored, or even punished, leading to fears of speaking your truth in this life. Your karma is to reclaim your voice, trust your intuition, and bring subconscious wisdom into conscious expression.

𝖵𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

Love in past lives may have been hidden, forbidden, or filled with sacrifice. You could have experienced unfulfilled romances, karmic soulmates, or love that required self-denial. This lifetime asks you to heal relationship wounds, understand unconditional love, and find balance between devotion and self-worth.

𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

There may be past life karma around aggression, violence, war, or repressed anger. Perhaps you were a warrior, a soldier, a dictator, or someone whose actions led to suffering. Now, you might struggle with assertiveness or feel a deep-seated fear of conflict. Your lesson is to channel your inner fire productively, confront subconscious fears, and use your strength with wisdom.

𝖩𝗎𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

You were likely a spiritual seeker, a philosopher, or someone who lived in service to divine wisdom in past lives. You may have received divine protection but also faced isolation or detachment from the material world. This lifetime encourages you to embrace faith, recognize hidden blessings, and use your wisdom to uplift others.

𝖲𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

A heavy karmic burden follows you from past lives. You may have been imprisoned, exiled, or lived under strict rules of discipline—perhaps as a monk, nun, or someone carrying great guilt. Now, you might feel isolated or blocked by invisible forces. Your karma is to release past life fears, trust divine timing, and build inner strength without self-imposed suffering.

𝖴𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

You were a rebel, visionary, or revolutionary in past lives, but your ideas may have been suppressed, dangerous, or misunderstood. Now, you may feel disconnected from society or struggle with unpredictable subconscious urges. Your lesson is to embrace your uniqueness without fear and channel your radical ideas in ways that serve collective healing.

𝖭𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗎𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

A deeply mystical or sacrificial past life is indicated—perhaps you were a priestess, healer, or artist lost in illusion. You may have drowned in dreams, addiction, or self-sacrifice, losing yourself in suffering. In this life, you must set boundaries, ground your spirituality, and find clarity without escaping reality.

𝖯𝗅𝗎𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 12𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾

Your past lives were filled with intense transformation, power struggles, or even death and rebirth cycles. Perhaps you were a sorcerer, an alchemist, or someone who dealt with the shadow realms. Trauma and hidden fears may linger in your subconscious, urging you to face the depths of your soul, release past-life fears, and embrace rebirth with courage.

Thank you for reading! If you have any questions regarding aspects, comment down below and I will answer them asap!

#astrology #astro observations #birth chart #astrology observations #taurus #libra #past life astrology #past life #sagittarius #capricorn

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meraki-sunset · 2 years ago

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Hi Meraki!

Can you draw Carapaces at different points in their lifespan? I wanna see babies, kids, and the elderly chess pieces.

Sure bro. here are some chess people and some headcanons i have

🧸👶BABIES!👶🧸

It's not confirmed if carapace can reproduce naturally or if they can only multiply using the ectobiology machines.

On sburb, the chess people are born as adults and with a specific purpose, with a barcode on their wrist to identify the, i guess, model. So there are no babies on Prospit or Derse.

The babies the players made in the post credits would be the first carapace children to exist.

I headcanon that they're born with a full set of teeth that fall eventually, like with any other child.

They're a little more squishy than an adult carapace but less than a human baby

i also though it'd be cool if sometimes they got black or white spots

(Also, even if chess people remember living for years before the arrival of the players, they effectively began to exist the moment the first player enters the game, those memories being an illusion, same as how, when you buy a game and turn it on, the NPCs might tell you about their childhood, when in reality, they were never kids in the real world, they were rendered as adults for the purpose of being there in the game. The same happens with the chess people)

🎈🎀KIDS🚀🪁

Like before, there are no carapace children in sburb, but I imagine they would be the quiet type of kids. Not necessarily shy, but not very talkative.

They would have a lot of energy and due to their physical endurance, they would play outside a lot, sometimes a little too rough with the human and troll kids

⚽⛱️TEENS🎮👗

I guess this is the period where they would become more vocal.

Also, I can see many of them using a lot of hats/accessories as a form of self-expression.

Suction-cup accessories would be their own version of hair clips and scrunchies

👠👓ADULTS💍🎓

They're the strongest, a lot of them have more pointy features than their teenage counterparts, some may retain the round face into adulthood, but they would still be sturdier than a teen. Their hands have now fully developed claws. They aren't strong enough to open a can, but they can hurt

EarthC adult carapace specifically would be more talkative than Sburb's carapace. Also, not having a predetermined role to fulfill, they would be more similar to humans. If you dropped one of them on one of the sburb moon, they would stand out a lot.

🌙SBURB CARAPACE🌙

Just some apreciation of the canon characters.

i love them to death

👨🏻‍🦳ELDER👩🏻‍🦳

Last but not least, the elderly carapace. Sburb carapace didn't seem able to age, or at least they did so very slowly, because their purpose was to live long enough to act as sort of guides to the players after being exiled.

I suppose they can grow old eventually, specially the ones born outside the game, as babies, they most likely have a shorter lifespan that their Prospit/Derse counterparts.

Probably you can tell they're old because of the damage to their external carapace, which isn't as hard as it used to and their posture, product of time taking a tool on them.

As for wrinkles, they're only visible in their faces, which are softer for facial expression, but they don't even get that many

(also, just so you know i cried drawing the chicken grampa carapace, he knows his wife loves birds so he bought her a chicken, that's not exactly the kind of bird she expected but loves it regarthless, the chicken's name is gertrude, the grampa loves gertrude, she's a chicken orb, a chorb if you will. they're all happy, i would die for chicken-grampa)

And that's all, that's how I imagine EarthC carapace work. They're not so different from the Sburb carapace, but they get to experience growing up and deciding what to do with their lives.

i really love the species and i want to explore them more in the casu epilogue

#homestuck au #crow strider au #csau extra

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vibratingskull · 5 months ago

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Honestly, Thrawn needs to be terribly smitten to tease her about her crush like that 👀 I am here for it, I love smitten Thrawn!

Thrawn x F!reader

"You cannot play this card on top of the one I played, Commander (F/n).” Grand Admiral Thrawn tightly smiles.

You look at him up and down incredulous, before slouching back against the shuttle wall in complete defeat.

“Maker...” You falsely cry “I can’t understand what I can and cannot play.”

Thrawn shakes his head, rearranging his own hand. You look at the game lying on the mattress before you, trying to find the logic and pattern to play correctly. This is a Chiss card game playable alone or with partners and Thrawn was allowed to snatch a pack before his exile .

To not become crazy right away, you imagine...

This is a beautiful deck of cards with delicate acrylic paintings of flowers from Chiss worlds and Cheuhn written on it with a number.

