#celestial equator

[fatcatartru]

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[erveinangel]

// Divergent Universe thoughts in tags.

[celestialrevelation]

Tag dump: OOC

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 celestial accomplice || aisuru speaks

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 incomplete equations || tbd

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 wishes to be fulfilled || queue

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 brilliant minds all around || promo

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 first contact is key to a break through || starter call

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 to the drawing board || plotting call

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 new discoveries || updates && psa

◇ ━━ 『 ooc 』 a backup has been made || saved

[look-at-you-you-re-gorgeous]

I can very much relate to this.

Unpopular Opinion

(At least from what I've seen in the fandom)

Okay. It's time for me to confess. I kind of hate the idea of Aziraphale having a beard in s3. There, I said it. But I have reasons.

So, first of all, I don't really think it suits the character. Don't get me wrong, I love how Michael Sheen looks with a beard, but Aziraphale? I don't know, I don't see it going very well with their style. But this could also be related to my personal taste. I have more intricate reasons.

The thing is, every time I've read about people hoping Aziraphale will have a beard in s3, they were also connecting it to Aziraphale being badass in Heaven, taking the lead, showing their protective streak in a stronger way, having a more...masculine behaviour? Maybe? That's what I got from those posts most of the time.

And hey, I'm all for Aziraphale fighting to make a change in Heaven, but I don't really like the implication that, in order to show their protective side more, they also need to change their looks to appear stronger/bossier and all that jazz.

It would actually be kind of a comfort to me to see them act that way and still be themself, as we've always known them. Especially considering that this part of them is not new. It's true that, until now, we've always seen Aziraphale protect what (and who) they love in a more subtle way, but it's still protection and it's always been there.

That's why I think they don't necessarily need a new look. But, if we do get one, I actually hope it will be something more similar to how we saw them in the Bastille episode, or giving the same vibes they were giving in the changing room with that feathered boa. I mean, they were playing like that one second and delivered that "Aziraphale" to Furfur the next! They can act tough AND look all pretty and silly (in a good way).

With all that being said, I won't be mad, disappointed, or anything like that if Aziraphale ends up with a beard. It's not something that bothers me at such a level. What I've never really liked were the implications some people were writing around the concept of the beard. If it makes any sense.

So, that's my end-of-the-year confession. Don't hate me, please.

[arowitharrows]

I fully support Pluto as an aro symbol (x) but as a space scientist I cannot support any arguments that claim it's because Pluto should be a planet. The true reason Pluto is an aro symbol is precisely because people tie the amount of love and care this wonderful celestial body receives to which label it has. Just because a relationship with someone is not labeled as romantic should not mean that this relationship has to be treated as less worthy of time and care and effort. Just because Pluto is not labeled as a planet does not mean it is less worthy of our time and care and effort.

Here is another reason Pluto is aro: Pluto has a heart shaped region called the Tombaugh region:

[ID: an image of Pluto and it's heart shaped Tombaugh region, with the moon Charon in the background. End ID]

Now, Pluto and it's moon Charon are tidally locked, meaning they always face each other with the same hemisphere. Pluto's heart is always facing away from Charon. Some articles have phrased this as being tragically romantic, but I disagree! Here are two celestial objects orbiting each other for billions of years, and they are doing this while Pluto keeps it's heart hidden. Because in this case, love is not part of the equation that makes up their bond, romance does not play a part in their gravitational pull towards each other. That's aro as fuck, in my humble opinion.

[officialcombaticons]

Looking at my Pathfinder WotR saves and I see I have one in act 4 that's right before meeting that aasimar fuck I hate. That fucking guy who is so obviously a piece of shit and yet your actual angel companion who is supposed to (???) be able to sense evil is just like "ah! this is clearly an upstanding citizen who wants to do good! we should help him!" even after he just insulted my character to her face because she's also aasimar and aasimar women are just so weak and fragile!!!! But not you though!! Just these ones here!!!!! Please help save those poor fragile aasimar women who've been enslaved and then give them to this fucker for "safe keeping"

a quick death is too good for him

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 1

(disclaimer: I envision the academy to be more of a college setting everyone is an adult in this story)

The grand lecture hall of Blueberry Yogurt Academy was alive with the quiet rustle of parchment and the scratch of quills. Golden candlelight flickered against stained glass windows, casting soft shadows over rows of students hunched over their desks, diligently transcribing notes. The air smelled of old books, melted wax, and a faint trace of ink. You sat near the middle far enough from the front to avoid your professor’s direct scrutiny, yet not so far that you could escape his line of sight entirely. Despite your best efforts to keep up, the equations scrawled across the massive chalkboard blurred together into an indecipherable mess. Your quill hovered hesitantly over your notes, your parchment an uneven battlefield of crossed-out mistakes and half-formed thoughts. Professor Almond Custard Cookie stood at the front, the very embodiment of patience. He was a well-respected scholar, known for his gentle demeanor and dedication to his students. His robes, embroidered with constellations, shimmered faintly as he gestured toward the board, explaining the intricacies of magical resonance theory with practiced ease. “Now, if we consider the fluctuation in mana flow when exposed to unstable astral properties…” His voice was steady, warm, inviting understanding. The class nodded along, following his train of thought. You, however, found yourself lost. Again. Your parchment was a disaster. The numbers weren’t aligning, and no matter how much you tried to trace back to where you went wrong, the logic continued to slip through your grasp. You tapped your quill against the desk, willing the knowledge to take root in your mind.

“Let’s test our understanding,” professor Almond Custard Cookie said, turning toward the class. “If one were to stabilize a fluctuating mana field under a lunar eclipse, what key principle must be applied to prevent collapse?” A silence hung in the air, the pause filled only by the quiet shifting of students preparing to answer. You ducked your head slightly, praying someone else would speak first. But then…“(y/n) cookie, why don’t you give it a try?” Your stomach twisted into a knot. You could feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you, the quiet anticipation of your classmates pressing down. You swallowed, your throat dry. You scrambled for an answer, flipping through your notes in desperation. You knew you had studied this. You had read the chapter, listened to the lectures. But now, under you  professor’s expectant gaze, your thoughts tangled into a panicked blur. “I, um… Is it… increasing the leyline attunement?” you ventured, your voice barely above a whisper. A pause. Professor Almond Custard Cookie gave a long, measured sigh. Not of anger, nor disappointment, just exhaustion. The kind that had been building for weeks. “Not quite,” he said gently, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We’ve gone over this concept multiple times. Think back to last week’s lecture on celestial harmonics. You need to apply?...” You stared at him, wide-eyed, willing the answer to come. It didn’t. “The Principle of Arcane Equilibrium,” another student chimed in smoothly. “Exactly,” your professor said with a nod. He turned back to the board, seamlessly continuing the lesson, but the damage was done. You sank lower in your seat, heat creeping up your neck. Another mistake. Another moment where you had failed to grasp something that seemed so simple to everyone else. You risked a glance around, noting how some students had already returned to their notes, while others still cast you sideways glances. The rest of the lecture dragged painfully onward, your mind struggling to keep up, your parchment becoming messier with each passing minute. 