But you cannot read Cheuhn, which is a core mechanic.

Thrawn explained the rules four times and you agreed to play without understanding a single thing so as not to drain his patience, but you went completely blind, not understanding the rhymes and reasons for each stroke.

Thrawn appears quite amused as you pull your hair out before these cards.

“Let me see your hand, I will guide you.” He leans towards you to get a better view of your cards.

You look at him scandalized, pressing the carefully drawn cards against your breast to hide them from his eyes.

“I can’t! Then you will know all my hand and obliterate me entirely!” You protest.

His gaze meets yours as he squints, gauging you, taking back his former position without departing from his small grin.

“I am already winning.”

You wince, looking at your hand. There are families, orders, and classes of cards, something about which colors can go on which colors, and then there is the matter of numbers. You sigh, if only you could read Cheuhn you could offer a better combat to the Grand Admiral, but you are clueless in this language!

“You’ll see! I will beat you!” You grumble, the smoke of deep focus evacuating via your ears.

“I admire your tenacity, Commander.”

You accepted to play this game to entertain and please your superior, and because playing something culturally significant for him gives you the illusion of being close to that remarkable man.

Maybe, just maybe, you are one of the very few in the Empire who got the privilege to play this game with him... All alone in this borderline claustrophobic shuttle.

You are back from a stealth mission and Commodore Faro almost tried to prevent him from going himself and to keep him safe behind the thick walls of the Chimaera. But like you, she knows that when he decides something, nothing will make him budge.

Not even his personal security.

If a mission of any nature needs him specifically, he will go as many times as needed, Grand Admiral or not!

And you hold him in high regard for that! So many higher officers hide behind their ranks to not descend to the meatgrinder, but Grand Admiral Thrawn goes in, gets his hands dirty and the work done! You have so much respect for him! For his cunning attitude, intelligence, and of course his tactical genius! Serving under him is the highest honor and privilege of your career!

No...

Of your whole life!

And the fact that he requested you among his entire crew to follow and help him in this mission flatters your ego better than any praise or medals, sending your heart into an absolute frenzy! He noticed you and your competencies and judged you trustworthy enough to help and protect his life.

You gulp to try and calm down and pick one red flower card, but before putting it down you show it to Thrawn. He gently shakes his head.

“Neither.”

You sigh, your shoulders lowering, detailing your flowers trying to find the ones you can put down.

“Do you want to start over or play an Imperial card game?” He proposes mercifully.

“No!” You decide, “No, no, no, no, no, no! I got this, I will find the right ones and beat you!” You greet your teeth.

This is just a stupid game! A game with flowers no less! An Imperial officer should be able to understand and play such a card game!

“This is not an easy game, Commander. It demands elegance, culture, and tactics, it is imbued with Chiss’ rich traditions and history, you cannot master it in a single trip.”

“Are you implying I lack culture and elegance, Grand Admiral?” You demand, raising your eyebrow at him suspiciously.

He chuckles.

“Absolutely not, Commander (F/n). I was simply noting that it is a game full of meaning for Chiss and you do not have the background to decode entirely.”

Your nostril flares as your hand glides back and forth over your cards. You hesitate, until you choose one out of nowhere and slap it on the the other cards, full of determination.

“This one!”

Thrawn extends his neck to see the card, before nodding in approval.

“You can play this one indeed.”

“Yes!” You shout, excited, “I am starting to get it!”

“You do. A little.” He grins, picks a card from his hand, and places it on the game, “But not enough to win I am afraid. But to be fair, you already play better than our first game, Commander.”

His card doesn’t make sense with the logic flourishing in your brain, meaning you are still not understanding the rules!

You grumble, ready to throw your cards in the air, and walk away from the game. But this is a really small shuttle, you do not even have enough space for a table and chairs, which is why you are playing on the lower mattress of the sleeping cabin, so close to your Grand Admiral, his higher body heat slowly warming up the microscopic room with waves as his heart calmly pumps blood...

Very close.

Dangerously close even.

Way too close for your sanity and for you to fully focus on those game rules! How could you focus on game tactics when you are forced to be physically close to such a man?

To your crush?

To the dearest to your heart?

You remember the Grand Admiral or Commodore Faro mentioning Chiss can see heat signals on someone’s face and body, and you are praying really, really hard it is a lie or that you misheard! Because if it is true...

“Your turn, (F/n).” Thrawn calls you back to reality.

You look down at the game where he laid a violet flower card with the number three.

Again, no rhyme or reason found in your scrambled brain...

“You seem unfocused.” Thrawn’s deep voice reaches your ears, flustering you even more.

You pick a new card and show him again, trying to get a grip of yourself and not melt on the sheets at each of his suave words.

He shakes his head, his small smile still on his lips.

“Explain to me the logic of your tactic.” He demands softly, “I will lead you.”

“I will be honest, at that point I just choose pretty cards and hope they can work.” You laugh at yourself.

He squints at you, his shining red eyes providing as much light as the bulbs around the small sleeping room. But his grin remains...

“You mean you let art guide your choice?” He demands.

“I guess I do, Sir.” You laugh more, “I am sure you can understand me on this one!”

“Indeed I do.” He seems to approve of your ‘tactic’, despite it making no sense, “Do you allow me a little experiment?” He inquires, his position subtly shifting.

“Sure.” You shrug.

“I will let you play any cards you want without telling you if it is in accordance with the rules.”

“But... Then we are not playing anymore. This party will lose all of its meaning.” You tilt your head.

“Please,” He gently insists, “Humor me...(Y/n).”

You gulp.

Grand Admiral Thrawn very rarely uses your first name and when he does it is really serious.

“All right...” You accept, a bit on edge.

Is that you or did he just... slightly get closer?

Nah, it’s surely you!

You put a new card down.

He responds.

You lay a second you find quite pretty and he tilts his head at it before adding one of his.

It continues for several exchanges, your eyes focus on the paintings, trying to pair his cards with yours, making pleasant pairs of flowers like you would make a bouquet.

You raise back your eyes to look at your Grand Admiral, tense and nervous. But he appears quite relaxed, in total control, and he responds to each card without hesitations. He harbors the exact same expression he has when hunts down your enemies, serein, focused, determined, making you melt on the spot.

You try your best not to let your inner turmoil appear, but being so close to him is a real trial! Again, you beg whatever superior being that might exist that Chiss can’t read heat signals because your face must be bright red in his eyes right now!

He sits closer on the mattress, worsening your situation.

“Fascinating.” He murmures, “Absolutely... Enlightening.”

“What? What can you see?” You demand, feeling a peek of stress in your body and a cold, nervous sweat on the back of your neck.