The lecture hall hums with quiet murmurs as professor Almond Custard Cookie wraps up the day's lesson. Parchment rustles, chairs creak, and students shuffle about, eager to flee the suffocating weight of academia. Yet, you remain firmly in your seat, your stomach twisting into knots as you recognize the familiar look of mild disappointment in Professor Almond Custard Cookie’s eyes. “Stay behind,” he instructs, his voice measured yet firm. You swallow hard, nodding as you watch your classmates file out. Some cast sympathetic glances, others remain indifferent, and a few are too absorbed in their own work to even notice. The moment the last student disappears through the doorway, the room falls into silence. Your professor exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose before turning his sharp yet patient gaze onto you. “This is becoming a pattern,” he begins, his tone even but laced with exhaustion. “Your understanding of today’s lesson was…” He trails off, searching for the right word. “Lacking.” You offer a small, sheepish smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “I prefer ‘in progress.’” Your professor merely raises a brow. “If I thought humor could salvage your grasp on theoretical constructs, I’d let you continue. But we both know that isn’t the case.” Your smile falters. “I… I really am trying.” His sigh is not unkind, but it carries the weight of repeated conversations just like this one. “I know you are. And I admire that. But effort without direction is like wandering a maze blindfolded. You need guidance.” His expression softens ever so slightly. “That’s why we’re here.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling in your chest. It’s not that you don’t want to improve..it’s that no matter how hard you try, the knowledge always seems just out of reach. It slips through your grasp like water through your fingers, tauntingly close yet impossible to hold. Professor Almond Custard Cookie begins asking questions, reviewing concepts you had fumbled with earlier in class. You do your best to keep up, to piece together the fragmented bits of knowledge floating around in your head, but your responses are riddled with hesitation. Every answer feels uncertain, the words sticking to your tongue with the distinct flavor of doubt. With each incorrect response, his patience, while still present, grows thinner. “Again,” he instructs. You try. You really try. But the answer slips away from you once more. A heavy silence stretches between you, thick with frustration. Both yours and the professor’s. He exhales slowly, rubbing his temples before straightening. “We need a different approach. Clearly, repetition isn’t working. Perhaps-” The door creaks open. A voice, smooth and measured, laced with an unmistakable curiosity, fills the space. “Ah, Professor. I was hoping to catch you.” You stiffen.

Standing in the doorway is none other than Shadow Milk Cookie, the Sage of Truth himself. Your heart lurches. You’ve never seen him in person before. He is a figure of legend within academic circles, a scholar whose intellect is unmatched, whose wisdom is sought by the greatest minds in the Academy. A beacon of knowledge. A paragon of truth. And now he stands before you. His heterochromatic gaze sweeps the room before settling on the professor. “I have been wrestling with a theorem,” he continues, stepping inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click. “And while I am confident in my deductions, I would value your insight.” Professor Almond Custard Cookie, who had moments ago been at the end of his patience, now straightens, the weariness in his eyes momentarily lifting. “Shadow Milk Cookie,” he greets. “Your timing is impeccable.”

Your stomach churns. Of all times for such a revered figure to appear, why now? Why, when you’re floundering under scrutiny, your academic inadequacies laid bare? Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze flickers to you, curious but not unkind. “Ah. A student?” your professor nods. “One in need of assistance.” Your face burns. “I’ll figure it out,” you blurt out hastily, gripping the edges of your parchment as if it might shield you from their gazes. “Really, I don’t want to waste your time.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilts his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “A curious notion,” he muses. “Knowledge is never a waste of time.” Your fingers tighten around the parchment. It’s hard to breathe under the weight of his presence. He teaches only the brightest, engages in discussions so profound that even your professor would hesitate before challenging him. What could he possibly gain from helping someone like you? Your professor, sensing your hesitation, sighs. “Shadow Milk, perhaps you…” “I would be delighted to assist,” the Sage of Truth interjects smoothly. “If you would permit me, of course.”

You hesitate, anxiety curling in your stomach. “I… I don’t know if I” “You are struggling,” he states plainly, though not unkindly. “That is evident. But struggling alone is folly. Allow me to help. Perhaps, in doing so, I too shall learn something new.” You freeze. He, a renowned scholar, thinks he could learn from you? Professor Almond Custard Cookie sighs once more but nods. “Very well. Let’s see how this plays out.” Shadow Milk Cookie settles beside you, exuding a quiet confidence that is neither overwhelming nor condescending. “Let’s begin,” he says, his voice smooth and patient. “Tell me where you are lost.” You swallow hard. This is going to be a long evening.

Shadow Milk Cookie’s…no, the Sage of Truth’s voice was smooth and composed as he spoke, his words woven with certainty. His mismatched eyes gleamed with an almost knowing amusement, yet his demeanor remained calm, far from the theatrical arrogance whispered about in the Academy halls. Despite that, you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. He was someone who taught the highest scholars those with brilliant minds that grasped complex theories with ease, not someone who wasted time on students like you. And yet, here you were, sitting across from him, hands gripping the edge of your desk so tightly your fingers ached. “I understand that this may seem overwhelming,” the Sage of Truth said, his tone gentle, as though he sensed the weight of your unease. “But the key to knowledge is patience, and patience is something I have in abundance.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your head low. “I um, I appreciate it, but…” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “Surely you have more important things to do, especially with the title you hold. You don’t have to waste your time with me.” Your professor who had been silent for the past few moments exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “For the love of-...(y/n) cookie, he’s offering to help you. Do not look a gift horse in the mouth.” You flinched at the exasperation in his tone and turned your gaze toward him in silent pleading. Please let me go. Professor Almond Custard Cookie only gave you a look that said, absolutely not. The Sage of Truth rested his chin on his hand, watching you with measured interest. “I see…” he mused. “You hold great reverence for me, yet that reverence manifests as avoidance.” He tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, do you think knowledge is only for the most gifted?” You hesitated before answering. “N-No, but… I’m not…” You clenched your fists, feeling heat creep up your neck. “I’m not like the others who study under you. I can’t even grasp the basics of what Professor Almond Custard Cookie teaches me. It’d be a waste of your time to”

“Nonsense.” His interruption was firm yet kind. “All who seek truth are worthy of learning. If you are struggling, then that is simply the nature of learning. You are no less deserving of knowledge than those who excel with ease.” The conviction in his voice left you stunned. Your professor sighed, standing and stretching out his back. “Honestly, if anyone can get through to you, it’d be him,” he muttered before making his way toward his bookshelf. You, however, were still tense, unsure of how to respond to the Sage of Truth. Your heart pounded in your chest, an odd mixture of admiration and anxiety weighing heavily on you. “I” You paused, unsure how to address him without sounding foolish. You had never once uttered his name, not even in passing conversation with others. It felt too improper, too intimate, for someone of his stature. Instead, you swallowed your nerves and whispered, “I don’t want to trouble you.”

He smiled slightly, shaking his head. “It is no trouble. But if you feel so strongly about it…” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady. “Then prove me wrong.” Your breath hitched. “Prove to me that my time is wasted. That you are beyond help.” His tone was almost challenging, yet the warmth in his voice remained. “Show me that you cannot learn, and I shall leave you be.” It was an impossible challenge. And he knew it. You bit your lip, feeling trapped. No matter what, there was no way to argue against the Sage of Truth. “…Where do we start?” You finally whispered. His smile widened just a fraction. “Excellent.” You looked at him confused…did he not hear your question? No matter you let it go, after all you’re in no position to question anything.

A/N I forgot to post this last night LOL please enjoy this will be a slow burn so bear with me <3

Next>>>

[yandere-wishes]

.ᐟ𖹭~ Ciao Amore ~𖹭.ᐟ

⭒⌒★ Yandere!Batfamily x CatFam!Reader ★⌒⭒

゜。♡ 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝒱𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑒'𝓈 𝒟𝒶𝓎 ♡ ｡ ゜

✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗

𓆩☾𓆪 Nightwing - Dick Grayson | بالشب - دیک گریسون

Dick kisses each candy heart before pushing it past your lips. His smile is saccharine, the lite of his voice pure sugar. His presence gives you cavities. You thought you'd run away from him, freed yourself from your nocturnal life. But here he is again pinning you to your couch as he gives you your valentine.

His sweetness sinks into you, pushing through your bones until you feel him rotting your marrow. Even the bonbons in your mouth taste of him, you swallow each one while looking into his perfect midsummer eyes. He pauses on the last candy, slips it into his tongue before kissing you, he guides the blue heart into your mouth along with every ounce of devotion his body holds. Be mine the candy reads.