He does not answer but keeps responding to each card you put down. You keep going, wondering what he is testing.

Or rather, you know that he is testing you, obviously, but what part of you is he analyzing like that? What can he discover through a card game? You know he can derive crazy tactics with art pieces, but can he psychoanalyze someone just with their choice of flower pictures?

Can he psychoanalyze you?

You feel your blood beating in your temple and rib cage, your palms getting sweaty as the rest of your body with such tension. Thrawn naturally higher body temperature doesn’t help one bit! And he is so close, his musk fills your nose and invades your lungs making you see stars...

You internally shake your head, like he would ever look at you differently than a subaltern! Do not confuse and hurt yourself with such ‘What if?’ scenario girl!

Focus on the cards!

At some point, having gathered so much momentum, you both lay your cards at the same instant and your hands brush inadvertently. You take yours away right this second, but Thrawn’s hand hovers over the cards on the grounds for a second longer like he was shocked.

You bite your lips, turning your head towards him in hopes you did not offend him but you discover his gorgeous face illuminated with a contented, cheeky smile. Your eyes round up at that sight!

Why might he smile in such a way? He looks... Satisfied?

At least he isn’t disgusted or offended by anything he saw in these cards. That is a relief! But why such a pleased expression? What is he seeing?

You loom over the cards to look at them closely, trying to solve that riddle by yourself.

“Can I see your last card?” He asks gently.

You look down at your hand, realizing you only have one card left indeed. You look at it. It is not exactly a flower but a plant of large green leaves with blue veins, and pearly red buds on a stem. You turn the card to his sight, question in your eyes.

His tight smile simply stretches ever so slightly and his red eyes are now shining so much his pupils are invisible in the deep red light.

“Truly enthralling...” That is his only comment.

“What? Will you tell me what this is all about?” You ask on the edge of your seat.

“Maybe...”

You pout. His satisfied expression doesn’t disappear as he unconsciously makes his last card turn between his fingers.

“Can I see yours?” You open your palms to receive it.

He gives it a last glance with a lopsided grin and puts it in his chest pocket, hiding it from you.

“No.”

“That is not fair, Sir!” You protest.

“It is not a matter of fairness, (Y/n). But I thank you for your cooperation, I am thoroughly pleased by my discovery.” He muses, clearly pleased with himself.

Which is quite rare. He usually keeps his mood well hidden behind the mask of professionalism.

You gruff, pressing your knees against your chest, boots on the mattress, pouting even more! He gets to psychoanalyze you all he wants and doesn’t even explain what this is all about!

His hand slides under your chin to gently seize it and make you turn your head towards him.

“Do not sulk, (Y/n). It does not suit your gorgeous face.”

Did...Did he just say that? Or is there a gas leak in the shuttle and you are in a state of delirium, hallucinating this interaction?

“I beg your pardon... Sir?” You inquire in a breath.

His thumb brushes your chin before caressing your lower lips, parting it slightly. You feel your heart ready to burst through your rib cage, goosebumps slowly flourishing on your thin skin.

“This is an interesting idiom you just chose.” A faint purr emanates from his large chest and thick throat, “Begging...”

“It-It is just a simple expression, Sir. It means nothing specific or-”

His thumb caresses your entire lower lips before his large hand moves to grab your cheek gently, almost... Tenderly. You gulp, feeling ready to combust on the spot.

What is going on? Why is he doing that all of a sudden?

Is he...

Flirting?

With you?

No.

It must be another test! Grand Admiral Thrawn doesn’t ‘flirt’, he doesn’t have the time for that! He doesn’t strike you as the type to go for love stories or even simple flings. This man is focused on his work and the future and nothing else!

Anything else is an unnecessary distraction to him.

But his hand is still gently brushing your cheek right now and he seems to lean forward, closer and closer than your confused self.

“I would enjoy discovering how you... ‘Beg’ in other settings.” He caresses your cheekbone, unmistakably getting closer and closer.

“Sir?!” You gasp, out of your depths.

He tilts his head, cheeky amusement in his burning red eyes.

“What is the matter, (Y/n)? You seem so flustered all of a sudden, am I troubling you?” He asks, his melodious voice going even deeper than usual, with a lascivious tone.

“Are you- Yes you are ?!” You protest, your inner temperature rising dangerously, feeling cornered like prey between the wall and his mighty body.

“You look absolutely adorable flustered in such way. Detailing your expression is such a delight, I feel like I am admiring a masterpiece.”

“You... Wha-why?” You can only mumble as he pushes all the cards off the bed with a large arm movement, getting closer and closer.

You try to go back as he moves forward only for him to grip your shoulders and push you against the mattress, hovering over you completely. You feel your heart drumming almost painfully in your chest as he devours you with his red eyes.

Eyes full of dark energies and hunger lies deep down in them. And his stern expression seems harder than usual...

This time he is truly on the hunt.

What the hell is going on?

“Sir?” You let out weakly.

One of his hands releases your shoulder to cup your cheek once again, caressing it fondly. His carnivorous expression softens for a smile to grace his lips.

“I know, (Y/n).” He whispers with a voice so deep you feel your core contracting, making you press your legs to silence it, “I know everything.”

“Wha-What do you know, Sir? I do not understand.” You plead for Reason to come back in this exchange.

“Your feelings... The frenzy of your heart when you look in my direction, the warmth spreading in your body when you are in my vicinity, the tremors of your voice when you speak to me. I know since the beginning.”

Your eyes open like saucers in sheer despair.

“Please, tell me this is a sick joke...” You beg as your throat goes dry instantly.

He KNOWS?

You want to disappear in a mouse hole or for the ground to swallow you entirely! You are going to die of SHAME!

You press your hands on your eyes with a yelp. You can’t look him in the eyes, it would kill you instantly.

For sole response, you only hear a short snigger before feeling warm lips kissing your forehead.

“There is no need to feel ashamed, (Y/n). This is all I ever asked for.”

You separate two fingers to see through them, discovering his handsome face right over yours, his shiny rubies fixated on you like you were a treasure or something.

“... What?” You ask with shameful voice.

He shows you your last card.

“Commitment.” He opens his chest pocket to take out his last card, reveling a pure white flower with golden veins and large delicate petals, “To cherish and adore.”

You observe the two paintings, his translation resonating in your ears like a loud bang. You closed back your fingers, hiding from him again with a whistly breath.

“Do you think this entire situation is an accident?” He tilts his head, amused, “I chose you for this mission according to my plan, I chose this small shuttle purposefully, we are playing this specific game by my design. I wanted... No, I needed to be sure. I needed to know for certain for whom your heart is beating for (Y/n).” He explains patiently but with an edge to his tone.

Almost like... Pleading.

“Look into my eyes, face me (Y/n). Do not deprive me of your gaze.” He lowers himself to softly kiss your hands still on your eyes, “Let me admire the face of the woman who ravished my heart...”

You cower under him.

What is he even saying?

Was your theory about the gas leak true?

His hand gently grabs yours to pull them out of his way, revealing your flustered visage to his hungry eyes. He lets out a sigh of contentment, kissing the tip of your nose before pressing his forehead with yours, hypnotizing you with his red sight.

“Allow me at least to speak my truth. Whatever happens next is entirely up to you, (Y/n). I will not force you into anything, you have my words.”

You gulp, opening your mouth to at least say something only for your words to die at the gates of your lips.

“I love you, (Y/n). As I stopped hoping to love one day... Having you every day at my side, and having your constant loyal support helped me carry through more than you can ever imagine. Your presence helps calm down my mind and brings peace to my soul, I wish for nothing more but to live the remainder of my life with you...” He confesses, holding your hands close to his heart, “Will you allow it?”

You blink several time, looking at him at a loss for words.

“... Is that a dream?” You can’t help but ask.

He gives you a lopsided snarky grin and pinches your cheek.

“Ouchouchouch! Okay, okay!” You complain.

He releases your cheek to caress it with his knuckles, the dark desires in his eyes melting to something softer and more... Vulnerable.

Hope.

“I am serious, (Y/n). I hoped to get my response during this mission and now I know for certain. But I need your consent to pursue this relationship. Do we have a future together in your heart?”

“I...” You start before falling mute.

Your stomach is in so many knots it is almost painful. Your entire body is tense like a bowstring you feel ready to break.

Grand Admiral Thrawn is confessing to you?

And this is not a dream?

How are you even supposed to respond to that? You are beyond elated, but you did not even dare consider yourself his friend or to have any significance in his eyes and he jumps to sharing the remainder of your lives together?

This is too much at once! You cannot wrap your head around so much at the same time!

“Am I supposed to answer right now?” You ask a little affraid.

He shakes his head with a comforting expression.

“Of course not, (Y/n). You may take all the time you need to answer me, I will wait for you. For years if needs be. But I will be here, to receive and honor your response, whatever it is.”

“All right... Then I will think about it... for a bit.” You nod slowly, trying to pick yourself and your mind up after such a revelation.

A chance he forced you down the mattress, you would have felt dangerously dizzy after his confession...

“Thank you, (Y/n). This means a lot to me.” He brings one of your hands to his lips that he devoutly kisses, his eyes closed like he is savoring this instant, “Do I have your consent to embrace you?” he asks with subtle hopes in the tone.

You consider him for several second before unintentionally sniggering.

“You cornered me, pushed me on the bed, kissed my face and now you are asking my consent for a hug?” You cannot help but mock a little.

“This was incredibly inappropriate and I present you my sincere excuses for my actions. This will not happen again.” He humbly admits, “I will leave you in peace and undisturbed for the rest of the trip.”

True to his words he starts moving away to leave you in peace, but in some sort of panick you can't understand yourself you grab his shoulders to yank him back down, pressing his tall and large body against yours, crushing you under his weight.

You only realize you actually just did that when you reopen your eyes, your head in the crook of his neck, hearing his short breath in your ears.

“Hum...Sorry.” You giggle embarrassed, “I don’t know what came over me just now.”

You do not release him for all that.

“It is all right.” He hums, his arms sneaking under you delicately to hold and embrace you properly for the very first time.

He is so warm and his skin is so smooth and soft against your cheek. You circle his neck and dive your nose in the crook of his neck to inhale his musk again.

Maker how does he smells so good ?

His embrace tightens slightly in response but remains incredibly gentle as you expect from such a delicate and elegant man.

You both remain silent in this small room, holding on to each other like you were the only two tangible beings in the entire universe, until...

“Are you... Purring, Sir?” You ask dumfounded.

The notes of his chuckle rise like a melody in the room as he brushes his nose to your ear.

“Yes, I am.” He admits, “Keep that fact to yourself please, no one but you needs to know that about me.”

“All right, Sir. I will keep it a secret.”

“Please,” He asks lovingly, “Drop the ‘Sir’ and ‘Grand Admiral’ when we are alone. I want you to refer to me as an equal, (Y/n). I want to hear my name with your voice again and again if you allow it...” and he tenderly kisses your exposed neck, sending shiver down your spine.

You do not know where you are going with this. You do not even know how the rest of this trip will unfold between you two.

You just know being in his embrace is the most warm and soft place in the Universe, and you do not want to leave it for a second.

@bluechiss @thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @elise2174 @debonaire-princess @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin@ineedazeezee @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @obbicrystaleo @germie2037 @leo4242564@davesrightshoe @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni

#thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo #thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn x y/n #fanfic #vibratingskull

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barrenclan · 5 months ago

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HI i just finished reading the comic and it's so so incredible!!!! your art is gorgeous and your work with the story is completely unmatched <3

I've been listening to the song Butcher Vanity by Vane Lily a lot and it strikes me as a Deepdark song!

Thank you! I'm so glad you like the comic. I agree, Deepdark's desire to kill and eat and never stop consuming is what defines him. I'll use the chance to share a PMV by my pal Katti, the creator of The Exiled comic who made a really excellent PMV with the song :)

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I think someone else had the same idea as well, it looks like it's already been suggested before :) but yes it does fit very well! Any song about a land/town/etc that's been cursed and rotten forever works great.

Tell me now of the very soul that look alike, look alike Do you know the stranglehold covering their eyes? If I call on every soul in the land, on the moon Tell me if I'll ever know a blessing in disguise

The curse ruled from the underground, down by the shore And their hope grew with a hunger to live unlike before

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I never knew this song was from the Justice League movie?? Wow, that's wild. It is a good song for PATFW as a whole.

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows

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I have! In fact, the song "Hellfire" is the character theme song for Cootstorm. I made a drawing of it awhile ago.

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Did you know that in fact someone made an animated video with Rainhaze to this very song? It's really cool, you should check it out!

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Yeah, it's pretty Rainhaze! Especially in his post-Asphodelpaw murder manic phase.

If you knew what I knew, if you saw what I see You’d look through illusions, hallucinations, and lucid dream And I know that meaning can be such a pretty thing to keep But I got facts and I’m not afraid to use ‘em, take the good with the bad, take off the back you make a new front Some days I'm glad that I am a madman and I’d rather be that than An amicable animal, mild-mannered cannibal

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Aww wait :(

Looks like the cat did a number on you Vienna, oh He took a brick off the side of the stoop Poor vienna It'll be over soon Your mamas waiting for ya But you're not coming home

Your mamas been so worried Cause you never came home Beneath the ground you're buried In memoriam

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Yes I think it could be! Even more, I think it's exemplary of Deepdark's general charisma and desire to recruit people into Defiance, reminiscent of his speech from Issue 28.