Be mine

❀࿔ Red Hood - Jason Todd | نقاب سرخ - جیسون تاد

You are a narcotic laying heavy upon his tongue, plaguing his brain with your essence, your image glimmering within every vertiginous thought. Jason pulls you closer strong hands grasping at your bones. You can feel the frenetic beat of his reanimated heart, it almost seems to scream 'I love you'. He falls to the ground taking you with him, he won't leave you ever again, no matter what you must die with him. Your legs straddle his lap, forehead resting on his. He has full control of you, maneuvering your body how he deems fit. His lips trace the curve of your neck and shoulder.

There's a dreadful chill creeping up your spine, skin sizzling under every kiss, you can't move, can't breathe. When you open your eyes again he's still there, Jason is always there. Red shadow following your every move until he has you locked away between his arms. He's like poison flooding your veins, killing you slowly, softly, and dubbing every ache 'love'. Slowly his lips ghost over yours, locking too suddenly, you're drowning again.

All while Jason is high off you.

´ཀ` Arkham Knight - Jason Todd | سلحشور آرکام - جیسون تاد

You look so cute like this his precious little pet curled up on his bed. The Arkham Knight stalks forward his shadow rattling you from your light slumber. You whimper miserably pulling the covers closer to your bruised frame. Poor little kitty cat he thinks mesmerized by the sheer fright glistening in your eyes. "It's Valentine's Day you know" his synthesized voice bellows. He's sitting on the bed now, too close, iron-clad fingers patting your head, fingers lacing roughly through matted hair. "Since we're a couple now, I guess I got to get you something."

You hiss, pulling back, you really are a cat he realizes, a pretty little housecat who's strayed too far from home. The switchblade slides from his wrist, he taps it lovingly against your lips. He doesn't fail to notice your exhausted sigh as he carves a heart intercepting your collarbone. His thumb pinches your cheek, all boyish hijinks and remnants of puppy dog love. This is correct he thinks finally you are his, all his.

Mine Mine Mine

｡♦｡ Red Robin - Tim Drake | رابین قرمز- تیم دریک

There are matrices inside your eyes, celestial stars dancing between each blink. Tim watches as you click on his email, pretty face illuminated by the computer screen. ILOVEYOU the email reads, blue bold strokes dulling under your curser, you make the reckless mistake of clicking, of forgetting how potent three simple words can be. Your screens flicker, bleeding Red Robin red, candied words flood the screen. I Love You.

Tim creeps into your room, heart on his sleeve beating, he swears he's not a stalker or a creepy fan. He's just a little lovesick, just a little bit too obsessed. How could he not be? You're an ethereal equation he's spent countless nights studying from behind a screen, something so distant, empyrean, like trying to pry out secrets from lost galaxies.

He pushes the heart-shaped bag forward, practically melting it into your hands, watching eagerly as you pull the zipper to open his gift. Laying atop the cacophony of chocolates and cosmetics is a simple slip of paper scribbled in red.

I Love You

ꨄ︎ Robin - Damian Wayne| سینه‌سرخ - دامیان وین

There's an engraving in his heart that bares your name, rugged laceration that ever only stops to bleed when your claws collide with his sword. Damian harbors his legacy between his bones, feeding it, letting the expectations fester until they crack and reshape his body. But he needs you to do it, needs you close by when he finally inherits his bearings.

But sometimes, sometimes when nobody but the moon is around to witness his exhaustion. He haunts you down for the sole purpose of being near you. To inhale the airy scent of your perfume and stare into those bewitching eyes. Tonight, he sprints from rooftop to rooftop trying to find

and when he sees you bathing beneath the pale moon's rays, Damian swears his heart stops. He clears his throat prideful even when he's all so desperate for a sliver of your attention. When you turn your head to face him ethereal eyes glimpse at him, he hurriedly presents you with a gift. A single dagger oriented with a little bow around the hilt. It's almost like presenting you with a part of his DNA, only problem is you can't tell if he's challenging you or proposing, both thoughts make you sick. Before you can speak he's disappeared into the night, heart rattling his ribs as his face grows painfully hot.

You Better Appreciate The Gift.

🦇 Batman - Bruce Wayne | بتمن - بروس وین

The moon is his witness, the best wingman in town. He thinks it's funny how in so many ways he's made every creature that roams through the twilight streets. The mayer once called the nightmares of Gotham 'his', 'Batman's' and Bruce could do nothing to stop the way his heart skipped an anguished beat. Because they were his, his rogues, his gallery, and someone how, by some mistake somewhere, he had turned you into one of them. His little villain, his little kitten, prowling through the night.

There's retribution in the way he kisses you, his tongue tastes of cathartic desperation as it rolls between your lips. His grip on your forearms is so tight you feel your arms go numb. He's let you slip through his fingers so many times under the moon's watchful gaze, he refuses to let it happen again. This time he has you, this time he won't repeat the same mistakes. You are his.

His Forever

₊⁺₊☠︎︎₊⁺₊ The Batman Who Laughs - Bruce Wayne | بتمن که می خندد - بروس وین

You snort the blood from your nose trying to crack the broken thing back into place, the black menace only laughs, his long tongue rolling out to lick at the crimson substance. "You're so pretty when you bleed" he insists as his lips marr your flesh, teeth abrading at the veins hunting for more blood. You try to push him away but he only grips you tighter talons sinking into your skin, your blood under his nails.

The monster kisses you, splitting your lip in the process, iron floods your mouth before he slams you onto the ground. You look so seraphic bleeding beneath him, feline eyes darkened over with a vicious glare. But it only serves to make him laugh, he dedicates each giggle to you, his perfect little pet. You turn and bite his wrist, but the monster only laughs harder. He leans down again spiked mask puncturing your eyebrows, dragging over your eyes slicing the optic, and traversing the valley of your cheek. You scream not from the scorching pain but from this manic comedy, you've been doomed to.

Happy Valentine's Day

༻¨*:· Terry McGinnis - Batman | تری مک گینس - باتمن

Terry's kisses are heavy monstrous things. Hungry and careful, sweet contradictions that leave little lovebites in their wake. You squirm against the brick wall grip tightening on the bag of stolen compartments, daring him to try and pry it away. But the caped crusader only seems focused on you.

Terry longs to see your face, you shatter that dreaded helmet and look into your eyes. He chews on your flesh, claws at your body anything to feel closer, anything to feel loved. He dreams of too many 'one days' of holding your hand and walking through the city, neon hearts bleeding overhead. But for now, he lays content in the dark, holding you and feeling the feverish pounding your your heart against his.

Please Just Love Me

[the-immortal-restless]

A Millennium of Changes

(BETA READ BY @pumpkin-pepperz :) thanks pookie)

Summary: Everyone thought that the new baby Monkey would age like a mortal, after all, they were in the mortal realm and the baby was made in that realm… why would it age differently?

No one expected it to take so long

TLDR:The egg takes 35 celestial months to hatch, which roughly equates to 1,050 years in the mortal realm.

Takes place just after this chapter!

Warning:Heavy Angst(There is also heavy comfort to help don’t worry), Many Major Character Deaths, Transmasculine individual (MK) getting pregnant and giving birth(though it’s not a significant plot point).

This work was written by someone who did not grow up in Chinese culture, and while there are little references to the culture I still want to acknowledge that I am not the most educated on the practices and traditions of said culture.

Notes before the fic(skippable. Skip to *’s): This was based on an idea I had while sick where the egg takes 35 celestial months to grow. And one celestial day is one mortal year. Which I will guide you through the math now.

35 months x approximately 30 days per month = 1,050 days. Converting to Mortal Time is 1,050 years or 12,600 months. They have already completed 9 months in the comic at the time of writing this (may fifth) so that’s 12,591 months or 1,049.25 years. Which is a long time. In the comic it is established that MK is immortal and we already know that Redson is a half celestial, half demon, so of the main group them two are the only one likely to be alive after that long.

Tang is Papa and Pigsy is Dad.

**************************************

”You’ll see- Next time I call you, You’ll finally meet your new sibling… I Promise.”