You and me should go outside And beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em, beat 'em All pathetic flag waving ignorant geeks And we'll eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em, eat 'em

Come join the cause, come join the cause Who wants to come with me and come join the cause? Hide in the sky, hide in the sky Who wants to come with me and hide in the sky?

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Oh, my mom loves this album, I grew up listening to it. This does remind me a bit of them, how sweet and sad.

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes Let them know you realize that life goes fast It's hard to make the good things last You realize the sun doesn't go down It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do you realize That you have the most beautiful face? Do you realize?

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What a unique take on their relationship! I do like the theme of Ranger guiding Rainhaze's hand, and the parent-child energy is very interesting for them. Interesting take on Mordred, for that matter.

Guileless Son, I'll shape your belief And you'll always know that your father's a thief And you won't understand the cause of your grief But you'll always follow the voices beneath

Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty Loyalty only to me

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#ask #anon #music #deepdark #rainhaze #cootstorm #asphodelpaw #pinepaw #cormorantpaw #ranger

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literallyjusttoa · 1 year ago

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What’s better Christmas present than a bit of angst huh?

When Apollo was young, not yet a year old, he was banished from Olympus due to his crime of murder. Gaea called for his head, but Zeus shielded him.

“I will not rule as my father did,” he said “The boy can learn, he can be better.”

Apollo was sentenced to exile. Nine years, though he was not told this. No, Apollo was certain that he had lost his chance to join his family in the heavens. His father had spared his life, and as penance he now had to stay on the mortal realm for all eternity, alone.

The young god made due with what he had. He wandered through the fields of Greece, tending to the animals he found along the way. He would sing, as light and clear as the birds, and mortals would flock to the sound. Apollo was never allowed to linger long, but he fell in love with that feeling of warm comfort mortals seemed to carry with them, that joy that he could never quite reach. When he could, he worked, often for little reward. He wanted another taste, another glimpse of a less lonely existence. So he became a shepherd, a soothsayer, a musician, always a few steps away, watching but never being.

One day, in the middle of the coldest months, Apollo was hired by a farmer in the Vale of Tempe. He had a large herd of cattle and was in desperate need of a someone to care for them. Apollo traveled through the backroads and forests, making his way to the valley. When he arrived, however, he found no farmer, and no cattle. Instead, a lone man sat at the base of the river that flowed through the vale. The water was near frozen over, but the man did not shake. Instead, he turned, and smiled wide.

“Apollon,” Zeus said, “Olympus has missed you.”

Apollo was shocked. Had his father truly come for him? He dropped into a low bow, too nervous for words.

Zeus chuckled, low and warm, “Rise, son. There is no more need for humility. It has been decided you have done enough.”

“Truly?” Apollo asked, “May I truly join you on Olympus?”

“You may join me at home, Apollo.” Zeus responded, “Your home. Come, we shall perform a rite of purification in these waters, and then you will ascend to your throne.”

And so the rite was performed, and Apollo was cleansed. As far as the rest of the world knows, the two immediately ascended to Olympus, to the glorious applause of the other members of the divine court. Apollo took his throne, next to his dear sister, and began his immortal duties.

But there was a moment, one moment, which was kept away in that sheltered vale. Once Apollo had been cleansed, he stood at the bank, waiting for the next step. Any demand his father asked of him, he would have agreed too. But Zeus held nothing over his head. Instead, he summoned a cloak of sheep’s wool, and placed it over Apollo’s shoulders.

“A gift,” he murmured, “The golden treasures you were born with will bring you glory, but this my son… I hope this will keep you warm.”

And Apollo believed, with all his heart, that he would never be lonely again.

Time is a cruel master. As years bled into centuries that bled into millennia upon millennia, Apollo realized that loneliness would be his most constant companion. He realized that the source of this loneliness, this suffering, would often be the very man that promised to keep him warm. The fire of his father’s hearth burned everything it touched, leaving Apollo with blistered hands and a scorched heart.

But he still wore the sheepskin. When the loneliness crept into his bones. When the lightning crackled across his limbs with a burning pain, as warm as his father promised with an agony he’d never mentioned. When all seemed lost to the ground and the dust. Apollo found that wool cloak and cast it over his shoulders. Even broken promises can bring some sort of comfort. Even old sheep’s wool can bring an illusion of warmth.

I was his child once. He used to love me.

If only the bite of a king’s cruelty could be chased away as easily as the chill of a winter’s day. The wool does nothing, and the loneliness remains. Apollo shivers, and goes to rest.

#trials of apollo #toa apollo #lester papadopoulos #sunny speaks #fanfic #kind of?#tw: mentions of abuse #pjo Zeus #long post #I cannot overstate how the degradation of their relationship both fascinates and horrifies me #also for reference: the cloak mentioned is the one Apollo wears in my Fall of Greece design for him :D

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bradleysass · 2 months ago

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Somber Violin - Word Count: 591 - Starchaser

The rain fell in rhythmic, mournful sheets, casting a silvery haze over the manicured grounds of the Black family manor. James Potter sat cross-legged on the damp grass just beyond the wrought-iron gates, his glasses fogging up with the steady drizzle. He had been here for hours, unmoving, his unruly black hair plastered to his forehead. He didn’t mind the rain; it was the only thing that seemed to wash away the sharp ache of longing that had taken root deep inside his chest.

The manor loomed before him, an imposing silhouette against the gray sky. Its tall windows glowed faintly, golden rectangles of warmth and life. James’s eyes were fixed on one in particular—the one that belonged to Regulus’s music room. He had learned this through whispered confessions and stolen evenings, back when the world felt a little less fractured and forbidden.

Through the rain-speckled glass, he could just make out a figure: slender, poised, and achingly familiar. Regulus. His dark hair shimmered like obsidian under the soft light, and in his hands, he held his cherished violin. Even from this distance, James could see the reverence in the way Regulus cradled it, like it was something sacred.

James imagined the bow drawing across the strings, imagined the somber, haunting notes that Regulus would coax from the instrument. He couldn’t hear it, not truly, not through the thick panes of glass and the endless curtain of rain. But in his mind, the music was vivid. It wrapped around him, filled the empty spaces where words and touch had once existed. It was melancholy and defiant, a wordless story that only they could understand.

He could picture the delicate furrow of Regulus’s brow as he played, the way his lips would press together in concentration. He had seen it before, on those rare, golden afternoons when they had been free to exist as themselves, without the weight of family legacies or the crushing expectations of their world. Regulus��s music had always been an extension of himself—beautiful, controlled, and heartbreakingly lonely.

James’s hands clenched the damp grass beneath him. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold seeping into his bones or the unrelenting ache of knowing that this was as close as he could get. He had been banned from the Black household—an exile delivered with cold finality by Walburga herself.

But no edict could keep him from this spot, from this ritual. He came here because it was the only place where he felt connected to Regulus, even if it was just a fleeting illusion. He came because he had to—because the pull of Regulus’s world was stronger than his pride or his sense of self-preservation.

Inside, Regulus paused, tilting his head as if he sensed something. James held his breath, his heart pounding in time with the rain. But Regulus didn’t turn toward the window. Instead, he lowered the violin, cradling it against his chest, and stared into the middle distance. His expression was unreadable, but James thought he saw the faintest flicker of something—a shadow of the same ache that gnawed at him.

The rain grew heavier, drumming against the earth and blurring the world into a watercolor painting. James stayed where he was, unmoving, his gaze never leaving the window. He didn’t need Regulus to see him. It was enough to know that, in some small way, they were still sharing a moment—even if it was divided by glass and rain and all the walls that life had built between them.

#marauders #jegulus #starchaser #sunseeker #sunwater #james potter #regulus black #microfic #i have many ideas revolving around violins

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ominouslywritinginmyhead · 2 months ago

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iwaizumi hajime x reader; fluff/angst, feudal au

inspired by Philippa Gregory’s The Lady of the Rivers

wc: 998

The fire crackles in the hearth by the time Hajime returns home.

It has been a long, yet well-spent day: the bears are retreating into the mountains for the rest of the autumn, and Lord Oikawa will have a nice new bearskin pelt to show off when he visits the royal court next spring. All in all, a productive hunt. And the hunter is now hungry.

Your face glows from flickering orange flames as you prepare supper: a simple fare of rice, soup, and tofu with bonito shavings. A far cry from the meals you were once used to, but the contentment in your eyes is enough to make Hajime hope you don’t regret coming here.

Hana, the only maidservant brave enough to follow you to this out-of-the-way province, guides you in preparing the meals. “Yes, I think that’s enough, my lady,” she says patiently. “Just let it simmer for a few minutes, and it’ll be ready to eat.”

“Thank you,” you tell her softly. Your sweet yet measured voice brings the freshness of spring into the house despite it being a cold autumn night. The gods must favour him above all others, Hajime thinks, for why else would he be able to come home to such a beautiful, lovely wife?

Mere weeks ago, Hajime thought he was fortunate to escape with his life, never mind his bride and the small plot of land you two now call home. But as he settles into his fifth month of marriage, he finds that this shabby little estate is more blessed than any other place in the world. For this land, this house…they now hold the woman he loves the most. They hold his whole world.

You raise your head, and see him standing in the corner, watching you with the smallest of smiles on his lips. “Welcome back, danna-sama,” you greet, bowing deeply.

Hajime wishes you wouldn’t be so formal with him. This is not a royal marriage. The two of you can live as easily and freely as birds in the sky.

But even he knows the gods cannot grant him everything.

“I’m home,” he replies.

“Supper is almost ready,” you tell him. “Once you’ve eaten, I can prepare the bath. You must have had a tiring day.”

“I did,” he admits, joining you at the hearth. The warmth soothes him after a day out in the cold. A single brown leaf falls from his hair and onto the rough floor underneath. The house is old, and was hardly used before you and he arrived, but there’s nothing a few tools can’t fix. Hajime’s already made sure the roof and walls are ready to withstand the upcoming winter. He had better check on the firewood supply soon.

You dismiss Hana, who gives Hajime a friendly wink. He has known her a long time - ever since she was a lowly maidservant at the royal palace and he was a humble soldier pining for the young Emperor’s cousin. He wouldn’t even have known you loved him back had she not whispered it to him in passing on that beautiful spring morning.

“How did you spend your day?” Hajime asks, watching the soup bubble in the pot.

You think for a moment. “After you left, I checked the tools we’ll need to harvest the vegetables tomorrow,” you say. “Once I finished that, Hana and I brought in some water from the well. Then…oh, we went to the market to sell some pottery.”

“Pottery?” Hajime repeats. Then he remembers.

The delicate vases Hana packed so carefully as your exile was announced at court. The painted pots you had arranged so beautifully in your old rooms. The long-necked pot that was a gift from your father - the son of an Emperor himself.

Gone. All gone.

Along with the illusion he’s held in his mind all these months.

“We got a good price,” you continue, not noticing the drooping of his firm shoulders; the fact that you and Hana were able to drive a hard bargain has you lost in another world. “Danna-sama, you should have heard what they were offering us at first! Goodness me, if it hadn’t been for Hana, we might have been robbed! What would I do without her?”

Hajime thought he could provide you with a good life. He could scoff now at his naïveté: how is this a ‘good’ life when you have to sell the few possessions you were allowed to bring here? How is it a good life when you now reside in a shabby, worn-down wooden house, far away from the royal luxuries you called your own? How is it a good life when the former saiō of Ise Shrine, one of the most eligible royal brides in the country, is now living as the wife of a humble soldier, banished from court for making such an outrageous marriage? You and he were lucky to leave the court alive.

The night of your wedding, Hajime promised to keep you happy and safe. He’s already come close to breaking that promise.

He’s already failed as a husband.

“She chose you,” Lord Oikawa once told him, in the early days of the exile. “She could have had the riches of the court, but this is the life she chose. Don’t underestimate her: she knew what she was getting into.”

As your cousin (and now, unfortunately, Hajime’s cousin by marriage), Lord Oikawa knows you well, so perhaps he spoke the truth. Even so, Hajime’s heart twists into a painful knot as he watches your delicate hands - having known little beyond conducting rituals and writing poetry - stir the bubbling soup one final time before pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You gave up everything for him. You chose to give up everything for him.

The miso soup is saltier than Hajime is used to. But does it come as a surprise? No, not really.

At least you’ve turned back to the hearth - that way, you won’t see his tears.

Tagging @anonimusunnoaniswriting for funsies and because we’ve discussed this au in the past 😇

#iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu x reader #hajime iwaizumi #haikyuu!! x reader

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docdetective · 4 months ago

Text

In The Woods Somewhere

Chapter one

Logan growled a little as a small plane skimmed just over the treetops. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, as one of the main types of transportation in the remote Alaskan bush, but it ruined the illusion of being completely alone. And that was why he was here. In a self imposed exile, away from responsibilities, the X-Men, and everything he had failed. For the first few months, he had slept on the ground, the few belongings he kept under a tarp next to him, his head propped up against a tree. He just kept moving, no particular goal in sight, he had an inexplicable need to keep moving. He mused it was the animal in him, just as the pattern in the migrating geese as the seasons changed. Trudging through the rain, then the snow, waking up in the morning and shaking it off his body. That was becoming a nuisance, he thought.