Those were the last words he heard before his dads went into a deep meditation. It was essentially a magical coma.

MK was worried for his dad, he looked so tired, and his Mama had already passed out. He worried they wouldn’t wake up, but his Baba assured him they would.

MK went home with his Dad and his Papa. His Papa took him for a much needed haircut in the morning, he practically had a mane by now and he wasn’t to keen on having long hair.

MK focused on other relationships. His Dad’s shop was still busy, rightfully so, it was the best noodle shop in town. He still liked listening to his Papa’s wisdom and learning from the scholar. He had therapy with Sandy and his clowder of many cats. He trained with Mei and Redson, outside of hanging out and little dates.

Of course he visited his Baba and Mama every weekend, made sure all the things they had prepared for the baby stayed well taken care of. They’d need it when that baby finally hatched.

But MK started to worry as more and more weeks passed without so much as a sign the baby would hatch.

Eventually the first year passed. His Papa told him that maybe the baby was going to take the full 35 months. That thought both soothed and worried him, almost three years? That’s a long time.

He was worried some new villain would come back, and he wouldn’t have his mentor to help.

He talked to Sandy and he was able to slowly come to terms with that. Telling himself that the baby would be okay and he had a huge support system to help incase something did happen.

He’d focused on living instead of worried. Focus on what can be now, instead of what could’ve been.

He invested his time in growing, learning, becoming someone to be a hero and becoming better and better.

He cooked with Pigsy, the noodle shop had been there since before he was born. He loved cooking with his Dad and he always wanted to continue it. His Dad liked to impart wisdom onto him much like his Papa, (he was beginning to see why they were married) whether it be about trusting his senses over a recipe or some cooking metaphor for life. Things like: “Things are the best when you wait for the perfect time.”

He read more with his Papa, talking about myths and stories. The two of them even ventured outside Chinese Mythos and looked into all kinds of myths and legends. He enjoyed learning and taking in wisdom. Though their time together wasn’t restricted by myths. He also learned things from his Papa about human nature and philosophy. He learned that even though sleep was a vital part of mortal life, it’s still important for Celestial and Immortals because outside of the physical body, the mind benefited greatly from sleep. Sleep allows the mind a break to reset for the next day, to sort all the things you learn into their places and make sure you remember everything.

That’s when he started taking his sleep more seriously. If he was going to be immortal he needed to keep his mind healthy.

He took care of animals with Sandy and went hiking and camping with him, learning about nature and meditation. Sandy also likes to impart wisdom onto him (He was beginning to notice a pattern) about nature and how to learn to value to little beauties in everything.

He played video games with Mei, they always had fun. They also trained both with and without Redson. Though they all trained with and without each other. He focused on spending as much time doing their favorite things: watching movies, shows, playing games. They went to concerts and even tried plays.

He went on dates with Redson. They did picnics occasionally, but they also began cooking together. MK watched him work in the workshop. He and Mei introduced him to shows they thought he’d like. Much to everyone’s surprise and unsurprisingly he took a liking to cooking shows like DBK did.

He even connected with Nezha more, they were both princes and despite Nezha being a bit of a rule-follower, he liked MK’s defiance and rowdy attitude.

It was hard but he managed to live without being consumed by his worry. There were days where he was a bit bed bound with worry and sadness, but his family came and helped him. They all loved MK and MK loved them.

The trouble came when the third year passed. Why weren’t they awake? Why was the egg still unhatched? Why were his parents still so tired looking?

After days of frantic research with the help of MK, Nezha and other people, his Papa found something.

Apparently, sometimes celestial gestation progresses at the rate of the Celestial Realm even if they are in the Mortal Realm. A factor they didn’t know to consider. This information hit everyone like 67 consecutive trains.

The egg would take centuries to hatch… MK would face his immortality without his immortal parents. He would grieve almost everyone around him without his parents. He was… alone.

They couldn’t even undo the spell, because awake or not the baby needed Wukong and Macaque’s power to grow. Not to mention that undoing a spell like this could be dangerous, it would undo on its own when the baby was hatched and the two Celestial Monkeys were healthy. Them being asleep was safer and easier. It was hard but they couldn’t undo the spell that sealed them away

MK cried that day, that week, that month. He was scared, he was terrified. How was he going to survive over a thousand years without his parents?

But he knew mourning was only going to eat at the time. He had more therapy with Sandy. It would take an incredibly long time, but he needed it.

He focused even more on his family. He wanted his to see his life and he wanted to squeeze everything he had into time with them. MK grew closer and closer to his family. He knew by the time his Baba and Mama woke up, the time he spent with his Dad, Papa, Sandy and Mei would be a grain of sand in an an hourglass, but he didn’t care. It was his family.

It felt like centuries already when 7 years passed since they found out, and 10 since his Mama and Baba went to sleep. He hoped that was a good sign. His Dads noodle shop only grew bigger and they made more money. MK even offered to move out to make room for having more guests. MK was basically 34 years old and still living with them but they denied the notion. They said he’d have years to lived outside their house, they wanted him there.

MK didn’t argue.

He and Redson took it slow, but in mortal terms, which might’ve been fast for Demons but Redson nor his family said anything about it. After the first five years of their relationship, they spent a spent together, they both were new to it but it was a night they both enjoyed and never regretted.

After 15 years, they got married. MK knew it might’ve been a little fast. After all his Mama and Baba were engaged for… what 2,000 years before they married? But MK wanted his Dad and Papa to see him get married and Redson agreed that was a good idea. He didn’t mention that his mother had been pestering him for over a decade about getting married and having children with MK.

His Dad and Redson had already spent time together, they were close. But they only got closer when they started cooking together. Now they’d have family cooking nights where MK, Redson, and Pigsy, would cook a big meal and they’d all eat as family. More often than they’d expected, Redson’s family would also come, and DBK would join in cooking.

Those nights were MK’s favorite, his entire family was together.

Somehow in all his packed time with family, he still visited his Mama and Baba at the mountain, while he knew they likely wouldn’t wake up for another ten centuries. He still wanted to visit, talk to them even if they probably couldn’t hear him.

As his family got older, he valued the time more and more. He planned to take over the Noodle Shop. Not out of some obligation or anything. His Dad and Papa had made sure he knew that they wouldn’t be upset if he chose to do something else. He wanted to take on the business. It was his entire life, his first meal, his home. He wanted to live there forever.

MK took care of his parents when they got older. He wanted to, they took him in as a kid and they had a pretty substantial amount of saving to help with these delicate years. Pigsy, despite always talking about having a ‘Noodle Empire’, never bothered to expand. He was content with one shop, one building, one family.

MK hired more trained professionals, of course, to help him as the years passed. He wasn’t a nurse and elderly people had a lot of health concerns that he wasn’t trained to be able to accommodate. But he still did most of it, he learned to do it.

Mei got older too, she got a job as a professional racer. She was happy and MK made sure she practiced safe driving. He wasn’t about to let his best friend die in a fiery crash. That would be cringe of her.

Sandy got older too, and as his own years passed he began to coach MK through that, how to handle grief and understand death without fearing it. How it was natural and how it wasn’t the end. It was only a bridge to new beginnings. Sandy taught MK that life wasn’t about avoiding death, it was about enjoying the time we have. About forming connections and understanding each other. Death was inevitable, yes, but life was also inevitable.

Almost every single creature on earth would make at least one meaningful connection. It was simple math. We are born from someone and that very person is often our first relationship, and earth isn’t even close to being underpopulated. To live a life on earth and not make one single connection was a statistical wonder. It would take effort. Humans especially were inherently social creatures, they hunted in groups in the beginning of the species and now they lived in cities and villages with thriving cultures and family. The purpose of life, Sandy told him, was to give life a purpose.

MK buried Tang first, he was fully human and even though he was younger than Pigsy, demons just simply had a longer lifespan. It was peaceful, without pain or sadness. MK brought Pigsy to the grave to visit everyday, he replace the flowers at the first sign of wilt, lit incense and talked with Pigsy to Tang. It was comforting that they had more confirmation than other mortals often did that there was an afterlife.

MK mourned, Pigsy mourned, everyone mourned. Tang was a good man, he had a heart that was bigger than himself and an intellect to match. He always sought to understand the people around him and see the best in others.

Pigsy didn’t live much long after, he was older than Tang and the two of them were just barely older than Sandy. MK made sure they were buried together. Even if they weren’t alive in those bodies, they had stuck together longer than MK had been alive at that point and he wanted them to stay together long after they departed.

Sandy helped him grieve, though it was made significantly easier with the therapy before the deaths. It was more practice than anything.

MK continued to make human connections. He didn’t let his immortality swallow him. He learned that life was precious and even Redson began to grow friendly with a handful of mortals.

True to his word, MK took over the noodle shop with Redson. It was a family business and Redson had been apart of the family longer than they had been married.

Mei stayed close, she was a well known racer and she was a near expert at it, but she wanted to live in Megapolis. Her family was there, biologically and emotionally. She spent a lot of time with MK and Redson, the three of them were inseparable and even if she couldn’t cook she still had much to offer. She had humor and company and family.

Sandy encouraged MK to continue therapy after his passing, the kid was very stable and had a good support system, but therapy was always a good decision. It helps and it’s better to keep it up, rather than to wait for a catalyst and need more extensive help. Waiting until some breaking point would only make issues worse and take longer to deal with. It’s always a better decision to refine something than wait till it breaks to repair it.

MK mourned when he buried Sandy, of course he did. Sandy was an important figure in his life, he helped him through so much. But he also knew how to continue with himself. Sandy had taught him well.

Redson and Mk took a long time to have kids, not because they couldn’t but because MK had a small fear that he would get stuck in a thousand year rest like his family. But with patience and a heap of therapy, they decided to have one. MK was a little sad his parents couldn’t meet their grandchild but MK knew his parents would rather him be happy than to rush his life just to have them see it.

MK decided on his own that he wanted to carry the child. He didn’t want to follow the egg route, he wanted children but he didn’t want to miss out on a millennia just to have baby. Not that his parents were less for choosing to do that. He knew they wouldn’t have done this on purpose.

So they began to try for a baby, much to Mei’s teasing. It didn’t take long for them to conceive and 9 months later they brought the cutest little boy into the world. Redson and MK ended up naming him a classic name for triumph or victory, Kai. When the baby finally opened his eyes, they were like a mirror image of Redson’s, deep red like dark fire, like the fire he created.

There was some worry among them that Kai would end up creating a second Samadhi Fire like Redson. So they made him a necklace with a pendant carving with a bull and a monkey surrounded by fire. One the back was written three things.

小宝宝(xiǎo bǎobǎo), meaning "little baby."

火焰猴 (huǒyàn hòu), meaning “flaming monkey.”

凯旋 (kǎixuán), meaning “triumph.”

When Kai was born they had a baby shower soon after, it was nice. Life was good for them. They felt at peace, life was going.

MK was still taking care of Flower fruit Mountain, after all, their king was incapacitated, which kinda made him acting leader, then again they were monkeys and they managed to be alright before, but he liked to visit and keep the place nice and clean.

Kai got older, and while he had intense fire power, he hadn’t created a second reality burning fire yet. So they were a bit calmer about the matter. Mei loved the little guy. He was irresistibly cute.

Kai aged slower too, his infancy last almost 5 years. He was a toddler for 10 years. It only grew slower but never old. Before long he was a kid, looking about 8 or 9.

Mei got a bit more time than the rest, she aged slow because of her dragon heritage but she was far from fully draconic. So time did what it does, and Mei passed away. MK and Redson mourned her, that part would never be in question, they buried her with honor, just like the rest. Kai missed her, she was his auntie, Mei took him on motorcycle rides and he watched the old Monkey King movies with her.

Kai was raised knowing the history of his grandparents, he visited Flower Fruit Mountain with his parents and for the first few years of visits he would play with the other cubs and monkeys, eating fruit and roughhousing.

After the first few years, Kai began to stay by his parents, ever curious about what they talked about with two men who probably couldn’t hear them.

After a while he came to realize they talked because they cared. Because even if there was a slight chance that they could hear them, then it was worth it. That’s why he started doing it more, he talked to Mei when they visited her grave and even his other grandparents as well as Sandy. He didn’t meet them, but he wanted them to know him.

Before they knew it, 100 years had passed since Wukong and Macaque went under. Kai was a tween and he was making friends. Both immortal and human. MK and Redson taught him at home, that how both of them knew it and they both turned out okay.

MK and Redson had made friends as well that had also died but they had other families to bury them, he still visited, he cared for them no less. That’s how it continued.

Megapolis grew around them, not big, the city was already pretty good, but trees get bigger and buildings change, even just slightly. They all fell into a bit of a routine, a pleasant one that always seemed to find new ways to keep them from boring to death.

Pigsy’s Noodles continued to remain one of the best restaurants in the city and it stayed a staple of Megapolis. It brought in amazing business and good money.

Demons were becoming more and more integrated into daily life, MK and Redson obviously participated heavily in that, earning a reputation for their acceptance, though to them it was basic decency.

Demons were beginning to become more and more accepting as generations progressed and less of them were driven to crime because of it. They were getting help and proper healthcare instead of being shunned to the corners of society’s shadows. MK found himself acting in a hero role less and less, which he found himself proud of. It meant he did a good job.

By the 9th century, demons were everywhere, they were apart of the culture and everyone grew better because of it. More and more of Megapolis became accessible to everyone, literature became richer and fuller, education and intelligence rates of the schools and districts surrounding them began to rise.

Megapolis was quickly becoming a growing community of vibrant individuals and friends. MK found comfort in the fact that Sandy, his Dad and Papa, would be proud of the world that this was becoming.

MK hadn’t even realized how long it had been since his parents fell asleep growing the egg.

Before long, Kai was an elder teenager, nearly a thousand years old.

MK, Redson and Kai were at the mountain, Red had gone to tidy up the house and make sure everything was ready, even if they thought they weren’t even close to when MK’s parents would wake up. It was still routine. MK was training with Kai, something they had started a hundred odd years ago.

That’s when a bright light came from the mountaintop where Macaque, Wukong and the egg were. MK halted in his step and Kai nearly tackled him before he realized.

Wukong woke with a start, the spell had fallen around them moment ago and Macaque woke up at the same time as him. They both look toward to egg, only to see a little monkey cub in its place.

Their Baby

Wukong and Macaque cried with joy and they both gathered the cub into their arms.

That was until they notice how big the tree near them had gotten, and the vines growing in the rocks, evidence of more age than they expected.

How long had they been out?

That’s when they heard it. A voice, not their sons. Not MK’s but one that called for his Dad.

The boy called for his Papa, urging him to wait for his Dad. He sounded worried but Wukong didn’t care for details. If there was an intruder he needed to protect his cub. He pulled his staff out of his ear. And held it ready.

With a clang, the staff dropped when he saw his own son, his adult son standing there instead of the younger man they remembered him being. Both of their heart sank, tears welled up in their eyes as they realized.

How long has it been, they wanted to ask. But their son, a millennium older and wiser, answered before they could.

One thousand fifty years, he said. The two men were horrified at that answer. They’d been asleep that long? That was a terrifying notion.

Their world only grew harder to believe when a teenager in a red shirt, soon followed by Redson, appeared up the mountain. Redson was shocked and came to MK’s side. Wukong covered his mouth for a moment, slowly connecting the dots that the teenager was his grandson.

Macaque looked worried that their son would hate them for this, that fear melted when MK ran to them and hugged them tightly, careful not to hurt the baby.

Macaque and Wukong hugged their son back and Redson guided his son toward the cuddle pile.