As he came across small towns, he would frequent the bars to drown in a little whiskey for a few hours, and a cigar, if he was feeling particularly out of place. In his wet flannel, long hair, and boots, he looked like any other woodsman braving the winter. On his way back into the woods those nights, he let the wolverine take over, and took out his anger and disappointment on the trees. The sensation of splintering wood under his claws was satisfying, though fleeting. It was a temporary release, a way to keep the inner turmoil at bay. But it never lasted. The rage always crept back, like a persistent shadow, reminding him of the things he couldn’t escape. He found solace in the wild. The cold air bit at his skin, the icy wind stung his face, but it made him feel alive, present. The physical discomfort grounded him in a way that nothing else could. Here, in the frozen wilderness, he could be the animal without fear of judgment, without the burden of others’ expectations. Even in this self-imposed exile, Logan couldn’t completely escape his past. The memories were always there, lurking just beneath the surface. Every crackle of the fire, every rustle in the brush, reminded him of battles fought, friends lost, and the endless cycle of violence that defined his existence.

Some nights, when the wind howled through the trees, he swore he could hear the ghosts of his past whispering his name, mocking him for his attempt to find peace in a world that had never offered him any. One evening, after a particularly brutal storm had passed, Logan stood on the edge of a frozen lake, staring at the reflection of the northern lights in the ice. The colors danced and shifted, a stark contrast to the darkness within him. A fascinating sight, such a beautiful difference to why he was here. He wondered if there was anything left of the man he used to be, or if he was now just a creature of the wild. The thought didn’t scare him. In fact, it was comforting in a way. To be the beast meant to be free, unburdened by the complexities of human emotion, of pain, of loss. For now, though, he would take what little peace he could find in the solitude of the Alaskan wilderness. He would let the snow cover his tracks, the trees hide his scars, and the silence drown out the noise of the past. At least until the next plane flew overhead, reminding him that he was never truly alone.

Andi looked out the window as she flew over the treetops. She loved to fly, the freedom it provided her to reach the most remote areas of the wilderness was a thrill she never tired of. As a behavior analyst and tracker for the Forest Service, Andi's job took her to places where few dared to venture. Her expertise in studying wildlife patterns and tracking elusive species had earned her a reputation for being one of the best, something her male counterparts certainly couldn't believe, with the amount of poachers she had had a hand in apprehending.

Locating the riverbank she called her home, she descended, skillfully guiding the small plane through the narrow valley. The dense forest below seemed impenetrable, a vast sea of green stretching out in every direction. She spotted a small clearing near the riverbank and smoothly landed on the pontoons attached to the bottom of her plane, the water gently rippling as she brought the aircraft to a stop. Her home, a small cabin, sat at the edge of a riverbank where her plane was able to land. Andi jumped out, her boots splashing lightly in the shallow water as she secured it to the dock jutting out from the bank. She unloaded the supplies from town, then attached her belt and adjusted her backpack, double-checking the supplies she had meticulously prepared for her mission of the day. It was a short trek easily accessible from her home, locating the tracking signal of one of the older bears in the area, affectionately nicknamed Zorro. Although it was early to hibernate, his signal had stopped moving, and it was Andi’s job to find out if it had fallen off, he had went to sleep early, or heaven forbid, humans had taken it off. She moved easily and confidently, this area had only one other small cabin that belonged to someone that hadn’t stuck around for the winter, so she wasn’t worried about humans in the area for once. Thankfully, when she reached the coordinates of the tracker, Zorro was found slumbering peacefully in a dug out area under a rock outcropping. Andi noted this and radioed the information back, then decided to take a different route back to her cabin, knowing the area quite well. It was rare to have such a short task for her days’ work, and she wanted to explore a bit more on foot before heading back.

Humming along to the song stuck in her head, Andi traversed a bit west before heading back north parallel to her cabin. She always had a good supply of snacks to occupy her on her journeys, and a dried apricot was halfway in her mouth when she stopped short and all senses went on alert. Ahead of her, many trees bore the usual sign of grizzlies, long claw marks dragged in the bark. Unlike all times she had seen this occurrence on one or two trees at a time, however, every tree was slashed in an unmistakable path leading forwards. She put her hand against one. It seemed cleaner, deeper than the ones she was used to seeing. She frowned. Grizzly bears and their claws were noted as being one of the strongest animals to exist, and if they didn’t make these marks, what on earth did.

Next Part

#logan howlett #wolverine #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x original character #Logan howlett x original female character #Logan howlett x ofc #Logan howlett smut #eventually #mutant oc #angsty Logan howlett #angst #slowburn

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kaibutsushidousha · 5 months ago

Note

Favorite Zanpakuto?

Sakanade and Sakashima Yokoshima Happoufusagari. I don't think I need to explain to the appeal of the inverted Shikai-Bankai dynamics because Narita already spells this out pretty plainly. Shinji's penchant for showing off how used he is to do things in the opposite direction (walking upside down in his first panel, writing his name in reverse when first introducing himself) is cute too.

Shinji is an annoying man. That's a definiting trait of him. He's a natural contrarian and overthinker, and very often voices his nitpicks, as most often seen in his manzai-themed dynamic with Hiyori. And fitting the way he interacts with the world around him, Sakanade's ability is to be an inescapable annoyance.

Another really good point is how the first thing he says about his ability is that Aizen is not the only one with an illusion Zanpakutou. The commonality between Shinji and Aizen is also essential to him. Aizen gets the most versatile illusion Zanpakutou ever because he's a megalomaniac who somehow discovered the hidden truth of the world, but despite his delusions of grandeur, what he wants deep inside is a peer, so his ability is one that forces his opponents to challenge their beliefs and perceptions and search for a hidden truth like what Aizen himself found. Aizen is someone who encourages analysis and skepticism, and an analytical skeptic is all Shinji is.

Which leads us to his Bankai. The power of betrayal. Betrayal is obviously a key part of every Visored's life. Their exile from Soul Society is a very Happoufusagari-esque moment of allies suddenly flipping into enemies. But as mentioned above, this inversion is always on Shinji's mind. Despite maintaining an apparently good teacher-student relationship with his lieutenant Aizen, both sides are very aware that Shinji never trusted Aizen. Both sides communicated exclusively in lies and they knew it. It’s how it was more comfortable for both of them, maybe. You could say no other captain in Turn Back the Pendulum knew Aizen as well as Shinji did. But another way to say Shinji is skeptical is to say he's distrustful. Shinji and Aizen are likeminded enough that Shinji could see past the kind and mild-mannered layer 1 Aizen to find the deceitful and unsympathetic layer 2 Aizen, but he go never go past that to find the desperate, fearful and lonely layer 3 Aizen. Because that would require not assuming the worst out of someone, and the most powerful idea inside Shinji's heart is "allies can become enemies at any moment".