MK rambled about the past millennia to his waking parents for a while before explaining that they had gotten married and had a son. MK looked toward Kai, motioning for him to introduce himself.

“Hello… I’m Kai, I’m your grandson.”

THE END(?)

THE REWRITE IS ACTIVE. Please go read it. I worked for hours on it. Here

Tags: @kyri45 (the creator of the comic that inspired this!) @ainnur @iglowinggemma28 @autism-autobot

[sporesgalaxy]

I forgot to respond to these last suggestions but thank u both as well!!!!

trying to come up with a title for my original fictional fantasyworld thing is so hard . celestial body/ies is too generic. everything else is too obviously just me looking up synonyms for celestial body/ies. heavens body . do i put the possessive apostrophe after the s or leave it off or put it before the s and make heaven singular even though that no longer as strongly denotes the night sky........do I just give up and call this bitch The Flayed Corpse Of God And The Worm Eating It orrrrrr

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 002. the assignment.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 1.9k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: chapter twooooo oh my god im so excited for this chapter AUGH IT FELT SO GOOD writing this !! this is when things get GOOOODDDD and im ao HUHUHUHUHU to hear yalls thoughts!! hehe. i hope you like it! <3 -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You don’t expect to see him here.

The planetarium is dimly lit, the soft glow of projected constellations swirling lazily across the domed ceiling. You hadn’t planned on coming—it was a last-minute decision. Yet, the vastness of space, even simulated, has always steadied you.

But then—

"Of course."

The voice, low and wry, edged with dry amusement, is unmistakable.

You turn.

Anaxagoras is standing just a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, his dark eyes reflecting the cosmic sprawl above. He isn’t wearing his usual academic robes—just a simple, well-fitted dark tunic beneath a long coat, the fabric settling neatly against his frame. He looks different like this. Less like a scholar. More like—

Well. More like a man. 

"I didn’t take you for a stargazer," he says, voice measured, gaze still fixed on the cosmos above.

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. "I could say the same about you, professor."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I do prefer the certainties of physics over the whims of celestial bodies."

"Ah," you hum. "So no fate, no destiny. Just equations and probability."

"Precisely." His gaze flickers up, tracking the slow rotation of the star map. "Though I will admit, there’s a certain poetry to the illusion of it all."

You glance up as well. Orion looms overhead, his belt gleaming sharp and clear. "Illusion?"

"These constellations," Anaxagoras murmurs. "They don't exist as we see them. Stars scattered across thousands of light-years, their arrangement nothing but a trick of perspective. We only think they belong together because of our vantage point." He says, after a pause, “The human mind imposes meaning where there is none.”

Your lips curl. "That’s kind of sad."

He tilts his head. "Is it?"

"Yeah," you say, watching the artificial night swirl overhead. "Thinking you're part of something greater, only to realize it's all a trick of perspective."

For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches you, thoughtful. Then—

"Perhaps," he concedes. "But perspective is all we have."

You glance at him again, but his expression is unreadable. 

There’s always been a distance to him that he maintains… almost religiously.

The hush of the planetarium stretches between you, the weight of his regard heavy. You’re not sure what it is that makes your skin feel so warm, your breath so shallow.

So you do what you do best. You challenge him.

"If constellations are an illusion," you say, "then what of all the truths we believe to perceive?"

His head turns slightly, his gaze locking onto yours.

You don’t look away.

"We only think things are connected because of our vantage point," you continue, your voice quieter now. "So how do we know if any of it actually means anything?"

Another beat of silence. Then, slow and deliberate, he says—

"We don’t."

Your chest tightens, though you don’t know why.

For a moment, it feels like that’s the end of it. Like you’ll both turn away and let the conversation dissolve into the simulated cosmos above.

But then—

Anaxagoras steps closer.

Not much. Barely enough to notice. But enough that when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Measured.

"We don’t," he repeats, as if the weight of it matters. "But sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

You don’t know what to say to that.

You’re early to class.

Not by much, but enough to claim your usual seat and settle in before the lecture hall fills. Enough to shake off the strange tension that’s been humming beneath your skin since the planetarium.

You tell yourself it was nothing. A conversation wrapped in stardust and metaphor, just another verbal sparring match. Anaxagoras challenged you. That’s all.

But it lingers.

It lingers in the way your heartbeat picked up when he stepped closer. In the way his words—so measured, so precise—felt heavier than they should have. In the way his gaze held yours just a fraction too long, as if entertaining the illusion wasn’t just about the stars.

You exhale, flipping open your notebook. Focus.

The room fills, a murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs against stone. Then, just as the hour strikes, he enters.

Anaxagoras walks with the same deliberate grace he always does, his robes sweeping behind him. But today, as his eyes scan the lecture hall, they pause. Just briefly.

On you.

Something flickers across his expression—gone before you can name it. Then he looks away, moving towards the podium.

"Good morning," he says, voice smooth, effortlessly commanding. "Let’s begin."

You should be taking notes. You should be focused on the equations he’s sketching onto the board, the elegant arc of chalk gliding across the surface. Instead, you remember his voice in the dark, low and certain—

"Sometimes, it’s worth entertaining the illusion."

Damn him.

You press your pen to the paper, forcing your attention forward.

"Consider the nature of causality," Anaxagoras continues, turning back to face the class. "An event—any event—can be traced backward through a series of causes. But the perception of these events is often subject to our vantage point."

A pause. Then his gaze flickers to you, deliberate.

"One might argue that meaning is an emergent property. That cause and effect are simply the mind’s way of drawing constellations between unrelated points."

Your fingers tighten around your pen.

Is he—?

No. No, you’re imagining things. He’s lecturing. That’s all.

And yet.

His gaze lingers a beat too long before he looks away, continuing as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just lace the entire moment with subtext so thick it might as well be its own theorem.

Your pulse is ridiculous. You need to get a grip.

The lecture moves on, but now you’re watching him differently. Not just listening, but observing. The way he gestures, the way his mind moves faster than his words, the way his lips quirk slightly when a student offers an answer that surprises him.

You’ve spent weeks admiring Anaxagoras for his intellect. Respecting him as a professor. Arguing with him for the sake of curiosity.

And...

Well, there'a no point dwelling on it, is there?

By the time the lecture is nearing its end, you’ve barely written anything coherent.

Your notes are a scattered mess—half physics, half what the hell is going on? The worst part? Anaxagoras knows. He hasn’t called on you once today, which is unusual. He always prods, always challenges. But today, he’s let you stew in your thoughts, like he’s letting you chase your own tail. 

Infuriating man.

"Before we conclude," he says, dusting chalk from his fingertips, "your next individual assignment."

The room collectively stiffens.

Anaxagoras turns from the board, his gaze sweeping over the lecture hall. Ilias straightens immediately, feigning deep intellectual engagement. You suppress a smile.

"As we’ve explored, physics attempts to model reality through observable forces," Anaxagoras continues. "But what of the forces we cannot measure? What of the unseen variables?"

Ilias perks up at that, intrigued. "Is he finally acknowledging my suffering?"

You elbow him. "Shut up, he’s setting up the assignment."

"Your task," he continues, "is to examine a concept often deemed metaphysical—fate, intuition, divine intervention—" He lifts his gaze, letting the weight of his words settle. "And construct a framework to explain its existence. Or—" his voice sharpens— "prove its impossibility."

A murmur ripples through the students. Anaxagoras doesn’t tolerate pseudo-science in his lectures, so the fact that he’s even entertaining this angle is unexpected.

It’s a trap, and everyone knows it. He’s handing you something abstract, intangible, and expecting you to apply cold logic to it. A thought experiment designed to test whether you’ll break under paradox or force the universe to make sense.

You listen, absorbed—until Ilias leans in again, whispering, "If I were to quantify the force that compels me to sleep in class instead of studying, do you think he’d accept it?"

You stifle a laugh. "I think he’d call it laziness and fail you on principle."