#bleach #shinji hirako

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retroactivebakeries · 1 month ago

Text

Corinsael Ashina

“I am the gold, I am the grain, ne’er has an imperfection marred me: a pilgrim of the Wyrd.”

Corinsael Ashina is a Strategist dying of damnatio memoriae. He is always being written out of history — official histories, at first, spreading over to any attempt to describe him in the past, and eventually erasing his presence from the past itself. It is therefore his nature to live in the moment, to indulge in fleeting pleasures and give little thought to consequences. It’s really all he can do to keep going.

Some number of millennia ago — the precise count has been rendered unclear — the man who would become Corinsael found a hole in the world, a hole in his people’s history, and now, a hole in him. He told his people of it. He desecrated shrines to the gods of false histories. He was exiled, his name stricken from history, and as he fell into that hole he finally understood what it was: the world was wrong.

He spent the new few…decades? centuries? Doing…Magnum Bellum stuff? And on Earth, some history stuff? He can tell you about it, but it probably won’t stick. That’s why he’s out of the game, these days. Corinsael’s a vain one, and not getting the credit for any of his triumphs just finally got to him, one day. He still thinks the world is wrong and deserves to be destroyed, but the Host isn’t getting any help from him until they’ve apologized properly.

Over the centuries, Corinsael amassed the kind of wealth, political influence, and high-placed connections that an immortal can. Not all of it has been lost to his sickness: a ruined manor, a much put-upon valet, a half-dozen or so prominent figures in his contacts, of which some will still talk to him. Pride demands that he conceal his status as a perpetually embarrassed millionaire, putting on a lavish front despite being a teacher at a community college. (A temporary situation, of course).

Traits

Eide 3, Flore 3, Lore 1, Wyrd 4, Ability 0

Bane: Damnatio Memoriae.

Techniques: Shady Backrooms Dealings. Corinsael excels in matters of intrigue, politics, corrupt dealings, cover-ups, and general manipulation.

Treasures:

His ruined manor, which can vanish and reappear somewhere else, as if it had always been there.

His valet, who’s possessed of inhuman strength, speed, resilience, and sensory acuity when acting to protect Corinsael or to perform domestic tasks or uphold social obligations on his behalf.

A sniper rifle, forged from the metal of an ancient sword. It is precise enough to shoot and kill only part of a person: their memories, their cruelty, their hopes and dreams.

The stone head of one of the idols he desecrated, which has devoted itself to seeking atonement for the falsehood it once stood for. Its stony gaze pierces through illusions, strikes a fear into the hearts of liars that prevents them from speaking untruly, and reveals when weird time stuff is having an effect on things.

Sphere: The deep, subtle forces of λ-time and the unkindled impossibilities of alternate λ-histories. Corinsael tames the spirits and creatures that partake of such forces, winning them over to his service. Their appearance tends toward the insectile, the crystalline, and the clockwork. His most frequently used Arcana-pets include:

Intercalary bees build their hives in the gaps where moments of time have been erased. Their honey is a potent hallucinogen that occasionally comes with prophetic foresight.

His stasis spider’s webs that slow down time.

Time flies feed on people’s free time.

His retroactive scorpion’s poison takes effect before its sting.

His parallax moth flickers from place to place without crossing the space in between by skipping through the flow of time, and is large enough to ride.

Destruction: Erase an action done in the recent past, undoing anything directly caused by it.

Eternal: You’re free from aging, hunger, thirst, needing to breathe, fatigue, and most other requirements of human life. You get significant Edge in most endurance contests. Very little requires actual perseverance or Greater Steel — running a marathon is no harder than running down the block.

Sanctum: A monumental memorial to Corinsael, dominated by a colossal statue that bears his visage, around which the statutes of faceless kings kneel in supplication. Megalithic steles record those parts of his history that have been erased, and he can draw them into himself to begin mending his tattered history. The gate that leads to it lies in the catacomb-like basement of his ruined manor.

Infection

Infection 0: Corinsael’s sickness resists being his being recorded in history, but has yet to become efficacious in doing so. Undergrads tend to skim through the pages in their textbooks that mention things he was involved in, even that time he taught a whole seminar on the assassination of JFK. Written accounts have more typos than usual in the parts about him. People discussing him occasionally blank on his name for a second. This doesn’t cover the very recent past — thing that happened within the last few months are safe.

Infection 1: It’s sometimes hard to describe Corinsael’s past. Word documents crash or get corrupted. Things written on paper seem to almost throw themselves into puddles or into the way of falling coffee cups. Undergrads display no motivation in discussing historical records about him.

Infection 2: Corinsael’s bane erases him from written and oral histories. His actions and their consequences are either ascribed to someone else, left as unexplained historical mysteries, or omitted altogether. This also includes transcripts of anything he says.

Infection 3: Corinsael’s bane erases him from any written description or recounting of him in the past. When people talk about it, they tend to stumble on him — can’t remember his name, mix him up with someone else, lose their train of thought. (This includes people who are currently having those conversations with Corinsael, which complicates dating). This now creeps up further in time, leaving only the last week or two safe.

Infection 4: It’s starting to become unclear whether Corinsael is just being erased from historical records, or being erased from history itself. This is more ambiguous than his erasure from the record — there’s never anything conclusive, but enough to call his entire past into question.

Infection 5: There are moments in Corinsael’s past in which he no longer exists. He vanishes from them in a wracking fits and spasms, as if suffering from consumption and spitting up droplets of his history. It’s hard to predict how exactly this will impact the present — each change to the past plays by its own rules, like episodes of Doctor Who. The only consistency is that they make Corinsael’s life hell.

Infection 6: Corinsael’s erasure from history is no longer spasmodic; he’s constantly bleeding away the moments of his life, slowly but steadily. The erasure also creeps up into his more recent history, hitting things that happened just yesterday. If he does not return to the void, there’ll eventually be nothing left of his past, and his present will crumble into nothing.

Infection 7: Corinsael’s bane now erases him from things that happened an hour ago, a few minutes. The moment he put on his seatbelt. The moment he looked both ways before crossing traffic. The moment his heart last beat. There’s practically nothing that he can do at all without his bane erasing a crucial moment, including surviving the day.

#glitchblogging #glitchrpg

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