"Damn. Guess I’ll have to go with my second option."

"Which is?"

He grins. "Manifesting an equation that proves I am, in fact, always right."

You shake your head, biting back a laugh. "I’d pay to see you argue that with him."

As if on cue, Anaxagoras glances your way, sharp-eyed.

"Would either of you care to share your insights with the class?"

Ilias, ever the survivalist, doesn’t miss a beat. "We are discussing emergent properties of intelligence, professor."

Anaxagoras arches a brow, unimpressed. "A phenomenon you’ve yet to personally demonstrate."

The class chuckles. You shoot Ilias a look.

"Walked right into that one," you murmur.

Ilias sighs. "Yeah. That’s on me."

His gaze sweeps the class. "You may choose any concept, but your reasoning must be sound. Sentimentality will not be rewarded."

A collective groan. Someone mutters something about dropping the course.

You, however, are too focused on the way he’s looking at you.

He knows you’ll take this further than anyone else. He wants you to.

Then—

"Stay after class," he says smoothly, as if it’s nothing. "I need a word."

You feel the shift immediately. A few students glance between you and him, intrigued. You school your expression, pretending it doesn’t affect you.

"Yes, professor." you say.

He nods, then dismisses the class.

Chairs scrape against the floor. Students file out, some grumbling about the assignment, others already debating what concept they’ll choose. Someone lingers near the door for a second too long, clearly hoping to eavesdrop, before sighing and leaving.

Then it’s just you and him.

Anaxagoras exhales softly, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders before turning to face you fully.

"I’m altering your assignment," he says.

You blink. "What? Why?"

His lips quirk slightly, but there’s something intent in his eyes. "Because the standard prompt is beneath your abilities."

You swallow. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s been paying attention.

"Your mind doesn’t just follow logic," he continues. "It challenges it. So I’m giving you something worthy of that."

You exhale, half-exasperated. "Fine. What’s the twist?"

Instead of answering right away, he steps past you, picks up a book from his desk, and flips it open. When he finds the page he’s looking for, he turns it toward you.

It’s a diagram. A branching structure of choices, converging and diverging like neural pathways.

"Your peers will be arguing for or against metaphysical forces." His voice is measured. "You, however, will go one step further."

He closes the book, meeting your gaze.

"Instead of proving or disproving their existence, I want you to model one."

Your breath catches.

"What?"

His smirk is subtle, but there. "You heard me."

"You want me to… what, exactly? Build a mathematical model for something physics doesn’t even acknowledge?"

"Why not?" he challenges. "If intuition exists, quantify its mechanism. If destiny is real, define its parameters. If the soul endures, find the equation that governs it."

Your fingers twitch at that.

That’s—

That’s significantly more difficult than the original prompt. You’d have to rethink everything from the ground up. 

The soul?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You really don’t like making my life easy, do you?"

His smirk deepens. "Where’s the fun in easy?"

You hate that he’s right.

And worse—you hate that you like that he knows you well enough to give you something harder. Something that will actually make you think.

Your pulse is an uneven rhythm as you meet his gaze. "Alright," you say.

He nods once, satisfied. "Good."

For a moment, neither of you move.

"You’re dismissed," he says, voice softer.

You hesitate. Then turn, heading toward the door.

Just as you step through the threshold, his voice reaches you, quiet but deliberate.

"Don’t disappoint me."

You don’t look back.

But you do smile.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[multific]

Moonlight and Sandalwood

King Baldwin IV x Reader

Summary: In the heart of Jerusalem, where war has scarred both land and soul, you, the daughter of a Muslim scholar, are captured and taken to the palace. 

They take your name from you when you’re captured. A prize, they call you, found among the wreckage after a fight near Ramla. 

You expect rough hands, cruelty, and ransoms. 

Instead, they bring you to the palace in Jerusalem. 

It is vast and quiet, full of shadows. You are left in a chamber lined with books.

He enters silently.

Cloaked in white, masked in silver, his presence unnerves you more than chains would. 

The room smells of parchment, wax, and something darker, sandalwood, used to disguise rot. 

The scent clings to your skin for hours.

He speaks with a soft, unsettling calm.

“You are his daughter.”

You raise your chin. “I am.”

“I read his work on the spheres. His equations are… breathtaking.”

You blink at the king.

He sits like a statue in candlelight, hands gloved, voice even. “You keep me here for this?”

“For knowledge,” he says. “And perhaps for peace.”

You don’t believe him.

You hate how composed he is, and how smooth his voice sounds despite what you’ve lost. 

He does not speak of your father’s death, or the blood spilt, or the name of the man who gave the order.

You hate him.

And yet you return.

You tell yourself it is to defend your father’s name. To correct the mistranslations of his sacred texts. 

But the nights become longer. 

You begin to anticipate the conversations. His mind is sharp. Witty. You argue over celestial geometry. You criticise his kingdom’s brutal laws. He listens.

One night, you find yourself laughing.

Just once.

He tilts his masked face. “You have a beautiful laugh.”

You freeze. “I did not mean to laugh.”

“It’s alright,” he says. “I will not keep it from you.”

You leave with your heart in your throat.

You try to hate him again. You try to recall your father’s voice, your people’s grief. 

But when you sleep, you dream of sandalwood and stars.

Days pass. Then weeks.

He weakens, and yet his mind never dims. 

He asks to walk the gardens with you at dusk. You say no. Then yes.

He keeps a careful distance, never touching. 

You notice his breath sometimes hitches. He hides it well. The smell grows stronger, sandalwood and something metallic. 

You feel ashamed for flinching.

One evening, beneath a fig tree, he says:

 “I wonder if I could have been a philosopher instead of a king. Suppose I would have lived longer. Would that have pleased God more?”

You don’t answer. 

Thinking of him as anything but a dying king fills you with a strange ache.

He turns toward you, slowly. “Do you ever fear loving someone doomed to die?”

“I don’t love you,” you say too quickly.

His head tilts. “That is wise.”

You lie awake that night, furious. With him. With yourself. With how your heart beats too fast when you hear his footsteps in the corridor.

The next night, he removes his glove.

His hand is pale and wasted, fingers curved like delicate bone. 

You don’t pull back, instead you reach out, then stop halfway. He studies you, searching.

You touch him. Carefully.

His breath shakes. “You are brave.”

“No,” you whisper. “I am foolish.”

And still, you don’t let go.

The mask stays on.

But something changes.

He lets you closer. You begin to read to him at night. He listens with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly. 

You read about love, about longing, about the moon. He listens as if trying to memorize the sound of your voice.

And one night, he touches your cheek.

Just the feather-light stroke of someone who never thought he would be allowed to love.

“I think of you,” he says, “when I see the stars. I think of how your mind holds them. How you’ve taught me to see them with joy instead of dread.”

You press your face to his hand.

“I think of you,” you reply, “when I smell sandalwood.”

You help him remove the mask.

His face is not what you feared. 

It is pale, scarred, and ravaged by disease. 

But his eyes, his eyes burn with something that steals your breath. 

His soul is a thousand times more beautiful than the body he was cursed with.

And when you kiss him, you taste salt. 

His tears, or yours, you don’t know.

You are careful with him. Every touch is measured, sacred. He lets you undress him only in shadow. You let him kiss your wrists, your neck. 

He worships you with quiet reverence, murmuring words in Latin and Arabic alike.

“I never believed I would be held again,” he whispers as he pulls you close, heat and breath shared like prayers. “And now I will die knowing I was loved.”

You hold him tighter. “Then you will not die alone.”

Weeks pass.

Sometimes, he wakes with pain. You cradle him until it passes.

Sometimes, he whispers your name like a vow.

He dies in your arms, many months later, under a sky full of stars.

You bury him in a grove of fig trees. 

You wear sandalwood oil at your neck. 

Not to mask pain but to remember love.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[thunderstruck9]

Lee Krasner (American, 1908-1984), Celestial Equator, 1980. Oil and lithographic collage on paper, 60.3 x 76.2 cm.

[dsknsk]

Arknights and stars

On that topic, Arknights has always had a connection to the stars and its own star map is a bit wonky if compared to earth now but makes sense if you see it in the great scheme of things.

From Astesia's file on, it's been implied that the dome that surrounds Terra is fake, and Kristen is the first one who has gone beyond it so far (traveling from Terra to beyond the dome). It's also said that the reason people cannot navigate the sea reliably is because the stars themselves aren't reliable.

But it's also a bit more concrete that the stars are a bit off, or, it would look like that.

Remember Children of Ursus? Everyone remembers its dark story but few remember the map layout.

This is the Big Dipper, part of the constellation Ursa Maior. Fitting for an event that features bear characters.

But wait! Doesn't the Big Dipper look like this?

It does. But the Big Dipper over 50,000 years looks like this...

Like I pointed out in the previous post, the stars are always on the move. It may seem slow to us but if you take a large enough timescale then the sky sure does shift from what it's now.

Remember this skin of Astesia's?

It sure is a pretty skin. But zoom in on the star chart and you'll find something...peculiar...

Several constellations look...off. Like Leo, Virgo, Hydra and Gemini. And...

The star that's marked as the North Star (i.e the star in the middle) is not Polaris, but Vega, the largest star in the constellation Lyra! Don't see it? Here, I'll make it a little more clear:

And Lyra how it is now, which is, again, slightly different from how Lyra is depicted in the above image:

Vega is not our current North Star, it's the star Polaris (duh). But Vega was in about 14,000 years ago, and will be again in about 12,000 to 13,000 years in the future. So not our current North Star.

The celestial globe is also tilted at 45 degrees instead of 23,5 for earth.

So! A huge misser on the part of the artist, right?

Wrong!

You see, the ecliptic and equator in the artwork do obviously not align with our current ecliptic and equator. But our equator and ecliptic looking like in the skin can only happen if the precession of the earth's axis is tilted towards the south...which will be the case in 12,000 to 13,000 years from now. At that time, the constellations will look 'off' compared to how they look now (I was talking about the stars shifting over time in my previous post) and Polaris will no longer be the North Star, like in the artwork.

The kicker?

Lone Trail reveals that Terra is at least 13,000 years old.

[girlberrie]

ONLY   A   VAMPIRE   CAN   LOVE   YOU   FOREVER   .   .   .

 𓏲𝄢    vampire reality introduction. blood and horror awaits!!!!!!!!

People die all the time.

They die in the hunt, they die from fever. In rare cases, they die because their body is old.

People don’t come back from the dead. And yet─

In Ida’s scarlet heart, which is not meant to beat anymore, she knew home to be the tent she shared with her mother father and three brothers. She knew home to be her and her witch mother finding herbs for the healing tent. She knew home to be the warm and strong arms of her father as he readjusted her archery form once more. She knew home to be her irritating her three brothers again just to have their attention and their annoyed yet loving looks. She knew home to be her girl, her love, as she bounds over and jumps in Ida’s arms after Ida comes back from a hunt. In her somehow-beating heart, she knows that she has to leave home sooner or later.

Because witches live long but not forever. Vampires, however, do.

But in her grieving of a mortal life, Ida chooses to give herself time. She grows tense when she thinks of leaving. She grows quiet when she considers the loneliness. She avoids thinking about the blood of others that now lay in her veins─moving through them and bringing a flush to her face as if its hers, as if her own blood that her scarlet heart had pumped since she was a mere baby wasn’t drained from her years ago. And so she grieves and knows that she has infinite time─a lifetime that will not end unless the world ends, a future forever uncertain─and she does not think about the fact that her home will forever be her only grave.

And its such a strange thing, being the dead walking. Your bones to never creak, your heart feels like it never beats─as still as air is at the eye of a hurricane─even though it must, and your veins carry the blood of dead creatures and is always hungry for more blood that almost shimmers and sings in its promise of pleasure.

And there is a silence that howls beneath your ribs─the absence of life clear despite the thumping of your heart─like a candle suddenly snuffed out, the smoke still there floating, the wax hardened in place─something sharp and almost-divine and withered lingers at the place where life bloomed like flowers in the spring sun, and you get tired of the silence. You wish to hear your insides speak and make sound but it stubbornly keeps quiet. And it is a punishment in return for the eternal dark gift; to hear nothing but the outside, to have no peace in the sounds of yourself and your body. Your heart beats yet you could never hear it yourself, your lungs expand and you breathe and yet it is as quiet as a predator stalking its prey in the woods─it is like pretending to be human has been made impossible. Because the dark gift doesn’t like to be denied─it is erratic and cruel and hungry─a thudding hunger that sets fire to your veins and extends your fangs… it is a strange thing laced with poison for those unaccepting and the only thing that aches is remembrance of a mortal life.

And you are untethered in a way that makes the word home sound strange. The lack of the deadline is felt. You feel like a mortal turned unrightfully divine─

And the sun has turned its back on you.

And Ida used to chase the sun. They would call her the sunchaser and laugh at her when she would whine about the red spots burnt onto her exposed skin. Now she is a creature of the night, never to feel comfort under the rays of the sun, never to feel its kiss on her skin, never to take in its beautiful rise and its colors. And now the sunchaser has lived centuries and she could never find a beauty, a celestial body rightful to take its place in her scarlet heart… only her girl, her lover, her eternal love’s shining hair does she equate to the beams of the sun─and sometimes she doesn’t even know because she has started to forget how the sun would turn her blind for seconds just because she wished to look at it directly.

Ida knows she left home, her first grave in the tents, with her witch mother and archer father and irritated three brothers because she left the sun with them too.

Ida has been dead for centuries and now she finds herself in Rome, pretending to be the human girl she once was─bright and occasionally irritating and spontaneous. She finds herself in Rome and looking for that eternally familiar face of her lover, who had left her at that home in the tent with her mother and father and three brothers because she had been impatient with Ida, because she had accepted the untethered nature of a vampire much easier than Ida had.

Come to me, her lover had crooned into her mind, and Ida obeyed with ease─her mother and father and three brothers long dead and her untethered as she should’ve been three centuries ago. And now she finds herself in Rome, looking for her lover, trying to be the carefree girl she once was─even though she is now a phantom and myth that walks under the beams of the moon, even though she can not be a sunchaser any longer, even though she is no longer naive and fragile─but she is a killer in nature and her body is quiet in its attempt to be the apex predator and she has been dead for centuries.

And her lover, who took to being a creature of the night much better than Ida, who never truly changed─an adventurer and impatient as always─walks among the people of Rome like she is nothing different, waiting to be noticed and be seen. Luckily for her, Ida would know her by the way the moon makes her skin shine iridescently, by the way she holds her arms when she walks, by her scent─because their love has never been ordinary. It has always been a wild beat of their hearts and now it is their only thread still shimmering with life─the only thing about them not blood-stained and fierce. Their former home is a grave and their love is the remaining ashes, and yet they’ve found it to be gentle and bright, and it bloomed in their distance that spanned two centuries… it has never been clearer that they are each other’s companion.

And that is enough for Ida to find her in the thousand faces walking the marble streets of Rome at the dead of night. And after that, with their eternal companionship renewed as two untethered vampires who have eyes for only the other, starts the rest of their life.

      i actually don't know whatever tf happened here. i struggled so hard with this one. i may come back a rewrite it one day. and i PROMISE its not as depressing as i made it sound here……………i can only write poetically if there is angst………….i promise i don't hate myself…………….yeah. but basically i'm old asf and i have my beautiful lovely amazing gf as my immortal witch companion. also i'm a witch i didn't know how to incorperate that here so i just didn't. yay. that's all. bye hope you enjoyed....... ALSO ALSO ALSOOOOOO: big ib @kerryshifts (her previous marauders dr intro) bc is amazing. ok that's actually it now